either of her men were dressed and, in fact, was destined to return while they were intheir pyjamas, but again, rather than still.
While the cat and his boy kept each other amused, Maxwell got his head down in one of the books which Santa had delivered; he had a lot to choose from, he must have been really good that year. Jacquie had long ago given up the unequal struggle of trying to make his presents look interesting by packing rolled-up socks in the same package as a DVD. These days, his presents looked like a mini ziggurat at the bottom of the tree as large and scrummy illustrated books on the Crimea gave way to biographies which gave way to books of silly pictures which in their turn gave way to DVDs and CDs. To some it might be boring; to Maxwell it was heaven.
But this Boxing Day he couldnât seem to get last nightâs events out of his head. The book â a biography of Cleopatra, enjoyable and readable enough â held his attention for pages at a time, but the mental picture of an eleven-year-old with old, old eyes kept rising in front of him and obscured the text. He tried to remember which staff had been involved in the drama at the time. The Head of Sixth Form had been at the periphery only, as the boy had been in Year Seven, but it had been a trivial incident in one of his lessons which had kicked the whole drama off, so he had been copied in on all that had happened later. He closed his eyes and conjured up a mental picture.
Legs Diamond had obviously taken the brunt, as a head teacher always will. Bernard Ryan had not come out of the whole thing with too much dignity intact, butthat was Bernard for you. He had been younger then, of course â as had they all â and was still clawing his way up the greasy pole, before it got just too slippery and he settled for Deputy Head at Leighford High School in perpetuity. He tried to remember whether Deirdre Lessing had been there and decided that she had. He tried not to think of her as poor Deirdre; before death had claimed her she had been as vicious and ambitious as anyone he had ever worked with and so sympathy was pretty much wasted. She wore a halo now, but there was a time when live snakes coiled in her hair and she was a creature of a different culture. In fact, thinking harder, he realised that Deirdre had featured in almost all of Matthew Hendricksâs more lurid accusations. They were unfounded but the boy had had no idea at the time, any more than had her colleagues, as to how near to the truth he had inadvertently come. Now ⦠who else? Maxwell whistled softly as he looked at the ceiling, thinking.
âDads? Dads!â Suddenly the present was very present in the shape of his son.
âHmm? Sorry, mate,â he focused on the child in question. âWhat can I do you for?â
âMy hamster has gone under the sofa and the Count has gone after it. He wonât eat it, will he?â The big eyes were wide with worry. It seemed only yesterday that all Nolan could manage of the catâs name was Nik, and now he gave him his title. Ah, the miracles of modern education.
âAre you worried about the Count or the hamster?â Maxwell asked, playing for time.
The fear flickered and Nolanâs father realised he had made an error. Before, the boy had only been worried about the hamster. Now he was worried about the cat as well. The childâs mouth opened in preparation for a short burst of incoherent crying; this was a rare sound inside 38 Columbine and Maxwell was keen to nip it in the bud.
âTheyâll both be all right, Nole,â he said, jumping up. âIâll get them out.â He knew this would probably involve some probing with the walking stick they kept in the kitchen for closing the window without falling out; always a good plan when you are on the first floor. The hamster wouldnât fight back but Count Metternich was an altogether different proposition and Maxwell had the scars to
While the cat and his boy kept each other amused, Maxwell got his head down in one of the books which Santa had delivered; he had a lot to choose from, he must have been really good that year. Jacquie had long ago given up the unequal struggle of trying to make his presents look interesting by packing rolled-up socks in the same package as a DVD. These days, his presents looked like a mini ziggurat at the bottom of the tree as large and scrummy illustrated books on the Crimea gave way to biographies which gave way to books of silly pictures which in their turn gave way to DVDs and CDs. To some it might be boring; to Maxwell it was heaven.
But this Boxing Day he couldnât seem to get last nightâs events out of his head. The book â a biography of Cleopatra, enjoyable and readable enough â held his attention for pages at a time, but the mental picture of an eleven-year-old with old, old eyes kept rising in front of him and obscured the text. He tried to remember which staff had been involved in the drama at the time. The Head of Sixth Form had been at the periphery only, as the boy had been in Year Seven, but it had been a trivial incident in one of his lessons which had kicked the whole drama off, so he had been copied in on all that had happened later. He closed his eyes and conjured up a mental picture.
Legs Diamond had obviously taken the brunt, as a head teacher always will. Bernard Ryan had not come out of the whole thing with too much dignity intact, butthat was Bernard for you. He had been younger then, of course â as had they all â and was still clawing his way up the greasy pole, before it got just too slippery and he settled for Deputy Head at Leighford High School in perpetuity. He tried to remember whether Deirdre Lessing had been there and decided that she had. He tried not to think of her as poor Deirdre; before death had claimed her she had been as vicious and ambitious as anyone he had ever worked with and so sympathy was pretty much wasted. She wore a halo now, but there was a time when live snakes coiled in her hair and she was a creature of a different culture. In fact, thinking harder, he realised that Deirdre had featured in almost all of Matthew Hendricksâs more lurid accusations. They were unfounded but the boy had had no idea at the time, any more than had her colleagues, as to how near to the truth he had inadvertently come. Now ⦠who else? Maxwell whistled softly as he looked at the ceiling, thinking.
âDads? Dads!â Suddenly the present was very present in the shape of his son.
âHmm? Sorry, mate,â he focused on the child in question. âWhat can I do you for?â
âMy hamster has gone under the sofa and the Count has gone after it. He wonât eat it, will he?â The big eyes were wide with worry. It seemed only yesterday that all Nolan could manage of the catâs name was Nik, and now he gave him his title. Ah, the miracles of modern education.
âAre you worried about the Count or the hamster?â Maxwell asked, playing for time.
The fear flickered and Nolanâs father realised he had made an error. Before, the boy had only been worried about the hamster. Now he was worried about the cat as well. The childâs mouth opened in preparation for a short burst of incoherent crying; this was a rare sound inside 38 Columbine and Maxwell was keen to nip it in the bud.
âTheyâll both be all right, Nole,â he said, jumping up. âIâll get them out.â He knew this would probably involve some probing with the walking stick they kept in the kitchen for closing the window without falling out; always a good plan when you are on the first floor. The hamster wouldnât fight back but Count Metternich was an altogether different proposition and Maxwell had the scars to
Similar Books
