Wicked! (115 page)

‘Oh Pearl, this is one of the best results in the school. B in English, C in history, C in home economics, C in maths, C in science. D in business studies. Well done.’

Pearl was turned to stone like Niobe, when, like the fountain, her tears gushed out.

‘I don’t believe it, miss. I done brilliant.’

‘You certainly have.’

‘I got the Magic Five,’ shrieked Pearl, racing round the playground hugging everyone. Then she rang her mother and then the factory where her boxer dad worked, asking them to broadcast the results over the tannoy, then rushed off to the toilets to redo her face before she faced the press.

Back in Janna’s office, there were more yells of excitement and cries of ‘Good lad, well done’, ‘Good girl, you’ve got a B in RE and a C in geography and a C in home economics’, as stunned candidates reeled out of the room. Graffi, despite stacking shelves, had got four Cs and an A star for art and was calling his parents. Danny the Irish had managed a B and two Cs, Kitten was over the moon to get four Cs and a D in English, until she heard Pearl’s grades were even better and blamed it on a social life so much more active than Pearl’s.

Johnnie, against all the odds, had notched up two Bs and four Cs.

‘I worked, like, hard,’ he told the press, ‘but I’d have screwed up, like, if it hadn’t been for Emlyn and the Brigadier getting me here.’

Janna was so good at comforting the sad ones. Danijela was inconsolable. She’d only got an A in D and T for her blue and green wedding dress and a C in food technology.

‘But that’s brilliant. You spoke no English when you came here, you can always retake the others.’

Janna was also euphoric about Rocky, who’d been special needs level three and on the at-risk register, but had still got a B for his D and T dog kennel, a C for history and a D for business studies.

‘He must have learnt more in that cupboard than we thought,’ laughed Pittsy.

Kylie had notched up three Ds, a B in child care and an A star in music, which enchanted Cambola. Chantal had arrived with Cambola’s little godson, Ganymede, who looked just like Jack Waterlane, and, thoroughly carried away, was now telling the press: ‘My Kylie Rose is destined for music college. She done superior to her hubby, the Honourable Jack, who may well stay home and mind Cameron and Ganymede.’

‘Jack’d love that,’ muttered Graffi. ‘He’ll be able to drink and watch racing on TV all day.’

Graffi couldn’t believe those results. The Magic Five. His father had just rolled up with Cardiff Nan and was looking at him with new respect.

‘Good luck,’ called out everyone, as, trembling and terrified, Aysha crept into Janna’s office.

‘I don’t want to let down my dad.’

‘No fear of that.’ Janna clasped her hands. ‘You got an A star for science, an A star for Urdu, Bs for history and English, an A star for maths and Cs for French and Spanish. Best result in the school, Aysha. Your parents will be so thrilled.’

Aysha gazed at the results slip for a moment; a storm of relieved weeping followed.

‘Do you think Dad will let me see Xav now?’

‘I’m sure he will.’ Janna plied her with Kleenex. ‘Get out,’ she screamed as a cameraman shoved a lens in through the window.

Summoned by mobile and text, excited parents were soon storming the playground, bearing flowers in cellophane, cards in coloured envelopes, and accepting paper cups of wine handed out by Wally, who was beaming from ear to ear. He’d helped out all year with D and T and his pupils had done really well.

Pearl’s boxer dad, who’d been allowed the rest of the day off, was hugging Pearl’s mother. Pearl, thoroughly above herself, was telling the television cameras: ‘The world is my lobster. I was planning to go into hairdressing, but getting the Magic Five, I’ve gotta refink my options.’

A dazed Aysha had already been offered places at four schools, but would she be allowed to take up any of them?

The press were now photographing pupils jumping for joy, tossing their papers in the air, the eternal cliché only before afforded to St Jimmy’s and Searston Abbey.

‘Where’s Emlyn? What can have happened to Feral?’ asked everyone. ‘Where’s Xav?’

117

Over at Penscombe, none of the Campbell-Blacks had slept. The plan was to go into Larks to collect Xav and Taggie’s results, making a slight detour on the way to Cotchester College to discover Rupert’s English lit. grade. Both Rupert and Xav would have preferred to learn their fate in solitude.

