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Natalia misfired her milk for her cereal as it splashed over the floor and nearly hit Mary’s loveheart dressing gown.
‘Bleedin’ hell, watch it!’
‘Sorry, just in a rush—’
‘Tsk! You’ve never this mad keen to get to school of a morning,’ Mary flicked back a strand of her dyed auburn hair. ‘I can’t keep up!’
‘Oh, well they don’t do report cards at school anymore.’
‘Don’t let that be the reason you go skiving again when your mood turns. Last thing I want is the police turning up ‘ere because you’ve run away from your problems like your dad. Face up to ‘em, like I’m gonna face up to this bastard Rob who won’t pick up his calls.’ She squinted into her phone.
‘Oh?’
‘All cos I welled up when Coldplay came on in’t pub. That stuff should be banned like asbestos. Rob couldn’t get out fast enough even slipping over after eight lagers!’
Natalia mused on a mouthful of Cheerios. ‘Why don’t you prank him?’
‘You mean like Jeremy Beadle?’ Mary frowned.
‘What, the old TV prank show you always talk about.’
‘Have a fucking alien rise up in his garden. That’ll make Rob leg it faster!’
They both laughed.
‘I meant prank call him. Withhold your number.’
‘I already tried that. 1471 innit?’
‘On mobiles it’s 141. Depends what network you’re on. Let’s see…’ Natalia took out her phone. ‘Yeah. On BT it’s 141.’
‘Oh, no bloody wonder!’ Mary tapped her phone and brought it to her ear. ‘…Hiya, Rob! It’s Mary—’
Natalia tried hard to stifle a grin as she watched her mum’s face screw up.
‘He’s ‘ung up! The bastard!’
‘Well at least you know now.’
‘Men, all’t fucking same! I’m going round his! Still lives with his mum, the big soft twat, he’ll be crying to her for a cuddle by’t time I’ve decked him!’
‘Please don’t,’ Natalia groaned. ‘I’d rather you go shopping instead. There’s no milk, in fact the entire fridge is bare.’
‘Yeah, yeah, I will…’
‘Get some salted caramel cookies!’
Mary pulled a face. ‘Caramel? Salty? Must taste as bloody disgusting as what Rob gave me last time we— ’
‘Jeez, mum. I’m going.’
‘One way to get you moving,’ she cackled.
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*
Marcia that morning was nowhere to be seen, which had Natalia optimistically fantasising that she was gone for good. Even weasel Stacey backed off at morning form without her partner-in-crime. As for her own growing version of the latter, she caught him engaged in buoyant chatter a couple of times that afternoon, from far away enough not to see her watching, wondering if she’d ever get the honour again to bring him squished baked goods from Food Tech. Clearly he was beavering away on something of a latest mission, his sly nod to her suggested, as he dropped off papers to Miss Barnes before Natalia’s yoga lesson the next day. She could sense a countdown to the moment he would seek her out to unveil its results, and how soon might that be?
It was raining so hard all Thursday night and Friday morning that the damp patch in the corner of Natalia’s room was beginning to peel the wallpaper. Can she put home repairs on the priority wish list before the uniform rehaul?Darting down the school driveway through the rain and arriving a little early, she pulled off her wet hat and hurriedly rubbed her forehead of raindrops upon the genial call that came:
‘Good morning, or rather, bleak morning!’
It was Neill, altogether dry and fetching.
‘It will be if you’re delegating Assembly to Dinkey Donk again,’ she pouted, legs weakening at not having spoken to him for three days. ‘The whole school nearly fell asleep last time.’
‘Oh! Well you’re in luck, the school will be indeed cattle-prodded with my voice. And there’ll be news, too!’ Neill leapt like a cat for the bottom step, adding the fading words as he disappeared up the staircase:
‘It might make you blush!’
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Sam looked flatly at Natalia at morning form. ‘Stacey said that you made fun of her.’
‘Made fun of her?’ Natalia stared at the slumped back of Stacey a few chairs away.
