The Cornish Village School – Breaking the Rules Read online

  The Cornish Village School – Breaking the Rules

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Acknowledgements

  Cocktails and Dreams

  Prosecco and Promises

  Copyright

  The Cornish Village School – Breaking the Rules

  Kitty Wilson

  For Jack, Katharine, Timmy and Tatters

  Chapter One

  Rosy jumped into her car and sped through the village as quickly as she could without knocking over small children, trying to maintain as professional a look as possible in case she was seen. Headteachers were not allowed to scowl in public, and vehicular manslaughter was obviously a no-no. She whizzed past the last stragglers from school and the thirteenth-century church on the corner, its Grade One listing and historical importance ignored by the teenagers getting off the secondary school bus and sneaking into the graveyard to have one last cigarette before reaching home.

  The rows of cottages all jumbled together and daubed with the pastel colours of sage green, baby pink and ice-cream yellow – colours of Cornwall in the summer – receded into the distance as she passed the central hub of the village. The local shop, recently revamped, was now a pale slate grey and stocked with halloumi, hummus and miso paste, a nod to the gentrification of the village as Cornwall had become fashionable again and property prices had shot through the roof. It was at complete odds with its tatty neighbour, the butcher’s, which hadn’t been repainted since the nineties and had a window chock-full of community posters, yellowing and curled at the edges, inviting residents to events long since passed.

  She careered past the pub and then the beach, heaving in the summer months but empty at this time of year, and the ice-cream shop, boarded up until Easter when hordes of barefooted families would suddenly appear, snaking all the way back to the sands.

  Nearly home and with minutes to spare, she just had to get past the final row of fishermen’s cottages and she could pull up in her driveway and grab the one book she had forgotten this morning.

  Her cottage came into sight, the late winter sun bouncing off the granite, lending warmth and making the quartz deep in the stone sparkle. The exposed walls were different from many homes in the village, most of which were prettily painted and as fresh as gin and tonic as the sun sets. Rosy’s cottage was more of a well-loved local ale, one with bits bobbing in it. Its neighbour was the same, both boldly joined together in their rebellion.

  As she turned into her drive, Rosy caught sight of the higgledy-piggledyness of the roof, all uneven tiling and indents, and the stunted, windblown cherry tree in the front that exuded character and never, ever failed to make her smile. She had spent many hours wondering how the tree had become windblown, protected as it was by walls all around the front garden. There was just a little space that had been taken out to make way for a drive, and a small gate embedded in the front with its promise of a secret garden.

  For her the cottage summed up Cornwall; sometimes wild and grim and grey but, in the right light, welcoming, quirky and warm. The cottage seemed honest, somehow, more in keeping with Cornwall’s past. Rosy was fairly sure that the fishermen and smugglers of yesteryear weren’t big on sage green or baby pink.

  Today, though, was one of those rare days where Rosy didn’t have the time to smile at her cottage’s eccentricities and meander slowly up the drive, drinking them all in. Indeed, this time she ran from her car, falling over her feet and then through the door, hallway and into the kitchen, her heart pounding, slowing only as she spied Rufus Marksharp’s writing book on the kitchen table.

  The day had already been difficult, filled with staff absences, glitter-dough vomit, hijacked lunch boxes and World War Three breaking out over the school hamster, but at least she would no longer be mauled into itty-bitty pieces by Rufus’s mother at the after-school meeting she had recently demanded. She was a woman who never failed to make Rosy think of a velociraptor, stalking the playgrounds, hunting in the hallways and watching, always watching. That woman could drape herself in as much Cath Kidston as she liked; she was fooling no one.

  Rosy now had only ten minutes to get back to the school so she could listen to just how gifted Rufus was. She was going to have to keep herself in check, be professional and a little bit less of a grouch. She knew that her mood today had been tetchy – she had even scowled at four-year-old Billy during maths when she had to firmly remind him, twice, that in school one kept one’s trousers on.

  Heading towards the kitchen door, book in hand, Rosy spied a small metal tin on the worktop. Her smile returned. That was just what she needed. A nutty millionaire’s slice. She flipped the lid and snatched a piece, ramming it into her mouth before it crumbled into nothingness and the caramel wrapped around her fingers. Perhaps one more bit, maybe two.

  Now she really did have to move! She raced to her car, hopped in and started to reverse down the drive.

  Screech! She was forced to jam the brakes on, a peanut falling from her mouth onto her dress as she was jolted forward. Where on earth had that come from? Blocking her drive was a removal lorry, big enough to house a circus and not showing any signs of moving. That had definitely not been here when she had arrived. With only a few minutes left before she was due to sit in a teeny-tiny chair with a woman reputed to down entire careers with one glance – rumour had it she could take out small island nations in less than three minutes – she was going to need to move fast.

  She blared her horn as hard as she could. No movement. She needed to get out of the car and track the removal men down. Up until now she had been curious as to who her new neighbours were going to be, but now, at this moment, she wasn’t fussed about finding out. She just wanted them to move their truck so she could get back to school. The last thing she needed was Mrs pain-in-the-arse Marksharp kicking off about her reliability. Oh, for goodness’ sake! Where was that lorry driver? Beep! Beep!

