Bed of Roses (12 page)

‘Where are you going?’ Robert stands at the foot of the stairs leading down from Fanny’s office, more or less blocking her path. He rattles a sheath of papers under her nose, blocking her again. ‘You don’t normally leave this early, Fanny. It’s not yet four o’clock. Look.’ She tries to slide past him but he shoves his watch underneath her nose. ‘See? Not even four. And I seriously need to talk to you.’

She stops. ‘Really, Robert? What about?’

‘Well – various things. Important school matters. Have you got a minute? I was just on my way up to see you.’

Fanny sighs. It was going to be the first day in ages she had managed to get home early. She’s been up since six, as usual, and her toe is killing her. But if Robert wants to talk about ‘important school matters’ how can she refuse? It doesn’t happen often. Plus, beneath the swirls of irritation which wash over her whenever Robert is close, she’s still feeling shamefaced about having shouted at him earlier. ‘Quickly then.’

‘In the office?’

‘I’ve just locked it. We’ll have to talk here.’

‘If you insist,’ he says a little huffily, setting a shoulder
against the wall, trying to make himself comfortable. ‘Right then…Well, firstly…’ He hands her a sheet of paper, advertising from what she can gather, a classroom whiteboard, very intricate, which can be linked to its own computer system, thereby—‘As you can see they’re quite dear,’ he explains, sending little spouts of warm breath over her shoulder, ‘but a lot of the primary schools are getting fitted up with them, and I do think in the future they’re going to be essential. After all, how are the kiddies supposed to learn if they can’t—’

‘What else have you got?’ Fanny asks briskly. ‘I’m not sure I can really see the point of this.’

‘As I say, all the other schools are being fixed up with these gizmos and I really think—’

She sighs. ‘Come on, Robert.’

‘What?’ he begins to sound peevish. ‘I don’t really see how I can be expected to effectively teach my class without access to a—’

She gurgles with laughter. ‘You hadn’t even heard of the damn thing before yesterday. But thanks. For pointing it out to me. Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?’

‘Yes!’ he says quickly, tucking the sheet away. ‘I’ve discovered a fascinating course—’

She groans. ‘Oh, please, Robert. I’m tired. Can’t we talk about these things tomorrow?’ She tries again to slide past him, but he doesn’t budge, and the possibility of brushing against any single part of his body or clothing makes her shrink back to her narrow bottom step.

‘It only lasts two days. And it’s in Bristol,’ he continues. ‘I’ve got a cousin in Bristol, so I can stay with him. No overnight expenses!’

‘I see. So what’s the course?’

He pulls out another pamphlet. ‘Dealing with Racism in
Predominantly White Schools: Preparing Kids for Life in a Multi-Cultural Society.’

‘Don’t dismiss this out of hand, Fanny,’ he says, before she has a chance to respond. ‘This is a sensitive and topical issue. And it’s something we’ve been neglecting.’

‘It may well be. But first things first. I mean,’ she laughs again, in exasperation, ‘you know as well as I do, Robert, OFSTED was hardly lacking in things to complain about us. Racism was probably one of the very few things that didn’t even come up. And right now, so far as I’m aware, our school has the lowest literacy rate of any primary school in the county. Don’t you think our time might be better spent—’

‘
Tolerance
, Fanny, in this day and age, is the most important thing we can convey to our kids. Are you saying—’

‘I’m saying find another excuse to go and stay with your cousin in Bristol. OK?’

He blushes. ‘I don’t appreciate that, Fanny,’ he says, genuinely stung. ‘As deputy head of this school I’m actually trying to help.’

She sighs. ‘I’m sorry. You’re quite right. That was rude. Again. I had no right to say that. Please, accept my apology.’ Fanny smiles. ‘I’m just quite tired today. But anyway—’ She motions at the wedge of papers still in his hand. ‘So what else have you got there? And before you go on, Robert, to save time, the answer, for the time being, is no to all teachers’ courses. OK?’

