Maxwell’s Movie by M. J. Trow Page B

again and sat sullenly against Sylvia’s office wall, blaming the world in general and ‘that horrible Mr Ryan’ in particular. As Sylvia had pointed out to the girl, the Second Deputy may have his faults, but gynaecological irritations were not among them. Emma had just fled from a particularly bad lesson with Mr Ryan. She was unconvinced.
    ‘Ah, Matron mine,’ Maxwell beamed. ‘Care to go for a drive this afternoon?’
    Emma Dollery’s eyes widened. Wait till the girls back in 9S heard this.
    ‘Er…’ Matron flashed an old-fashioned look in her direction.
    ‘The History Department are taking a drive up to that archaeological dig on the Rimble. Care to come along? Apparently the pot-sherds are exquisitely interesting. Samian ware to die for.’
    ‘Of course.’ Sylvia was quicker on the uptake, hopefully, than was Emma. ‘What time?’
    ‘Well,’ Maxwell checked his watch, ‘we were hoping for four-thirtyish. I’ve just some sixth-form heads to crack together first. Car park?’
    ‘Er … yes,’ Sylvia said. ‘Car park it is.’
    And Maxwell beamed at Emma. She scowled at him. That bloke was barmy. He’d never taught her, but that didn’t matter. Why let a thing like personal experience stand in the way of a pupil’s misconception of a teacher?
    ‘It was actually Mrs B’s idea,’ Maxwell said to Sylvia as she rattled her way up through the gears.
    ‘Oh?’ Sylvia wasn’t buying it. Mrs B. ‘did’ for Maxwell as well as cleaning at the school. Salt of the earth was Mrs B., but ideas were not exactly her stock in trade.
    ‘Well … now, Sylv, don’t look at me like that.’
    ‘Like what?’ she chuckled, checking the main road as she pulled out of the school gates.
    ‘As if I’ve done a murder. Somebody has and it isn’t me.’
    ‘Max – look, I don’t mind in the slightest driving you a few miles, but where are we going?’
    ‘Did you see the news last night; local?’
    ‘Er … yes, I think so,’ she said.
    ‘What was the first item? It got a small mention on the national too, sandwiched between All-Party talks for Northern Ireland and the Rhode Island Red in Garboldisham that can dance the rhumba.’
    ‘Oh, God,’ she covered her mouth, ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember.’
    ‘Quite,’ Maxwell clasped his hands across his seat belt, ‘which is precisely why the media revolution has failed. The bastards bring us so much news into our own living rooms, every half-hour, on the half-hour, that we don’t remember a word of it. They’ve found the body of a woman.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Sylvia remembered now.
    ‘Alice Goode. Left here.’
    The Subaru left the road for a moment and careered along the verge, until Sylvia wrestled the wheel back and slammed on the brakes.
    ‘What?’ She sat looking at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.
    ‘Oh, Sylv.’ He put his arm around her, steadying her, lifting her chin as it dropped. ‘What kind of fool am I?’ It wasn’t the best Norman Wisdom she’d ever heard. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve known for nearly forty-eight hours now. Familiarity breeds contempt.’
    ‘Alice?’ she repeated.
    ‘Yes. Look, I’m so sorry, that was dreadful. I shouldn’t have blurted it out like that. The news didn’t give the name, did it? I wanted to choose my time. I … oh, shit!’ and he thumped the dashboard.
    ‘No,’ she said, her knuckles still white on the wheel, the engine idling. ‘No, it’s all right. It’s just … well, I didn’t know’
    ‘I know’ He took her in his arms, seat-belt allowing, and kissed her forehead. For a moment her face came up to his and their eyes locked. Then there was a blast from a passing motorist and a car screamed past, yobboes hanging out, thrusting fingers skywards.
    ‘That’ll be the Scholarship Sixth,’ mused Maxwell, ‘on their way to debating society. Sylv, I’m a complete arsehole. I’ve got you here under false pretences.’
    The beginnings of a smile played around her lips. ‘I don’t