Chapter 9: The Notoriety Gambit

Three months in the past, Molcum Corkle finds himself at first bemused, then quickly flattered, when Garrold Munnet asks him if he might, please, consider attending the inaugural meeting of the Steering Committee for the soon-to-be-renamed Kennigwort Independent Girls School.

“It’ll be half-and-half, Corkle - half representing the school itself - the staff, the parents - the other half for the town in various guises. Interesting thing from your point of view may be, the most represented form of stakeholder are parents of girls from the school. As parents of the girls, you and these others - and myself - have the most lose - or maybe gain - from this change.”

“And you thought of me?” asks Molcum.

“No need to sound so surprised, Corkle. Serious people for a serious committee.”

When Molcum seems hesitant, Garrold Munnet explains a bit more about who’ll be there and why. Then he seems to sniff out why Molcum is being hesitant.

“This won’t be appearing in the local rag, or anything like that, Corkle. It’s official - has to be - but it’s just a steering committee. Just to set things up and running. Talk out a few of the possible snags. Committees like this, they get forgotten very quickly on the whole.” He tips his head. “Nobody’ll know who was there, in the end, if you get my drift. Just us in the room. We talk a few things out, then we take some quick votes. We just need to be official for the basic legal nuts and bolts of the thing, complying with government dictat, all that. So we follow the rules. I promise, your name won’t appear in the papers. And you won’t be the only one with those kinds of concerns. If I’m guessing this right - why you’re hesitating, Corkle.”

“It’s just the wife and daughter,” says Molcum. “Hope you see that.”

Munnet looks sombre. “So is that - well - a no?”

Molcum blinks, a little surprised. “No?” he asks. “Well - if it really will be private. I mean, under the radar? So I won’t - you know - end up getting it in the neck. Not just from the Mrs and the family, I mean, from everyone. My employers? Or like, parents who might not agree with what we vote for?”

“I can guarantee that. You just make your excuses with your wife for the evening of the meeting, and we’ll all end up happy.”

Molcum is excited - he can’t deny it. Making decisions! Even if it’s the preliminaries - an insider perspective.

The evening of the meeting, he tells Lazabel he’s off to meet some chaps from work. He’s got it all worked out - who they’re meant to be, if she thinks to ask. But she doesn’t. She just shrugs and says, “You get this one, Molcum, and I get an out when I feel like an out.”

“Right, no problem,” he tells her.

He takes the bus. No need for the car. He can get The K44 from just past the end of their road, from the Cudley Marsh bus stop heading into town. It’s the same bus Yarra and Taudren take to school. Partly why they bid for this house. Perfect for the schools, the estate agent said.

The bus goes past the schools, the then on past Folder Street shops, through the Riddlertown Old Industrial Quarter and out to the Seafront.

He’s never even walked on the South Pier before. There’s a guard still on the turnstile gate - the whole place gets locked up late at night - because, by now, all the arcades and amusements are shut.

“Name, please,” says the man.

“Oh. Molcum Corkle.”

The guard peers down at a list. Then nods and looks up. “Straight down to the far end of the pier, Mr Corkle. The Chorus Line building. You’ll have been there before?”

“Oh ah - actually, no.”

“You’ll recognise it easy. It’s the big octagonal blue and white one - fills up most of the pier end. Main entrance, I believe. Have a good one, Mr Corkle.”

It’s a good few hundred yards to the end. The sun’s setting, angled over to his left as he walks. He can see a couple of others ahead, both walking in the same direction that he is. Half way out he looks back towards where he’s just come from, and two or three more men are coming as well.

The Chorus Line is a lovely old building. Wood, glass, metal. Steel shutter grilles are down over big windows, to protect them from squally Fisher Coast blows. A couple of shutters at the sides are still up - he can see out to the sunset, still - but most of them are down. The big metal pillars at the corners are painted in fresh powder blue. All the window frames are white, with a blue surround. The building is not quite as big as he’d imagined it might be - still big, though, filling up the centre generous of the circular pier terminus. Inside, it’s laid out with lots of wood-slat and painted-metal chairs arranger around small octagonal tables which are already set for the morning breakfast sitting.

