Gregson - Headmistress

Headmistress

Ruth Gregson

Copyright Ruth Gregson 2018

Ruth Gregson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is purely coincidental.

To Racca, the writer who can say it with a rugby tackle

Jen headed out of the Principals office, her heels reverberating in the empty corridors. This would be her greatest challenge yet. Deputy Principal. And Doctor Sopers Preparatory School For Girls was certainly a nicer place than her last school, St Rolloxs. Much smaller chance of being stabbed there, for starters.

The new neighbourhood of suited her rather well. The Lake District was only twenty minutes away by car. Her new house was on the edge of town, overlooking the dense woodland of Humbleton Park, and next to it, where the road forked, miles and miles of fields. Just the peace and quiet she needed. All she needed was a term to settle in, find her feet. A term with no upset, no drama. No controversy.

Some chance , she thought. Already she had been given the task of slashing departmental budgets. Normally this would be the responsibility of the Principal - But the Principal, Dr Letchford, had delegated this power to Jen as he considered himself too avuncular to be an axeman. Yes, he had explained, Jen would be much better at doing these things than he would have been - she taught mathematics after all. She was more... imposing. More commanding. Tall , he meant - Jen was five feet ten without shoes on, six feet two with heels and her hair up.

The first part of Jens economy drive, Letchford had suggested, would be to scrap plans for a new mural to commemorate the schools 125th anniversary. The school had hired an artist-in-residence to devise and oversee the project, involving the older children in the creative process. To Jen, this seemed like an admirable plan, but her new boss wanted it canned, and he wanted her to be the one to can it. She had resolved that she could not be persuaded, she would not be sweet-talked out of it. She had to make an impression.

She could smell the paint already. Then she saw the sheeting covering the parquet floor. The wall had been painted white as preparation for the mural, effectively turning it into a blank canvas. And touching up the final areas where the old colour was showing through was a figure in old blue overalls and a baseball cap worn backwards.

Hello, Jen introduced herself. Jennifer Hatfield, Deputy Principal.

The figure carried on painting. Jen cleared her throat:

You must be the janitor.

Still no answer. Jen tapped the overall-covered shoulder. A paintbrush spun past Jens head, landing with a splat on the plastic sheeting. She recoiled with a shriek. What the hell are you doing?

The figure turned around, taking off their baseball cap. Jen saw chestnut-coloured hair in a low-worn bun, long loose curls from the forehead to the ears. Long, thick eyelashes.

Oh my God, Im so sorry! the painter said. Didnt know you were there. Had the old headphones on. She removed her ear buds.

Jen smiled. Engrossed in your work?

The artist nodded. I didnt splash you, did I?

No, no, Im fine. Jen found herself staring into the painters eyes. They were a wonderful autumnal colour; red-amber, like a fine ale. The painter was a few years younger than her, slightly below average height. Her overalls gaped at the throat. Jen couldnt help a quick glance down the gap.

Oh good, the painter grinned. Id hate to spoil that lovely suit of yours.

Oh, this old thing? Jen couldnt believe what she was saying. This old thing? It was brand new! Who was she trying to impress?

Yeah, where did you get it?

Canada. Well, that bit was true.

Wow, Ive always wanted to go to Canada. Friend of mine went there, came back with a tin of bear pt. Have you ever eaten bear pt?

Er, no. Have you?

The painter shook her curls. No. Always wondered about it, though. I hear its like chicken, but fishier.

Jen laughed. Maybe your friend could have got you another tin.

Oh, waste of money. Im a vegetarian. Id be vegan, but a world without eggs and cheese is like the earth without art. As in Eh.

Eh?

No, Eh. Like Meh without the M.

Oh, right. Jen was confused now. Well, Ill let you get back to it. She headed off.

Hey, wait! The painter was calling after her. I didnt get your name.

Jens cheeks flushed hot and red. Some axeman she was! There were a couple of children about to pass by, so first names would have to remain a secret.

Miss Hatfield.

Nice to meet you, Miss Hatfield. You have a good day.

Yes, you too.

#

Damn! She hadnt even learned the artists name. How could she fire someone whose name she didnt know? That would be really rude of her. And the painter seemed very pleasant, rather charming. She had a lovely smile. Kind eyes. A delicate, caramel-coloured dcollet -

Stop it stop it stop it stop it. Jen sat in her classroom, her mind racing. She couldnt do this again. She was kidding herself if she thought that someone like that would be interested. But she had felt something just then, and whether it was a spark of friendship or something more, it was good to be feeling anything at all.

The afternoon went quickly. Jen was teaching the principles of aerodynamics and momentum, getting the Year 5s to make model car chassis propelled by a rubber band wrapped around a pencil. Jasmine Hennessy, the class's admirable klutz, had surprised everyone by being the first to make hers work. Unfortunately her chassis had worked so well that it sped right across the classroom and straight under the massive bookcase that ran from floor to ceiling. They had been unable to retrieve it, even Jen's long arms couldn't reach far enough.

Ill try to get it back for you, she promised the disconsolate girl. Except now the kids had gone home and she had tried again, she saw that it was a hopeless case. She had tried shining the light from her phone under the bookcase, and still couldn't see it. She took off her jacket and kneeled down, reaching under the bookcase again, and gave a gasp of frustration. She heard the door open behind her.

Now that's what I call a view. It was the painter again. Under the bookcase, I mean. God knows what's found its way under there over the years.

Jen was aware that her backside was high in the air. She sat back on her heels. Hello again.

The painter sat down on the floor beside her. What have you lost?

A little wooden car chassis. I was getting the kids to make them. Jasmine Hennessy was a little over-enthusiastic winding hers up, I'm afraid.

Ah, Jasmine. Bless her, she does try. Go easy on her, though. She's just been diagnosed as dyspraxic. Parents didn't take it well, went round telling their village she was subnormal. Stupid gits. Poor kids got enough to deal with without having parents that just don't get it.

That's a shame.

Need a hand?

Jen shook her head. You're very kind, but I think its too far under. I can't reach it.

The painter grinned. Wanna bet?

You think you can get it?

Uh-huh.

A playful smile spread across Jen's lips. How much do you want to bet?

The painter's eyes flashed as she laughed. Let's just say, if I manage to get it back for you, I have to take you out for tea in celebration. And if I don't, you take me out for tea in commiseration.

Jen felt her cheeks grow hot again. Alright then, you're on.

The painter grinned once more: Wait right there. She headed to the door.

Where are you going? Jen asked.

I'll be five minutes. And she was gone. Jen couldn't believe she had been so gullible. But there was something so innocent about the painter that Jen couldn't help but hope she was on the level. She would give her five minutes, but doubted she would return.