Dead Romantic (3 page)

‘Not really, no. I don't know what does make any difference, I'm afraid. Some days she's a lot better – it seems to be arrested – they do get these remissions, you know. Then, other days. . .' He let the sentence trail away in a shrug.

‘Still, she keeps cheerful,' said Mrs Franklin in a way that was more of a statement than a question.

‘Does her best. Not much alternative.' Bernard seemed happy to leave the subject there. ‘Is Mr Garrett in?'

‘Oh yes.'

‘May I. . .?'

‘Just go through. Liberty Hall here, Mr Hopkins. No one stands on ceremony. All open doors. No one bothers to knock.'

In spite of this licence, Bernard did tap at the door and waited for an answering ‘Yeah' before going into Julian Garrett's office.

Mrs Franklin watched him go. Nice man, she thought. Very shy and correct, but his eyes were kind. Nice brown eyes. Sort of defensive, though, as if he were afraid of being hurt. Probably had been hurt, thought Mrs Franklin, who (particularly since she had been widowed) prided herself on her knowledge of human psychology and enjoyed supplying imaginative backgrounds for everyone she met. Bernard was probably a passionate man, she hazarded – yes, a passionate man who was afraid of the strength of his own feelings. Couldn't be easy for him, anyway, having a wife so ill. Mrs Franklin had read about multiple sclerosis. Must make a married life very difficult. Particularly for someone of his age. Must be around forty-five . . . still very much a man, anyway. And, however much he loved his wife, it couldn't be easy. Men have needs, Mrs Franklin knew (not so much from the evidence supplied by the late Mr Franklin as from magazines she had read which were very insistent on the subject). No, probably best thing would be if Mrs Hopkins were to suffer a sudden deterioration, go downhill very quickly and die. Then Mr Hopkins would have plenty of time to get over his bereavement and find someone else. It would give him another chance. Yes, that would be the most satisfactory thing to happen.

Having sorted out Mr Hopkins' life to her own satisfaction, Mrs Franklin continued folding the mail-shots that were to be sent out to the selection of schools in Germany which had in previous years proved such ready sources of students for the Garrettway School of Languages.

‘There's really just this Turk,' said Julian Garrett languidly. His swivel-chair was tipped back, and his highly- polished black brogues rested on the edge of his paper-strewn desk. The chair and the desk were both some fifty years old, props perhaps from a thirties movie set in a newspaper office. Like the brass plate downstairs, they gave an impression of solidity, of a history stretching back longer than the school's actual five years.

The appearance of the school's principal reinforced this image of solidity. A television casting director, into whose office Julian Garrett walked, would immediately have put his name up for parts of upper-class professional men of great charm and reliability, the sort who had been to the right schools and university, and whose honour and integrity need never be questioned. The image, maintained by Julian's Savile Row suit with its discreet chalk-stripe, always put at ease those – particularly foreigners – who consulted him about their own or their children's enrolment in his school.

The fact that his appearance invited theatrical comparisons was no coincidence. Julian Garrett, who had been to the right schools and university (more or less), and whose honour and integrity had never been questioned (at least not in a court of law), had started his career as an actor and been cast in just those roles which his looks demanded. So long as the work was there, acting had suited him, not least because of the ready supply of young actresses on whom his charms could be exercised. But, after a few years in the business, the parts had, for no readily identifiable reason, gotten fewer. This lull in his career, happily coinciding with his mother's death and bequest to him of a considerable estate, including the house in Brighton, had pushed him towards a profession which promised to provide a more stable income than the stage. His appetite for young actresses was smoothly replaced by an appetite for young foreign students, whose two-week courses in Brighton paralleled very comfortably the short encounters of touring and provincial rep.

The school itself had been a success. After initial hiccups, it had quickly found its regular sources of students. Since very few of these had come to England and Brighton primarily for the attractions of the language course, and most of them had an exceptionally lively social life during their stays, they tended (frequently to alleviate guilt) to report back favourably to their parents on the academic standards of the Garrettway School, and so Julian did not suffer that annoyance of being judged by results which bedevils so many educational institutions.

