Wicked! (124 page)

A fatalistic Ian had left the office when Painswick went in to take the minutes and, in anticipation of their departure, was mindlessly sorting out drawers in the sitting room. He had discovered one of Paris’s notebooks. On the first page the boy had scribbled ‘Paris Cartwright’ over and over again, then the initials PC, then ‘politically correct’, then ‘Mr Wright’, ‘Mr Wrong’, ‘Paris always Wrong’. Then ‘Dora Cartwright’, then ‘Paris Alvaston Cartwright’ over and over. Out of the middle pages fluttered a picture of Theo and a piece of paper with a blob, coloured olive green, turquoise, royal blue and shaped like a peacock’s feather. Perhaps there had been something between him and Theo.

Overwhelmed with despair and longing, Ian gave a sob. If only he’d been more demonstrative towards the boy. Next moment, the notebook crashed to the floor as Paris walked in, ducking nervously as though expecting blows and recriminations.

Ian just took his hand and shut his eyes for a moment, then he mumbled, ‘It’s very, very good to see you, Paris.’

‘You’re out of logs, I’ll get some.’

‘Would you like a gin and tonic?’

‘Yes, please.’

How sweet-faced the boy was, even though he looked as if he’d been sleeping rough, and had lost a hell of a lot of weight.

By the time Paris struggled back with the logs, Patience had been alerted and came galumphing downstairs.

‘Oh Paris, how lovely to see you, we’ve missed you.’

She longed to hug him. Little Dulcie, who came rushing in in her blue pyjamas, had no such reserve and hurled herself into Paris’s arms with screams of joy. Paris hugged her back, colour suffusing his shadowed face. A minute later Northcliffe bounded in, singing at the top of his voice, dragging one of Patience’s huge bras like a mini Himalayas.

‘The mountains have truly come to Mahomet,’ observed Ian. ‘I’ll get some ice.’

Outside, he made a discreet telephone call.

‘It’s OK, Sally, he’s home.’ Then, not knowing the permutations: ‘Could you let Janna know? And Feral too, if you get a moment.’

If only he could ring Hengist in prison.

After that, they didn’t leave Paris for a second, fearful he’d vanish. Paris couldn’t stop yawning.

‘Your bed’s made up,’ stammered Patience, ‘if you’d like to spend the night.’

‘Please,’ said Paris. ‘There just one problem.’ Patience’s heart stopped. ‘I acquired a cat on my travels; he’s outside.’

Patience laughed in relief.

‘That’s wonderful, we’ve got far too many mice and Northcliffe loves cats.’

They were just feeding Hindsight a tin of tuna when Dora rang.

‘Bloody cow, bloody tagging system, Joan won’t let me out. Is he really back?’

‘Have a word,’ said Patience, going off to fill a hot-water bottle. Paris was already in bed when she knocked on the door, an equally weary Hindsight curled into the back of his legs.

‘I’m really sorry,’ he said. ‘Until I saw you and Ian on TV, I didn’t realize.’

Patience sat down on the bed and took his hand.

‘Doesn’t matter; you’re home. Ian is so pleased. He just loves having another chap around the house.’ She tucked the hot-water bottle in beside him. ‘Sorry there aren’t any flowers.’

‘That’s OK – flowers are for guests. What really pissed me off was Nadine saying we were wrong for each other. You know I said that about running away to find my real mother and father?’

Patience nodded, quite unable to speak.

‘Well’ – Paris’s hand tightened on hers – ‘I guess being away taught me, if it’s all right with you, that I did find them – that you and Ian
are
my real parents.’

Patience still couldn’t speak, but she nodded frantically.

‘I don’t need to call you Mum and Dad, I’m just grateful I’ve found people I love, who, however horrible I am, seem to love me, so I can start again.’

‘Oh, Paris.’

A tear splashed on to his hand.

Paris’s eyelids were drooping.

‘You’re tired, shall I read to you?’

Paris nodded, but still clung to her hand.

