Page 99 of Bare
‘That’s you, Mr Ashworth. That’s your teaching. And I want it in this building. Permanently.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I should add that the position is permanent and pensionable, and that I expect you to accept. The alternative is advertising externally, and external candidates require induction. I find induction tiresome.’
‘I accept.’
‘Good.’ She replaced the glasses. Picked up her pen.
‘One more thing, Mr Ashworth.’
He stopped at the door.
‘The mural.’ She didn’t look up. ‘It’s the best thing this school has produced in twenty years.’
A beat.
‘Whatever you and Mr Cavanaugh are doing...’ A pause. ‘...keep doing it.’
He walked into the corridor. Behind him, faintly: the sound of Mrs Webb uncapping her pen. Then, so quiet he almost missed it, Mrs Webb, laughing. Brief. Private.
The courtyard window. The mural, nearly complete, the canopy opening, the student writing pressed into its surface. The wall that had been blank when he arrived. The wall he and Rory had filled.
He texted Rory: _Webb offered me Head of English. Permanent._
The reply was immediate: _Fully deserved. Celebrate tonight?_
Gemma next: _Got the permanent contract. Head of English._
The reply: _FINALLY. Does this mean you’ll stop stress-cleaning?_
_Never._
_I raised a monster._
His mother last: _I’ve been offered Head of English. Permanent position._
The reply took four minutes. When it came: _Your father and I are very proud. Come for lunch on Sunday? The three of you._
_The three of you._ Neil read it twice.
The corridor was forty-seven steps. He’d counted them in September, when the counting was avoidance.
He walked them, not counting.
17
BARE
Rory hadn’t lethim see the painting.
Three weeks of the studio door closed. Always closed.
‘You’re serious,’ Neil said, standing in the hallway.
‘I’m serious.’
‘You’re just not going to let me in.’
