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And the sun could not warm her where she struggled under the ice, and the wasp's buzzing was almost entirely lost in the gurgle and slosh of icy water and the burble of bubbles from his nostrils and straining, silently screaming jaws! Darkness below, frozen mud and weeds: and above----
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"Molly? Molly Stewart? Christ, girl!--are you here at all?"
She glanced at the blackboard. Oh, yes! Formulae---areas and properties of circles---the Constant Factor(?)---diameters and radii and pi. Pi? What a laugh! It was all pi to Molly. Pie in the sky. But what had been Wilson's question? Had he even asked a question?
"Well?" Wilson demanded.
Wilson sighed, closed his eyes, rested his great knuckles on his desk and leaned his stocky body on his straight arms. He counted ten under his breath, but loud enough for the class to hear him. Finally, without reopening his eyes, he said: "The question was: are you here at all?"
"God, yes, Molly Stewart! Yes, you!"
"My other question," Wilson cut her short, "my first question---the one that made me suspect perhaps you weren't with us---was this: what is the relationship between the diameter of a circle and pi? I take it that's the one you wanted to answer? The one you had your hand up for? Or were you swatting flies?"
The class grew fidgety; someone sniffed disgustedly, probably the bully, Shelly Green---the pushy, big-headed swotty slob! The trouble with Shelly was that she was clever and big----What was the question again? But what difference did it make without the answer?
Three times? What did that mean?
"Er, three times!" Molly blurted, praying that Emma wasn't having her on. ".....Sir."
"D-diameter!" Molly stuttered. "Equals, um, circumference."
Trevor Wilson stared hard at Molly. He saw a thirteen-year-old girl with long, flowing brown hair, and an unusually beautiful face for one so young, in a crumpled school uniform; untidy shirt; school tie like a piece of chewed string, askew, its end fraying: and prescription glasses balanced on a well-formed nose, behind which dreamy brown eyes gazed out in a kind of perpetual apprehension. Pitiful? No, not that; Molly could take her lumps, and dish them out when her dander was up. But---a hard kid to get through to. Wilson suspected there was a damn good brain in there, somewhere behind that beautiful face. If only it could be prodded into life!
Molly hung her head and bit her lip. "Clear, sir."
"So look at me. Look at me, girl!"
"Molly," Wilson sighed, "you're a mess! I've spoken to the other masters and it's not just math but everything. If you don't wake up, love, you'll be leaving school without a single qualification. Oh, there's time yet---if that's what you're thinking---two more years, anyway. But only if you get down to it right now. The homework isn't punishment, Molly, it's my way to trying to point you in the right direction."
The rest of the class tried hard not to show its approval----dared not, for Big Shelly would surely make them pay for it if they did---but Wilson saw it anyway. That was good. He didn't mind being seen as a sod, but far better to be a sod with a sense of justice.
"Shut up!" Wilson told her sharply. "And sit down!" And then---as the bully subsided with a loud huh! "Right, what's next?" He glanced at the afternoon's program under the glass on top of his desk. "Oh, yes---stone collecting on the beach. Good! A bit of fresh air might wake all of you up. All right, start packing up. Then you can go---but in an orderly manner!" (As if they'd pay attention to that!)
"Sir!" Emma Wilkinson stuck up her hand.
"Scored the winning goal against Scrooby Hall on Saturday, sir," said Emma with pride.
The girls were exiting now, Green elbowing her way through the crush, looking surlier than ever, with Stewart and Wilkinson bringing up the rear; the two of them, for all their differences, inseparable as Siamese twins. And as he'd known they would, they stood at the door, waiting.
"Waiting for you, sir," said Wilkinson. "So I can lock up."
As the two came tumbling back into the classroom he grinned, packed his briefcase, did up the top button of his shirt and straightened his tie---and still got out into the corridor before they were through. Then Wilson turned the key in the lock and they were off---brushing past him, careful not to touch him, as if fearing they'd catch something---dashing after the others in a clatter of flying feet.
He grinned, however ruefully. Lord, how he envied them!