‘That you called her thick. That’s really not nice, Nat…’
‘I did not call her thick. Maybe she’s referring to when I said she won’t be needing my help on her work anymore now that she’s laughing at me being made fun of by Bernard or bulldog Marcia.’
‘Tuh! Amazin’! There you go again. Looking down your nose at people. You telling me you’re scared of Bernard? And call the new girl names like that, I just can’t…’
Natalia sighed and tuned out, nostrils flaring - as Sam continued to mutter about acting all superior and ‘hooty snooty,’ - then relaxed her nostrils with a sigh of relief that Sam was easier to cope with than Marcia, who was still off ill - she’d made it to the weekend without her spirits soured - may she be ill for as long as fucking possible.
Shortly filing in for Assembly, her senses fell gladly on the eye-and-ear-candy back rightfully presenting it, and after a few minutes of welcoming and hollering through the various pressing matters for each Year, Neill raised his tone with a drumroll air as Natalia held her breath; the blush he had presaged already becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy.
‘Now, uniforms! As some of you know we’re making changes to your school attire. I’m keen to make the uniform more comfortable for all, and going on wide user feedback and extensive discussion, I have a big announcement to make.’
Excited whispers crepitated across the rows.
‘The main change is there’ll be no more ties.’
A gasp went across the school. Even some of the teachers stared as though they hadn’t been privy to the information, or were somewhat unclear on it.
‘We’re taking the uniform out of the Dark Ages,’ Neill boomed. ‘Ties are for businessmen!’
Natalia stared. Blood shot like from syringe straight into her face as he continued victoriously:
‘No more jumpers hanging like potato sacks, and shirts with larger sweat patches than the… Yorkshire Ripper.’
Natalia’s heart raced like a pony as the hall cackled at her jokes. She swallowed hard, her eyes going to Neill’s.
He was looking right back at her.
‘I am pleased to announce a sample batch is arriving today,’ he continued, ‘and I will be updating you in due course on how and where to purchase the new garb. Clothes, that is.’
He rapped on the pod to settle down a growing murmur.
‘And now! I have been consulting with each Head of Year with regards to upcoming school trips, but I have decided to take Year 11’s choice for myself. Sorry, Mrs Coleman’ - he glanced to her apologetically as the school chuckled - ‘but I did consult the fine literary mind of a friend of mine, and I think you will rather like the choice.’
Natalia blew out her cheeks.
‘Year 11 will be going to visit the famous Parsonage Museum and quaint Brontë town of Haworth. Perfectly apt for both English GCSE and the upcoming yuletide spirit.’
There were coos of intrigue - and a ‘pffft’ heard from Laura.
‘Oh, very nice Neill!’ Coleman trilled.
‘That will be on Monday 27th November, less than three weeks away. Permission slips will be sent out and there’ll be a small charge of around £10 to cover coach and museum entrance. As well as my seven pints of ale at the Black Bull whilst you lot study the mangey couch that Emily Brontë died on!’
A sprinkle of laughs was heard around, including Coleman’s, whilst Natalia noticed Miss Doris and Mrs Williams looking perplexed at each other. Meanwhile Neill was holding the cockiest expression she’d ever seen on him, before his prompt bark dismissed the hall.
Excited chatter about the announcements rang through the corridors as everyone bottlenecked to lessons. After Assembly on Fridays was 45 minutes of Pastoral, which would take place in the form room and normally involve some benign attempt at discussing relationships and welfare of children in their lives. Today, as Williams drew circles on the board to show the different people of importance in one’s social group, talking in a tone like primary school again, on loop in Natalia’s head was a replay of Neill announcing ‘ties are for businessmen!’ as though her words had impregnated him, and he was rebirthing her, multiplying and spawning her all over the entire school…
‘Natalia?’
‘Huh?’
‘Who might we call on outside of a family member for emotional support?’
‘A boyfriend! If she ‘ad one!’ Luke heckled, to giggles from the girls. Natalia glanced to see Ryan going bright red next to him.
