Geraldine Adams has gone to town with her bits for the governing body. Her parlour, with its First Lady sofas rearranged to lend an element of a courtroom effect, is dappled with soft-but-sombre lighting, and pretty party plates laden with symmetrical arrangements of chicken satay and miniature vol-au-vents.
She decided champagne would be ‘inappropriate’ under the circumstances, but she’s stocked up on wine and spirits – and beer for Mr Guppy, if he decides to come (no sign of him yet). And some Diet Coke for poor, dear little Dane.
The room burbles with the chatter of those governing bodies who were able to make it: Grey McShane and the General are there, muttering together about the presence of the billionaire, New Labour candidate for Lamsbury, Maurice Morrison.
Maurice Morrison, New Labour candidate for Lamsbury, who knows nothing about it and cares even less, is talking passionately to Clive Adams about Britain’s need for further legal-aid reform.
Robert White is nodding distractedly at the vicar, who continues to find new ways to make the same point regarding the very late hour of this governors’ meeting.
And Geraldine is in her element, tripping from group to group, putting people at their ease.
‘Rather ironic,’ she chortles to the marvellous Maurice Morrison, after he’s admired the perfect proportions of her sofas and then of her house, asked her how many bedrooms it has, and how much land it came with, ‘that the only one of us yet to turn up – apart from the Guppy party – is our terrific little head teacher, Fanny Flynn! But then she works so
hard
, Maurice. I worry for her. Have you met Fanny yet?’
‘Haven’t had the pleasure, Geraldine. Not yet. And I’ve been longing to meet her. I’ve heard so many wonderful things,’ says Morrison, who’s never heard anything about her, never spared her a second’s thought. ‘May I ask, how much did you pay for this house, Geraldine?’
‘Goodness, what a question!’ titters Geraldine. She’s eyeing the thick, salt-and-pepper hairdo, the broad, worked-out shoulders beneath the light brown summer jacket, the tiny hint of a golden tan at the throat of his crisp, white open-necked shirt. She’s thinking how incredibly important he is, and rich; how thrilling it is to have him in her house. She feels a little shiver of lust, which surprises her. It doesn’t happen often.
Fanny arrives flushed, out of breath and edgy, closely followed by Tracey, Macklan and Dane. Tracey and Macklan are asked to join the two other witnesses in the television room. Dane Guppy, who looks on in dazed confusion at the swirl of activity all around him, is directed to a kitchen chair at the back of the parlour, facing into the semicircle of sofas.
‘Right-o, everyone!’ calls Geraldine, smiling broadly, clapping her hands. ‘I think we’re all here now. Perhaps we should get started.’
Geraldine has organised a seating plan, with the Reverend
in the middle, and herself with her thigh rubbing up against Maurice Morrison’s linen trousers. Not only hostess for the night, but Governing Body Secretary, she has arranged a pretty escritoire in front of her own place, so she can take the meeting’s minutes.
First a fireman, then a policeman, and finally Fanny, with her set of photographs, come forward to present their damning evidence. After forty-five minutes, Maurice Morrison glances at his watch, pulls a small, apologetic face, leans across and mutters to Geraldine that sadly he’s soon going to have to dash. His helicopter is waiting.
‘Do you enjoy school, Dane?’ asks the Reverend.
Dane, who’s been sitting mutely through all this, keeps his eyes to the floor. Sniffs, but doesn’t reply. Clive Adams, his supposed advocate, has chosen to sit on a small chair in a far corner of the room, at least seven foot away from him, so Dane’s all alone up there. Does he enjoy school? He has no idea. Silence.
‘Dane,’ comes a dry, clever voice from the Clive corner, ‘suffers some difficulty in learning and has, in fact, exhibited some dyslexic behaviours, although these have yet to be formally identified—’
‘Excuse me, Clive,’ Fanny interrupts, ‘I think I already discussed this with Geraldine, but actually Dane is
not
dyslexic.’
