Not far from where she was, a couple of benches had been placed under the shade of a tree, and it was here that the members of the batting team were sitting. Around them was a mess of pads and other cricket paraphernalia: bats, white jerseys with the arms tied in knots, a large blackboard on which the score had been written in chalk. She walked over; the boys acknowledged her politely, one raising his cap in greeting.
She spoke to a boy who was standing at the edge of the group. He was a smallish boy, as they all were—it was clearly a junior team, made up of boys of ten or eleven.
“How’s the game going?”
The boy replied politely. “Very well. We’re going to win.”
“And how many runs have you made yourself?”
He looked down at the grass. “I was out for a duck. None. Bowled. Macdonald did it. He’s a fast bowler.”
“Bad luck.”
“Thanks. I’m going to bowl to Macdonald when they go in. I’m going to get him.”
She pointed to a couple of deck-chairs that were a little way away from the group. “Who’s sitting there?”
The boy shrugged. “Two of the teachers. They’ve gone back in. You can sit there if you like.”
“Would you sit there beside me and tell me what’s going on on the pitch? I don’t really understand cricket.”
He hesitated, but then agreed. “If you like.”
They moved over to the deck-chairs.
“You have to be careful with deck-chairs,” Isabel said. “They can collapse and catch your fingers.”
“That happened yesterday. A boy called Brodie. He got his fingers caught and he had to go and get plasters put on them. Served him right.”
Isabel smiled. “Oh? Did he deserve it?”
“He’s a bully,” said the boy.
“Ah. And does he bully you?”
“Yes.”
Isabel looked at the boy’s face. He had freckles and green eyes. She noticed a small scar on his chin—a recent scratch, nothing serious. Boys were always scratching and cutting themselves, breaking things too.
“Can’t you do anything about it?”
He shook his head. “You can’t clype on him. If you do that, they hit you.”
“Who?”
“Other boys.”
It was a jungle. Of course it was. A jungle for boys between eight and eighteen.
“Are you happy here?” she asked.
He thought for a moment. “Yes. A bit.”
Then she asked, “And are you going to miss Mr. Slade when he goes?”
He frowned. “He’s going to Singapore.”
“Yes. To a school a lot like this one, I believe. Lots of cricket there.”
“I like Mr. Slade. I’ll be sorry when he goes.”
She smiled. “So you will miss him then?”
“Not as much as Miss Carty will. She …”
Isabel waited for him to finish his sentence, but something had happened on the pitch and his attention was diverted. A batsman had hit a ball in the air and a fielder was running towards it. There was a groan from the field as the catch was dropped.
“A near thing,” said Isabel. “But tell me, who’s Miss Carty?”
“She’s the school secretary. We call her Tarty Carty.”
Isabel tried not to laugh. “Not very polite. And may I ask why?”
“Because she’s a tart.”
Isabel drew in her breath. He looked so innocent—and probably was. He probably had no idea what he was saying.
“That’s not very kind. Do you think you should say that?”
“She’s in love with Sladey.”
Isabel said nothing. Miss Carty was in love with Mr. Slade. Nonsense. Schoolboy fantasy. Boys made things up; shocking stories dreamed up with no regard to the truth or even to feasibility. They made them up. But then she thought: Miss Carty, unhappy school secretary, in love with Mr. Slade, handsome headmaster. Headmaster announces his departure for Singapore; Miss Carty pleads with him not to go. He says he must. She thinks: If I stop them making an appointment, then he might stay, even for a few months longer. And anything can happen in a few months …
She watched the boy. He had taken a tube of peppermints out of his pocket and had peeled one off. “Would you like a mint?”
She shook her head. “How do you know that Miss Carty is in love with Mr. Slade?”
He answered nonchalantly. “I saw him kiss her. He didn’t know I was there. I had lost a ball under one of those bushes back there.” He gestured towards the rhododendron garden. “I was looking for it when they came along the path. They didn’t know I was there. I saw him kiss her. Tarty Carty. Yuck! Disgusting. I wanted to be sick right there. Yuck!”
ISABEL FOUND THE SCHOOL OFFICE by asking a boy where to go. He pointed to a staircase that gave off the main entrance hall. “Up there. There’s a white door that says Headmaster. That’s the school office.”
She climbed the stairs and reached a broad landing. There were several chairs placed around a glass-topped coffee table, and beyond that the door marked Headmaster. Slightly below, there was a sign saying Knock and enter.
She knocked and pushed open the door to a spacious room in which there were several desks, a bank of filing cabinets, and a pinboard covered in notices and aides-memoires. At the far end of the room, a woman sat at a desk under a window. She had streaky blonde hair and was wearing a red shift dress. Tarty Carty, Isabel thought.
The woman turned round in her seat when Isabel entered. She looked at her watch. “Miss Dalhousie?”
Isabel nodded. “Mr. Mackinlay …”
“Yes, he’s expecting you. He’s in the Governors’ Room—I’ll take you there.”
Isabel followed the secretary out of the room and along the corridor, which was lined with photographs of sports teams. Under-15s Rugby, First Tennis Team, Swimming Team. All schools were the same. This took her back to George Watson’s Ladies’ College and the headmistress in her black bombazine and the smell of chalk and …
“You have wonderful grounds here,” said Isabel. “I walked through the rhododendron garden.” What do I expect? she asked herself. Blushes at the memory?
“It’s very pretty,” said Miss Carty. “I like it a great deal.”
“Yes,” said Isabel. And then, her heart racing at her effrontery, she went on: “You’ll all miss Mr. Slade when he goes off to Singapore.”
She was ready for Miss Carty’s reaction—any reaction—but there was none. “A great loss,” the secretary said evenly. “But that happens in schools. Popular teachers move on. One gets used to it.”
“You must have worked closely with him.”
“Of course. But no doubt we’ll get a good replacement.”
Isabel nodded. “It’s a good field,” said Miss Carty. “Or so I’m told. I have nothing to do with the appointment process, of course. But I’ve heard that we’ve got some strong candidates, whoever they are. I’ll be interested to find out when they come for interview.”
“I’M SORRY,” said Isabel to Alex Mackinlay. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to sort out my thoughts.”
They were alone in the boardroom. Miss Carty, after having shown Isabel in, returned a few minutes later with a tray of tea, and then went back to her office.
“She’s a pillar of this place,” said Alex as the secretary closed the door behind her. “She’s been here for fifteen years or so. She’s become the institutional memory.”
“Useful,” said Isabel.
Alex began to pour the tea. “You said that you needed to order your thoughts. Do you want me to leave you for a while to do that?”
Isabel shook her head. “Do you mind if I think aloud?”
Alex handed her a cup of tea. “Not in the slightest.”
Isabel took a sip from her cup. “I’ve found out a certain amount about two of the candidates,” she began. “John Fraser and Gordon Leafers.”