evening meeting. That day, you’ll thank your God for the caretaker.
At Leighford High that man’s name was Martin. Those he reckoned called him Bob, after the canine tablets. The kids called him, out of earshot, Doc, after the boots. Only Maxwell called him Betty after ‘all my eye of a yarn and’, but then, Maxwell was a law unto himself anyway. Bob Martin wore a blue boiler suit most of the time and when he made his rounds late at night, walked with a vicious-looking mongrel on a short leash. It didn’t exactly deter burglars. They still hit the school on average three times a year looking for the petty cash from the tuck shop or any piece of computer hardware that wasn’t nailed down. He looked as if he’d never owned any hair and he blinked slowly while chewing a seemingly endless piece of gum.
He only ever bothered people when he wanted to complain. And he was bothering Peter Maxwell at nine o’clock the next morning.
‘Hello, Betty.’ Maxwell was facing the third day of the new term. It had been a long week.
‘I was turfin’ out them old lockers,’ Martin said, never one to stand on ceremony, ‘and I found this.’
Maxwell squinted at the man framed by his office door. ‘What is it?’ he had to ask.
‘Well,’ Martin coughed with the volume and precision of a thirty-a-day man, ‘in my day we called ’em nodders or French letters. They seem to ’ave invented a new name for ’em now – condoms.’
Gingerly, Maxwell took the packet, eternally grateful that it didn’t seem to have been opened. ‘Ah, so it’s that Condom Moment?’ Betty Martin wasn’t smiling. ‘And this was in a locker?’
‘Be’ind, to be precise,’ Martin told him, ‘along wi’ this.’
‘This’ was an exercise book, blue, with a marked crease down the centre, as though it had been wedged somewhere tight for some time.
‘Bin it,’ Maxwell shrugged.
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ Martin said and threw the book on to Maxwell’s desk. ‘Not when you read the name on the front. You ’avin assembly again this mornin’?’
‘No, thanks, Betty,’ Maxwell frowned. ‘Thursday this term.’
‘Just as long as I know.’ Martin was clumping away down the corridor. ‘Chairs don’t get put out by their bloody selves, you know.’
‘Indeed not,’ but Maxwell wasn’t thinking about chairs. Or who put them out. He was reading the name on the book’s cover. The name Jenny Hyde.
Sylvia Matthews, when she wasn’t sorting out other people’s period pains and whizzing the odd dislocation in PE lessons down to the Casualty Department at Leighford General, was an addict of those nasty little booklets that purport to carry logic puzzles. Not the kind of logic that Sherlock Holmes was addicted to, but the sort of methodical reasoning where you put crosses in boxes to eliminate the obvious. And she was cerebellum-deep in one of these when her door bell rang.
‘Max?’ She saw his distorted profile in her door-lens. But he wasn’t carrying flowers this time, not even her own. She opened the door to him. ‘The start of term was three days ago. Max, we’ve had our annual nosh,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Girls,’ said Max, brushing past her with the air of a man whose mind was elsewhere. ‘Tell me about girls,’ and he threw himself down uninvited on Sylvia’s settee.
‘Well,’ she widened her eyes, ‘it depends on which version you want. If it’s the Biblical one, they came after boys. An afterthought made from Adam’s spare rib. If it’s the biological one …’
He screwed up his face at her. ‘You too saw the Spencer Tracy last Sunday,’ he nodded.
‘The what?’
‘
Inherit the Wind
– a rattling good yarn based on the “monkey trial” in Tennessee in the ’30s. Spencer Tracy was Clarence Darrow …’
‘Max,’ she sat opposite him, ‘what are you talking about?’
He ran his hands through the shock of barbed wire hair. ‘Buggered if I know,
At Leighford High that man’s name was Martin. Those he reckoned called him Bob, after the canine tablets. The kids called him, out of earshot, Doc, after the boots. Only Maxwell called him Betty after ‘all my eye of a yarn and’, but then, Maxwell was a law unto himself anyway. Bob Martin wore a blue boiler suit most of the time and when he made his rounds late at night, walked with a vicious-looking mongrel on a short leash. It didn’t exactly deter burglars. They still hit the school on average three times a year looking for the petty cash from the tuck shop or any piece of computer hardware that wasn’t nailed down. He looked as if he’d never owned any hair and he blinked slowly while chewing a seemingly endless piece of gum.
He only ever bothered people when he wanted to complain. And he was bothering Peter Maxwell at nine o’clock the next morning.
‘Hello, Betty.’ Maxwell was facing the third day of the new term. It had been a long week.
‘I was turfin’ out them old lockers,’ Martin said, never one to stand on ceremony, ‘and I found this.’
Maxwell squinted at the man framed by his office door. ‘What is it?’ he had to ask.
‘Well,’ Martin coughed with the volume and precision of a thirty-a-day man, ‘in my day we called ’em nodders or French letters. They seem to ’ave invented a new name for ’em now – condoms.’
Gingerly, Maxwell took the packet, eternally grateful that it didn’t seem to have been opened. ‘Ah, so it’s that Condom Moment?’ Betty Martin wasn’t smiling. ‘And this was in a locker?’
‘Be’ind, to be precise,’ Martin told him, ‘along wi’ this.’
‘This’ was an exercise book, blue, with a marked crease down the centre, as though it had been wedged somewhere tight for some time.
‘Bin it,’ Maxwell shrugged.
‘I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,’ Martin said and threw the book on to Maxwell’s desk. ‘Not when you read the name on the front. You ’avin assembly again this mornin’?’
‘No, thanks, Betty,’ Maxwell frowned. ‘Thursday this term.’
‘Just as long as I know.’ Martin was clumping away down the corridor. ‘Chairs don’t get put out by their bloody selves, you know.’
‘Indeed not,’ but Maxwell wasn’t thinking about chairs. Or who put them out. He was reading the name on the book’s cover. The name Jenny Hyde.
Sylvia Matthews, when she wasn’t sorting out other people’s period pains and whizzing the odd dislocation in PE lessons down to the Casualty Department at Leighford General, was an addict of those nasty little booklets that purport to carry logic puzzles. Not the kind of logic that Sherlock Holmes was addicted to, but the sort of methodical reasoning where you put crosses in boxes to eliminate the obvious. And she was cerebellum-deep in one of these when her door bell rang.
‘Max?’ She saw his distorted profile in her door-lens. But he wasn’t carrying flowers this time, not even her own. She opened the door to him. ‘The start of term was three days ago. Max, we’ve had our annual nosh,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Girls,’ said Max, brushing past her with the air of a man whose mind was elsewhere. ‘Tell me about girls,’ and he threw himself down uninvited on Sylvia’s settee.
‘Well,’ she widened her eyes, ‘it depends on which version you want. If it’s the Biblical one, they came after boys. An afterthought made from Adam’s spare rib. If it’s the biological one …’
He screwed up his face at her. ‘You too saw the Spencer Tracy last Sunday,’ he nodded.
‘The what?’
‘
Inherit the Wind
– a rattling good yarn based on the “monkey trial” in Tennessee in the ’30s. Spencer Tracy was Clarence Darrow …’
‘Max,’ she sat opposite him, ‘what are you talking about?’
He ran his hands through the shock of barbed wire hair. ‘Buggered if I know,
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