‘Mmm.’ Geraldine smiles at her, lips closed. ‘I’m sorry, Fanny. But I believe he is.’
‘And I’m sorry, but which of us is the trained teacher around here?’
‘And I’m sorry,’ Geraldine snaps back, ‘but which of us is the mother of an eleven-year-old boy? I think he’s dyslexic.’
‘
He’s not dyslexic
.’
‘Could we possibly move on?’ interrupts Grey, in a filthy
mood because Geraldine, in her ignorance, has sat him next to Maurice Morrison, whom he loathes and it’s taking all his self-control not to wheel around and lamp him. ‘I don’t see what fuckin’ difference it makes one way or the fuckin’ other. A boy can set fire to a place without having to read the instructions on the fuckin’ matchbox.’
‘Please, Mr McShane,’ says the vicar weakly. ‘We have a young person present.’
‘Of course it makes no difference,’ agrees the dry voice in the corner. ‘I mentioned it simply because, for one reason or another, Dane does not find his school life easy. Do you, Dane?’
Dane doesn’t find any life particularly easy but his school life is – was – better than most. Nevertheless, obligingly, because he understands Clive is helping him, Dane shakes his head.
‘Which isn’t to say,’ continues Clive, ‘that he dislikes it sufficiently to set the place alight. A boy can dislike his school – even a boy with a predisposition to arson.’ He laughs, a bloodless clever-clogs titter. ‘I don’t think we can say,
ipso facto
he is bound to destroy it!’
Chortles of support from the expected quarters: Robert White, nervous, not paying much attention but getting the gist; Maurice Morrison, not really listening either; and a belly laugh from Geraldine.
‘Incidentally, I would be grateful,’ says Clive, pushing his advantage as the laughter dies, ‘if you would allow me to lead Tracey Guppy and Macklan Creasey through their evidence. Only because they’re both so very young, and I worry they might feel intimidated…’
He calls them separately. Questions them separately, gently, and to each one of their contradictory answers, gives the appearance of believing every word. They claim Dane was eating breakfast with them right up until the moment
he called the fire brigade, but they can’t even agree on what it was they were all eating.
Mid-questioning Tracey, his second witness, who claims it was fried eggs, mushroom and bacon, Clive turns with a small, wry smile to the eight governors present, raises both hands in mock surrender. ‘Eggs, bacon,
beluga caviar
– what does it really matter? I imagine you will all have spotted one or two anomalies in Tracey and Macklan’s evidence…’
Tracey, standing silently before them, smiles with him. She doesn’t recognise the word ‘anomaly’, but Clive has assured her he is on her side. ‘Nevertheless, no one could deny that what these young people lack in accurate memory, they certainly make up for in love. Because Tracey Guppy loves her brother, doesn’t she? And Macklan Creasey loves Tracey. And so I simply pose the question, when you were twenty years old – or nineteen, in Tracey’s case – how much detail could you remember about your activities of over a fortnight previously? We must allow them both a little leeway, I think. We must allow them the
benefit of the doubt
.’
A silence. Clive turns to Tracey, dismisses her with a nod. She hesitates, as if she wants to say more. ‘It’s all right,’ says Clive. ‘You can go now.’ She leaves the room, ruffling her brother’s greasy head as she goes. ‘You too, Dane,’ Clive adds curtly.
‘
Well
,’ says the General to his neighbour Fanny Flynn, in a loud whisper, ‘I didn’t think that was much of a defence, did you? Thought that Adams chap was supposed to be top notch. I certainly shan’t be employing him.’
Clive Adams turns his cold, watery-blue eyes to the General; he is wearing the faintest hint of a smirk. ‘Maybe so,’ Clive murmurs. ‘But it’s a difficult case to defend.’
‘I say, Fanny, you’re being awfully quiet,’ says the General, ignoring him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Mmm?’ Fanny starts. ‘Sorry. What’s that?’
A little smile from Robert. ‘Yes, we are a bit distracted this evening, aren’t we, Miss Flynn?’
