Tara poked him. ‘You’re the one who wanted to have a kid.’
And so it began...
34
Mr Blackwell’s ‘office’ for this evening was a desk by the whiteboard. He fidgeted with a pen – spinning it round and around in his long thin fingers, like a middle-aged majorette. The rest of him was long and thin too. In fact he was tall enough to have outgrown most of his hair, leaving a pair of hefty eyebrows and a droopy moustache behind.
The biro/baton went for another spin. ‘...but perhaps Elizabeth needs to pay alittlemore attention to her fractions and long division.’
Logan’s phoneding-buzzed in his pocket, but teachers tended to get huffy if they thought people weren’t hanging on their every word, so he left it where it was.
‘Now,’ Mr Blackwell swapped the spinning pen from one hand to the other, ‘I know that’s consideredadvancedfor six-year-olds, but Elizabeth’s a bright girl and there’s no reason she can’texcelwith a little motivation.’ Big smile. ‘You like music, don’t you? Of course you do, everyone likes music.’
Tara nodded, and after a wee pause, Logan did too. Humouring him.
‘Well, there you are!Mathematicsis the music of the cosmos. Its rhythms are the rhythms of quantum physics and black holes, biology and ecology.’ Spreading his arms wide, the pen never missing a beat. ‘Everything around ussingsto mathematics’ tune! And I want every child who comes through that door to sing along.’
Mr Blackwell stood there, as if he was expecting a round of applause.
He didn’t get one.
‘I see.’ A frown. ‘Perhaps that’s the wrong analogy for you? Ermmm...’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Aha! Do you likesport?’
Oh God...
Mrs Greenwald looked like a part-time rugby player, with bear-like hands, broad shoulders, and a slight stoop that took her down to a mere six foot. Index and middle finger yellowed with cigarette tar. A wee paunch that implied she spent more time in the pub than the classroom. Face like a wet weekend in Huntly, voice like a bucket full of gravel, as she moaned on and on and on. ‘...and we were meant to have a school trip to the Science Museum, in London.Thenit was downgraded to Dynamic Earth in Edinburgh.NowI don’t even have the budget for an afternoon at Satrosphere, and it’s only down the road!’ She glowered out through the window. ‘We’ve got a proper science lab, you know. With benches, and Bunsen burners, and...flipping oscilloscopes. Only the roof’s made of reinforced autoclaved aerated concrete, so I’m stuck in here making volcanoes out of papier-mâché and bicarbonate of soda.How is that science?’
Maybe, if Logan pulled the fire alarm, they could all go home?
The Energizer Bunny with frizzy hair and dungarees turned out to be Mrs McIntosh, a snub-nosed dynamo of a woman whose can-do attitude and beaming smile hinted at either lots of prescription drugs or an impending psychosis. Possibly both.
She eyed Logan’s uniform, then gave him a massive wink. ‘Not going to arrest me, are you? For being too much fun!’ Then nudged Elizabeth. ‘Right, Lizzy?’
He kept his voice flat as a mortuary table. ‘I think you’re safe, there.’
‘You see, I think Englishshouldbe fun! Shakespeare doesn’t have to be stuffy –Hamletwas theEastEndersof its day!’ Popping on an atrocious Mockney accent as she squatted down in front of Elizabeth: ‘To be, or not to be, and all that, innit?’ Then mangled out an even more Dick Van Dykeian ‘Leave it aaart, you muppet!’
Mrs McIntosh bounded upright again. ‘Now, have you thought about our special summer theatre camp?’
Christ, no.
Elizabeth dragged Logan out through the back door, and onto the woodchip. ‘Hurry! Hurry!’
They’d plonked a toilet block behind the primary-school warren: a small Portakabin divided in two – one half marked ‘BOYS’ the other ‘GIRLS’. Neither of which looked particularly sanitary. The harsh-plastic scent of pine disinfectant and floral air freshener struggled to conceal the fact that little children weren’t always the best at ‘getting their presents in the porcelain Santa’.
An older man lurked outside the loos, puffing away on a roll-up – holding it in his cupped hand like a true secret smoker. His ragged shirt cuffs were stained with smears of green, yellow, and pink. Blue-and-red dirt under his fingernails. Late fifties, with a sensible grey haircut, John Lennon glasses, and white stubble on his chin. Wearing a blazer-and-tie as if he’d lost a bet and this was the forfeit.
Logan let the little monster hustle him over to the toilets. ‘Well, it’s your own fault for drinking all that orange juice.’
‘Not helping!’
The man looked up, mid-puff, and wheeched the cigarette around behind his back. Hiding it. Forcing a smile as he wafted away the smoke. ‘Fallen foul of the rozzers, eh, Elizabeth?’
‘Can’t stop: back teeth are floating!’
Logan let go of her hand and she sprinted for the door to the girls’.
Soon as she’d gone, the man’s cigarette reappeared for one final draw. Then he ground the tiny butt out against the sole of his shoe.
