Chapter 12: Lateness and Absence

It’s Friday, early, and their only-for-assemblies Headmaster is back. His voice, for a big man, pipes out oddly high-pitched.

“Very sad news this morning,” he flutes out above the heads of the girls. “Mrs Locus’s mother - such a dedicated lady, Mrs Locus - has sadly just died. Our esteemed senior assistant teacher will need several days - or, I wonder, weeks? - to deal with all arrangements. Poor dear, a horrid burden, as her mother’s sole surviving heir. No man at home to deal with the administrative headaches.” He smiles a reassuring smile. “So very sad, I’m sure we’ll all keep her in our special thoughts and prayers today. Especially her ten plus class.”

Mrs Locus has been assistant to Needan since he started as full-time teacher this term at the newly-named Kennigwort Independant Girls School. “An old hand to guide a young one,” was how Leezing had introduced her. But her now-confirmed absence - not a one-day blip - has seemingly fired off a starting gun. Needan, Shrimp and Studdles (the teacher Shrimp was assigned to before) all wait at one end of the stage, post-assembly. They seem tense, their needs urgent. They don’t look at each other or confer as the girls and other teachers file away.

“Ah. All here I see,” says Leezing, turning to face them. They advance in a block, all focused on his face. Their spontaneous crowding makes him want to back away. Leezing is a man who relishes distance from the urgent requirements of actual people.

Eldon Studdles quickly raises an attention-claiming hand. “Headmaster, that young chap you sent me - Mr Leek?”

“Oh. Leak? Did you say?”

Shrimp, standing one step back behind Needan, nudges his elbow.

“Is he a youngish sort of a chap? Well, they all are, I suppose,” says the mid-contralto Head.

Again, Shrimp has elbowed Needan. Her message is clear - you’re the teacher - speak up! Needan flinches at the contact, but does try to wedge his foot in the cracked-door conversation.”Headmaster ... Miz Shrimp...” His voice comes out at a whiny pitch, like it’s trying to mimic the tones of the Head. Needan hears its helium pitch and recoils.

The Head trills a rapid head-shake. “Which young chap did you say again, Studdles? Substitutes, supply chaps - they do blur into one.”

“Leek, Headmaster.”

“About Miz Shrimp,” says Needan, prompted this time by a triple, heavy tap in the middle of his back. “I’d just like to say that -”

Leezing’s head jumps to Needan, then Studdles. Back to Needan. Back to Studdles again. “Oh god, I see it now,” he says, straining his head back. “You both want shot!” This sung-Vicar peep escapes the Headmaster’s throat as his wary eyes sidle to Shrimp’s blocky body.

Studdles says, “If you would please allow me to speak, Headmaster.”

The Head’s beetly eyebrows lift high on his forehead. “Leak, did you say? Like a drip, or a vegetable?”

Studdles’ confusion pulls tight on his brow. “I’m sorry, Headmaster?”

“Spelling, man. I presume you must want him.”

“Oh. Vegetable. And ah... well ... you see -”

“Thought so, thought so. But, um ... Needum, is it? Sorry. Just can’t. Just can’t. You’re too green you see. But, ah ... Blim...” His eyes squeeze up in a vision-blocking tightness. “Sshhrrimp, the ah... Mrs?” and back open, wide, but focusing up in the lights of the hall, “is not. Now, is she? Green. No, surely not so. So you’ll just have to lump it while she guides you through the thickets.” The stressed Headmaster clears his throat and shakes his head back. “Final decision! No arguing, now! Mrs Shrimp? I know you may not like it, but - hah. You’ll simply have to lump it and sit in with Needum. That’s it. For the - well, the foreseeable, sadly. Terribly sad. Please don’t argue now, any of you! Needs must, needs must!”

