Bed of Roses - Daisy Waugh

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one?’

      ‘If you’re good. As a reward for being so generous to Scarlett.’ Geraldine leans across to give him a cuddle but he shakes her off and runs quickly back into the house. Geraldine hesitates. There are times when she is embarrassed by the contrast between Scarlett’s and Ollie’s fortunes, and this happens to be one of them. ‘Perhaps,’ she says, looking tentatively at Kitty, nervous that the suggestion might be thought patronising, ‘perhaps I could get one for Scarlett, too? As an early birthday present…’

      Kitty doesn’t generally mind being at the receiving end of her rich girlfriend’s largesse. Actually, over the years Geraldine has helped her out more often than Kitty cares to remember. But even Kitty has her limits. There are a few things she will not – she cannot – accept from Geraldine, and a PlayStation for Scarlett is apparently among them. So Kitty pretends not to hear. ‘Children!’ she says irrelevantly. ‘Anyway, how’s work?’

      ‘Oh. Work’s OK. Work’s great!’

      She and Clive have slashed their prices since they first opened for business, but they still charge too much for country solicitors, and their whole Big City manner is too aggressive. It doesn’t impress anyone around Lamsbury. So Geraldine’s office is in fact more like a graveyard – very far from great – and with every month, as the negative word continues to spread, the situation seems to be worsening. Not only that, with the nest egg gone, and the big fat salaries too, Clive and Geraldine are beginning to fear that cash flow may soon become a problem. ‘Work’s fabulous, Kitty. Thanks. I mean, it’s quiet, but we like it like that. And of course we’re still relatively new. I was actually thinking I might slim down the hours I put in there. Just for the summer. Spend a bit of quality time with Ollie before it’s too late, and we’re packing him off to university!’

      ‘They grow up so quickly,’ Kitty says automatically.

      ‘I was thinking I could take a couple of mornings and offer up my services at the school. They’re clearly in need of it.’

      ‘Mmm. Good idea. What fun.’

      ‘I can do a bit of reading with the kids. Gosh, you know – all the stuff other mummies get to do, who don’t have careers to worry about!…Because frankly, Kitty, what confidence I ever had in that establishment—I mean, never mind the three Rs. What about the others? What about Respect? What about Restraint? What about keeping your bloody clothes on?’

      Kitty chortles.

      ‘It’s all very well having a young, attractive, spirited head teacher, and of course, in principle I’m 100 per cent behind her. One hundred per cent. But really…Personally, Kitty, I would have liked to have had some say in appointing her, wouldn’t you?’

      ‘Oh, yes.’

      ‘It’s because we aren’t governors, Kit. Why aren’t we governors? We should be governors.’

      ‘Crikey, I don’t know about that.’

      ‘We should be. How does it work, do you think?’

      ‘I’ve got a nasty feeling you’d have to go to church,’ murmurs Kitty. ‘And suck up to that bloody awful vicar.’

      ‘We, Kit. Not me, we.’ The idea is growing more appealing the more she thinks about it. Anything is more appealing than sitting in that silent office, watching her husband bend diligently over work he’s too good for, listening to the ravens, waiting for the telephone to ring. ‘I’ll start by offering to do a bit of reading with the kids, I think. Don’t you think? And then sort of work my way in. Because frankly, Kitty, after that display last Friday night I’d like to see for myself what’s actually going on in that place.’

      Kitty sits up suddenly. Mention of the Friday Night Display has once again reminded her of Louis, the masterful Southern boy, possibly not gay and possibly moving into the area; and she’s felt a shiver of adrenalin run right through her. ‘I say,’ she says brightly, ‘shall we open a bottle of wine?’

       12

      The photograph of Fanny and her fancy bra, arms outstretched and leaping into the arms of (an unseen) Louis, makes the whole of page 7 of the Western Weekly Gazette that Thursday. It is the same day that Robert White puts in his first appearance at the school since slinking off with a cold ten days earlier. And there is, most understandably, an air of repressed glee about him as he and his sandals and his thick polo-neck jersey shuffle into the staff room that morning. Behind the beard, his pink lips are upturned in wry, self-conscious amusement. He has the newspaper opened and folded under one arm.

      Fanny, having ignored various Gazette telephone messages on her answer machine at home and here at the school, naively imagines that the newspaper has lost interest in the story, and has by now virtually forgotten it herself. So when Robert comes into the staff room she’s sitting very peacefully with her feet on the coffee table, chuckling over a copy of Private Eye. It is only half past eight. School doesn’t start for a quarter of an hour, and Fanny has once again been up for hours. (It’s a new habit, and slightly disconcerting to her. She continues to work harder than ever before and yet recently she’s been literally springing out of bed.) So she’s already taken herself and Brute for a run, and put in a couple of hours’ work on the increasingly damp stack of papers under the kitchen sink. Now she is relaxing. Beside her Linda Tardy the teacher’s assistant is munching prematurely on her lunch-time sandwich, as usual, and staring blankly into space. Mrs Haywood the glass-eyed secretary is making herself coffee. Contentment reigns.

      ‘Hell-o!’ says Robert warmly. ‘Morning all! Good morning, Fanny!’

      They look up, mildly surprised. It’s rare for Robert to come in at all. It’s exceptionally rare for him to come in sounding excited.

      ‘Morning, Robert,’ they say. ‘Welcome back. Good journey in?’

      Robert lives in a village almost ten miles from Fiddleford, and he usually has a little observation to make about the traffic, or the inconsiderate behaviour of his fellow drivers. Today, most unusually, he says the journey was ‘very good indeed’.

      Mrs Haywood offers to make him coffee.

      ‘Oh, that would be splendid!’ he cries, rubbing his hands together. ‘What a splendid idea, Mrs Haywood. Yes, please. Much obliged.’

      ‘Glad to see you’re feeling so much better,’ Fanny says drily. Among all the other problems spinning around her head this week, the problem of Robert’s absenteeism has not been forgotten. On the contrary, with every day he has failed to appear she has grown more resentful. She discussed it over the weekend with Louis, who was no help at all. On Friday night, after she reeled back to the limbo, she even found herself discussing it with old General Maxwell McDonald.

      ‘Our real obstacle is Dr Curry,’ General Maxwell McDonald had shouted over the calypso music. ‘Robert White’s sister is Dr Curry’s wife, of course. Excellent doctor, but weak-minded. That’s the problem. He knows perfectly well his brother-in-law is a good-for-nothing layabout. I’ve spoken to him about it. But then Robert White turns up in the surgery, snivelling like a girl and asking for a “sick note”.’ The General shuddered at the words. ‘Curry won’t tell the man he’s an idle bugger and pack him off back to work. I should, certainly. But then again,’ he chortled, ‘I’m not married to Dr Curry’s wife…’ At which the General had tapped his nose and added, incomprehensibly, ‘Silent but deadly, see? Courageous work with Mrs Guppy, by the way. Thought you looked marvellous! Great success. Well done!’

      Fanny smiles to herself, remembering the General’s kind words, and Robert, hovering beside Mrs Haywood for his coffee, feels a squirt of glee. Fanny Flynn is looking very relaxed, he notes. She clearly hasn’t seen the paper yet. Which means he can be the one to show it to her.

      So. He looks thoughtfully at Fanny. With an effort, he suppresses the smirk he’s been wearing

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