Kill the Head

Prologue 

The cupboard wouldn’t open. Built into the corner, it was roomy with shelves to either side which had helped Col to support the illusion of classroom order for six weeks. She tugged harder at the brass handle, checking for obstructions at floor level – sturdy bolt, lump of lead, sulking child. Aubrey must have locked it.  Oh well, perhaps she could stop tidying and slip away home without anyone noticing.  

Better not. The room should be in order for Monday. She’d be observed teaching a lesson and she couldn’t let anything jeopardize passing her probation. She should stay anyway – put her face about among the parents and other staff at the ceremony. It must be any minute now, she thought, looking out across the terrace where dusk pinched the air, shadowed the orchard. 

Along with dog-eared grammar posters and incomplete class sets of books, her predecessor had left behind a ring of mystery keys, so she fetched them from the desk. The third key she tried in the chipped, overpainted door turned stiffly at first, then the lock suddenly released and the cupboard burst open.      

A heavy weight slumped against Col’s thighs in a dogleg. The long, dark L-shape sagged to the floor, like a dead body in a black sack.  While part of her mind wondered what Aubrey thought he was doing, cluttering up her cupboard with whatever this was, an older part knew the truth at once.   

It was a dead body in a black sack. 

1 Rats 

Six weeks and three days earlier  

It was half-term, so few staff were at Larsson Hall on interview day. The Head herself, elegant in walnut whip hairdo and tailored linen, gave Col the guided tour. Col would have enjoyed her detailed architectural history of the Edwardian buildings had she not felt so self-conscious. Walking beside this tall woman, she felt even shorter and clumsier than usual; she could neither stop her shoes squeaking nor match the Head’s length of stride as she glided through wing after wing. Rooms were wide, sashes tall, architraves deep.  

‘It’s very handsome,’ said Col, comparing it to the functional, concrete features of her previous school.  

‘It was once,’ sighed the Head. ‘It’s hard to forgive the insensitivity of my well-meaning but philistine predecessors, ruining the ceiling roses to mount their flickering strip lights.’  

She led Col outside, where decorative brick buildings framed three sides of a large square, describing the restoration and building works she’d set in motion as they passed terraces, lawns and flowerbeds. In the orchard, they strolled under cherry trees with leaves vivid as melting jelly in the low October sun.  ‘Faded splendour when I arrived, but we’ve turned the ship around now.’ The Head searched her face for a response, but Col was squinting into the light and managed only a keen nod.  

‘It was on the slide, you know. Literally and metaphorically. We’ve underpinned the subsidence, but it’s time to raise the standards of achievement.’   

Back in the Head’s lemon-striped study after the tour, Col was interviewed by Head of English, Richard Walker. The Head sat in but didn’t seem terribly interested and took no notes, just flipped back and forth through a hard copy of her CV and application form.  

Everything about Richard Walker – his manner, his scratchy grey cardigan, the deep groove between unsmiling eyes – seemed peevishly monochrome in the Head’s pastel study. Col felt hot and her bouclé collar itched her neck. She couldn’t take the jacket off though, because this skirt no longer did up right to the top.  

'I’m ready for a fresh challenge in the new year,’ said Col. And a fresh wardrobe.  

Richard had been hunched and dour throughout the interview, but now his eyebrows twitched in confusion and he darted a glance at the Head, who smiled and shook her head a fraction. 

 ‘Have you any questions for us?’ she concluded for him.   

‘None that I can think of,’ Col replied, throwing out a smile despite the sour sense of having failed to please.  

‘Well,’ said the Head, ‘you clearly know your subject, Mrs Harper. Wouldn’t you agree, Richard?’ She was still looking at Col.   

He nodded and gave a thin smile, but his fidgeting hands suggested otherwise.  ‘We’ve never appointed anyone without seeing them in action,’ he said.  

‘But in the circumstances, we’ve no alternative,’ said the Head, ‘due to your predecessor’s unfortunate and sudden departure. There will, however, be a six-week probation period and of course it’s only a temporary position,’ she added smoothly, details which had not appeared in the advertisement. ‘Having said that, opportunities do arise, don’t they Richard?’  

He nodded grimly.  

‘May I ask what happened with the previous teacher?’ asked Col. 

Richard's eyes challenged her. ‘We don’t use that term here. You’ll be a mentor, not a teacher.’ 

‘Yes, it’s a funny old Larssonian convention,’ the Head added. ‘We have a few such traditions here – all part of the charm. Tremendous. Well thank you, Richard. If you’ve finished with subject-related questions, I’ll take it from here.’ Richard withdrew and pulled the door shut.   

‘So, Mrs Harper,’ 

‘Please –  it’s Cornelia.’ 

‘Yes. Unusual name.’ 

‘My grandmother’s. She was named for the stone – cornelians. They’re cherry or amber-coloured.’  

‘A reference to your crowning glory?’ 

‘Yes,’ she said, gesturing at her vivid hair, ‘but people call me Col.’ 

The Head nodded, put down the CV. ‘I noticed during our little promenade that you have an eye, Cornelia, an aesthetic sensibility. You appreciated the parquet, the articulation of the windows. Your curriculum vitae tells me that you’ve studied History of Art as well as English, and I’m looking for someone with... someone who notices things. You’d like to work here?’  

‘Yes, very much,’ said Col, flattered. ‘Oh, so –  sorry, are you offering me the post?’  

‘That depends,’ said the Head. ‘I hope you’re interested, as I am, in raising standards. We have to temper our sentiment with pragmatism in order to keep the ship on course, after all. I need you to deliver intelligence.’