‘Oh!’ He’s shocked. ‘But with the school in Special Measures, there’s so much extra funding available, especially for courses.’

‘Yes. Funnily enough I’m aware of that. But, as I explained at our last governors’ meeting, which I don’t believe you attended, and as I’ve set down in innumerable bloody policy statements – which I certainly don’t blame you for not having read – I feel that what we need right now is continuity, not
teachers sodding off on courses. We need
lessons
. So what else have you got?’

‘Fine,’ he says. Disappointed, obviously, and disapproving, of course. But nevertheless changing tack. He glances at his watch. Three minutes to four. He’s got to keep her there for half an hour. An hour, to be safe. ‘Do you mind?’ he says. ‘Only I’ve been on my feet all day,’ and promptly sits down on the floor. He gives what he hopes is a cheeky grin. ‘Good thing I do yoga, hey? You should see some of the other positions I can get into!’

Fanny’s painkillers have worn off. She doesn’t attempt to look amused.

‘But seriously, Fanny, I do feel – I have come to feel, that in your drive to bring the kids up to a pre-designated educational “standard” which I think we both know is potentially as stressful to them as it is unrealistic—’

‘No, it isn’t,’ she snaps.

He pulls a little face; he remains unconvinced.

‘It’s not either of those things, Robert. And it is certainly not unrealistic. OK? It is perfectly fucking realistic to expect children to learn to read. OK?’

He holds up a hand. ‘I don’t want to argue with you, Fanny. I’m only saying that we’re in danger of neglecting an equally important aspect of the National Curriculum, one which, like it or not, Fanny, was put there by professional adults all of whom have the kids’ best interests at heart.’

She waits.

‘One word, Fanny. PSHE. Personal and Social Health Education.’

‘Acronym, Robert,’ she mutters.

Robert looks confused.

‘One acronym. Five words. You’re a teacher. You should probably check out the difference.’

‘I was thinking we could host a series of little seminars,
Fanny. Maybe a talk on friendship, and one on litter, and then gradually work up to the knottier issues: under-aged drinking, domestic violence, STDs, paedophile rings, child abuse, of course, and “virtual” child abuse, where the kiddies are groomed by paedophiles over the Internet—’ He stops for breath.

‘Sounds interesting, Robert. Can we please talk about this in the morning?’

Robert steals a glance at his watch. Only four minutes have passed since they started talking. The attempt to delay her with school business isn’t really working. In fact, he gets the distinct impression all he’s succeeding in doing is irritating her. He’s going to have to think of something else. ‘Very well,’ he says in a small, hurt voice, and slowly stands up. ‘I was only trying to help.’

‘I know. And thank you. Really. But let’s discuss it in the morning.’

‘D’you fancy a drink?’

‘No, thank you, Robert.’

‘No? Cup of tea?’

‘No.’

‘We could go to the pictures.’

‘No. Thanks.’

He steps aside. ‘Going home then?’

‘Yup.’

‘OK.’ Very hangdog. Until—‘Oh! But I’m coming up that way in a minute. Got to stop off at the shop. Wait a mo’! I’ll keep you company.’

She pretends not to hear.

‘Or maybe I’ll come and call!’

Sure enough, five minutes later, there he is, standing beneath the small porch on her doorstep holding another small box of Milk Tray. He peeps through the front window, glimpses Fanny moving around the kitchen at the back,
putting the kettle on. No sign of Louis. So he waits. He enjoys the moment; relishes the sound of her footsteps on the oak floor, the sound of her murmured conversation with Brute, the sight of her as she moves closer, into the sitting room, and starts laying a fire in the tiny grate…

Louis can drink a lot of alcohol before it shows, so when, at ten past four, he finally picks up his cottage keys from behind the bar, waves goodbye to Kitty and various friendly others and meanders out of the Fiddleford Arms towards Fanny’s place, he does it very respectably, leaving nothing but excellent impressions behind him. Nobody, except possibly Fanny, would recognise how drunk he really is.

