carted around with her everywhere for the last ten years.
Lindsay nursed her glass and drawled, ‘So what’s this one called?’
‘Deep Purple.’
‘Great hobby, making cocktails. Of course, I’d never have your flair for it. What’s in this, then?’
‘One measure Cointreau, three of vodka, blue food-colouring, a large slug of grenadine, a measure of soda water and a lot of ice. Good, isn’t it?’
‘Dynamite. And it goes down a treat. This is certainly the life. What time’s dinner? And should I change?’
‘Three quarters of an hour. Don’t bother changing, you’re fine as you are. Tomorrow will be a bit more formal, though; best bib and tucker all round. We’ll have to go over to the staffroom shortly, so I can introduce you to the workers.’
Lindsay smiled. ‘What are they like?’ she asked, slightly apprehensive.
‘Like any collection of female teachers. There are the super-intelligent, witty ones; the boring old farts; the Tory party brigade and the statutory radical - that’s me, by the way. And a few who are just ordinary, unobjectionable women.’
‘My God, it must be bad if you’re their idea of a radical. What does that mean? You occasionally disagree with Margaret Thatcher and you put tomato sauce on your bacon and eggs? So am I going to like any of this bunch of fossils?’
‘You’ll like Chris Jackson, the PE mistress. She comes from your neck of the woods, and apart from being a physical fitness freak is obsessed with two things - wine-making and cars. You can imagine what we have in common, and it isn’t overhead camshafts.’
Lindsay grinned. ‘Sounds more like it. I don’t suppose …?’
Paddy returned the grin. ‘Sorry. There’s a large rugby player in the background, I’m afraid. You’ll also like Margaret Macdonald, if she can spare enough time from this concert to say hello. She’s head of music, and a good friend of mine. We sit up late and talk about books, politics and what passes for drama on radio and TV.’
Lindsay stretched, yawned, then lit a cigarette. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Train’s tired me out. I’ll wake up soon.’
‘You better had. You’re due to meet our magnificent headmistress, Pamela Overton. One of the old school. Her father was a Cambridge don and she came to us after a brilliant but obscure career in the Foreign Office. Very efficient and very good at achieving what she sets out to do. High powered but human. Talk to her - it’s always rewarding, if unnerving,’ Paddy observed.
‘Why unnerving?’ Lindsay was intrigued.
‘She always knows more about your area of competence than you do yourself. But you’ll enjoy her. You’ll have a chance to judge for yourself tonight, anyway, before the guest of honour gets here. Ms Smith-Couper has not said when she’ll be arriving. Her secretary simply said some time this evening. Really considerate.’
Paddy got to her feet and prowled round the desk, her strong, bony face looking puzzled. ‘I’m sure I left myself a note somewhere … I’ve got to do something before tomorrow morning and I’m damned if I can remember what it is … Oh, found it. Right. Remind me I have to have a word with Margaret Macdonald. Now, shall we go and face the staffroom?’ They walked through the trees to the main house. In a small clearing over to one side, a few floodlights illuminated a building site.
‘New squash courts,’ Paddy explained. ‘We have to light the site because we kept having stuff stolen. It’s very quiet round that side of the school after about ten - an easy target for burglars. Chris Jackson is champing at the bit for them to finish. Pity we can’t hijack the cash for the playing fields, but the money came to us as a specific bequest.’
The two women entered the main building by a small door in the rear. As they walked through the passages and glanced into the classrooms, Lindsay was struck by how superficially similar it was to her own old school, a crumbling comprehensive. Both had had the same institutional paint job done on them; both used pupils’ artistic offerings to brighten the walls; both were slightly down at heel and smelled of chalk dust. The only apparent difference at first sight was the absence of graffiti. Paddy gave Lindsay a quick run-down on the house as they walked towards the staffroom.
‘This is the kitchen and dining-room. The school has been in the building since 1934. Above us are the music rooms and assembly hall - it was a ballroom when Lord Longnor’s family had the house. There are classrooms, offices and Miss Overton’s flat on this floor. More classrooms on the second floor, and the top floor is all bedrooms. The science labs are over in the woods, on the opposite side from the houses. And this is the staff room.’
Paddy opened the door on a buzz of conversation. The staffroom was elegantly proportioned, with a large bay window through which Lindsay could see the lights of Buxton twinkling in the darkness. About twenty women were assembled in small groups, standing by the log fire or sitting in clumps of unmatched and slightly shabby chairs. The walls were occupied by a collection of old prints of Derbyshire and a vast notice-board completely covered with bits of paper. The conversations did not pause when Lindsay and Paddy entered, though several heads turned briefly towards them. Paddy led Lindsay over to a young woman who was poring over a large book. She was slim but solidly built, and seemed bursting with a vitality that Lindsay only dreamed of these days. Her jet black curly hair, pink and white complexion and dark blue eyes revealed her Highland ancestry and reminded Lindsay painfully of home.
Paddy interrupted the woman’s concentration. ‘Chris, drag yourself away from the exploded view of a cylinder head or whatever and meet Lindsay Gordon. Lindsay, this is Chris Jackson, our PE mistress.’
‘Hello there,’ said Chris, dropping her book. She still had the accent Lindsay had grown up with but had virtually lost under the layers of every other accent she had lived amongst. ‘Our tame journalist, eh? Well, before everybody else says so without meaning it, let me tell you how grateful I am for any help you can give us. We need to keep these playing fields, and not just to keep me in a job. We’d never get anything nearly so good within miles of here. It’s good of you to give us a hand, especially since you’ve no real connection with the place.’
Lindsay smiled, embarrassed by her sincerity. ‘I’m delighted to have the chance to see a place like this from the inside. And besides, I’m always glad of work, especially when it’s commissioned.’
Paddy broke into the pause which followed. ‘Chris, you and Lindsay are from the same part of the world. Lindsay’s from Invercross.’
‘Really? I’d never have guessed. You’ve hardly any trace of the accent. I’d have said yours was much further south. I’m from South Achilcaig myself, though I went to school at St Mary Magdalene in Helensburgh.’
The two women launched into conversation about their origins and memories of the Argyll-shire villages where they grew up, and discovered they had played hockey against each other a dozen years before. Paddy drifted off to talk to a worried-looking woman seated a few feet away from Lindsay and Chris. Only minutes later their reminiscences were interrupted by raised voices from Paddy and the other woman.
‘I had every right to excuse the girl. She’s in my house, Margaret. On matters of her welfare, what I say goes,’ Paddy said angrily.
‘How could you blithely give her permission to opt out when it’s so near to the actual concert? She is supposed to have a solo in the choir section. What am I supposed to do about that?’
Startled, Lindsay muttered, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Search me,’ Chris replied. ‘That’s Margaret Macdonald, head of music. Normally Paddy and her are the best of pals.’
Paddy glared at Margaret and retorted, ‘Far be it from me to put my oar in, but Jessica did suggest the Holgate girl could perfectly well handle an extra solo.’
The other woman got out of her chair and faced Paddy. ‘I make the decisions about my choirs,