Chapter 6
Puddleducks, Joe had discovered during his brief recce earlier on, looked as though it had jumped out of a Caribbean brochure, with its whitewashed walls and cheerful yellow and red flowers painted childishly round the windows and doors.
Above the doorway was a faded Girl Guides sign, and the words ‘Memorial Hall’ in chipped green paint. But below that, on the doors, someone had painted a giant blue and white duck with an apron on. Quite sweet really, if you liked that kind of thing.
There were voices inside too! Laughter. Not the sarcastic type like that of the fourteenth floor, or the short sharp snorts of despair in the staffroom of the inner-city primary. This was the genuine variety and for a reason which Joe couldn’t put his finger on, it disturbed him.
‘Don’t worry about it! Mistakes happen!’ This voice sounded as though it was laced with exclamation marks. It was the sort of voice, noted Joe, that managed to somehow sing and laugh at the same time. How did people do that? When he spoke, it was always in a gravelly tone. It had been one of the things that Ed had apparently liked about him.
‘Once,’ continued the voice, ‘my mother dropped us off the day before term was due to start and didn’t wait to check we’d gone in. It was different in those days. My brother and I just played in the fields and went home, pretending we’d been to school for the day!’
‘Really?’ This other voice had a south London edge to it, suggesting the owner wasn’t a local. As a native Tynesider and proud of it, Joe had been shocked when he’d moved to London and found that the inhabitants on the north side of the river, especially the bits that were merging into Buckinghamshire and Bedfordshire like Corrytown, regarded themselves as a breed apart from those on the south side of the Thames.
‘I feel so stupid. It’s this new job of mine. They know I have to leave early for nursery pick-up but then my boss – who doesn’t have kids himself – put all these files on my desk and I didn’t like to say no. It won’t happen again, really.’
Her voice had a tearful edge to it. ‘I’m sorry, Honey. You must be starving.’
The singing voice chimed in. ‘Actually, I gave her one of my sandwiches. Hope that’s all right.’
‘It had cold sore in it!’ piped up a shrill voice.
Both women snorted with laughter. ‘I think you mean coleslaw, Honey!’
Joe silently groaned inside. Don’t say the child was actually called Honey. He’d thought it was a term of endearment rather than a first name. Why was it that people down south didn’t seem to give their children proper Christian names?
‘Better get cracking now,’ continued the laughing sing-song voice, which, he suspected by now, belonged to this Gemma Merryfield. ‘I’ve got a meeting with the new Reception head at the big school. None of us have met her before, although someone said that …’
Her? Clearly this was his cue. ‘Good evening,’ he began, walking into the hall. Then he stopped. Joe never forgot a face but surely, in this case, there had to be a mistake. Either that or it was some pretty big coincidence. Was this the girl from the car park? ‘As you’ll see,’ he continued, still staring at the sing-song blonde with the fringe, wearing a Puddleducks sweatshirt, ‘the head of Reception is male rather than female.’
The girl flushed. ‘I’d been told to expect someone called Joanna Balls.’
It was one more example of this place’s inefficiency! ‘ Joe Balls, actually.’ Stiffly, he put out his hand to shake hers while taking another good look. There was no mistaking that nose which turned up a bit too much at the end. Or those strangely compelling muddy greeny-blue eyes which had stared at him only a few hours earlier when he’d nipped into town for a sandwich and found that some idiot had reversed into his bike.
And unless he was very much mistaken, the penny had just dropped at her end too. ‘You’re the new acting head of Reception?’ she said in the sort of voice that sounded as if she was hoping to be corrected.
He found himself nodding curtly, willing himself not to bite off her head about the bike. It was, he’d since told himself, something that could have happened to anyone. Anyone, that is, who hadn’t been looking properly.
‘I’m really sorry about your bike.’
Immediately, he flashed her a look that was meant to indicate ‘not in front of a parent’. Too late! He could sense the excited frisson of interest already.
‘I’d better get going while you have your meeting,’ interrupted Late Mum. Fantastic. No doubt all this would be fuelling tomorrow morning’s parent-at-the-school-gate gossip. ‘See you tomorrow. Honey, say goodbye to your teacher!’