But he is drunk. And feeling more than a little confused. The truth is, he’s not really sure what he’s doing here in Fiddleford any more. Not after what Kitty has said. Or hinted. Or half-hinted and then taken back and then hinted again.

Problem is, though, he’s just paid £1,600 in deposit and advance rent to Ian Guppy, which has cleaned him out. Unless he sells his cameras, he won’t have enough money for another deposit for at least a couple of months. So he’s kind of stuck here. Not only that, he’s got more work lined up than he’s ever had. In anticipation of his new life with Fanny, and wanting to impress her, he had managed to line up local assignments from several different London newspapers and for several weeks ahead. If he lets them down they may never hire him again…

He looks at his watch. This was meant to have been a happy day – possibly even the happiest of his life. Now he envisages a summer of rural, sex-starved solitude, while Fanny and the repulsive teacher –
Robert
/Robin – fuck each other merrily on the other side of the wall. He groans. It’s actually too disgusting to contemplate. Why, he wonders, as
the cottages – his and hers (and the empty one) – come into view, why hadn’t he spoken to her before he made this move? Why had he been so damn presumptuous?

The jasmine is in full flower now – it’s crept all along their shared garden fence. It looks welcoming against the warm red stone, even in this grey light. It pulls the cottages together, makes them look like one. And she’s lit a fire. There’s smoke coming out of her chimney.

What’s he going to do, anyway, when he gets there? When he bangs on her front door? What’s he going to say?

Er.

Oh. Hi, Robin. Robert. Whatever the fuck your name is. It’s you. Wasn’t expecting you. Robin. Robert. Excuse me. Could you give Fanny and me a minute alone?

But Louis stumbles on, because in spite of everything Kitty said, he still hasn’t given up hope. Not entirely. At least—Louis stops.

Robert White saw Louis before Louis saw him. He spotted Louis meandering down the road towards him and leapt into action. To Plan B. He’s knocked loudly, confidently, on Fanny’s door and she’s come to answer it. Louis can see her standing there, her outline – not her face. She’s maybe ten or fifteen metres away, no more. He hears Robert:

‘SURPRISE!’

And then an exclamation from Fanny, some sort of exclamation – or possibly laughter.

‘AND ALL BECAUSE THE LADY LOVES…’ says Robert.
Yells
Robert. So Louis can hear. Surprising level of decibels, Louis thinks vaguely, from a man with such a delicate frame. Robert bellows with laughter. Even more incongruous. He passes her something – the chocolates, obviously – and then bends down and forward, out of view.

Silence.

Louis can’t see what’s happening. But he can picture them,
and it’s disgusting. He feels like a pervert, listening in…Still more silence…He feels a cold sweat of jealousy breaking out on the back of his neck, a sour pain around his eyes and jaw, and, unseen, turns quickly and quietly back the way he came–

– a millisecond too late to see Robert reeling backwards, clasping his cheek in pain. He had leant forward to hand her the chocolates and his lips had puckered. When she took the chocolates he lunged. He pushed his luck just that little bit too far and Fanny’s temper kicked in. She had slapped him very hard across the face.

‘Oh, God, Robert. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought you were – I just – I don’t want you calling. OK? I’m not interested! I never was. Please! How can I get the message across to you?’

He stands there, eyes smarting, rubbing away the sting. ‘Well,’ he says coldly, ‘you have now. Message received. Loud and clear.’

‘Robert, I’m so sorry. Do you want some ice or something?’

‘I actually disapprove of violence,’ he says. ‘I strongly disapprove of violence.’ And she notices that his voice has changed. It is dull and cold and distant. Without another word he turns away. Angry. Angrier than he can remember being. His love for her extinguished. Like that.

After that, Fanny decides she needs company. She calls Messy and Grey but there’s a cabinet minister just arrived at the Retreat, and a corresponding frenzy of journalists in the bar and restaurant. It means Charlie and Jo will also be busy tonight. She briefly considers calling Geraldine Adams. But the thought of Geraldine, earnest and energetic, lecturing her as she had this morning about ‘youngsters requiring nurture-to-go’, quickly brings her to her senses. Crossing her fingers that Robert White isn’t already there, nursing his stinging cheek, she takes herself to the pub.

