Chapter 6: A Conversation Six Months in the Past

Garrold Munnet’s study seems smallish and tight, though part of that, thinks Molcum, is all of these books. Molcum can hardly believe that Taudren’s friend’s dad can have actually read all of them. Are some just for show? When would he have found the time to read them? The place is a library. Molcum has probably read - what - less than a line of one of all these rows? In one of the narrower bookcases? Maybe a few more if he includes that series about those kids doing things in boats that he read as a boy. But all this lot?

He’s gone over to the Munnet house to pick Taudren up, since Tauds is friends with Mr Munnet’s son. They’re both at Kennigwort Senior Boys School. But Molcum it isn’t all that late yet. Taudren’s son’s dad answers the door and invites him inside. There are noises of the kids upstairs.

“You’re Taudren’s father,” says the man.

Molcum nods. “Yep, that’s me. Molcum. Molcum Corkle.”

“Are you in a hurry? Got five minutes for as chat?”

“No, no particular hurry,” Molcum says, and Tudren’s friend’s dad leads him into his study.

There’s a heavy green leather chair behind a desk. The desk is getting close to filling up the room, with just about room. The massive chair looks like it ought to belong to a headmaster, or maybe a council leader or someone important like that. It’s too big for this little room. It has big broad arms about as wide as Molcum’s legs and a great tall cushioned back. The leather-topped desk is covered by leather in the exact same shade of green as the chair. They’d be even more impressive if they weren’t both squeezed so tight by all the books.

On the desk is writing equipment for a man who likes to write his letters long-hand - though there’s also an older-model desktop computer monitor, plus keyboard and mouse on a trackpad with a printed picture of a highland scene.

“Drink, Corkle - mind if I call you Corkle? I know that’s your son’s surname, of course.”

“No I don’t -”

“Don’t mean any disrespect. Habit, how we all refer to each other, myself and my frequent acquaintances. Professional habit.”

“Oh, I see,” says Molcum. “Should I...”

“Munnet,” says the man, holding out his hand.

“Mun. Munnet.” It seems alien, coming off Molcum’s tongue, to call anyone by his last name alone. Somehow disrespectful. Or maybe old-fashioned? Because he knows that’s how consulting doctors, university professors and the like address each other. He wonders what profession Mr Munnet is. There’ll be clues in all these books, he expects.

“There’ll be important votes and such coming up before too long,” says Munnet. “I don’t know if you follow the news? Politics, Corkle?”

Molcum has been fearing questions about what he does himself for work. Which you’d definitely term a job not a profession. If it’s news and politics that’s the subject, though, Molcum suddenly feels on safer ground. “Oh I do, yes, I like to keep up to date with all that, ah ... Mun-net.” Still won’t trip off his tongue. But at least he didn’t call the man Mister yet.

“Oh good, good, then we should be able to chew over the fat, eh? Have a bash the politicians? What’s your tipple, Corkle? Whisky? Gin?”

“Oh I think, ah... whisky? I’ll try a whisky, if I might.” Molcum hears his own voice sounding higher than normal.

“Single malt? Blend?”

“Oh, er...” What should he say? What’s better. “Single?”

“Good. Man after my own heart, Corkle. I do have a couple of blends. Presents from odd fellows who don’t quite understand. Single malt it is though.”

The man picks a narrow-necked bottle with an old-style label from a glass-fronted cupboard low down below a bookcase, uncorks it with a squeaky pop, produces two small cut-glass tumblers, then asks, “You don’t want ... water or something, do you Corkle?”

Molcum can tell by Munnet’s tone of voice that water in whisky isn’t something to approve of. He tries a joke. “Only of it’s the purest highland,” he says, “and then in a different glass!” Whisky comes from the highlands out west - he’s fairly sure of that. It’s the picture on the mouse mat, that’s where he’s got that image from.