On the door are paper printouts with arrows, and the words Kennigwort Schools and Town Steering Committee.

There’s a big table at the back of the octagonal hall with some posher-looking chairs arranged around it, six on each side and one each at the ends. Garrold Munnet is standing nearby, talking to a man who is tall, with black hair - not that old - maybe thirty-something. He’s sharply dressed in a blue pinstripe suit, and he’s carrying a briefcase.

There are several other men about too, standing in twos and threes. More filter in as Molcum waits.

“You here representing businesses? Teacher? Parent?”

This has been asked of Molcum by a man in his fifties with a neatly-trimmed grey beard and moustache.

“Oh. Ah, parent,” says Molcum.

“Girl at the school, eh?”

“And a boy. At the other one.”

“Ha! Must be fun in your house then.”

Molcum isn’t sure what this is meant to mean. “We all get along,” he says limply.

“Yes, sure. Enton Mittles.” The man holds out his hand for Molcum to shake. “My place, this. The Chorus Line.”

“Oh!” says Molcum, suddenly impressed. “Yes, very nice. How does that work, then? Do you rent it, or what?”

“Rent? Own, man! On a lease. The town is the freeholder, I own the leasehold.”

Molcum knows enough about this to ask, “Would that be on a long lease or a short lease, then?”

“You a property man?”

“Mortgage. Fairly new, not long in the town,” says Molcum. “It’s a pain, all that. Type of job. One town, then the next. Not moving employer, helping them set up new offices, that sort of thing. Always a pain selling up, buying new. To be honest, it hasn’t been all that good for the family. Hard on the kids, always being uprooted. But you’ve got to bring the money in.”

“Yes I get it,” says the man. “I’ve been lucky to be able to put down roots. In answer to your question, I just renewed the lease with Kennigwort on this place. New ninety-nine year. Well. Ninety eight now, but it’ll last me my lifetime. Love to take this place back to its glory days. Here, come and have a look...”

He walks Molcum to one of the octagonal walls, the back right. There are black and white photographs screwed to the wood in gaps between windows, all in neat, simple frames.

“A few old snaps,” he says. “Publicity photos, some of them. Knowing a bit about old types of film stock, these must all have been taken with the girls holding still.”

He points to one photo. A line of twelve chorus girls can all be seen standing on one leg each, holding their other legs upright in the splits pose. The girls are all wearing skimpy glitter-corsets with pointy metal cups for their breasts in inverted v-shapes. The photo has been taken from one end of the line, so there’s more to be seen of the nearer girls. The closest to camera has quite impressive breasts, and the v-cups on her corset seem to barely contain them.

They’re all wearing stockings held up by suspenders. Where their corsets stop, ruffled, frilly skirts start, though with the girl’s legs held effectively upright, they cover almost none of the dancers’ hips. In the picture, the nearest girl’s crotch is barely even covered by spangly, ultra-skimpy undies.

“You can see that one or two couldn’t keep still - their upper legs are blurry. A publicity picture from The Chorus Line’s heyday.” The man holds one hand out with fingers spread wide. He rotates it at the wrist in a more-or-less action. “Roughly mid-period. You can see they’re on a stage? That used to go from here...” He points to a spot about a third of the way in from the corner of the first pillar in. “To right over, opposite. Stage took up about a quarter of the building from the back towards the middle. They had tables right up close to the thing. Later, they replaced those with bolted-down seats in two or three rows, just underneath the stage. There’s a couple of trap doors at the back, even now. There were steps down from the stage to a room underneath here. Changing rooms.” He points down at the floor. “Still there!”

“Must have been something,” says Molcum.

They move to another picture, one from a later era, and exchange a few more words. Then Garrold Munnet calls out, “If we could all come to the table, please!”

“Looks like we’re on,” says Molcum’s new acquaintance.

Molcum finds that there are place-markers in front of each seat at the big table. He moves to his. With a chorus of chairs scraping the varnished wooden floor, all the men begin to sit. Molcum’s seat is one place in from the left end, as he faces the entrance.

Garrold Munnet is right at the far end of the table from Molcum, sitting at its head facing down between two rows of men on either side. Molcum’s new acquaintance takes the seat to Molcum’s left.

