Pillow Talk Part 8

'Gone? Forever? Why?'

'Because the only place in the whole world where it exists is a three-mile zone in the foothills of Kilimanjaro the Umba Valley, the area outside Arusha in the Merelani Hills.'

Petra looks up from her lap to the wall opposite her bed where the abstract oil painting of Kilimanjaro ablaze hangs. She smiles, a little sadly. Dear dear Lillian McNeil. Petra takes the tanzanite and lays it between her index and middle fingers. Even in the dim of her bedroom in the middle of the night, the stone resounds with colour and hue; deep brilliant blue one way, glimpses of vivid violet the other. She can hear Mrs McNeil's voice, as clear as if she is sitting beside her, alive still.

'A Masai warrior I knew told me that if you look into the heart of tanzanite and see through to its soul, you see the colour of Kilimanjaro through the morning haze which no paint, no pigment can replicate.'

Petra looks at her clock, surprised to see it is almost two in the morning. She looks at her tanzanite. Soon enough, there will be no more tanzanite. Anywhere in the world. Diamonds are forever, tanzanite is not. And she keeps hers under her mattress. She humps the mattress on top of all the paperbacks. She checks her mobile phone. The screen is still blank. Poor old Rob. What a thing to have to work so late.

Chapter Ten.

'Are you going to tell?'

Paul Glasper forsook the history A level essays he had settled down to mark, to pose the question to Miranda Oates in an excitable whisper, as if it was the juiciest secret to hit the school.

'What? Tell what?' asked Nigel Garton as he came into the staff room, as bleary-eyed as the pupils to whom he'd just taught double physics.

'Who?' Arlo Savidge asked, a step behind him. 'Tell what who when?'

Paul held his hands up. 'It's not for me to say,' he said with a slow and obvious wink to Miranda who rolled her eyes and flicked him a 'V' with her fingers.

Miranda shrugged. 'I'm going for a job interview.'

'A job?' said Nigel. 'What sort of job?'

'A teaching job, of course.'

'But you already have a teaching job,' said Nigel.

Miranda shrugged. 'Head of English.'

'You're Head of English here, aren't you?' Arlo said.

'Yes, but I don't want to base my entire career here at Roseberry Hall. Unlike you two.'

She looked at them while they looked at each other, baffled.

'Don't know why not,' Nigel muttered, a little affronted.

'It's easy to forget that there's life outside Roseberry Hall,' Miranda said.

'But isn't the sense of belonging, of community, the point, surely?' said Arlo.

'You sound like the school's prospectus,' Miranda said. 'Anyway, how about "Good luck, Miss Oates"?'

'Good luck, Miss Oates,' Nigel said flatly.

'Good luck,' said Arlo, 'of course good luck. But you'd be sorely missed if you left.'

Paul noticed how a sparkle enlivened Miranda's eyes, that the smile she shot over to Arlo was laced with a glance of hope.

Roseberry Hall was not a large school in terms of population, but in terms of acreage it was vast. The estate was contained, yet also heralded, by the original fine stone wall, something of a rarity in the hedge-bound locality. It was some eight feet high, crowned every few yards by a small decorative turret echoing those which were a feature of the Hall itself. From a distance and depending on the time of year, ramblers walking the Norse Lyke Wake Walk could look down on the Roseberry Hall estate in its entirety; from that perspective, the buildings and grounds and the wall running the entire perimeter resembled a well-constructed sandcastle complex. The eighteenth-century Hall itself, with its turrets and thicksilled cas.e.m.e.nt windows and magnificent arched doorway, managed to be imposing in its grandeur without being intimidating. The founder of the school, Radcliff Lawrence Esq., a wealthy philanthropist whose special interests were education and architecture and the consequences of the one on the other, was sensitive to the effect that entering through that portal could have on a schoolboy. Lawrence believed that a school's job was to teach by nurturing, not by fear. A child will not want to learn in a building he is intimidated to enter; but if the building inspires awe then the pa.s.sage to the cla.s.sroom will be an eager one. Lawrence's ethos has lasted as well as the buildings themselves and to this day, despite the school being called Roseberry Hall Public School for Boys, the pupils themselves continue to be known as Radcliff Lawrencers.

