Chapter Twelve
Twelve
James had been unable to help with the cleanup at the weekend because of “prior commitments,” which he’d made no effort to expand upon. Harriet, however, had no weekend plans and so spent much of it at the theater. To her surprise, she found she liked being in the thick of all the bustle as the old building was systematically stripped back and reborn. Plus, it beat staying at home and dwelling on how empty it was. The famous five had popped in to lend a hand at various times around their weekend jobs and familial responsibilities, even though Harriet hadn’t asked them to, and she’d been pleased to see them. Perhaps the old building had bewitched them too.
On Monday evening after a shower to de-grime, she flopped down onto the sofa just as Ali called.
“Hey, how’s it going at the Hammer Horror theater?” he asked.
“Making progress. We finished clearing the rubbish in the auditorium today.”
“And the famous five showed up for duty?”
“They did. Actually, they’ve been brilliant. Some of the stuff we were clearing was pretty grim, but they kept at it.”
“Maybe if we throw some rubbish around the study halls, they’ll be more likely to show up for class.”
“It’s something different, I suppose. A change of scenery and all that. Plus, you know there’s a buzz about the place with all the maintenance teams there hammering and drilling and their radios blaring. It feels like we’re a part of something.”
“And how is the handsome specimen that is James Knight?”
“He is by turns surprisingly thoughtful and a completely closed book.”
“I found his profile on LinkedIn. He does look like he would have hidden depths,” said Ali dreamily.
“Yes,” Harriet responded. But is he going to let me dive into them, or will he continue to mine my secrets while keeping his buried at the bottom of the ocean?
“And?” Ali persisted. Gossip was his drug of choice.
“And what?”
“Are you a thing?” he pressed.
“I don’t think so.”
“But you find him attractive.”
“Anyone with eyes would.”
“You’re so cagey!” he said exasperatedly, and she laughed.
“Did you call your aunt Prescilla about the am-dram group yet?”
“I did, they’re called the Great Foss Players. She’s given me the number of the director, one Gideon Clarke. Got a pen handy?”
“A director, that sounds promising.” She scribbled down the number he gave her.
“Don’t get your hopes up, we’re not talking team Julian Lloyd Webber here.”
“They’ll be more professional than anyone on team Humbug, that’s for certain. Thanks, you’re a star. I’ll give him a call tonight. How were things after I left? I feel bad leaving work early.”
“You’re not leaving early; you’re leaving at the time you’re paid till—it’s called clocking off. You’re so accustomed to doing free overtime every day that you’ve become conditioned into thinking it’s normal.”
Harriet rubbed her temples. “Things are going to get missed.” She couldn’t bear the idea of somebody falling through the cracks because she was distracted…again.
“They won’t. The rest of the team have all promised to pull their weight, except for Cornell, of course.”
“Of course. Did Saffron get her personal statement finished after I left?”
“Finished and sent.”
“And what about Harvey’s university application?”
“Completed.”
“I called the food clinic about Aurora’s new meal plan three times today, and each time it rang off the hook. We really need a response on it,” said Harriet.
“Leave that with me, I’ll chase them tomorrow. That reminds me, Susan said Cornell dumped all his parent/guardian-teacher consultations onto you, is that true?”
“Yes, it is, he sprang that particular delight on me just as I was leaving this afternoon. It’s retaliation because he thinks I went behind his back with Evaline Winter to score brownie points with the dean.”
“Why didn’t you say no? You’ve got your own consultations to do.”
She had been asking herself the same question all evening.
“Well, I guess he’s so good at delegating his responsibilities that I know his students better than he does, and their guardians too. So it makes sense for me to do them, rather than have him sat in front of them simply reading out my notes. The least the kids on our list deserve is to know that we give a turd about them.”
“You should suggest that to the dean as the new school slogan: ‘Foss Independent: We give a turd.’?” He laughed at his own joke.
“Thanks for helping me out, Ali, I really appreciate it. I’ll thank the rest of the team for stepping up too.”
“Wellll…” He stretched the word out. “It’s not that we’re helping you out as much as we are doing the jobs that we’re being paid for. You’re always so busy being the queen of fucking everything that you kind of take on our work too, and we let you do it because we are flawed humans. Essentially all that’s happening here is a righting of the scales.”
