Wicked! (118 page)

He glanced back at David’s letter. He couldn’t take on both Fleetley and Education. David, who was a great friend of Theo’s, had added a PS: ‘To sadder matters, how can we rescue Theo? I am convinced of his innocence. We must battle to clear his name and enable him to finish Sophocles. You have the greater clout.’

Hengist had reached Badger’s Retreat. A robin sang in a hawthorn bush, its orange breast clashing with the crimson haws. Like a unicorn, Elaine bounded through the trees he had planted and nurtured. The ground was littered with conkers, which always gave Hengist a stab, remembering how he’d collected them for Mungo.

The Family Tree, its keys turning coral, had lost much of its charm since he’d thrown Oriana out, but, still clinging together, the three trunks and many branches had survived the onslaught of the fallen ash. Perhaps he and Oriana might be friends one day.

Bagley was a far more beautiful school than Fleetley, which, although fed by the same River Fleet, was a squat, grey, Georgian pile surrounded by very flat country. Hengist believed he would miss Badger’s Retreat most of all.

Heavens! He must hurry. There was Rupert’s dark blue helicopter, in which it would be so cool to arrive at the Headmasters’ Conference this evening.

He would earn far more money in politics than at Fleetley. The paths of glory lead but to the gravy train, reflected Hengist.

121

Jupiter’s speech was a wow, constructive and marvellously bitchy about the Opposition. Then word got around about Hengist’s fringe speech and the main hall had emptied, particularly of young MPs, who had crowded in to hear his good tub-thumping stuff about the real England and freedom from the stranglehold of the curriculum and Brussels.

‘Let them be our allies but not dictate our way of life.’

So many interviews and congratulations followed, he only just reached St Andrews in time for dinner. The conference was being held in a lovely hotel, the St Andrews Bay, overlooking the golf course, which was being buffeted by an angry, grey North Sea.

Fiddling to get Radio 3 and the television working, emptying a miniature Bell’s into a glass, Hengist called Sally.

‘I’m in the most enormous suite, I wish you were here to share it. The guest speaker, some lady novelist, will address us in the Robert Burns Room.’

Sally loved Burns and had, when they first met, compared Hengist with John Anderson, my jo of the bonnie brow and the raven locks. Hengist, in turn, had recited ‘My love is like a red, red rose’, to her at their wedding.

‘Jupiter’s speech was marvellous,’ cried Sally, ‘terrific jokes and he seemed so warm and sort of sincere.’

‘That must be a first. I’m moving towards accepting his offer, if you can cope with the incessant ripping apart by the press.’

‘As long as we’re together.’

‘That’s the only certainty. Can I fuck you the moment I get home?’

‘The Bishop’s coming to lunch . . .’

‘I’ll get there early then. I love you so much and a pat for Elaine.’

Hengist always enjoyed the Headmasters’ Conference and never more so than tonight, when Bagley had finally gone above Fleetley. Whilst changing for dinner, many of the heads had seen clips of his and Jupiter’s speeches, or his helicopter landing, and he was subjected to a lot of rather envious joshing.

‘You going into politics, Hengist?’

‘As a head, is one ever out of them?’

‘Did you write all Rupert’s coursework?’

Then, in lowered voices: ‘Sorry about poor old Theo Graham.’

Listening to the cheerful roar of 250 like minds, anticipating a very good dinner, Hengist thought what a good bunch of chaps they were. Personable was the word. There were intellectuals, like David Hawkley or Anthony Seldon at Brighton College, who’d written a biography of Blair, or Martin Stephen, who’d just taken over St Paul’s, who wrote excellent historical novels. These men had read hugely and could pick up any literary allusion. A new breed, more interested in management and marketing, had hardly read a book.

Except for a sprinkling of headmistresses, the membership was all men. Milling around they could be mistaken for army officers out of uniform, showing half an inch of clean, pink neck between hair and collar, wearing trousers that when they sat down rose to sock level above highly polished shoes.

‘The
Guardian
described us as “grey men in grey suits”,’ grumbled old Freddie Wills of St Barnabas. ‘Not true: we’re in navy blue, mostly pinstripe.’ With cheerfulness breaking in with flamboyant ties, thought Hengist: technicolour checks or swarming with elephants or dolphins.

