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.
It’s dusk by the time Fanny drops Scarlett back home. She and her mother live in a pretty-enough little cottage, with a moss-covered thatched roof and a buckling rose bush at the gate, but the path to the door is overtaken with brambles, and obstructed by an old fridge lying on its back. Inside, all the lights are off. The house looks empty and unwelcoming.
Fanny says, with her car engine still running, ‘Will you be all right, Scarlett? You’d be very welcome to come and have tea with me, if you prefer. It looks as though your mother may have gone out.’
‘I should think she has! I should think she ought to be allowed a life of her own while I’m at school and things. It’s not easy, you know, having a child.’
‘Well, no. But I think…’
Scarlett looks at her curiously. ‘Don’t you believe in a woman’s right to have a life of her own?’
‘What? Don’t be idiotic, Scarlett. I didn’t say that. Anyway, this isn’t about women’s rights. It’s about you being not very old. You shouldn’t be—’
‘I can look after myself, thank you, Miss Flynn. I’ve been doing it for years.’
A drawn-out silence, while Scarlett struggles from the little car, and Fanny dares not offer to help for fear of offending her yet again. ‘I shall see you on Monday then,’ Fanny says at last.
It sounds unnaturally upbeat. They both notice it. Scarlett smiles awkwardly. ‘Thanks for the lift,’ she mumbles.
‘It was a pleasure, Scarlett. And on Monday, bring me something to read, will you? I want to see how you write. Write me a story about…’ She pauses to think of a subject.
‘Actually, I’m writing a story at the moment,’ Scarlett says, unconsciously tapping it, inside her satchel.
‘Ah-ha!’ Fanny laughs. ‘The mysterious Red Book?’
She smiles. ‘It’s about Oliver Adams.’
‘A story about Ollie? I was thinking of something more along the lines—’
‘It’s fiction,’ interrupts Scarlett, her face glittering suddenly, full of mischief. She looks like her mother. She looks almost pretty. ‘Don’t worry, Miss Flynn. I’m writing it like a novel. At the moment it’s called
The Most Boring, Feeble-Minded, Over-Indulged Little Pillock in the Universe.
’
‘Pillock?’ repeats Fanny, but she can’t help laughing again. ‘I mean, you can write what you want, of course. I’d love to see it. Only I don’t think—I mean—Try not to make him too identifiable.’
Scarlett shrugs. ‘If you like. But he’s never going to read it.’
Fanny watches Scarlett as she hobbles through the dusk and over the brambles, fumbling with the keys before letting herself in. And pauses, engine still running, briefly at a loss. She feels less courageous than Scarlett about the prospect of returning to an empty house, with only the long, quiet weekend ahead. She turns the car around and heads back to the school where, as always, she has mountains of work to catch up on.
She had locked the place up when she left with Scarlett and it, too, as she draws up in front, looks far from welcoming. The encroaching darkness does something Gothic to its 150-year-old face; the enormous windows loom at her, the high stone walls, normally a warm and lichenspeckled russet, look cold and flat and grey. As she crosses the playground towards the shadowy front porch she’s suddenly very conscious of the generations of childish figures that have passed through this place before; of the hopeful voices, the carefree laughter, the lives that have started here, and been, and gone; and she feels, for once, the full weight of her own responsibility. She may only be an outsider but she’s also a link now, in a bigger chain, and it is up to her to keep this small place alive.
She shivers.
In the empty staff room she makes herself coffee, carries it up with her to her office and sets to work. She works for a couple of hours without noticing the time pass, wading doggedly through the interminable paperwork, marking books, filling in forms. She’s about to take her mug downstairs to make a second cup of coffee when the creak of a distant pipe makes her jump. She pauses, noticing suddenly how dark it is outside, and how very quiet. There is a light shining in the bungalow opposite, where Tracey and her Uncle Russell with emphysema live. But Tracey’s working in the pub tonight, and her uncle sits in his wheelchair with the television volume turned up high, so he can hear it over his own wheezing.
Another creak. Makes her heart thud. Makes Brute give a menacing growl. She reaches instinctively for her cigarettes.
Suddenly the telephone on her desk bursts shrilly through the silence. She stares at it. Who calls a primary school at this time? It rings four times and then it stops.