She pretends not to hear – is surprised, actually, by the surge of revulsion she feels now, just at the sound of his voice. She turns to the General. ‘I’m fine,’ she says. ‘Are we ready to vote?’
‘I believe we are,’ says the vicar uncertainly. ‘Anyone have anything to add?’
Maurice takes another little look at his watch. Clears his throat.
‘I was thinking I could teach him at home,’ Fanny says, as if the result were a foregone conclusion. ‘An hour a day or something. Plus homework. A few hours at the weekends. Geraldine, perhaps you could help?’
Geraldine coughs. ‘We shouldn’t jump the gun, now, Fanny,’ she says, not quite daring to look at her. ‘The verdict isn’t yet clear. I, for one, will be voting against exclusion.’
Fanny’s jaw drops.
‘Me, too,’ says Robert, smirking.
‘You
what
?’ cries Fanny. ‘Don’t be pathetic, Robert. You’re only doing it to annoy me.’
The General snorts with laughter.
‘I’m sorry you should think it’s pathetic,’ Robert replies primly, ‘to want to protect a kiddie’s future. Of course I believe he started the fire. I imagine we all do, Fanny.’ He glances quickly around the room, and seems to find enough reassurance there to go on. ‘Of course the little lad may have
accidentally
started the blaze. But kiddies make mistakes. We all do. And even kiddies who make mistakes have a right to a future.’
‘I’m not taking away his future,’ Fanny snaps. ‘I’m getting him out of a school he wants to set fire to, and I’m going to give him one-on-one bloody tutorage until the end of term. Or until he starts at secondary school, if he lets
me. I’m not
taking
his future, Robert. I’m giving it back to him.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, everyone, but I’m going to have to cast my vote and dash.’ Maurice Morrison’s handsome brow is slanted into an apologetic frown. He clears his throat, waits until he has everyone’s attention. ‘Well, now. As you may be aware,’ he says, lowering his eyelashes, ‘as you may be aware, I am
en principe
very much averse to school exclusions. I believe passionately, as I have said on numerous occasions, both publicly and privately, in the school-as-melting-pot,’ (this, incidentally, in spite of having sent his own children, now adult, to a marvellous little melting pot in Switzerland, which cost £25,000 a term), ‘as a place where youngsters learn to mix with one another, regardless of their difficulties and differences…’
‘Just tell us how you’re voting and fuck off,’ snaps Grey McShane. ‘You’re not on the fuckin’ telly.’
Morrison pays not the slightest attention. ‘I’ve listened to the details of this unfortunate – tragic – case, and the principle remains the same. Whatever that young lad may have done,’ Morrison stands up, slides himself into his lightweight linen jacket, ‘it’s important for him to feel
incorporated
. I believe it’s our job as school governors to
care
for Dane, to nurture him. Not to throw him out with the rubbish—’
‘Nobody’s throwing him out with the rubbish,’ interrupts Fanny, exasperated. ‘I told you. We’re offering him private bloody lessons. For free.’
A smile for Fanny. ‘And yet I feel it is our responsibility not to “offer him private lessons”. Not to treat him as an outcast, but to
guide
him
gently
back into the fold.’
‘Aye.
And yet
– it’s not your fuckin’ fold that’s going to go up in flames, is it?’ breaks in Grey.
‘Grey, really!’ Geraldine frowns. ‘It’s so generous and kind of Mr Morrison to offer his precious time to our little village
problems; to lend us a little wisdom from the front line, so to speak.’ She beams at Morrison, who is tapping his pockets, checking for his mobile phones. ‘I do think we might all show him a little more respect.’
‘One day, my dear lady,’ chuckles the General, ‘I might tell you a story or two about this kind and generous gentleman.’
Maurice cocks his head, genial as ever, looks down at the General. ‘And I assure you, General, my lawyers will always be listening. Incidentally,’ he turns towards Geraldine, blinds her with his marvellous smile, ‘did I take your card, Mrs Adams?’
