by M. J. Trow
‘Only our branch is Troubridge,’ said Mrs Troubridge sternly. ‘There was just my sister and me and, of course, Mr Troubridge at the end. No,’ she sighed. ‘If Miss Troubridge or I should die, then that will be the end of the line, I’m afraid.’
Maxwell was stunned by the hubris of the little woman. To assume that death was an optional extra showed extraordinary optimism. Or pessimism, depending on the point of view. His innate politeness reasserted itself. ‘I am remiss, Mrs Troubridge. How is Miss Troubridge, these days?’
‘Gadding,’ snapped the little woman. ‘There’s no other word for it. And since she became a platinum surfer, there’s no stopping her. But putting pen to paper for those of us who are not so computer-oriented, nothing. But, no,’ Mrs Troubridge returned to the thought before one. ‘Millie’s surname is Muswell.’
‘Ah, like the Hill.’
Mrs Troubridge stepped back, amazed. ‘No, Mr Maxwell. The name Muswell denotes a boggy or mossy place. Not a hill. You do surprise me, being a supposedly intelligent man.’
Doing his best to look fairly bright, Maxwell turned back to his bicycle. ‘I really must go, Mrs Troubridge,’ he said. ‘I will be late for school, else. But perhaps you would like to bring Millie round for tea this afternoon? I’m sure Jacquie would love to meet her, and anyway we have a favour to ask you.’
The little face lit up. ‘Babysitting?’
‘In a way.’ Maxwell had managed to swing his leg over the crossbar and was finally on his way. ‘We’re going away and wondered if you would feed Metternich.’
As he swept away, up the slope and off to the left at the top of Columbine, he could still hear her plaintive cry. ‘But Mr Maxwell! What if there’s another Incident?’
Leighford High School was looking slightly more battered on its second day of term. It was staggering, Maxwell had never ceased to think, how the work of six whole weeks for a posse of cleaners, builders and decorators could be completely undone in less than a day. The students of Leighford were no different from those of any other school, averaging them out and chopping off the ends of the graph in that cavalier way statisticians have. And yet he had never visited another school, college or indeed an institution of any kind without remarking to himself how less dog-eared that place seemed compared to good old Leighford. He wondered if the hotel in the Isle of Wight was really quite ready for this influx. He wondered if they would hold him personally accountable. Whether he would have to do the washing-up to pay for all the broken bedside lamps, shower fitments, beds, windows and other sundries which he feared Year Seven would leave in their wake.
Only the Head of Sixth Form’s office still maintained the old standards. Japanese Zeros snaked over the unsuspecting US Fleet in Tora! Tora! Tora! above his desk. An impossibly Sixties McCabe & Mrs Miller screamed ‘beautiful people’ from the poster of the same name. And Jon Voight and Burt Reynolds weren’t enjoying orienteering very much in Deliverance. But as long as these films memoirs and others like them were there, Maxwell could drift off into fond movie moment, thanks to his wife’s eagle eyes on eBay.
He reached for the phone, still depressingly County Hall kitsch though it was. ‘Sylv?’
‘Mr Maxwell. I can’t really talk at the moment. I’m dealing with a rather nasty case of coccidioidomycosis.’ There was a distant crash. ‘Oh, darn. The wretched boy has done a runner.’
‘It’s your fault, Sylv. You will use the posh term. What is it, by the way, of which you have a nasty case?’
‘Oh, nothing. Just a rash. How can I help you?’
‘I’m just having a bit of a mull over this trip,’ although he knew perfectly well that the Isle of Wight was nowhere near Mull.
‘Cold feet?’
‘By no means. No, no, heavens no. Jacquie is delighted. Not delighted as such, you understand. But she was surprisingly understanding. I’m sure Nole will be ecstatic and I will have a weight off my mind when I have passed it by Mrs Whatmough.’
Sylvia chuckled in a rather scary way, made worse by the slight reverb on the phone. ‘She’ll be fine, Max, I’m sure. Rosemary Whatmough and I go back a long way.’
‘You know her?’ He could feel a load lifting from his shoulders. ‘Oh, Sylv …’
‘Oh, no, Max. I said we went back. I didn’t say we were friends. In fact, I might go so far as to say the very opposite.’