Gondal Ford, the veteran class 12+ teacher, came into the teaching of girls by a back-door route. Never a proponent of CP, he nevertheless found himself mired in a scandal - of a financial rather than a sexual nature - which required him to move elsewhere post-haste, taking the earliest half-way decent job offered, or find himself potentially looking out through bars. Earlier Governors of Kennigwort Senior School (both Boys and Girls), on receipt of his CV, found themselves bemused to have come across a man of such obvious knowledge applying for a post with themselves, a bog-standard school in an obscure seaside town with its best days behind it. At the time, no posts in the boys side of the school were free, but the girls school were always in need of useful staff. “There’s no point offering, he’s never going to take it,” was the first opinion offered. “It’s probably just a mistake,” was the second. “Yes. But how much does a stamp cost?” was the third. So Ford was in receipt soon of a standard letter of acceptance, with no interview required - no requirement, therefore, to check behind his hubcaps or beneath his hood. And accept he did, delighted to disappear from the purview of his creditors to a town so far away as to be almost in another country.

Not yet quite at the point where he might be thought of as preparing for retirement, Ford is, nevertheless, so seasoned to his job, after twenty years of service, as to barely think about it from day to day. Ford teaches his subjects - the various local languages - well, at least when sticking to those subjects. For the rest, for all the times when he has to teach his own nominated class the more general subjects, he is competent, if uninspired. He knows the well-trodden paths of his routine.

But he is not so committed to the welfare of his girls - so many have passed before him already, through just so many years - as to fight their corner should his routine be threatened. As might a young firebrand such as Ullerade, when trouble comes his students’ way. Ford has seen that man’s type before and they seldom last long. So to Ford, these days, school rules are just school rules. Even if, as in the last two year and now this, they may have taken a more noxious turn. But to Ford, who’s seen a lifetime of changes drifting this way, then that, then back and forth and back again, this is just another phase which will soon enough pass. So he’ll follow the blighters’ pernicious, pointless tinkering and leave it at that. Let the rules be the rules that the rules insist on being.

On Friday, once his current crop of girls are out of the tedious Headmaster’s Assembly and fidgeting their various bottoms on the seats of his Twelve Plus classroom, he calls out the roll. All is normal until Shirelle Potapkiss fails to answer. She is one of two girls who he has picked to wear the ridiculous orange, on the previous Thursday when it first became an issue. On the grounds, in that instant, that he found those two fillies - Potapkiss and Clitstrop - just that bit more persistently annoying than the rest.

Mr Ford is very much aware of the cascade of obnoxious new school rules this term. When one of the Yellows had not come in last Wednesday, suffering from some typical female complaint, Ford had replaced her with the next girl in the roll: Marda Gull’s absence saw Aniqua Hollspath down-sizing to yellow. He’d spend a tedious ten minutes skimming that ugly little skirt-rules pamphlet when Gull had turned up absent. The original girl still not having returned, Hollspath wears that colour still. Though whether he would have thought to release her if Gull had returned is a moot point at present: that replacement girls may be released from the skirt once 24 hours have passed and the absentee has returned, is not included in his current knowledge base. Finding out would require him to trawl back through that tawdry pamphlet, which, unless pressed to do, he would very much prefer to avoid. But for now, here is one of the Orange girls absent, and he knows that rule for sure: an immediate requirement for replacement exists.

As it happens, his assistant, Miss Julla Luckpine, is not present at the Friday roll call. Ford, as has been his sometime habit, has sent her on an errand - a task not included in an assistant teacher’s duties - to get chalk from the store cupboard in the Teachers Common Room - a place technically forbidden to assistants - just as the class has begun to assemble. When the other girl, Aniqua Hollspath, had been picked to wear yellow, it had been Luckpine who had escorted her - and told her, on the way - though Ford is not aware of it - of techniques for keeping her presence less than obvious to potential assailants on the teaching staff.

When Potapkiss does not answer, Ford wrinkles his nose, briefly shakes his head, glances up at class, then stares back down at the roll call list. The first girl on the list in orange is present, unlike Miss Luckpine, and Ford realises that she must know where to go to get an orange skirt fitted. Since she’s wearing one to class, she has to know the way. Ford is not often distracted by looks, but the athletic girl’s vanishingly short orange skirt has caught his ageing eye, underneath her desk, on more than one occasion this week. He had, in fact, noticed the too-vocal girl scratching discreetly between her legs - he’d happened to glance up when the movement caught his eye - so that her clean white panties had stood out in between. Uncharacteristic, perhaps, for the normally too-opinionated girl. But maybe there was added temptation, what with the incredible shortness of her flash-skirt.

