Wicked! (128 page)

Passing the charming cottage where Cosmo had installed Mrs Walton, reaching the White Lion, they wistfully breathed in the smell of lamb braising in red wine, parsley and garlic. School food had deteriorated depressingly since Poppet’s lentil-loaded, salt-free regime had taken over.

‘If we turn left here, down Stream Lane,’ Dora told Artie, ‘we can sneak the dogs back to your house undercover via Badger’s Retreat and the golf course. I’ve done it often enough with Cadbury.’

It was a mild, windless day; gold leaves clogged the dark waters of the stream. Birds sang sweetly in the rain-soaked air. The path was strewn with tawny willow spears.

‘“Yellow, and black and pale, and hectic red,”’ quoted Artie, as the Jack Russells bounded ahead, stopping to fight and snuffle down rabbit holes.

‘Hengist wanted the Queen to watch a history lesson,’ said Dora crossly.

‘Might have been tricky,’ mused Artie, wondering nervously, as he lit a cigarette, how far Poppet’s no smoking ban extended. ‘The Upper Fifth are doing the Russian Revolution, the Middle Fifth, the English Civil War.’

‘And we’re doing the French Revolution,’ giggled Dora, chucking a stick for the dogs. ‘Might have been a bit tactless, all those kings and queens having their heads chopped off. But she’d have seen some terrific teaching. Hengist’s lessons were wonderful. We were making a guillotine and tumbrels when he was arrested. The acting head of history Mr Fussy’s roped in promptly put them on the skip. He keeps groping Bianca; we call him the Randy Republican.

‘Emlyn was a terrific teacher too,’ Dora sighed, as they crossed over a wooden bridge back on to Bagley land. ‘Exciting about him and Janna getting married; I hope they ask me to the wedding. And wasn’t it lovely her getting that Teaching Award and not Mr Fussy, and all the Larks pupils coming on to the stage. I think Paris was upset not to be part of it, he was very fond of Janna,’ Dora added wistfully, ‘and he’s terribly upset about the bursar being booted out at Christmas. I do wish Hengist would come back.’

Oh, so do I, thought Artie.

Ahead, after a night of downpour, serpents of opal blue mist were writhing out of Badger’s Retreat.

Artie let Dora run on. Since Hengist, his real, never-confessed love, had left, Bagley had lost its lustre. Artie had already had numerous approaches from other schools. Even Fleetley was putting out feelers. But he had loved Bagley so much and, like Theo, so longed to end his days here, he couldn’t rouse himself to go to interviews.

In his breast pocket was a letter from Hengist.

‘Dear Artie, I’m so sorry I let you down. If I’d made you deputy head as you deserved, none of this sorry business would have happened. Please look after Sally and the school if you can. Yours ever.’

Yours never, thought Artie sadly.

‘Couldn’t you be head?’ Dora’s shrill voice broke into his reverie.

‘I don’t think Mr Bruce would like that.’

‘Everyone loathes him.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Artie firmly, dodging to avoid a stick which Dora in her rage had thrown straight up in the air.

‘My God,’ he exploded as they reached Badger’s Retreat, ‘they’ve daubed red spots on everything, even Hengist’s Family Tree.’

‘Mr Fussy must be going to chop them down. He thinks woods are pointless. And he’s banished Cadbury so the Queen won’t meet him, which will be a great disappointment to her. Instead she’ll have to listen to Alex’s boring speech. Poor Painswick has to keep on retyping it when she’s not ringing the Met. Office to check the weather: “Oh, it’s you again, Miss Painswick, it’s going to bloody chuck it down.”

‘And what’s more . . .’ Dora retrieved the stick, teasing the Jack Russells, who launched into a frenzy of yapping.

‘For God’s sake,’ hissed Artie in alarm, ‘they’ll get arrested.’

‘And what’s more’ – Dora chucked the stick – ‘I was in the general office and quite by chance caught sight of the agenda for the next governors’ meeting, and I promise you General Bagley and Denmark are for the chop. Because the General was an imperialist who kicked ass after the Black Hole of Calcutta, Poppet wants him toppled like Saddam Hussein and replaced, I would think, by some manky statue of Mr Fussy brandishing a test tube and a copy of
Red Tape.
’

Artie was appalled. ‘They can’t pull down General Bagley. It’s a beautiful sculpture.’

