Doctor Who_ Warchild - Andrew Cartmel [21]
They both chuckled as the man lit up.
‘You got kids at this school?’ said the gardener.
‘Well, my daughter starts here next week. And so does my son. Or at least they’re supposed to.’
‘Is there some kind of problem?’
Not really. Well, not with Cynthia at least. She’s going on this trip to Europe with a friend. My neighbour’s taking them. I was kind of relying on the school-board to block it but it seems you can’t count on anyone these days.’
‘Well, culture is important too, you know, friend.’
‘You sound just like the school-board.’
‘Probably do the girl a power of good.’
‘You’ve obviously never met my neighbour,’ said Creed.
‘That rich, scrawny, angular old bitch.’
‘Quiet, friend,’ murmured the gardener, his voice low and unhurried as he exhaled blue smoke. It dissolved on the warm August air as he gently waved his cigar in greeting.
Creed turned and saw Mrs McCracken emerging from the school. She crossed the lush green lawn in an unhurried fashion and joined them.
Instead of her usual skin-tight jeans she was wearing red stretch-pants and a man’s checked shirt, tied to form a halter over the finest pair of firm tanned breasts that rich widowhood and elective surgery could provide. Mrs McCracken’s eyes were concealed behind wraparound sunglasses that gave her a sinister insect-like appearance.
She nodded at the gardener. ‘Hello, Creed,’ she said. Creed tried to read her eyes but all he could see was his own reflection in the sunglasses.
Whenever Creed met Lesley McCracken at the inevitable round of summer parties on Concroft Avenue, she made no attempt to conceal her distaste for him. She evidently saw him as a blue-collar upstart who through some terrible misunderstanding had erupted from the underciasses and blundered into her neighbourhood, ending up living three houses down from her.
The school gardener had fallen silent at Mrs McCracken’s arrival and the only sound was the hissing of the sprinklers. Creed found it a little unnerving and Mrs McCracken seemed to be enjoying his discomfort. Creed cleared his throat. ‘I was just talking to this gentleman about the eccentric Mr Pangbourne.’
‘Mr Pangbourne?’
‘The principal, the headmaster, whatever you call the head-honcho in a dump like this.’
‘Oh, I know who Mr Pangbourne is, Creed dear,’ said Mrs McCracken. ‘I just didn’t quite hear what you said. What was that adjective you used?’ She glanced at the gardener then back at Creed adding in a friendly, informative voice, ‘An adjective is a word that describes-’
‘I know what an adjective is,’ said Creed. He could feel his face getting hot. ‘I said he was eccentric.’ You patronizing bitch, he added silently.
‘Is that the impression you have of this Pangbourne person? An eccentric?’
‘Yes,’ said Creed, beginning to lose his temper. Mrs McCracken always had this effect on him, and she knew it.
She enjoyed needling him and Creed somehow couldn’t stop himself rising to it.
‘Eccentric how?’ drawled Mrs McCracken, the gardener watching her silently.
‘Frothing at the mouth and howling at the moon,’ blurted Creed. ‘Slaughtering small infants. Having intimate relationships with amphibians. How the hell should I know?’
The gardener and Mrs McCracken exchanged a look.
‘Creed, dear, I take it you haven’t been formally introduced to Daniel Henry Pangbourne.’ She gestured languidly towards the man Creed had assumed to be the gardener. Then Mrs McCracken turned away, smirking, and pulled down her sunglasses to survey the garden. ‘New shrubs are looking lovely, Daniel,’ she said, her eyes glinting with amusement. Then she strolled off in a leisurely fashion, giving Creed a friendly nod as she went.
Creed turned to the man. Pangbourne’s eyes were unreadable.
‘Look,’ said Creed, ‘if this is going to affect my son’s chances-’
‘You can come to see me on Monday about your son.
During office hours. That’s my office over there.’
‘I know, I went in there looking for you, Mr Pangbourne.’
Creed struggled to find the right words. ‘Look, my wife and I are both very grateful that you’re