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In bed Natalia was struck hot and cold. A heavy, dense, almost guilty feeling sat in her belly, that something dream-like had happened she didn’t quite know how to contain it.
Smoking with the Headmaster off school grounds, the contraband from two pupils he’d suspended - one he’d expelled, struck out, by perfectly sound subterfuge - especially for her. How’s that for a Coronation Street storyline, mum? She heard the whine of the soap theme tune downstairs. She flicked up her phone’s WhatsApp to see his message from yesterday that she’d missed at 13.25.
‘Hello can you come?’
Oh she can now. Because tonight she’d had him all to herself, inside his private voyaging vessel that she’d watched for weeks from wistful distances, and she could still smell upon her skin in a trinity of Neillian scents: his car, his cologne, and the smoke, like bad sage that cleansed them in controversy that evening. Locating this aroma, at once alien and abating, to the strongest patch on one finger, and holding it like a smelling salt to her nostril as she lay on her pillow with her eyes closed, it would help her recall every detail that had flown too fast, like Neill’s wheels across speed bumps, over her head.
The way he joked ‘no thanks’ to schoolgirls, whilst she laughed at him scrambling to find the joint, all at home with him like some silly uncle. Then he talked about calling the shots as a Head, that made her fill with awe, then the moment he talked of his wives her head had spun completely. Wives! Although Neill wasn’t married, he had been twice! Popular enough for two, and fussy enough to ditch both, suspend them like two errant schoolgirls.
Sex with them five times a day. Sex. A real detail of his life, not a vague cock or bottom joke. Pieces of his history chucked up like shreds of a torn, precious book she clutched at in the wind. Sex with his wives, five times a day, she kept hearing on replay. Insatiable Neill too much for a woman? God I’ll bet.
Oh, she’d put her hand down now and imagine being one of those wives - the five-year one not the two-year one, she must have done better - then bring the hand back up to her nose to keep inhaling, keep remembering, before the last waft of smoky Neillness was drowned out by her clammy bready discharge. Discharge, stupid word. Oh but it makes scents. His, now a communion with hers. The body of Neill, Amen, received now by her downstairs mouth. Like a key into a lock, designed to pair! Make angels appear, a demure young lady like yourself!
How I was going to do the bullies for you, he’d said. Thrash them, for you. Sweetheart, when have I ever not helped you? And now honey, can I call you honey? I’ve got you now! Well are you a virgin? I’ll kidnap you on Google maps and stick a spliff through your lips… say yes Neill, I know! You’re not going out of B&Q till you say it! Stick this in your mouth and thank me, before I bend your unwashed knickers over the bonnet!
Honey, god, that’s a better word for it. Warm, running, pricking deep inside her at the thought of his hand squeezing hers to say, this is real! As real as the rollie he put through her lips, he pushed it through them… just as she pushed her finger now, persistent like Neill’s blaring lights driving up Cheng’s hatchback arse, to chase that honey-running stab… and barely a moment of circling her finger had her shuddering, hot and goose-pimpled all over, and then another and another, kicking off the covers, till she turned on her side satisfied, and fell asleep seeing taillights in fumes, fumes from roll-ups, fumes from his car holding back traffic for her. She was a fume… contaminated, rising, free.
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*
Expelling honey, all the next day, as the wheels of the morning bus went round and round - like Neill’s; like her fingers; as now did her mind - with a gleeful adrenalin rush watching Mrs Williams’ chins wobble to announce Marcia is not returning to the class.
‘Why?’ A few mutters were heard.
‘Private matters, I’m afraid.’
‘Smoking weed probably!’ Luke blurted.
Natalia held a steady gaze back at Williams. If I can look the Headmaster in the eye then I can look right at you, mere sub!
Her phone beeped at lunch. It was a pasted link to the YouTube link to Luxton as Neill had promised. Another WhatsApp message from the Headmaster, she stared, sheltering her screen with a nervous blink, clicking through to see the video had 900k views. Whew. She sent back a thumbs up.