They had listened all day to seminars.

‘Jenni Murray was excellent on gender,’ Freddie Wills told Hengist, ‘but Andrew Adonis predictably told us “the Labour Party loves us”, because they want to bleed us white propping up city academies. Don’t seem to realize most of us have a hell of a struggle making ends meet.’

Then, a few feet away, standing in front of a mural of a 1930s’ golf match, with players in pancake caps and plus fours showing off well-turned ankles, was David ‘Hatchet’ Hawkley, appropriately hawklike, immensely distinguished, his shyness so often coming across as brusqueness.

Hengist waved in greeting. ‘Thank you for your letter.’

‘You got it? Good. Better get into dinner. You’re at my table.’

Hengist, already high on a successful Bournemouth and three large whiskies, found himself seated between the jolly lady novelist guest speaker and David’s second wife, Helen.

As her previous husbands had included such unashamed Lotharios as Rupert Campbell-Black and Cosmo’s late father, Roberto Rannaldini, it was hardly surprising Lady Hawkley insisted on accompanying handsome David everywhere. A redhead with big, yellow eyes and the nervous breediness of a fallow deer, she was easily the most beautiful woman in the room.

Hengist would far rather have been seated with his chums, fellow junior masters in earlier schools, particularly as, through a vase of yellow carnations, Hatchet Hawkley was watching his every move. Would Helen follow Pippa and fall under Hengist’s spell?

In fact, Hengist found Helen earnest and a dreadful intellectual snob. Having clocked him landing in Rupert’s helicopter, she immediately tackled him on Rupert’s B grade.

‘Do we need any more proof that GCSEs are getting easier?’

‘Rupert worked very hard,’ protested Hengist, who hadn’t eaten all day and was buttering his roll, ‘and he’s discovered he rather likes English lit. There’s a copy of
Henry Esmond
in the helicopter and he’s mellowed since the old days, when he was Lord of the Unzipped Flies. He’s so delighted Taggie did so well and Xav got the Magic Five, he’s thinking of turning Penscombe into a second Bloomsbury.’

Oh God. Hengist realized he’d goofed. Helen was clearly so scarred by her marriage to Rupert, she loathed any reference to the success of his second marriage. She had now put her knife and fork together, rather like her legs, leaving her divine russet slab of pâté untouched. Hengist was tempted to ask if he could have it, but this would probably be construed as too intimate a gesture by David, who was still peering at them through the carnations.

Hengist still hadn’t decided one hundred per cent between Fleetley or politics.

‘We’re putting your ravishing Tabitha and her horse on the front of the
Old Bagleian
,’ he told Helen, ‘although no one could look less like an Old Bag. We’re all so proud of her silver!’ Then he realized he’d goofed again. He’d forgotten how jealous Helen was of Tabitha, whom he supposed looked too like Rupert.

‘You look absolutely stunning,’ he murmured. ‘Most heads’ wives resemble overgrown tomboys, short pepper and salt hair, slim figures: senior, senior prefects. It’s not homosexual, just that most heads feel easier with boys. How are you looking forward to David retiring?’ he went on. Christ, he hoped they didn’t move into a cottage on the Fleetley Estate.

‘We’ve got a house in Umbria,’ said Helen, ‘and we’re looking for somewhere in Dorset. We’re both going to write. David’s doing Aeschylus and I’m working on a literary memoir.’

Hengist was about to say Helen’s inside story of marriage to Rupert and Rannaldini would sell much better than any translation of Aeschylus, but just stopped himself. ‘We’d better get another bottle.’ He tipped back his chair.

At the next-door table, two of his dearest friends, Tim Hastie-Smith, head of Dean Close, and Pete Johnson, head of Millfield, were discussing Colin Montgomerie’s triumph in the Ryder Cup. As waitresses and waiters in grey silk cheongsams rushed in with the main course – large squares of roast lamb and shiny brown parsnips – Hengist turned to the lady novelist, who said she was writing about two schools and asked him to tell her about being a headmaster.

