Mr Campion's Fault (3 page)

‘How splendid!’ he exclaimed when Perdita had told her story. ‘A chance to enter a world where the youth of this country are instructed in all languages, living and dead, the use of globes, algebra, writing, arithmetic and every branch of classical literature known to man. Terms: twenty guineas per annum.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Perdita between mouthfuls of scone.

‘Ignore him,’ said Amanda briskly, ‘he’s just being clever. It’s what he does.’

Not for the first time, Perdita wondered if strangers or newcomers to the world of the Campions ever mistook the pair’s exchanges for bickering. She had observed her in-laws long enough to have decided that their rapid-fire cross-talk was a well-honed double act and everyone in the performing arts knew that the basis of a truly successful double act was love. They had, after all, been married for almost thirty years now and their act was well rehearsed and always performed with a twinkle in the eye. More telling, Perdita had noticed, were the delicate, minuscule gestures which they exchanged when no one was looking at them; sometimes when even they themselves were not looking at each other. The way their fingertips met as if by accident across a table; the soft, comforting smile when they saw their partner enter a room; the relaxed snugness of their bodies when the two of them sat next to each other; the lithe smoothness as they walked down a street side by side – apart and yet, somehow, together.

‘I’m not trying to be clever, darling, merely quoting an appropriate source, should we be in need of inspiration,’ said Mr Campion over the rim of a tea cup.

‘Source?’ queried Perdita.

‘Don’t let him draw you in, dear,’ said Amanda, selecting a daintily trimmed smoke salmon sandwich.

‘In to what?’

‘His little joke. He was just waiting for you to mention your godfather’s school in Yorkshire so he could quote Dickens at you. I think that was the advert Wackford Squeers put in the newspapers for Dotheboys Hall in
Nicholas Nickleby
. Somebody mentions Yorkshire and schools and it’s the first thing Albert thinks of. Don’t ask me why his mind works that way; it’s a mystery.’

‘It must run in the family,’ said Perdita gently. ‘Rupert quoted Dickens too this morning when he heard what was in the letter. He went for
Hard Times
, though.’

‘Ah, of course, Mr Gradgrind,’ murmured Campion as if to himself. ‘Clever boy.’

‘Well, I don’t think either of you are being quite fair,’ said Perdita, feeling she should ride to her godfather’s defence. ‘I’m sure Yorkshire’s not horrid and the schools there have moved on a bit since Dickens’ day.’

Mr Campion smiled at his daughter-in-law and it was a beam of genuine affection.

‘Yorkshire is not horrid at all, my dear, though a fair bit of wuthering does take place on the higher ground, so I’m told, and I am sure the schools have moved on since Dotheboys Hall closed for business. Although’ – he paused mischievously – ‘if the schools there are performing a musical version of
Doctor Faustus
then one might think that perhaps they have moved too far.’

Perdita reached for another sandwich. As a ‘resting’ actress it was a natural reaction to take advantage of free food whenever and wherever it was offered.

‘I may have let Rupert believe that it was a piece of experimental musical theatre,’ she said coyly, ‘which might just have been inspired by that hippy show
Hair
with all its nudity and … well, hair …’

‘Darling, that’s delicious!’ Amanda laughed. ‘Did he fall for it?’

‘Pretty much, and to be fair Brigham’s letter was a bit vague, so when Rupert was out I telephoned the school and got “the full S.P.” Did I say that right? It’s something Lugg would say, isn’t it?’

Mr Campion nodded his approval. ‘Correct on both counts, I’m sorry to say. Pray, continue. What did our esteemed headmaster have to say?’

‘It turns out it’s not a musical at all – well, not a musical like
My Fair Lady
or
Oliver
. It’s actually the play – the real Marlowe deal – done pretty straight as far as I can work out, but with musical accompaniment from the school brass band. That probably makes it sound even more awful than it should.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Campion, patting Perdita’s arm. ‘I would take that as a good sign – a sign of quality.’

‘You would?’

‘But of course. Yorkshire insists on excellence when it comes to brass band music, just as they do with their cricket.’

‘Are they any good at rugby?’ the girl asked innocently.