‘Quiet, Luke!’ Williams frowned then glanced back expectantly to Natalia.
‘Er, miss… a teacher?’
‘Yes,’ she turned to the board, ‘or a welfare officer, who work outside the school as part of the local authority…’
Natalia’s thoughts drifted back to Neill calling her ‘the fine literary mind of a friend of mine!’ Dear god. Was this some wacky dream she was having? The prank shows she watched like Punk’d or Trigger Happy TV? Or was her mum’s favourite old Jeremy Beadle about to pop out from behind the moth-eaten, shit-coloured curtain on the stage and wave his anatomically-undersized hand in a wanker gesture at her?
How did a genie with endless wishes, an ear and eye seemingly only for her, land in her miserable school in Leeds of all places?
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*
The bell had gone for break, and bemused Natalia watched as Noble and Coleman berated a group of boys who’d tied their ties around their heads like bandanas, parkouring the banisters. Turning down the corridor, deep in thought about how the school had taken on its own almighty and somewhat unhinged welfare officer, she yelped to a tap on her shoulder.
‘Oh, did I scare you?’
He was all blue jacket flaps and hair breezing behind him as she exclaimed:
‘Sorry! I thought you were Jeremy Beadle!’
‘Why Jeremy Beadle!’ Neill chortled.
‘Because my life feels like one big prank at the moment—’ she hadn’t finished muttering before a shudder ran over her, for his hand had come softly upon her back of her coat, motioning her to turn back other way with him.
‘Beadle’s About was back in the eighties,’ he continued, ‘when you weren’t even a twinkle in your daddy’s winkle. Why in the world would a whippersnapper like you worry that old Jezza’ll come a-waddling?’
‘My mum goes on about him,’ she said nonchalantly as he ushered her along. ‘She’s shown me old clips.’
‘Well she should know then, Jeremy Beadle’s got a tiny cock!’ as they came to a door.
She blushed. ‘Why my mum?’
‘But on the other hand, it’s really big…’
‘Such a bad joke,’ she tutted, as he yanked the door handle grinning, letting her through first. ‘Where are you taking me?’ the voice in her head finally said out loud, releasing the smile she couldn’t further suppress.
‘To be just like our Jeremy and give me a little hand with another 80s classic, The Clothes Show - it’s new uniform time.’ Now as they approached the next doors, he gripped her arm - almost absent-mindedly - a flash current of blood at her face as he pushed her through, as though to dump her through quicker, then as a huddle of pupils fell around them; he was all but a ghost breath behind her as they came to his office.
He opened the door to a stream of window light cast over two large open boxes.
‘So how is it all?’
‘Would you like to take a look through?’
She put down her things, slipped off her coat and blinked away from the magnetising line of sight of their mutual crouch; hurrying her hands through soft polo tops, new sweaters and cardigans, all emblazoned with the school badge.
‘They look great,’ she smiled.
‘The fabric is a bamboo blend, much better on acrid adolescent armpits. It still needs to to be semi-synthetic to be affordable,’ he sighed, then beckoned: ‘Take some for yourself.’
‘Oh, thanks.’
Both standing upright now, a bundle under her arm, looking at each other; she had to follow the spark of her involuntary smirk with something.
‘Is this payment for plagiarism?’
‘I improved upon it’ - he said casually as he ducked, picking up shreds of plastic and paper packaging dotted on the floor. ‘Yorkshire Ripper is far more relatable to you Northern folk.’
‘Isn’t Jack the Ripper the same?’
‘No! He was 1800s!’ - his bark bounced off the carpet as he leant and rose again - ‘Yorkshire Ripper was in the 70s. Murdered some bird just up at Roundhay Park - not far from your neighbourhood - where Jimmy Savile lived. They say he was probably the Ripper himself, god knows he spent a lifetime sweating.’
‘Oh,’ she grimaced.
