Читать книгу Bed of Roses - Daisy Waugh - Страница 22

Robert White’s previous hostility, his fluey colds, are all forgotten now. He turns up to work every day. He follows Fanny around the school like a puppy. She spoke to him only once, on the afternoon following the incident. She made it clear (she thought) that she never wanted anything similar to happen again. But he’d wandered off with the same serene smile stuck on his lips and it’s been stuck there, now, for a week. No matter what she does. No matter how much she snaps and snarls and ignores him. She can’t shift it.

The little interlude in Fanny’s office has been re-shot in his mind, in softest focus and from all conceivable angles; it’s been given a soundtrack, and a whole lot of dialogue that was never there. He’s taken home the photograph from the Gazette, cut it out and stuck it on to sugar paper stolen from the school stationery cupboard. And this morning he brought pink roses into the staff room.

He made a tremendous drama of arranging them in a broken coffee mug.

‘They’re lovely,’ gushed Linda Tardy; gushed Mrs Haywood. They called in Tracey Guppy from washing the floor next door to have a look.

‘Bet you wish you had a young man giving you roses like that!’ said Linda Tardy. ‘I know I do!’

‘They’re revolting,’ Tracey said.

Fanny, face buried in a newspaper, gave a muffled snort.

‘Do you like them, Fanny?’ said Robert, jiggling them ineptly about. The stems were too long for the mug, and they wouldn’t balance.

‘Hey, Tracey,’ said Fanny (ignoring Robert), ‘I spotted your naughty brother Dane in the post office yesterday. He didn’t look very ill to me. Any chance he might come back to school one of these—’ She looked round from behind her newspaper, but Tracey had left the room. ‘Tracey?’

‘Ouch!’ Robert’s mug of pink roses tumbled to the floor. He looked across at Fanny, pale eyes damp with yearning, a spot of red blood sprouting from his finger. ‘I think I’m going to need a plaster.’

‘Oh, belt up,’ Fanny snapped.

‘Have pity on him!’ giggled glass-eyed Mrs Haywood, as Fanny slapped down her paper and stood up to leave the room. ‘The man’s soft on you, he can’t help it. He can’t concentrate on a thing!’

Through all this nonsense Fanny continues to work hard at her new job, and already the school is beginning to blossom. At least, there is a clear sense of energy to it now. The walls are covered in the children’s artwork and poetry, and there are nature displays on the tables. She has made a small garden at the side of the school, where the junior class has planted flower and vegetable seeds. Last week her car hit one of the Maxwell McDonald pheasants, so she brought the bird in and dissected it for everyone, which was illegal on Health and Safety grounds, but popular with the children. Next week she wants to take them all out collecting wool. Together (the plan is) they will learn how to wash it, spin it, dye it, and weave it into scarves.

Fanny thinks of her school all day and most of the night. In the three weeks since term started she’s had dinner a couple of times with Grey and Messy McShane. She’s met Charlie, Jo, the twins and the General in the Fiddleford Arms for a weekend lunch. (They’d been unable to invite her to the Manor; one of their more troubled celebrity guests being so afraid of spies he’d demanded that even the post be left at the bottom of the drive.) Fanny’s spent a couple of evenings on her own in the pub, chatting with Tracey and anyone else around (although she tries to avoid drinking with Kitty). And she gossips with Mrs Hooper for at least twenty minutes every morning, when she buys her milk and newspaper. But that, excepting the weekend Louis came, makes up the sum total of Fanny’s Fiddleford social life to date. For someone so naturally gregarious, it’s not much. And yet Fanny hasn’t felt lonely for more than the odd few minutes in all that time. She’s been so wrapped up in her work, and so exhausted by the end of each working day, often she can barely find the energy to talk to Brute, let alone to a human being.

Her evenings tend mostly to be dominated by the government forms: the progress reports, policy papers, target statements, assessment charts and time-allocation forecasts all growing steadily damper under her kitchen sink. It seems the more forms she fills in, the more they pile up, so that her desk at work and the kitchen cupboard are now stuffed and overflowing. And at night, even in her dreams, Fanny finds herself ticking boxes, evaluating performances, identifying ethnic origins, searching – endlessly – for that magical square which says ‘other’.

Only two things worry her more than the paperwork: that Dane Guppy hasn’t appeared at school since Fanny and his enormous mother had their disagreement at the limbo over a fortnight ago; and that Scarlett Mozely, Kitty’s daughter, hasn’t produced a piece of work or said a single word to Fanny, or to anyone else, since term began.