Munnet booms out, “Good evening, and many thanks to you all for coming - and for being on time! This is a first meeting of the Steering Committee - following a clear enabling vote in Kennigwort District Council, which effectively ended their involvement - for Kennigwort Upper Girls School, as it has been known now until now, and considerations about how its new status may affect the town. The school is newly independent, I should add. We, for the time being, are now the guiding body whose job it is to set up a system of permanent governance for the school. With a general look, today, at what that governance - whatever form it ends up taking - should have responsibility to manage. We will decide over the next few meetings just what form the new system of governance should take, what powers it will have, just who will have those powers, how they’ll be appointed - and so on. In other words, Gentlemen, this present body - a co-opted body - is temporary only. We are meeting now for the first time, but it is our job to, as it were, do ourselves pretty quickly out of a job. We may meet two or three times more, depending on our speed of progress, before the summer break. Once that system of governance is decided by us - what its new powers and responsibilities will be - and whoever they may be have been appointed - this body can be dissolved.”

He looks up from his notes and glances at the seated men.

“I am chair of this meeting,” he continues. “Garrold Munnet, here representing Kennigwort District Planning Authority. Also, I am a parent of two girls in Kennigwort Upper Girls School and, for now, of two boys in Kennigwort Upper Boys. Though my oldest will leave at the end of this term.” He gestures to his right. “Sir Claren, if you might please state your name and the capacity in which you sit on this board.”

The first man to Munnet’s right says, “Thank you, Garrold. My Name is Sir Claren Chinlig. I am here representing Kennigwort Chamber of Commerce.”

The next man to his right, the tall, younger man who’d been talking to Munnet when Molcum came in, says, “Carles Egremont, Kennigwort Town Authority Chief Executive.”

A short, crease-faced, angry-looking man to Egremont’s right, with big unruly eyebrows, wearing a Police uniform, says, “Commissioner Stocks for Kennigwort Police Authority.”

“Oh, er - Rollum Osper,” says the next man. He has a soft-looking round face and is wearing a big, comfy sweater. “Here for the tourist side, for the Hoteliers, I believe.”

“Forliman,” says the next man along, in a light, uncertain voice. “Feel a bit out-gunned here. Um, Kennigwort Railway Society - keep historical records, remember old abandoned lines. But mostly we’re about keeping the old Underground running. You know, on Saturdays and Sundays in the season. Charities, too, I’m here for them, I suppose, as well.”

“Lairgy Mudruff,” says the next man, the last one on the side opposite Molcum. The man’s voice is gravelly. Of all the men Molcum can see, he’s the one who looks least impressed to be sitting here. He’s close to being opposite Molcum, who has watched the man’s eyes flicking up and down the table - including at himself - with cynical twitches and blinks. “Owner of Gattreys Investments. Representing non-tourist businesses, apparently.”

The man in the opposite end-seat to the distant Garrold Munnet says, “Cotting. New Chair of the Governors Board for both Kennigwort boys and girls Senior Schools.”

Molcum thinks, he’s not one I voted in or out. He was already one of the school governors, before. Wasn’t Chair, though, was he? That’s new.

The owner of The Chorus Line is next - Molcum’s new acquaintance, to his immediate left. He says, “Enton Mittles, owner of this very establishment. Councillor for Seafront - though not here for the Council. Nor will I be reporting to them. Here for tourist attractions, actually. Also, father of an ex-student of the girls school. Charita. Now a trained choreographer, actually.”

It’s Molcum next. He says, looking at the man immediately opposite, “You feel outgunned? I’m Molcum Corkle. Daughter at the school. That’s it.”

“And your son,” says Munnet from the far end of the table.

“Oh - right, yes, my son’s at the other one. If that makes a difference.”

“Pieter Dickle,” says the man to Molcum’s right, before pawing the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. “Teacher and Department Head, Kennigwort Upper Girls School. Also, recently, teacher at Kennigwort Upper Boys. So, experience of both.”