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Sanford Hall Girls' was a secondary modern school on England's northeast coast, catering to the budding minds of the colliery's young women. That didn't mean a great deal: most of the girls would become waitresses or employees of the Coal Board anyway, like their mothers and older sister before them. But some, a small percentage, would go on through the medium of examinations to higher education at academic and technical colleges in neighboring towns.
Originally a cluster of two-story Coal Board offices, the school had been given a face-lift some thirty years earlier when the village's population had suddenly grown to accommodate greatly expanded mining operations. Now, standing behind low walls just a mile from the shore to the east and half that distance from the mine itself to the north, the plain old bricks of the place and the square windows seemed to lend it an air of frowning austerity out of keeping with its prosperous self-help gardens, a cold severity not at all reflected in its staff. No, for all in all they were a good, hard-working bunch. And headmistress Lucy Cumbridge BA, a staunch survivor of "the Old School," saw to it that it stayed that way.
The weekly stone-gathering expedition served three purposes. One: it got all the kids out into the fresh air, allowing those teachers with a predilection for nature-rambling a rare chance to turn the minds of their wards towards Nature's wonders. Two: it provided gratis much of the raw material for garden walls within the grounds of the school, gradually replacing the old fences and trellises, a project which naturally bore the head's stamp of approval. Three: it meant that once a month three-quarters of the masters could get away from school early, leaving their charges in the care of the dedicated ramblers.
The idea was this: that all the pupils employ Tuesday's last period to walk a mile down leafy country lanes to the beach, there to collect up large, flat, rounded stones, of which there were plenty, and to carry them back one per pupil to the school. And as stated, along the way one male teacher (usually the gym-master, who was ex-Army Physical Training Corps) and two of the school's younger, unattached female teacher would extol the glories of the hedgerows, the wonders of the wild flowers and the countryside in general. None of which was of any real interest to Molly Stewart; but she did like the beach, and anything was better than a classroom on a warm, droning afternoon.
"Here," said Emma Wilkinson to Molly as they strolled, two abreast, midway in a long line of kids, down through the paths of the dene widening to the sea, "you really ought to pay attention to old Wilson, you know. I mean, not about all that 'needing qualifications' stuff---that's up to you---but during lessons gen'rally. He's not a bad 'in, old Trevor, but he could be if he decided you were just taking the mickey."
Molly shrugged dejectedly. "I was daydreaming," she said. "Actually, it's kind of funny. See, when I daydream like that, it's like I can't stop. Only old Wilson shouting---and you give ma a jab----pulled me out of it."
Pulled me out---the strong hands reaching down into the water----to pull me out, or push me under?
Emma nodded. "I've seen you like it before, lots of times. Your face goes kind of funny...." She looked serious for a moment, then chuckled and gave Molly a playful thump on the shoulder. "Not that that's a big deal---your face is funny all the time!"369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1BOwlYq5BZ
Molly snorted. "Listen who's talking! Me, funny-looking? I'd play Kirk to your Spock any time! Anyway, what do you mean? I mean, how do I look, you know, funny?"
"Well, you just sit very still, all starry-eyed, scared-looking. But not always. Sometimes you look a bit dreamy, like. Anyway, it's like old Trevor said: you just don't seem to be here at all. Actually, you're very weird! I mean, it's true, isn't it? How many friends have you got?"
"I've got you," Molly feebly protested. She was too deep and too quiet. But not studious worth a swot. If she'd been good at lessons, that'd probably explain it, but she wasn't. Oh, she was clever enough (at least she felt she could be clever) if she wanted to concentrate on it. It was just that she found concentration very hard. It was as if sometimes the thoughts she thought weren't really hers at all. Complicated thoughts and daydreams, fancies and phantasms. Her mind made up stories for him---whether she wanted it to or not---but stories so detailed they were like memories. The memories of other people. People who weren't here any more. As if her head was an echo-chamber for mind which had---gone somewhere else?"
"Yes, you've got me for a friend," Emma interrupted her train of thought. "And who else?"
Molly shrugged, went on the defensive. "There's Brian," he said. "And---and anyway, who needs a lot of friends? I don't. If people want to be friendly they'll be friendly. If they don't, well that's up to them."