Scarlett sits at the back of the class with her crutches lying neatly beside her, as she sits everywhere in life, plain and silent and mostly ignored. She’s been sitting at that same desk, with that same sullen face, ever since Kitty moved to Fiddleford, and until now no one has ever made more than a token effort to disturb her.

Mrs Haywood the glass-eyed secretary tells Fanny she has been unable to ‘locate’ any notes on Scarlett Mozely in either her office or Fanny’s, which is no surprise since the notes on at least a third of all of Fiddleford’s thirty-eight pupils have been missing for years. Robert White is equally unforthcoming when Fanny finally summons the strength to ask him for help.

They are in the staff room at the time, and not alone. (Fanny takes care that they are never alone.) He’s chuckling self-consciously over something in the Guardian, and Fanny is in the far corner, as far away from him as possible, with her back to him, making coffee.

‘Robert,’ she barks. ‘Tell me what you know about Scarlett Mozely.’

‘Mmm,’ he says happily, pretending to think about it but really only trying to make the conversation last, ‘mmmm…No, I must say I don’t know much about Scarlett, I’m afraid, Fanny. She arrived straight into Mrs Thomas’s class.’

‘Yes, I’m aware of that.’

‘Mmm. So your best bet, Fanny, would probably be putting a call in to Mrs Thomas.’

‘Mrs Thomas doesn’t return my calls, as you know. And this is a small school. I presume you’ve had some dealings with her?’

‘By the way, Fanny, I’ve been meaning to ask you, have you ever been on the Eurostar?’

‘What?’

He tells her about a trip to Paris he took ‘with a certain lady-friend. Call me an old devil, but what with recent events I’ve actually misplaced her name!’ He asks Fanny to forgive him for quoting the old maxim, ‘But Paris,’ he says, ‘really is the most romantic city in the world!’

Linda Tardy, eating McVitie’s on the ink-stained sofa, shakes her head. ‘I think you two would make a super couple,’ she says, ‘both being so brainy and international and everything. Wouldn’t it be lovely, Mrs Haywood? Don’t you think?’

‘Linda,’ Fanny says briskly, ‘tell me. What do you know about Scarlett Mozely?’

‘Well…To my experience,’ Linda Tardy replies, after an incredibly long pause, during which she finishes her biscuit – and thinks, presumably, ‘she’s one of these busy ones who likes to buzz away at her own little projects. Doing her own thing. And who am I to say she shouldn’t? Poor little mite.’

‘But is she clever? Is she thick? Seriously, it seems ridiculous, but I’ve no idea if she can even read and write! You must have seen some of her work?’

Linda Tardy’s lips disappear, leaving nothing showing but the outlying pink-smudged vertical creases, sprinkled with biscuit crumbs. ‘Have you seen her work?’ she asks sternly.

‘No, but—’

‘Well, then…And incidentally, Fanny, though I say it as probably shouldn’t, but I personally don’t appreciate descriptives such as “clever” or “thick” when it comes to our little kiddies. Not in this day and age.’

Fanny sighs. She glances out of the staff-room window, to where Scarlett sits alone on a wall, scribbling away in that red book of hers, and decides the time has come for her to contact Scarlett’s mother. She takes her coffee and walks towards the door.

‘Ooh, Fanny,’ says Robert suddenly. ‘I was wondering. Do you have a minute? Could I have a little word?’

A wave of ferocious irritation. She looks back at him. He’s folded the Guardian’s ‘G2’ and placed it neatly back inside the main paper, and he’s already half on his feet.

‘What do you want?’ she asks coldly.

‘I mean, could I have a little word in the office?’

‘NO.’ She notices Linda Tardy looking at her curiously. ‘I mean…’ She corrects herself. ‘Not really, no. Now isn’t convenient. Can it wait?’

‘Only I’ve been doing a little research.’

‘Good good.’ She looks at her watch.

‘Into teachers’ courses.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘There’s a one-day Saturday course in Swindon next month. Wait a mo’. I’ve got the leaflet here…It’s for heads and deputies. I thought it might be fun if we did it together.’

‘Ohhh,’ drools Linda Tardy. ‘Isn’t that nice? Go on, Fanny dear. You deserve a bit of fun.’

He rifles around in the bulging briefcase at his feet, pulls out a glossy sheet and hands it to Fanny. There is a clammy mark where his fingers have been, Fanny notices, and she feels a wave of sympathy for him. She can see how hard he is trying. ‘I thought it might be ever so helpful,’ he says eagerly. ‘A real, positive step forward for Fiddleford.’

She looks at the sheet. ‘Robert, we’ve only got seven children in the football team!’