Molcum has found he’s done a double look at this man. Yarra has talked about Dickle plenty of times! The bastard who teaches her parallel class! Who wedgies girls for nothing. Who takes away their skirts and leaves them in their knickers ... Who stopped spanking them at first, when the cameras came in - but now does it worse than ever - she’s said that! That’s him! God yes, now that he looks, Molcum’s seen him in the database records. Spanking that girl with the dangly, dirty tits, that Rossa Wilmutt! SX, that’s the initials they give her on the thing, though Molcum has worked out her real name from a class list Yarra brought home once. Dickle here was spanking her back end so hard, her danglers kept jumping out at the camera! Stripped to naked, he had her, in some sort of a dedicated punishment room.

The next man along clears his throat, with a noise that makes Molcum think of a sink draining out. “Lankworth Scutta. Got a daughter at the school, year ten. Imenna Scutta, she is. Spect you’ve heard of her, anyone who looks at locals birds on that Schoolgirls. Though they call he JT, her initials, which they’re not. Bloody stupid, that is.”

Molcum knows straight away who this seedy man means. Taudren has had Molcum thumb up her records. She’s one of his favourites - and Molcum has no doubt at all why. But this sneery, badly-dressed ugly is her father? He can’t see a resemblance to the gorgeous girl. Here to cash in? What Munnet had said when he’d gone to pick up Taudren - the Database will soon become advertising-funded. Schools with higher click rates will get more of the revenue. Parents of more popular girls will get some trickle-down from that. Molcum is starting to get a clearer picture now. The school governor, then Dickle, now Scutta’s father too. This is a pre-designed committee.

Plus, they’ve met up in this place that used to hold live smut. He’d looked at another picture with Mittles, just before they’s taken their seats. On the wall close behind their designated chairs. That one had a caption: Late-period live show: lunchtime striptease. A colour picture, that one, taken from behind a single girl. Audience members visible, close up to the stage, in three tight-packed rows. You couldn’t see what they could see, but the picture made it clear - she was up on all fours in a crab position, back of her head closest to camera, looking back between her legs at the audience. Naked as the day she was born, she was, with one hand to the fore holding up her body - hips in the air, feet wide as she could get them - with her spare hand reaching right under her bum, apparently pulling her privates apart. Behind, there’d been a bar, built right across the middle of the building, so the bar hid the view of the girl from the pier. Windows behind the bar were open to the pier - you could even make out people walking in the distance, out of focus, unlike the faces of the men up front, who were the subject of the thing, - all staring hungry-eyed, directly up at the flagrant stripper’s crack.

Mittles, the owner, had nudged him and whispered, “Used to go further than that in the evenings.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve got pictures, from before all that was stopped. Before some twat in the town hall cracked down on the place. When DR got in locally, a few years before they took the national election.” He’d pointed to the photo. “Went further than this one. Two-handed splitters. Fingers inserted.” His head had crept in close to Molcum’s ear. “Bit too rude for the walls here, between you and me, but I’ve got pictures all the same. Fingers pushed into both holes at once. From both sides, Corkle, two from each hand in either hole! Pulling wide as they could manage! Few years before you moved here? Slag shows - secret word for them. Dildoes, pissing, two girl dyke shows - on wintery nights, well out of season. Helped keep the tourist side of Kennigwort alive - you know, dirty old men sneaking Saturday nights off from the trouble and strife. You name it, they tried it. Bit before my own time, too, think I got the place cheaper because all that was dying.” He’d pointed round the pictures. “But our parents and theirs, they weren’t remotely squeaky clean. How d’you think we got here, eh?”

“Scunter Pelling, parent,” the next man is saying with a throaty laugh. “Still got one girl in the school till the end of this term - Penny. Same year as Munnet’s Mercy. Our next one, Farthing, she’s about to start after summer, coming term. Penny’s not had it all that bad - not at the school, at any rate.” He’s laughed at that. “Bit of a gap between them. But that makes me a parent for five years on the trot, with another five coming!”

The man’s gravelly laughter, his apparent enthusiasm for having his daughters in the school, is making Molcum wonder. She’s not had it all that bad at school, that’s what the man had said. What does that mean? Molcum makes a mental note. Penny Pelling - look that one up, see if she’s got any records. QQ, those’ll be her initials - that stupid one-letter-up deal.

