The next morning she opened her eyes, as it seemed, a few minutes before her alarm went off; and stared into the darkness of her room. Jackie had always been a poor sleeper, but this night had been particularly restless. She'd kept floating in and out of worrisome dreams, mixed with memories, and some unrealistic scenarios of 'could've' and 'shouldn't have.' And then she'd recalled the sensation of his scorching massive hands groping her backside, and she'd jolt out of her half-slumber.
The day before Alexander had said, "I'm looking forward to working with you," and had left. If anything, she'd been grateful. Any more information would've tripped out some circuits in her noggin. She needed to get her mind straight - except, she hadn't managed.
At the end, she wouldn't be able to say what she thought of her 'interaction' with him, mostly because she was having trouble believing that it had even happened. And then she'd suddenly remember how he'd pressed her hips down, as if her own - rather significant - weight wasn't creating enough friction between their 'naughty bits.'
She came down to breakfast groggy and dishevelled; and she didn't check her Inbox until she was done with her second cup of coffee. It had been a mistake. It turned out that she had a meeting at the school - and she still didn't know what time the lorry with her furniture was coming to her new home. She sighed, hurriedly hoovered up two croissants, and rushed back into her room.
The shirt, of course, was wrinkled; and there was some sort of a powdery stain on her jacket. Rubbing it with a paper tissue was a mistake, which she followed up with a wash and thorough patting with a hotel towel, which in turn made it look like she spilled coffee on her lapel. Jackie groaned, gave up, and rushed out. The cab, of course, was already waiting for her.
In the cab, she kept lamenting that she should've worn a belt. The trousers were sitting oddly on her hips and gathering in appalling folds around her crotch. She could never understand for whom they made clothes anyroad. She had the most ordinary body one could expect on a forty-something old Gaelic female: a sizeable sturdy backside, stout hips, a bit of a flabby stomach - and a waist, nothing mad, no hour-glass figure, obviously. Somehow, she always ended up in one of two predicaments: either she couldn't zip up; or her trousers would stick out on her lower back, push her top, and give her a weird hunch. She was too self-conscious for tight clothing, and too embarrassed of her former runner's calves for a dress. It was a good thing that no one gave a toss about what she looked like these days, she kept reminding herself. She wasn't married to a gorgeous Texan with the body of a competitive swimmer anymore.
She entered the Fleckney Comprehensive and stopped in the familiar foyer with its original parquet flooring and doors with port-hole windows. Jackie hadn't paid much attention when she'd had her cursory interview with Mrs. Guthrie, but she could see now that the school hadn't changed much in the last ten years; except perhaps for careful and considerate touch-ups. The school was a Grade II listed building, initially, in 1869, of red brick with sandstone dressings and clay tile roof; with an addition of two wings in 1938, of the same brick but with concrete and ashlar dressings. Jackie loved everything about it, especially the sort of an ecclesiastic vibe that its renown architect was famous for.
Knowing her lack of sense of direction and her general scatteredness, she'd downloaded the school's floorplan to her phone. She decided to give herself a moment before she attempted to navigate it, lifted her eyes to the ceiling, and took a calming breath in.
"Mrs. Mair!" a voice rang through the entrance lobby.
Jackie turned towards the person. They were young, dressed in a colourful garment that was either a very short dress, or a long shirt; tights with a geometric pattern; and stylish bright red loafers.
"Oliver Pemberton," Jackie greeted them with a wide smile. "And it's Ms. Burns these days!"
Oliver threw himself at her, and his long strong arms squeezed her.
"It is you!" he hollered near her ear - and then let her go and jumped away from her. "Am I allowed to hug my favourite teacher, or it's a faux-pas now that you're my boss?"
Jackie burst into laughter. "I think it is quite alright," she answered, "unless it's your way to score some favours with me in advance."
"Not yet!" Oliver giggled. "But just you wait! I might need extra funding for my Film and Literacy Club."
"It takes me about a week to figure out a school's budget, so you haven't got much time." Jackie shook her head in a fake mournfulness. "And I've already familiarised myself with the grants you're receiving, so I would scale down your expectations if I were you."
"Oh my god, I forgot what a go-getter you were!" Oliver looped his arm and offered it to her. "Come! Allow me to escort you inside, my queen!"
As they walked through the school, Jackie had been subjected to an intensive course on everything Fleckney Comprehensive, from the history of the building to the latest gossip on pretty much every teacher. Jackie sorted and filed away the information.
Oliver's mobile shrieked in his pocket, and he took it out.
"Oh, Mrs. Guthrie is in the fields," he said. "She's asking us to join her. There's an aggro with a Holyoake."
Jackie threw Oliver a confused look.
"I reckon, she's planning to 'baptise you by fire,'" Pemberton continued and pulled her into his side more closely. "Considering it's the Gaffer himself, 'Master Rhys,' that you're going to deal with. And you haven't even formally started! Will you be alright?"
"You lost me," Jackie said.