The fact that Rupert had just flown in from the Athens Olympics, where his daughter Tabitha and her horse had been in the medals, had, on the one hand, made him incredibly proud. On the other, he was now even more anxious that Xav would be utterly demoralized if, by contrast, he didn’t notch up a single GCSE.

To steady his nerves, Rupert was riding around the estate, followed by his pack of dogs. He admired two yearlings, Macduff and Thane of Fife, known as Fifey, checked fences and noted the casualties of summer: rusty branches hanging like broken limbs from the sycamore, field maples eaten to bits by the squirrels. The dawn redwood, prematurely russet, looked a goner too. Despite the rain, it had been an incredibly fecund year, elders already crimson black with berries, brambles covered in gorging wasps.

The sun was coming through the clouds to highlight a triangle of jade field one moment, and touch the shoulder of a beech tree – Shall we dance? – the next. Since he had read English lit., he appreciated nature and character so much more.

It was bliss having Taggie home again, but they had all found it difficult to settle this summer, worrying about three different sets of results.

This is a good horse, thought Rupert: dark bay, strong, confident, too slow to race, the perfect hunter, but hunting would be banned soon. Democracy was gradually being eroded, but did he really mind enough to go back into politics?

There had been so much rain, the fields had only just been topped. Buzzards screamed overhead searching for carrion; a fox had caught a pigeon, its dark grey and light feathers all over the stubble – not a good omen. Nor was the single magpie rising squawking out of the wood.

‘Morning, Mr Magpie, how’s your wife? How many A to C grades did your children get? You piebald smartass,’ snapped Rupert.

Dear God, he prayed, if Tag gets some children through food technology and Xav just one or two decent grades, he’d gladly give up his English lit. pass. Everyone knew he was a philistine. Helen, his first wife, had told him often enough.

Xav huddled in his room, hugging smelly, old, comforting Bogotá, who was too old to join the pack on the ride.

What if he got no grades at all? Mr Khan and Alex Bruce would gloat and say I told you so. He couldn’t bear the humiliation, but he couldn’t miss a chance of seeing Aysha one last time. Bianca, equally desperate for a last chance to see Feral, banged on his door.

‘We ought to go, it’s nearly eleven.’

She was wearing red shorts, red boots and a sleeveless crimson T-shirt.

‘You look cool,’ said Xav.

Taggie was in the kitchen praying and unloading the dishwasher, when the telephone rang. It was Mags.

‘My dears, are you coming in? Good, but I thought you might like Xav’s results in advance.’

Taggie, a potato masher in one hand and two mugs hanging on the end fingers of the hand holding the telephone, sat down on the window seat, just missing Bianca’s kitten.

‘Can you read them again?’ she gasped a minute later.

‘And again?’ a minute after that, then a minute later. ‘And again.’

Afterwards there was a long pause.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Mags anxiously. ‘I thought you’d like to hear the food technology results as well.’

‘Yes, no.’ All Margaret could hear was sobbing. ‘I’ll ring you back.’ Taggie slotted back the telephone.

Walking back from the yard, noticing dew-spangled spiders all over the lawn, Rupert caught sight of Taggie running out on to the terrace, the same sun lighting up the tears pouring down her face.

‘It’s all right, darling.’ Rupert raced up the lawn, folding his wife in his arms, struggling to hide his disappointment. ‘He was Prom King and he’s got friends; that’s much more important. He worked really hard too.’

But he so wanted to pass, said a voice inside Rupert, we should have fought harder to keep him at Bagley.

Taggie was still sobbing.

‘It’s all right.’ Rupert gritted his jaw. ‘We’ll look after him. I could never take exams.’

‘No, no,’ Taggie gulped and gasped. ‘He passed. He got four Cs and a B for Spanish. The Magic Five, and D grades in all his other subjects.’

Rupert shut his eyes. Back went his head as he breathed in deeply and incredulously.

‘You did it,’ he muttered. ‘You had the courage to send him to Larks.’

