Chapter 6
ROBYN
‘Robyn, I don’t know what you expect or want me to do.’ Fabian visibly sighed, stretching his long jean-clad legs out on the sofa, and reached for the TV control, switching to BBC Breakfast. ‘You’ve done nothing but go on about it ever since we left Leeds on Friday afternoon.’
‘I want you to find out who those men in the car were.’
‘I defend people, Robyn, I don’t investigate people. They were probably just being friendly. Northerners are much friendlier than Londoners. You’re always telling me that.’
‘Oh, come on, Fabes, they didn’t look overly friendly. And how did they know your name?’
‘They were smiling.’
‘A crocodile smiles.’
‘You’ve been reading too many crime novels.’ Fabian laughed, draining his mug of coffee. ‘Go on, you’ll be late and then Marvellous Mason will be on your case.’ Fabian, it seemed, was unable to talk about Mason, her headteacher, without the added alliterative handle.
‘What are you up to?’ Robyn asked, wishing she could join him on the sofa.
‘I’m up at the site with Kamran, and then I’ve meetings with a couple of suppliers. We want to use only the very best local produce…’
‘Bit difficult, that, if you’re making pineapple pudding or…
or coconut cake.’ Robyn threw a kiss in Fabian’s direction and, heavily armed with books, files and laptop, made her way down the garden path, loving the scents of the early-April morning.
Whoever would have thought she could have felt so ridiculously happy having been forced to give up her career in the West End and ending up teaching in the area’s sink school?
Mind you, if Fabian hadn’t followed her north, she didn’t suppose she would have been feeling so…
settled. Yes, settled, that was the word.
Robyn felt herself smiling and hoped there was no one around to see her.
But then she did have something to smile about: Sorrel was sorted, her mum was sorted – goodness, who on earth would have imagined that Lisa would have ended up with one of the Sattar brothers?
And now that she was going to marry him – and yes, she was adamant she was – then maybe her mum could put in a word – several words – and the Sattars would back off from their plans to knock down St Mede’s? It was all looking good.
Apart from Jess.
She’d not seen Jess as inebriated as she’d been on Saturday since she was sixteen and drinking a cocktail of whiskey and cherry brandy at Jason Lambert’s seventeenth birthday party down in the village.
Lisa hadn’t been well at the time, but luckily Jayden had been home for a few days and, together, she and Jayden had been sent to bring Jess home, peeling her off Jason’s garden gate and holding her head as she threw up at various strategic points along the way.
Jess wasn’t happy. Robyn knew her big sister well enough to know when she was feeling bad about herself, and she’d certainly gone overboard with the alcohol on Saturday night.
Dean, Robyn supposed. Back with Jess and Lola for around a month or so, he was already up to his usual tricks with other women.
The blonde, who’d been invited as George Sattar’s guest, had obviously given up on George, who’d never returned to the table, turning, instead, her attention to Jess’s husband.
Oh, Dean was a good-looking man, there was no denying him that, with enough sexual magnetism in his confident steady patter and his stocky, gym-toned body to charm the birds from the trees.
There’d even been a time, in Robyn’s teens, when she’d had a bit of a thing about Dean Butterworth herself.
When Jess, just nineteen months her elder, and in utter thrall to Dean, had first brought him home for inspection, Robyn had known a first crush, writing in her diary about his dark eyes, his long dark curls, the bronzed gym-toned and tattooed pecs she’d found herself staring at as he’d slowly and deliberately shucked off his shirt in their back garden.
She’d never told Jess, of course, and, once she’d gone off to Manchester Met University, leaving Jessica behind in Beddingfield working at the Frozen factory and about to become pregnant with Lola, Robyn had never given the little tosser another thought.
Apart from realising what a waste of space he was.
Robyn waved at their next-door neighbour, quickly got into her car, indicated, put the car into gear and set off for another few rounds with the often-unpredictable clientele of St Mede’s.
* * *
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Robyn looked up in surprise as Petra Waters, St Mede’s deputy-head, appeared at her shoulder, batting her away with her eight-month-bump so she could get at the biscuit tin.
‘Blimey, that’s a lethal weapon you’ve got there.
And should you be eating more? You look pretty full to me. ’
‘I’m starving.’
‘But why are you here? We saw you off the premises last week with cards and a baby shower. Shouldn’t you be sitting with your feet up, eating curry and knitting?’
‘Curry at seven thirty in the morning?’ Petra pulled a retching face.
‘Isn’t it supposed to bring on labour? Or sex, if you’d rather?’
