So-and-so who was at St. David's Primary around the time Howard was there. I must have spoken to about twenty people who had vague connections with the story ... but none of them actually
Jonathan pressed his feet into the floor as they drew up six inches behind a juggernaut. 'Irritating!'
'I'd call it devious,' George said, mounting the pavement to bypass the lorry and pull left onto Bridport Road as Jonathan stared stoically ahead. She nodded toward a cream-colored building ahead of them with a Germanic red- tiled spire. 'That's where Poundbury begins. Have you visited it before? Do you know what it is?'
'No.'
'Then you're in for a treat. It's Prince Charles's whack at modern architects and developers who build cheap estates full of identical redbrick boxes and expect people to be grateful. I mean, who wants to live in something
Roy Trent was promptly forgotten in her enthusiasm for the Prince of Wales's vision of how to build a new community. She insisted on making a detour into phase one of Poundbury which was less than ten years old but which, through its architecture and design-irregular roads, variety of building styles, use of local materials and housing arranged in mews, lanes, squares and courtyards-suggested history and permanence.
Jonathan was more impressed than he thought he'd be, although he doubted a similar estate would work in London. 'It would be difficult to translate to a city,' he said as she pulled out onto the main road again.
'I don't see why,' said George. 'The principle of local tradition and local materials would work just as well in Harlesden as they do in Dorset. It's the uniformity of cheap brick and reinforced concrete that people hate. A house should be an expression of its owner's individuality, not a clone of the one next door.'
'What about Victorian terraces?' he murmured ironically. 'They were built to off-the-shelf blueprints and you can't get more uniform than that. In a hundred years people may be as fond of redbrick boxes as we are of the nineteenth-century equivalent.'
George chuckled. 'Assuming the boxes are still standing in a hundred years. Victorian terraces were built to last ... these days everything's obsolete within a year.' She slowed to read a street sign. 'Poundbury Close,' she announced.
Jonathan traced the map with his finger. 'Which makes Western Crescent the second on the right,' he told her, 'over there.' She flicked her indicator and pulled into the center of the road. 'Tell me about Roy's deviousness,' he invited.
'What's to tell?' she said dispassionately. 'He's been sending me on wild goose chases because he doesn't want me finding out he was involved.'
'You can't be sure of that,' Jonathan warned. 'He may be quite innocent but keeps his ear to the ground because he knows it's important to you. The fact that he's never come up with anything valuable might be evidence that he's as ignorant as you and I.'
George gave a derisive snort. 'You don't believe that anymore than I do. He's been playing me for a patsy. He wasn't remotely friendly until I mentioned an interest in Howard Stamp, then he became my newest pal. I should have smelled a rat then.' She was driving slowly up the road looking for house names. She came to a halt beside a large building built in Purbeck stone. 'Here we are ... Hardy Mansions.'
They were both surprised by the ease with which they gained entry to the old woman. They expected to pass their request through a warden, but it took just the press of a buzzer with 'Hilda Brett' beside it, and George's mention of Highdown Secondary Modern into the intercom, for the door to swing open and a barked instruction to come to Flat 12. 'She's far too trusting,' said George disapprovingly as they followed arrows marked 5-12 down a corridor. 'We could be anyone.'
'Perhaps she likes living dangerously,' said Jonathan.
'I'm surprised it's allowed.'
'Then she's rebelling against living in a prison,' he murmured.
George pulled a face. 'It's supposed to be the exact opposite-liberation from care and worry.'
'Mm, but are undesirables being kept out or the inhabitants kept in? You can pay too high a price for freedom from care-fear of crime is more isolating than crime itself.'
George's protest against this slur on sheltered accommodation remained unsaid, because the door to Number 12 opened and a gaunt woman gestured them inside. ''Hello, hello!' she said happily. 'Come on in.' She leaned on a walking stick and drew back to let them pass. 'Into the sitting room on your right ... my chair's the upright one with the cushions.' She closed the door and followed, examining her visitors brightly as she lowered herself into her seat. 'Sit down ... sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.'
Jonathan folded his tall frame onto the sofa while George chose an armchair. 'This is very good of you, Miss Brett,' she said. 'We were given your address by the school, but as they didn't have your phone number we decided to take a chance on finding you at home.'
The woman was frail and looked well into her eighties, but her faded eyes were full of intelligence. 'You'll have to help me,' she said. 'I'm afraid I don't recognize you at all. Obviously this young man was well after my time, but when were you there, my dear?'
George screwed her face into immediate apology. 'Oh, goodness, I didn't mean to suggest we were ever pupils of yours.' She watched disappointment cloud the old woman's expression. 'May we introduce ourselves? My name's Georgina Gardener and I'm a councillor for Highdown ward where your school still is, and this is Dr. Jonathan Hughes-' she gestured toward the -sofa- 'who's an author and research fellow in European Anthropology at London University.'
Jonathan stood up and bent to shake her hand. 'This is a great privilege, Miss Brett. I've long wanted to meet a headteacher who had responsibility for steering a school into the comprehensive era. It must have been a difficult and stressful time ... but exciting too, perhaps?'
She frowned slightly, as if doubting this was the purpose of their visit. 'All of those,' she agreed, 'but, of course, there was a strong crusading zeal at the time which carried us through. My staff and I had seen too many children relegated to what was effectively a second-class education because of their failure at the eleven-plus examination.'
'With little or no chance of going to university,' said Jonathan, sitting down again.