The last man to speak is nearly back to Garrold Munnet. He’s a big man with a high, squeaky voice. “Headmaster Leezing. And I am the Head of Keenigwort Upper School for Girls. I shouldn’t - well...” His eyes seem to flick rather shiftily at Munnet. “Here rather under protest.” He’s mumbled this last comment.

Munnet ignores it. “So,” he says, “as Chair of this Steering Committee, it’s my job to guide us through the relevant topics. We’ll talk things out generally, then we’ll take some simple votes. Governor Cotting, in the other bookend spot, has kindly agreed to take notes of each count. We will vote with raised hands - unless there are objections.”

He looks along the table. Nobody objects.

“Good,” he says. “First, I must give a brief explanation, though I’m sure that most here get the general gist. The government has passed a number of laws - or implemented laws created by the previous incumbents. Amongst them are the law which set the Schoolgirl Punishment Database up - which on-goingly places cameras in schools, to capture punishment interactions between teaching staff and students. In its original conception, it was meant to cover only either boys or girls schools where more ... unusual, shall we say? - forms of punishment were practiced. This plan was modified in government committee and between-chambers ping-pong, to eventually include only girls schools, only senior girls schools, and finally all girls schools - with priority installations of equipment in those schools reporting that they practice more, and more unusual, punishments. You must all be aware that plans by the previous incumbents to have these records monitored only by a specifically-appointed safeguarding committee has, since the change of government, been dropped. The present government has elected instead to define those who may view records as stakeholders. And the interpretation of stakeholders - due, perhaps, to the extraordinary expense of the thing - has, de facto, become voters. All voters.”

Molcum knows all this, of course.

Munnet continues. “Secondly, the new government have passed a new law which will, within two to two and a half years, force most schools to become independent of their Local Authorities. To become self-governing. Those schools, once independent, must create new constitutions to govern themselves. However, this new law also makes allowance for early adopters - self-selecting trial cases, if you will - to opt out early. This, as you must already know, is now the case with Kennigwort Upper Girls School. Though the school does not yet have its own constitution, it has now, de facto, opted out - by council vote following quick-start local canvassing and surveys, on which some of you here may have been consulted. The school is now, therefore, able to define the form of its own independence. We are the body to begin that process.”

“Very good,” says Cotting the school governor, from the far end of the table.

“Secondly,” Munnet continues, “the new Government has passed another law rescinding certain limitations on allowable punishments which had been put in place by the government last. This law makes it clear that there are now very few active laws on the books governing school-side punishment practices. But their short law, which rescinds the DR law, does copy DR’s overly comprehensive list - of, essentially, every obscure form of corporal, and even shaming punishment they could scrape out of the rumour barrels as ever having happened in any so-called Traditional school. DR, as we know, did rather fetishise their prurient lists of things to ban.”

Garrold Munnet moves his stare around the faces at the table, watching out for tell-tale reactions. The policeman has been staring down at his tie. The hotelier and the railway enthusiast’s eyes show tell-tale signs of embarrassment.

Munnet continues, “LC could have simply deleted LC’s law from the books. I imagine they repeated DR’s list to rub it in the faces of their losing opponents. By first naming those unspoken things, DR made them explicit. They named them to shock the public into accepting the banning of all school punishments - but in doing so, in a sense, they forced the more obscure ones to exist. LC have now un-banned school punishments, rescinding DR’s law and repeating DR’s list. By doing so, therefore, they have tacitly allowed them. No matter how obscure or morally suspect. Sure, DR retain and emphasise a few of DR’s principles - keeping certain age restrictions - explicitly forbidding sexual intercourse - retaining strict instructions that no permanent physical harm must come to the students as a result of any school-based punishments. So no actions leasing to scarring, mutilation, broken bones, internal damage, infection, actions causing stitches can be allowed. Other than those, they seem to have opened the flood gates. Just to give some context.”

Sir Claren Chinlig from the Chamber of Commerce pointedly clears his throat when Munnet pauses. But the Chairman hasn’t finished.

“It has been pointed out by a number of stakeholders - we are here all considered stakeholders, by the way - that, given the existence of the SP Database, and given the history of this specific town ... some of the evidence for which can be seen in the photographs around us on these walls - that there may well be some pressing financial incentives for a town such as ours - shall we say - to move forward with the project of increasing the profile of Kennigwort Upper Girls School. At pace, in order to get ahead of the, shall we say, potential competition. Early adopters - and enhancers - of new forms of media may, potentially, capture the market. I now open the room to discussion of these points.”

