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Hugging her plate almost at the lunch hot counter, wondering that she hadn't seen Cohen or Luxton at Assembly today, a tailored maroon arm cut through to the crockery trolley as the surrounding pupil bodies promptly parted.
‘Excuse me… thank you, thank you, I’d just like to grab a… slice of your quiche, please!’ He plonked down his plate. ‘Janet, isn’t it?’
‘Pizza,’ came the reply.
‘Funny name for a lady.’
Janet cackled as Neill peered down with hands in pockets, and Natalia watched, slowly inhaling with relish his flavour notes of sweet, cigarettey bergamot cutting through the heavy hanging, fatty food aroma.
‘It seems very…’ he squinted, ‘…small, fat and thick. The pizza,’ he added hastily. ‘What’s that potato stew like?’
‘Where?’
‘That one.’
‘That’s tikka masala,’ Janet frowned.
‘Oh! That doesn’t look like chicken.’
‘No, because it’s vegetarian!’
‘Right. I’ll have some of your meat version.’
‘We don’t have one today,’ Janet chortled down to Cathy. ‘He’s having me on, isn’t he?’
‘So what meat do you have?’ Neill asked, whilst the queue hung dutifully at a standstill.
‘Today, burgers,’ she pointed with her spatula.
‘More like last week, burgers,’ he screwed his nose. ‘I’ve only got two canines and I fancy keeping them, fangs very much!’
‘Ooh, they said you were a cheeky sod!’ tittered Janet. ‘You want to go straight to dessert?’
‘To desert the main yes, sorry Janet darling. But that butternut squash soup looks lovely.’
‘That’s custard!’ she cawed, drawing up a plate and pushing it out to him. ‘Here, try the tikka, it’s alright you know!’
‘Oh, I see,’ he retorted. ‘This is all for Friday 13th!’
‘Off you go!’ Janet waved her hand.
Neill turned and his blue eyes latched straight on Natalia.
‘Want this? I can’t look at it.’
‘No thanks,’ she smiled. ‘I’m having quiche.’
‘Darling that’s not quiche, and definitely not pizza. That’s my steering wheel boiled down to a pulp.’
She giggled.
‘How have you been eating this all these years?’ he whispered.
‘Well I usually bring a packed lunch.’
Neill flashed a smile at someone behind her, as Natalia blinked away a sudden smidgen of envy for whoever had received it - and was to now be transferred his attention - ‘Here you go, and I’ll pay for it too’ - as a reply of thanks came, from whom Natalia could see stepping out with Neill to the cashier was Ryan.
A few moments later Neill stepped back to Natalia. More words for her, she thought. Oh, more words for her, and he’d already called her darling…
‘You’re wrong, girl,’ he muttered - as her breath stopped - ‘They’re more than mediocre. They’re an atrocity.’
‘I… wanted to ease you in slowly.’ She hastily added upon the moment of silence that followed: ‘So are you going to revamp the food?’
‘Revamp? More like, rescue!’ he barked, to a few surprised head-turns. ‘…Resurrect! Resuscitate!’
‘Repair, restore.… rehabilitate?’ she smiled.
‘Who needs a thesaurus with you around?’
‘Roget that,’ she added.
His hand rose. She looked down and bit her lip.
‘Pupils will rollick, revel and relish, upon my word,’ he declared, ‘or rather, ours.’
His hand was still waiting, as she obliged to slide her fingers to be dwarfed by his thick warm palm for one brief up-down shake, his face as composed as a businessman making a legitimate deal whilst Cathy looked on benignly. Then his hand was gone, his voice had trailed away, and Natalia’s tingling fingers were fumbling for her purse.
‘It’s all paid, love. Mr O’Neill paid for yer.’