It wasn't a league-topping school in terms of academic excellence but in terms of producing well-mannered, bright and confident boys, it was exemplary. Everyone who worked there and every parent who paid handsomely for a son to be educated there, understood this to be the higher point. Roseberry Hall wasn't about bullying astronomical grades out of the boys nor was it about saturating Oxford and Cambridge universities with alumni. Rather, the school was about not forcing a child to learn but inspiring them to want to listen. David Pinder, headmaster for over two decades, would reiterate in every speech he gave to the boys, the parents, the governors, his staff 'Manners Maketh Man: our pupils join us as boys and leave us as fine young men, fully equipped to deal with the world at large.' It was a proclamation that could be repeated by rote by parents, pupils, governors and the staff alike. As if carrying Radcliff Lawrence's torch, Mr Pinder, with his jolly demeanour and ebullient commitment to the school, instilled in everyone connected with Roseberry Hall his belief that the school occupied an important and enviable niche within the British public boarding-school system. For the staff and the three hundred and fifty boys from the ages of eleven to eighteen, no one could doubt that the school also occupied a privileged niche of English countryside. Tucked safely and scenically into genteel gra.s.sland at the foot of the North York Moors, the school was positioned twenty minutes from stunning coastal scenery yet just a short journey to many of the most picturesque villages in the area. The lie of the land was perfect for sports: manicured pitches within the school's grounds opening out to serious cycling and running country. It was as if Roseberry Hall sat in state, receiving the varied gifts of the region. Depending on the weather conditions, even the plumes and fugs of effluence, the occasional colossal flares from the monstrous ICI works stretching for miles like a s.p.a.ce-age city outside Middlesbrough, were considered to add drama and aesthetic intrigue to the big skies above the school.

The demarcation of work and rest was another of Radcliff Lawrence's philosophies, thus schooling was contained in either the main Hall itself or in the newer science block built sympathetically from local stone with a more modern take on the turret emblem. The boys were lodged in five accommodation houses with sizeable apartments for the house-master or mistress and their families, and lesser apartments for their deputies. The rest of the staff were scattered through the grounds, either in annexes, or in quirky little turreted follies just large enough to comprise a living room, kitchenette, small bedroom and compact shower room. Miranda Oates had a folly. Paul Glasper was deputy house-master of Armstrong House. Nigel Garton's rooms were part of the pavilion on the sports field. Arlo had a folly. Steven Hunter, the art teacher, lived above the decidedly grand boat-house. David Pinder resided in the headmaster's house, an ornate turreted cottage that looked a little like a cake. After prep each evening, the Hall was shut, as if it was as important for the building to have a rest from the scamper and flurry of school-time as it was for the community to have a break from school. If the staff wanted a place other than their private quarters to spend their evenings, they used the Old b.u.t.tery, a self-contained building whose atmosphere was part staff room, part den. It was a healthy mix of shabby old leather suites and a huge plasma screen; Cook's home-made cakes and the staff's lethal home-brew. The evening of Miranda Oates's interview, fortunately a Friday night, the Old b.u.t.tery was heaving with her colleagues glad of the excuse to test Barrel number 4 which had been fermenting since the New Year.

'How did it go?'

'Pretty d.a.m.ned well if I say so myself.'

'When will you know?'

'By half-term.'

'Have you told Pinder?'

'He'll take it personally, you know.'

'Bet he cajoles you into staying.'

'Go on, Oatcake, stay!'

'Look, I haven't got the b.l.o.o.d.y job yet!'

'Christ, this stuff is good.'

'Bet your new school won't have beer this brilliant.'

'Bet it b.l.o.o.d.y will, Nige. Anyway, will you all just quit! You'll jinx me.'

'Where's Arlo?'

'He said he'd be along.'

'Speak of the devil.'

Arlo arrived with a bag of tortilla chips and an affable smile to bat away the taunts and jests from colleagues already well under the influence of Barrel number 4.

'He loves to make his entrance, does our Mr Savidge.'

'And lo! He comes bearing gifts of frankincense, mirth and Doritos.'

's.h.i.+t I left the frankincense behind. But here Doritos.'

'Look at you, all primped and preened and perfumed. Anyone'd think you were on the pull, Savidge.'

'Thanks, Glasper you know I've always had a bit of a thing for you.'

Arlo held the pint gla.s.s up to the light, observing the cloudy liquid the colour of burnt caramel, the head on the beer not so much a creamy foam as a rather unnerving beige spume. 'Barrel number 4, hey?' He tasted it. He was never really sure if, objectively, their communal efforts at home-brewing created a great-tasting beer, nor whether, penny for pint, the financial savings were worth forsaking the excellent beer of the local pubs. But really the pleasure was in the process the antic.i.p.ation of when they would be drinking their carefully nurtured product and ultimately the beer's status was lauded before a drop had been tasted.