‘No. I don’t believe you did. Clive!’ He’s already crossed the room, is already sliding a card into Maurice’s hand. Maurice takes it casually, slips it into his pocket without even glancing at it. ‘But come, General. Let’s not fight. We’re here for the youngster this evening, not for ourselves. I believe I’ve cast my vote. What about the rest of you?’
The voting process very quickly degenerates into a row, with the Pro-Excluders (Fanny, Grey, Reverend Hodge and the General) all offering to tutor Dane in their spare time, and the Anti-Excluders (Geraldine, Robert and Maurice) offering nothing, and still managing to maintain the moral high ground. Somehow, between all the arguments, the votes are cast; Morrison makes his excuses and slithers away; and Fanny takes Dane into a quiet corner to deliver the unhappy verdict.
‘But I never
done
it!’ he says, as the tears slither down his face. ‘I never even bloody well
done
it!’
By the time Fanny returns to the Adamses’ parlour, only her foes are left. The White House sofas are back where they’re meant to be and Clive, Geraldine and Robert are sitting on them, muttering to one another. Their heads spring apart as Fanny opens the door.
‘Fanny!’ cry the Adamses. ‘No hard feelings, I hope?’
‘No. Not at all. I mean, I won – in a way. I’m just very sorry. He’s still adamant he didn’t do it, you know, and he sounds so convincing. In spite of all the evidence, there’s a part of me which almost believes him.’
Robert smiles. A smile that makes his eyes smart. ‘It’s painful for all of us, Fanny. Nevertheless we should try not to be too naive.’
‘I wasn’t being naive—’
‘Anyway,’ interrupts Clive, ‘can I get you a drink?’
‘No. No, thank you. Very kind…’ She’s tried Louis’s mobile but he’s not picking up. She’s going to have to make the walk home alone, which she doesn’t relish after all that happened earlier, even with the knife still in her handbag. She wants to make the journey home while it’s still light outside.
‘Nonsense!’ Robert shuffles his bony arse along the sofa, pats the seat beside him. ‘Come on, head teacher,’ he insists. ‘Prove there are no hard feelings!’
‘There are no hard feelings.’
‘Well, come and sit down then!’ he says.
‘Yes, do,’ says Geraldine. ‘You must.’
‘Rebuild a few of those unbroken bridges,’ says Clive.
She sighs.
‘Are you all right, Fanny?’ Robert half-frowns, half-smiles. ‘You look ever so worried. Has something happened this evening?’
It is Tracey, walking home arm in arm with Macklan, who appears to be the most unhappy about the governors’ verdict. Her brother Dane trails along behind them plucking at cow parsley along the verge, wearing a goofy, private smile. He has a Safeways overnight bag crammed with dirty laundry slung over one arm because Tracey’s letting him stay on the sofa at Macklan’s tonight, as a treat, and she’s agreed to help him with a wash.
Not only that, Miss Fanny Flynn just told him he was ‘smart’ or at any rate that he could be. With a little effort. (‘We’ve got six weeks, Dane. In six weeks you could be as smart as any of them,’ is what Fanny had said. ‘Well. Not as smart as Scarlett. Obviously.’ It had made him laugh.) Dane cannot remember a lesson, not ever, when he hasn’t felt pissed off and inferior. The way his teacher talked tonight it seemed, after all, that this could change. It makes him grin.
‘I didn’t do it, you know,’ he says cheerfully, tapping Tracey on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Trace. Because I didn’t.’
‘I didn’t ask, did I?’ she says. ‘If you want to ruin your life that’s your business, Dane Guppy.’
‘But maybe he didn’t do it, Trace,’ suggests Macklan tentatively. ‘Nobody saw him.’
‘Don’t be so damn stupid.’
Just then, from behind a large, oblong tombstone on the other side of the churchyard wall they hear someone laugh; it’s a distinctive, throaty laugh, spangled with mischief and sex, and recognisable to anyone who’s spent any evening in the Fiddleford Arms recently. ‘Kitty?’ Tracey calls.