Emma ignored the mention of Brian Caldwell, Molly's grand passion who lived in the same street. She was into sports, not boys. She'd hang herself from a goal-post before she'd be caught with her arm around a boy in the cinema when the lights went up. "You've got me!" she said. "And that's it. As for why I like you---I just dunno."
"Because we don't compete," said Molly, shrewder than her years. "I don't understand sports, so you enjoy explaining it to me---'cos you know I won't argue. And you don't understand me being so, well, quiet...."
"And weird," Emma interrupted.
"---And so we get along."
"But wouldn't you like more friends?"
Molly sighed. "Well, see, it's like I have friends. Up in my head."
"Imaginary friends!" Emma scoffed, but not unkindly.
"No, they're more than that," Molly answered. "And they're good friends, too. Of course they are....I'm the only friend they've got!"
"Huh!" Emma snorted. "Oh, you're weird all right!"
Way up at the head of the column, "Sergeant" Max Anderson came out of the woods into bright sunlight, pausing to hasten on the double rank of kids behind him. This was the narrow mouth of the dene, also the mouth of the stream which had cut its gulley through the sea cliffs. To north and south those cliffs now rose, mainly of sandstone but layered with belts of shale and shingle, and banded with rounded stones; and here the stream passed under n old, rickety wooden bridge. Beyond lay a reedy, weedy marsh or lake of brackish water, only ever replenished by high tides or storms. A path skirted the boggy area towards the sandy beach; and beyond that, there lay the gray North Sea, growing grayer every day with debris from the pits. But today it was blue in the bright sunlight, flecked white here and there by the spray of diving gulls where they fished.
"Right!" Anderson called loudly, standing arms akimbo and very much The Man, in his track-suit bottoms and T-shirt on the nearside of the bridge. "Off you go, over the bridge, round the lake and onto the beach. Find your stones and bring 'em back to me---er, no, to Miss Hunt---for grading. We've a good half hour, so anyone who fancies can have a quick dip as soon as he's found his stone---if you've got your costumes with you. But no nude bathing if you please, remember there are other people on the beach. And stick to the pools left by the sea. You all know what the current's like just here, you young buggers!"
They knew, all right: the current was treacherous, especially on an ebb tide. People were drowned up and down this coast every year, strong swimmers too.
Miss Hunt---Religious Instruction and Geography---from her position roughly halfway back along the column, had heard Anderson's gravel-voiced, parade-ground instructions. She gave a little grimace. Oh, she understood well enough why she was to grade the stones: it was to allow Anderson and Sophia Roberts a bit of freedom, so they could have a little "ramble" along the rocks and find themselves a spot for a quick hump! Purely physical, of course, for their minds were totally incompatible.
Miss Hunt tilted her nose and sniffed loudly; and now, as the pace of the kids towards the front began to speed up, she called out: "All right, girls---hurry along. And remember this week's wild-life quest. We need some good razor shells for the natural history room. Whole ones, still hinged together if you can find them. But please---empty ones! Let's not carry any rotting mollusks back, shall we?"
Farther back, along the path under the trees, where the rear was brought up by Miss Roberts and the monitors of her English and History classes, Shelly Green trudged, hands in pockets, her clever but vicious mind dark with thoughts of violence. She'd heard Miss Hunt's memo to the kids: no dead shellfish. No, but she'd like to fix it for a dead "Beauty" Stewart! Well, maybe not dead, but severely mauled. It was that dumb bitch's fault she had those math problems to work out tonight. Dumb shit, sitting there like a zombie, fast asleep with her eyes wide open! Well, Big Shelly would open her eyes for her, sure enough---or close them!"
"Hands out of your pockets, Shelly," pretty Miss Roberts said from behind I'm. "It's five months yet to Christmas, not quite cold enough for snow. And why the hunched shoulders? Is something bothering you?"
"No, Miss," she mumbled in answer, her head down.
"Try to enjoy, Shelly," she told her, a little archly. "You're still very young, but if you keep on taking your spite out on the entire world you'll get old very, very quickly." And to herself she added, like that frustrated bitch Eva Hunt....!
