“That’s strange,” said Sarah as we walked up the lane towards the main gates to the academy.
“What’s strange?”
“That man in the boat was wearing a battered old Hamsa.”
“Hamsa?”
“Jewish amulet. It’s in the shape of a hand, usually with an eye in the middle. I remember people wearing them when I was a kid. His was hanging from a dull looking silver chain bracelet.”
“Then our old man is Jewish. Nothing strange in that.”
“Not in itself, Jack, but it somehow seems odd, an old man dressed like that wearing such an elaborate thing.”
We walked on, arriving at the academy gatehouse, and forgetting the old man as the rotund figure of Runtle appeared out of a small door (the ‘postern’ as he liked to call it), to the side of the main gates.
“Ah, Mr Sangster, come through.”
“Sarah, this is Runtle, our caretaker,” I said, watching her appraise the diminutive old caretaker’s ruddy face, his mop of grey curly hair and (as I imagined Sarah would have said out of his earshot), ‘five by five’ figure.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Runtle.”
“Ma’am,” said Runtle, deferentially. “The Flimwells are outside on the front lawn, if you’d like to walk on up.” We proceeded along the main driveway, flanked on either side by lush rhododendrons, Sarah commenting on the massive gates and high perimeter walls (‘a bit like a prison, darling’). We passed several small groups of pupils walking in the grounds, always apparently in deep discussion and, as we approached the school building, the sound of violins could be heard echoing through the bushes. Turning a corner, we saw a string quartet seated on chairs laid out across the lawn, with the two principals, along with several other staff members and pupils, standing watching as the children played.
*
“Mrs Sangster,” beamed Velinda Flimwell, clapping as the music finished. “How lovely you could come down and visit us from, er…”
“Chester, and call me Sarah, please.” She gestured across the lawn and towards the building. “I couldn’t wait to see the academy. Jack’s told me so much about the place, and about you and your husband.”
“Nothing good I hope,” joked Cyrus.
“All good,” said Sarah. “Jack and I saw a couple of youngsters kayaking just now. From the school?”
“I think that would have been Angel Blackwood you saw, and one of her friends. We’re encouraging the kids to take an interest in the water, and they’re gradually doing up the boats we inherited. Some of them have been working every night, and they need to. Boats were left to rot by the previous owners.”
“And what was that beautiful music?”
“Musica notturna delle strade di Madrid, by Boccherini.”
“Night music of the streets of Madrid,” translated Sarah. “The kids must have practised for weeks. That sounded almost perfect.” She paused for a moment. “No, not almost. It was perfect.”
“Practised for weeks you say?” questioned Cyrus, his eyes (I felt), lingering for just a moment too long on Sarah’s mini-skirted legs (she seemed not to notice).
“Hours more like,” laughed Velinda. “They were literally given the sheet music after breakfast this morning. Today’s the first time they have played that piece together.”
“Unbelievable,” said Sarah shaking her head.
“Many things these children can do defy belief,” Velinda went on to say. “But our academy’s young people are nevertheless just children at the end of the day, with everything that means, good and bad. Now then, Sarah, I believe my husband needs to borrow your husband for a while, so may I show you round the academy in the meantime?”
Sarah nodded and we went our separate ways, she on her tour and I to the school office, where I explained Prendergast’s plans for the funding of phase two. An hour later we were all back standing on the front lawn, at which point I saw that two buses now stood parked in the driveway.
“Trip to the cinema this evening, Sangster,” said Cyrus, noticing my gaze. “The new Beatles film, Let it Be, showing at the Regal in Redruth.” He shook his head and looked at the ground. “It’ll be like herding cats, getting this lot there and back safely.”
“Well, they’re in capable hands and I’m sure the kids and the staff will love the film,” I said. “Anyway, we’d better be getting along. Ferry back to St Mawes is in ten minutes.”
We said our goodbyes and walked back to the gatehouse, where Runtle once again let us through the postern, the main gates staying firmly shut (‘don’t like opening them big gates for nobody, not even them buses’). The academy’s security, I thought to myself as the postern door slammed shut, was in safe if somewhat eccentric hands.
*
“Good people the Flimwells,” I said to Sarah as we walked down the lane towards the landing stage. “Couldn’t have done this without them.”
“Er… yes.”
“Mmmm?”
“Well, he’s a bit too touchy feely, that Cyrus,” Sarah replied, looking away from me.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, he kept placing his hand on my back as we walked. Once a bit lower down.”
“Not too low I hope?”
“Oh no, just lower.”
“Normal enough.”
“Seemed unnecessary, happened too many times. And I saw him looking at me out of the corner of his eye, in that way men do.”
“Normal enough again.”
“A woman knows the signals.”
“Well,” I said, remembering Flimwell’s overlong glances at Sarah. “A lot of men can’t help themselves.”
“Thank you, I’d never have known that.” I placed my arm around her shoulders.
“There’s nothing he did I should be worried about is there?”
“No Jack, nothing like that.”