  With the truck clearly empty and no patter of removal men’s feet, she jumped back out of the car, dark hair flipping up and down against her shoulders, and stalked down the drive towards the cottage attached to hers. What were they playing at? Honestly, upsetting your new neighbour before you had even unpacked was a stupid thing to do.

  As is shouting at your neighbour on the
ir moving day, her sensible voice pointed out from the back of her mind. No one is doing this on purpose. It’s just life. Be nice. Get the lorry out of the way and then be on yours. Do not cause a scene with people you have to live alongside for years. Imagine if someone drove past and witnessed her screeching like a banshee. The embarrassment may kill her. The village would be agog to hear that Rosy Winter had lost the plot.

  Rosy paused on her driveway to take a deep breath. As she stood there she noticed a silhouette just by her wall. She raced towards the road and spotted someone in front of her tree, holding onto something presumably from the lorry. It was hard to distinguish what it was in this light, and she squinted to see if that helped. It didn’t. More importantly, the minutes were whizzing by. A groan escaped her lips as she pictured Mrs Marksharp arching an eyebrow and checking her watch. She scrunched her nose and practised her best caring-new-neighbour face but it seemed that today not even her face was prepared to be obedient. She could feel her eyes thinning and her mouth dropping as her features seemed determined to rest in their most resolute do-as-you’re-told teacher face.

  Realizing that wrestling with her face was not getting her back to school any quicker, Rosy approached the removal man standing by her wall, who was as oblivious to her presence as he had been her car, chattering away on his phone. Uh-huh, so that’s why he hadn’t responded to her beeping. Thankfully, Sensible Voice was dominant in her head, calmly but forcefully repeating ‘more flies with honey than vinegar’, although Cross Voice had also popped up, whispering about people on phones and social deterioration in pure 1950s BBC tones. As she got closer she realized that the previously unidentifiable shape she had spied by her tree was some kind of rolled-up rug, balanced on the upper part of his body.

  She came closer still and, as he remained absorbed, stood on tiptoes to tap the man on the back of his rug-free shoulder.

  There was no response as he nodded and made ‘hmm’ noises into his handset. Was her tap too light? She could feel her teeth clench. Maybe she needed to punch him? She could almost hear Marion Marksharp’s fingers tapping at breakneck speed on a desk. She should definitely punch him.

  She most definitely should not! Although as she uncurled her fist, a glimmer of a smile crossed her face. It was a pleasing thought, but as a headmistress and infant teacher, she wasn’t going to damage her hard-won reputation by hitting men in the village. Or anybody, anywhere. Tap, yes, she would just tap him again. But a little bit harder this time. Tiptoes up, fingers out, there, and again. Perfect.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Rosy used her firmest tone.

  ‘Yep, yep, just keep him for me until tomorrow… I know… look, I have to go.’ The man, with a voice so deep it jolted Rosy’s core, spun around to see her standing there and broke into a million-kilowatt smile. Rosy’s desperation to get back to her classroom and her fervid hopes of Rufus’s mother’s approval were suddenly blown to bits, completely forgotten. She smiled back so widely that her ears hurt and she sensed the warmth of a massive blush flush up her cheeks.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Rosy, really aware of her face. And not quite sure what she was supposed to say next. Oh my goodness! Then she remembered how cross she was about her car being blocked in, and how, as she had learnt rather forcefully at nineteen, one did not trust men that exuded sex quite as blatantly as this. Damn her fickle soul! However, she still wasn’t actually speaking, just standing there. Like a lemon. But clearly not as sharp.

  ‘How can…’ Ravishing deep-voiced sex-radiating man, who she couldn’t help but notice had rather broad shoulders, paused and rapped his fingers on his forehead and then smiled even wider. ‘You’re from next door. And I’ve blocked your driveway. I’m so sorry, just give me a few minutes and I’ll move it.’

  ‘Um, I don’t have a few minutes.’ Rosy surprised herself at the slight snap of her tone, but she was frustrated both at her inability to articulate moments earlier and her shallowness in the face of equally superficial beauty. Particularly as she had thought she had learnt – aced – that lesson. ‘I have an appointment at work in ten, no five, minutes flat, please could you move it now? Like right now?’

  Great, she had gone from mute to overly aggressive. No, no she hadn’t. She’d stood her ground. Her shoulders rose and a confident – sort of – smile returned to her face, the blushing gone.

  ‘Of course, I’ll go and get it done now, right now,’ he teased. ‘It’s just there’s something magical about this place, isn’t there? Calming. It’s as if the sea breeze, and the history…’ He waved his arm at the cottages and widened its scope to take in the picture that lay before them: the houses almost layered on top of each other, the narrowness of the streets and their downwards tilt towards the sea. ‘…they seem to slow everything down.’