‘And Denmark’s so realistic, I always want to give him an apple.’

‘And the General was a most civilized old boy,’ protested Artie, ‘who took copies of Racine and the
Iliad
to India with him, kept springers, was an excellent watercolourist, then left all his land and his house to found this school.’

‘Well, I do know’ – Dora glanced furtively round – ‘that Mr Fussy, who knows eff all about art, has asked an artist called Trafford to come up with alternative suggestions. I bet he doesn’t realize Trafford, who is a best friend of my brother Jonathan, is wildly expensive and often charges twenty thousand for a maquette.’

Despite his horror at the threat to the General, Artie laughed. ‘Trafford has certainly made a convert of Poppet,’ he said. ‘She much admired his latest installation:
Tranny by Gaslight: The Story of a Sex Change.
’

‘Working title:
From Willy to Womb
. It’s absolutely disgusting,’ thundered Dora, ‘and cost half a million pounds. And I bet she hasn’t seen
Sister Hoodie
, Trafford’s video of a teenage girl beating up an old woman.’

‘How can Poppet accuse our beloved General of colonialism,’ said Artie indignantly, ‘when her new best friend Randal Stancombe is busy colonizing Larkshire?’

As they neared Bagley and Artie hid both Jack Russells under his coat, they passed Theo’s old house, now the home of the Randy Republican, who’d put a picture of Trotsky in the window.

‘I’m determined to plant an oak tree in Theo’s memory,’ said Artie, ‘but Alex is resolutely against it.’

‘He’s also banned school fireworks tonight for the first time in twenty years,’ raged Dora, ‘because they leave even more mess than dogs.’

132

Twenty-four hours to go. To the excitement of the female pupils, Bagley swarmed with hunky security men and sniffer dogs checking everywhere for weapons and explosives.

The red carpet couldn’t be laid yet because the white gloss on the corridor wainscots was still wet. The sea-blue curtain covering the plaque on the Science Emporium wall, which the Queen would unveil to commemorate her visit, had fallen off when Joan Johnson jerked it back in rehearsal, but was now firmly secured. The splendid lavatory, specially built for the royal visit and nicknamed the ‘Roylet’, had been equipped with pot pourri and Bluebell, allegedly the Queen’s favourite soap and toilet water. The framed print of
The Laughing Cavalier
had been replaced by a more neutral field of poppies and relocated in the dressing room of Dame Hermione Harefield, who, with her demands for vintage champagne, four dozen yellow roses and her own private loo, was causing far more hassle than the dear Queen.

There was good news however. The forecast was fine, if chilly, and Alex’s bible the
New Scientist
had accepted, alongside a huge turnout of press and television who didn’t realize all the celebs, including the Russian Minister of Affaires and Rupert Campbell-Black, had cancelled out of loyalty to Hengist.

‘What story do you want to tell the Queen about the school?’ General Broadstairs, the Lord Lieutenant, who was a governor anyway, had asked Alex on their first meeting after Hengist’s departure, and Alex had replied that he wished to ‘showcase Bagley’s scientific and technological achievements in an emporium which would be the envy of scientists the world over’.

What Alex really wanted was to nail the top job and for people to love him more than Hengist. He was furious Janna had won an award and had finally got together with that Welsh gorilla who’d tried to drown Poppet, but he supposed they deserved each other.

Alex didn’t find diplomacy easy. He had failed to thwart Poppet’s plan to serve vegetable curry for everyone after the Queen had gone. Randal Stancombe too, once he’d learnt Boffin was performing some ground-breaking experiment in front of the Queen, had insisted that his Jade must present the Queen with her bouquet. Alex didn’t dare say he’d promised that role to Little Dulcie who, with her wheelbarrow, had laboured harder on the emporium than any of the workforce. He didn’t need to appease Patience and Ian, quite the reverse, but he must buy Dulcie a teddy bear. Randal had also insisted that Dora, who, as Jade’s potential stepsister, might be jealous, must present Her Majesty with some dog she’d made specially in pottery. Alex hated kow-towing to Randal and Poppet. Once he was head, he’d call the shots.

