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The thing about being a headteacher is that no one actually knows what you do.

Turns out, me included.

I came into this job – the teaching profession, in fact – thinking that my role would be to improve the life and education of the kids in my care.

Ha.

Hahaha.

Hahahahahahahahaha!

On my first day, I got a call from Lucy Ellis, the head of Flatford High.

‘Congratulations,’ she said. ‘You’re now a shit umbrella.’

I thought she was kidding.

This past week has largely been spent sitting in this windowless box in a blur of curriculum spreadsheets, budget meetings, governors’ reports, self-evaluation, safeguarding training . . . the list is endless.

And that’s before you get to the parents. I mean . . . carers.

I really wanted to have an open-door policy to ring in the changes.

But I’m beginning to understand why Stitchwell’s was bolted shut.

Uniform. Lunches. Discipline. Playground disputes (between the adults, as much as the children). Staff gripes. Homework. Worship. Bloody goldfish. There is not a single aspect of school life that doesn’t attract myriad opposing views – and somehow I have to navigate a line between them all.

‘And so you see,’ I hear Bruce Laycock saying as I tune back in to his monologue. ‘I think in a world where we should be constantly mindful of the language we use around disordered eating, for the whole class to be reading a text that simultaneously glamourises binge eating while also conveying some deeply problematic fat-shaming messaging is a big concern.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I nod earnestly, resting my chin on my interlocked fingers. He’s been talking so long, I can’t even remember what his complaint is. ‘Remind me again, what have the Badgers been reading?’

Bruce huffs distastefully at the thought.

‘ The Very Hungry Caterpillar ,’ he pronounces.

‘I see,’ I say, just as the phone rings. ‘Will you excuse me a moment?’

‘Hi,’ says Marcia, right on time. ‘This is the phone call you asked me to make to get rid of him.’

‘Okay, thanks for letting me know. I’ll be right there,’ I reply, grimacing apologetically at Bruce as I put the phone down. Marcia is an absolute brick. This place would fall apart without her. Apparently, she used to be a marine and did two tours in Afghanistan. She must miss the peace and quiet . . .

‘I’ll let you get on,’ says Bruce, rising to leave. ‘Thank you for listening to my concerns . . . Oh, by the way – do you need a lift in the mornings?’

‘Er – no? Why do you ask?’

‘Oh – we live a couple of streets down from you – I’ve noticed you walking in for the past few days. Just wondered if your car was in the garage or something. It’s no trouble . . .’

Jesus. Does nothing go unnoticed in Flatford?

‘Ah – just trying to keep my step count up, keep the middle-age spread at bay,’ I lie, patting my stomach. ‘But that’s very kind of you. And mind how you go. My door is always open . . .’

‘Sure, well, thanks, Mr Andrews. See you on your walk home!’

I smile and close the door firmly behind him. Lord, give me strength. And some chocolate cake, ice cream, a pickle, Swiss cheese, some salami, a lollipop . . .

The phone rings again.

‘Thanks, Marcia,’ I say genuinely. ‘He’s gone . . .’

‘It’s not that,’ she says, an edge of concern in her voice. ‘I’ve got a call for you—’

‘Oh Christ – not Ofsted?’

My everything clenches. Claudia deferred Ofsted last term so we’re due any minute – and it’s the last thing we need. The call will come twenty-four hours prior to the inspection on a Monday to Thursday morning after 10.30am. It’s Wednesday And it’s 10.36am . . .

‘No,’ she laughs gently. ‘We live to fight another day.’

I audibly exhale. Thank God for that.

‘But, ,’ she says warmly, ‘it is your son.’

My heart runs cold. What’s . . .

‘Thanks, Marcia,’ I say quickly. ‘Put him on.’

There are an endless few seconds while the line transfers.

‘Finn?’ I urgently enquire. ‘Finn? Are you there, pal?’

A few little breaths confirm that he is.

‘Hi, Daddy,’ he says brightly.

‘Hey,’ I say, relieved he’s not crying. There have been a lot of those calls over the past few months. ‘What’s up? Where are you? Why aren’t you at school?’

‘Mummy said I didn’t have to go today,’ he reports.

I pause for some internal censorship.

‘Is that so?’ I ask. ‘Are you poorly?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I just told her I was sad about your divorce and she said I could stay home.’

The familiarly noxious blend of anger and guilt courses through my body. Divorced parenting is nothing if not a curdling emotional cocktail.

‘I see,’ I say. ‘Well, you don’t sound very sad.’

I can almost hear him shrugging.

‘I’m not,’ he says. ‘I’ve got the day off school.’

I try to keep my breath and temper even.

‘So . . . what’s been going on?’ I ask him.

‘Not much,’ he says, already sounding distracted by something else. ‘Oh yeah, except I got on the football team!’

‘No way!’ I cry. ‘That’s amazing!’

‘I know,’ he says. ‘My first game’s on Saturday – are you coming?’

And there it is. Shaken and stirred. Here I am, simultaneously proud beyond words and gutted beyond belief. I’ll miss my boy’s first game. I won’t be cheering on the sidelines. I won’t be shouting at the ref. Another cobblestone on his path I’ve missed.