'Hey, Miranda,' said Arlo, 'how did it go this evening did you get the job?'

Later, much later, with Barrel number 4 running dry, the Doritos all gone and Cook's cake nothing but crumbs on the floor, the staff congregating in the b.u.t.tery began to bid each other goodnight; envy from those who had to be on duty for Sat.u.r.day morning school or sports fixtures, relief from those who didn't. Barrel number 4 had both emboldened Miranda and loosened Arlo. With the prospect of a new job, a getaway clause, she could afford to take liberties with her current position.

'Walk me home,' she nudged Arlo.

'I can practically see your front door from here!'

'I'm p.i.s.sed. Give me a piggy-back. Go on.'

'G.o.d almighty, woman, come on then.'

To depleted cheers and a drunken nudge-wink from Paul, Arlo set off from the b.u.t.tery with Miranda humped against his back. It felt weird, to him, to have such close physical contact in such a prosaic manner. But for Miranda it felt wonderful to be against the body she desired; even if her legs were being pressed slightly too tightly against his sides. She tried to cross her ankles tantalizingly close to his groin but the effects of Barrel number 4, or perhaps Arlo's stride, made this awkward. She could, though, let her lips linger enticingly close to his neck.

'Thank you, kind sir,' she said, her mouth just catching the back of his left ear.

'My pleasure, milady,' Arlo said, wondering whether it was the beer that made her feel heavier than he'd expected, or whether he simply wasn't as brawny as he used to be. 'Here we are.'

'Down, boy!'

'Easy there. Well, goodnight, Miss Oates.'

'Arlo come in?'

Her features illuminated becomingly by the poetry of moonlight and the effect of home-brew. His body feeling suddenly chilled by not having her against him.

'Me come in?'

'Yes. Just for a mo'. I wanted to show you something.'

Arlo glances around her room looking for what it is she might show him. Those old sepia photographs of a relative, perhaps? The two goldfish in a tank with a small fake skull as their playground? The painting on the wall, not a very good one, of Roseberry Topping? Please don't let it be her own artwork. The ethnic rug that looks slightly greasy? Not that ugly old clock. The half-bottle of blue-label vodka, perhaps?

No, Arlo. None of those. None of my things. I just want to show you that I really really fancy you.

f.u.c.k. She's kissing me.

Kiss me back. Why don't you kiss me back?

'It's late, Miranda. I really must go.'

'No, you don't. You really can stay.'

Why are you shaking your head? Christ, I'm a sure thing, Arlo. And last time I checked I was a pretty attractive package. And I'll probably be leaving the sodding school anyway so I don't even come with any strings attached.

'I have to go, Miranda.'

'Well, that's a shame.'

'It is late.'

'Sure, Arlo, it's late.'

'Yes, very late. But sleep well, Miranda. Sweet dreams.'

'You could stay?'

'No. I'd better go.'

Chapter Eleven.

'It's one minute past midnight,' Petra says to the sleepy silence of her flat. 'It's Friday. It's officially his birthday now.'

She sends him a happy-birthday text message and waits a long ten minutes for no reply.

She is not to know yet that the day Rob turns thirty-five will be the day that her life will change. And even then, it will take some time before she will see that the change is for the better. For now, though, she goes to sleep. Drifts off, dreamlessly, with sixteen paperbacks and almost 40 carats of tanzanite under her mattress. She doesn't sleepwalk and she wakes feeling rested and excited about the day ahead.

'You look chipper,' Eric said to Petra who had bounded into the studio with cappuccino for everyone, and doughnuts too.

'It's Rob's birthday today.'

'You're not expecting us lot to sing, are you?' said Kitty, pointing her safety-back needle file at Petra. 'Don't stick your tongue out at me.'

Petra laughed and stuck out her tongue again. Then, with eyes a-sparkle, she drew the velvet pouch from her bag. 'Look.'

'Sweet Jesus, she's brought in her tanzanite,' said Eric, feigning a faint.

Gina, Kitty and Eric crowded round. The upper side of Petra's hand was outstretched and steady. Placed over the line between her index and middle finger, the tanzanite dazzled. The other jewellers had seen it before but still they stared, momentarily speechless, as if seeing it for the first time. Gently, Kitty took Petra's wrist and moved it so that the gem's kaleidoscopic colours shot out according to the axis.