Mr Campion allowed his brow to furrow. ‘I’m told it’s a hot-bed of professional Rugby League rather than Rugby Union which, as I am sure you know, is a game designed for hooligans and berserkers played by gentleman amateurs. Why do you ask?’

‘Well …’ Perdita strung out the moment whilst rearming her plate with more sandwiches. ‘It seems that this poor chap Bertram Browne, the one who died in a road accident, was not only the English master and did the drama productions but also coached the boys at rugby. My dear godfather has had the brilliant idea that I can do his dramatic duties whilst Rupert stands in for him on the playing fields, chasing the school teams round the goalposts or whatever it is coaches are supposed to do. It would only be for a couple of weeks until the end of term, and it means we don’t have to be apart.’

‘And Rupert is happy with the prospect of the sporting life?’ said Mr Campion, supressing a smile.

‘If it means he can be with his beautiful wife, of course he is,’ said Amanda firmly.

‘Oh, naturally,’ her husband agreed quickly. ‘It’s just that I don’t remember the boy enjoying the game when he was at school. He could play well enough but the game simply didn’t interest him. Still, with his thespian training he should be good at the morale-boosting team talk. Once more into the breach and all that. More tea?’

‘Godfather Brigham says it will only be for a couple of fixtures,’ said Perdita, holding out her cup and saucer, ‘because term’s nearly over and there’s always the chance that games will be called off due to bad weather at this time of year.’

‘I told you,’ smiled Campion, ‘it always wuthers in Yorkshire, especially on the heights. Make sure Rupert packs his thermal long johns and wish him luck. And of course, all the best with your production of
Faustus
, which I’m sure will be splendid, though you may have casting problems.’

‘I will?’

‘Probably. From memory – admittedly a very unreliable and cobweb-strewn one – somebody has to play Helen of Troy. You know, the beautiful face that launched a thousand ships. Always a difficult casting choice in an all-boys’ school.’

‘Perdita will manage supremely,’ said Amanda, ‘and we will be the first to shout “Bravo” and “Encore” when the cast take their many, many curtain calls.’

‘We will?’

‘We certainly will, for I too have received a job offer from Brigham Armitage.’ Amanda snapped open the gold clasp of her Morris Moskowitz black leather handbag and, delving into its capacious interior – Mr Campion referred to it as her ‘doctor’s bag’ – produced the letter Perdita had delivered and handed it across the table. ‘Required for one Speech Day: an inspirational speaker with experience of the modern world and the white heat of modern technology. I paraphrase, of course, but it clearly means me, not you, though you are welcome to accompany me.’

Mr Campion scanned the letter out of politeness, folded it and handed it back. ‘The headmaster has chosen wisely,’ he said, ‘and I would be honoured to stand by your side and pass you the Lower Fifth’s trophy for raffia work, or the Snodgrass Shield for Greek translation or whatever gongs you’ll be handing out, and I promise not to pocket the Footling Cup for smoking behind the Fives’ Court. I always felt short-changed that I never got one of those when I was a whining schoolboy with a satchel and a shining face.’

‘That’s Shakespeare,’ said Perdita confidently, ‘not Dickens.’

‘Almost,’ said Amanda. ‘He’s just showing off again.’

‘Seriously, my darlings, I think it’s a splendid idea,’ said Campion. ‘The two of you will perform your respective duties admirably and Rupert – well, it will be an experience for Rupert; probably a good one. When do we go north?’

‘Rupert and I are needed immediately, according to godfather Brigham, but Speech Day isn’t until the end of term in December. We were thinking of driving up there tomorrow.’

Mr Campion reached fondly for his wife’s hand. ‘Why don’t we make a long weekend of it around Speech Day, darling? We could go tramping on the moors, pop over to Haworth and worship at the Brontë shrine or take a run up to the ruined abbeys at Fountains, Jervaulx and Rievaulx. They’re all pretty impressive, even in deep midwinter in darkest Yorkshire.’

‘Winter in Yorkshire …’ Amanda murmured to herself, then turned to Perdita as if she had had a revelation. ‘Never mind reminding Rupert to pack his thermal long johns, my dear – let’s go and buy you some right now!’