A wrong number. Of course.
She looks down at her desk, tries to remember what she was doing before, and it starts ringing a second time. Again, it rings only four or five times, and stops. Slowly, carefully, trying to breathe through the rising panic, she stands up to leave, and as she does so, knocks against a pile of papers at the edge of her desk. They scatter all over her chair and floor, taking the telephone and her car keys with them.
‘Shit!’
She kneels down to pick them up and through the throbbing silence feels an unmistakable burst of cold night air, and then bang! The slam of a door. Silence.
A footstep.
She bites her lip.
Another footstep. It’s coming closer, coming up the stairs…
One step…two step…
She should call the police.
…three step…four.
Fanny’s-heard-a-maniac.
He’s-just-behind-the-door!
The bloody telephone receiver’s all tangled up with the back of her chair. She yanks at it—
Behind her, the office door bursts open. She hears a little thud and something square and purple skidding across the floor towards her. A box of Milk Tray chocolates.
‘TE-DAH!’ cries Robert. ‘And all because…the lady loves!’ He laughs merrily. ‘D’you remember that ad, Fanny? The guy climbs into the lady’s bedroom and—’
‘No,’ she snaps, clambering up. ‘No, I bloody don’t.’ And then all at once the relief, the anger, the fear, the irritation overcome her. Robert’s standing there with his shiny bob and his woolly jersey all rubbing up against his chin. He’s twisting his fingers together uncertainly, shivering and grinning. Fanny bursts into tears.
‘Hey, Fanny!’ His face crumples. ‘Don’t cry! It was only a little joke. I saw the lights were on, I was just—I just happened to be passing. So I thought—Why didn’t you answer the phone?’ He puts an arm round her shoulders. ‘Come on, Fanny. It’s Friday night, what say you we go for a drink together, hmm?’ He holds up his free hand in mock surrender, and beneath the blond facial hair, his pink lips stretch into another smile. ‘And no hanky-panky, I promise!’
Fanny can’t even bring herself to look at him. ‘Robert,’ she says, gazing down at the floor, ‘I never want to have to say this again. The answer is no. It will always be no. OK? I’m sorry. I’m sorry if that’s disappointing for you. So take your arm off my shoulder, please. Thank you. And—And have a good weekend. I really have a lot of work to do. I’ll see you on Monday morning.’
He clicks his tongue. ‘You work too hard, Fanny. You’ve got to learn to have fun.’
‘Thanks, Robert. I know how to have fun.’
Robert takes a step away, puts his hands in his pockets, and gazes down at her. He chuckles, shakes his head admiringly. ‘I’ll bet…You’re one feisty lady, aren’t you, Fanny Flynn?’
‘I’m your
boss
, Robert,’ she snaps suddenly. ‘Now fuck off. Oh, God—’ He looks hurt. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.’ She tries to smile. ‘And thanks for the chocolates. OK? I’ve just got a lot of work on.’
‘It’s OK,’ he murmurs, then he bends down and kisses her softly on the cheek. ‘I can take the knocks. I can do that.’ And because she sees that he’s leaving, and she can see that he’s pathetic and obviously lonely, she forces herself not to recoil, forces herself to stick with the smile. She waits until he has strolled out of the room before she wipes his wet lips away.
‘Have a good weekend,’ he calls out to her from the bottom of the stairs. ‘You take care, now! And enjoy the chocs!’ He sounds almost happy, she thinks.
She can’t work after that. She can’t concentrate. There is a single-screen cinema in the centre of Lamsbury, musty and almost always empty, but still just about open for business. The moment she’s got rid of Robert, Fanny takes herself there, buys a ticket without bothering to ask what is showing, scans the cinema to be sure that he hasn’t followed her, settles down to lose herself in another world and immediately falls asleep.
Afterwards, she’s heading out through the foyer, feeling blurry eyed and incredibly hungry, when she bumps into Jo and her husband Charlie Maxwell McDonald, who is patiently re-explaining the film’s plot to his father, the General. ‘But they were
different characters
, Dad,’ he is saying (again). ‘There were
three
men, and they were all—’
The General catches sight of Fanny and immediately shouts out to her. ‘Hello, hello,’ he bellows. ‘Thought that was you, nodding off in the front row! Kept your shirt on this evening, have you, Miss Flynn?’
