Bed of Roses

‘But is she clever? Is she thick? Seriously, it seems ridiculous, but I’ve no idea if she can even read and write! You must have seen some of her work?’

Linda Tardy’s lips disappear, leaving nothing showing but the outlying pink-smudged vertical creases, sprinkled with biscuit crumbs. ‘Have you seen her work?’ she asks sternly.

‘No, but—’

‘Well, then…And incidentally, Fanny, though I say it as probably shouldn’t, but I personally don’t appreciate descriptives such as “clever” or “thick” when it comes to our little kiddies. Not in this day and age.’

Fanny sighs. She glances out of the staff-room window, to where Scarlett sits alone on a wall, scribbling away in that red book of hers, and decides the time has come for her to contact Scarlett’s mother. She takes her coffee and walks towards the door.

‘Ooh, Fanny,’ says Robert suddenly. ‘I was wondering. Do you have a minute? Could I have a little word?’

A wave of ferocious irritation. She looks back at him. He’s folded the Guardian’s ‘G2’ and placed it neatly back inside the main paper, and he’s already half on his feet.

‘What do you want?’ she asks coldly.

‘I mean, could I have a little word in the office?’

‘NO.’ She notices Linda Tardy looking at her curiously. ‘I mean…’ She corrects herself. ‘Not really, no. Now isn’t convenient. Can it wait?’

‘Only I’ve been doing a little research.’

‘Good good.’ She looks at her watch.

‘Into teachers’ courses.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘There’s a one-day Saturday course in Swindon next month. Wait a mo’. I’ve got the leaflet here…It’s for heads and deputies. I thought it might be fun if we did it together.’

‘Ohhh,’ drools Linda Tardy. ‘Isn’t that nice? Go on, Fanny dear. You deserve a bit of fun.’

He rifles around in the bulging briefcase at his feet, pulls out a glossy sheet and hands it to Fanny. There is a clammy mark where his fingers have been, Fanny notices, and she feels a wave of sympathy for him. She can see how hard he is trying. ‘I thought it might be ever so helpful,’ he says eagerly. ‘A real, positive step forward for Fiddleford.’

She looks at the sheet. ‘Robert, we’ve only got seven children in the football team!’

‘Absolutely. But it says there that the course takes a “holistic” approach, thereby providing skills, not just refereeing skills but – other ones. Which may be useful in many scenarios. It’s tailor-made for primary schools.’

She hands it back. ‘I don’t think so, Robert. No.’ She flashes a smile. ‘But thank you. Thanks for thinking of it.’

Scarlett’s mother, Kitty Mozely, manages to sound impressively concerned about her daughter’s refusal to participate in school life – for a good four minutes. She says that she, too, has noticed how Scarlett always carries a red notebook around with her, and how she only rarely speaks. ‘But you know how it is,’ Kitty says blithely, pausing to light one cigarette from the end of the other, and exhaling heavily into the receiver. ‘Her father wasn’t much of a talker either. Always sodding off without a word. Used to drive me bananas…So, but, yes. It is strange, isn’t it? D’you suppose there’s something wrong with her? I mean, aside from the obvious…’ Kitty sighs, a fraction of her usual impatience just beginning to peep through. ‘She worries me terribly, you know, Miss Flynn. She does. We’ve such a struggle as it is, with just the two of us. Because of course writers such as myself rarely earn a sausage. Others might, but me, no. You probably hear these Harry-Potter-type figures being bandied about—’

Fanny clears her throat. They seem to be veering off the point.

‘But in this particular children’s author’s house, money’s short, Miss Flynn.’ (And so it is, in a way. It is for Kitty. She owns her pretty cottage and she lives off a small private income, about the size of Tracey Guppy’s combined salary from the pub, where she works four nights a week, and the school, where she works as a cleaner/caretaker/dinner lady. But Kitty Mozely came from a very rich family once, plus she was spoilt for years by being so clever and pretty; her luck turned, she often says, from the moment she discovered she was pregnant with Scarlett.) ‘Money’s always a problem. We do struggle. And with all Scarlett’s special requirements…Plus she eats like a—Really,’ she adds bitterly, having just come back from Safeways, ‘you’d be surprised how much that girl eats.’

‘I’m just wondering if you have any idea,’ persists Fanny, ‘what she might be scribbling or drawing or whatever in that notebook of hers? I’m intrigued. And I think, maybe, I mean, if I’m going to help her I really do need to know—’ Fanny is humiliated to have to admit it. ‘To be frank with you, Mrs Mozely—’

‘Ms. Ms Mozely, actually, Ms Flynn. But it doesn’t matter.’ She gives a wheezy, smoker’s chuckle. ‘Call me Kitty.’

‘To be frank with you, Kitty, it sounds ridiculous, but I don’t even know for sure if she can read or write!’

Kitty bursts out laughing. ‘Read and write! My daughter? I have a degree from Oxford University, Miss Flynn. Of course she can bloody well read and write! Are you mad? What the bloody hell—’

‘Good!’ Fanny says quickly. ‘Well, that’s something at least.’

‘She’s been at your school for over a year!’

‘I know,’ Fanny says. ‘I know. Only Mrs Thomas isn’t – making herself available. She’s not returning any calls. And I must admit we can’t currently, erm, locate Scarlett’s notes.’

Kitty isn’t listening. ‘I mean, of course she can bloody well read,’ she says, but she sounds suddenly less certain. She tries to envisage her daughter either reading a book or writing a letter, and – absurdly – she finds she can’t manage it. Her daughter is helpful in the kitchen. She’s actually a very good cook. But other than that, what does her daughter do all the time? Besides squabble with Ollie Adams? Kitty laughs. She honestly can’t think! The problem is, of course, Scarlett spends so much time in her bedroom.

‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ promises Kitty hurriedly, keen now to get off the telephone before the true extent of her ignorance is revealed, ‘I’ll do a little detective work, shall I? See what the little monster’s been getting up to! And I’ll let you know what I find out.’

‘Well, if you could…’

‘Absolutely. I’ll get on to it right away. I promise.’

A rash promise, made in haste, which, predictably, Kitty fails to keep.

Fanny waits. She tries again to get hold of Mrs Thomas, who has apparently taken her stress-related pay-off very seriously, and completely evaporated from the planet.

At the end of lessons a few days later Fanny’s watching Scarlett, as usual, fastening her intriguing red notebook inside her battered satchel, and slowly limp towards the door. Scarlett is always the last out.

‘Scarlett,’ says Fanny, and she can see from the way Scarlett tenses that she’s heard her, but she still walks on. ‘Scarlett, don’t ignore me. We need to talk. This is becoming ridiculous.’

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.’