“Ha ha!” says Munnet, tipping his head back. “Very good, very good.” The man pours a narrow, orange, ripple-shifting layer in the bottom of each glass, then stoppers up the bottle and leaves it on a narrow shelf above he cabinet. He hands one glass to Molcum and takes one up himself, swirling it for a moment just below his nose.

Molcum does the same. “Oh I say, that’s...”

“Peat,” says Munnet. “It’s in the water the whisky’s brewed with. Particularly lovely, this one is.” He holds out his glass. Molcum clinks it with his own, then takes a tiny sip. It hits his palate in multiple stages. First the rich, complex fumes. Then the smoky taste. He swallows. Next the searing kick at the back of his throat. Then the explosion, a little bomb of alcohol, as it falls down his gullet and punches in his system.

“My - goodness,” says Molcum. And he means it. He’s had whiskeys before. They were take-it-or-leave-it, so far as he was concerned. But this is superb.

Munnet winks. “Thought you’d like it. Got a deal on a couple of bottles off the internet. Not cheap. But better than you’d get down the high street! Not that you’d get this in any drecky shops around here, eh?”

“Sure you wouldn’t, no,” says Molcum. He gets that you don’t knock this one back. It’s a sip-by-sip job only. Because he doesn’t expect Munnet to offer him another.

“Take a pew,” says the man.

Molcum takes the pew, as invited. It’s a literal pew, a two-seater propped against the one wall which hasn’t been covered by books, with a flat, soft, two inch cushion covering its hard wooden board. Munnet pulls a loose upright dining room-style chair forward, flips it back to front and straddles it. He leans his non-drink-holding hand on top of its back.

“Extraordinary times, eh?”

“What - the news? You mean politics?”

“I do,” says Munnet.

“Oh yeah - extraordinary.”

“Aren’t they just? What do you think of the other lot, then?”

“Oh, them,” he says. There’s a trap in this though. Which one is the other lot? DR? LC? There are no obvious clues. But Molcum’s eyes find themselves resting on an object on the green-topped desk. The man’s internet hub has wires spilling down, and one of them supports a dongle. Molcum’s hub has one too - a government dongle that lets him, an approved voter, watch the SPD - the Schoolgirl Punishment Database.

“Think they were a bit naive,” he says. “Got themselves proper out-manoeuvred. Think they’re probably washed up.” As in, Democratic Reform - the old lot.

“Couldn’t have put it more succinctly myself. Are you a voter? One who votes, I mean. Or an activist, perhaps?”

“Voter - who votes - only that,” says Molcum. “Sorry. I like to follow everything ... voted for them, last time, of course. You know, LCs.”

“Didn’t we all?” says Garrold Munnet.

Got that right, then, thinks Molcum. “But I don’t get involved.” Just in case he wants me traipsing around posting leaflets through other peoples’ letter boxes.

“You vote, though! Basic citizenship!”

“Oh I always vote, yes. You should really, shouldn’t you?”

Munnet says, “And of course, LC looks after our side’s interests.”

Molcum isn’t sure what our side might mean. That dongle, though. He takes a guess. “Men, you mean?”

Munnet holds his glass out for another clink-and-wink. “That’s the ticket! Perhaps you know - maybe you don’t - there’ll be an important vote or two coming up soon.”

Molcum frowns. “Not national. That’s two - three years out?”

“Oh goodness no,” says Munnet. “Much more local.”

Molcum is baffled. “I don’t think there’s a local one due either. Least not this year.”

“But there is,” says Munnet, head tilting conspiratorially. “Or there will be, most likely.”

“I don’t...”

“The Education Reform Bill, Corkle. It makes provision for schools to opt out.”

“Oh,” says Molcum, still not really getting it. “Opt out...”

“Of Local Government oversight.”

He has heard of that. But he’s not sure Munnet has his facts straight now. “Isn’t that supposed to be a year or two away? Till it properly kicks in?”

Garrold Munnet leans back, holding tight onto the chair-back with one hand. “Yes. For most situations - most schools, most likely. But the bill - close to passing, little bit of ping-pong between the chambers left left - ought to contain some special provisions. Special circumstances rules. Here’s the thing...”