‘It’ll be really good,’ he urges, sticking the blade a little deeper. ‘And you can meet Don . . .’

‘Don?’ I ask, my instincts sharpened. ‘Who’s Don? A friend of yours?’

‘Finn?’ I hear in the background before he can reply. ‘Finn, what are you doing with my . . . Oh for . . . Give me that!’

‘But, Mummy – I was just telling Daddy . . .’ he protests.

‘I’m telling you, Finn – give me the phone!’ Elena barks at him. I hate the way she speaks to him sometimes. I want to hold him so much . . .

‘It’s okay, son,’ I say, hoping the hug comes through my voice. ‘We’ll talk soon. Do as your mama says.’

I hear the phone being handed over. I feel like the Very Hungry Caterpillar on Saturday night.

‘, you have to stop disrupting him like this,’ she snaps. ‘We agreed – phone calls on Tuesday and Thursday nights and once on the weekend.’

‘He called me!’ I protest. ‘What am I supposed to do? I thought something had gone wrong – something with you or him or . . .’

‘We’re fine,’ she says, offering no further information.

‘Elena . . . he needs to go to school,’ I ask. ‘He needs routine. He’s playing you up . . .’

‘Oh, you know that, do you?’ she spits. ‘You were up with him at 1am and 3am and 5am this morning sobbing his little heart out, were you? Just like he did on Monday? Just like he’s been doing since we moved here? With only me to comfort him . . .’

‘Well it’s a little tricky to hands-on parent from four hundred miles away,’ I snap back. ‘You decided to move back to Inverness—’

‘No, I didn’t,’ she interrupts darkly. ‘You decided for both of us.’

I take a breath. I’m not going round this carousel again.

‘Who’s Don?’ I ask, making little effort to sound casual. She hesitates too long.

‘A friend,’ she says.

‘I got that,’ I reply. ‘Whose friend?’

‘Don’t you even dare!’ she shouts. ‘You have no right—’

‘I have every right!’ I try not to shout back. These walls are like rice paper. Marcia has the confidence of the confessional, but I’m sure she’s already heard too much. ‘If you’re introducing random men to my son—’

‘He’s not your son,’ she says, going straight for the jugular. ‘He’s mine.’

Only out of concern for Marcia and the Bumblebees’ hearing do I not emit a roar of frustration. This – this is always Elena’s ace. And she’s never afraid to play it. How different the conversations were ten years ago.

‘You’ll be the baby’s dad in every sense that matters,’ she cajoled back then. ‘We’ll finally be a family. Kids need love, not genes . . .’

The product of a loving adopted family, I knew she was right. But I’ve always felt . . . genetically untethered. I thought having a baby of my own might fix that. Not being able to father a child biologically then was a breathtaking blow to my masculinity. Not being allowed to father one emotionally now is a sucker punch to my soul. Elena was happy to use donor sperm when she needed it. Just like she’s been happy to use a donor father until she didn’t.

‘I am his father,’ I try to say evenly. ‘If it affects you, it affects him.’

I don’t know how Elena manages to make silence sound angry. But she’s a pro.

‘Bit late for you to remember that now.’

Elena’s on a mobile; she can’t slam her phone down.

So I do it hard enough for the both of us.

‘For fuck’s sake!’ I try to say quietly as there’s a sharp knock at my door. That’s the other thing about this job. There is never a bloody second to breathe . . .

My mobile pings a text. I snatch it up. I’m guessing it’s Finn again . . .

I glance at the screen.

It’s not Finn.

I wish it were.

I have some feedback for you . . .

￡10K isn’t enough.

Not for what you did.

Same price. Same account.

This week.

Or I talk.

Oh shit.

How does this guy have my number? I sold the car – I paid the last one. How the hell am I going to come up with . . .

‘I do hope I’m not interrupting anything,’ comes Clive’s unctuous voice. I turn with as genuine a smile as I can muster and it is returned, as it always is, with his signature sneer. He’s a weird guy – can’t get a handle on him. I usher him inside, hoping that the sweat patches under my arms aren’t visible.

‘Not at all, you’re bang on time,’ I say, taking my seat and gesturing for him to do the same. ‘How are you?’

‘Good news first,’ he says without ceremony. ‘I have filled the vacant caretaker position. He’s fully vetted and very experienced. He starts tomorrow.’

‘Oh great,’ I say, genuinely relieved. The agency cleaners have been costing us a fortune.

‘Did you read the forecasts I sent you?’ he asks. ‘The governors will require your budget monitoring report by month’s end.’

‘Yes and yes,’ I reply, picking up the neatly bound report – I’ll say this for Clive, he’s certainly diligent. ‘And on that . . .’

I have no idea how to say this. There isn’t an umbrella big enough for this shitstorm.

‘The forecasts make for grim reading,’ I begin.

‘Indeed,’ says Clive, looking curiously delighted. ‘Claudia was undergoing a review of all extraneous expenditure. She had some thoughts on cuts.’

He removes a crisp piece of paper from the folder beneath his arm. I read the bullet-pointed list. It’s brutal.