Molly Stewart was not a natural born voyeur, just a curious girl. Last Tuesday down here on the beach she'd stumbled on something, and she hoped to do so again today. That was why, after she delivered up her stone to Miss Hunt, he checked that nobody was watching her and cut away across the dunes and round towards the other side of the reedy marsh. It was only a little more than a hundred yards, but in half that distance she'd already picked up fresh footprints in the sand. A man's and a woman's; and of course she'd seen "Sergeant" and Miss Roberts heading this way, as she'd suspected they might.
Earlier, Molly had conveniently "forgotten" her bathing costume; this had left her free to pursue her own interests, for Emma had subsequently gone off to swim with the rest of the girls. What Molly was looking for was simple: she wanted pointers. Sitting next to Brian in the cinema and pressing her knee against his was all very well and even kind of exciting, but it seemed pretty tame when compared to the games teachers Anderson and Roberts got up to!
This time it was very different. This time it was getting to be what Molly really wanted to see. By the time she got herself settled down on her stomach, "Sergeant" had his track-suit bottoms right off and Miss Robert's short white, pleated tennis skirt up around her waist. He was trying to get her knickers off, and his thing---even bigger than last week, if that was at all possible---was jerking about on its own like a puppet on some unseen string.
From beyond the dunes, far off down the beach, Molly could hear the girls shouting and laughing where they swam and splashed in one of the big tidal pools. Sand fleas jumped only inches from her face. But she allowed nothing to distract her; her eyes remained riveted to the sexual activity of the lover in their reed bower.
Molly caught a glimpse of her, pink, white, curving, dark, brown, but that was all. Climbing between her legs his incredible penis disappearing into her in a moment. "Sergeant" allowed no more. All that was left were feet and legs and the gym teacher's tight buttocks starting to lunge, shutting off the view. The watching girl gasped---and spotted Shelly Green coming over the dunes, scowling, her little pig eyes full of venom!
"Hello there, Beauty," the she-bully growled, approaching in a half-crouch, her arms spread wide, defying Molly to run. "Fancy finding you here, 'stead of pissing about with your mate the big football star. What're we doin' here then, Beauty? Found a pretty shell for Miss Hunt, have you?"
Green moved closer, snatched the double shell out of Molly's hand. It was a shiny olive color, old, brittle as a wafer. As she deliberately closed his fist on it, so it crumbled into fragments. "There," she said, her voice full of an unpleasant satisfaction. "You goin' to tell on me, Beauty?"
"Bully? You?" Green found it funny. "You couldn't bully a fart out of a frog! All you're good for's falling asleep in class and acting like a London street tart! That and getting people in trouble."
"Giggling?" Big Shelly caught her arm, pulled her close. "Giggling? I'm a girl. I got a right to giggle if I wanna. You trying to say I don't?"
Green's mouth fell open. "Foul language, is it?" she said. Then she shrugged, half-turned, as if to go, and when Molly dropped her guard turned back and caught her a punch at the side of her mouth.
"Ow!" said Molly, spitting blood from a split lip. Off balance, she stumbled and fell; and Green was just readying a kick when "Sergeant" Anderson, tucking in his T-shirt, came storming over the top of the dune scarlet with rage and frustration.
"Up to your usual tricks, are you, Big Shelly?" "Sergeant" shouted. "And who's your victim this time? What? The lovely Molly Stewart? And who'll you go after next, when you're through with her? Julie Christie?"
Still holding her mouth, Molly said: "I can look after myself."
"What?" "Sergeant" laughed, hands on his hips as the she-bully backed off. "Tell your mum? That fat cow who arm-wrestles for pints with men in the Boar's Head? Well, when you do, ask her who beat her last night and nearly broke her arm!" But Shelly was off and running.
"Yes, sir. Mouth's bleeding a bit, that's all."
"Yes, sir," Molly said again.
