Pat nodded, intrigued. ‘Of course,’ she said. Telling Thelma andLiz didn’t count, not really – and surely Chris must realise she’d share this with her friends.
Chris Canne took a gulp from his steel water bottle. ‘The thing is,’ he said replacing the top, ‘the thing is – if something untoward had happened to Nev Hilton – well – I wouldn’t be at all surprised.’
Even in these glossy days of corporate education, St Barnabus Primary Academy was looking especially polished, Liz thought. Walking through the hot, heavy corridors of her former workplace, she noticed how every display had been crisply and immaculately labelled, every surface pristine. There was none of the endemic clutter schools generate, especially towards the end of the school year – orphaned pumps, discarded reading books, lidless felt tips. But surely the school was breaking up for summer at the end of the week?
‘It’s all looking very smart,’ she said to Linda Barley in puzzled tones.
The office manager rolled her eyes. ‘It’s amazing the effect the word Ofsted can have,’ she said, opening a door labelled ‘Documentation Hub’.
‘Is the school due an inspection?’ Liz had to fight down the instinctive flutter that the dreaded ‘O’ word had brought, firmly reminding herself she was retired.
Linda sighed. ‘Our Ofsted window is well and truly wide open,’ she said, fanning herself. ‘However, come one o’clock I reckon—’ she glanced at her watch ‘—that’ll be us clear until September, fingers crossed. Just in ten more minutes. So, you wait here, lovey. Becky’ll be down with you in two secs.’
Left alone, Liz looked round the room – a small space that she remembered as being used as something of a dumping ground by the PTA. Now cleared of dusty tombola prizes and bags of polystyrene cups, it was dominated by a smart conference table and shelves. Lots and lots of shelves crammed with a profusion of ring binders, folders and magazine boxes, each one bearing aneat, printed label –School Development Plan,Minutes of Governor’s Meetings,Latest Policies A–F.
‘Welcome to the War Room.’
Liz turned and saw Becky Clegg, the head teacher, standing in the doorway, a smile fighting her habitual frown. Her face was slightly flushed in the heat, her frizzy red hair tamed by a series of brilliant green hair slides.
‘War room?’ said Liz. Becky nodded.
‘As decreed by Chris Canne and the trust, God love them. It’s where we’re to have every last scrap of documentation that Ofsted could possibly want. All schools in Lodestone Trust due an Ofsted have to have one.’
She walked forward and gave Liz a brief and uncharacteristic hug.
‘It’s good to see you,’ she said and flopped down in a chair the way energetic people do, slumped back and outstretched legs reminding Liz as ever of her old Raggedy Ann doll.
‘I remember how stressful it all was,’ said Liz. ‘Waiting for the Ofsted call to come.’
Becky nodded. ‘It’s like waiting for an exam,’ she said, pouring herself a glass of water from the jug on the table. ‘Only you’ve no idea when it will be or what the questions are.’ She held the glass against her forehead. ‘There’s literally thousands of things they could ask you about.’
‘And you’re expected to have a full and detailed answer for each and every one,’ finished Liz.
Becky nodded wearily; she seemed to be wilting in the heat. ‘Everyone’s been hoping and hoping they won’t come until September. Every Monday morning we’ve all been like cats on hot bricks in case the call comes, but if I’m being honest I’m wishing it was all over and done, so we can all enjoy our summer.’
‘I completely understand. It’s very good of you to find the time to see me,’ said Liz. ‘I know what the end of term is like even without Ofsted hanging over you.’
Becky smiled and took a thirsty gulp. ‘I always,alwayshave time for you and your friends after what you did for the school – and for me.’
Liz nodded, remembering that whole nasty business of the poison pen letters – that horrible, creeping tension in school. Surely waiting for Ofsted couldn’t be as bad?
‘Anyway.’ Becky’s voice broke into her train of thought. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Neville Hilton,’ said Liz simply.
Becky took another gulp of water and eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I’d heard he’d died of course,’ she said. ‘And I had half a mind to go to the funeral but we were full on here.’ She gestured absently round the War Room.
‘You worked with him, didn’t you? In Northallerton?’
Becky nodded. ‘He was my head teacher at Bullamoor Park.’ She looked at Liz. ‘So d’you think there’s maybe something odd about his death?’
Liz flinched somewhat at Becky’s characteristic directness. It was a very sudden conclusion she’d jumped to – and one that was very close to the truth. How much should she say?
‘Why d’you ask that?’ she said, stalling for time.
Becky shrugged. ‘I don’t know, it just seemed a bit sudden, him dying like that,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t that old and’ – her face broke into a smile – ‘I know you and your friends!’
Liz decided to ignore that. ‘I’m interested to know what he was like to work for,’ she said.