‘Shall we go?’ Xav walked out, saw his mother crying and knew all was lost. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled.

His parents pulled him into a sodden hug.

‘You got it,’ said Rupert. ‘They’ve just rung. You got the Magic Five.’

‘That is really wicked,’ said Xav.

Rupert put a crate of Veuve Clicquot in the car. Taggie was so happy she couldn’t stop giggling. Glancing at the back, she noticed Bianca gazing out of the window, her painted scarlet lips moving: ‘Please God, give me Feral,’ and put a hand back on her daughter’s knee.

In Cotchester, the roads were blocked with mothers frantic to collect their children’s results from various schools. The forecourt of Cotchester College was swarming with mature students comparing results and with even more press, who raised their cameras and tape recorders as Rupert approached, but warily. In his time, the Golden Beast had broken more than a few photographers’ jaws. Today he didn’t look in a party mood. Rupert had withdrawn his bargain with God. He’d mind like hell if he failed.

Pushing through the swing doors, he entered the exam room, waving his student card.

‘Can I have my GCSE result?’

‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Campbell-Black,’ said the woman at the table reverently. ‘We hoped you’d come in.’ She coughed loudly.

As secretaries suddenly appeared, peering excitedly through the glass panel behind her, she handed him a sealed envelope, her kind round face full of concern.

‘Summer 2004,’ read Rupert, ‘Campbell-Black, Rupert Edward. English Literature GCSE, Grade B.’ He gasped. ‘There’s no mistake?’

‘None. Many congratulations.’

‘My God.’ Rupert leant over the table and kissed her on both cheeks.

Out in the sunshine he sauntered over to the assembled press.

‘How d’yer do, Rupert?’

‘B for bloody brilliant.’ He brandished the slip of paper. ‘And two fingers to Randal Stancombe, who now owes the Bagley Fund a lot of money, and my first wife, Helen, now Lady Hawkley, who always told me I was thick.’

Taggie was so excited she nearly ran over an old man wheeling a tartan bag across a zebra crossing.

Back at Larks, Monster was moaning he’d only got Cs for English and business studies, after working like stink.

‘That’s terrific, well done,’ said Janna, making Monster feel so good that he decided to ring Stormin’, who was on nights and asleep at home.

If you can wake her, thought Janna bitterly, you horrible gooseberry, who ruined my last chance with Emlyn.

Only Feral had bombed totally. Not a single grade, nothing above a G – darkness at noon. He was now on his mobile, huddled in misery.

‘Didn’t do enough revision, I guess, sorry, Brig, sorry, Lily. See you both later.’

As he rang his mother, Graffi and Kylie were hovering to comfort him.

‘There’s good news and bad news, Mum. First the bad news, I failed all my exams. Yes, all of them. But the really good news to cheer you all up, is everyone else in the school passed somefing.’

Heroically brave, he deserved an A star for courage. Janna bit her lip as she remembered the essay of hope about the girl to whom he stayed married for the rest of his life and took on holiday to Skegness.

Kylie put an arm round his shoulders. ‘How was your mum?’

‘OK,’ lied Feral. ‘Not now, perhaps later,’ he added to Partner, who was nudging him to play football. Oh God, he prayed, don’t let the bad news start Mum off again.

Everyone – children, parents and press – was knocking back the bottles of white and red. Graffi’s dad was getting legless with Pearl’s boxer dad and mum and Stormin’ Norman, who’d just arrived. Even Raschid Khan, sipping apple juice, was looking quite mellow.

‘I agree, Raschid,’ Dafydd Williams was saying. ‘None of my family’s ever been to uni, we work in factories or on the building, we don’t go on to better things.’

Janna climbed on to Appletree steps and clapped her hands. ‘I’d just like to thank and congratulate all the children who worked so hard and made such fantastic progress. These are a terrific set of results. The greatest thing in life is an ability to pick yourself up from the floor and you all did this, and I’d like to thank your parents for all their support.’

A second later Feral had grabbed the microphone from her, clutching his battered violet and yellow football like a hot-water bottle with the other. In his deep hoarse voice, gallant in defeat, he thanked particularly Janna and the teachers.