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NEXT DAY CAME A WELCOME afternoon off, at least for the staff who were not housemistresses. Thursday afternoons were set aside for teaching Life Skills. Given that this was a private school “for young ladies” as Lord Bunting had specified, one might have expected these lessons to be in the style of a finishing school, such as deportment, elocution, and getting out of a sports car without showing your knickers. In fact they were more socially-minded, as Miss Harnett had explained at my interview. The girls were despatched after lunch to local organisations happy to receive their help – nursing homes, charity shops, primary schools, pre-schools and public parks. Each girl took a turn in the different sectors.
“It encourages the girls to consider the needs of others less fortunate than themselves,” she’d explained. “Consequently in later life, a St Bridean would be the one to pick you up in the street if you fell over.”
Watching the girls from the staffroom window as they lined up on the forecourt, ready to board minibuses to their Life Skills venues, I couldn’t help but admire Miss Harnett’s benevolent principles.
“I do think these Thursday afternoon outings are a wonderful idea,” I said to no-one in particular.
“Yes,” said the Bursar, topping up his cup at Old Faithful. “Helping the local community validates our charity status. Saves us a fortune in tax.”
The door flew open and Joe bounded in, making a beeline for me. He took the empty coffee cup from my hands and set it back on the trolley.
“Come on, you. It’s a glorious day out there. I thought you could make up for lost time on a bicycle.”
Mavis, rifling through her pigeonhole, turned to fix him with a glare.
“Stop bossing her about, Joe. Gemma might have other plans.”
Joe turned to me for adjudication. “Did you have other plans for this afternoon, Gemma?”
“Er, no, actually,” I faltered, wondering whether I should invent some.
“Well, there’s no time to hang about,” he said. “We’ve only got till suppertime, when the hordes return.”
I played for time. “But I don’t have a bicycle.”
“No, but Oriana does, don’t you, Oriana?”
Oriana scooped up the registers, ready to take the roll call prior to the girls’ departure.
“You’re welcome to my bike if you want it, Gemma. It’s been rusting away in the bike shed for years. My cycling days are done. My current vehicle of choice is a sports car or private jet.”
Mavis tutted, stuffed her post back in her pigeonhole, and left the room. I wondered what her agenda was for the afternoon. I bet it didn’t include a bicycle.
“Well?” Joe was waiting for my decision.
“Just give me a few minutes to change. I can’t cycle in a skirt.”
“Doesn’t stop me.” He glanced down at his tennis dress. “But if you must, I’ll meet you in ten minutes round the back of the bike shed.”
“His natural habitat, naughty boy,” murmured Oriana, as she headed out of the door.
* * *
AS I APPROACHED THE bike shed in jeans and trainers, I wondered whether I’d made the right decision. I hadn’t been on a bicycle for years. As a former professional cyclist, Joe might soon get fed up with me. I hoped he was planning a gentle ride around the school grounds, rather than a major expedition. The front drive alone was about a mile long, so we could easily do two miles without leaving the premises.
But Joe had other ideas. “We’re going to Wendlebury Barrow,” he announced, laying down the rag with which he’d been cleaning Oriana’s bike. “As Head of English, you need to befriend the local bookshop.”
“Hang on.” A sudden thought popped into my head. “Isn’t that where Oriana diverted Steven to? I don’t want to risk bumping into him.”
I shuddered.
“Don’t be daft. That was two days ago. They’ll have told him straight away that they’d never heard of you, and he’ll have gone on his way. I hardly think he’s likely to loiter about the place on the off chance that they’re lying and you’ll turn up.”
“Hmm. I suppose not.”
“More to the point, the bookshop tearoom does a luscious afternoon tea.” This was the kind of coercion I could handle. “And as you’ll have cycled there, you can eat all the cake you like with a clear conscience.”
Lean, muscular Joe was the last person to have to worry about calories in cake. But I was persuaded.
“Sounds perfect. Thank you.”
As he wheeled Oriana’s bike over to me, I asked, “Which bike is yours?”
He pointed at a rack of six gleaming bicycles.
“All of them.”
“Wow.”
He extracted a broad-tyred traditional model from among the high tech, highly sprung mountain bikes and lean, minimalist racers. I was glad we’d be on an equal footing, rather than him sleek and speedy, head bowed for aerodynamics, with me looking prim and proper behind.
