Page 13

One of the many ways in which I was in complete accord with dear Claudia was the power of paper. My late colleague trusted nothing digital, keeping meticulous written records and never owning, nor relying upon, any technology. She never used a computer, never possessed a mobile phone. Everything was entrusted to good old-fashioned hard copy. Having been delegated as her executor, it’s certainly making her estate hard work, as is the reverend dying intestate shortly before her. Clearly, she inherited her administrative diligence from her mother – the dear reverend didn’t even leave a will. But at least everything is written down, clear as day. No corrupted files, no opportunity for tampering. Just clear, honest records.

However, that particular knife can cut both ways. Paper trails are beyond contestation – and that’s their problem. They are clear, honest records.

And now Ben Andrews requires them for the financial review.

I’m pacing around my office considering his request, as I have been for much of the past twenty-four hours. Upon his appointment, St Ben elected to forgo Claudia’s large office that adjoined mine, surrendering it to the Special Educational Needs department so yet more children can be given bespoke attention we can neither afford nor justify. He retained his cupboard next to the main office – I will be staying put. This is my fortress and I will not surrender it. Only a fool gives up an advantageous position in war. And, in war, the ends can justify the means.

With this in mind, I go to my filing cabinet and remove the bank documentation Andrews requested yesterday. Statements, withdrawal slips, countersignatures . . . it’s all there, written in black and white. The headmaster must of course be provided with all the financial information he requires.

It just can’t be this.

I walk across my plush carpet.

And deposit all of it in the shredder.

The files are still whirring through the blades when there is a knock at my door. I switch it off and kick it beneath my desk.

‘Enter!’ I command. I always feel it is as well to be foreboding from the off.

The door creaks open to reveal Kiera Fisher standing defiantly on the threshold. Her face is a permanent invitation to combat and I’m always delighted to engage. As a relative newcomer to this community, I missed her time at the school. But Claudia assured me that she was an utter wastrel. Like me, Miss Stitchwell didn’t give any credence to the bleeding-heart tears with regard to her upbringing in care. She was lucky to have somewhere to go; many aren’t. I understand she got herself in the family way at secondary school and never sat her A levels. The resultant spawn is mired in original sin and creating some more of her own if local gossip is to be believed.

‘Mrs Fisher,’ I say with an insincere joviality. ‘How may I help you?’

‘It’s about the job,’ she says, incredibly rudely.

‘And which job would that be?’ I ask, returning to some imaginary task on my desk. There are myriad ways to assert dominance if you know them. And I know them all.

‘The Professor of Neuroscience,’ she quips. ‘I thought that Rainbow Class would really benefit from both my doctorates?’

For reasons that are the Lord’s to know, I find her insolence irksomely arousing. The Almighty enjoys sending temptation in troublesome female form. Eve. Delilah. Liz Truss. All alluring. All dangerous.

‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, my dear,’ I say, trying to banish my degenerate desire to take her over my knee.

‘Oh, I’ve met lower,’ she says, walking in without closing the door and slumping inelegantly into the chair across from my desk. ‘So I’ve thought about it – and we’ll take the caretaker job.’

‘Will you now?’ I reply, picking up a pen and writing some nonsense on a piece of recycling. ‘How very gracious of you.’

‘I know – I’m St Nonn’s answer to Maria von Trapp . . . So when do we start? When will the house be ready?’

I try not to let my smile betray the fun I’m about to have.

‘No.’

I say nothing further. Pauses can be so much more powerful than words. She puts her arms on the desk and leans forward, exposing a sinful, if delightful, view of her décolletage.

‘Go on, then, y,’ she whispers, like the serpent in Eden. ‘Give us a clue. However you want. Charades? A haiku? Through the medium of interpretive dance . . .’

I put the pen down and remove my glasses. I stare straight into her pert yet impertinent face.

‘I’m afraid, Mrs Fisher, the position is no longer available.’

I let my words hang between us. Her cheeks start to colour like a ripe plum.

‘What do you mean?’ she says darkly.

‘Precisely what I just said,’ I sigh, replacing my glasses. ‘There is no vacancy. For a caretaker. Nor a neuroscientist. Good day.’

I return to my pretend work, knowing full well she won’t leave. I can’t imagine how irate she is. But I’ll certainly be reflecting on it privately later.

‘You offered it to me,’ she growls. ‘At Stitchwell’s memorial.’

‘I think you’ll find that a) I merely gauged your interest and b) we had that conversation on Friday 28 October. Today is Thursday 10 November. Nearly two weeks have passed,’ I point out. ‘You have not spoken to me about it since, so I – entirely reasonably – assumed you weren’t interested.’

‘Matt can’t just change job without making arrangements. This affects all of us,’ she spits. A fleck of her saliva lands on my paper. I wipe it away slowly with my index finger. ‘You’d know that if you had a family.’

‘And I can’t have the wheels of our school grinding to a halt because of your indecision,’ I retort. ‘You’d know that if you had a significant role.’