The tall man second to Munnet’s right, just past Sir Claren, quickly raises his hand. Munnet acknowledges him and says, “Eggriger. The Council’s Chief Executive.”

“Thank you,” the man says. “We have modelled this, of course. Kennigwort Upper Girls School bears the name of the town. It is now, by the council’s vote, an early independent school. I propose we might change its name to the simpler Kennigwort Independent Girls School. We think that the combination of Kennigwort and Independent would help to market Kennigwort itself as independent.”

At the other end of the table, the man Molcum though had a cynical look lifts up his hand.

Munnet asks the tall Chief Executive, “Carles, may I?” He’s pointing towards Mudruff.

“I’ve made my point,” says Eggriger.

“Mr Mudruff,” Munnet signals.

“Right,” says Mudruff gruffly. “Forgive me if I’m a bit behind the rest of you bods, but are you saying that - given Kennigwort High is independent now - opted out, got cameras and all that - that you’re planning to let teachers like this one -” he says, pointing at Dickle, “- have at em like those - what-d’you call-em - traditional schools? The ones what strips em, smacks their bits, makes them prat about naked while they’re pulling on their minges? Then stick all that up on that school tarts site? And link all that to the name of the town?”

There’s stony silence, apart from the Headmaster, who’s the one now clearing his throat in piping grumbles.

The man immediately opposite Mudruff the speaker, the owner of The Chorus Line, says, “Yeah, that’s it in a nutshell I think. Link the name of the town with scandal.”

Mudruff stares back, pausing, then says, “Fuck me. Fucking brilliant. I mean - risky as fuck. But I’m used to all you official bods being blank spots for ideas. But I take it all back. That’s fucking genius, that.” He sniffs. “Course, for my kind of business - investments, stock portfolios - could be a disaster.” Then he twitches his head, shrugs, and says, tone rising, “Or an opportunity? Who knows?”

“Yes that’s -” the big-shouldered Headmaster begins, high-pitched, “that’s really a little too explicit, I think. You know - the girls? Girls school? Remarkably unfortunate for them, don’t you think?”

The man at the head of the table near Molcum, the School Governor, says, “Headmaster, if you will ... please let us know when the last time was that you - say - taught any girls?”

The Head looks affronted. “Very busy job,” he says. “Lots of decisions, lots of work in the background!”

The Governor asks, “Any recent interactions with girls? Of note?”

The Head gabbles, “Well no I can’t afford the time for all that. Teachers. Their job. Got mounds of things need attending to.”

Munnet, the Chair, cuts this sniping short. “Any other observations? Commissioner Stocks.”

The uniformed Policeman hasn’t had his hand up. But he puffs up his small chest and says, “Well. My concern must be the rule-book. Have any laws been broken?”

When he doesn’t add more, Munnet asks, “And?”

“Well. Apparently not.”

Osper, the Hotelier, says, “I am aware ... I don’t fully see ... I do get the idea ... but how does this apply to my kind of business?”

The young, tall Chief Executive says, “Convergence. Mutuality. The school becomes our advertising - our stalking horse, if you like - for a similar push from the rest of the town.” He lifts his left hand towards the pictures on the walls. “The Chorus Line, too, was notorious once. A tradition of the town, then, some might argue.”

The man to his left, from the Chamber of Commerce, says, “You mean - you plan to sauce the whole town up? As a deliberate strategy? But my members. Some - I should think most - won’t want to!”

That’s two nay-sayers up by Munnet, Molcum thinks. The biggest not-for-it voices, both right up there at his end.

On cue, Munnet says, “Could I ask for a very quick survey now? On the general drift of the discussion? The idea of using the school as a stalking horse, as Carles has put it. Saucing up the town, say, on the back of potential free advertising on the SP Database. If you like, a notoriety gambit. Just a sentence or two, please - where does each of you stand? We’ve just heard from the Chamber and our Chief Executive, so I hope you don’t mind if I pass you by. Commissioner? Your thought?”