‘Wash your mouth out,’ Petra growled. ‘Don’t mention the “S” word to me! That’s what got me here, unable to even reach the bloody biscuits. Look, just throw over the tin, would you?’
‘But why are you here?’
‘I just wanted to tie up a few ends for Joel.’
‘Joel? Joel Sinclair?’
Petra nodded. ‘He’s been home-tutored since January when he was bailed over to his aunt in Castleford. You know, as well as I do, what a bright kid he is. Anyway, I’ve been sorting it so that he can sit his GCSEs back here at St Mede’s. Just wanted to finalise details.’
‘Oh, thank you!’ Robyn leaned in to hug Petra. ‘I didn’t realise that’s what you’d been doing. Sorrel will be so pleased.’
‘Well, we didn’t know what was going to be the outcome of the court case. I gather you were there on Friday?’
Robyn nodded. ‘I still think he’s in danger of being manipulated again. I’m not convinced coming back to the area will be the best way forward…’ She broke off as Mason popped his head around the staff room door.
‘Petra, go home and look after yourself and that baby,’ he ordered. ‘And, Robyn, the meeting’s about to start.’
* * *
‘…and so, we come to the last item on the agenda. Robyn?’ Mason put down his papers, removed his glasses and raised an eye in her direction.
‘Yes?’ Robyn’s head shot up. Mulling over both Jess’s little performance at Kamran’s place as well as the surprise at Lisa about to marry one of the Sattars, she’d switched off from league tables, the problem of vaping behind the bike sheds (where were these mythical bike sheds?) and the debate as to whether Tampax machines should be installed in the boys’ toilets.
‘I didn’t know we even had bike sheds,’ she started. ‘Do any of our kids actually own bikes…?’
‘Number eight on the list.’ Dave Mallinson, Head of English, nudged her arm none too gently. ‘We’re onto your bit.’
‘Ah, right. OK, sorry, sorry.’ Robyn quickly scanned the paper in front of her. ‘So, as you’re all aware,’ she started, ‘the school production of Grease was scheduled for the last week of this term, just before Easter…’
‘Was? Ha!’ John Vaughn, Head of Maths’ tone was sneerily triumphant. ‘Didn’t think you’d be able pull it off with this lot. Despite all the rehearsals you’ve been calling lately in the middle of my maths lessons.’
‘We’re still on track,’ Robyn put in, smiling at the man.
He was such a wanker; it was hard to remain polite.
‘But the track needs to be a little longer. Mason, Petra, Dave and I have discussed it and, before we start printing promotional leaflets, we need the staff on board to agree to move the performances to the penultimate week of the summer term.’
‘You can’t do that,’ John Vaughn said smugly. ‘Half the kids will have left. You do realise Year 11 leave at Easter to go off on revision leave?’
‘We’re aware of that, John,’ Mason interjected smoothly. ‘We just need to be sure they’re willing to come back and get stuck in again once their exams are over. And to be fair, it only involves four or five of Year 11.’
‘I thought your Sorrel was off to some fancy theatre school at Easter. You can’t put on a production of Grease without Sandy?’ John glanced round at the staff, obviously vindicated that quite a few were nodding in agreement. ‘Don’t tell me you’re looking for another Sandy now?’
‘Isla Boothroyd’s more than capable of taking over the part…’ Robyn started.
‘It’s all falling apart, isn’t it? You’re fishing around in panic…’
‘…but’ – and here Robyn shot the maths man a triumphant look of her own – ‘the Susan Yates school where Sorrel starts next term has no problem with Sorrel coming back to take the part. She already knows it inside out, every song, every move, every word. And their term finishes before ours. Sorrel will be back home at the beginning of July.’
‘It just means we can relax somewhat,’ Mason went on. ‘Gives us a bit more time and we can finish the school year with a great performance.’
‘You sure the school won’t be closed and pulled down by then?’
‘Quite sure, John, thank you.’
‘Actually, Mason, while we’re on that subject, what is happening on that score?
It’s all gone very quiet and we need to know what the Frozen lot are up to.
’ Jo Cooper, Head of History and now promoted to acting deputy head while Petra was on maternity leave, left her seat.
‘The staff need to know if they should be looking for new jobs…’
‘Yes, yes!’ John Vaughn interrupted Jo rudely. ‘All this talk about putting on a damned production is just a weapon of mass distraction!’
‘Sorry?’ The staff stared in some confusion at John, who obviously thought he was being very clever.
‘Weapons of mass destruction?’
‘What’s he going on about?’
‘What weapons…?’