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It was the second week in August, a Tuesday evening, and it was hot. It was funny, Trevor Wilson thought as he mopped his row with a handkerchief, just how hot it could get on an evening like this. You'd think it would cool down, but instead the heat seemed to close in on you. During the day there had been a breeze, not much of a breeze but a breeze; now there was none, it was still as a painting out there. All the heat of the day, soaked into the earth, was coming out now, coming out at you from all sides. Wilson mopped again at his brow, his neck, sipped an iced lemonade, knew that that, too, would soon start to run out of him. It was that kind of weather.369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡfFjSW8Yo3t
He lived alone not far from the school, but on that side of it away from the mine. The other side would have been too depressing and oppressive. Tonight he had papers and books to mark up, lessons to plan. He didn't feel like doing either one of these things, or anything else for that matter. He could use a drink but---the pubs would be full of miners in their caps and shirt-sleeves, their voices coarse and guttural. There was a decent film on at the Savoy, but the sound system was deafening at the front and the courting couples in the back rows invariably annoyed him, their sweaty fumblings distracting his attention from the screen. And anyway, he had that marking to do.
Wilson's home, a semi-detached bungalow on a tiny private estate overlooking the dene and its valley where they narrowed toward the sea, was cut off from the school by the broad swath of a cemetery with its old church, well-kept plots, high perimeter walls. He usually walked through the place to school each morning, back again in the evening. There were benches circling huge, gorgeously-clad horse chestnut trees, their leaves already turning in places. He could always take his books and papers there.
Actually, it wasn't a bad idea. The occasional old-timer, a pensioned-off survivor of the colliery, would get in there to sit with his dog and stick, chewing baccy or drawing on a old pipe---and spitting, naturally. Rutton lungs were a legacy of the pit; rotten lungs and spines like eggshells. But apart from the old lads it was usually quiet in there, away from the village's center, the pubs and cinema, the main road. Oh, when the conkers began to fall there'd be kids to contend with, naturally; what's a conker without its child on the end of a length of cord? That was a nice thought and Wilson smiled at it. Someone had once said that from a dog's point of view, a human was a thing to throw sticks. So why shouldn't a horse chestnut have a point of view? Which might well be that girls were for whirling them on strings----and for splitting them wide open. One thing seemed certain, girls weren't for learning math!
Wilson showered, toweled himself slowly, methodically dry (hurrying would only produce more sweat), put on baggy gray flannels and an open-necked shirt, took up his briefcase and left his home. He walked out of the estate, into the graveyard and along the broad gravel path which bisected it. Squirrels played in the high branches of the brandy-glass-shaped trees, shaking loose the occasional leaf. The sun's rays came slanting down from across the low hills to the west, where that great brazen ball seemed permanently suspended, as if it never would relinquish the day to night. The day had been beautiful; the evening, despite the heat, was incredibly beautiful; and both of them (Wilson weighed the heavy briefcase in his hand) would have been quite wasted. Or if not wasted, spent fruitlessly---if there was a difference. He snorted mirthlessly. What the hell was the point of it?
And as for kids like Molly Stewart---poor little lady---all she really had going for her was her good looks, a pretty face with no mind between the ears. Well, maybe a mind, but if so a mind like an iceberg, only its tip showing. As for how much of it lay beneath the surface---who could say? Wilson only wished he could find a way to capsize the little bugger, while there was still time.....He had this feeling about Stewart: that whatever she was going to do or going to be should begin to show in her now. Like watching a strange seed throw up a shoot, and waiting to see what the flower would be.
Well, speak of the devil! Wasn't that Stewart right there now, sitting on an old slab in the shade of a tree, her back to the mossy headstone? Yes, it was Stewart; the sun, glinting off her shiny dark brown hair, had given her away. She sat there, a book open in her lap, sucking on the chewed stem of a pencil, her head back, lost in thought. And Emma Wilkinson nowhere in sight; she'd be at a football practice with the rest of the team, up in the recreation ground. But Stewart----she wasn't a member of any kind of team.
Suddenly Wilson felt sorry for her. Sorry or----guilty? Hell now! Stewart had got away with it for far too long. One of these days she'd go off like that---out of herself---and never make it back again! And yet----
Wilson sighed, let his feet wend him around the plots and between the rows of headstones, along ill-defined paths to where the girl sat. And as he got closer he could see that Molly was once more lost in her own thoughts, daydreaming away in the tree's cool shade. For some likely irrational reason this made Wilson feel angry---until he saw that the book in Stewart's lap was her math homework book, which made it seem that she was at least attempting to work out her punishment.
