Authors: Gill Hornby
The Hive (19 page)
It was the same with all the dads at school: they were present, of course, and turned up at the school gates all the time—so much more than her dad ever had, which wasn’t hard as that was precisely never. But they didn’t loiter or chat beyond the rudimentary. They were fantastic about their own kids, but they did not seem to share our biological reflex to retain infinite amounts of extraneous information about the children of others. They didn’t remember each other’s birthdays or move in at times of emergency. Loads of them had seen Steve every Saturday at Lads and Dads footie. But apparently not one had noticed that he was even fed up, let alone suicidal.
Georgie continued to sit in silence while Jo and the Reverend Debbie wrestled over the funeral. There had been a rare moment of harmony over “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” which politely ticked both boxes, the football and the—sort of, at any rate—spiritual. But for the rest of it, Jo seemed to be using the dog collar in the armchair opposite as a useful focus for all the dark energy of her dry-eyed, furious grief. Georgie thought that she probably didn’t really, deep down want a reading from
My Liverpool Home
by Kenny Dalglish instead of the Lord’s Prayer—she was just doing it to piss Debbie off—but hey, what did Georgie know?
For the umpteenth time that morning, she heard the back door go and the sound of footsteps shuffling around the kitchen.
Geo
rgie thought perhaps she might be more useful investigating what was going on out there and making some more tea for everybody. She got up, collected the mugs, slipped through the door, shut it quietly behind her, turned and beheld a kitchen in a chaos—visible even to her undiscriminating eye—that was certainly not there over an hour before and to which, on first sight, she could attribute no discernible meaning.
It seemed that some time after half-past nine there had been a sort of eruption. For every horizontal plane of Jo’s kitchen—table, chair seats, worktop, doormat—was now buried beneath a geological crust of shallow, foil-covered baking trays, each with its own Post-it stuck firmly on its top. What, wondered Georgie, was the collective noun for one-dish prebaked all-major-food-groups-combined family meals? A kindness? No, that was ravens. A nurture? That did nothing to convey the confusion that had been visited upon this place this morning. An interfering? Yes, that was more like it. A thoughtless, disorganized, misguided and mightily off-pissing interfering of cottage pies and tuna bakes.
Georgie moved over to the table and peeled up the nearest Post-it.
LASAGNA WITH CURRIED LAMB
. She tried to imagine the human misery or misfortune for which lasagna with curried lamb might be the balm, and failed.
Please return dish Friday as needed for weekend. Ta, Clover.
Of course. Clover. On Friday, Jo was going to be cremating the man she had chosen to share her life with. Perhaps the best thing would be if she could get the cortege to stop round Clover’s on the way? How about that?
The back door opened again. This time it was Heather. Heather holding a foil-covered baking tray. She peered into the kitchen, her face puckered with worry.
“Oh dear,” she whispered. “Is this, you know, coals to um, er, ah, wherever you get—got—coals from…um…you know…up north?”
“What the hell is going on?” Georgie hissed back. “What are you all trying to do to poor Jo? Whose idea was all this? Who exactly instructed Clover to create this toxic filth and then issue a load of instructions about her sodding kitchenware?”
Heather took a few nervous steps across the threshold. “Well, it was nobody in particular. I mean,” she put down her dish and gestured a washing machine–type motion with her hands, keen to give a proper explanation, “we’ve all been swirling, you see, and—”
“Swirling? We’re arranging the funeral and you lot are swirling? Well stop it. Stop swirling. Immediately. And what the hell is Bea doing, might I ask, while you lot swirl?”
“Well that’s just it, you see. She hasn’t done anything. That’s our problem. You see, we’ve had no guidance.” She put her hands together, palms facing, neat parallel lines, stared at them. “And so we’ve been swirling.” And then the washing machine started up again.
“Then bloody well tell her to. Tell her to get on with it.”
“Well, the thing is…I mean…I think…um…well, Colette says that she’s sort of gone on strike…” Heather dropped her eyes from Georgie’s, and studied her own boots. “We think—well, Colette thinks it might have something to do with you telling Bea to, um, effing eff off and mind your own effing business for an effing change. Oh dear.” She hadn’t noticed the lounge door opening. “The Reverend Debbie. Hello there.” She mumbled something that Georgie didn’t quite catch, but sounded suspiciously like “Thanks be to God.”
“Hello, Heather. Any chance of that tea, Georgie?”