The Queen had several other engagements on the same day in Larkshire. It was essential none of them overran. She was due to reach Bagley at 11.30 and must, on pain of guillotine, leave by 12.30 to reach a hospital on the outskirts of Larkminster at 12.50.

After endless telephone calls and meetings with local police and members of the royal household protection team and the route being rewalked and the itinerary reworked to the final second, an increasingly uptight Alex insisted on one more, school only, rehearsal after lunch.

Biffo, acutely aware his job was on the line, had been given a stopwatch and put in charge of operations. Searching for a stand-in for the Queen, he promptly roped in Trafford, the louche artist invited down by Alex and Poppet to provide an alternative to General Bagley, whom he found eating a doughnut and reading a porn mag in the staffroom.

‘And since you’re so good at acting,’ Biffo added bossily to Paris, ‘you can double up as Lord Lieutenant and headmaster until Alex gets here. Anyone involved in events the Queen is going to witness can take up their positions around the route.’

Dora should have been standing by General Bagley’s statue waiting to hand over her pottery dog immediately after Jade had presented the Queen with her bouquet. Reluctant to miss anything, however, Dora had managed to lose herself among a group of Lower Fifths, including Bianca, whom Biffo had grabbed as they came out of the dining room to act as press. After all, no one is more qualified than me, rationalized Dora.

Trafford, meanwhile, attempting to appear more royal, had topped his shaved head, designer stubble and pig-like features with the large rose-trimmed mauve felt hat Miss Painswick had bought specially for the big day, reducing everyone to fits of giggles. Thus encouraged, Trafford pretended to jump out of a limo outside the Mansion steps, saying in a high voice:

‘My husband and I, what a beautiful school, we haven’t been here before.’

‘Stop being silly, Trafford,’ snapped Biffo, consulting his notes. ‘Now, as Lord Lieutenant, Paris, you present Jupiter Belvedon as chair of governors and MP for Larkminster to Her Majesty.’

‘Who will try and flog her a picture,’ quipped Trafford, ‘and take eighty per cent.’

‘Shuddup,’ said Biffo through gritted brown teeth. ‘And now Paris presents Alex to Her Majesty and now you, Poppet.’

‘And Poppet will give me a nice curtsey,’ said Trafford.

‘I will
not
,’ squawked Poppet, ‘I don’t bend my knee to anyone.’

‘Right,’ said Trafford.

‘Then, as headmaster, I present Mr Randal Stancombe, who’s donated this wonderful building to Bagley for the furtherance of science,’ said Paris, getting into the swing of things.

‘And then his wife,’ prompted Biffo.

‘Mrs Hyacinth Bouquet,’ muttered Dora.

‘Who said that? That’s not funny,’ roared Biffo.

‘Push orf,’ announced Paris. ‘One says that every five seconds to the press: “Push orf.”’

‘Then you present Mr Ashton Douglas,’ said Biffo.

Everything went comparatively smoothly until they reached the Science Emporium.

‘We’re now touring these splendid zones.’ Trafford was getting more regal by the second. ‘My word, Mr Randal Stinkbomb, this is awesome, particularly this.’ Trafford peeled a ‘Bring back Hengist’ sticker off a vast replica of the pancreas. ‘How long have you been building this, Mr Stinkbomb? Push orf, press, although not if you’re as ravishing as you are,’ he added to Bianca.

Paris meanwhile was watching Dora, who was laughing so much she could hardly write in her reporter’s notebook. He remembered her showing him how to make that peacock feather: ‘Would you like to take part in an experiment?’

‘How truly interesting,’ trilled Trafford as the royal party entered the Zone of Chemical Investigative Science. ‘My husband and I simply dote on chemistry.’

‘Wake up, Paris,’ snapped Alex, ‘as headmaster you should be presenting Boffin.’

‘As what?’ drawled Paris sarcastically.

‘Like this. I’m here, I’ll do it,’ said Alex, striding up. ‘Your Majesty, may I present Bernard Brooks, the son of Sir Gordon and Lady Brooks, one of Bagley’s most gifted and talented pupils, who’s going to perform a ground-breaking experiment.’

Alex turned lovingly to Boffin who, dressed in white coat and goggles, his sparse light brown hair tied back, an expression on his shiny, spotty face of a priest preparing communion wine, was pestling silver and reddish powders together in a mortar.