hadn’t heard such a convincing Dick Emery in years. ‘I meant no disrespect to Bill Pardoe, I assure you.’
‘So why didn’t you bow your head?’
‘I’ve got this neck problem,’ Maxwell smiled at
‘No doubt this is not how you do things in Dropout Comprehensive or wherever you come from.’
‘No,’ Maxwell told her. ‘Not exactly. And that’s Leighford, by the way. Leighford High.’ He held out a hand as the ranks began to file past. ‘I’m Peter Maxwell.’
Her green eyes flickered in hesitation, then she managed an apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re all a bit on edge. I’m Maggie Shaunessy. I’m Head of Austen House.’
‘Miss Shaunessy.’
She turned to go as her girls trooped out. Then she stopped. ‘Look, er … Mr Maxwell. I feel … oh dear, I’m not good at this. I’ve got a free now. Would you care for some coffee? I owe you that at least.’
Maxwell smiled. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I can’t guarantee that. Cassandra.’
A beautiful girl with eyes a man could drown in swung to her side. ‘Miss Shaunessy?’ Cassandra was tall and elegant in her silver-braided Prefect’s blazer and her neat, pleated skirt. Next to her, Maggie Shaunessy looked like an unmade bed.
‘Mr Maxwell will be taking coffee with me in Northanger. Tell Dr Sheffield I’ll be along later, will you?’
‘Of course, Miss Shaunessy,’ and the girl was gone.
‘Is this some kind of fact-finding tour, Mr Maxwell?’ the Housemistress asked. ‘Your being at Grimond’s?’
‘Max,’ he said. ‘Call me Max. In a way. But it’s all rather eclipsed now, isn’t it?’
He walked with her across the quad and between the red brick buildings that housed the Art Department. ‘I suppose it is,’ she said. ‘God, it’s unbelievable. This way.’
Austen House was very definitely not part of old Jedediah Grimond’s grand design. It looked very eighties, but the pale pink of the bricks showed a real attempt to make it blend with the original. Maggie Shaunessy led Maxwell up a broad open-plan staircase lined with vast oil canvasses of girlie subjects. Then they were in the rather pleasant suite of rooms she called Northanger, all plants and air and light. Rowing trophies lined the corridor and ancient shields and cups shone silver in glass-fronted cabinets.
‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘Not exactly an abbey, is it? But it’s in keeping with Jane Austen. The trophies are all from St Hilda’s.’
‘You teach English?’
‘For my sins,’ she trilled. The Killarney brogue was there still. Overlaid perhaps with Benenden and Girton, but there all the same. She busied herself with the coffee makings. Not for Austen House the clapped out kettles of Leighford. This was a rather suave espresso maker, puffing and bubbling as it went through its motions.
‘You knew Bill Pardoe well?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m from St Hilda’s you see. We only joined Grimond’s two years ago. I was Head of Sixth there.’
‘Dear lady,’ Maxwell sat up on the soft, pastel chair she’d given him, saluting a kindred spirit when he saw one. ‘There aren’t many of us left.’
She laughed. ‘You too? I miss it. I wasn’t sure I’d be very good with the little ones. Eleven and so on. It’s a terrible age. Look,’ her eyes dropped as she fought for words, ‘what I said about Dropout Comprehensive … I didn’t mean …’
He held up his hand, shaking his head. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘If you went there, it would probably reinforce your view.’
‘Sugar?’
‘One. Thanks. Ah,’ his eyes lighted on a poetry book on the Head of House’s shelves. ‘Up the Line to Death. Edward Thomas lived near here, didn’t he?’
‘Over at Steep, yes. Are you English Lit., Max?’
‘No. God, no. History. English is my subsid, but I’ve never taught it for real. What was Bill?’
‘Classics.’
‘Ah,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Now that really is the Great
‘So why didn’t you bow your head?’
‘I’ve got this neck problem,’ Maxwell smiled at
‘No doubt this is not how you do things in Dropout Comprehensive or wherever you come from.’
‘No,’ Maxwell told her. ‘Not exactly. And that’s Leighford, by the way. Leighford High.’ He held out a hand as the ranks began to file past. ‘I’m Peter Maxwell.’
Her green eyes flickered in hesitation, then she managed an apology. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re all a bit on edge. I’m Maggie Shaunessy. I’m Head of Austen House.’
‘Miss Shaunessy.’
She turned to go as her girls trooped out. Then she stopped. ‘Look, er … Mr Maxwell. I feel … oh dear, I’m not good at this. I’ve got a free now. Would you care for some coffee? I owe you that at least.’
Maxwell smiled. ‘Coffee would be nice,’ he said.
She laughed. ‘I can’t guarantee that. Cassandra.’
A beautiful girl with eyes a man could drown in swung to her side. ‘Miss Shaunessy?’ Cassandra was tall and elegant in her silver-braided Prefect’s blazer and her neat, pleated skirt. Next to her, Maggie Shaunessy looked like an unmade bed.
‘Mr Maxwell will be taking coffee with me in Northanger. Tell Dr Sheffield I’ll be along later, will you?’
‘Of course, Miss Shaunessy,’ and the girl was gone.
‘Is this some kind of fact-finding tour, Mr Maxwell?’ the Housemistress asked. ‘Your being at Grimond’s?’
‘Max,’ he said. ‘Call me Max. In a way. But it’s all rather eclipsed now, isn’t it?’
He walked with her across the quad and between the red brick buildings that housed the Art Department. ‘I suppose it is,’ she said. ‘God, it’s unbelievable. This way.’
Austen House was very definitely not part of old Jedediah Grimond’s grand design. It looked very eighties, but the pale pink of the bricks showed a real attempt to make it blend with the original. Maggie Shaunessy led Maxwell up a broad open-plan staircase lined with vast oil canvasses of girlie subjects. Then they were in the rather pleasant suite of rooms she called Northanger, all plants and air and light. Rowing trophies lined the corridor and ancient shields and cups shone silver in glass-fronted cabinets.
‘I know,’ she smiled. ‘Not exactly an abbey, is it? But it’s in keeping with Jane Austen. The trophies are all from St Hilda’s.’
‘You teach English?’
‘For my sins,’ she trilled. The Killarney brogue was there still. Overlaid perhaps with Benenden and Girton, but there all the same. She busied herself with the coffee makings. Not for Austen House the clapped out kettles of Leighford. This was a rather suave espresso maker, puffing and bubbling as it went through its motions.
‘You knew Bill Pardoe well?’ Maxwell asked.
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘I’m from St Hilda’s you see. We only joined Grimond’s two years ago. I was Head of Sixth there.’
‘Dear lady,’ Maxwell sat up on the soft, pastel chair she’d given him, saluting a kindred spirit when he saw one. ‘There aren’t many of us left.’
She laughed. ‘You too? I miss it. I wasn’t sure I’d be very good with the little ones. Eleven and so on. It’s a terrible age. Look,’ her eyes dropped as she fought for words, ‘what I said about Dropout Comprehensive … I didn’t mean …’
He held up his hand, shaking his head. ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘If you went there, it would probably reinforce your view.’
‘Sugar?’
‘One. Thanks. Ah,’ his eyes lighted on a poetry book on the Head of House’s shelves. ‘Up the Line to Death. Edward Thomas lived near here, didn’t he?’
‘Over at Steep, yes. Are you English Lit., Max?’
‘No. God, no. History. English is my subsid, but I’ve never taught it for real. What was Bill?’
‘Classics.’
‘Ah,’ Maxwell smiled. ‘Now that really is the Great
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