Maxwell's Academy Read online

  ‘If it’s anything like the Count,’ Jacquie said, ‘it would prefer fish fillets in gravy, hold the mayo.’

  Under his table, curled on his throne, the cat agreed with a throaty rumble and settled back into his dreams of vole au vent as far as the eye could see.

  The television was, as predicted, rubbish. For some reason that Maxwell had never managed to fathom, early evening viewing – and, had he but known it, morning and afternoon as well – consisted of semi-famous people doing things for which they had no talent. Why anyone would want to watch a dancer making a cake, or a chef dancing for that matter, was just something that made the Head of Sixth Form’s head whirl. And yet, here they sprawled, watching anyway. Maxwell gestured with a languid hand.

  ‘Tell me who he is, again?’

  Jacquie looked up. She had given up and was reading the paper. ‘Who?’

  ‘Him. The one with the shaved head.’

  She peered, watching the glacier-slow action on the screen. ‘There are three with shaved heads,’ she pointed out, reasonably enough.

  Maxwell looked dubious. ‘Really? I thought it was all the same person. They certainly seem very alike. Are you sure?’

  Jacquie folded the paper and pointed. ‘Yes, look, he ...’ and she waited until her quarry’s face filled the screen. ‘He’s that footballer, you know the one, he was married to that singer. That singer you like.’

  ‘I don’t like any singers, do I?’

  She smiled at him. ‘No, not really. Not since Gene Pitney.’

  Maxwell nodded. ‘Lovely girl,’ he muttered, reminiscently.

  Jacquie ignored him. ‘But you don’t mind her. And the other one, the one with the tattoos, he is ... do you know, I don’t know quite who he is, but he’s on the telly a lot. And the other is the presenter.’

  Maxwell blinked slowly once or twice, like something that had just unaccountably found itself on a primeval beach instead of in the soup of the same name. Without another word, he extended his remote arm and clicked, decisively.

  Jacquie smiled again and, shaking out the paper, continued to read.

  ‘It’s odd that no one has been in touch,’ Maxwell said, a tad plaintively.

  ‘About what?’ Jacquie didn’t put the paper down this time. She couldn’t claim to be fascinated by the article she was reading, but she could see that this evening was going to be a long one and she was holding out as long as she could. There was a silence, which dragged on for what seemed like hours. She slowly lowered the paper to find, as expected, her husband’s face only inches from hers.

  ‘You know what,’ he said, in sepulchral tones.

  She poked him on the end of the nose and he stood up. ‘I can see you won’t be happy until we have picked this thing to bits,’ she said. ‘I’m just amazed you have taken this long to come out with it.’ She looked around him to the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Never mind, not long to go now.’

  ‘Until what?’ he asked, perplexed.

  ‘Until Sylv gets here with the chips, Helen with the wine.’

  Maxwell looked at her, amazed, proud and in love in equal measure. ‘You are amazing,’ he said. Then his brow creased. People had homes to go to, after all. Husbands. Stuff like that. ‘What about ...?’

  ‘Don’t you worry about them,’ she said, slipping her feet into her shoes. ‘We’re all going out for a drink while you three put the world to rights.’ She stood up just as the bell pealed below. She kissed him on the forehead. ‘I’ll let them in on my way out. If work rings, tell them to try me on my mobile. If mother rings ...’ she flapped a hand, ‘... tell her I’m at work, or dead or something.’

  ‘Any preference?’ Maxwell stuffed the paper behind a cushion, his one concession towards tidying up.

  ‘Um ...’ Jacquie puffed out her cheeks. ‘Let’s go for dead.’

  The bell pealed again.

  ‘Must go. Your chips will be getting cold.’

  ‘Or the wine warm. Off you go. Don’t drink out of any damp glasses.’

  The clatter of her feet on the stairs was soon replaced by the chatter of voices, saying hello, saying goodbye. The waft of fish and chips came up the stairwell and Maxwell went into the kitchen to sort out some plates. Suddenly, the room was full of women, or so it seemed. Helen could fill a room very well on her own; it wasn’t a size thing, Maxwell decided, it was just something about how she wore her personality. Sylvia Matthews, the school nurse, was altogether more all together, but she and he went back so far that he could almost read her mind. And her mind was full of worry, which wasn’t nice to see.