‘You know my family needed that job!’ she cries. ‘And you know that Matt would have been bloody good at it!’

I nod. Both statements are, indeed, factually correct.

‘So why won’t you let him have it?’ she rants on. ‘The school needs a caretaker . . .’

‘It does,’ I interrupt. ‘Which is why I have filled the position.’

I go back to writing an imaginary note. Lord, forgive the pleasures of the flesh . . .

‘What?’ she rages. ‘You gave it to someone else? Who?’

‘Someone who actually needs a job,’ I say coolly. ‘Someone to whom life hasn’t been nearly as kind as it has to you.’

‘Oh please,’ she spits again. ‘You think life has been kind to me?’

‘Yes,’ I answer plainly. ‘Yes, it has. You have a roof over your head and – as you were so quick to point out a moment ago – a family around you. Some people are blessed with neither. You’d do well to remember your privilege. And learn how to cut your cloth.’

I can’t resist. I look up to find her seething, her chest swelling invitingly with each outraged breath. After an unpromising start, today is proving most generous in its bounty.

‘But . . . but . . . we have a mortgage to pay! Bills! Kids . . . stuff!’ she babbles. ‘It never ends! I’ve got no idea how I’m going to pay for Grace to go on the residential next month . . .’

Our Heavenly Father. You are too kind.

‘Oh, now. With that I can help you,’ I say, teasing a piece of paper out of my in-tray. ‘Our new headmaster has increased the budget – from where I don’t know – for our Hardship Fund, to ensure no child misses out on any such opportunity through financial restrictions. Personally, I feel that if parents can afford twenty B&H, they can save up for their progeny to go on a residential trip. But these decisions are not mine to make. You are of course welcome to submit an application.’

She accepts the paper tentatively and reads it.

‘So . . . I can apply?’

‘Absolutely anyone can apply,’ I confirm. ‘The form is a little laborious. I’d be happy to help you with some of the longer terminology should your major life disadvantages inhibit you? Although I must say you speak very eloquently for one of your . . . educational attainment.’

‘That’s too kind,’ she says, standing up and leaning over the desk like Eve proffering the apple. ‘Especially from someone whose main “educational attainment” was probably a B for buggery at your posh boarding school. Screw you, .’

She extends her middle finger before sauntering out like a hussy, leaving the door wide open behind her.

‘Just say the word, dear,’ I mutter as I return to my computer with a smile that finds its way to every extremity. Today is turning out to be truly glorious. The Lord is good.

But back to business.

I turn to my computer, pull up a private browsing page and enter in the terms of my search. I am so absorbed by the results that I nearly have a coronary when a lone voice invades my silence.

‘Wotcha, boss,’ Andy chirps, dropping himself into my chair and his bag onto my floor. I note he never travels without it. Such is the lot of the itinerate soul, I suppose – if you’re used to moving at short notice, you want your worldly possessions with you at all times. ‘I dig your digs. Seriously rocking the Scrooge and Marley vibes.’

In the nearly fortnight Andy has been staying with me, not a day has passed where he hasn’t surprised me. Last week, he fixed a persistent issue with my hall wiring. That night, he sat at the church piano and bashed out a passable Für Elise . His conversation ranges from Everton to evolution, he’s a veritable gourmand (his osso bucco could tempt a man to hell) – and today he drops a Dickens reference. And yet he cannot be relied upon to consistently flush a lavatory.

He certainly livens the place up – which is why I have elected to extend his invitation until such time as the caretaker cottage is fit for human habitation. And yet I still don’t entirely understand the nature of the transaction between us. His side of the sheet balances up well – in just over ten days he’s acquired a place to stay, a steady job and no amount of expenditure – the cost of the veal in the osso bucco alone brought tears to my eyes . . .

And yet I paid it.

So what am I getting in return?

‘I presume I’m too late to illuminate you as to the etiquette of the knock?’ I say.

‘Open door, open invitation,’ he grins, leaning back and threading his fingers behind his head. ‘You want privacy, porn or a poo – shut the door, lad.’

I roll my eyes. He is incorrigible.

‘Are you ready to begin?’

‘Born ready,’ he beams. ‘Never afraid of a day’s graft.’

I await his gratitude for my bestowing the caretaker role upon him. It doesn’t come.

‘Well, come along, then. I’ll introduce you around,’ I tell him. ‘And might I remind you that I have placed my faith and reputation on the line to secure you this post? Please ensure you are worthy of them.’

‘Oh sure,’ he says with a mocking bow. ‘Wouldn’t want to besmirch a fine upstanding fellow like yourself, Mr B.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ I say, awaiting the punchline. Andy is rarely sincere for long.

‘But word to the wise, chief,’ he whispers as I stand, ‘if you wanna decent forgery, I can hook you up better than Google ever will.’

This is a joke for which I do not care.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I say stiffly.

‘None o’ mine,’ he says casually, gesturing to my computer screen with a wink, ‘but if you’re after a hooky bank statement, you need a word with my mate Bootleg Barry . . .’