‘But you said …’
‘Just trying to cheer you up, Max. She’ll be horrendous. Absolutely, appallingly, uncompromisingly horrendous. Anyway, things to do. Is that why you rang?’
He was occupied for a moment in swallowing hard. ‘No. I was just wondering if you had any paperwork about the trip. We must be quite near the deadline for Health and Safety Risk Assessments, that kind of thing.’ He tried to keep the hope out of his voice, but he should have known better.
‘Sally had everything signed, sealed and delivered in at least triplicate before the end of last term.’
‘There must be some non-payers, then. You know the rule.’
‘What rule is that?’
‘That if everyone doesn’t pay up, then the trip can’t run.’
‘Fund-raising, Max. All last term and over the holiday. Don’t you remember Year Ten offering to wash your bike? The whole thing is free. All the kids need is some money for spending on drinks and things.’
Maxwell let his arm drop to his side.
‘Max?’ Her voice sounded very far away. ‘Max, are you there?’
With a huge sigh he brought the phone back up to his mouth. ‘Yes, Sylv. I’m here. Who’s got the paperwork, then?’
‘I would imagine it would be Tom Medlicott. New chap in Art.’
‘He’s keen.’
‘As mustard. I think Sally grabbed him at the end of last term when he was down for orientation. His wife is coming, too.’
‘So, then. That’s me and Jacquie and Nole. Tom and his wife. You and Guy.’
‘We’re looking forward to it. We don’t see enough of you all.’
‘Right back atchya. Umm … anyone else?’ Another light at the end of the tunnel. Could it be that there would be enough staff without him?
‘Well, because Sally can’t do it, we are light on women. So I believe Mrs Donaldson is coming along.’ He could hear her smiling on the other end of the phone.
‘Pansy? She’s not a teacher, though.’ Straws were there to be grabbed. The woman ran the school office. It would be like putting an officer of Engineers in charge of the defence of Rorke’s Drift. Hang on, though, that had turned out quite well.
‘Nor am I,’ she pointed out, not unreasonably. ‘Look, Max. Either bow out and no one will blame you, or come. Look, I must go. My coccidioidomycosis has just come back. Silly boy – a good swill in some calamine and he will be as right as rain. Bye.’
Maxwell stood for a minute, holding the phone tightly. Then he exhaled and went off to teach Seven Emm Three something about the Civil War. He wondered how long it would take before some benighted child asked him when they would get on to the assassination of President Lincoln. The present record stood at eight minutes.
Maxwell’s timekeeping was both legendary and immaculate. He was never late for lessons, except deliberately. He never needed to look at a clock. The bell never came as a surprise and the lessons never seemed too long. But the interview with Mrs Whatmough was hanging heavily over his head, her moustachioed face leering down at him. He felt as Prometheus must have done, chained to his rock, waiting for the eagle to resume snacking on his liver. The day alternately dragged and sped past until it was finally time to beard – almost literally – the gorgon in her cave.
Nolan’s school was just down the road and along a bit from Leighford High. It hadn’t been chosen for that reason; they had chosen it, and the Local Authority had kindly allowed them to send Nolan there, because it was a very good school. Ofsted inspectors reeled out wreathed in smiles, making large ticks in every box. Children from there romped gleefully home with carrier bags full of trophi
es from every music festival in the area. Those up for entry into public schools both major and minor were mentioned in despatches as they passed their entrance exams with flying colours. The whole place seemed to shine with a perfect gloss not seen since the Wizard left the Emerald City. The reason for this gloss was Rosemary Whatmough. Thus she could be said to be both the ointment and the fly.
Centuries at the chalkface had taught Maxwell that the thing a child hates most is a parent in their school. So he waited a discreet half an hour after Nole’s knocking-off time before he turned up at the hallowed door. He had remembered to remove his bicycle clips. He had smoothed down his hair as best he could and stashed the shapeless tweed hat into Surrey’s basket. He had prevaricated by examining every rose bush in the flower bed outside Reception for greenfly. But now, he had to face the woman. He pushed open the door. A receptionist of startling beauty was the first thing he saw and his heart lifted.
‘Mrs Whatmough,’ he remarked. ‘I have an appointment.’