She gazed at the message above it. She wanted to reply to that one right now, wondering if he was in his office. She wanted to run to him and give him something, anything… the Twix bar from her bag, broken for you! Take it and eat it, Neill, do it in love for me! But his car wasn’t in. Must be out for lunch. She resorted to daydream… of running in the corridors till she runs right into him. I go faster than you on a speed hump, she would joke! And he would stare with that trying-to-be-polite, but really I-love-sex-five-times-a-day face, and say, pardon?
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*
Friday morning worship came. In Assembly her eyes fixed on the priest in his ivory suit as though he was Lord himself and she had no qualms about him noticing. Clearing his throat to silence the hall, his glance caught on her, and what, winked? What felt like a shelf shoved inside her stomach, eyes faltering and back up again as he called out:
‘Quiet! Assembly is starting!’ with a rap on the podium.
Most people needed the mic. But Neill always went without.
After going through all Years’ pressing matters, he got to theirs.
‘Year 11! As you know from your teachers’ frequent and anxious reminders, Mocks start next Wednesday and we’re on rapid turnaround to get them marked by the break of term.’
There was a wash of murmurs as Natalia noticed Williams’ concerned face muttering at Coleman.
‘As this is the last Christmas for you lot, there will be a big surprise on Thursday December 14th, the day before the end of term, which is non-uniform day for your Year only. Then, the last Friday is a non-uniform day and Christmas buffet for all.’
Cue a steep rise of excited whispers.
‘Quiet, please! Year 11, your school trip to Haworth is on Monday. Meet at form, then we head to the coaches which will leave at 9.30. Don’t be late! Bring a packed lunch. Full uniform, and I don’t want to see any ties, lest we look like a ghastly school from Brontë’s own era. Neither do I want to see any mad Berthas setting fire to them!’
Chuckles fell across the rows.
‘Right, that’s it! Off you go and get some bloody work done.’
What Head ends their Assembly like that? Cheers and whoops ensued from pupils and teachers alike - bar Williams and a couple other crusties of course - from whom grumbles were heard by a hovering Natalia:
‘Arranging a school trip right before Mock Exams - madness! They need to be in school revising!
‘It’s on topic for English though, Anne. Maybe it’s what they need,’ Coleman smiled.
‘He wants us marking the Mocks in time for his silly Christmas idea. Madness, utter madness!’
‘Always busy at this time of year. Let’s talk with a cuppa at break love.’
Now the weekend hours counted down to the madness of King Neill. She hadn’t been on a school trip since Year 8. What would one be like with Neill in charge?
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*
Natalia gazed at herself in the mirror on Monday morning struck with a sudden fearful thought. Do people notice the way she smirks around the New Age Head? Did Mrs Cheng see her in his car, was that why she smiled and nodded at her in the canteen on Friday? She frowned. Then she watched it disappear. It’s good to see you smile again, she stroked her finger down her own cheek. She’ll put her hair into pigtails for the school trip. Special occasion, let’s see what stirs in his face when he sees her.
Her blood was pumping so hard by breakfast she eschewed tea and ate but a bite of toast.
Her mum eyed her cautiously. ‘What are you so excited about?’
‘We have a Brontë day today’ - avoiding mentioning the coach trip for which she had not shown the slip nor asked for the money; seditious proxy-papa had done it.
‘A what?’
‘For the book Jane Eyre.’
‘Oh, the period stuff, like Mr Darcy?’
‘Something like that. Bye,’ as she sprang out for the bus.
Form class was a hubbub of restless rummaging of plastic lunch lids and rustling bags of Revels whilst Mrs Williams looked on forlorn - as if she had not been selected to come, Natalia mused.
She shut up the register with a sigh.
‘Ok, you may go up to the coach, where Mr Dinkey, Mrs Coleman, Miss Doris and Mr Neill will be meeting with you for the trip today. Have a lovely time everyone.’