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*
Seven quid up, a small sweet-haul eased the weekend’s boredom as she annotated her English Anthology with one hand, and stroked her neck with the other, playing a simulacrum of the Head-Master!’s own touch upon her. The Sign of the Cross - or Shine of the Crass - that he, at once meritorious and mischievous, had gesticulated upon her. A Holy-Moly Trinity of flicking her pigtails and jibing her cold sore and cut-throat signalling that he’s on track to thwarting Luxton, and likely Cohen too - the worst teachers of her life - and next he plots like a better-groomed Guy Fawkes to blow up the abysmal canteen meals… oh my!
His hand she had shook with her own, that hired and fired like the boss of a boardroom… the claw of a dragon who’d swooped in from the south and breathed literal fire to her report card, and from that first day, ignited a tiny candle inside her that burned, burned, consistently since, and wiggled each day a new bead of hot wax was dropped on it!
There was one more week to half-term break. How much more would happen that she could take home and feed upon… feast upon!… like food she’d starved for all these years of high school?
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*
Harrison had to growl his throat twice to summon a bellow big enough to quieten down the class. The second one was so demonic that everyone stopped dead.
‘Mr Harrison! You don’t teach Geography!’ Adam laughed.
‘I’m tekking over for today.’
‘Cohen ill, sir?’
‘Turn to page 63 of your textbooks.’
Harrison’s constipated-face mysticism had them all on tenterhooks till Wednesday’s lesson where the truth was spelled out by the appearance of a new teacher entirely. Mrs Tracey, the peach-and-vanilla-pinstripe lady, evoked a stream of excited whispers.
‘Told you!’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Oh my god has that arsehole gone?’
‘Shush, please!’ Mrs Tracey smiled with coral-lipsticked lips. ‘Settle down everybody! I would like to continue on the Glacial Landscapes module I believe you were working on, can someone tell me which page you were at—’
Natalia gladly volunteered to answer, not caring a jot for how teacher’s-pet it made her look, but enthusiastic to embrace Tracey, for in that lesson there were laughs, smiles, even jokes, like a long-held blockage of energy in the Geography room had lifted with the exact anthesis of Cohen’s character. Pupils could answer questions without fear of being wrong, and move around the classroom to fetch things without being questioned like a kid in a sweetshop by a cynical shopkeeper. Bravo Neill!
Bursting from that lesson, popping a Chewit into her mouth, she was bursting to see him, gagging to say something! She’d prowl the corridors till she could see a flash of his suit; she’d listen at rooms till she could hear his merry laughter, but there was nothing. As the bell rang for lunch, she popped another sweet in her mouth for a sugar rush of confidence to go knock at his office.
Heart thumping her ribs, she arrived at a brand new shiny door plaque.
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‘NEILL, HEADMASTER’
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From the smile it triggered, she used the extra confidence she needed to draw up her fist.
No answer.
Heart easing, she headed across the playground to cool her face on the way to the canteen. She spied a cluster of staff and pupils ahead, gathered around shiny equipment being hauled from cardboard boxes, centred by a loud distinct figure demonstrating in loud tones:
‘Hold the bow like so! Pass me an arrow, please Amy!’
Natalia smiled and slowed to watch an arrow attached upon the bow and raised with the overconfidence of a puffed-up-feathered Cupid, just as he too, spotted Natalia.
Her heart started up again; her face growing warm in spite of the cool breeze. His eyes were on her for a moment as he prepared to fire - scrunched his eye, pulled the string - as the arrow promptly nose-dived on the spot, flat and sadly to the ground, and laughter erupted around him.
He turned to his audience with his palm out - and turned to catch Natalia giggling, giving her a full three seconds of an ‘oh well’ comical expression that could beat a circus clown’s.
He attached another arrow, gave her a serious nod-down of his head - which she couldn’t help reciprocating - squinting now as he tautened it, with steely spread legs and a most Herculean look, and just as he fired he called out:
‘Night night, Nora!’
The arrow shot hard to the board, and all heads tossed to see it land with a great quiver right on the bulls’ eye.
Nora… that was Miss O’Callaghan.