‘No, we can’t lose any more SEN support staff,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘We’re so stretched already.’

‘All educational needs are special,’ he replies. ‘We can’t give preferential treatment.’

I bristle, but say nothing. Supporting a child with a learning need is hardly preferential. But I’ll save the fight – they’ll still get their funding.

‘Rationing the heating and lighting?’ I scoff. ‘We can’t do that.’

‘You’ve seen the cost of gas and electricity,’ he sighs. ‘We don’t get paid more just because the prices are rocketing.’

He’s irritating, but he’s right. Our budgets are set and that’s that. Higher or unexpected costs come out of the same pot. Which means that something else can’t. I put the paper down.

‘I’ve been speaking with the governors and they raised an issue that I’d like to discuss with you,’ I say, not looking at him. ‘We need to cut staff costs. Teaching staff are out of the question – as it is we need to recruit new teachers for Tigers and Dolphins and we’ll need cover for Amy Burgess in Owls when she goes for her surgery next term.’

‘Yes – I’d heard that we’re subsidising staff members to have cosmetic surgery . . .’

Jesus. Christ.

‘Clive . . . Mr Baxendale,’ I say as evenly as I’m able, ‘Amy is having reconstructive surgery following her mastectomy.’

He shrugs.

‘I wasn’t aware that two breasts were a requirement for teaching, but I suspect I’m out of touch . . .’

Wow. This guy . . .

‘Anyway,’ I continue before I put his head through the wall. ‘The teaching budget is sacrosanct. So we have to look elsewhere for staffing cuts. Now, don’t get me wrong – you are a highly valued member of the team.’

‘But an expensive one,’ he says with a nod. ‘I anticipated this might be a conversation.’

‘You did?’

‘Of course,’ he condescends. ‘I am the school bursar. No one has a clearer overview of school finances than me.’

‘Well, that’s very . . . objective of you,’ I say. ‘And I just wanted to sound you out to see if, given everything, you might want to . . .’

‘Fall on my sword?’ he says.

‘Not at all.’ I smile, although that’s precisely what I’m hoping he’ll do. He’s a middle-aged bloke, clearly not short of the readies – I’d hoped he might jump at the chance of a severance package. ‘I just wanted to see . . . how you saw your future here?’

He smiles like the Cheshire Cat taking a selfie.

‘Extensively.’

Brilliant. There goes that idea . . .

‘But of course, Headmaster.’

‘Clive – please call me .’

‘. Please call me Mr Baxendale,’ he shoots back. ‘This is a school. Not a rugby club.’

‘Duly noted,’ I say, and feel my fists clench under the table.

‘Well . . . Headmaster . . . there is another substantial cost-saving that could be made. Look at the final item on Claudia’s list.’

I open the paper again and read Stitchwell’s final suggestion.

‘Oh, you’re not serious,’ I say, putting the list down.

‘Something has to give,’ he says, his eyes gleaming. ‘I’m afraid this job is all about difficult choices. Headmaster.’

‘The kids and parents – I mean, carers – will take to the streets,’ I promise.

‘We have to cut costs,’ he says, standing up. He has clearly decided this meeting is over, even if I haven’t. ‘And this one makes the most sense. As it happens, I have a meeting scheduled today. I could . . . test the waters?’

He leers at me again. He’s not weird. He’s an arsehole.

I sigh and look out of where a window should be. I can’t create money that isn’t there. And I really don’t fancy dealing with this one myself.

‘Okay,’ I say quietly. ‘But Cl– Mr Baxendale. Tread softly. And if this isn’t going to work we’ll need to revisit this conversation.’

I can almost see him strapping on his hob nails.

‘Of course,’ he smiles.

He turns to leave just as a thought occurs to me.

‘Oh – and I’m going to need to see the school bank files as part of my prep for the budget meeting.’

He stops. Without turning round, he speaks again.

‘Why?’ he asks, the smile gone from his voice. ‘All the figures are in my report.’

‘I know,’ I say. ‘But for my own due diligence – and with Ofsted imminent – I just need to lay eyes on them. Money-laundering thing. No photocopies, they have to be the originals.’

His back remains turned to me. He pauses.

‘Of course, Headmaster,’ he says as he walks towards the door. ‘Leave it with me.’

The door shuts behind him and I’m glad. I close my eyes for a moment. Today is going to kick off.

Fabulous.

I turn to the computer to tackle the mountain of emails in my inbox when the phone rings again.

‘Tell me I haven’t summoned Ofsted?’ I ask Marcia nervously.

‘You’re still in the clear,’ Marcia replies. I don’t know how many more of these mornings I can take – my blood pressure must look like a pinball score. ‘But I have Delia Ellens here, Joseph’s mum? She’d like to talk to you about why her Jamie was told that it was Venus in the night sky, when he’s always believed it was the spirit of his late grandmother?’

I bang my head on the desk as softly as I am able.

‘Send her in,’ I say as brightly as possible. ‘It’s always a privilege to interface with parents.’

Marcia snorts down the line.

‘Don’t you mean carers?’ she whispers.