Ford is poor with names these days. He has been a teacher, he sometimes thinks, for far too long. The new names just keep piling up and up, requiring filing space he no longer cares to make the effort to maintain. Which girls wear yellow and which wear orange is clear simply because he’s marked next to their names with a yellow or orange coloured blob.

No Potapkiss, orange blob number two. Bugger. Just that tall one. Here, the blob by her name. Clitstrop, yes. Stroppy Clitstrop, who’d complained for just so long when he’d first picked her for the bloody skirt. Picked her for complaining as a habit, truth be told.

He’s staring at his roll call sheet, directly at Clitstrop’s orange blob. The next name after that girl is Cherry Croutier. Ford finds himself blinking at it, trying to remember what her parents are like - he’d rather not have an impromptu visit from an angry, huffing father. But he seems to recall just one parent present at the pre-term meet-your-daughter’s-new-teacher tea and sandwich bash - a free-time-gobbling extra requirement brought in several years past by Tedious Leezing - Ford’s private name for the bland Headmaster. A mother? On her own. Apologising? So sorry it’s only me Mr Ford, my husband is so often abroad these days. The mother’s face he just about recalls. The daughter must get her looks from the Continental father. But he’s sure about it now - the father’s been trailed by the mother as a no-show.

Ford looks up at the class. His eyes skim around before landing on Croutier. That one, that’s the one who squeaks to that name. What was it that the governors’ new phone book of rules recommended? Favour the pretties when shrinking their skirts. Ford knows what pretty looks like, even though he rarely lets it influence him. He peers over his glasses at the girl.

“Croutier, stand up.” This comes from his mouth with a minimum of emphasis. It’s an every-day, unemotional instruction.

The girl looks startled, then hesitantly stands.

Gondal Ford appears to be peering at her figure. Yes yes, not too big up top but nice hips below. That will probably do. With a face you’d call pretty.

“So - Croutier.”

The girl shuffles uncomfortably.

“You don’t generally get into trouble, Croutier?”

The girl makes little bird-like movements with her head like she’s checking her surroundings. Her slow-curl auburn hair flows and settles with each move. “No Mr Ford, I really try hard not to.”

There are titters all around the class. One girl even mutters, “Croutier’s a right goody-two-shoes, sir.”

“Yes. Good,” says Ford. “Croutier, here’s the thing. Potapkiss is absent. New rule says each class must have a minimum two girls in orange each school day. Not sure if you know that.”

The girl’s jaw drops. Her eyes have bugged wide. She husks out, “But I haven’t done anything wrong, sir.”

He looks to the annoying girl whose inner thigh-scratch caught his eye the other day. Peers down at the roll-call to re-check her name. “Clitstrop, you must know where to go to get an orange skirt fitted?”

Mendelle Clitstrop is a striking girl in an athletic frame. Her habit of speaking out when minor matters of justice snag her web has got her into trouble on more than one occasion.

“Croutier must go to have an orange skirt fitted?” Clitstrop’s emphasis makes this sound a tad ridiculous.

Ford peers at the self-appointed student representative. “And what is wrong with that?”

“She said it herself, sir. She tries very hard not to get into trouble.”

“Unlike yourself? You can hardly take her place though, can you?” He peers his roll-call’s orange blob for reference. “Clitstrop, take Croutier to wherever Miss Luckpine took you for that rag.”

Croutier actually whines. She’s suddenly close to tears. The class has collectively drawn in its breath.

“That is an order,” Ford says, though he’s said it so evenly, it hardly sounds more than a casual comment.

Clitstrop stands, but stares back as she does it.

He meets her eyes. “If you object, Miss Clitstrop, I can always mention it to Tund or Eccar. Before this afternoon’s gym class? One or the other seemed to notice you last week. Stripes on your backside? Are we on the same page now?”