Which is where she finds not Robert, but Louis. Sitting with his back to her at a little wooden table beside the fire; his head in his hand, a cigarette between his fingers. He is bent forwards, whispering into the ear of Kitty Mozely. Also drunk. For a moment Fanny thinks she’s hallucinating.

‘Louis?’ she says.

Kitty is facing her. So Kitty sees her first. She glances up through her white-blonde fringe, and the drunken half-smile which has been sliding this way and that as she listens to Louis’s mutterings, slides right off her face and hits the floor. She looks murderous.

‘Louis?’ says Fanny. ‘Louis! Is that you?’

Slowly, without altering the angle of his body, with his head still resting on the one hand and his elbow still on the table, he half-turns towards Fanny. ‘Louis! What the hell are you doing here?’ She throws her arms around him just as she did in the village hall but, with a chilly shrug, he shakes her off again. ‘Hey!’ Fanny laughs uncertainly. She steps back. ‘What’s going on? Louis? What are you doing here? Why didn’t you call?’

‘Obviously I should have done,’ he says.

Kitty gurgles.

‘You’re pissed,’ Fanny states. ‘God, Louis. Where the bloody hell have you been all this time? You haven’t called me for a month. I was beginning to wonder if I’d done something…’ And then she beams at him. ‘Fuck it! I’m just so happy to see you! I’ve got so much to tell you.’ Again she moves to put her arms around him; again he moves away.

‘Aren’t you going to say hello to Kitty?’ he asks.

Fanny glances at her. ‘Hi, Kitty. How are you?’

‘Never been better,’ growls Kitty, eyeing her malevolently, trying quite hard to aim a cigarette into her mouth.

‘Scarlett’s – doing very well. In everything. As usual.’

Kitty doesn’t bother to respond, and Fanny can’t be bothered to pursue it. ‘Louis,’ she says, turning back to him, ‘what’s going on? Have I done something? Why are you being so weird?’

‘I was just telling him,’ interjects Kitty, ‘about this
marvellous
idea from old Twiglet Prick. What’s-his-name.’ She burps. ‘Which is going to make us barrels and barrels of money, isn’t it, dear?…Anyway, he’s going to do my illustrations. He’s frightfully talented.’

‘So much confidence in me,’ Louis smiles at her. ‘And I haven’t even shown her my work, yet. Isn’t that nice?’

‘It’s idiotic,’ Fanny snaps. ‘Anyway, I thought you gave up illustrating ages ago.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you did.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? Louis—’ Fanny turns to Kitty. ‘Excuse me, Kitty. I don’t want to be rude, but you couldn’t possibly give us a minute?…Louis?’

‘By all means,’ Kitty says, but she doesn’t move and neither does Louis. Fanny waits, bewildered. A silence follows, broken simultaneously by Kitty, slurring, ‘
WherezRobert?
’ and then burping, and Louis, in a voice full of self-mockery and general bitterness, announcing, ‘By the way, Fanny. I’ve moved into the cottage next door.’

‘Next door to what?’

‘To you.’

‘
To me?
’

‘Yes. Next door to you.’

‘Well—’ She laughs. ‘But that’s fantastic, Louis! Why? I mean, no, never mind why. It’s the best news I’ve heard in my entire life!’

Louis feels the ground shifting again. Perhaps Kitty’s wrong—

‘Hey!
Wherezzz Robert?
’ Kitty asks again, and disintegrates into snort-filled laughter.

‘How the hell should I know?’ snaps Fanny. ‘More to the point, where’s Scarlett?’

Kitty stops laughing. ‘At Ollie Adams’s house,’ she lies. ‘If it’s any business of yours. Which it isn’t…Anyway, excuse me. I need a pee.’

