She had added that fear was preventing Rosy from exploring the basic joys of life and was instead locking her in a self-prescribed box of unhealthy reactions and behaviours. Katie also pointed out that as a psychologist, and not a telepath, soothsayer or magician, she couldn’t say with finality that Matt was going to make all her romantic dreams come true but that the one thing that was sure was that if Rosy didn’t give people a fair shot then she would be alone forever. Bleak.
Rosy, having heard it, knew Katie’s words to be true, especially when combined with what Chase had said that night on the beach. Even discounting Matt, she needed to shake off the shackles she had imposed on herself and start accepting she couldn’t change what had passed but she could actively shape her future. She had told two people her secret now in as many weeks and they hadn’t appeared repulsed. Her less than decorous behaviour at the party hadn’t caused any kind of seismic social catastrophe either. Maybe, finally, the time had come to stop carving out the perfect public persona and just do things she wanted to. Not that she was likely to dance on the tables in The Smuggler’s Curse waving her knickers in the air, but giving her heart another chance might be exciting. Or at the very least not letting anxiety about public perception dictate her choices; maybe that was a more sensible place to start.
She needed to talk to Matt and to do so today. The familiar steel chest bands and leaden tummy slunk up on her, but she was not going to be a coward any longer. She would apologize for not getting in touch when she’d said she would, she would apologize for her erratic behaviour and she might even tell him why. She would tell him why. She would explain all her history, Josh, her fears about people getting too close, her fears of judgement, of losing her professional reputation and personal respect – the whole caboodle. Then, when he ran away with the speed of a hungry big cat released on a game reserve, she would know that she had not let cowardice beat her. Oh, green dress, she needed you today like never before.
Chapter Thirty-Six
‘And we’re here today in the school hall at Penmenna awaiting an early private screening of the first episode ofGreen-fingered and Gorgeous: The Cornish Editionaired on BBC2 this evening at nine and predicted to be the nation’s favourite television tipple of the season.’ Hugo Sweetling, dressed in tweed and holding his favourite microphone (a type not seen on any other TV programme in decades), gave his trademark wink to camera. A wink that encapsulated bonhomie, cricket and village ponds.
The children cheered on cue, all standing smartly in school uniform (Marion had ensured not a single sweatshirt was stained, not a single hair out of place and any freckles had been subdued) and wavedGreen-fingered and Gorgeousflags that had been handed out by the production company.
‘Matt Masters will be joining us shortly but in the meantime we’ll be talking to the headteacher, Miss Winter, and a few of the children all about the grand adventure they’ve been having over the last couple of weeks, and my understanding is that it isn’t finished yet, is that correct, Miss Winter?’
‘Yes, Hugo, that is correct. We were lucky enough to be asked to take part in this project as a way of involving the local community in the revival of this great garden, and although the programme airs tonight, the vegetables are still growing and the children are still gardening. We have to crop and cook our vegetables yet, and that won’t be happening for a little while.’
‘Quite, and I understand that this opportunity has been invaluable for the school. How is that so?’
‘If I may jump in, Hugo? Marion Marksharp, school governor and head of the PTA. The school has always been the vibrant hub around which our community flourishes. It has stood on this spot for the last one hundred and fifty years and has seen generation upon generation of families stream through its doors. Many of course went on, in years gone by, to work in the house or on the land at Penmenna Hall. This project has been invaluable for our children, not just teaching them about food production and life cycles but also feeding into their literacy and numeracy work as well as fostering an understanding of the history of this lovely community in which we are all lucky to be a part of, isn’t that right, Miss Winter?’
‘Quite right, Mrs Marksharp. The children have loved being involved and have found it to be a deeply rewarding experience, from the very youngest in the school to those who will be leaving in the summer.’
‘Which is why it is such a shame that we have received the news recently that the Local Authority will be closing the school at the end of the academic year to force a merger with other village schools in the area into a new bigger school that will be located ten miles away in Roscarrock. This will strip the community of its heart and the children of an opportunity to flourish in a school that has served so many generations here in Penmenna. Apart from the practical difficulties of no longer having a school locally, the pressures it will place on parents, of which I am one, having to send their children so far to get an education is immeasurable. It also means that the children will not be able to carry on their work at Penmenna Hall and all the opportunities it brings. It is nonsensical to me, as I’m sure it will be to your viewers, that a school rated outstanding by Ofsted, time and time again, will be abolished in the name of cost-cutting and efficiency.’
‘Is that the case, Miss Winter? Is the Local Authority shutting Penmenna School?’ The reporter looked less surprised than Rosy would have imagined by the turn of focus, until she realized that this whole thing may have been beautifully orchestrated by Marion.