Taking down Hans Andersen’s fairy tales, Patience turned to ‘The Snow Queen’, and began: ‘“Attend! We are now at the beginning. When we get to the end of our story, we shall know more than we do now,”’ but by the time she’d finished the first paragraph, Paris was asleep.

128

It was time for the high noon of the school year, the National Teaching Awards, in which hundreds of teachers, including all the regional winners and their partners, are invited for a splendid weekend in London. Activities included a grand ball on Saturday night, seminars, and sightseeing. The climax, however, was the televising of the national winners receiving their awards at the Palace Theatre on Sunday afternoon, followed by a riotous party and no teaching the following week, because it was half-term.

The winners in the ten different categories had been originally nominated by two members of their school community. Their schools were then visited by regional judges and later by a team of national judges, amongst whom was Lord Hawkley.

‘The Awards are an amazing celebration of teaching,’ he told the
Observer
, ‘although, of the six hundred people crammed into the Palace Theatre on Sunday, I will be one of the only public-school voices. No member of an independent has ever won an award.’

This year Alex Bruce, because of his clean-out at Bagley and his brilliant (except for Lando and Jack) science results and, of course, his
Guide to Red Tape
, was hoping to be the first. Rod Hyde, who’d formerly won Head of the Year, was hoping to score again.

A thousand years ago, it seemed, when Janna had been teaching English at Redfords, Stew Wilby had talked about putting her forward for an award. Now it would never happen. She no longer had a school to nominate her.

It was half-term Sunday, and she had reached rock bottom. The head of English on maternity leave for whom Janna was covering had brought in her adorable baby last week, and Janna had been overwhelmed with despair that she would never have Emlyn and his babies and the family life for which she so desperately longed.

In a bleak week, Stancombe, after a few hiccups – like the Brigadier pointing out the presence of fritillaries and natterjack toads in the grounds – had obtained a compulsory purchase order on both Larks buildings, to make way for – he’d finally come clean – a supermarket development.

The
Sunday Express
had rung for Janna’s comments:

‘Why don’t you write us a piece about your battle to save Larks?’

‘And call it Tesco of the D’Urbervilles,’ screamed Janna.

She had been to the gym earlier, pounding out her hatred of Randal and Ashton on the machines. She ought to spend the rest of the day painting the kitchen some enticing pastel shade, as no buyer had yet come forward. Instead, she turned listlessly to the lonely hearts ads in the
TES
.

‘Beautiful female,’ she read, ‘thirty, five foot seven, slim, brown hair, green eyes, enjoys long walks, reading, keeping fit, good wine.’

How bloody conceited to describe oneself as ‘beautiful’.

‘Eighteen-year-old woman, enjoys power boating, weight-lifting, GSOH,’ said the next ad, ‘seeks female for friendship, possibly more.’

Janna supposed GSOH stood for good sense of humour – that was bloody conceited too.

How would she advertise herself? she wondered.

‘Titchy carrot-haired loudmouth, failed head, near alkie, lousy SOH, seeks’ – Oh God – ‘Emlyn Davies for infinitely more than friendship.’

The Brigadier was revving up for his new series bringing epic poems to life. He and Lily were so dottily in love, Janna didn’t want to be a dampener, and it was almost a relief they were in Rome recceing the first programme about Horatius keeping the bridge.

Still fatally drawn to Larks, Janna decided to go for a walk there and see the trees, probably for the last time. At least on a Sunday afternoon the bulldozers would be still.

Leaping out of the car, Partner immediately found a stick three times as big as himself and kept tripping over molehills as he lugged it round. The place looked desolate: great craters filled with rain, huge trees knocked over, bottles rammed into the tennis-court wire, the bird table still on its side in the playground. Catching sight of her, a robin shot forward hopefully.

The door to Appletree was open. As she wandered the corridors, she could hear the ghost voices of children. On the staff room wall, someone had scribbled: ‘School’s out for summer.’ Underneath someone else had written: ‘School’s out for ever.’

‘You will go through a time when everything hurts,’ murmured Janna.