"A year ago Fleckney gained a new football coach," Oliver explained, wrinkling his nose. "And now we're apparently the tri-county footie stars! The school has received a grant, and they're refurbishing our pitch, or whatever it's called. Even our local club that no one remembered we had, is now winning some championships or leagues or some other nonsense of the sort. If I didn't enjoy watching eleven men in stockings run around, I'd scoff at the malarkey."
And that was when they stepped outside through a set of side doors.
Jackie had never had any interactions with Rhys Holyoake, the oldest male in the family - but she could see why Oliver asked her if she would be 'alright.' In her ex-husband's vernacular, the man was 'wide as two ax handles' and 'tough as stewed skunk.' He also meant business like 'the business end of a .45,' if one were to use the same source of idiomatic expressions.
An exceptionally large man, with a mane of dark-brown tousled waves, and a beard, over which a Canadian lumberjack would die of jealousy; he towered over the Headmistress, who was far from dainty; and his jaw was set stubbornly.
"And I'm telling you, I'm not putting some half-arsed plastic rubbish on your pitch," he growled. "My sons are going to play on it in a few years. You need grass, and proper one for that matter."
"Mr. Holyoake," Mrs. Guthrie said, "I'm telling you again. We can't afford the maintenance! I don't know how else I can explain it! And shouldn't you try to skimp on materials and charge us too much?" she added sardonically. "Oh, Jocelyn, thank goodness! Please join us. And as our new Headmistress, please, explain to Mr. Holyoake why we need synthetic turf for our pitch."
The man shifted the gaze of his electric blue eyes onto Jackie.
On your mark. Get set. Go!
"Mr. Holyoake, pleasure to meet you," Jackie said firmly, stretching her hand to him. "May I call you Rhys? I find the first name basis makes communication easier. Plus your surname is rather widespread in the county. I'm Jocelyn Burns. If I'm ever so lucky, I'll be your sons' Headmistress for years to come."
"Pleasure," the man answered, obviously sizing her up, and shook her hand. He definitely didn't hold back the strength of his grasp.
"If I recall correctly, you're the biggest contractor in the county," she said and turned away from him. She looked over the fields around them. "Ah, of course, the infamous 4G football pitch. Two of them. The bane of the school principals all over the country, all thanks to 2014 Independent School Standards Regulations. How well do you know Building Bulletin 103, Rhys?"
There was a pause, and then Holyoake guffawed. Men in his family were exceptionally attractive; and although he was perhaps the least conventionally handsome among them, when he laughed, one couldn't help but feel a tad tickled.
"I like her," he deadpanned, and Mrs. Guthrie made a surprised noise. "I know BB 103 like the back of my hand, but do enlighten me, Jocelyn," he rumbled.
Jackie gave him a cheeky side glance.
"The Latin name for the grass on the fields," Jackie started, "is Poa pratensis, Smooth Stalked Meadow Grass. Known as Kentucky Bluegrass in the United States. It's common on pastures, and it's planted on pitches that double as rugby fields. It requires constant fertilisation and creates a thatch layer, which in turn can hold too much moisture and lead to the spread of various diseases. This over there?" She pointed at the space between the two pitches. "That's your 'habitat area,' as prescribed by The Area Guidelines for Mainstream Schools. As you can see, it's in quite a poor state. The grass on the fields is affecting it. If left unattended, the school is going to have two rather decent pitches - and no 'habitat area' for science classes, gardening, and wildlife observation. And you don't strike me as a person who wants his sons to solely play sports and learn nowt about biology and chemistry."
From the corner of her eyes she caught Oliver lifting his hands as if preparing to enthusiastically applaud. Jackie was quite proud of herself as well.
"My wife is a doctor," Rhys Holyoake said with an amused smirk. "I know the value of science in children's education."
"That's excellent news," Jackie said with a nod. "And I'm sure our coach would be able to suggest the best artificial grass for our little'uns to enjoy the game safely. I know nothing about it, I'm after all a simple school teacher," she added, her tone clearly signifying that her modesty was anything but sincere.
"Yeah, and I'm an alligator in a tutu," Holyoake joked, and Jackie snorted. "Alright, you won," he said and stretched a hand to her himself now. "I'm looking forward to working with you."
"The feeling is mutual." Jackie returned his hearty squeeze.
"Discuss the grass with Fergusson," Rhys said, pulling a cardholder out of his pocket. "Here's my number. Let me know what you decide. He said he was applying for a grant from Sport England. There are two fields that can be converted into off-site pitches." He pointed somewhere in the direction of Fleckney Fields. "He owns property adjacent to them, two cottages, the Old School and the Nectar Edge. Maybe we can plant your American bluegrass there."
Jackie automatically took Holyoake's card, suddenly feeling rather dizzy. The chances of the man calling the coach 'Fergusson' as a nickname referring to Sir Alex, were pretty slim. The coincidence would be too much of a stretch, after all.
That would also explain Alexander's line of 'Treat me like your landlord at the school.'