She lifted a disbelieving eyebrow and checked her computer screen. ‘And you are?’ Her voice could have cracked diamonds.
He bit back his usual retort and smiled. ‘Peter Maxwell. Nolan Maxwell’s father.’
The other eyebrow shot up into her hair. ‘I see.’ She scrolled through a few screens. ‘Yes, here you are.’ She glanced up at the clock. ‘Do you know you’re late?’
He was flabbergasted. ‘I am?’ He also looked at the clock. It said one minute past four. ‘My appointment is for four, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ The tone mingled surprise and distaste.
‘So … I’m not actually late. As such.’
She snorted silently. Parents! What a shame they were necessary. ‘Mrs Whatmough is a stickler for punctuality. However, I’ll see if she’s still free.’
How different from the sweet responses of Thingies One and Two who worked at Leighford High and ate straight out of Maxwell’s hand.
He wanted to haul the cow over her desk and ask her if she’d like a proper job, in a school where anything happening in the right half of the day would be a bonus. He wanted to muss her hair, breathe on her glasses and generally make her look like a person rather than someone’s very optimistic avatar, had he known what an avatar was. But he just said, ‘That would be very good of you. I’ll wait over here, shall I?’ He took himself over to a row of chairs and picked up a magazine. It was called Which University – Planning in the Early Years. Nothing like looking ahead, he supposed. It was probably aimed at the pre-pre-schoolers. He had hardly sat down when the Devil’s receptionist called his name.
‘Mr Maxwell? Mrs Whatmough will see you now.’ She gestured to a door behind her, which was standing open an inch or two. He gulped and went in.
Rosemary Whatmough was sitting bolt upright behind her desk, with a file open in front of her. There was one sheet of paper in the file and Maxwell realised that, though Nolan had only joined the school the day before, the file was his. She didn’t get up but extended a hand over the desk towards Maxwell.
‘Mr Maxwell. How nice to see you again.’ She sounded as though she had learnt the sentence phonetically but didn’t know what it meant. There was certainly no warmth in the greeting. ‘How may I help you?’
There was nothing to be gained by shillyshallying. ‘Due to staff illness, I am taking a school trip to the Isle of Wight soon. Jacquie … er … Mrs Maxwell, is joining me and we would like to take Nole … er … Nolan.’
She smiled with just the very edges of her mouth. ‘Soon? That would be half-term, perhaps?’
‘Erm, no. That would be next week.’
‘For the day? I assume you would be pursuing some educational aims, as it is a school trip?’ The smile was still in place, but barely.
‘No.’ He swallowed. He didn’t dare look down but he was sure that he was suddenly in his junior-school uniform of short trousers, slightly too long blazer, slightly too big and grey jumper, rather inaccurately knitted by his mother. He felt about nine years old and he had been caught scrumping. ‘No, it’s for a week.’
She picked up a pen and for a moment he thought she was going to stab him with it. But no – she made a terse note at the bottom of Nolan’s virgin page. Then she looked up. The smile was now really, really gone. ‘I can’t stop you, Mr Maxwell. There is a fine, of course. The Education Welfare Officer will be in touch about that. And there will be, as you have seen,’ she flipped the file closed and tapped it with a talon, ‘a note on Nolan’s file. Such a sweet child and very bright.’ She sighed. ‘Never mind.’ She pulled another file towards her, opened it and began to write.
Maxwell sat in his chair in disbelief. Depending on the point of view, it had gone surprisingly well and also amazingly badly. Nole had his week off, but he had been labelled as a subversive influence, who would be watched from henceforth for any small infringement of lunch queue etiquette or other heinous crime. Never mind – he knew his son and knew that he had been an anarchist from the moment of his birth, but with such a dose of charm that hardly anyone noticed. Still, he would have a chat with the lad and say his cover was almost blown.
She looked up. ‘That will be all, Mr Maxwell,’ she said.
He got up slowly, surprised that he could move at all. He had been pretty sure for a minute there that he had been turned to stone.