Soon the two Year 11 classes, amounting to approximately 60 pupils, were heading up in spurts and drifts toward the coach waiting like a docked ship to admit its puerile passengers. Soon, trapped in at the window halfway up the coach with Laura next to her, offering morning Jaffa Cakes to which Natalia grimaced, suddenly remembering that her one and only time on a coach had resulted in sickness, which she hoped wouldn’t make a reappearance.
And where was Neill? Natalia could now spot - or first, hear him - thumping up the coach steps.
‘Ah, the driver! Mark is it? How many have you had this morning? You’ll need a few to drive this lot for an hour,’ and, ‘there’s no toilet on here? Miss Doris will lend us her hat.’
His combed hair now loomed over the tops of the seats as he advanced up the aisle, wishing a good morning to everyone; ‘Adam, close your mouth!’ - ‘Aisha, good day, lady,’ and now coming fully into view in a long dark winter trenchcoat and red scarf, his blue roaming eyes landing upon Natalia as his genial ‘good morning, good morning’ morphed into an ‘oh! Good morning!’ and a glance that, as she held her breath, fell right onto her pigtails - ah, gotcha! - before a neutral glance fell on Laura beside her.
‘All bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the trip?’… ‘Ryan, watch out for Jennifer’s head’… ‘Natalia, all set?’ with a slow knowing blink on her now, as she nodded a smile back, and his toothy pleasantries continued to the back of the coach, helping to stow stray bags and enliven morning malaise with gay mirth till he returned to plonk himself somewhere on a lucky seat at the unseen front with the other groan-ups.
The coach hauled itself with a roar out of Killingbeck, shuttling along grey dual carriageways to the murmuration of pupil chatter peppered with teacherly laughs from the front from Dinkey and Coleman, amidst which Natalia would listen out for the tenor note of Neill. Snatches of ‘pub,’ ‘never been to Keighley,’ ‘from River Aire to Jane Eyre,’ ‘I’m rereading it, it’s bloody long,’ and ‘gracious you live in Alwoodley Claire? Your hubby must be in banking,’ followed by a ‘whoops, oops! Divorce… didn’t know. Fleece him! Fleece him for all he’s got!’ till avid chatter between Laura and Sam then took over Natalia’s right ear canal; Sam having launched into one of those long, whispering schoolgirl tirades that would fire in one rapid lament with no full stops or commas about her parents’ fight last night and how her dad nearly walked out and mum cried mascara down to her chin.
Between Sam and Coleman, Natalia inwardly mused that perhaps hers wasn’t the most broken family after all, and as they jolted along on their pilgrimage to the town of the Brontë sisters, felt that in spirit she was really sitting next to Neill. She fell into a fantasy where she would alight right now with him, wave off the coach as it rumbled off a cliff causing oodles of broken families, and she with her permission-slip-signing, cheek-stroking Headmaster would hike, bike, or crawl for all she cared, the rest of the way to the promised land together.
The colourful Asian shops of Bradford were morphing into vast, postcard-scenic moors. The coach slowed trepidatiously into tricky bends, and the driver at one point had to perform a reverse manoeuvre to fit around a steep curve.
The whole coach breathed in anticipation and squeals and even Neill exclaimed: ‘Do we have a priest on board for last rites?… Ah, he’s done it, my good man.’
They heaved finally into a car park where the rollercoaster of the past ten minutes ceased, releasing sixty teenagers impatient to move their legs and arms and see what this anticipated thing called ‘Haw-uff’ actually was.
Natalia, thankful to be back in the fresh air, wandered off alone, as though instinctive to her body after being in too close proximity to the armpits of her whole Year for so long,. She came to a sign that pointed the museum entrance 200 yards up a geranium-bordered path.
Behind her pierced a whisper.
‘Pippy Longstockings, where you off?’
She turned, prepared with a demure smile. ‘Mind if I go ahead? I might get a bit of peace and quiet,’ nodding at the noisy huddle by the coach.