  ‘I’ll get the glasses,’ Maxwell said, edging out of the room as the portions were divided up and the women tried to work out how they had ended up with a pickled egg no one wanted.

  Eventually, everyone was settled around the table, cod and chips in front of them, mushy peas in a bowl in the centre and the pickled egg eying them malignly from the worktop behind Maxwell.

  ‘This was a good idea,’ Helen said, cracking her batter with a decisive stab of her fork.

  Sylvia sighed. ‘I think the whole thing is going to be an unmitigated disaster,’ she said. ‘In other schools I have heard about, the ancillary staff are the first to go.’

  Maxwell and Helen dropped their forks with a clatter. ‘But ... but, you’re not ancillary!’ Helen spoke for them both. ‘The whole school depends on you.’

  Sylvia smiled, but sadly. ‘That’s very sweet of you, Helen, but there is a problem. What I do is covered already by agencies which won’t need to be paid for by whoever runs the Academy. A&E for accidents. Counselling services through the various arms of the local NHS or council for talking things through. Science staff for those little talks about the birds and the bees; although that won't matter soon. They’re already giving out condoms to Year 8 in some places and the Nursery class will be expected to understand the transgender, are-you-in-the-right-body syndrome before they are allowed to graduate to Reception. Believe me, I know I’ve come close to feeling the axe on my neck before. But this time, I’ll feel more than the draught as it misses me by a whisker, begging your pardon, Count. No, I’m for the chop, no mistake.’ And she filled her fork with fish and shovelled it into her mouth.

  Maxwell was aghast on so many levels. Firstly, he had had no idea that Sylv had ever faced redundancy and was saddened that she hadn’t told him. But mainly, he was forced to face the seriousness of the situation; Sylvia was never poetic. She was sensible. She was reliable. Goddammit, she was Sylv. So all this talk of draughts and axes was hiding something. What? He turned a piece of fish over and picked off the soggy batter. His appetite had suddenly gone west. ‘Sylv?’

  ‘Mmhmm?’ Sylvia was struggling with a recalcitrant bone.

  ‘This is all just theoretical, isn’t it? All this talk of redundancy?’ Maxwell could feel a cold front creeping up his back and suddenly he didn’t fancy fish and chips. Helen was sitting frozen, a forkful of peas halfway to her mouth.

  Sylvia smiled brightly at them, then looked away. ‘Theoretical? I’m not sure what you mean.’ And she took another mouthful of fish. ‘Nice, this, isn’t it?’ she asked, gesturing at her plate.

  ‘Lovely,’ Maxwell agreed, in a flat voice. ‘I’m sure someone with a scientific bent such as yourself, Nursie, knows what theoretical means. But I will rephrase it if I have to.’

  The table was silent. Maxwell had ended a sentence with a preposition. The two women waited for the crack of thunder, the whiff of sulphur but the heavens didn’t open; Hell’s gate did not yawn this time.

  Maxwell looked at Sylvia, not blinking.

  ‘So?’

  She shrugged. ‘So, no, perhaps not theoretical.’

  Helen Maitland was a stalwart woman in any crisis, but she looked up startled, her eyes already filling with tears. Like all people who took the world on her shoulders, she needed someone to dump the load onto sometimes and when she needed to, Sylvia was where she went to do it. Leighford High without Sylvia would be ... well
, it would be Leighford Academy.

  The school nurse leaned over and patted her hand. ‘Helen,’ she said, ‘I don’t mind. Guy got that promotion, don’t forget. We can move nearer his work, cut his commute. The house is worth ... well, it’s not on the market yet but the next door one just sold for stupid money. We won’t exactly starve. Don’t worry about me.’

  It took Maxwell to get to the point. ‘It’s not you we are worrying about, Sylv,’ he said, and though the words were harsh, the voice was gentle. ‘It’s us. How is Leighford High School going to manage without you?’

  ‘It will have to manage,’ she said. ‘It’s a done deal. I won’t be back after the half term.’

  ‘That seems a bit silly,’ Helen said. ‘Leaving with just five weeks to go to the end of the year.’ Her voice was shaky, but she had resolved, in true Maitland style, to make the best of it.