Munnet has Molcum’s full attention now. It’s insider information, this, he thinks, taking another tiny sip-bomb of the whisky.

Garrold Munnet is now moving as he speaks. Still sitting on the chair, but he transfers his glass from one hand to the other, and as he speaks, he moves this hand or that, as if conducting the points that are coming from his mouth. “First things first. The council itself has to vote to allow it, for the schools in its district - as a general rule. Or even just for one. As a trial - a forerunner. Say, Kennigwort High?”

Our Tauds and our Yarra, Molcum thinks.

“First the education committee, then the chamber. Now, in the past the make-up of the council was split. No overall control. A mix of DR and LC, for the most part - a couple from minor parties - a good few independents. But that changed - I hope you followed - in the year before the national election. Shades of things to come - a lot of councils switched like that. It’s an LC majority now, right, Corkle?”

“Right - I know.”

“Of course you know, you keep up with these things.”

Molcum isn’t quite sure just how much he’s being patronised. “But why would they?” he Molcum.

“Hmm?”

“Why would the council? Vote to allow it. It’s them who’s got the oversight. Why would they vote to give it away? Like, the LC majority?”

Munnet nods and faintly smiles. “Very good, very good. The thing is, there are other possibilities in play. And the politicians know it. For the town, you see.”

This has Molcum genuinely puzzled.

“The town has been in decline. For some years.”

Molcum shrugs. “Seems to be doing alright to me.”

Munnet shakes his head. “Not compared to its heyday, it isn’t. Think of the piers, down at the seafront. They both used to be thriving. Now one’s a literal condemned structure. Anywhere else in the town, it would have gone - been bulldozed. In the sea, with warning lights for boats, it’s not such an issue, plus expensive to do, so it sits there, rotting - slowly losing its deck, its buildings, anything that made it important in its day. A metaphor for the town’s fortunes, some might think”

Molcum is nodding. But it’s been shut for so long, he’s just used to how it looks. It’s even interesting watching it rot - how it changes every year.

“All it is now is a roost for starlings,” Munnet says. “But once, that structure had everything up to a thriving music hall!”

“I suppose,” says Molcum. “But...”

“The branch line to the sea front. Coming in from the west. Closed for decades. That used to bring in tourists from nearby local towns, direct to the sea front. There’s even the underground line - not quite dismantled like the branch line, but not exactly thriving. I’m sure you know. Preserved by the local Underground Society. Open on Saturdays, sometimes Sundays in the season. But it’s just about clung on by its fingernails.”

Molcum nods. He’s frowning as he listens. “How would the school, though...”

“Publicity,” says Munnet.

Molcum shakes his head. “I don’t...”

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity?’”

“Yes. Course. But...”

“Kennigwort High School is connected to the SPD.”

“They all are,” says Molcum.

“And the SPD has rankings. Total clicks. Percentages of traffic. Know where our school sits?”

“What - the girls’ school? No idea.” What’s he saying here about Yarra’s school?

“Mid table. Actually, higher now. Climbing.”

Molcum is still frowning. He didn’t know that the schools had rankings. Individual girls, perhaps. “But the ones at the top. Surely it’ll be them traditional schools. Scarleton. Lixmouth.”

“Oh they are,” says Munnet. “But why are they on top?”

Molcum doesn’t quite know what to say. Or at least, how to say it. They’re notorious, particularly now, those schools. What they put up on the SPD is dirtier than state schools? “Um ... Type of content?”

“Bingo,” says Munnet. “Click-bait. Notoriety. Scandalous goings-on behind closed doors.”

“I suppose there might be some - rude stuff coming out of other places, as well.” Well done that, thinks Molcum. Makes it sound like I don’t watch Schoolgirls much.

“But the thing is, Corkle - Scarleton and Lixmouth are private schools. Rather out of the way. And not situated in tourist towns.”

“Oh I ... see.” He shakes his head. “I think.”