‘They say he was even involved in some kind of Satanism,’ he stood, scrunching the paper hard in his fists. ‘But not near as bad as what Mrs Williams thinks I’ve precipitated. She railroaded me after Assembly pointing out my error of announcing this on a Friday just before Bonfire weekend. Claims I’ve incited a local inferno that will bring us national public disgrace to the formal traditions of higher education descending us from Byker Grove to Bohemian Grove.’
‘You’ve bought on mass pyromania?’ she smiled, picking up a scrap of paper by her foot.
‘No, you have.’ He held the bin over to her, as she bit her lip. ‘Mrs Williams is going to be verr-ry angry when she finds out…’ he mock-taunted, holding the bin away again.
‘Oh, fuck her,’ she threw the screwed paper to land neatly inside.
‘…And Luxton’s going to be very sad to know you were good at netball after all!’
‘Fuck her too.’
‘Personally, I’d rather neither of them. But plonk your clothes on that chair.’
‘Uh?’
‘Sit.’
‘You need my… fine literary mind for something else?’
‘Quite! Because the next thing in the pipeline is, we’re recruiting a new—’ His hand rummaged around his desk exaggeratedly, his hands madly splaying through his papers till he slammed down his palms. ‘It was round here somewhere. A sheet of faces. Help me out Natalia.’
She stepped forward and plucked a stapled set of papers rucked up behind his keyboard. ‘This?’
‘Wow! Can I recruit you?’
‘You already have, haven’t you?’ She smiled and sat down.
‘Now that’s the spirit. But not the kind of spirit I need in one hand to take in some of these phizogs.’
‘Phizogs? Oh, physiognomies—’
‘Faces of prospective new receptionists. Fortunately, they are all affordable. Especially as I’m cutting three epsilons down to one alpha.’
The bell went.
‘It’s RE now, I have to—’
‘Your lesson’s RE alright,’ he brandished the papers at her. ‘Royally Exterminated. And so are your sour puss, pissed sow receptionists, lucky girl. So leaf through these and tell me which should be the new one. Take your time.’
The sense of sudden responsibility was surpassed by the flattering feeling that he was sharing this matter with her.
‘Make me tea then,’ she said slyly.
‘Sorry darling, today I have no milk and no water. Would you care for some coffee?’
He held up his takeaway cup. She didn’t care for coffee, but she gazed at the drinkhole and took it to her lips, wondering if coffee was really that bitter or whether his fag scent had permeated it, wincing as he watched.
‘Um, thanks,’ she pushed it back, looking to the top sheet. ‘Oh dear, not the one with pink and yellow hair.’
‘Already meant to cross through that one but couldn’t find a black pen thick enough.’
‘Obviously I er, need to read the captions here about them too—’
‘No. First just cross off any other faces you can’t stand.’ He rummaged through his drawer. ‘Ah, gotcha!’
He chucked a Sharpie at Natalia. It landed in the dip of her skirt, as she looked down in surprise, then up at him.
‘Go on.’
‘Cross off faces I don’t like the look of,’ she repeated, scooping the pen, ‘you mean judge a book by its cover?’
‘Nooo-ohhh. It means putting you in a good mood every time you arrive late to school, young lady.’
‘I’m not late that often!’
‘I’ve seen the records. Almost every other day. Trouble getting out of bed in the morning, Natalia?’
She bit her lip, the tang of coffee still at her palette as she felt the dregs of her period beckoned by a throb. His eyes fell momentarily to her knees as she re-crossed her legs.
‘I might bring back report cards specifically for lateness, specifically for you,’ he said sternly.
‘You’d better fucking not. I’ll set fire to them myself.’
‘This tiger-footed rage!’ he chortled. ‘How feisty you are on a Friday than the woe of Wednesday! Let grief convert to anger; blunt not the heart, enrage it! ...Now eyes down and get swiping that pen to find us a new welcome doormat.’
She was choosing a new receptionist. If this was a prank, it was the sweetest one she could hope for.
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