  ‘No,’ Sylvia shook her head and managed to smile, just a little, though one corner was a little wobbly. ‘Not next term. This.’

  The meal was now officially forgotten. It was like dust in their mouths and with a splendid show of synchronised table manners, they all pushed their plates away and got up from the table. They headed for the sitting room and, the next obvious step, Maxwell headed for the cupboard where the drink was kept. Sylvia and Helen waited until he had handed them their glasses and then all three sipped in silence. The unthinkable had happened. Like the ravens leaving the Tower, surely Leighford High would crumble without Sylvia holding it together.

  It was Helen who cracked first. ‘But what are they thinking?’ she spluttered, gesturing with her glass, Southern Comfort sloshing perilously near its edge. ‘Why you, Sylv? Why not one of those idiots from IT?’ Maxwell raised his glass in salute. ‘They’ve got more caretakers than you can shake a stick at. And science technicians – there’s hardly room for them in that back room of theirs.’

  Sylvia looked at her glass, cradled in her hands, resting in her lap. ‘Not any more,’ she muttered.

  ‘What?’ Helen’s ire had begun to lose its momentum but this brought her up short.

  ‘It’s not just me. The IT department is cut by one, the science techs have all had their marching orders – like me, they have all been sworn to secrecy, but it will all be out in the open soon. Apparently, the argument is if you can teach it, you can prep it. The caretakers are down to two, with one as back-up on some kind of retainer.’

  ‘Well,’ Maxwell tried to look on the bright side, ‘at least we won’t have to run the gauntlet of that megalomaniac lollipop woman in the morning. I nearly had her the other day ...’ he paused, feeling some explanation was in order ... ‘although not, clearly in anything approaching the Biblical sense. She stepped out to see some oik over the road so he could get to the Jobcentre. She sees anything over the road, child, man, woman or hedgehog. She’s a menace. So there is a tiny silver lining in this cloud.’

  ‘You would like to think so,’ Sylvia said, looking up at last.

  ‘What!’ Maxwell roared. ‘They’ve got rid of you and kept that ... that ...’

  ‘Essential tool for health and safety?’ Sylvia filled in the blanks, although not with any words that Maxwell would ever utter. ‘Indeed. But,’ and she spread her hands, seeing the other’s point of view in true Sylvia Matthews style, ‘I suppose she is cheaper than me. Ten hours a week instead of what sometimes feels like millions. And then there’s the visibility. If you don’t need me, you might not even know I work there. You see Mavis every day, Hi-Viz and all.’

  Maxwell clicked his fingers. Mavis – that was it. Although it wasn’t what you heard motorists call her as she stepped out as if she were immortal, with only her lollipop for protection.

  Helen had been thinking. ‘But, surely, Sylv ... people can't just be got rid of like that. Unions – surely the unions will have something to say?’

  ‘They have chosen well,’ Sylvia said, ‘and they are following the law on redundancy which I admit I knew nothing about until a week or so ago. It is the post which is made redundant, not the person. So as long as they don’t replace any of us, they haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘There’s a nice package, though?’ Maxwell hoped it was a statement but made it a question.

  ‘That would be lovely, yes,’ Sylvia said. ‘But, in a nutshell ... no. I’m not too badly off because of how these things work; I’ll get the maximum allowed, twenty weeks. Some of the kids from IT and the labs will not do so well – some of them will come away with less than a month’s money, although if they take pay in lieu of notice, they won’t do quite so badly. But then they won't be able to sign on ...’ Finally, the tears that had been threatening began to fall and Maxwell and Helen were simultaneously on their knees in front of her, patting, kissing and stroking according to their fashion.

  Helen was the first to really lose her temper. ‘This is all wrong, Max!’ she shouted. ‘If you hadn’t jumped on Legs ...’

  ‘Pardon?’ Sylvia smiled at them through her tears.

  Maxwell waved it away as a bagatelle. ‘As one does,’ he said. ‘Long story short, it’s how we found out about all this. I can’t believe everyone has kept so schtum.’

  ‘Part of the deal,’ Sylvia said. ‘An extra week’s pay as a gag. It means a lot to some of them. They’ve got families, bills to pay. At least Guy and I are better off than them. But I kept quiet for their sakes.’

