‘There is actually something I need to add to the agenda,’ Patrick says in a voice that doesn’t sound quite like him somehow.
Izz, too settled in my armchair to search for our minutes book, pretends to pull a pencil from her glorious orb of black hair shot with patches of white and mimes turning an invisible page, ready to write.
The light leaves his eyes as he sits forward. ‘I don’t foresee it being a problem for the grotto, not really,’ he begins.
‘Oh no, what?’ I say. Just what we need, more problems.
‘It’s my caretaker job at the school. That new head, Mr Bold, called me into his office today, and well… he says the board have decided they can’t afford to keep me on during school holidays. They’re changing my contract to term time only. Effective immediately. And if I don’t like it, I can lump it.’
‘What?’ I have to put my glass down I’m so cross.
‘He can’t do that. Can he?’ Izz demands.
‘I checked with my cousin, the one that works in employment law,’ Patrick goes on. ‘They’re within their rights to do it. I don’t have to accept the new contract, but if I don’t, they can let me go entirely, if they want to.’
‘So, you’re not going to get paid over the Christmas break?’ I say, blinking in outrage.
He shrugs like he’s already accepted his fate. ‘The head’s going to get a surprise when he realises the school boiler needs bleeding weekly through winter, but I’ll let him find that out for himself when there’s icicles on the gymnasium windowsills.’
‘Who is this person?’ Izz wants to know.
‘The new head teacher?’ Patrick replies. ‘Some bloke from down south somewhere. Barely out of uni, I’d say. He’s the only one wanted the job when Mrs Fourmile retired. The board loved him and his cost-cutting ideas. He was the one came up with the December boot camp thing, renting out the gymnasium and bringing in some much-needed money.’
‘Yeah, and it’s lost us our grotto parking!’ I say, feeling my face heat. I need to calm down.
‘He won’t stay long,’ Patrick says with the air of a man who’s overheard something confidential in some meeting or other. ‘He’s only here biding his time before fast-tracking himself into a superhead job in some city primary. A country school’s not for the likes of him.’
‘A superhead?’ Izz squints.
‘You know,’ I tell her. ‘An educational troubleshooter? Like the SAS but for underperforming schools. They parachute these superheads in and within weeks there’s no such thing as bullying, turkey twizzler lunches, underperforming teachers…’
‘Unnecessary caretakers,’ Patrick adds wryly.
I fight the urge to reach out and touch his arm, though really, why shouldn’t I comfort a friend in a friendly, not weirdly-touchy-feely, way? I reach for my glass once more and grip the stem tight.
‘If he thinks I’m telling him where the grit’s kept, he’s wrong.’ Patrick forces a smile to show us he’s OK. ‘Hope he likes ice skating.’ He takes a drink, and this douses his agitation a little. ‘It’s only three weeks without pay. Seventeen days, in fact. I counted.’
‘You don’t need to worry about money,’ I say. ‘I can help.’ I really mean it, but saying the words makes me feel like a mum offering a grown-up son some of their savings. I’d say I’ve never felt more aware of the gap in years between us (fifteen years, eight weeks and a day, not that I’ve done the sums), but that would be a lie.
‘God no,’ he blurts. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m fine. I can always pick up something seasonal if I need to.’
Izz joins in. ‘That’s the spirit, and you can do literally anything. Electric stuff, woodwork stuff, building stuff…’ She tails off, thinking hard before enthusiastically adding, ‘Baking stuff too.’
Patrick takes another big gulp of wine before saying, ‘Speaking of baking, did anyone respond to your flyers, Izz?’
It was her idea to have them printed and shove them through every door in Wheaton, a call to arms, or rather, spoons, for the grotto.Santa’s seeking some little helpers, it said, which Izz thought was cute, but even with the promise ofAll ingredients provided, I wasn’t hopeful.
‘Turns out Margi was right,’ Izz tells us.
Patrick is more of an optimist than me. ‘What, nobody?’ he says.
Izz shakes her head.
‘Just us three, then,’ I say, and I wonder if it’s time to mention this is going to be my last year on the committee. Soon they’ll be down to two, and, realistically, that will make the whole thing unfeasible. It’s already exhausting and expensive without losing one of the ringleaders.
‘Then we should crack on, shouldn’t we?’ Patrick says, offering a reprieve before I’ve taken the huge breath I need to blurt out the truth: that I’m not only giving up on the grotto but getting out of Wheaton too.
‘You’re right. Come on,’ I say, feeling a little wobbly as I try to stand. I drop back down again. Another chance missed. How am I ever supposed to broach the subject? Actually leaving Wheaton? I can hardly believe it myself, but the whole idea’s gathered pace now I’ve had this place valued and the estate agent assured me they’d be able to sell it without even advertising it. ‘Be snapped up in seconds by any number of our contacts,’ he told me. ‘Historic old property like this, original fireplaces, old world Cotswolds setting. It’s a dream home.’