‘That’s what teachers say, not pupils,’ Neill frowned, removing his leather gloves and pulling out his fags. ‘Guess we could always tie you to the lamp-post by your pigtails to keep you from wandering off.’
She suppressed a smirk. ‘What is your problem with pigtails?’
‘Makes you look like a five-year-old,’ he frowned again, throwing a fag into his mouth. ‘If you shared this with me right now you’d look like that controversial Sally Mann photo of the candy cigarette girl.’
‘Oh, really,’ she blinked. ‘Well, you practically have kids smoking, always standing so close to people breathing it in, just like your not so great-great-great uncle, A-Arse Neill…’
‘Not at all, feel free,’ as he stepped closer. ‘Now listen here—’
‘Curious, do the other teachers say anything about it? Williams?’
‘They would if I stuck it straight in your mouth, right in front of them to stop you interrupting, girl, and answer me this question.’
She stared as he continued:
‘You know when you get those badly behaved pupils who have to be escorted everywhere by the hand of a responsible teacher, or rather, dragged by the wrist - especially if they’re acting somewhat remedial - to keep their behaviour proper, to maintain their activity at a sound level, and stop them running off?’
‘Err, yeah, I remember one of those kids in primary. Max Abel. Or more like unable—’
‘Do you think it would be acceptable for the Headmaster to do that to the most sentient, intelligent but intolerably recalcitrant ones to achieve the same end?’
He puffed his smoke, looking quite serious.
Her blush grew.
‘I, I… well… didn’t you already do that, once?’ Her eyes shifted to the staff and pupils advancing behind him.
‘Merely a trial and I’m not sure it worked, which is why I ask you.’
‘I think that course of action is better off applied to those acting like remedials.’
‘And how good are you at acting?’
She chortled.
‘Good, you’re smiling now. You looked more miserable than Cohen and O’Callaghan combined, sitting on the coach with Lestat.’
He sucked lovingly at the last of his fag, looking behind him to the teachers fast approaching.
‘Don’t forget we’re in Haworth, honey,’ he turned and winked. ‘With the Headmaster of your dreams.’
She smiled faintly, still staring as he squashed his fag end on the ground with his shoe and cleared his throat as Coleman, Doris and a sprinkling of pupils descended upon him.
‘So what’s the plan, Claire?
‘We’re scheduled to go in at 11, that’s in ten minutes.’
‘Then we all pile in at once?’
‘Twenty of us at a time, every fifteen minutes. I reckon we split into two main groups and stagger each half. I’ll take Williams’ class—’
‘No, you’re taking Clayton’s lightweights. Williams’ class need a firm hand.’ Neill began waving and clapped loudly at the pupils now blocking up the car park.
‘Everybody! Out of the way of the cars please!’ he bellowed. ‘Williams’ class and Steve, all with me. Clayton’s class with Doris and Coleman. Keep to the sides, please, let this lady through… you’re welcome darling. I meant, love! Luhv? Am I speaking Emmerdale?’ as he flashed a heart-melting grin at a shrivelled little lady passing by on a zimmer frame. ‘All in twos please, like good little Handmaids! Why are you laughing, Luke? Yes Adam, you’ll get to use the lavvies in a minute, please don’t do it in the hedge. Here we go to the Haworth Parsonage, home of the Brontës!’
Natalia, who’d been gazing the other way at the distant lines of cottage roofs and feeling herself warmly lifting like their chimney smoke by the words Neill had just said to her, suddenly heard over her shoulder:
‘Pssst. You. Miss Unable—’
She turned, biting her lip.
‘…Don’t you dare pair off with Lestat.’ There was a soft push between her shoulder blades. ‘You’ll go to the front and stay right by me, you hear?’
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Read new chapters first on www.headmastersflame.com. Free, slick reading experience, tailored for mobile phones, where you can subscribe your email for a free Kindle book. - LS x57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHRah0EPxUq
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