  With a final pat, Maxwell sat back in his seat. Helen was not quite so limber, despite being the younger of the two, but soon everyone was nursing their drink again and plotting their revenge.

  Sylvia held up a hand. ‘Children, children,’ she said, although Maxwell could give her a good five years and rising. ‘Please don’t make a fuss. It may not happen. I mean, it may not go any further. This was just the SLT showing their muscle. They needed to sort the budget out and they did it in their usual ham-fisted style.’

  ‘Really?’ Maxwell asked. ‘Really, do you think it was them? Legs? Bernard? They’re not perfect, but they’re not like this. I thought they had, if not integrity, at least a touch of loyalty. Legs seems a broken man. And,’ he added before either of the women could, ‘not just because I jumped on him.’

  Sylvia considered and then nodded. ‘It wasn’t one of them who saw me, as it happens,’ she said. ‘It was that Chair of Governors, a piece of work if ever there was one. He was polite, but definite. I could go with a package, money in lieu, keep quiet or I could stay until the Academy was formed and end up doing the shredding for everyone else, mopping the toilets in a restructured role until my self-respect gave out. Not a choice as such, as you can see.’

  Helen was still simmering, the steam all but visible around her ears and Maxwell patted her knee. ‘There’s nothing to be done now, Helen,’ he said, soothingly. ‘We’ll have to wait until we get back before we can get at all the facts. Legs said he would be telling the staff next week and so that’s all we can do. Wait.’

  ‘But ...’

  Maxwell smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Well, all right, but ... where will it all end?’

  Sylvia spoke for them all. ‘In tears.’

  Chapter Three

  T

  he Maxwell family sat at breakfast on the first day of the second half of the Spring term and scarcely a word was spoken. Nolan had the look of a boy who would have to recite some times tables before the day was out and even he would admit that it wasn’t his strongest suit. Snatches of Lepanto or Charge of the Light Brigade and he was definitely your man. Nine sevens ... not so much. Mrs Whatmough was a bit of s stickler for old-fashioned values and no child left her hallowed portals without a grounding in mental arithmetic and eye before e except after sea – as far as she was concerned, if a teaching method wasn’t broken, don’t try to mend it. She was vaguely aware that the common phrase was rather more colloquial, but she had no truck with ain’t.

  Jacquie watched her son fondly. He got more like his father every day, which was delightful, of course
. But sometimes she worried about him, about that little crease that was appearing between his brows. He was a baby, still, and shouldn’t have the cares of the world on his shoulders, as he seemed to have this morning. It was probably the class gerbil that was bothering him. All over Christmas, he had worried that it would be lonely. This had turned out to be a baseless worry – Gerry had turned out to be Gemma and had a litter of babies to keep her company as the new year had turned. Bless him. She stroked his hair. She could read him like a book.

  Metternich, licking his bum in a desultory fashion on his chair under the table looked as though he hadn’t a care in the world. But there had recently been a rather attractive 3 for 2 offer on luxury cat food and Mrs B, the woman who does, had bought some for him in a mad excess of friendliness. The two existed in a state of armed neutrality – he didn’t wee on the stairs, she warned him before she switched the hoover on – and he had shown his appreciation by shedding only the black hairs on dark surfaces for as long as he could. But now he was back on the cheap stuff and he was working out how, short of physical violence, to show his people that he didn’t approve.

  Maxwell’s thoughts were more complex, batting as they did around in his head, randomly striking sparks off each other. They ranged from thinking how lovely his wife was looking, suited and booted for another day of Detective Inspectordom; how quickly Nolan was growing and what were the odds that he might turn into something awful like a rugger hearty or – worse – a scientist; how the cat was off his food and could he be finally showing his age? But, over and above all of these, like a thunderhead on a summer day, was Leighford High School and what the morning meeting would have in store. He recalled Sylvia’s words of just over a week ago and feared there would be at least tears. And sweat. But hopefully, no blood.

  Jacquie dropped Nolan off at school, smoothing his hair back from his brow and planting a kiss on the end of his nose. She was grateful that he had either not reached or – better – had avoided the male child antipathy for any public signs of parental affection and this moment was still one of the best in the day. ‘Anything bothering you, darling?’ She couldn’t help it. She was a mother and also a policeperson – asking questions came with both territories.