Rapturous applause ensued - or as rapturous as seven people could sound - for which Neill didn’t seem to pay as much attention as keenness to throw Natalia a smug look of satisfaction. No-one seemed to heed the O’Callaghan reference, but it hit Natalia as firm as the arrow - as though her smile was the target - the corners of her lips lifting as she clapped too, before he comically curtseyed back to his second-priority audience.
She wasn’t slipping away quick enough for him to call:
‘Natalia! Would you like a go?’
‘No way! I’m happy to wait for PE for that!’
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It seemed Neill was keeping himself busy not only playing the conjurer of new extravagances upon the lowly Thornwood but fulfilling the more mundane duties. Preparations were underway for Open Day that coming Saturday, and it humoured Natalia immensely to glimpse Neill rushing from room to room to every teacher that week, with ‘all good for Saturday? All good?’ …flashing a grinning thumbs up or two, often reversing right into wide-eyed Year 7s, who hastened aside like pheasants on the road. Later he could be glimpsed prowling the corridor with an entourage of staff, exclaiming at unfinished wall displays.
‘Did someone die in the middle of dressing this? Get the Art classes on it pronto!’ Then pointing at a stray chair and table left in a corner: ‘What’s this for? Is the Victorian apparition on the naughty step again?’
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*
She was firing a bow and arrow at Luxton herself, with Neill standing beside her guffawing like a madman as the arrow leapt into the sky and exploded like a firework, vibrating, vibrating softly…
Eyes fluttering open to her phone’s alarm going off, she realised she’d slept in - but for once she didn’t want to be late for school - for the lesson she most usually dreaded.
Up like a shot, she dressed faster than she’d ever done, bit into an apple in front of her astonished mum, and leapt down her street right in time for the plastic bus doors flapping open in her face. Coughing and laughing on apple chunks as she waved her bus pass at the driver, she arrived at form and landed next to Samantha.
‘Well you’ve had your Weetabix.’
‘Do you know what we’re doing in PE? Are we doing Archery?’ Natalia panted.
‘No idea. Thought you hate PE?’
‘Yeah but Luxton’s gone hasn’t she?’
‘Is it true then? She was caught harassing the Paki girl in Year 8?’
‘That’s not really a nice word—’
‘Our Johnny’s in her class. He said something the other day that she got hurt and Luxton got in trouble.’
‘I don’t know,’ frowned Natalia.
Had Luxton spelt her own demise?
Heading off to PE, there was no Luxton to be seen, but sure enough, a new teacher. The young and lively Miss Barnes, with a bouncing brown ponytail, Grecian nose and piercing green eyes, quickly captivated the group with her introduction and announcement in the changing rooms that they would be starting Yoga today. Whilst pan-pipes played on a speaker, the girls found themselves learning the first strokes of a whole new art, and by the end to Natalia’s astonishment, realised she’d actually enjoyed a PE lesson. Even bulldog Lisa was busy lamenting her own tight hamstrings to throw an insult.
Yet another wish from the genie lamp, granted. But overcome with a sudden shyness, she couldn’t bring herself to knock on Neill’s door that day, only conserve her anticipation for next morning’s Assembly, where she could secretly admire his grand appearance, this time donned in an elegant olive green tweed suit and exuding monarchical authority as he welcomed Miss Barnes and Mrs Tracey.
‘We are sorry to say goodbye to Mrs Luxton and Mr Cohen, who have served the school for numerous years, and are moving onto new pastures, possibly even new careers entirely, and we wish them well.’
Clapping resounded as Natalia softly snorted. New careers indeed. Was there any reason they weren’t present to be wished their farewells? Cynicism fuelled her confidence now. As soon as the bell rang for lunch, she arrived at his door, nodding another smile to his shiny plaque as though it were alive; an old friend, a new friend.
Just as her knuckles rapped, she heard more one voice inside. She hastily stepped away, but then heard a bark:
‘Come in!’
She drew a deep breath and pushed down the handle.
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