"Stewart? How's it going?" Wilson said, seating himself on the same slab. This corner of the cemetery wasn't unknown to the math teacher; he'd walked here and sat here himself on many, many occasions. In fact it wasn't that he was the intruder, rather that Stewart was the odd-woman-out here. But he doubted if the girl knew or would even understand that.
Molly took the pencil out of her mouth, looked at Wilson, unexpectedly smiled. "Hello, sir....Er, sorry?"
Er, sorry! Wilson had been right, the girl just hadn't been there. Queen of the daydreamers. The Secret Life of Molly Stewart! "I asked you," Wilson tried not to growl, "how it was going?"
"Oh, it's all right, sir."
"Drop the 'sir,' Molly. Save that for the classroom. Out here it makes conversation difficult. What about the problems I gave you? They're what I meant by how's it going."
"The homework questions? I've done them."
"What, here?" Wilson was surprised; and yet thinking about it, it seemed entirely fitting.
"It's quiet here," Molly answered.
"Would you like to show me?"
Molly shrugged. "If you wish." She passed over the workbook.
Wilson checked it, was doubly surprised. The work was very neat, almost immaculate. There were two answers, both correct if his memory served him right. Of course the working would be equally important, but he didn't check that just yet.
"Where's the third question?"
Molly frowned. "Is that the one with the grease-gun, where----?" she began.
But Wilson impatiently cut her off: "Let's not piss about, Molly Stewart. There are only three questions out of the ten which could possibly qualify. The rest concern themselves with boxes, not circles, not cylinders. Or am I being unjust? The book's a new one to me, too. Give it here."
Molly lowered her head a little, bit her lip, passed the book over. Wilson flipped pages. "The grease-gun," he said. "Yes, this one," and he stabbed at the page with a forefinger. It showed the diagram. The measurements were internal; barrel and nozzle were cylindrical, full of grease; squeezed dry, how long would the line of grease be?
Molly looked at it. "Didn't think it qualified," she said.
Wilson felt angry. Two out of three wasn't good enough. Three wrong answers would be better than this crap. "Why don't you just say it was too difficult?" he tried not to bark. "I've had all I can take of bluff for one day. Why not just admit that you can't do it?"
Suddenly the girl looked sick. Her face shone with sweat and her eyes seemed a little glazed. "I can do it," she slowly answered; then, more quickly, with acid precision: "An idiot could do it! I didn't think it qualified, that's all."
Wilson believed his ears must be deceiving him, that he'd misunderstood the girl's answer. "What about the formula?" he rasped.
"Not needed," said the other.
"Shit, Molly! It's pi times the radius squared times length equals contents. That's all you need to know. Look...." and he quickly scribbled in the workbook:369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡLyUXa5WI4X
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Contents of Barrel: 3.14159 x.75x.75x/3.14159x.25369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl7MSTpxqxi
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Contents of Nozzle: 3.14159X.25x.25x1.5/3.14159x.25x.25369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡR2mDlnyhIC
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He gave Molly the pencil back, said: "There. After that most of it just cancels itself out. The divisor is of course the surface of a cross-section of the line of grease."
"A waste of time," said Molly, in such a way that Wilson knew it wasn't just rank insubordination, indeed, in a voice which hardly seemed like Molly Stewart's voice at all. There was authority in it. For a moment-----Wilson almost felt intimidated! What was going on behind the girl's beautiful eyes, inside her skull? What was the meaning in her not-altogether-there eyes?
"Explain yourself," Wilson demanded. "And make it good!"
Molly glanced at the diagram, not at the teacher's suggested solution. "The answer is three and a half feet," she said. And again there was the same authority in her voice.
As Wilson had said, the textbook was new to him; he hadn't properly worked through it himself yet. But just looking at Stewart he'd be willing to bet the girl was right. Which could only mean....
"You went back to the classroom with Wilkinson after the beach," he accused. "I'd told her to lock up, but before she did you opened my desk, looked up the answers in the answer book there. I wouldn't have believed it of you, Stewart, but...."