I
f a bright red second-hand five-year-old Austin Mini Cooper had seams, then Perdita’s was bulging at them as its stubby snout nosed its way up the A1, its windscreen wipers squeaking in protest at the morning drizzle and the spray of lorries thundering past.

Rupert had been amazed at both the amount of luggage Perdita had insisted on bringing and the fact that it had all fitted into the Mini, but had said nothing. When they had married, Rupert and Perdita had agreed unreligious but eminently sensible additional vows that they would not quarrel or dispute any matters pertaining to money or to driving. And just as Rupert refrained from commenting on the plethora of bags and cases accompanying his wife, so Perdita bit her tongue and said nothing when Rupert chose to follow the A1 north rather than the recently extended M1 motorway.

It was only when they were free of London and almost through Hertfordshire that she questioned her driver’s grasp of geography, albeit tangentially.

‘There’s another sign for Biggleswade,’ Perdita said conversationally. ‘It must be the fifth one we’ve passed. Why is Biggleswade so popular?
Where
is Biggleswade, anyway?’

‘It’s in Bedfordshire, darling, and I think its main claim to fame is that it has more signs than any other place bypassed by the A1. Nobody goes there but everyone knows they’ve passed a turning to it.’

‘One of the joys of travelling the Great North Road,’ sighed Perdita, digging into a shopping bag at her feet for the emergency packet of travel sweets she always carried on long journeys. ‘How long will it take us, do you think?’

‘Another three hours,’ said Rupert. ‘We can stop for lunch if you want to.’

‘I’ve brought sandwiches and a flask of tea so let’s push on. Though I’m happy to do some of the driving if you want a break.’

‘If Dick Turpin can make it to York in a day on a horse, then I think I can manage Huddersfield or thereabouts in a car.’ Rupert grinned.

‘You won’t mention Dick Turpin when you’re in Yorkshire, will you, darling?’ Perdita said, pointedly looking out of her side window.

‘Why not?’

‘Turpin was an eighteenth-century Essex thug. His famous “ride” from London to York – two hundred miles in a single day – was a story made up later and based on a
seventeenth
-century Yorkshireman called John Nevison who supposedly robbed a man in Gad’s Hill in Kent at four a.m. and then rode to York by eight p.m. the same day to establish an alibi.’

‘Did the alibi work?’

‘Yes, it did. No one believed he could have ridden that far in sixteen hours, but he had witnesses to say he was in York that evening so he couldn’t have been in Kent that morning.’

‘Clever fellow.’

‘Not that clever,’ she said, her hands busy rustling something inside the shopping bag now balanced on her knees. ‘He was hanged about ten years later, though he went to the scaffold like a true gentleman. Humbug?’

‘Yes, please. Where did you learn all that?’

Perdita stretched out an arm and pressed a black-and-white sweet into her husband’s mouth.

‘From dear old Brigham Armitage, no less, a story he told me when I was little. The curse of the schoolmaster, I suppose. You have to teach an innocent child a fact a day.’

‘A bit like the Drink-A-Pinta-Milk-A-Day campaign,’ mumbled Rupert as he tackled a hard, minty mouthful. ‘When you spoke to him yesterday did he say any more about the teacher you – we – are replacing?’

Perdita unwrapped a sweet for herself and popped it between her teeth, then daintily kissed the stickiness off her fingers before answering.

‘A little. It was strange really, almost as if he was rehearsing a funeral oration. Perhaps he was. Lots of what you might expect: trusted colleague, admired by the boys he taught, driving force behind the school’s drama productions and an inspiration on the rugby field …’

‘Oh dear,’ said Rupert, ‘I’m going to be a terrible disappointment.’

‘The late Mr Browne – that’s Browne with an “e”, if it matters – used to play for something called the Sappers Rugby Club in his youth apparently, though I’ve no idea where that is.’

‘It’s based in Chatham in Kent, I think,’ said Rupert, ‘at the home of the Royal Engineers. Quite a famous old club, though the Sappers always were a sporty lot. The Royal Engineers played in the first-ever FA Cup Final, you know. That’s the other sort of football.’

‘The one with the round ball?’ Perdita asked impishly and, when Rupert nodded, said smugly, ‘See, I do take an interest.’

‘So Mr Browne was an ex-military man?’ Rupert persevered.

