Read Online Mr Campion's Fault by Mike Ripley - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mike Ripley
Ads: Link
dragons, slouched in armchairs strategically placed at angles so they did not have to face each other, were clearly solitary animals.
There was – and his rank was much stressed – Wing Commander Raymond Bland, a wide-shouldered, red-faced man in his fifties with bushy white eyebrows to match a white-clothes-brush moustache. He taught geography, ‘Whether they like it or not!’ and the fact that he was wearing a leather flying jacket zipped to the throat indicated that he had little time for impromptu staff meetings after school hours.
Next in the receiving line, and clearly responsible for most of the blue layer of tobacco mist in the den, was a pipe-smoking vicar with a round face, small round glasses and a smile which would have been beatific were it not for the pipe stem clenched between yellowing teeth. The Rev. Stanley Huxtable cheerfully announced that he taught physics and, of course, religious education and, as if clarification were necessary, he removed the briar from his mouth and pointed the stem at the dog collar around his neck. He embellished his accomplishments by adding that he tutored ‘the brighter boys thinking of trying for Oxford and Cambridge’ in Latin and Greek.
Rupert and Perdita exchanged furtive glances, each wondering how much extra work this might realistically entail for the cleric. Perdita framed the question diplomatically by asking cheerfully: ‘Does that leave you any time at all for your parishioners in Denby Ash?’
‘Good heavens, I am not the vicar of this or any other parish. I do not have a living in the church; I toil at the coalface of education.’
‘Stanley was an army chaplain,’ Celia Armitage explained as she gently eased Perdita away. ‘Rank of captain, I believe.’
‘Whereas I was a major,’ said the next dragon in line in a strangely measured voice which was high-pitched and slightly feminine.
Physically, this was the smallest and thinnest of the dragons, and though he gave the impression of being a minor civil servant who was bullied at work and brow-beaten at home, Rupert suspected that Major Manfred Poole, the school’s senior chemistry master, ruled his science classes with a rod of iron if not tungsten.
‘Don’t worry, that’s the last of the proper officers,’ said the next male dragon in the queue, despite the fact that he snapped to attention, his heels almost clicking, in front of Perdita.
This was a dragon of the Campions’ generation and though only an inch taller than Perdita and two shorter than Rupert, he was of a muscular bulk which exuded an animal strength and created the impression that here was a man who could expand to fill a room should he so desire. He was dressed in a faded blue tracksuit top-and-bottoms and wore battered white (verging on grey) plimsolls. Celia Armitage introduced him as though she had only just remembered he was on the staff.
‘This is Bob Ward.’
‘Petty Officer Bob Ward, Miss,’ he grinned, offering a meaty hand, ‘formerly of the Royal Navy. In fact, the only naval man in the whole Denby Grange crew. I do PE with a vengeance and I also teach French. Could do Russian if there was a call for it.’
‘Russian? That’s impressive,’ said Rupert genuinely.
‘There was a course an’ I went on it,’ said Bob Ward. ‘The navy wanted Russian speakers, even ones with a broad Yorkshire accent, so we could listen in to the red menace. Can’t say it helped make the world any safer for democracy.’
‘But PE probably makes the world fitter,’ Perdita said graciously.
‘
Mens sano in corpore sano
and all that,’ Rupert added affably.
‘I wouldn’t know about that, I only do Frog and Russki,’ the former naval person said with a grimly straight face. ‘I leave the Classics to the h’officer clarse, same as I leave them to play their rugby.’
It’s a good job you’ve got muscles, Mr Ward,
thought Perdita,
because they’ve got to support one heck of a big chip on your shoulder.
‘You
There was – and his rank was much stressed – Wing Commander Raymond Bland, a wide-shouldered, red-faced man in his fifties with bushy white eyebrows to match a white-clothes-brush moustache. He taught geography, ‘Whether they like it or not!’ and the fact that he was wearing a leather flying jacket zipped to the throat indicated that he had little time for impromptu staff meetings after school hours.
Next in the receiving line, and clearly responsible for most of the blue layer of tobacco mist in the den, was a pipe-smoking vicar with a round face, small round glasses and a smile which would have been beatific were it not for the pipe stem clenched between yellowing teeth. The Rev. Stanley Huxtable cheerfully announced that he taught physics and, of course, religious education and, as if clarification were necessary, he removed the briar from his mouth and pointed the stem at the dog collar around his neck. He embellished his accomplishments by adding that he tutored ‘the brighter boys thinking of trying for Oxford and Cambridge’ in Latin and Greek.
Rupert and Perdita exchanged furtive glances, each wondering how much extra work this might realistically entail for the cleric. Perdita framed the question diplomatically by asking cheerfully: ‘Does that leave you any time at all for your parishioners in Denby Ash?’
‘Good heavens, I am not the vicar of this or any other parish. I do not have a living in the church; I toil at the coalface of education.’
‘Stanley was an army chaplain,’ Celia Armitage explained as she gently eased Perdita away. ‘Rank of captain, I believe.’
‘Whereas I was a major,’ said the next dragon in line in a strangely measured voice which was high-pitched and slightly feminine.
Physically, this was the smallest and thinnest of the dragons, and though he gave the impression of being a minor civil servant who was bullied at work and brow-beaten at home, Rupert suspected that Major Manfred Poole, the school’s senior chemistry master, ruled his science classes with a rod of iron if not tungsten.
‘Don’t worry, that’s the last of the proper officers,’ said the next male dragon in the queue, despite the fact that he snapped to attention, his heels almost clicking, in front of Perdita.
This was a dragon of the Campions’ generation and though only an inch taller than Perdita and two shorter than Rupert, he was of a muscular bulk which exuded an animal strength and created the impression that here was a man who could expand to fill a room should he so desire. He was dressed in a faded blue tracksuit top-and-bottoms and wore battered white (verging on grey) plimsolls. Celia Armitage introduced him as though she had only just remembered he was on the staff.
‘This is Bob Ward.’
‘Petty Officer Bob Ward, Miss,’ he grinned, offering a meaty hand, ‘formerly of the Royal Navy. In fact, the only naval man in the whole Denby Grange crew. I do PE with a vengeance and I also teach French. Could do Russian if there was a call for it.’
‘Russian? That’s impressive,’ said Rupert genuinely.
‘There was a course an’ I went on it,’ said Bob Ward. ‘The navy wanted Russian speakers, even ones with a broad Yorkshire accent, so we could listen in to the red menace. Can’t say it helped make the world any safer for democracy.’
‘But PE probably makes the world fitter,’ Perdita said graciously.
‘
Mens sano in corpore sano
and all that,’ Rupert added affably.
‘I wouldn’t know about that, I only do Frog and Russki,’ the former naval person said with a grimly straight face. ‘I leave the Classics to the h’officer clarse, same as I leave them to play their rugby.’
It’s a good job you’ve got muscles, Mr Ward,
thought Perdita,
because they’ve got to support one heck of a big chip on your shoulder.
‘You
Similar Books