“Sorry. My fault.” Heather picked her dish back up again and headed for the door. “I’d better get on, anyway. The headmaster has called for a meeting of COSTA this lunchtime.”
“Has he? Sorry, nobody told me…” Georgie, indifferent, turned towards the kettle, reached up for clean mugs.
“Well, Bea said not to. She said you don’t have to come anymore, apparently. She said you had quite enough on with Jo, and told us we should completely leave you out of everything from now on.”
Georgie snapped back around. “Did she indeed?” That came out too loud. She dropped her voice back to a hiss. “Well, in that case, I am bloody coming. Jo’s mum is taking over in a minute anyway, so—”
“What’s happened?” They hadn’t noticed Jo coming in behind the vicar. “What have you done?” Her eyes were wide and pale in the dark circles of their sockets. “What is all this crap?” She staggered like an invalid towards the table, read Clover’s note, collapsed onto the edge of a chair. “Why is it in my kitchen?” She looked from Georgie to Heather. “Why would you do this? Why? Now? To me?”
And whatever it was, the magical adhesive that had been holding her together, enabling her to function, at that moment spectacularly gave way. And for the first time since Steve’s death, and indeed for the first time ever, Georgie held her dear friend in her arms as her knees buckled, she slumped down and fell apart.
“Oh dear.” Heather looked from Georgie, kneeling on the floor, to Jo, falling out of her chair, and back to Georgie again, her eyes full of tears. “I knew it. It’s all my fault. I knew this would happen. I’m doing it, aren’t I?” she mouthed the words, holding her hand to her neck. “I’m adding to her grief.”
THE ST. AMBROSE EXTRAORDINARY COMMITTEE FOR FUND-RAISING (COSTA)
Minutes of the Second Meeting
Held at:
The Headmaster’s office
In attendance:
Mr. Orchard (Headmaster), Beatrice Stuart (Chair), Colette, Clover, Jasmine, Sharon
Secretary:
Heather
THE HEADMASTER informed HEATHER that before they began, he wanted to say that he had read THE MINUTES of the meetings so far, and that the detail and organization of these was quite simply brilliant, possibly the best he had ever read in all his whole life.
HEATHER responded that they did represent the doing of her very best.
THE HEADMASTER wanted to add, however, that perhaps in future she might just write it how it is, just exactly what everyone says and not bother so much with trying to make it sound too sort of posh and official if she knew what he meant.
HEATHER replied that BEA had told her to.
THE HEADMASTER: Yes, well, perhaps this term, we might try and do things a little differently—
BEA: Thank you everyone so so incredibly much for coming at such short notice and at what I know is a difficult time for a lot of us. Tom felt he would value the opportunity to catch up at the beginning of what I am sure will be another amazing term for COSTA.
THE HEADMASTER: I promise this won’t take long. It can’t, actually, as I’m teaching
War Horse
to the Year 6s straight after lunch.
CLOVER: Really? My Damian read that when he was five. To himself. Only five.
THE HEADMASTER: So. New term, take stock. We are now already over halfway to reaching our target, and for that we must thank everyone who has participated. Last term saw a sensational start, and I can announce today that work on our library begins this week. Indeed, if you look out of the window there, you can see the first delivery of the materials needed to turn those useless old sheds into our beautiful new space. There’s Mr. Baines the caretaker sorting it all out right now.
COLETTE: Ooh, I haven’t seen him before. Is he new?
THE HEADMASTER: It’s an exciting moment for our school, and for making this possible, I have to thank you all. But there is one person in particular whose efforts were quite simply astonishing:
BEA: First, I must say that I am only as good as the incredible team behind—
THE HEADMASTER: Mrs. Green. Without the Christmas ball, we would not be in the excellent shape we are now in and she deserves our grateful thanks. Is she not coming?
BEA: What a shame. Perhaps she didn’t get my message…
The Minutes record the arrival of RACHEL.
COLETTE: Can we help?
BEA: Sorry. Do excuse us. We’re just having a private little meeting of COSTA. If you’d like to come back later?
THE HEADMASTER: Ah, Rachel. Great. Thanks for coming. Rachel has agreed to help with the decoration of the new library so obviously her input is vital. I thought it made sense to have her with us now, in the committee stage.
RACHEL: Artistic adviser, I am, apparently.
COLETTE: Well, get her. Who is she then all of a sudden?
CLOVER: Nice for us all to be put in our place, I’m sure.
BEA: We’re all equals here on COSTA so I do hope that’s not too much of a struggle for you. Anyway. To get on. This term’s program of events—
The Minutes record the arrival of MELISSA SPENCER.
