A Desirable Residence (4 page)

Alice bit her lip and frowned and hunched her narrow shoulders in her old brown suede jacket. They’d had to give Oscar away. To Antonia Callender, of all awful, awful people.
What a gorgeous cat! I bet you’ll miss him. You can come and see him any time, you know
. Stupid bitch. There was no way Alice was going near Antonia’s house. She had hated her ever since they sat next to each other on the first day in the upper third, and Antonia asked Alice what her favourite drink was and laughed really loudly when she said Lilt. Of course, Antonia’s was gin and tonic. And then everyone else in the class had said theirs was gin and tonic, too, except the real squares. Now she kept asking people if they’d got stoned at the weekend, and last term she’d gone on about how she was going to stay with her cousins, who were really cool and smoked joints in front of their parents. Alice reckoned she made it all up. When they’d gone to her house to deliver Oscar, Antonia’s mother had offered Alice orange squash. But she hadn’t felt able to drink anything.

They’d taken him there in the car, in his travelling basket, which he hated. Alice could still remember the precise feel of the wicker on her knees, weighted down unevenly by Oscar’s pacing paws. He’d scrabbled heavily against the sides most of the way there, as if he couldn’t wait to be let out. But when they’d opened the little gate, he’d looked around nervously, and then retreated back as far as he could go. They’d had to tip the basket up to get him out, and then he’d crouched down, looking panic-stricken, before streaking across the rug and under the sofa. Then he’d made a mess on the carpet. Hah. That served them right . . .

An old lady with a shopping basket pushed past Alice, interrupting her thoughts.

‘Excuse
me
,’ she said crossly, and gave Alice a suspicious look. Alice stared back rudely. This was still her street. She’d grown up here; she still belonged here. Not in Silchester shitty Tutorial College.

She’d just had to get out of that place this afternoon. Her father was trying to sort things out downstairs, in the classroom bit, and kept shouting upstairs to the flat, asking her to come and help move desks around. Then he’d told her to turn down her music, then he’d told her she should really be a bit more helpful and lots of girls of fourteen had Saturday jobs, and all he wanted was half an hour of her time. The more he said things like that, the more she wanted to be as unhelpful as possible. So she’d shrugged on her suede jacket and made sure her cigarettes were in the pocket, and stomped noisily down the stairs. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything at all to her father—to have him smiling hopefully at her was even worse than hearing him shout—so she hadn’t told him she was going out. Anyway, it was pretty obvious.

It was getting cold, and drops of rain were starting to fall on her head. She fingered her lighter, and wondered what to do. She hadn’t really intended to come back here. She’d just thought she would go somewhere for a cigarette, maybe sit on the grass in the Cathedral Close. That was one tiny little good thing about living at the tutorial college, she thought grudgingly. At least they were nearer the centre of Silchester. But although she’d started off going there, she hadn’t ended up in the Cathedral Close. At some point on her journey she’d stopped concentrating, and had automatically started walking west, the way she used to go home from St Helen’s when she was little. And here she was, back in Russell Street.

It was really weird—to think that she’d walked where her legs told her and not where she was intending to go. Like being hypnotized, or sleepwalking, or something. She would tell Genevieve in her next letter, she decided.
It was so weird
, she would begin. Or, no,
It was so spooky
. Genevieve always said everything was spooky. Now she’d be telling the people in Saudi Arabia how spooky everything was. Probably she’d be telling them how spooky
they
were. An image sprang into her mind of Genevieve, standing in the desert in her cut-off Levis, telling an Arabian man in a white dress he was really spooky, and she gave an involuntary giggle.

Her cigarette lighter had been a goodbye present from Genevieve. She’d put it in a carved Indian box and wrapped it all up and actually given it to her in front of both sets of parents. Alice had nearly died when she opened the box and saw what was inside. And then, of course, her mother had gone on about what a lovely present, and could she have a look, and Alice had glared at Genevieve, who couldn’t stop laughing and said, ‘Oh yes, Alice, show your mum, go on.’ In the end, she’d had to scrumple up the wrapping-paper and shove the lighter inside it when no-one was looking and then retrieve it from the waste-paper basket the next morning.