Joe watched Gemma waving goodbye to the child, who was dancing off with her mother, purple mittens jiggling at her side at the end of their elastic arms. He had to hand it to her. The rather enthusiastic Miss Merryfield might not have great motor control when it came to reversing, but she seemed to have a way with the kids. Maybe he’d been a bit tough with her.
‘You always get one who either turns up very early or very late,’ said Joe in what was meant to be a ‘let’s forget the motorbike scene’ tone.
Gemma laughed nervously but he could see that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. He’d worried her and now he was going to have to upset her even more.
‘I was really shocked to hear about Brian,’ she cut in before he could begin. ‘So sudden! He was such a good Reception head and always went to so much trouble to make sure he knew the children before they came up.’ She stopped suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that you won’t be such a good head.’
There was an awkward pause and then there she went, rabbiting on again. He could almost hear the exclamation marks in her sentences, just like the newsletter. ‘It’s just that it’s all a bit of a shock, like I said. I only heard recently and I’m still getting my head around it.’
‘That’s life,’ he said, more crisply than he’d intended. ‘Meanwhile, I thought we ought to discuss a few things.’
Joe made a sign that she should sit down. The only chair near her was child-sized and red plastic. He himself took the adult one, which put her at even more of a disadvantage. Not very nice but tactically necessary.
‘I’d like to start by discussing your newsletter.’ He drew out the poorly stapled pages of A4 from his jacket pocket. ‘Did you run this past anyone for approval before sending it out?’
‘Not exactly, but …’
‘Did you or didn’t you?’
‘Miriam, who used to run the playgroup but is now on maternity leave …’
He cut in without meaning to. ‘I know about that.’
‘Well, Miriam said I could have a free rein.’
‘Tell me. Does a free rein include using a plethora of exclamation marks and inviting zookeepers in?’
She coloured. ‘We’ve always had parents coming in to give talks. Last term, we had a mother from Goa who showed the children how curry powder is made.’
‘And is that really important from an education point of view?’
She shot him a look. ‘Do you know how curry powder is made?’
He had a sudden vision of the curry house with pink and blue neon lights off the Holloway Road that he and Ed used to frequent every Wednesday. It had been their favourite.
‘Not exactly. Besides, that’s not the point.’ He waved the newsletter in front of her. ‘May I ask why you posted these instead of emailing them and saving money?’
Her expression became wary, making her look older than the twenty-three or -four he’d first put her at. ‘Not everyone has access to a computer.’
‘Come on!’
‘I mean it!’ Those greeny-blue eyes were almost glaring at him. ‘Besides, it’s nice to have some old-fashioned traditions. Parents can pin this on the kitchen wall.’
‘Just as they could do with a printout.’ He took a document from his briefcase and put it in front of her. ‘Let’s move on. I’d like you to take a look at this.’
She glanced at the paper for a minute and then up at him from her child’s chair. The ridiculous height difference meant he could see she had very carefully lined the inside of her eyelids with soft violet. For some inexplicable reason, this disturbed him.
‘Britain’s Top Ten Playgroup of the Year Award?’ He nodded.
She frowned. ‘I’ve never heard of it before.’
‘That’s because there isn’t one.’
The violet lines crinkled slightly. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘You will. In precisely one week, a certain bank is going to be announcing that it is sponsoring the competition and awarding a rather large sum of money to the ten best playgroups in Britain. Of course, the money will be useful, but it will be the prestige which really counts.’
‘How do you know this?’
Because he had persuaded his old boss at the bank to push the idea? Because he had told them that banks needed to do something to restore their reputation in the public eye? ‘Trust me, I just do. Although sadly, despite my inside knowledge, there is no guarantee that we will win.’
Gemma stood up as though she presumed the meeting was over, although maybe she was just uncomfortable in that small chair.
‘Hang on. I haven’t finished yet. There’s something else, something extremely important, that I need to say. It’s about one of the new Puddleducks.’
He lowered his voice. ‘I know Beryl’s already talked to you about Lily but I just want to run an idea past you. I think we need to talk to the other parents and explain that it’s vital they don’t talk to the press about her. Do you agree?’