‘Big egos and like this’ – Hengist plunged his knife into his lamb to reveal its pink interior – ‘very square but tender inside.’

‘I must remember that,’ laughed the lady novelist. ‘What else makes a great head?’

‘Ability to fill the school and pick first-class staff.’

‘Energy and charm?’

‘Certainly.’ Hengist filled up her glass.

‘Intellect?’

Hengist shook his head. ‘Huge self-belief is much more important.’

‘Have you ever won anything at the Teaching Awards?’

‘No, that’s a state-school affair, even though Lord Hawkley’s one of the judges. They think we have it too easy.’ He noticed she was looking down at some speech notes on her lap.

‘Don’t be scared, we’ll be a terrific audience, so used to laughing at parents’ weak jokes.’

‘I’m going to end by quoting from “Rugby Chapel”, about heads as heroic great souls leading and inspiring others on to the city of God.’

‘“Ye, like angels, appear, radiant with ardour divine!”’ quoted back Hengist. ‘They’ll love that.’

The lady novelist was thrilled Hengist was writing a biography of Thomas and Matthew Arnold.

‘Will you send me a review copy?’

‘How bad was that school, Larks something, you joined up with?’ shouted old Freddie Wills across the table.

‘Well, they had a geography mistress who’d never been to London,’ said Hengist, howling with laughter, so everyone else joined in.

Anyone could charm the birds off the trees, reflected David enviously, with a packet of Swoop, but Hengist could charm the birds away from a loaded bird table on the coldest of winter days, because it was so much more fun to be in his presence.

He, Freddie and the lady novelist, who’d probably end up in bed with him later, were discussing a collective noun for heads.

‘You’ve got a pride of lions, a gaggle of geese,’ said Freddie.

‘How about a hurrah of heads?’ suggested the lady novelist.

‘Or a “Hail, fellow, well met” of heads?’ volunteered Hengist.

Aware that Hengist was having far more fun with the plump lady novelist with the loud laugh and shiny face, Helen knew she had been crabby. She had always found him disturbingly attractive. With his sallow skin, laughing slit eyes, dark curls rising from his smooth forehead and spilling over the collar of his dinner jacket, he looked like some Renaissance grandee. His height, strength, merriment and overwhelming vitality made one long to be in bed with him.

‘How’s my ex-stepson, Cosmo?’ she asked. ‘As obnoxious as ever?’

‘Probably,’ said Hengist, ‘but he’s very clever. I’m afraid he makes me laugh.’

With no Sally to drag him home, Hengist had a lovely end to the evening, drinking the minibar dry in his suite and playing bears round the furniture with his friends.

‘Are you going into politics, Hengist?’

‘No, no, I could never leave teaching.’

122

Next morning, Hengist had a frightful hangover and didn’t get away as early as he’d hoped. This was the way to travel though, flying over magenta ploughed fields flecked with gulls, like waves on a wine-dark sea. Down below was St Andrews, with its ancient university and town hall built of big, proud, yellow stone, the colour of the turning trees. What a lovely place for Sally and him to retire to. A seat of learning, where he could at last write his books. Perhaps he didn’t want Fleetley
or
politics.

At midday, the helicopter dropped him at Bagley, sending the leaves flying upwards, then whizzed off to take Rupert racing.

Dropping little bottles of shampoo and body lotion on Miss Painswick’s desk, although her body was not somewhere he wished to go, Hengist asked if anything interesting had happened.

‘Only these.’ She handed him two letters marked ‘private and confidential’, one presumably offering him Shadow Education, the other asking him to take over Fleetley in the Michaelmas Term of 2005. Hengist pocketed them.

‘How was the trip? asked Miss Painswick. ‘You were awfully good at Bournemouth.’

‘And awfully bad at St Andrews. Could you get me a vast Fernet-Branca?’

‘Mr Bruce is in your office, by the way, says it’s urgent.’

Bounding up the stairs, Hengist was amazed to find Alex sitting in his archbishop’s chair, flipping disapprovingly through his mountainous in-tray. Alex’s blackcurrant eyes glittered behind his spectacles with the same air of excitement as when Theo was arrested.