‘Absolutely. But it says there that the course takes a “holistic” approach, thereby providing skills, not just refereeing skills but – other ones. Which may be useful in many scenarios. It’s tailor-made for primary schools.’

She hands it back. ‘I don’t think so, Robert. No.’ She flashes a smile. ‘But thank you. Thanks for thinking of it.’

Scarlett’s mother, Kitty Mozely, manages to sound impressively concerned about her daughter’s refusal to participate in school life – for a good four minutes. She says that she, too, has noticed how Scarlett always carries a red notebook around with her, and how she only rarely speaks. ‘But you know how it is,’ Kitty says blithely, pausing to light one cigarette from the end of the other, and exhaling heavily into the receiver. ‘Her father wasn’t much of a talker either. Always sodding off without a word. Used to drive me bananas…So, but, yes. It is strange, isn’t it? D’you suppose there’s something wrong with her? I mean, aside from the obvious…’ Kitty sighs, a fraction of her usual impatience just beginning to peep through. ‘She worries me terribly, you know, Miss Flynn. She does. We’ve such a struggle as it is, with just the two of us. Because of course writers such as myself rarely earn a sausage. Others might, but me, no. You probably hear these Harry-Potter-type figures being bandied about—’

Fanny clears her throat. They seem to be veering off the point.

‘But in this particular children’s author’s house, money’s short, Miss Flynn.’ (And so it is, in a way. It is for Kitty. She owns her pretty cottage and she lives off a small private income, about the size of Tracey Guppy’s combined salary from the pub, where she works four nights a week, and the school, where she works as a cleaner/caretaker/dinner lady. But Kitty Mozely came from a very rich family once, plus she was spoilt for years by being so clever and pretty; her luck turned, she often says, from the moment she discovered she was pregnant with Scarlett.) ‘Money’s always a problem. We do struggle. And with all Scarlett’s special requirements…Plus she eats like a—Really,’ she adds bitterly, having just come back from Safeways, ‘you’d be surprised how much that girl eats.’

‘I’m just wondering if you have any idea,’ persists Fanny, ‘what she might be scribbling or drawing or whatever in that notebook of hers? I’m intrigued. And I think, maybe, I mean, if I’m going to help her I really do need to know—’ Fanny is humiliated to have to admit it. ‘To be frank with you, Mrs Mozely—’

‘Ms. Ms Mozely, actually, Ms Flynn. But it doesn’t matter.’ She gives a wheezy, smoker’s chuckle. ‘Call me Kitty.’

‘To be frank with you, Kitty, it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t even know for sure if she can read or write!’

Kitty bursts out laughing. ‘Read and write! My daughter? I have a degree from Oxford University, Miss Flynn. Of course she can bloody well read and write! Are you mad? What the bloody hell—’

‘Good!’ Fanny says quickly. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’

‘She’s been at your school for over a year!’

‘I know,’ Fanny says. ‘I know. Only Mrs Thomas isn’t – making herself available. She’s not returning any calls. And I must admit we can’t currently, erm, locate Scarlett’s notes.’

Kitty isn’t listening. ‘I mean, of course she can bloody well read,’ she says, but she sounds suddenly less certain. She tries to envisage her daughter either reading a book or writing a letter, and – absurdly – she finds she can’t manage it. Her daughter is helpful in the kitchen. She’s actually a very good cook. But other than that, what does her daughter do all the time? Besides squabble with Ollie Adams? Kitty laughs. She honestly can’t think! The problem is, of course, Scarlett spends so much time in her bedroom.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ promises Kitty hurriedly, keen now to get off the telephone before the true extent of her ignorance is revealed, ‘I’ll do a little detective work, shall I? See what the little monster’s been getting up to! And I’ll let you know what I find out.’

‘Well, if you could…’

‘Absolutely. I’ll get on to it right away. I promise.’

A rash promise, made in haste, which, predictably, Kitty fails to keep.

Fanny waits. She tries again to get hold of Mrs Thomas, who has apparently taken her stress-related pay-off very seriously, and completely evaporated from the planet.

At the end of lessons a few days later Fanny’s watching Scarlett, as usual, fastening her intriguing red notebook inside her battered satchel, and slowly limp towards the door. Scarlett is always the last out.

‘Scarlett,’ says Fanny, and she can see from the way Scarlett tenses that she’s heard her, but she still walks on. ‘Scarlett, don’t ignore me. We need to talk. This is becoming ridiculous.’

Scarlett turns slowly, flushing with surprise. She limps towards Fanny’s desk and stands there defiantly, waiting. Fanny pulls up a chair.

‘Sit down.’

‘I don’t want to keep my mother waiting.’