‘Unfortunately it is, and as Marion has said this school is not just a vital lifeline to the community as a whole but is a place where the children feel secure. Their parents, older brothers and sisters have attended, there is a real sense of history here, and with that comes a sense of belonging. The Penmenna Hall project has helped reinforce that and has been especially helpful to the handful of children we have here who need that little bit of extra help to thrive, some of whom will not be able to cope with the transition to another school and as such will lose their opportunity to participate in mainstream education. Although the plans to close us are not written in stone, we have been informed it is more than likely, but we will be fighting this enforced amalgamation in the interests of protecting all our children here and their way of life, but particularly those most vulnerable, those who, without a local village school, will have their security, their friendships and their hope of an inclusive education stripped away from them.’
‘These children behind us don’t look particularly worried, in fact they look really excited.’
‘And that’s how we want to keep it. The parents and staff at this school will do the fighting and the worrying in the hope that these children can remain as excited about their education, their school and all the opportunities that it gives them.’
‘Well, thank you, Miss Winter, Mrs Marksharp. I’ll hand back to you in the studio for now, but we’ll be back shortly to talk to Matt Masters, the talent behind the project, and the children themselves to see what they have learnt over the last couple of weeks.’
Hugo turned to Marion and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Well done, you. As usual, I have to stay impartial on screen, but like I said, I’ll support you as much as I can. Andrew said thanks for the cake, by the way, you know what a sucker I am for your coffee and walnut, and he loathes baking. I don’t know what you do to it, but my God it’s good. Although not as good as him over there! He’s divine. Is that the gardener?’
Rosy froze as Marion turned in the direction Hugo was facing. She was not going to swing round and gawp. She smoothed down her skirt and turned to smile at the children, her thumbs up to reassure them they were doing an amazing job and it wouldn’t be long now. Lynne caught her eye and as the cameramen switched focus from Hugo she encouraged them into a quick burst of ‘Five Little Peas’. They were all a bit more savvy now and knew a quick shot of this would encapsulate cute if the newsmen used a couple of seconds’ snippet.
Her heart swelled with love; they were all so adorable, so excited. She didn’t want them to have to go to a much bigger, more formal school, one that didn’t know them, their families and their quirks inside out. Of course they would in time, but there was a real familiarity, an intimacy in a village school that large schools, no matter how brilliant, couldn’t replicate. As she looked at Bradley, looking at his feet but singing along, her pride went through the roof. It had only been a few months previously that Lynne, who shared the teaching of Class One with her, had worried he would never be able to cope with being in the school hall at all. Now he was not just in it, he was participating, belonging. And then there was the community response to this event; so many people had turned out for this, happily waving their flags and cheering the children on. Even the recently bereaved Sylvie had brought her son, Sam, to help celebrate the school’s big day.
‘Hello, Miss Winter. Now that is a very big smile on your face there.’
‘Oh, hello, Matt.’ She turned, smiled and shook his hand, hoping that the lust-filled conflict she usually experienced when faced with those dimples and that twinkle would be absent. Dimple, twinkle. Well, the conflict had gone. ‘How are you? My goodness, Scramble, you look particularly fluffy today.’
She thought she deserved a medal for keeping her voice even. She would have made a great spy – no, now was not the time for flights of fancy. She did not want to be a spy, she wanted to be a successful headteacher who didn’t make herself look a tit in front of her school, her crush and the local news. Her crush? God help her! But how much better was ‘crush’ than ‘nemesis’? She had made progress.
Scramble jumped up, excited as ever and with no regard for the laddering of her tights.
‘I thought a good scrub and a removal of wellies was probably called for today, and Scramble wanted to join in.’ That slow smile meandered across Matt’s face up to his eyes. ‘Down, Scramble, down. He said he liked the look of Angelina’s shampoo, some French one apparently, with all sorts in it, grapeseed, rose water and nettle, it said. Do I get top marks for remembering that sort of thing? I read him the ingredients and he was keen. Dead good at conditioning blonde hair, it said, and look, it works on handsome doggy grey hair as well, doesn’t it, Scramble?’
‘No marks, that sounds like very expensive shampoo!’
‘Probably, but look at him, and he smells so good. You know I can’t usually say that!’
Rosy picked the dog up and curled him into her arms, burying her face in his coat, giving herself time to deep breathe. He wriggled like fury for a second or two, then licked her face before settling down and shooting a very smug look at his owner.
‘He says you smell nice too.’ Matt smiled a tentative am-I-allowed-to-say-that smile.
‘Hmm, coming from a dog, especially yours, I’m not sure that’s a compliment. On top of which, if you were a canine telepath I’m sure you would have bragged about it by now. Come on, I’ve got to address the hordes, come say hello.’ She was very aware, not just of Matt any more, but of Marion fiercely mouthing ‘be nice!’ and Lynne smirking and giving her the thumbs up. Honestly, the pupils were more grown-up than the grown-ups in this place some days.