And now it lay warm in her hand, silver and chunky and rounded. Alice looked surreptitiously up and down the street. She would, she thought, go and have a quick cigarette in the garage. There couldn’t be anything wrong with that; it was still their garage. It was still their house come to that. She should have brought a front doorkey with her; then she could have gone and smoked in the kitchen if she’d wanted. Or the sitting-room. Anywhere.

Trying to look as casual as possible—although surely she wasn’t doing anything wrong—she crossed the road to number twelve. The gate gave a familiar squeak as she pushed it open, and the rose bushes halfway up the path would have snagged her new black leggings if she hadn’t automatically dodged them. She skirted quickly across the front lawn, feeling stupidly guilty, and unlatched the gate to the back garden.

Of course
her parents hadn’t got round to mending the lock on the back door of the garage. She knew they wouldn’t have. Heaving her shoulder against it, she pushed it open and walked quickly into the familiar darkness. The piles of newspapers that used to make a comfortable seat for her and Genevieve had gone, but one corner was still dry enough to sit down. She fumbled for her cigarettes, cupped her hand around the smooth contours of her lighter, lit up, leant back and took a deep, long, comforting drag.

Jonathan cleared his throat and looked around the room, an anxious smile hovering on his face.

‘As you can see,’ he said, ‘we’ve changed a few things.’ He paused, and looked around again. The staff of Silchester Tutorial College looked back at him. One or two gave nods of encouragement but none of them smiled. They were assembled in what had been the staff room at the tutorial college—a long, light room at the back of the building, which overlooked the small garden. In Miss Hapland’s day, this had been a charmingly furnished sitting-room with faded chintz armchairs, coffee maker and television, in which the staff had relaxed between lessons. Now it was a businesslike classroom, with brand-new white board, overhead projector and bookshelves.

The members of staff had each come in that morning, clearly expecting to flop down in the usual armchairs with cups of coffee—and their looks of shock at the transformation of the room had not helped Jonathan’s confidence. It was crucial to get the staff on their side, he thought, beginning to feel rather flustered; perhaps he and Liz should have let them all know in advance about the new arrangements.

‘As you can see,’ he repeated, ‘we’ve changed a few things. For example, the staff room. From now on we’re going to use the old languages room on the first floor.’ He hesitantly gestured upwards; a few pairs of eyes dutifully followed. Others exchanged glances.

‘I wouldn’t have thought,’ came a deliberate voice from the corner, ‘that the languages room was big enough for all of us.’ Mr Stuart, head of maths, looked challengingly at Jonathan.

‘Well, no,’ conceded Jonathan, ‘perhaps not. But then, the staff room is only meant to be for those who aren’t teaching in a particular period. Which should mean you aren’t all in it at once!’ He gave a little laugh. ‘And we thought that a lot better use could be made of the space.’ He paused.

Go
on
, thought Liz, sitting supportively beside Jonathan. Why was he pausing so often? Every time he stopped speaking, she could see members of staff looking at each other; he really needed to galvanize their attention. She smiled at him encouragingly, willing him to get going. He looked down at his piece of paper.

‘So this room will become the new languages room,’ he said. ‘And we’re intending to install sound systems so that students can work with earphones. We want to make language teaching a priority.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Liz is a qualified teacher in four languages, as some of you will already know. Or perhaps all of you.’ He paused again, as though considering this. Liz couldn’t bear it any more.

‘We want to make Silchester Tutorial College a centre for languages as well as simply a crammer,’ she said rapidly. ‘Languages have never been more important for students, and if we can offer first-class teaching in the major European languages, as well as specialist languages on demand, we feel we should be able to attract more than simply retake students. Eventually we’ll market ourselves to companies which need good language training, and possibly organize children’s holiday courses. To achieve that, we’ll need absolutely first-class language facilities, and high-calibre teaching. I’ll be seeing the language tutors in a separate meeting to discuss resources and study programmes. All ideas welcome.’ She stopped, and gave a quick glance around the room. There was no doubt, she’d got their attention now. The faces she recognized as belonging to language tutors were looking animated; the others were looking variously indifferent, wary and hostile.

