in mid-raconte. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘was I rambling?’
‘Just a threat,’ she nodded.
‘Bit on edge, I suppose.’
‘We all are,’ Wynn sighed. ‘I just can’t get over this.’
‘Are you leaving today, Max?’ Rachel asked.
‘No,’ he told her, sugaring his coffee. ‘I told Warren I’d stay till Monday.’
‘You know they’re going on with the course, don’t you?’ Wynn asked, passing Maxwell the salt.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I’m a Deputy Principal,’ Wynn winked. ‘We’re always serious.’
Maxwell guffawed. It was a little out of place perhaps and he had the grace to grimace to the top table. An inscrutable-looking WPC glowered back at him.
‘Been at St Bede’s long?’ Maxwell asked Wynn.
‘Ten years,’ Wynn told him, ‘though in the silent watches of the night it sometimes seems for ever.’
Maxwell knew that feeling.
‘I was Head of Geography before that.’
Maxwell didn’t know that feeling at all. To Maxwell, being Head of Geography must be rather akin to being a leper. The news certainly killed that conversation outright.
‘Been at the budgie seed again, Rachel?’ he asked his old flame, peering into her nearly empty bowl.
‘That’s muesli,’ she said. ‘I just wasn’t very hungry.’
‘I never remember you eating that in the ’60s.’ He tackled his bacon manfully.
‘I’m not sure it was around in the ’60s. Besides, I wore jeans then – and I had a beehive hairdo.’
‘Da Doo Ron Ron!’ Maxwell winked at her.
‘Of course,’ Wynn said, leaning over his coffee, ‘you two go back a way, don’t you? Rachel said something about it yesterday.’
‘Ah,’ she smiled at Maxwell. ‘Dear dead days.’
He looked at her and nodded. Why on earth did that still happen? Why did he have that churning feeling inside? That catch in the pit of his stomach? That flutter of the heart? He was fifty-three years old, for God’s sake, crustier than a Coburg. But it did still happen and he couldn’t help it.
‘What sort of woman was she?’ he asked Wynn.
‘Who?’ The Deputy Principal of St Bede’s seemed oddly inattentive. But then, Maxwell remembered, he had been Head of Geography.
‘Elizabeth Striker.’ Maxwell realized he’d better explain.
‘Liz? Oh, salt of the earth,’ Wynn said. ‘She was Head of Family Studies.’
‘Is that cooking?’ Maxwell looked to Rachel for help. He caught the light in Michael Wynn’s eyes. It was one he’d seen before. Often. The light of a member of the establishment being appalled by Maxwell’s political incorrectness.
‘Not exactly,’ Wynn said. ‘Liz was very keen to establish GNVQ. She’s done all the spade work herself.’
‘Known her long?’
‘All the time I’ve been at St Bede’s.’
‘Part of the furniture, was Liz,’ Rachel nodded, gazing into the middle distance. ‘We’ll miss her terribly.’
Wynn nodded. ‘That we will,’ he said. ‘It’s Jordan I’m most worried about.’
‘Jordan?’ Maxwell echoed him.
‘I passed him in the corridor last night. He didn’t seem to see me at all. I said hello …’
‘As you do,’ Maxwell nodded.
‘As you do,’ Wynn agreed, ‘and it was as though he didn’t hear me either. I felt like a bloody ghost.’
‘He was the one who was looking for Liz,’ Maxwell said. ‘He asked me.’
‘He asked us all,’ Rachel remembered.
‘Were they close?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I think they were,’ Rachel said. ‘You’d certainly see them in the corner of the staff room locked in some deep, meaningful conversation.’
‘Jordan had his problems,’ Wynn said, ‘when he first joined us, I mean. Couldn’t cope with Class 3B – that sort of thing. Liz – and I don’t think this is too strong a word – Liz saved him. Or saved his sanity at any rate.’
‘He’s all right now?’ Maxwell said.
Wynn raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s all relative, Max, isn’t it? Let’s say he can teach the Catechism like a good ’un.
