Our end-of-term picnic and bouncy castle WILL take place today, but children MUST come wearing sun hats and with sunblock ALREADY applied.
It was blessedly cool in the converted church that formed the headquarters of Lodestone Academy Trust; from high up in the vaulted ceiling, vents were discreetly breathing gusts of chilled air. As Pat approached the panelled door with its tasteful crimson nameplate, she heard voices from within. Unsure, she paused. Surely the receptionist had said to go straight on through? Tentatively she knocked. The door opened, and Chris Canne’s flustered face appeared.
‘Pat,’ he said, ushering her in, ‘I’m just finishing a Zoom call.’
Following him in, Pat could see his office had changed since her previous visits. Then the walls had been adorned with multiple pictures of children working, now these had all gone and the white walls repainted a restful lemon colour. One of these walls was totally dominated by an enormous flatscreen, the sizeof something to be found in a small art-house cinema; this was currently showing a mosaic of headshots with attendant glimpses of backgrounds. Chris smiled distractedly at Pat and waved her into a seat, before addressing the screen.
‘Okay, folks,’ he said brightly, ‘I reckon that’s just about a wrap. And it’s fifteen minutes off the magic hour of one o’clock. I’m guessing that no one’s had the dreaded Ofsted call?’
The various faces shook their heads or gestured with a thumbs up. Chris gave a relieved smile.
‘In which case,’ he said, ‘everyone have abrilliantsummer! And if you could all ping your Audits of Readiness across to Jared by close of play, we can get them across to Bun so she can work her magic ready for us to hit the ground running come September!’
The faces began blinking out of existence one by one, until only one remained filling the entire screen, a woman with red earrings that caught the sunlight that was streaming in from her right-hand side. Her background stood out as a vivid contrast to the others, with their rather anaemic collection of bookshelves and noticeboards; this woman faced the world against a backdrop of vibrant red and orange drapes.
‘I meant to say earlier, Bun,’ said Chris to the woman, ‘I’ve been hearing such great things about these Ofsted readiness sessions you’ve been running in our schools.’ Pat thought she could detect a slightly nervous timbre to his jovial tones. ‘And vis-à-vis any Ofsted action planning – there’s totally no pressure whatsoever. It’s the end of term next week so we can easily park this till September.’
‘I’m going to be totally honest with you, Chris.’ The woman’s deep, contralto voice resonated out into the office. ‘I’m finding all this constant harping on about Ofsted readiness more than a little disconcerting.’
Chris pulled nervously at his collar. ‘Understood,’ he said, nodding. ‘One hundred per cent do I see where you’re coming from, Bun!’ He took a deep breath, Adam’s apple shifting uneasily.‘But at the end of the day, surely it’s about balancing the needs of the school with government expectations, isn’t it?’
‘But is it?’ Bun sounded dismissive. She was as striking as her drapes, a bright orange scarf twined in her hair, eyes heavily ringed with kohl eyeliner. She put Pat in mind of a book she used to regularly read to her class:Hey, Mrs Kohl Panda, what can you see?
When the woman shook her head, her deep red earrings winked in the sunlight. ‘Chris, I think you have to ask yourself: are we about educating children or are we about passing Ofsted inspections? Because sometimes Iwonder.’ Abruptly she clicked off her screen and the face was replaced by the corporate logo of Lodestone Academy Trust.
‘Bun Widdup,’ said Chris with a rueful smile as he turned to Pat. ‘A real force of nature and a gifted school improvement planner. Like all of us, she finds Ofsted a challenge.’
‘I remember what a strain it all was,’ said Pat. ‘And that was just in one school. I can’t imagine how it must be with the number of schools you have to oversee.’
‘Twenty-seven,’ said Chris. ‘Eleven of which are in the Ofsted window. But we know we won’t get any this week – and with so many schools breaking up on Friday we’re off the hook until September.’ His face broke into a sunny, relieved smile. ‘Anyway – brilliant to see you, Pat. Thanks for coming in – and so quickly! You’re looking great!’
‘So are you,’ said Pat politely. This wasn’t strictly true – there were noticeable purple smudges under the man’s eyes. As if calling out the social lie he vented an enormous yawn.
‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘My nights are somewhat broken at the moment.’ He swivelled his laptop round to show a screensaver of his husband, Tony, holding a very determined-looking toddler with beautiful almond-shaped eyes and a ferocious jut to his chin. ‘Meet Oskar,’ he said.
‘How lovely,’ said Pat warmly. ‘How old is he?’
‘Just fourteen months,’ said Chris, biting off another almightyyawn. ‘Excuse me!’ He shook his head vigorously as if trying to wake himself up by sheer force of will. ‘We’re on with routine embedment. All the manuals agree it’s important to establish those sleep parameters, but I don’t mind admitting it’s a struggle.’
Pat found herself biting her lip. ‘I’m not sure toddlers do sleep parameters.’
Chris nodded his way through yet another yawn. ‘I was sorry not to get to talk properly to you all at Nev’s funeral,’ he said awkwardly.
‘Well, we all had to hurry off,’ said Pat diplomatically. ‘But that’s why I’m here now. Nev Hilton. There’s something a bit odd I want to ask you about.’
Chris Canne nodded as if his worst fears were being confirmed. ‘Oh God,’ was all he said, but his manner forcibly reminded Pat of that other time when he’d been faced with the news of misdemeanours going on at St Barnabus’s school. Obviously there was some story there, but then she’d already guessed as much from the sheer speed with which he’d responded to her email that morning, asking her to come in as soon as she possibly could.
‘Why? Had something happened with Neville?’ she asked, reflecting her suspicions had been right.
Chris looked at her, as if trying to make his mind up about something. ‘You go first,’ he said.
Puzzled and curious, Pat briefly outlined recent events: the overheard shouting, the stricken look on Neville’s dead face, and that mysterious yellow line. When she’d finished, Chris didn’t look quite so uncomfortable.
‘I see,’ he said. ‘Or rather Idon’tsee. And I don’t think it can have anything to do with what happened here. I don’t think so.’
‘Whatdidhappen here?’ asked Pat.
Chris looked at her cautiously, almost appraisingly. ‘If I tell you,’ he said eventually, ‘you must promise to keep this to yourself. Even though the guy’s dead, he still has rights – or his widow does.’