‘I got the impression Brigham likes to recruit teachers from the services. Probably thinks it’s good for discipline in the classroom.’

‘That’s another reason I’ll be a disappointment – I didn’t even get to do National Service.’ Rupert frowned but kept his eyes firmly fixed on the road ahead. ‘I’m not sure I fancy trying to impose discipline in a classroom.’

‘You won’t have to, will you? You can shout at them across a muddy field or blow your little whistle or something. It’s me who has to drum the Romantic poets into reluctant young brains and then try and get them to remember their Marlowe.
This is hell, nor am I out of it
.’

‘
Faustus
?’

‘Yes, but I was thinking of Yorkshire.’

‘We’re not there yet,’ grinned Rupert. ‘We could turn back and say the car broke down.’

‘Oh, we couldn’t do that, I’ve promised,’ said Perdita sweetly. ‘A goddaughter’s word is her bond and all that.’

They pulled into a lay-by near Norman Cross and got out of the tiny car to stretch their legs, eat sandwiches and drink tea from the plastic cups which topped Perdita’s flask as northward-bound lorries thundered by them, close enough to make the Mini rock on its chassis.

It was an early luncheon or a very late breakfast, but Perdita was determined to get to Denby Ash before it got dark, and so naturally she insisted on driving the rest of the way. Rupert did not object as he knew her to be an excellent driver, and stoically folded his legs into the well of the passenger seat amongst the bags, books and roadmaps whilst Perdita adjusted the rear-view mirror – automatically checking her hair and make-up as she did so – turned the key in the ignition and set off in a racing start.

Perdita talked constantly as she drove – something Rupert knew she only did when she was worried. Would she be able to control classrooms full of bumptious Yorkshire boys? Would they laugh at her accent? Would she laugh at theirs? Would she even understand them? It was an all-boys’ school: had they ever seen a woman before? Of course they had; she was being stupid. They all had mothers, didn’t they? And hadn’t Brigham Armitage told her that as well as his wife, Celia, who was school secretary and school nurse, it seemed, there was at least one other female on the teaching staff? But they were probably qualified as teachers, whereas Perdita was only qualified to act; surely they would know she wasn’t a real teacher?

‘Not if you act the role as well as I know you can, my love,’ Rupert had soothed, his eyes flicking nervously to the speedometer. ‘Think of it as a part in Rep., a part you’ve been doing for weeks and the critics love you for it.’

‘Regional theatre critics are not usually spotty, sniggering, twelve-year-old schoolboys. Well, not all of them.’

‘Probably more than you’d think, in my experience,’ Rupert agreed with a wry smile. ‘But don’t worry about it – you’ll be fine. The little oiks will all fall in love with you at first sight. It’s me they’re going to be pelting with mud and scragging in the scrum, not to mention what might happen in the showers.’

‘I don’t think I want to hear any more on that subject,’ said Perdita, tight-lipped. ‘It’s nothing you need to go to a psychiatrist for, is it?’

‘No, no. Nothing like that,’ said Rupert hurriedly. ‘It’s just that a favourite trick when I was a boy …’

‘When I was a lad,’ teased his wife, trying out her stock Yorkshire accent, ‘nobbut a whippersnapper.’

‘Yes, back then in those innocent days before I was entrapped by gorgeous, sexy actresses. When I was at school …’

‘Excuse me?’

‘What?’

‘Use of the plural; you said sexy actress
es
.’

‘I may have been chased by several but I only let one catch me.’

‘Don’t get above yourself, darling – you could always find yourself thrown back into the ocean. Anyway, you were about to confess something unspeakable which happened to you in the showers at school.’

‘It wasn’t really unspeakable,’ said Rupert, looking out of the side window to avert his discomfort. ‘Not on the scale of man’s inhumanity to man, or even boys’ inhumanity to other boys, come to think of it, but it was rather intimidating at the time. If the sports master felt that you hadn’t played a game to your full potential, he would throw your towel into the shower with you, or sometimes you would find it waiting for you, on the floor, already wringing wet. It was supposed to be an incentive to improve your performance for the next game.’

‘That’s bullying, plain and simple,’ Perdita said firmly.

‘My father called it psychological warfare.’