The same lack of follow-up favoured the other side of the business, the ‘cramming' of English students for resitting A-levels. Failure in the retaken examinations only confirmed for most parents what the first disappointment had gloomily prefigured, and few of them felt confident enough to make any complaint against the school.

Besides, there were successes, which could be quoted proudly in initial interviews. Some students had given themselves such a shock by their failure that they approached resitting their exams with a new application. Some benefited from working in smaller groups or one-to-one tutorials. And, amongst the shifting ragbag of staff whom Julian Garrett employed, there were occasionally teachers with genuine gifts, who could communicate knowledge and enthusiasm to their charges.

As well as the A-level work, the Garrettway offered to prepare students for Oxbridge entrance examinations, and this side of the business had netted for the school the perfectly respectable tally of one Exhibition and a place at Oxford, and two places at Cambridge. These achievements had been spread over the five years of Garrettway's life, but Julian, not wishing to confuse potential customers with chronology, tended (without actually lying) to imply to parents that they represented only one year's crop.

He now felt confident of the business, and lulls, like the current one, no longer caused him anxiety. Bookings for the summer courses were already up on previous years and so it was a matter of little consequence to him that he only had one Turk to offer his newest recruit to the teaching staff.

‘A Turk?' Bernard Hopkins echoed.

‘Yes. Been sent over here on some business course. Trouble is, as he hasn't got much language, it's all being rather lost on him at the moment.'

‘So he needs an intensive course in English?'

Julian Garrett gave a wince. ‘Needn't be
intensive.
Only asked for “conversational English”. Just a matter of going to talk to the poor sod. Don't make a big deal of it – his company's paying.'

Detecting a slight recoil from his employee at this, Julian intensified the charm as he continued. ‘I'm sorry, Bernard, if I sound cynical, but I am running a business here, not a charity. Of course, we care a lot about all our students, we want to do the best for them, but we do have to be careful.' He gave a sad, once-bitten-twice-shy shake of the head. ‘I'm afraid I've had unpleasant experiences in the past. What you must do in this case is what is asked for. Give him conversational English. . . Then, if it turns out that his grasp of the language is not even up to that, you will have to recommend an intensive course, and the necessary arrangements will be made. I'm sure the company can afford it.' There was a moment's pause. ‘From what I hear of the man, I think it's quite likely that he
will
need a further course.'

‘Right.' Bernard nodded, very much the dutiful employee in his new job. ‘Has a time been arranged for him to come here?'

‘Ah, that's one of the points. He won't be coming here. This business course he's on is pretty intensive, so I've made arrangements that our tutor will go to his hotel. He's at the Metropole. Name's Nassiri. Nine o'clock each evening, for the next fortnight. That be OK with you?' Bernard nodded. Julian did not see that there was anything to be gained by telling him how much extra the Turk's company would be paying for this inconvenient personal service.

‘Does happen from time to time,' he continued smoothly.

‘Odd hours. Have to fit in with the students, though. After all, as educators, we must make them our primary concern.'

‘Of course,' Bernard agreed.

‘Hope that doesn't raise problems. The evenings?' Bernard looked blank.

‘With your wife. I gather she's not well.'

‘Oh. No. That won't be a problem. She understands, you know, the pressures of work.'

‘Good.' The principal favoured his tutor with an earnest smile. ‘I do hope you're enjoying it here, finding the job OK, that sort of thing.'

‘I'm enjoying it a lot. Only thing is, I don't feel really stretched at the moment. There doesn't seem to be that much work to do.'

‘Time of year. Seasonal business, this. Come the summer, you just won't know how to fit all the sessions in.'

‘Oh, good.' Bernard gave a little smile, as he worked round to his subject. ‘Rest of the staff fairly slack too, are they?'

Julian spread out his hands. ‘Not a lot around for anyone at the moment. Graham's got some Nips on the go downstairs. . . Madeleine's got her usual A-level English casualties, one potential Oxford candidate. . . That's about it. It'll pick up.'

‘Oh yes. I wasn't worried,' Then, trying to sound casual, he asked, ‘Is Madeleine in today?'

