to polite applause. At one point he thought he had been spotted by his old housemaster, who had come across from the hockey pitches and was walking along the far touchline, but he turned away just in time and his housemaster continued over to the 1st XV pitch.
The ditch where Isobel had been found was still cordoned off with blue tape and attracted a good deal of attention from students, teachers and parents walking to and from the hockey pitches in the far field. It seemed that no one was capable of crossing the footbridge over the ditch without stopping to look in.
The game ended in a resounding victory for St Dunstan’s, 33–15. Dixon watched the Brunel players shake hands with their opposite numbers and then trudge back to the changing rooms in the spo rts hall .
‘Tea?’ asked Phillips.
‘Yes, please,’ replied Dixon
They walked back up through the treeline and then along a pat h that led to the dining room. It was starting to get dark n ow and Dixon could see lights on in various rooms in the main school and in the Underwood Building.
‘That’s the sanatorium up there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a door off to the right, ‘and behind that is where the kitchen staff live. Those who live in, anyway.’
‘Right,’ said Dixon.
Once through the double doors, a short passageway led to the main corridor. Dixon turned left and headed towards the masters’ common room.
‘No, this way, old chap,’ said Phillips, ‘tea’s in the dining room.’
Dixon smiled. This was his chance to get a look at the kitchen staff, or at least some of them. At best, he could remember perhaps three or four from St Dunstan’s, so the chances were likely to be very slim that he would recognise any now, and that was assuming that the ones he could remember had moved to Brunel. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be a pointless exercise. If progress was to be made in this section of the school then he would need the names of any kitchen staff working at Brunel who had previously been at St Dunstan’s. He checked his watch. It was just after 4.30 p.m. Plenty of time for tea, then he would make his excuses and get over to the Greyhound to meet Jane.
Phillips handed Dixon a tray as they approached the front of the queue.
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘What, no cake?’
‘Diabetic. Just a mug of tea for me.’
‘You poor sod.’
Phillips helped himself to some bread and jam, two jam tarts and a piece of fruit cake. ‘I’ll have yours then.’
‘You carry on,’ replied Dixon.
He recognised none of the kitchen porters on duty behind the counter but there were only three, one serving the tea and the others topping up the supply of bread and cakes.
At the end of the counter, two steps up led into the dining room. It was larger than St Dunstan’s with long tables, bench seating and walls covered with small shields, each listing in gold lettering the names of the first team members for the relevant year. Green for cricket, red for hockey and black for rugby. Dixon found the rugby shield for the team he had played against seventeen years ago. He recognised none of the names now but could still remember the score.
At the far end of the dining room, near the exit, was a counter where trays were collected by a kitchen porter, any rubbish tipped into large bins and the dirty crockery stacked for washing. Dixon stared at the man standing behind the counter. He was immediately familiar to him; older, of course, and with grey hair and moustache rather than black, but he definitely recognised him. It had been a standing joke at St Dunstan’s: two kitchen porters who always worked together called Derek and Clive. Dixon did not know whether this was Derek or Clive. In fact he could not recall ever having known who was who, but he did remember that the man standing at the counter in the Brunel dining room had been a big Beatles fan. He used to say he had even seen them live in the Cavern Club and everyone had
The ditch where Isobel had been found was still cordoned off with blue tape and attracted a good deal of attention from students, teachers and parents walking to and from the hockey pitches in the far field. It seemed that no one was capable of crossing the footbridge over the ditch without stopping to look in.
The game ended in a resounding victory for St Dunstan’s, 33–15. Dixon watched the Brunel players shake hands with their opposite numbers and then trudge back to the changing rooms in the spo rts hall .
‘Tea?’ asked Phillips.
‘Yes, please,’ replied Dixon
They walked back up through the treeline and then along a pat h that led to the dining room. It was starting to get dark n ow and Dixon could see lights on in various rooms in the main school and in the Underwood Building.
‘That’s the sanatorium up there,’ said Phillips, pointing to a door off to the right, ‘and behind that is where the kitchen staff live. Those who live in, anyway.’
‘Right,’ said Dixon.
Once through the double doors, a short passageway led to the main corridor. Dixon turned left and headed towards the masters’ common room.
‘No, this way, old chap,’ said Phillips, ‘tea’s in the dining room.’
Dixon smiled. This was his chance to get a look at the kitchen staff, or at least some of them. At best, he could remember perhaps three or four from St Dunstan’s, so the chances were likely to be very slim that he would recognise any now, and that was assuming that the ones he could remember had moved to Brunel. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed to be a pointless exercise. If progress was to be made in this section of the school then he would need the names of any kitchen staff working at Brunel who had previously been at St Dunstan’s. He checked his watch. It was just after 4.30 p.m. Plenty of time for tea, then he would make his excuses and get over to the Greyhound to meet Jane.
Phillips handed Dixon a tray as they approached the front of the queue.
‘Not for me, thanks.’
‘What, no cake?’
‘Diabetic. Just a mug of tea for me.’
‘You poor sod.’
Phillips helped himself to some bread and jam, two jam tarts and a piece of fruit cake. ‘I’ll have yours then.’
‘You carry on,’ replied Dixon.
He recognised none of the kitchen porters on duty behind the counter but there were only three, one serving the tea and the others topping up the supply of bread and cakes.
At the end of the counter, two steps up led into the dining room. It was larger than St Dunstan’s with long tables, bench seating and walls covered with small shields, each listing in gold lettering the names of the first team members for the relevant year. Green for cricket, red for hockey and black for rugby. Dixon found the rugby shield for the team he had played against seventeen years ago. He recognised none of the names now but could still remember the score.
At the far end of the dining room, near the exit, was a counter where trays were collected by a kitchen porter, any rubbish tipped into large bins and the dirty crockery stacked for washing. Dixon stared at the man standing behind the counter. He was immediately familiar to him; older, of course, and with grey hair and moustache rather than black, but he definitely recognised him. It had been a standing joke at St Dunstan’s: two kitchen porters who always worked together called Derek and Clive. Dixon did not know whether this was Derek or Clive. In fact he could not recall ever having known who was who, but he did remember that the man standing at the counter in the Brunel dining room had been a big Beatles fan. He used to say he had even seen them live in the Cavern Club and everyone had
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