powder-blue walls, cherry-red linoleum, scuffed but not shabby, tramlines taped out for badminton. Windows down the length of one long wall, on the other an array of mounted and felt-covered display boards, each consecrated by age-group to pinned-up paintings of smiling suns, bacon-rasher skies, fluffy clouds and suchlike. There was no stage but an upright piano was pushed into a corner. A lectern stood lonesome in the midst of the floor, and they ambled toward it.
‘Mrs Boyle – Alison? – she plays the piano for us. She’ll do the same for you. We always have a hymn at morning assembly.’
‘Nice,’ Gore murmured. ‘You take your duties seriously.’
‘Oh, it’s the least we can do. Some of the parents, I daresay they still think a church school can make their kids behave. Like we were Jesuits. That’s the image, but, isn’t it? Discipline. Tradition.And not such a mix , to be honest – backgrounds and that?’
Ridley grunted.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I want us all to get along. But I’m not daft about how people look at things.’
Considering his reply, Gore saw that Monica was peering past him. ‘Oh blimey, now here’s a right one.’
Gore turned. Toddling up the length of the hall, with an oddly pronounced, near-comical swagger, was a boy of maybe six years in age – a little tow-headed tank of a kid, pink-cheeked, his lower lip protuberant, bearing in his hand a sheet of colouring paper. Pretty mouth he’s got , thought Gore. Monica clacked down upon him, her own cheeks colouring. ‘ What are you doing out of the classroom, Jake Clark?’
Undaunted, the tyke grasped the edges of his page and held it up for inspection. ‘I done this. It’s mint, everyone says.’
Monica tilted her head at him, in the manner of the prosecuting counsel. ‘Did teacher tell you to come show me?’
‘Naw, man. Everyone says , but.’
‘Why then get you back to class this minute . And it’s “No, Mrs Bruce .”’
The boy stood stock-still, lower lip jutting yet further.
‘Well, get on with you. Don’t you dare get the huff with me, young man.’
His chin and brow fell – then he glared up anew at the adults, with a vehemence Gore thought almost unnerving. A strangled cry came out of him and he ran at Monica’s lectern, shoving it with both hands. It teetered and fell before their startled eyes.
‘Right!’ Monica lunged at the boy, who somehow sidestepped her. Gore hazarded a helpful move in their direction, but the boy was ducking his head down as if to charge, and thus he ran, hard and headlong into Gore’s groin. Pained, Gore just about managed to get his hands onto squirming small shoulders and pull the boy into his grasp before Monica marched up, furious, and he released him to her.
‘Your mother’ll hear about this, won’t she? You think she’ll be pleased? Do you?’ She wrenched the boy’s arm and began to draghim away, calling back over her shoulder. ‘You’s stop here, I’ll send the caretaker.’
Massaging his abdomen, Gore bent down and plucked Jake Clark’s drawing from the floor. It was a black-paint mural of a hulking man-beast – a giant, comically proportioned, with a smaller, geeky stick of a creature by his side. Above the figures was a script in a wildly looping, childish hand:
Monica’s caretaker, a surly youth in jeans, directed the visitors without fuss to a walk-in storage cupboard. Ten feet by ten, windowless , the space was overfilled with stacked plastic chairs and boxes on shelves. Gore withdrew his notebook. Ridley put on his motoring spectacles. ‘Well,’ the older man pronounced, ‘I count eighty chairs, and I daresay that’ll do you. We don’t get that many at St Mark’s on a Sunday.’
‘Don’t you think, but – it’s going to need more? In the way of … I don’t know, decor ? Trappings. Stuff to make an atmosphere.’
‘We’re Protestants, aren’t we? We don’t need palaver.’
‘Well, we need more than this , Jack.’ Gore shook
‘Mrs Boyle – Alison? – she plays the piano for us. She’ll do the same for you. We always have a hymn at morning assembly.’
‘Nice,’ Gore murmured. ‘You take your duties seriously.’
‘Oh, it’s the least we can do. Some of the parents, I daresay they still think a church school can make their kids behave. Like we were Jesuits. That’s the image, but, isn’t it? Discipline. Tradition.And not such a mix , to be honest – backgrounds and that?’
Ridley grunted.
‘Don’t get me wrong, I want us all to get along. But I’m not daft about how people look at things.’
Considering his reply, Gore saw that Monica was peering past him. ‘Oh blimey, now here’s a right one.’
Gore turned. Toddling up the length of the hall, with an oddly pronounced, near-comical swagger, was a boy of maybe six years in age – a little tow-headed tank of a kid, pink-cheeked, his lower lip protuberant, bearing in his hand a sheet of colouring paper. Pretty mouth he’s got , thought Gore. Monica clacked down upon him, her own cheeks colouring. ‘ What are you doing out of the classroom, Jake Clark?’
Undaunted, the tyke grasped the edges of his page and held it up for inspection. ‘I done this. It’s mint, everyone says.’
Monica tilted her head at him, in the manner of the prosecuting counsel. ‘Did teacher tell you to come show me?’
‘Naw, man. Everyone says , but.’
‘Why then get you back to class this minute . And it’s “No, Mrs Bruce .”’
The boy stood stock-still, lower lip jutting yet further.
‘Well, get on with you. Don’t you dare get the huff with me, young man.’
His chin and brow fell – then he glared up anew at the adults, with a vehemence Gore thought almost unnerving. A strangled cry came out of him and he ran at Monica’s lectern, shoving it with both hands. It teetered and fell before their startled eyes.
‘Right!’ Monica lunged at the boy, who somehow sidestepped her. Gore hazarded a helpful move in their direction, but the boy was ducking his head down as if to charge, and thus he ran, hard and headlong into Gore’s groin. Pained, Gore just about managed to get his hands onto squirming small shoulders and pull the boy into his grasp before Monica marched up, furious, and he released him to her.
‘Your mother’ll hear about this, won’t she? You think she’ll be pleased? Do you?’ She wrenched the boy’s arm and began to draghim away, calling back over her shoulder. ‘You’s stop here, I’ll send the caretaker.’
Massaging his abdomen, Gore bent down and plucked Jake Clark’s drawing from the floor. It was a black-paint mural of a hulking man-beast – a giant, comically proportioned, with a smaller, geeky stick of a creature by his side. Above the figures was a script in a wildly looping, childish hand:
Monica’s caretaker, a surly youth in jeans, directed the visitors without fuss to a walk-in storage cupboard. Ten feet by ten, windowless , the space was overfilled with stacked plastic chairs and boxes on shelves. Gore withdrew his notebook. Ridley put on his motoring spectacles. ‘Well,’ the older man pronounced, ‘I count eighty chairs, and I daresay that’ll do you. We don’t get that many at St Mark’s on a Sunday.’
‘Don’t you think, but – it’s going to need more? In the way of … I don’t know, decor ? Trappings. Stuff to make an atmosphere.’
‘We’re Protestants, aren’t we? We don’t need palaver.’
‘Well, we need more than this , Jack.’ Gore shook
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