Still trying to negotiate his huge stick through the doorways, Partner dropped it and went into a flurry of barking, then scampered on ahead. Following him into the gym, Janna discovered the back view of a blond man in a navy blue jersey, so tall he could gaze out of the high window at the town. His hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his dark grey trousers, showing off a high, tight, beautiful bottom.

Janna lost her temper. ‘Stop gloating, you bloody developer,’ she shouted, then, as he turned round, she gasped, ‘Emlyn!’

‘I thought I’d find you here. Hello, boyo.’ He stooped to gather up Partner, who, squeaking with delight, frantically licked his square blushing face, giving both humans a moment to collect themselves.

‘I’ve got an invite for two for the Teaching Awards,’ Emlyn said ultra-casually. ‘Wondered if you’d like to come. We’d be home by ten. Artie, as well as Alex, has been nominated for an award. The first independent teachers ever.’

In panic, Janna grabbed back Partner. ‘I can’t leave him. He’s terribly depressed. I have to abandon him during the day; Lily and the Brigadier are away.’

‘They’re back,’ said Emlyn. ‘They said they’d love to dogsit.’

Janna was confused. When they’d last spoken, Emlyn had been so antagonistic.

‘I’ve got too much to do. I’ve got to paint the kitchen.’

‘Paint the town red instead. It’s a grand do.’

Then she noticed he was wearing a white frilled evening shirt under his blue jersey.

‘This is a set-up.’

‘Sure it is.’ The warm, wide, unrepentant smile transformed his square, heavy face. ‘Pearl’s even waiting at home to do your make-up.’

After a lot of persuading, Janna went back and changed into the bronze-speckled Little Mermaid dress she’d worn to the geography field trip party in Wales. Full of chat, Pearl was determined to make Janna look beautiful rather than outlandish and straightened her hair so it fell in a sleek russet cascade to her collar bones.

‘Knowing what a blubber you are, I’m not giving you any mascara on your lower lashes. Emlyn says it’s a box-of-tissues evening, miss.’ Then, as Janna pestered her for news of the children: ‘Feral got two goals for the Rovers yesterday; Johnnie and Kitten have split up again; Kylie’s up the duff again – no, maybe she ain’t.’

The Brigadier and the new Mrs Woodford applauded when Janna came downstairs wrapped in her bracken-brown pashmina.

‘What an incredibly pretty girl you are,’ said Lily. ‘Don’t worry about Partner, he can have the extra piece of steak I’d bought in case you felt like having supper with us.’

‘Here’s a little something for the journey,’ said the Brigadier, handing Janna a silver flask of vodka and tonic.

The sky was brilliant blue and the sun set behind them like a huge blood orange. Torrential rain nearly turned them back at Windsor. Emlyn wanted an update on the Larks children and regaled her with Bagley gossip gleaned from Artie. Poor Dora was evidently outraged because her bitch of a mother had had even poor Cadbury castrated. Cosmo, on the other hand, had been delighted to receive a red Ferrari for his GCSE results.

Emlyn’s muddy Renault Estate as usual looked as though he lived in it. Books, newspapers, CDs, laptops were piled high and amid the chaos were a half-empty crate of beer, a midnight-blue velvet jacket in cellophane back from the cleaner’s, clean shirts, new socks and underpants still in their packaging. The Christmas Scottie, she noticed, still bounced from his car keys – probably as a wistful reminder of Oriana.

Janna was even more confused. Why was Emlyn being so nice when he’d been so angry before? She ached to put a hand on his great chunky thigh or stroke his big strong hand on the wheel. He’d lost more weight, was muscled up and was clearly revelling in the new job.

‘The boys are beginning to express themselves and play in their Welsh way, lots of attack and guile, and we’ve got a brilliant new centre called Gavin Henson.’

He even had cautious hopes of the Six Nations in 2005.

‘What will it be like tonight?’ asked Janna.

‘Lots of on-message celebs handing out awards and attributing their entire success to some inspirational teacher; lots of winners attributing their success to everything from the school gerbil to the site manager; constant emphasis on the team effort rather than the individual, belied when rival heads are discovered throttling each other in the bog.’ Emlyn’s huge shoulders shook with laughter.