In the car park, Red was carrying Mrs Morrissey’s bags into the school and he waved. With Red in the world, I felt I could do anything.
Mary was in the school office, tiny Huan in a Moses basket up against her desk. ‘Tabitha!’ she said in an urgent whisper. ‘Where were you? Didn’t you get my messages…?’
I checked my phone in my bag, it had been on silent. Thirty-seven missed calls.
‘We’ve got the special assembly now… can it wait?’
She shook her head and motioned to my office with her eyes just as Brian Crowley appeared from my door, his voluminous body eclipsing the light from the window, smiling his small-toothed crocodile smile.
‘I hope you don’t mind me waiting in your office,’ he said, holding a sheaf of papers. ‘But it’s time to crack on. Get these babies signed. Last day of term and our man Freddie doesn’t like to wait for too long.’ He rubbed his hands.
‘Tabitha…’ Mary called.
‘I’ll talk to you in a moment, Mary,’ I said as I followed Brian into my office. Through the window and past the school gates were the protestors. These people full of life and conviction, the opposite of Brian Crowley who was full of self-interest and self-gain. Robbo, I could see, was strumming away on his guitar, Leaf was holding her hands up as Nellie wound wool around them and Arthur and Nora chatted to a group of elderly neighbours. And across the school playground was a place which would outlive us. The Copse was full of birds and their nests, the caterpillars, the squirrels, the snails, insects. The daisies waiting to be made into chains, the twigs and branches ready to be made into dens. We needed to clean it up, tidy it up. A few benches and from September on, it would be part of the school playground. Our wild play area. A place of infinite learning. And I knew, if I sold to Brian and this Freddie, I would regret it for ever.
‘Brian, we have our special assembly this morning, I was hoping to talk to you after it…’
He followed my glance out of the window. ‘Those toe rags out there will have to go, cluttering up the school, that scruffy bunch of socialists and environmentalists…’
My phone flashed with a message, from Mary:
DO NOT DO IT.
And then another:
FOR THE LOVE OF FATIMA, STOP!
‘Brian…’ I tried to remain composed, ‘one of those protestors is a retired professor, another is a daily churchgoer who volunteers at the homeless shelter in Dun Laoghaire five nights a week and the younger members are very impressive people, talented, hard-working and committed.’ I stopped and gave him my hardest stares, ‘And the fifth member is my mother.’ He knew this, of course.
‘Ah, do beg my pardon,’ said Brian, with a most oleaginous smile. ‘I had entirely forgotten, forgive my turn of phrase, it’s just that they are persistent, aren’t they?’ He flashed me a tiny-toothed smile that looked entirely unapologetic. ‘Oh well, they’ve lost, haven’t they? They’ll all have to go and find something else to protest about. Like banning all cars and making us all ride bikes or wear hemp clothes.’ He passed me his fountain pen. ‘Ready?’ He slid the contract in front of me. ‘And here’s where it says land is not zoned for development… you should be pleased with that?’
I, Tabitha Thomas, as head teacher of Star of the Sea National School, hereby declare, as patron and governor of the school, as guardian of its pupils and as de facto landowner of the school, its buildings and of the land surrounding it, that the half-acre site, hereby known as the Copse should be sold to…
‘Brian…’ I began.
‘One moment,’ he said, ‘just sign and then we can have all the chats in the world and you can tootle off to the assembly or whatever it is.’
‘Brian,’ I said. ‘I’m not going to sign. I don’t want to sell. I don’t care about the money. The school is actually doing all right, without iPads. We’ll carry on with our cake sales and book clubs and cheese and wine dos and as long as the children are happy, that’s all that matters.’
‘What?’ he paled. ‘Have you gone mad? What authority do you have? This has been unanimously agreed by the boards of governors.’
‘But it’s not unanimous,’ I said. ‘There’s me. I haven’t voted but I have listened to all the arguments and have thought about it a great deal. We are not selling the Copse…’
‘But what is Sister Kennedy going to say?’ he said, sweat forming on his brow. ‘She is not going to be happy, I can tell you that. She was saying how much she admired the plan and what a difference it would make to the lives of the children, computers and the like…’
‘Brian, I don’t care about what Sister Kennedy says.’
‘Well!’ he spluttered, outraged. ‘I bet she would be interested in hearing your opinion of her,’ he said, talking faster now. ‘I bet she would like to know what you really think. As if she doesn’t matter. An ex-head teacher of this very school and she doesn’t matter! I’ve got a good mind to ring her straight away.’
There was a scrabbling sound from outside my door and a piece of paper was slipped under it. The word NO scribbled on it, layer upon layer of blue biro.
‘Why don’t you, Brian. But I’m the head teacher now and I am not selling. I have the final say.’ I stood up and walked to my office door, my hand on the knob and, just as I pulled it open, there was Mary on her hands and knees.
‘Lost your glasses again, Mary?’
‘Paper clips,’ she said, feeling around on the carpet tiles. ‘I dropped some paper clips.’
‘One moment, Brian,’ I said, and Mary and I quickly ushered each other out of my office.
‘What’s going on?’ I whispered urgently.
‘He’s going to build on the land. I know for sure he is. Whatever you do, don’t sign.’
‘I’m not going to, but how do you know?’
‘Last night, I was taking my usual evening walk along the Colliemore Road, just down from the harbour. It’s my constitutional. Well, it’s ours now, mine and Huan’s… sea air, you know...’
‘Go on…’
‘Well, I was sitting there, back against the wall, it’s a lovely spot, and you really get a blast of evening sun. There’s a large flat stone and you’re kind of hidden away. It’s sort of like meditating, in the moment or whatever they call it…’
‘Mindfulness. Now, go on…’
‘Anyway, so there I am, in my own world, pondering, as you do… when on the other side of the wall come two men…’
‘Right…’
‘So, I take no notice and they park themselves on the other side of the wall. And I’ve got my scarf tied on my head. My woolly one, tied under my chin. So, I’m in disguise…’
‘And?’
‘I recognised Brian Crowley’s voice immediately. You know, that throat-clearing thing he does.’ She then did a pitch perfect impersonation of the sound. ‘And his boomy voice that would carry right over the Irish Sea to Wales … and I heard every word …’
‘Go on…’
‘The other fella was Freddie Boyle, the so-called pig farmer. Mr Good Samaritan himself. Now, this Freddie is a very large man, and he says, “when is that fecking teacher going to make up her mind?” Except he didn’t say fecking. And Brian tells him not to worry and it’s in the bag. And then Fat Freddie gives this huge laugh, a chortle really…’
‘A chortle?’
She nodded. ‘And says they’ve got it for a fecking song, except again they used the other word. Twenty grand, said Brian, and we’re going to make 100 times that, once the apartments are sold. So, at this point, I am rigid and pressed against the wall, not daring to breathe and praying Huan won’t wake up, ears straining.’
‘I wasn’t going to sell anyway,’ I said. ‘But it’s good to have suspicions confirmed.’