“Yes,” says Clitstrop. “Sir.”

“Good. Croutier, no doubt they’ll tell you rules for those things at the fitting. So - off. Get her fitted.”

But Croutier seems unable to move. Clitstrop, stepping over, has to prompt the other girl, tugging gently at Croutier’s sleeve.

“But why me?” Cherry Croutier asks, suddenly gripping her desk with one hand.

“Why me, sir,” says the man, tone remaining quite level.

“What?” she squeaks.

“Why me Sir, Croutier. You know the speech rules. And it’s also, ‘What, Sir?’”

“But ... I really haven’t done anything!”

“Sir!”

‘But - why? Why me, Sir? Please...” Her voice has been rising in pitch the whole time.

Ford says, “Clitstrop, for God’s sake, just get her to the fitting room! Then back here yourself, as quick as, when it’s done.”

Clitstrop, with another caning from Tund dangled casually by Ford, now does what she’s told. They’re still new to Ford’s class - just three weeks in - but she’s staring to get a fix on him by now. He knows his stuff - when he teaches his languages, you actually learn. On the growing school and political weirdness, he offers himself as even-handed: Mr Mature who won’t have truck with the grubbier side of school and state. He’ll never get a cane out - he’ll never pull a trigger. But he’ll still load a gun with a calm, even temper, and hand it, face neutral, to somebody else.

She leads the shell-shocked Cherry Croutier out, then on past the Staff Room to the recently unused Headmaster’s office - now the Fitting Room for new orange and yellow uniforms. Croutier, with a quaver in her voice, asks Clitstrop, who she’s always smiled at - though they’ve never got close - “What’s it like, Mendy? Wearing Orange? Really?”

Clitstrop sighs. “You’ll find out pretty quick,” she says. She tilts her head from side to side. “To be honest, it hasn’t been as bad as I expected. Last Friday’s gym class was a pain. Literally. We all thought it would be awful. This girl from Ullerade’s class told us all about their stupid new rules, he’d read the whole lot out to them. But pretty much nothing has happened this week. Till yesterday, anyway. And that one led to nothing.” She looks sidelong at the girl. “If it’s any consolation, I don’t think you deserve it.”

“What happened on Wednesday, Mendy?” Croutier asks.

The tall girl shrugs. “A sort of confrontation? Three assistants. Loads of girls. They said they’d pick us off one by one. Us girls - um, we sort of threatened them back, to be honest.”

Croutier stares at Clitstrop with a look of quiet awe. “You threatened them back?”

Clitstrop shrugs. “Well - sort of.”

When they’re there at the fitting room, Clitstrop knocks on the door. Inside is the seamstress - a new employee at the school from last week. The seamstress writes down the name of the new girl, then calls Dunnel Tund, who is listed this Friday, as he is on other days, as the on-duty Uniforms Fitting Adviser. Tund, a full-time floating teachers, has found himself more than happy with this role. It means he won’t be called on to actually teach for at least three mornings. His Friday routine, from now on, is: not a lot. Feet up, unless called on to ogle a girl for a fitting. Lunch in the caff. After lunch, patrol the playground, looking for colour-coded girls to single out. Then another free lesson unless called on to Float. Followed by a fun double lesson with Eccar and the Blimp making all the orange-skirt girls do obscene things for those stunning floor cams. Whipping them for fun to make the little vixens jump. He’d looked at the results of their efforts last week, once they’d been uploaded to the SPD. The pictures were clear as a new school bell - with so much detail, he could zoom right in to their barely-covered crotches. To those near-transparent, jammed-on shorts.

Tund arrives, all breezy, in the top floor room. The seamstress, roughly thirty, is a serious-looking woman. The name badge she wears declares her name to be Ms Skelter. She’s been measuring the still-upset Croutier calmly, while waiting for Tund, who has taken his time. By now, the seamstress knows the girl’s height, bust and hips. Cherry Croutier, fully grown, is 5’4”, with a 30” bust, a 23” waist and 35” hips.