Teacher a nice cup of cola…You shall have to go home an’ change, now. Shan’t you, my lovely?’
Fanny looks up at her. They all do; Messy, Jo, various people nearby have noticed Mrs Guppy move in, and she doesn’t move often. A space has somehow cleared around them, and now a silence, which is quickly spreading across the room.
Fanny smiles. ‘Not to worry, Mrs Guppy,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s a warm evening. And we’re all friends here.’ She drops her cigarette into the pool of Coca-Cola at her feet, undoes the final two buttons of her soaking shirt, and peels it off. The limbo enthusiasts of Fiddleford pause in amazement at their new head teacher, who stands before them all in her uplift plunge-cut black lace magnificence, Marlboro Light packs bulging from her low-slung pockets, an open bottleof vodka in her hand. She’s stuck there. She’s dying out there. Time stands still…
The silence is broken at last by a wolf-whistle, long and low. Everyone turns towards it. Standing framed at the entrance is a tall, lean, suntanned man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length sun-streaked hair, his hands in jeans pockets, his mouth wearing a languid, admiring smile. He has a cigarette hanging from a corner of his lips. He is almost, but not quite, laughing.
‘You’re kinda naked,’ he comments amiably, in his soft Louisiana drawl.
Fanny gives a short, strangulated laugh. ‘LOUIS!’ she chokes. ‘Thank God! Thank God for you!’ She runs through the space and throws herself into his arms. A series of flashes follow as the man from the Western Weekly Gazette springs from the melee to snatch pictures of the west of England’s youngest head teacher introducing herself to the villagers. Louis glances up at the photographer, and then at the gawking crowd. He takes off his old suede jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s get outta here.’
The Fiddleford Arms is deserted, except for the bar woman, because everyone’s up at the village hall. Louis and Fanny – carrying the coke-drenched shirt and still in Louis’s jacket – drink a lot, very quickly, and before very long Fanny finds she has forgotten about the dreaded Mrs Guppy and is instead telling Louis in neurotic detail about the telephone call which came through when she was in her office with Robert White.
‘I actually dropped the telephone. It seems so stupid, but Louis, I recognised his voice ,’ she says, puffing away on her cigarette, slugging back the whisky mac. ‘I knew it was him. I knew it was. He sounded so damn familiar…I hung up on him.’
‘Has he called back?’
She hesitates. ‘Not yet, no.’
‘It probably wasn’t him, Fan. It would be a pretty damn weird coincidence. But this kind of crap is going to go on and on – in your head at least – until you deal with it. I keep telling you. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the police. Talk to someone.’
But she won’t do that. She’ll never agree to do that. She always says the same thing: she doesn’t want to stir things up again.
‘Until you find out where the sucker is, if he’s still alive, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Of course he’s still alive. Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Whatever. Fine. But if you believe it was him on the phone—’
‘But what if it wasn’t?’
He stifles a sigh. He’s said it all so often before; virtually every time they meet. ‘Fanny, it probably wasn’t. Either way. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the goddam police.’
‘No.’
‘You could clear this whole thing up.’ He snaps a finger. ‘Gone. Like that.’
‘No.’
‘Well – I don’t know what else to say, Fan. Anyhow, I guess this publicity idea isn’t helping. I mean, if he is out there, which he isn’t , then broadcasting your fabulous successes over the airwaves could probably be rated as “stirring things up”. Don’t you think?’
As he speaks they both remember the series of camera flashes which had followed her in her
Fanny looks up at her. They all do; Messy, Jo, various people nearby have noticed Mrs Guppy move in, and she doesn’t move often. A space has somehow cleared around them, and now a silence, which is quickly spreading across the room.
Fanny smiles. ‘Not to worry, Mrs Guppy,’ she says lightly. ‘It’s a warm evening. And we’re all friends here.’ She drops her cigarette into the pool of Coca-Cola at her feet, undoes the final two buttons of her soaking shirt, and peels it off. The limbo enthusiasts of Fiddleford pause in amazement at their new head teacher, who stands before them all in her uplift plunge-cut black lace magnificence, Marlboro Light packs bulging from her low-slung pockets, an open bottleof vodka in her hand. She’s stuck there. She’s dying out there. Time stands still…
The silence is broken at last by a wolf-whistle, long and low. Everyone turns towards it. Standing framed at the entrance is a tall, lean, suntanned man in his mid-thirties, with shoulder-length sun-streaked hair, his hands in jeans pockets, his mouth wearing a languid, admiring smile. He has a cigarette hanging from a corner of his lips. He is almost, but not quite, laughing.
‘You’re kinda naked,’ he comments amiably, in his soft Louisiana drawl.
Fanny gives a short, strangulated laugh. ‘LOUIS!’ she chokes. ‘Thank God! Thank God for you!’ She runs through the space and throws herself into his arms. A series of flashes follow as the man from the Western Weekly Gazette springs from the melee to snatch pictures of the west of England’s youngest head teacher introducing herself to the villagers. Louis glances up at the photographer, and then at the gawking crowd. He takes off his old suede jacket and drapes it over her shoulders. ‘Come on,’ he murmurs, ‘let’s get outta here.’
The Fiddleford Arms is deserted, except for the bar woman, because everyone’s up at the village hall. Louis and Fanny – carrying the coke-drenched shirt and still in Louis’s jacket – drink a lot, very quickly, and before very long Fanny finds she has forgotten about the dreaded Mrs Guppy and is instead telling Louis in neurotic detail about the telephone call which came through when she was in her office with Robert White.
‘I actually dropped the telephone. It seems so stupid, but Louis, I recognised his voice ,’ she says, puffing away on her cigarette, slugging back the whisky mac. ‘I knew it was him. I knew it was. He sounded so damn familiar…I hung up on him.’
‘Has he called back?’
She hesitates. ‘Not yet, no.’
‘It probably wasn’t him, Fan. It would be a pretty damn weird coincidence. But this kind of crap is going to go on and on – in your head at least – until you deal with it. I keep telling you. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the police. Talk to someone.’
But she won’t do that. She’ll never agree to do that. She always says the same thing: she doesn’t want to stir things up again.
‘Until you find out where the sucker is, if he’s still alive, for Christ’s sake—’
‘Of course he’s still alive. Why shouldn’t he be?’
‘Whatever. Fine. But if you believe it was him on the phone—’
‘But what if it wasn’t?’
He stifles a sigh. He’s said it all so often before; virtually every time they meet. ‘Fanny, it probably wasn’t. Either way. Talk to a lawyer. Talk to the goddam police.’
‘No.’
‘You could clear this whole thing up.’ He snaps a finger. ‘Gone. Like that.’
‘No.’
‘Well – I don’t know what else to say, Fan. Anyhow, I guess this publicity idea isn’t helping. I mean, if he is out there, which he isn’t , then broadcasting your fabulous successes over the airwaves could probably be rated as “stirring things up”. Don’t you think?’
As he speaks they both remember the series of camera flashes which had followed her in her
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