  ‘Well, yes, they do but…’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe how tricky it was getting through the lanes with this thing.’ Again he gestured but this time towards the van. ‘But with the windows open and the breeze whooshing in you kinda feel as if everything will just be OK. I had to stop at the top of the main road, by the turn off to Penmenna, at the brow of the hill that looks across the bay. I’d seen it before but still the beauty takes your breath away. It’s almost like a dragon resting his head between his paws, the shape of the peninsula, I mean. I don’t actually see dragons everywhere. I’m not that sort of person, but still it just struck me. I supposed you’re used to it, living here.’

  Rosy was split in two; she was still in a hurry but never before had she heard anyone vocalize the sleeping dragon theory. It had always been how she described the shape of the promontory in her head. And that place at the brow of the hill – that was one of her absolute favourites, filling her with that safety-of-home feeling as she saw the fields rolling down gently to the coast. Of course, up close, the coastline was far more ragged than tranquil, jagged rocks and secret pathways leading to hidden coves and dangerous riptides. The sleeping dragon, serene from afar but perilous when explored.

  ‘I don’t think you ever get used to it. The beauty of the coastline still takes my breath away and I’ve been here years and years now. And time does seem to move slower down here. Whenever I visit anywhere else my head spins with the speed at which everything rushes past – I’ve got used to Cornish time, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And it’s not just the coastline – the whole county is like a different world, certainly different to the rest of the country, don’t you think? They say the light in St Ives is magical, but I think that the whole of Cornwall seems to have that magical sense to it, as if nothing can go wrong here; all your ills will be cured. You must think I’m being naive but really I just can’t believe I get to live here. And in this village, too. It’s so picturesque, postcard perfect, like someone envisioned the most idyllic place they could and pop, it appeared. I know I’m meant to be unpacking the van but I keep getting sidetracked. Every time I grab a box something else catches my eye and before I know it I’m just stood here staring at beauty. Oh, I’m sorry. You’re in some kind of mad rush and I’m banging on about scenery – I apologize.’

  ‘It is beautiful, and any other time I would be happy to chat but I’m just in such a hurry. I’m sorry.’

  ‘No, all my fault. I’ll move the van now, right now, promise. No more interruptions.’ And with a broad smile, and added eye sparkle, he wandered off towards the house. In the opposite direction of the lorry.

  ‘Wow! Really?’ Rosy muttered and ran her hands through her hair, shaking her head. She may as well just set up a camp bed right here and accept that Mrs Marksharp was going to be waiting all night. Clearly this removal man was a perfect fit for the Cornish pace of life.

  ‘I’m fetching the keys,’ said the removal man over his shoulder. His words hung heavy with amusement but were accompanied by a crashing tinkle as the rug he was carrying knocked a terracotta plant pot from her wall.

  The dried-out earth and dead stick it had contained lay on the pavement
between them, the baked clay spread into chunks and shards. Rosy just stared, eyebrows almost shooting from the top of her head and fighting to keep her hands off her hips, as the removal man knelt on the pavement and slowly swept it into a little pile with his hands, the rug now lying at his side.

  She had kept the pot there on the wall for the last couple of years with the full intention of clearing it out and replanting something a little less dead. Probably this weekend. What was this man going to do next? Moving the van quickly didn’t seem to be on the agenda.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’ll sort it out properly in a moment. This really is not a great start, is it? But don’t you worry about it, I’ll have it as good as new before you can blink.’

  ‘Don’t worry about the pot, please could you just move the van?’ Desperation had replaced that fleeting misplaced spark of lust. ‘I’m going to go and wait in my car.’ Perhaps a final winsome smile would help. ‘Please, thank you. Please?’

  ‘Be right with you, promise.’ He beamed, moving with a bit more speed towards the cottage.

  And Rosy headed back to her car to wait, wondering if she was ever going to make this meeting and really hoping that no one had noticed her stamp her foot.

  * * *

  A few minutes later and Rosy was inside her classroom, thankful that Marion’s tendency to wander around the school causing trouble meant that her own tardiness had gone unnoticed. Not so lucky was the Class Two teacher, Harmony Rivers, currently being harangued by Mrs Marksharp as she attempted to cross the playground.

  Harmony relied upon conflict resolution techniques that nodded to New-Age theory to defuse situations between seven-year-olds, but a smudge of lavender oil and a talk about doing unto others was not going to appease Marion. Rosy, for kindness’ sake, was going to need to intervene, but as she stood up Mrs Marksharp turned and headed to the classroom.

  Rosy let her breath fill her chest before gently exhaling and letting the air slowly play on her bottom lip as the head of the PTA wandered into her room. It wasn’t that she was physically intimidating as such… well, she was a bit: all that perfect blondness and skin that looked as if it were stretched a little too taut. Very thin and as quivery as a racehorse, she was one of those women who was constantly looking over your shoulder for someone slightly more important to talk to – which was fine because it meant that after a minute or so of insincere chit-chat she would be heading off to buttonhole someone else. What was frightening was when you were the number one person she wanted to see; then there was no hope of escape.