‘You told your parents? Good for you.’

‘I mentioned it to Pa,’ Rupert said casually. ‘In passing, as it were, not complaining, just fishing to see if he’d gone through the same rotten treatment when he was a pupil.’

‘And had he?’

‘Just the once. He said he ignored it completely and the following week, after the game, he went into the showers
wearing
his towel, came out dripping wet, got dressed without making any attempt to dry himself and went off to Latin Prep as if absolutely nothing untoward had happened.’

‘Which showed the bullies they couldn’t win. Good for him.’

‘That much was true, though he claims he caught double pneumonia as a result of two hours of translating Juvenal whilst wearing damp clothes. I never had the nerve to follow his example; I just smuggled an extra towel into the changing room.’

‘Well, that showed initiative,’ Perdita said kindly, reaching out her left hand to pat her husband’s knee without taking her eyes off the road, ‘and it won’t be a practice you’ll permit at Ash Grange, will it?’

‘Absolutely not. My motto shall be
Cave salacones!
– which I think means “Bullies watch out” but I’d better check that with the Latin master. The school does have a Latin master, I presume?’

‘Oh, yes. Godfather Brigham insists on Latin being taught, otherwise his brighter boys won’t get into Cambridge.’

‘But it’s not a requirement any longer.’

‘I know that; you know that. Brigham is delightfully behind the times,’ said Perdita then paused as the thought struck her. ‘Of course, he can’t be too far behind the times. He has no qualms about employing women as teachers and not just cooks and skivvies, and he’s also asked your mother to preside at Speech Day to show how a woman can succeed in a man’s world.’

‘Plus,’ said Rupert, wagging a finger to emphasize his point, ‘he’s forward-thinking enough to allow a musical version of Marlowe’s most famous play and it’s not a logical choice for the end of term before Christmas, so that’s doubly radical.’

‘Mmm,’ murmured Perdita thoughtfully, ‘my jury’s still out on that one. But talking of forward-thinking: what the devil is that
thing
?’

The
thing
which had caught her eye, looming out of the dull morning to the left of the road, was indeed unmissable. It was a structure of sweeping upward curves of concrete which at first glance could have been mistaken for a giant sculpture of some form of alien butterfly landing on planet Earth for the first time. On closer examination, the
thing
was clearly man-made and served as the flamboyant saddle-shaped roof of a rather mundane petrol station, which seemed, to Perdita, to be a rather ostentatious way of keeping the rain out. To Rupert, however, it was a landmark, and he greeted it like a homeward-bound sailor.

‘We’re at Markham Moor in Nottinghamshire,’ he enthused, ‘and that famous garage there marks the beginning of the north for most people.’

‘It’s bizarre,’ said Perdita huffily. ‘What on earth is it supposed to be?’

‘I’m not sure it’s supposed to be anything except a modern piece of architectural design. All garages, perhaps even houses, will look like that in twenty years’ time.’

‘I very much doubt that,’ said Perdita. ‘It’s a ridiculous piece of design; there can’t be two of them in the world.’

‘Actually,’ said Rupert in what he felt was his best school-masterly voice (so convincing, he thought, that he should be wearing a gown), ‘the same design – which technically is called a hyperbolic paraboloid – was used for the TWA Flight Centre at Idlewild airport in New York, the one they’ve renamed after President Kennedy.’

‘Your mother told you that, didn’t she?’ Perdita flashed her husband a sideways glance.

‘Yes,’ said Rupert, slightly deflated. ‘The first time I saw it I thought it was a spaceship landing and folding up its wings, like something out of Dan Dare.’

‘Were you in the back seat with a bag of sherbet lemons and a copy of
The Eagle
?’ Perdita said with a sly grin.

‘If you must know, it was the year before I met you and Mother was giving me a lift to an audition in Sheffield at The Playhouse. I didn’t get the part and I can’t even remember what I read for it, but I certainly remember that garage. For me, it’s always marked the start of the north, although I suppose technically that’s probably the Yorkshire border.’

‘Oooh!’ Perdita’s left hand left the steering wheel and shot to her shocked, open mouth. ‘I’ve just had a terrible thought,’ she said mischievously.

‘What?’

‘I think I forgot to pack the passports.’