The young man gives me the blankest look through his smart, round specs. ‘Gingerbread grotto?’ he says.
There’s something weary around his mouth like he spent last week being introduced to new people and I’m the last straw testing his stoicism. He’s searching his mind for mention of me, probably churning through all the other local nonsense us yokels concern ourselves with: gingerbread villages, nativities, harvest festivals, summer fetes, pinning rosettes on giant inedible veg. He’ll have heard it all since he arrived in Wheaton in what’s been, I’m guessing, a bewildering introduction to village life.
‘What I wanted to talk with you about, Mr Bold…’ Patrick begins. It’s odd hearing him call this younger man ‘Mr’. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
‘Hm?’ the man replies absently, and his eyes flit to what is surely his sporty Golf straddling the pavement. He’s probably dreaming of getting out of here for the night.
‘We’d hoped the school might be able to support us, support me, what with me being the handyman and all, with a bit of sponsorship, but…’
Mr Bold looks unmoved.
‘But I understand that’s probably not an option at the moment,’ adds Patrick.
Now that my friend has begun the negotiations, I take over. ‘We could do with some icers,’ I say.
‘Icers,’ the head says, looking more tired by the second.
‘You know, the tinies? Reception class, or kindergarteners, to ice some gingerbread men of their own, get them involved in the exhibit. We’ve been doing it every year for… well, ages.’
Mr Bold looks relieved it’s such a simple request. Easy to refuse it, I’m guessing.
‘Listen, as much as I’d love to help, I can’t,’ he says. ‘There’s SATs prep and Ofsted looming. I can’t very well have inspectors turning up and finding Key Stage One making a mess with food. You understand? It’s a crucial year for me. For the school,’ he corrects himself. ‘Maybe next year?’ He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly absent, stressed even. Now this guy makes more sense. He has the weight of the world on his shoulders, so much is riding on his making a big splash at the school.
He’s already making his way down the steps and wishing us a good evening.
‘He’ll be promoted out of here by next year,’ I say under my breath as we watch him retreat into his car, making it burst into light and music before he races away, heading out of Wheaton. ‘Where does he live again?’
Patrick’s by my side on the top step. ‘Out Cirencester way. Crashing with friends, apparently. At least, that’s what they’re saying in the school kitchens.’
If anybody’s going to know, it’ll be the dinner ladies. ‘Not exactly committing to village life, then?’
‘Doesn’t need to, I suppose. It’s temporary for him. He’ll be on some inner-city academy’s reality TV show before next Christmas. Destined for big things, the board thinks.’
‘Too big to help us anyway.’ I grit my teeth and stare through the exhaust cloud he’s left behind. ‘And he’s the one that cut your contract to term time only?’
‘The very same.’
‘I should have said something.’
‘I’m glad you didn’t. Don’t need you going all Scrappy-Doo on us. I still need to work for the guy come January.’
I’m smiling, glad he thinks I’m scrappy, when I notice he’s fixing me with an odd look. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I, uh, I’ve got something to tell you, actually. About work.’
‘Go on, then. It can’t be that bad, can it?’ I laugh, hoping he’ll join in, but he’s so serious.
‘Yesterday, when I couldn’t come to help open up the hall… it’s because I had a job interview.’
‘That’s great,’ I say. ‘Izz didn’t mention it was an interview. Top secret, is it? MI5? Or one of those secret shoppers ratting about rubbish service? Oh, I’d love that job; much more fun than spying for MI5!’
‘Margi.’ He cuts me off, impatient. ‘I was at Dunham Gravey, interviewing for their Christmas spectacular. They desperately need more technicians to maintain the light displays and keep the whole thing running over the holidays.’
‘Right.’ I’m nodding, processing what this means, and possibly looking a bit weird.
‘Are you OK?’ he says.
‘You’ve taken a job at Dunham Gravey?’