Joe obviously enjoyed maintaining his bicycle collection, because neatly arranged on shelves at one end of the shed were boxes of tools, accessories and spares. I guessed this was where one might find him in free periods and wondered what else went on here. Smoking, obviously. Cigarette ends littered the ground.
Gingerly I stepped astride Oriana’s bike.
“I may need a moment to get used to it.”
I lowered myself onto the saddle, grateful for its generous padding. I was also glad that this was an elegant upright model of vintage design with a pretty wicker basket on the front, rather than a racing machine. He could not expect me to reach high speeds on this bike.
“Don’t worry,” said Joe, sensitive to my unease. “It’s an easy ride. The roads will be practically empty at this time of day. And there’s no rush.”
We set off, Joe pedalling in swift circles around me as I teetered along the broad path that would take us on to the main drive.
“We can chat as we go,” he said, breathing as easily as if he was sitting in his staffroom armchair with his feet up. I hoped the chat would take my mind off the physical effort required to propel myself along.
We slowed down as we approached the twin gatehouses at the junction with the main road. This pair of mirror-image cottages stood sentry either side of tall wrought iron gates. I stuck out my left hand to give a clear signal, surprised by the latent memory of cycling proficiency training at the age of thirteen. Joe glanced back over his shoulder and laughed at me.
“There’s no-one around to see you indicate except me. And I know where you’re going.”
I stopped, put my feet on the ground, and he glided past, braking just in front of me.
“What about Max? Won’t he have us on his radar?”
As if in reply, a net curtain twitched in the front window of one of the lodges. I nodded in that direction.
“Is that where Max lives?”
Joe shook his head. “He and Rosemary live in the other one.”
“So who lives in that lodge?”
“The Bursar.”
We pulled out on to the empty road. As we got up speed, a refreshing breeze cooled my glowing face, and I began to enjoy the journey. Soon my grip on the handlebars relaxed, and I felt sufficiently stable to turn my head to admire the scattered cottages and farmhouses along the way. The only traffic we saw was a tractor on the other side of the road, and a couple of women on horseback riding side by side. Both of them raised a friendly hand in greeting, which I returned with only a slight wobble of my bike.
After a few miles, we reached a junction and paused to allow a few cars to come and go before crossing over a busier road. Within a few hundred metres, we passed a sign saying: “Welcome to Wendlebury Barrow”. Then came the beginnings of an ancient ribbon development of old stone cottages, with a couple of side roads leading to newer housing developments behind.
After we’d passed a shop and a pub, Joe cycled ahead of me to lead the way. When he gave an elaborate wave of his right hand, the “I’m slowing down” sign, I wondered whether he was teasing me. Then he stuck out his left hand and pulled over outside the bookshop, above which a hanging sign announced: “TEA CAKE BOOKS”.
He leaned his bike against the side of the building, slipping it deftly between the wall and a Land Rover parked alongside the shop. Then he turned to take mine and propped it up against his. The two machines nestled intimately together, handlebars against saddle, pedal against pedal. I dropped my helmet into Oriana’s wicker basket and ran my fingers through my hair to plump it up, my scalp warm and damp from the exertion.
“Come on, then.” He led the way, holding the door open for me to enter the shop.
Just inside the door, a man in his early thirties with dark curly hair and clear green eyes looked up from behind the counter, where he’d been tapping away at a computer keyboard. He smiled when he saw Joe, then at me.
“Hi, Joe, who’s your friend?”
“She can talk, you know,” said Joe. That was refreshing. Steven would have answered for me.
I gave a little wave. “Hello, I’m Gemma. I’m the new English teacher at St Bride’s. I’ve just joined this term.”
The man got up from his stool and came out from behind the counter, holding out his hand to shake mine.
“Hello, I’m Hector.” He gave an engaging smile. “Well done on your new job. Such a gorgeous house and grounds to work in. If you need any help with book orders or book choices for the English department, I’m your man.”
He turned to Joe. “You after your usual, Joe?”
Joe nodded and put a hand on my shoulder to guide me to the tearoom area at the back. Hector diverted to a door in the corner diagonally opposite the trade counter, presumably his stockroom. He opened it a fraction to call through it: “Sophie! You’ve got tearoom customers!”
A pretty girl a little younger than me emerged and headed for the tearoom. Her forget-me-not blue eyes lit up when she saw Joe, who was positively glowing after our ride. She gave me a warm smile too.
As he settled himself at a tearoom table, the muscles in Joe’s legs made the light metal chairs look spindly. Only then did I notice that for once he was wearing men’s clothes.