She frowned. “Oh.” Is that true?
“You’re kind of a control freak, Haz.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Sorry. I mean, I totally get why. It’s that kind of job, the kids on the list are in our care and it’s easy to get obsessive. But equally—and forgive me if I’ve mentioned this before—I have two degrees, two master’s degrees, a PhD in counseling and psychology, and five years of Harriet Smith pastoral care boot camp under my belt. I know what I’m doing, as do we all, apart from Cornell, who must surely have been made head of department due to a typo.”
Harriet laughed. Ali consistently reminded her how qualified he was if she tried to micromanage him.
“You make me sound like a right bossy-boots,” she said.
“I only want you to see that you can rely on us. Let us do the job that you employed us for.”
“Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”
“All the time. I only stay in this job for the adulation.”
The call ended and Harriet’s worries were somewhat relieved, aside from learning that everyone on her team thought she was a control freak. She looked down at the number from Ali’s aunt. Now’s as good a time as any.
She tapped the number into her phone and waited.
“If this is a sales call, I am not interested,” a sonorous voice boomed out, “and I will hang up in three, two, one—”
“Oh, wait! No, no, don’t hang up, I’m not a cold caller, Mr. Clarke. I was given your number by Prescilla’s nephew about a possible drama collaboration…” She spoke very fast, hoping he wouldn’t cut her off.
Silence filled the air for a handful of seconds, and she wondered if she’d lost him.
“A collaboration?” The man rolled his tongue around the r like a tiger purring.
“Yes!” The relief was evident in her voice. “It’s all rather short notice, but I’m hoping you can help us. We’re putting on a production of A Christmas Carol and we are short on numbers, and to be honest, we could do with some advice from experienced dramatists such as yourselves.” By the tone of his voice alone she could tell he was the sort who required flattery.
“And who, might I ask, are you?”
“Oh, ha! Yes, sorry. My name is Harriet Smith.”
“And the name of your society?” His boredom dripped through the speaker.
“My society? Oh, you mean our group! Um, we are a collective from Foss Independent School.”
“Students!” His tone was so scathing he might as well have declared Excrement!
“Yes. Bright young things, full of enthusiasm and talent just waiting to be unleashed.” Was she hamming it up too much?
“And how many students make up this collective?”
“Five.”
“ Five! Five , you say?”
“I was hoping you could add to our numbers.”
“You want the Great Foss Players, an amateur dramatics society renowned in several counties for their professionalism, to add to the numbers of a school play ?”
Oh, well, now he was just being rude.
“Not a school play, no. Our venue is the Winter Theater, and our production will be a one-night-only performance of A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens in front of the dignitaries and townsfolk of Little Beck Foss.” She didn’t know if there would be dignitaries there, but it sounded like the kind of bait Gideon might go for.
Incoherent blusterings ensued before Gideon Clarke rediscovered his voice.
“Preposterous! The Winter Theater has been defunct for half a century!”
Aha! Gotcha!
“It is being refurbished as we speak, Mr. Clarke.” She echoed his superciliousness. “And my students—handpicked by Ms. Evaline Winter—will be the first and possibly the last actors to tread its boards under that name.”
“Ooh-ahh-brrrr-hoho-ahem.” He was spluttering like an old generator. “Well now, that puts a different slant on things.”
“I thought it might.”
“Harriet, was it?”
“Yes.”
“Please call me Gideon.”
“Okay.”
“Leave it with me. It will be a huge imposition, of course. The Great Foss Players are much in demand, especially during the season of goodwill to all men. But I will see what I can do. If it is within our power to assist in bringing this production to fruition, then we are bound by the sacred code of thespians to help.”
Every word he uttered boomed.
“Thank you,” said Harriet.
“Have you approached any other dramatic societies for assistance?” he asked.
“Not yet,” she confessed.
“Bravissima!” he boomed. “I’ll be in touch!”
And with that, the line went dead. I think that went rather well , she complimented herself, and headed for the kitchen, where a delectable three-course meal of a packet of crisps, a carton of instant noodles, and two mince pies waited.