Still reeling from the Whatmough Experience, a précis of which he was planning to send to Alton Towers for possible inclusion as their next white-knuckle ride, Maxwell arrived home to find Jacquie’s car already there. He heaved a sigh of relief and slid his key into the lock. He was naturally pleased that his wife was home, but there was the double pleasure to be gained from the fact that, if one of them had forgotten Nolan, it wasn’t him. He was about to step through into the hall, when he heard it. A strange noise, deep and long-drawn-out, which seemed to bypass his ears and burrow deep into his brain. His reaction to it was buried deep in his bones, in the tiny bit of DNA that all men share with the first mammal, the reaction of a small and squashy piece of fur hiding from a large and clumsy reptile. As he was trying to find the source, Metternich shot down the stairs and out, ears back, whiskers streaming in the wind of his own speed, meow dopplering into the distance as he hid beneath Jacquie’s car.
The noise stopped, and his hackles slowly relaxed, the hairs on his arms lay down again and Metternich peered out from under the bumper.
‘What the hell was that, Count?’ Maxwell whispered, but the black and white behemoth could only stare. As the Head of Sixth Form teetered in his own threshold, he heard a door open upstairs.
‘Max? Is that you?’ Jacquie was bending down at the top of the stairs, peering down at him.
He gave himself a shake. Metternich slunk out from under the car and tried to look nonchalant while washing his paw, but was fooling nobody.
‘Yes,’ he carolled and made for the stairs, but she waved him back again and crept down to join him. She grabbed his arm.
‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered.
‘Yes. What the hell was it? Metternich has gone white all over. Look at him. He’s quivering.’
‘It’s Millie.’
Maxwell was still feeling a tad whatmoughed and raised a questioning eyebrow.
‘Millie Muswell. Mrs Troubridge’s long-lost cousin.’
‘Ah. Yes, we met briefly this morning.’
‘Apparently, we asked them to tea,’ Jacquie said, folding her arms.
‘I did mention,’ Maxwell faltered. ‘We do want Mrs T to eff–ee–ee–dee Metternich, don’t we?’
It was no good. Metternich’s spelling was sometimes a little ropey; for example, he wasn’t too good at the eye before ee thing, but he knew the basics. He walked back into the house past Maxwell, on his way to the cat flap into the garden, and gave him an admonitory clip on the ankle with a well-turned claw for good measure.
‘Well, yes, we do. And I know she will take a bit of buttering up, but couldn’t you have waited until Millie had go
ne home? She’s leaving the day after tomorrow.’
Maxwell was contrite. ‘I didn’t know how long she would be here, to be fair, Immortal Beloved. I only saw them this morning very briefly as I was leaving the house.’ There was a repetition of the sound from above. ‘What is that?’ he asked his wife.
‘It’s Millie laughing. She has a rather robust sense of humour. Nolan is entertaining her, as only he can.’
‘Farting or card tricks?’ His son was an adept at either.
‘A bit of both. Anyway, come upstairs and spread the load.’
So, hand in hand, like Hansel and Gretel approaching the gingerbread house, they crept up the stairs.
Maxwell’s impression of that morning had not been wrong. That Mrs Troubridge and Millie Muswell were related was beyond all doubt. But whilst Mrs Troubridge looked rather like a small rodent who had just come through a bad winter, food-wise, Millie looked like a capybara which had had a darned good season foraging on the pampas. She wasn’t fat; she was just huge, with hands like plates and thighs like wardrobes. Nolan was leaning on one of them now, and had ample room to do his favourite card trick of Find the Lady. He was getting very good at it, Maxwell was glad to see. With the kind of reference he would be getting from Mrs Whatmough, he would probably need the money.
Maxwell advanced into the room, good public schoolboy that he was, with hand outstretched. ‘Millie. May I call you Millie?’ She cuffed him playfully in assent and nearly dislodged a rib. ‘So nice to get to meet you properly. Mrs Troubridge had never mentioned you.’
‘She didn’t know about me until recently,’ Millie rumbled. ‘I started tracing our family tree and I’m afraid I was very lazy and started with the easy bit. Troubridge is such an unusual name.’
‘Indeed,’ Maxwell agreed. That wasn’t the only thing unusual about Troubridge, but it would be unneighbourly to say so.
‘So I went on to Genes Reunited, Ancestry, that kind of thing. And I found that Araminta was doing the same. Two heads are definitely better than one when tracing family.’