Which, when Kitty finally staggers up from her seat, leaves Louis and Fanny alone. The flicker of a glance they give to each other as soon as her back is turned is filled with so much confusion, so much misunderstanding, neither has any idea what to say to begin.

Finally, Fanny says, ‘You two seem to be getting on well.’

‘Oh. She’s good fun. She’s a laugh.’

‘She’s a bitch, Louis.’

‘Well, I suppose beggars can’t be choosers. Out here in the sticks. Isn’t that right, Fan?’

She has no idea what he’s talking about. ‘So, anyway.’ She shrugs. Tries another tack. ‘When did you arrive?’

‘What, in the village? Or in the pub?’

‘I don’t know. Both. Louis, what’s the matter with you?’

‘I arrived in the village at zero hundred hours plus fourteen. I arrived in the pub at zero two hundred plus twelve.’

‘That’s not funny. You’re not making any sense.’

‘Minus a small detour at the rutting-donkey show.
Eeeyyyorrr!
’ He stands up suddenly, impressively steady. ‘Anyway. Got to go,’ he says, without looking at her. ‘Got to make up a bed and stuff. Open a few windows. Plus I’ve got to be in Crediton tomorrow. Don’t suppose you know where that is?’ He doesn’t look at her but as he passes his arm reaches out, almost of its own accord, and gives her a quick, tight squeeze. Can’t resist it. He’s missed her. ‘See you later, Fan.’

‘No – hey – Louis, wait! I’ll give you a hand.’

He hesitates, the arm still resting on her shoulders.

‘
Hey-ho!
’ bawls Kitty, bursting through the lavatory door, wiping her wet hands on her skirt. (She’s never peed so fast in her life.) ‘Where are you two off to? You’re not leaving, are you?’

He drops his arm. ‘I’m leaving, yes,’ he says. ‘Got loads to do. Nice meeting you, Kitty.’

‘Wait. I’ll come with you,’ Fanny says.

‘Thanks. But I can manage on my own. I’ll see you around, Fan.’

‘Wait for me!’ shouts Kitty. The threat of his disappearing, plus the pee-break, have combined to sober her up a bit. ‘Wait there, Louis. We haven’t finished discussing our little plan. It’s the chance of a lifetime! Darling boy, don’t you
want
to illustrate the most talked-about children’s book of the century?’

He strides out of the bar without looking back. Kitty, eyes wild with lust, brushes past Fanny without really seeing her.

‘Oops,’ she mutters vaguely, knocking Fanny into the table. ‘Out the light, dear.’

The door bangs and Fanny stands alone, blinking in the aftermath. She hears someone behind her clearing his throat. ‘Afternoon, Fanny.’ It’s the General, escaped from all the hectic activity at the Retreat. He’s been sitting at the bar quietly observing everything. ‘Came here for a bit of peace and quiet, I did. How about you?’

‘God. I’m not sure any more,’ says Fanny. ‘I came for a bit of company, I think.’

He pats the stool beside him. ‘Come on,’ he says, ‘over here.’ He turns to Tracey Guppy, behind the bar, slicing lemons. ‘Kitty Mozely going at full wattage this afternoon, eh, Tracey?’

Tracey rolls her eyes. ‘Kitty’s a pain.’

‘She is,’ he says. ‘Indeed she is.’ He looks at Fanny thoughtfully, moved, as he often is when he sees her, by the air of faint loneliness which always seems to surround her. ‘I was thinking,’ the General says, ‘Fanny and Solomon might make an awfully good duo, Tracey. What do you think?’ He turns back to Fanny. ‘We must reschedule that luncheon.’ Fanny’s lunch at the Manor has been cancelled twice now – as lunches at the Manor, she is discovering, so often have to be, due to the very neurotic nature of so many of their high-paying guests. It’s a mark of some optimism on the General’s part that he continues to issue invitations at all, since at least 80 per cent of them have to be withdrawn later.