It is the longest sentence Fanny has heard from her, but of course it’s also not entirely true. By standing on her seat, which Fanny then does, she can see the school gate, and Kitty Mozely, as usual, is nowhere to be seen.

Fanny knows more about Scarlett’s daily habits than Scarlett, accustomed to being ignored, could have possibly imagined. She knows that Scarlett often goes home with Ollie Adams. She’s watched her, limping miserably behind as Ollie and the au pair march on in front, squabbling with each other. She knows that if Scarlett’s not going home with Ollie, she usually has to hobble the mile home to Laurel Cottage alone.

‘Your mother’s not out there, Scarlett.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because,’ says Fanny, dropping back down into her seat again, ‘I know what she looks like. I’ve seen her.’

‘When? In the pub?’

‘Since you mention it, yes. She’s been pointed out to me. I’ve seen her a couple of times.’

‘So you’re in there yourself, are you, most nights? Just like Kitty. You must be lonely, then.’

Fanny gives a thin smile. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were a bit retarded, Scarlett.’

Scarlett sniggers.

‘But you obviously aren’t. So tell me. What’s going on?’

Scarlett keeps sniggering.

‘What’s funny? Scarlett, I asked you to sit down.’

She sits. Finally Fanny says, ‘Is your mother at home?’

‘How should I know?’

‘I’m going to call her and let her know you’ll be staying late. So you can show me some work – OK?’ She smiles; Scarlett doesn’t. ‘And afterwards I’ll drop you off home in my car. All right, Scarlett? Do you understand?’

Scarlett doesn’t answer.

‘OK, Scarlett?’ says Fanny again.

‘Do I have a choice?’

Fanny hesitates. ‘Er – you don’t actually, no. So. Will you tell me your mother’s telephone number, or are you going to make me go all the way upstairs to the office to look it up?’

Scarlett looks at Fanny as if she’s an idiot. ‘I’m going to make you go—’

‘Of course. Stupid question.’ Fanny opens a maths book to the page the rest of the class has been working from, and asks Scarlett to set to work. ‘Do what you can,’ Fanny says. ‘And don’t worry if you get stuck. It doesn’t matter. It’s what I’m here for. I’ll be back in a minute, all right?’

Fanny pokes her head out into the hall. The staff-room door has been left open. There is no one inside. She glances from left to right; no sign of Robert, then. She’s spotted him a couple of times recently, skulking around after school, obviously waiting for her. Today it looks as though he’s gone straight home. But she still runs across the hall, just in case, and takes care to close her office door, and even to lock it, before dialling the Mozely number.

She leaves a brief message on Kitty’s answer machine and returns to the classroom, where she finds Scarlett leaning back in her chair, hands behind her head, pencil in the same place Fanny left it.

‘Oh, come on, get on with it!’ Fanny snaps. ‘We’ll be here all night. You’re not going anywhere, Scarlett, until you’ve at least shown me—’

A tiny smile plays on Scarlett’s lopsided lips. Her paper is filled with scrawls; it’s an ugly, angry mess. But in those three minutes Scarlett has finished the same exercise her class has been struggling over all week. The arithmetic is there, scribbled randomly around the page. She obviously hasn’t used a calculator. And every answer is correct.

‘So,’ Fanny says finally. ‘So, Scarlett Mozely. That’s what it’s all about, is it?’ Fanny laughs. ‘So! Clever clogs. Well. Of course it is! I should have guessed as much. I mean, this is…this is…so…I mean, this is…phenomenal. Scarlett? I mean, seriously. What else can you do?’

And from the depths of Scarlett’s chest there comes a disarming gurgle, long and deep; a laugh of triumph at having kept her secret for so long. Behind the moon glasses her eyes smart. She looks absurdly happy.

And so does Fanny. ‘Honestly,’ she giggles suddenly, ‘I’ve never taught a Secret Genius before!’ And without pausing for thought, Fanny has leant across the table, pulled Scarlett into a tight, untidy hug and given her a smacker on both cheeks.

‘Oh, shit,’ she says at once, releasing her hurriedly. ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She tries to rub the kisses off. ‘Sorry. Not meant to do that. Very naughty. Child Abuse.’ She giggles again. ‘They could put me in jail for that.’

Scarlett says nothing. She is paralysed with confusion. When, after all, was she last kissed by anyone? Except for Clive and Geraldine’s chillingly dutiful single pecks, always delivered to the pretty side, Scarlett can’t even remember.

‘Sorry, Scarlett,’ says Fanny again, embarrassed to have so obviously embarrassed her. ‘I am sorry.’

But Scarlett is too blown away to answer.