“Which means the towns they’re in don’t benefit. Can’t.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But ours can.”

Molcum really doesn’t get it. “Through the SPD? How?”

“That key word I just said. Notoriety,” says Munnet.

Molcum lets this sink in. What does he mean by that, exactly?

“Now. We’ve stumbled onto delicate ground.” Munnet has shifted himself forward again. His right arm posed across the back of the upright chair, his whisky in his left hand, held just to one side. My boy said - you have two. Not just your boy. A daughter. A girl at Kennigwort Upper, Corkle?”

He nodded. Frowning. Of course he did. What was the man implying?

“Yes yes, same here. My younger girl, Miki.

That’s news to Molcum. His eyebrows lift high.

“And a boy at the boy’s school - we both do. Now. There are other schools in the Kennigwort district. But only the High School is named after the town.”

“I ... right. I’m still following.” He’s narrowed his eyes though.

“Kennigwort High School. It bears the same name as Kennigwort town. As Kennigwort Central, the town’s one remaing station. As Kennigwort Underground, barely still surviving. But leading, of course, to Kennigwort Seafront and Kennigwort Pier. The south pier - still clinging on, too. All those boarding houses, cafes, amusement arcades! Empty as churches on any day but Sunday. Half full, at best, in the short summer season.”

“And you think...”

“I know. We’ve modelled it. A few clever blokes who run computer simulations. The point is, no-one’s done it yet. No town has yet gone for the jugular.”

“The jugular?” asks Molcum.

“Do please be aware that I know we both have girls there. I’m not trying to be callous. But no-one’s yet targeted the SPD as a marketing device.”

“Yes, I ... honestly never thought of that. What’s your modelling say would happen if someone did?”

Garrold Munnet winks. “I’m glad to see you’re keeping up! It’s called capturing the zeitgeist. Companies, for instance, who are first to the market with brand new products get identified - in the public mind - with those product. Think of selling general stuff through the internet. Who dominates the market? The first to really go for it! The first to seize the initiative! And before you know it, they’re mega-corporations worth billions and billions.”

Molcum’s eyes are flicking left and right. He’s getting closer to the bottom of the whiskey by now. “But it’s just one high school, Mr Munnet.” Well he’s said it now. But the man’s on shaky ground. “There are thousands of them, surely? And they’re all wired up to Schoolgirls ... the SPD, I mean the SPD.”

“No, not all,” says Munnet. “Quite a lot reported that they don’t use corporal punishment. They’ve been targeted last for connection to the database. Why go to all the trouble if there’s nothing to see? But Kennigwort reported that it does use CP. At no more than rates and practices allowed by the old DR can’t-do-that rules, but even so. A few strings might have been pulled, in the background, if you like. I don’t know if you realise, but Kennigwort’s systems are better than most - more cameras, better servers, a more clued-up crew.”

“No, I - well. I s’pose I might have done.”

“Some think there’s an unfortunate formula at play. The more CP that’s reported as taking place in a school, the more resources get targeted there. While schools that under-report get far less. But the more resources that get put in place, the more potential punishments are captured. The more captures, the more records. The more records, the more potential clicks - assuming there’s anything worth watching in those records.”

“Yes, I’m - getting the picture now,” says Molcum.

“The higher up the stats lists - the more the town’s name will be brought to mind. Because Kennigwort is there in the name of the high school! Where your daughter is, and mine.”

“Yes but that’s ... Do I really want my daughter...”

“Exactly,” says Munnet. “Of course. Of course. But, consider two things. First - please don’t react yet - there’s money in it. Potentially. For the parents of particularly popular ... pupils.”

“I won’t want -”

“First point only. Please bear with me. Second point. Like myself - most likely - you wouldn’t want that possible result for your daughter. Perish the thought! But there are ways and means ... systems to protect ... and systems to release. Teachers are not fools. We have parents evenings for very good reasons. Eye-to-eye contact. Notes on files. Strongly-worded preferences.”