"You're wrong," Molly cut him short in that same flat, emotionless, precise voice. Now he stabbed at the diagram with his finger. "Look at it for yourself. The first two questions required formulas, yes, but not this one. Given a diameter to four decimals, what's the surface area? That requires a formula. Given a surface area to four decimals, what's the radius? That requires the same formula in reverse. But this? Listen:
"The barrel's diameter is three times greater than the nozzle's. The circle's area is therefore nine times greater. The barrel's length is three times greater. Three times nine is twenty-seven. The barrel contains twenty-seven times as much grease as the nozzle. Barrel and nozzle together therefore contain twenty-eight nozzles' worth. The nozzle is one and a half inches long. Twenty-eight times one and a half equals forty-two. And forty-two inches equals three and a half feet, ma'am....."
Wilson stared at the girl's expressionless, almost vacant face. He stared at the diagram in the book. His mind whirled and it seemed that a cold wind blew on his spine, causing him to shiver. What the hell----? For Christ's sake, he was the math teacher, wasn't he? But there was no fighting Stewart's logic. The question hadn't needed formulae, hadn't needed math at all! It was mental arithmetic---to someone who understood circles. To someone who could see past the trees to the wood. And of course his answer was, must be, right! If Wilson threw his formula away, he would've been able to do it too---with a little thought. But Stewart's application had been instantaneous. His scorn had been real!
And now Wilson knew that if he didn't play this right, he'd probably lose this girl right here and now. He also knew that if that happened, he wasn't the only one who'd lose. There was a mind in there, and it had---hell, potential! Whatever Wilson's confusion, however great, he must somehow retain his authority.369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡprPpOUJHpj
He forced a grin, said: "Very good! Except I wasn't just checking out your IQ, Molly Stewart. It was to see whether or not you know your formulae. But now you've really puzzled me. Seeing as how you're so smart, how come your classwork has been so lousy?"
Molly stood up. Her movements were stiff, automatic in fact. "Can I go now, sir?"369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDaQMFtxUHW
Wilson stood up too, shrugged and stepped aside. "Your free time's your own," he said. "But when you get the minutes, you might still bone up on your formulae."369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKsyjGgKp36
Molly walked off, her back straight, movements stiff. A few paces away she turned and looked back. "Formulae?" she said in that new, strange voice. "Why, I could give you formulae beyond your wildest dreams!"
And as the cold chill struck his spine once more, Wilson somehow knew for a certainty that Stewart wasn't just bragging.
Then----the math master wanted to shout at the girl, run at her, even slap her. But his feet seemed rooted to the spot. All the energy had gone out of him. He'd lost this round---completely. Trembling, he sat down again on the slab, leaning back weakly against the headstone as Molly Stewart walked away. He leaned there for a moment---then jerked forward, started upright, threw himself away from the grave. He tripped and sprawled on the close-cropped grass. Stewart was disappearing, lost among the markers.
The evening was warm---no, it was damned hot, even now---but Trevor Wilson felt cold as death. It was in the air, in his heart, freezing him. Here, in this place, of all places. And it came to him now just exactly where and when he'd heard someone speak like Molly Stewart before, with her authority, her precision and logic. Thirty long years ago, almost, when Wilson had been little more than a lad himself. And the woman had been his hero and role model.
Still trembling he got to his feet, picked up Stewart's books and put them in his briefcase, then backed carefully away from the grave.
Cut into the headstone, lichened over in parts, the legend was simple and Trevor knew it by heart:369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJmsDzKjhRz
369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡH12GVMKa1K
EVIE ELIZABETH WILSON369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxnc6dQLo4U
13 June 1875-11 Sept. 1944369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1gUAF5EEiK
Master at Sanford Hall Girls' School369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡmbWEryej8I
for Thirty Years, Headmaster for Ten, now she Numbers369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡcIF5fWpskp
among the Hosts of Heaven369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡKaGfzcdZ3U
369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkAM8EVOCQo
The epitaph had been the Old Lady's idea of a joke. Her principal subject, like that of her son after her, had been math. But she had been far better at it than Trevor would ever be.369Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkOhCr8PzGo