Fanny smiles patiently, turns towards him. Since that evening the General has said the same thing every time they’ve met. ‘I didn’t see you all in there,’ she says, and grins. ‘Didn’t see much of anything, actually. Was it any good?’
‘Drivel,’ the General answers, peering behind her. ‘As per usual. Made no sense at all. Didn’t miss a thing. Have you got your chap with you this evening, then? I can’t see him. Is he here?’
‘What chap?’ she mutters. ‘A chap? I don’t have a chap. Thank you. No. I’m on my own.’
‘On your own?’ echoes the General indignantly. ‘Attractive young lady like you!’
‘She’s been working so hard,’ interrupts Jo, tactfully, ‘she probably longs to spend an evening on her own for once. I know I do.’
‘Mmm?’ The General looks unconvinced. ‘Well, well, I dare say. Nice to see you, Fanny.’ He hesitates, on the point of marching onwards, but then in spite of what Jo says, he thinks she looks a little sad, a little lonely. ‘I say, Fanny,’ he adds, ‘if you’re not doing anything on Sunday, why don’t you come to lunch?’
‘Thanks—’ She looks ready to accept.
‘Oh, blast. Not this Sunday,’ he corrects himself. Turns to Jo. ‘We’ll still have that paranoid bugger staying, won’t we? D’you suppose he’ll ever leave?’
‘He says he wants to stay on at least another week,’ Charlie says.
Jo and the General let out simultaneous groans.
‘Well, next Sunday then,’ the General says. ‘Make it next Sunday.’
Fanny laughs. ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘And Grey McShane’ll be cooking,’ the General brightens a little. ‘Meat. He always cooks on Sundays. Which means of course that we’ll have the Ghastly Guestlies in loco. No way round it, I’m afraid. Wherever McShane cooks, the Guestlies tend to follow. But I’m sure you can cope. And God knows, they need diluting.’
‘Right then. Well, I shall see you then.’ Fanny hesitates,
tries hard not to ask but can’t resist, ‘So, er – who d’you suppose you’ll have staying with you?’
‘Mmm? Oh, no one much,’ the General says airily. ‘We’ve got a couple of bores from the television just arrived, who seem to think I keep a mental file on every aspect of their fatuous “careers”. But they might have left by then. Fingers crossed. And a cold-fish adviser from Downing Street. Well, ex-adviser now. Ha, ha. Another raving ego maniac. As per usual. However. Mustn’t complain…You’ll have to sign a thing. Won’t she, Jo? Sorry. It’s ghastly, but we’ve come a cropper in the past. Things have turned up in the news.’
‘You don’t mean a “confidentiality agreement”?’ Fanny giggles. ‘General, I can’t think of anything more glamorous!’
‘Excellent. Jolly good.’ He looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Enjoying yourself down here, are you? Not too lonely?’
Fanny frowns. Enjoying herself? It’s the question she and Louis always ask each other; it’s their justification for always moving on. Enjoying her life in Fiddleford? She’s been too involved in it to wonder. Suddenly it seems a ridiculous question. She’s not even certain how to answer it. ‘Funnily enough,’ she says at last, ‘and in spite of many things – yes. I suppose I am.’ And the frown lifts, as if she realises the truth of what she’s saying for the first time. She looks up at the General and laughs. ‘Funnily enough, I love it here,’ she says again.
‘Good, good.’ He nods. ‘Well, maybe we should get Solomon Creasey over. Don’t you think, Charlie? He’ll have some Silent Beauty trailing along, of course. But not to worry. They come and they go. Have you met him, Fanny?’
‘Not yet. I’ve heard a lot about him.’
‘Noisy chap. Tremendous chums with McShane. In fact, I rather suspect they have some sort of a history together…Well. Excellent. We shall see you next Sunday!’ He turns away without waiting for her reply. ‘Charlie? Jo?’ They are
arm in arm, and nobody can fail to notice what an outrageously handsome couple they are, how happy they look together, and how incongruous in the foyer of the musty old Lamsbury Classic. ‘Shall we get going?’ he says briskly, and he charges out into the darkness, awkwardly tactful, leaving the lovebirds to amble slowly behind.