Chapter 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 a little more attention to her fractions and long division.’
Logan’s phone ding-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 considered advanced for six-year-olds, but Elizabeth’s a bright girl and there’s no reason she can’t excel with 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! Mathematics is 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 us sings to 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 like sport?’
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. Then it was downgraded to Dynamic Earth in Edinburgh. Now I 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-maché 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 English should be fun! Shakespeare doesn’t have to be stuffy – Hamlet was the EastEnders of 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.
Another ding-buzz came from Logan’s pocket, but he sagged against the wall instead.
Mr DirtyCuffs jerked a thumb at the toilets. ‘A police escort? She not a bit young for Public Enemy Number One?’
‘My daughter. Who spends way too much time with her Aunty Roberta.’
‘Ah.’ A nod. ‘Enjoy it while you can. In six years’ time the hormones kick in and “Daddy’s Little Girl” turns into “Satan’s Gangly Monster.”’ He dug out a small tobacco tin and dropped the mangled butt inside, where it joined a row of roll-ups, awaiting their turn.
Logan pointed at the piddle-palace Portakabin. ‘Are you . . .?’
Because if not, hanging around outside a kids’ toilet might be considered slightly suspicious.
‘Humphrey Fordyce-Adams, to give the full Sunday School moniker. Art and Design. Oh.’ He offered the tin. ‘You smoke?’
‘Gave it up.’
‘Very wise.’ Sparking up a fresh one. ‘For a minute there, thought you might be here about Ruby.’
Logan whipped out his notebook. ‘Is one of the kids in trouble?’
‘Music teacher: Ruby Burrows, didn’t turn up for work last Monday.
Thought maybe something bad had happened – you know what they say, “stress, booze, and razorblades make uncomfortable bedfellows”.
Shame, I liked her.’ He gave Logan the side-eye.
‘Not like that.’ Then raised his eyebrows.
‘Well, maybe once. After the End-Of-Term-Piss-Up party.’ Grin. ‘But that’s teachers for you.’
‘Yeah.’ Logan looked back towards the classrooms. ‘I’ve certainly met some . . . interesting characters this evening.’
‘You mean Nichole?’
No idea.
Humphrey Fordyce-Adams – which was a ridiculous name for a man not currently wearing red trousers and a shooting waistcoat – tried again.
‘Mrs McIntosh: English?’ Miming a big frizzy helmet.
‘Hair. Dungers? Nah, she’s OK.’ He took a very non-blue-blooded draw on his fag.
‘Believe it or not, we’re all very nice here.
Well, “Doctor” Buchan’s a bit of a prick, but there’s always one, isn’t there? ’
‘Usually lucky if it’s only one.’
‘Yeah, well, he’s only subbing till Ruby gets back. Then he can sod off home to whatever rock he slithered out from under.’ Humphrey examined Logan through the smoke. ‘Don’t remember you from last year.’
‘Elizabeth’s a Cults Primary kid – temporarily assigned to—’
‘This hellhole.’ A bitter laugh. ‘Oh, yeah: they’ll close and refurbish every school in the city before they finally get round to us.’ Flicking ash towards the main building. ‘Assuming they don’t just bulldoze the place, salt the earth, and erase all mention of Kirkenwell Academy for Weird Little—’
The toilet door thumped open and Elizabeth scuffed out, looking a lot happier than when she scurried in.
Humphrey hid his cigarette again. ‘Teeth back where they should be?’
‘Phew. That was close!’ She gave him a wave. ‘Sorry for not saying hello, Mr Fordyce-Adams: but I had to see a man about a racehorse.’
Far too much time with her Aunty Roberta.
Logan peered. ‘Have you washed your hands, you filthy little horror?’
She held them out for inspection: front side, then back, before grabbing his in her slightly clammy fingers.
Urgh . . .
He nodded at Humphrey. ‘Suppose we’ll see you inside.’
‘Mr Fordyce-Adams is famous, Dad. He’s got a painting in the Royal Academy!’
A gracious, pantomime bow. ‘My Warhol-allotted fifteen minutes of fame.’ Followed by a grimace. ‘Turns out not everyone enjoys it.’
Very true.
There wasn’t really anything to say to that, so Logan escorted Elizabeth back to the miserable lump of manky Portakabins for another round of pointless meetings.
As if he didn’t get enough of that at work . . .
Dr Buchan – the aforementioned ‘prick’ – had a whole room all to himself.
The walls were painted a scuffed yellow, the carpet tiles blotched with stains and worn down to the adhesive in places.
A trio of shelving racks played host to the cheaper kinds of musical instrument: recorders, little metal chime blocks, a couple of tambourines, and a whole bunch of triangles.
There was even a battered old upright piano, the floor sagging beneath it.
But to be fair, the ceiling sagged in the opposite corner, so it all sort of evened out.
Humphrey was right – this whole place needed redecorating with a bulldozer.
‘Hold on a minute.’ Dr Buchan perched on the piano’s deflated stool, wearing a semiquaver pin in his tartan tie.
A towering skeleton of a man, with surgeon’s fingers and a bandage on his right wrist. Thin glasses, high forehead.
And a nose designed for looking down. ‘Do you seriously mean to tell me that you don’t have a piano in the house?
I thought you were one of our more . . . affluent parents.’
Tara frowned. ‘Well, we’ve never really—’