Julian didn't seem to notice anything unusual about the question. ‘Think so.' He glanced at a schedule on his desk. ‘Yes, she's got one of her pimply youths at eleven. She's good, you know, Madeleine. Gets results.'

Bernard nodded, smiling, and moved towards the door. Then, with strange formality, he said, ‘Let's hope I can do the same.'

‘Yes. Let's hope so.'

Julian flashed a grin at his departing tutor. When Bernard had gone, the grin spread. Seemed ideal, the new man. A bit naive, obviously, but in the past Julian had found that that was a good thing. The ones who had to go were those who were too assertive, who tried to tell him how to run the place. But someone like Bernard Hopkins, undemanding, biddable, he was the sort who could be a good long-term prospect. Like Madeleine.

Julian reached for the phone. There was a young housewife in Hove who, with her children suddenly off her hands, had decided she wanted to improve herself and take a couple of A-levels. She had said she was stuck at home most of the day. He wondered if she might be free for a tutorial early that afternoon, before the children came back from school. He needed to sort something out. It was not only the business side of his life that would remain quiet until the summer influx of foreign students.

He got through and immediately recognised her voice. Deepening his own, he murmured, ‘Darling. Hello. I find I'm thinking about you more than a married man should.'

Julian Garrett was not married. But he had found in the past that, when he was bringing a little romance into the lives of married women, claiming a wife of his own could prove a useful alibi, explain broken assignations and protect his privacy.

Madeleine Severn had met her pupil as she walked along the road towards the school. She recognised his tall, gangling outline ahead of her, and quickened her pace to catch up. ‘Paul!' she called out.

Paul Grigson was so deep in a dream compounded of his guilt, of his sense of failure and of Madeleine Severn, that he did not at first respond when one third of it called out to him, and she had to tap him on the shoulder before she could engage his attention. ‘Paul,' she repeated, more intimately.

He turned to face her, now so close to him, and his mouth dropped open at the sudden manifestation. He had, she noticed, a little crop of white spots on his inexpertly shaven chin. His nose seemed bigger than ever, and his black hair, which his mother insisted should be cut in conventional style, had been brushed up in an ineffectual attempt to achieve something more modern. He wore, as if he hated to be seen in it, a black school mackintosh, beneath which black jeans, which were tight (but not tight enough to satisfy current fashion) tapered down to white towelling socks and black slip-on shoes.

‘Now, you can't pretend we're not going the same way,' said Madeleine. ‘So, if you don't mind being seen in the street with your teacher . . .'

Paul, for whom the idea was an approximation to one of his dearest fantasies, gulped that no, he didn't mind.

‘Really autumnal today,' said Madeleine, and drew in the air through her nostrils.

Paul, too, took a gulp of air, but all he could smell was the sweet, flowerlike perfume of Madeleine. Adolescent despair swooped down on him, despair at the sheer impossibility of life, at the huge unbridgeable gap between his desires and their ever being fulfilled.

‘Did you get that essay on ‘The Eve of St Agnes' done?' asked Madeleine

‘Oh yes,' said Paul. ‘Yes. Yes, I did. I shouldn't think it's any good, though.'

Bernard was just coming down the stairs into the hall as the front door opened and Madeleine walked in, followed by her attendant. Bernard and Madeleine stopped. Spontaneous smiles came to both their faces. They moved towards each other and met in the middle of the black and white tiles.

‘Funny, I was just thinking about you.' Bernard's words were no more than a statement. He did not infuse them with romantic emphasis as Julian Garrett might have done.

‘That's nice,' said Madeleine. ‘Think of the devil . . .'

‘Hardly.' He grinned awkwardly, suddenly ill-at-ease. It was as if he had been rushing headlong beyond his usual speed and had now stopped, swaying, almost overbalanced.

But Madeleine still smiled, and her smile injected another surge of that confidence which the timing of her arrival had given him. Emboldened far beyond his normal range, he found himself saying, ‘Look, I have to stay in town late tonight. Got to go to the Metropole at nine, give a Turk some conversational English. I wonder if there's any chance of a drink early evening . . . ?'