‘Fanny and Solomon?’ Tracey says dubiously. Considers it a moment. Looks critically at Fanny. ‘Don’t know about
that,’ she says. Tracey’s too kind to tell Fanny she’s not glamorous enough. Solomon Creasey’s girlfriends always look like supermodels.

‘Have you met Solomon yet?’ asks the General. ‘You must have done.’

‘Not yet,’ Fanny says. She sits down beside him.

‘What? Haven’t met him yet?’ The General stares at her, finding it hard to imagine there’s anyone in Fiddleford who hasn’t yet met Solomon Creasey. ‘How extraordinary! He’s in the pub most weekends, isn’t he, Tracey?’

Tracey shrugs. ‘I don’t work weekends, General.’

‘Well. He’s never in when I’m in,’ Fanny says.

‘What’s that?’ The General’s not listening. ‘Well, well. Plenty more opportunities. In the mean time, what can I get you two girls to drink?’

Louis moves into the cottage that night and continues, in spite of Fanny’s efforts, to treat her with distant hostility. And although Fanny is truly bewildered and hurt by it, she is distracted, within a couple of days, by the arrival of the dreaded letter, announcing the arrival at the school of Her Majesty’s Inspectors within the next couple of weeks. Fanny’s been expecting to hear from them ever since her job began, since the inspectors come once every term to a school in Special Measures. Nevertheless the now very real prospect of their descent sends her into a spin of hasty amendments, and yet more intensive form filling.

The children are ordered to hide their descriptions of the pheasant dissection. They have to put their tadpoles back in the river, clear away their untidy nature tables, set aside their weaving looms and focus exclusively on the official Curriculum.

‘But we can make it interesting,’ Fanny pleads with her little students. ‘And if we concentrate hard enough we can
get through it all very quickly, and go back to the other stuff as soon as the inspectors have gone.’

Robert White, meanwhile, refuses to come to work at all. He won’t even take her calls any more. After her fourth message on his machine goes unanswered, she grows worried; worried enough to call Robert’s brother-in-law, Dr Curry. But Dr Curry refuses to give any information out. He’s curt. Especially when she suggests that Mrs Curry (Robert’s sister) should go round to Robert’s house and check if he’s all right. Dr Curry, font of so many unwarranted sick notes, has a feeling she may be mocking him.

‘I’m sure he’s perfectly fine, Miss Flynn,’ he says briskly. ‘Probably just another of his colds. Now if you’ll excuse me…’

After a long week struggling to bring Robert’s class, as well as her own, up to scratch for the inspectors, and with only the help of a series of dozy supply teachers and the feeble Linda Tardy, Fanny leaves Robert a final message, threatening to bring in the LEA if he doesn’t call back at once. He calls back at once.

‘I’ll return to work as soon as I feel sufficiently able,’ he says in the monotone he’d used at her front door, after the slap. ‘I don’t want to bring the union into this but I can and I will if you continue to harass me like this. And I would be grateful, Miss Flynn—’

‘Miss Flynn?’ repeats Fanny, with a burst of laughter. ‘Sorry, Mr White, but last time I saw you you were trying to stick your tongue in my throat!’

‘That isn’t the case, Miss Flynn. And I find that suggestion exceptionally offensive. If you repeat that allegation, I can and will—’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ she says. ‘Fact is, Robert, if you stay away another week I shall call in the authority and you can call in the union if you want.’ She slams the telephone down.

Robert, who had been lifting weights in his garage when the initial call came through, replaces his own receiver with a little smirk, pads through the kitchen and into his bedroom, and pulls out his new diary:

10.45 a.m. Acute migraine. Stress induced. Miss Flynn contacts me once again, making accusations of a sexual nature, also questioning veracity of my condition. Miss Flynn terminates call by telling me to f*** off.

He’s put away the diary with the poems he wrote to her, and diagrams, and little fantasies. Once he’d cross-checked the dates of her other managerial misdemeanours, he locked the old diary into the little safe beneath his bed. Though he knows it can’t stand as evidence, he has an instinct that the diary may come in handy when the time comes for lodging his complaints.