‘Just a threat,’ she nodded.
‘Bit on edge, I suppose.’
‘We all are,’ Wynn sighed. ‘I just can’t get over this.’
‘Are you leaving today, Max?’ Rachel asked.
‘No,’ he told her, sugaring his coffee. ‘I told Warren I’d stay till Monday.’
‘You know they’re going on with the course, don’t you?’ Wynn asked, passing Maxwell the salt.
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I’m a Deputy Principal,’ Wynn winked. ‘We’re always serious.’
Maxwell guffawed. It was a little out of place perhaps and he had the grace to grimace to the top table. An inscrutable-looking WPC glowered back at him.
‘Been at St Bede’s long?’ Maxwell asked Wynn.
‘Ten years,’ Wynn told him, ‘though in the silent watches of the night it sometimes seems for ever.’
Maxwell knew that feeling.
‘I was Head of Geography before that.’
Maxwell didn’t know that feeling at all. To Maxwell, being Head of Geography must be rather akin to being a leper. The news certainly killed that conversation outright.
‘Been at the budgie seed again, Rachel?’ he asked his old flame, peering into her nearly empty bowl.
‘That’s muesli,’ she said. ‘I just wasn’t very hungry.’
‘I never remember you eating that in the ’60s.’ He tackled his bacon manfully.
‘I’m not sure it was around in the ’60s. Besides, I wore jeans then – and I had a beehive hairdo.’
‘Da Doo Ron Ron!’ Maxwell winked at her.
‘Of course,’ Wynn said, leaning over his coffee, ‘you two go back a way, don’t you? Rachel said something about it yesterday.’
‘Ah,’ she smiled at Maxwell. ‘Dear dead days.’
He looked at her and nodded. Why on earth did that still happen? Why did he have that churning feeling inside? That catch in the pit of his stomach? That flutter of the heart? He was fifty-three years old, for God’s sake, crustier than a Coburg. But it did still happen and he couldn’t help it.
‘What sort of woman was she?’ he asked Wynn.
‘Who?’ The Deputy Principal of St Bede’s seemed oddly inattentive. But then, Maxwell remembered, he had been Head of Geography.
‘Elizabeth Striker.’ Maxwell realized he’d better explain.
‘Liz? Oh, salt of the earth,’ Wynn said. ‘She was Head of Family Studies.’
‘Is that cooking?’ Maxwell looked to Rachel for help. He caught the light in Michael Wynn’s eyes. It was one he’d seen before. Often. The light of a member of the establishment being appalled by Maxwell’s political incorrectness.
‘Not exactly,’ Wynn said. ‘Liz was very keen to establish GNVQ. She’s done all the spade work herself.’
‘Known her long?’
‘All the time I’ve been at St Bede’s.’
‘Part of the furniture, was Liz,’ Rachel nodded, gazing into the middle distance. ‘We’ll miss her terribly.’
Wynn nodded. ‘That we will,’ he said. ‘It’s Jordan I’m most worried about.’
‘Jordan?’ Maxwell echoed him.
‘I passed him in the corridor last night. He didn’t seem to see me at all. I said hello …’
‘As you do,’ Maxwell nodded.
‘As you do,’ Wynn agreed, ‘and it was as though he didn’t hear me either. I felt like a bloody ghost.’
‘He was the one who was looking for Liz,’ Maxwell said. ‘He asked me.’
‘He asked us all,’ Rachel remembered.
‘Were they close?’ Maxwell asked.
‘I think they were,’ Rachel said. ‘You’d certainly see them in the corner of the staff room locked in some deep, meaningful conversation.’
‘Jordan had his problems,’ Wynn said, ‘when he first joined us, I mean. Couldn’t cope with Class 3B – that sort of thing. Liz – and I don’t think this is too strong a word – Liz saved him. Or saved his sanity at any rate.’
‘He’s all right now?’ Maxwell said.
Wynn raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it’s all relative, Max, isn’t it? Let’s say he can teach the Catechism like a good ’un.
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