CLOVER: Perhaps we should have put up a “Do Not Disturb”?
THE HEADMASTER: Excellent. Welcome. This is Melissa, everyone, who saved the ball last year after the debacle with the caterers—
BEA: What did happen there, btw?
THE HEADMASTER: and who I’m sure will be an excellent addition to our committee.
The Minutes record the arrival of GEORGIE.
BEA: Ah. Gosh. What a turnout.
CLOVER: A free-for-all, if you ask me. Call us PASTA and be done.
COLETTE: Hang on. I hope they’re not all expecting wristbands.
RACHEL: How’s Jo doing?
GEORGIE: Pretty awful, but her mum’s with her now.
BEA: So. This term. I think—
THE HEADMASTER: If I might just say a few words? THE BALL was an excellent opportunity for me to mingle with the parents—
GEORGIE: Heh heh heh.
COLETTE: So we noticed…
THE HEADMASTER: and I was concerned to hear that there were grievances about how COSTA had been operating so far. Many people, new parents in particular, seem to feel that there is something a little—well, the word “cliquey” was used more than once.
BEA: Oh, Tom. Tom! Please. Stop right there. I cannot believe you said that. With the deepest respect…ST. AMBROSE? Cliquey? OMG. That is like so so so so wrong. Nobody has ever—
CLOVER: We’re one big happy family.
THE HEADMASTER: Apparently—well, so I’ve heard anyway—these lunches have been putting various noses out of joint. They seem to have developed a reputation for…well, sort of, exclusivity.
BEA: Well I can’t think why, but of course, it goes without saying, that the last thing COSTA wants is to be accused of being cliquey when what it is about really is a group of people who are working damned bloody hard giving up their evenings and their weekends for the good of the school and the benefit of—
THE HEADMASTER: Something to do with being invitation-only?
BEA: OK. So let’s make the next lunch Open House. How about that? Will that help to quell the revolt, do we think? We don’t want to end up with our heads on sticks, do we? Just because some of us have to—
GEORGIE: Aargh. Please. No. Don’t say it.
BEA: juggle—
GEORGIE: Damn.
BEA: families and jobs and fund-raising. Right. Let me see. Heather? Would you be willing to kick off the COSTA fight-back? Will you be the person to tear those barriers down? Let’s call it THE PEOPLE’S LUNCH LADDER, shall we? Would that send the right message?
HEATHER: Um. Gosh. Well.
BEA: Heather, do you know the two things I have learned this academic year? One, that you are amazing, and two, that you are awesome. And I love that shirt, btw. Yes. Let Heather be Our Healer. The Friday after next suit everybody? Then the Friday after next it is: Lunch for Anybody and Everybody willing to give up their time and their money for Their School. At Heather’s. Excellent. Now. Do you have any further complaints you want to fire at us, Headmaster? Any fresh disappointments for which we must do penance? Just that some of us do have jobs to get back to.
MELISSA: Is that actually OK with you, Heather?
HEATHER: Gosh. Well. I mean. I don’t want to be difficult, and I’m really flattered, but my house isn’t really quite big enough for the whole school…
MELISSA: Of course. And you’re not being difficult at all. It is surely possible to control the numbers of the lunches without seeming exclusive. Just mention it to people beyond the committee, perhaps? And may I suggest, if we still need to have an open-house event, I have a COFFEE MORNING at my place to which everybody would be welcome.
BEA: That is so completely sweet of you, um, sorry I’ve forgotten your name, but I think that is just too big an ask. You can’t possibly have room for all—
RACHEL: Oh but she does. I’ve been round. It is huge.
JASMINE: How many bedrooms?
BEA: But those of us lucky enough to have the larger houses should not be expected to always be the ones who—
RACHEL: Don’t worry, it’s way, way bigger than yours.
MELISSA: I don’t mind at all. Really.
SHARON: Has she done it up nice?
RACHEL: Gorgeous. They’ll all love it. We’ll make a small fortune.
HEATHER: We can all pitch in.
BEA: Well, there we are, headmaster. I don’t think that it would be actually humanly possible to be less exclusive. THE PEOPLE’S COFFEE MORNING, round at, um, whoever’s. Even someone as sensitive as yourself would find it hard to find fault with that. Now I, for one, really must get back to work—and preferably before the world caves in, if poss.
THE HEADMASTER: As must we all. Thank you for coming.
THE MEETING closed at 1:15 p.m.