anything which has been achieved in this area before. I’m sure, with Sir David’s sponsorship, Bradfield could be just as successful, just as quickly. You can reassure your readers of that.’
Dismissed like a naughty school pupil, Laura walked thoughtfully out through reception, but at the top of the steps she stopped and watched a sleek Jag manoeuvre through the electronic gates and park next to her own dusty VW Golf. Even before the door opened, she guessed that this was the school’s millionaire sponsor come to visit hisfiefdom like a viceroy his colony. Taking a deep breath, she waylaid Sir David Murgatroyd as he strode towards the front door.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m Laura Ackroyd from the Bradfield Gazette, and I wondered if we could have a word about your plans for Sutton Park School in Bradfield?’ She thought for a second Murgatroyd was going to brush past her, swatting her away like an irritating fly, but for a moment he hesitated, looked her up and down, with an appraisal which Laura found disconcerting, and then stopped.
‘Miss Ackroyd?’ he said. ‘I thought you had been told that I don’t normally give interviews to the press.’
‘But this isn’t normal, is it, Sir David? There’s quite a head of steam building up in Bradfield against your plan. I wondered if you had any comment on that, at all?’
‘There’s always a groundswell of opinion amongst people who are prepared to settle for the mediocre when they could have the excellent,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘Bradfield won’t be any different. But in the end they will see the light.’
‘Do you mean that in a religious sense?’ Laura jumped in. ‘Is that what you expect in the long run – to convert whole neighbourhoods to your own views, the views I’ve just been hearing about from Mr Masefield?’
‘Yes,’ Murgatroyd said flatly. ‘I believe that is precisely what the Lord expects me to do.’ He glanced at his watch and hesitated.
‘Call Winston Sanderson,’ he said. ‘Come up to Sibden and I’ll give you that interview you’re so determined to have. You look like an intelligent young woman, not like so many of your colleagues. I’m sure you’ll understand that what I am doing is a noble cause.’ And he turned on his heel and strodeup the steps to the doors of the academy, leaving Laura feeling gobsmacked in his wake.
As she drove away from the academy, her mobile rang and she stopped to take the call. It was the teacher who had agreed to meet her in the local coffee bar.
‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said. ‘I saw you leaving, but I don’t think I can meet you, you know. It’d be more than my job’s worth if anyone found out. I’m really sorry.’
‘Me too,’ Laura said. ‘Call me again if you change your mind.’ She was about to start the car again when she noticed two young boys, obviously of secondary-school age, kicking their heels on the corner of one of the neighbouring streets. She wondered why they were not in school, or even in school uniform, but was reluctant to stop and ask them given the spate of juvenile violent crime that had recently convulsed the country. But as she hesitated, two women joined the boys, one with a pushchair, and she could see, even from a cautious distance, that some sort of argument had broken out.
She pulled up at the kerb and wound down her window.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the older of the two women. ‘I’m from the Gazette in Bradfield. I was wondering what local people think about the new academy.’ The woman looked at her for a moment and then laughed harshly.
‘Mystic Meg, are you?’ she asked. ‘Why d’you think these little beggars are hanging around here getting into bother?’
Laura switched off the engine and got out of the car to join the group on the pavement.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking at the two boys, who could not have been much older than twelve and who flushed under her scrutiny.
‘They got bloody chucked
Dismissed like a naughty school pupil, Laura walked thoughtfully out through reception, but at the top of the steps she stopped and watched a sleek Jag manoeuvre through the electronic gates and park next to her own dusty VW Golf. Even before the door opened, she guessed that this was the school’s millionaire sponsor come to visit hisfiefdom like a viceroy his colony. Taking a deep breath, she waylaid Sir David Murgatroyd as he strode towards the front door.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m Laura Ackroyd from the Bradfield Gazette, and I wondered if we could have a word about your plans for Sutton Park School in Bradfield?’ She thought for a second Murgatroyd was going to brush past her, swatting her away like an irritating fly, but for a moment he hesitated, looked her up and down, with an appraisal which Laura found disconcerting, and then stopped.
‘Miss Ackroyd?’ he said. ‘I thought you had been told that I don’t normally give interviews to the press.’
‘But this isn’t normal, is it, Sir David? There’s quite a head of steam building up in Bradfield against your plan. I wondered if you had any comment on that, at all?’
‘There’s always a groundswell of opinion amongst people who are prepared to settle for the mediocre when they could have the excellent,’ Murgatroyd said. ‘Bradfield won’t be any different. But in the end they will see the light.’
‘Do you mean that in a religious sense?’ Laura jumped in. ‘Is that what you expect in the long run – to convert whole neighbourhoods to your own views, the views I’ve just been hearing about from Mr Masefield?’
‘Yes,’ Murgatroyd said flatly. ‘I believe that is precisely what the Lord expects me to do.’ He glanced at his watch and hesitated.
‘Call Winston Sanderson,’ he said. ‘Come up to Sibden and I’ll give you that interview you’re so determined to have. You look like an intelligent young woman, not like so many of your colleagues. I’m sure you’ll understand that what I am doing is a noble cause.’ And he turned on his heel and strodeup the steps to the doors of the academy, leaving Laura feeling gobsmacked in his wake.
As she drove away from the academy, her mobile rang and she stopped to take the call. It was the teacher who had agreed to meet her in the local coffee bar.
‘I’m sorry,’ the young woman said. ‘I saw you leaving, but I don’t think I can meet you, you know. It’d be more than my job’s worth if anyone found out. I’m really sorry.’
‘Me too,’ Laura said. ‘Call me again if you change your mind.’ She was about to start the car again when she noticed two young boys, obviously of secondary-school age, kicking their heels on the corner of one of the neighbouring streets. She wondered why they were not in school, or even in school uniform, but was reluctant to stop and ask them given the spate of juvenile violent crime that had recently convulsed the country. But as she hesitated, two women joined the boys, one with a pushchair, and she could see, even from a cautious distance, that some sort of argument had broken out.
She pulled up at the kerb and wound down her window.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the older of the two women. ‘I’m from the Gazette in Bradfield. I was wondering what local people think about the new academy.’ The woman looked at her for a moment and then laughed harshly.
‘Mystic Meg, are you?’ she asked. ‘Why d’you think these little beggars are hanging around here getting into bother?’
Laura switched off the engine and got out of the car to join the group on the pavement.
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, looking at the two boys, who could not have been much older than twelve and who flushed under her scrutiny.
‘They got bloody chucked
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