‘Does this mean,’ said one of them, ‘that you’ll be phasing out other subjects?’

‘Oh no,’ said Liz. ‘This will all be as well as the mainstream teaching. But our aim is to make this college far more efficient, so that we’ve got time and resources to do both.’ She took a deep breath and didn’t look at Jonathan. ‘To put it bluntly, this whole place needs shaking up. Part of the reason for moving the staff room is that we want less sitting around drinking coffee and more teaching.’

There. She’d said it. Jonathan wouldn’t be pleased. They’d had an argument about what they were going to say at this first meeting. He had said they must be gentle and diplomatic; avoid ruffling the feathers of the staff. Liz had retorted angrily that their feathers deserved ruffling, they’d had such a cushy life up until now. Swanning in and out; teaching as and when; even using the premises for their own private coaching sessions. It was quite obvious from looking at the books that Miss Hapland had let the business side of things lapse almost completely during the last five years. She’d liked to see the staff around the place; liked to come down and chat with them as they reclined on the sofas she’d provided and drank the endless free coffee.

But she hadn’t needed to make a profit like they did. She hadn’t had a huge mortgage on the place. She’d seen the tutorial college, certainly in the latter part of her life, more as an agreeable social enterprise than a business. For Liz and Jonathan it was different. They needed to rationalize; to start making profits and paying back their debt. And that had to start with the staff. OK, they were all very sad about Miss Hapland’s death. Of course they were. But that didn’t mean, as Jonathan seemed to think it did, that they should all creep around for the first term, pretending nothing had changed. It was better if they started as they meant to go on.

And although there were disgruntled faces, raised eyebrows and exchanged glances around the room, as Liz waited for her statement to sink in, she thought she could detect something else in the air: an alive, positive feeling. She risked a glance at one of the younger tutors, a sweet young girl who taught German. Her face was bright; her eyes fixed on Liz, waiting for her to continue.

‘It should be a very exciting project,’ said Liz, looking straight at her. ‘I’m sure you’ll all have your own thoughts and suggestions on what we should do, and I’m very much looking forward to discussing it.’ The girl blushed, and Liz smiled at her. There. She had at least one ally. And these others would come round when they realized there was more teaching in it for them.

She risked a little look at Jonathan. He was smiling miserably. Clearly the disgruntled faces had fazed him. For heaven’s sake, couldn’t he get a grip? Why couldn’t he just ignore them, like she did? He was the boss, after all. ‘We also have plans for the Common Entrance coaching department,’ she said, in an encouraging voice. ‘Don’t we. Jonathan? Lots of exciting plans?’

Later on, when they’d all gone, she made him a cup of instant coffee and took it to him in his classroom.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘What for?’ He was leafing through a book of Latin prose, selecting the first piece to give the five Latin A level retake candidates starting that term.
Gallia est omnis divisa in partes tres
, thought Liz, as she always did when confronted with a page of Latin. That was the first line of her O level Latin set text, which she’d learnt off by heart for the exam, and was almost the only Latin she could remember. It was really amazing, she thought vaguely, peering over Jonathan’s shoulder at the dimly familiar words, that so many young people still chose to learn a dead language when there were so many living, vibrant languages in the world. Then, no, of course it wasn’t at all amazing, she corrected herself hastily. That was the kind of thoughtless, ignorant comment that drove Jonathan mad.

‘What a wonderful language,’ she said guiltily; feeling an obscure need to prove herself. ‘I can always see the Italian in it.’ Idiotic remark. What was she trying to say? Oh yes. ‘Jonathan, I’m sorry for taking over at the staff meeting,’ she said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘I didn’t mean to monopolize it.’ He looked up at her; his eyes benign and surprised.

‘Oh, my lovely, don’t apologize. I thought you were wonderful. Tremendous stuff. You did it much better than I could have done.’ He gave her the wide, lopsided, entirely natural grin which had always charmed schoolboys and parents alike, and Liz’s insides contracted in a strange mixture of affection and relief. Of course, she was surprised to find herself thinking. That’s why I love him. I knew there was something . . .