Muffled snorts.
Tracey and Macklan sniff the air. A tail of smoke is rising from behind the tombstone, and with it a sweet, unmistakable aroma.
‘Louis?’ calls out Macklan. ‘Is that you?’
‘
Shhh
!’ (More muffled snorts.) ‘Shh. Shut
up
!’
‘Kitty?…Are you all right?’ Tracey pushes back the churchyard gate. The three of them, Tracey, Mack and Dane, trek inside.
‘What’s going on?’ Macklan demands.
Cautiously, they peer round the edge of the tombstone. They find Louis lying on his side and close by, Kitty, her skirt hitched up, shirt undone, a bottle of wine between her knees and a burning spliff in her fingers. She looks from one to the other, and then to Louis, and melts into a puddle of giggles.
‘Tracey! Macklan! Hey! What a surprise,’ says Louis, clambering to his feet, grabbing the joint from Kitty’s fingers and treading on it. ‘We were just talking about illustrations. And stuff. Weren’t we, Kitty?’
‘I’ll bet,’ Tracey says.
‘Kitty’s asked me to do her illustrations. For the book. Haven’t you, Kitty?’
‘Yyyyup!’
He gives up on her, turns back to Tracey. ‘You remember? The book!’ He smiles, a wobbly smile, very sweet. ‘It’s actually important that you believe me. Because nothing—Really,
nothing
—’
‘Whatever,’ Tracey mutters. ‘None of my business anyway. Dane? Macklan? Are you coming?’ They’re standing side by side, mouths drooping in amazement. Tracey laughs. ‘Get it together, lads! You never seen a couple of stoners before now?’
‘“Stoners”?’ repeats Kitty delightedly. ‘“Stoners”!…
Stoners!
A couple of stupid—
crc…crr…crrrr…crrrr!
’
Louis jabs her with his foot. ‘Shut up, Kitty.’
‘CRRRRRRRRRRR!’ Kitty loses her balance, slides on to her side.
Tracey turns away. ‘I don’t know about you two,’ she says to Macklan and Dane, ‘but I’ve had enough of these jokers. I could do with a cup of tea.’
Back at the Old Rectory, Fanny sits on the farthest end of Robert’s sofa and gulps back the Adamses’ glass of wine as fast as politely possible. It’s a large sofa and Robert’s body is at least a metre away, and yet his almost-nearness is still burning her skin.
Clive and Geraldine, feeling more alive than they ever have since the Fiddleford downsize, pop up and down, offering nibbles and chattering happily about nothing – as if the conversation meant anything to anyone. No one is listening to a word.
Geraldine suddenly says, ‘Fanny, sweetheart, I feel terrible. I’d love to invite you to supper but unfortunately we only have three sole, and I must admit I’ve promised the third one to Robert. Do you mind?’
‘What?’ Fanny’s on her feet at once. ‘God, no! Thank you,
no
! Actually, I must go!’
Geraldine stands up. ‘Well, it was lovely to see you, Fanny. And no doubt we’ll see each other very soon.’
‘Absolutely. Of course we will.’
‘So if it’s not rude I’ll nip into the kitchen and get the
grill on. And Clive, could you be sweet and fetch some white from the cellar?’
It is left to Robert to see Fanny out. When they’re all alone in the dusk-lit hall he leans down from his bony height, places his soft lips very close to her ear. ‘I returned a little something to your front door this evening,’ he whispers. ‘Did you see? I thought you might have been missing them.’
She veers away. Stares at him. ‘But they weren’t mine,’ she hears herself saying, as if it mattered. As if it were faintly relevant. ‘They were Tracey’s.’
Something in his face changes. He looks stunned, thwarted. He looks revolted. Somehow he manages to smile. He gives a little shrug. ‘Well, well,’ he says lightly. ‘I found them in the street, just outside your cottage. Nice little panties, too.’ He winks at her. ‘They’d suit
you
better, Fanny. Why don’t you keep them?
I promise I won’t tell!
’