Mavis Belfrage (8 page)

Abruptly Mavis stubbed out her cigarette and said, “You're a stranger to me Colin.”

“Good! Your life has been full of strangers. Try life with this one.”

“But you aren't the sort of stranger I like.”

His smile faded. She stood up and said, “I suppose I'm glad you're happy, Colin, but you're the sort of man I most detest because the world is so full of you: all glib and grinning and damnably, damnably sure of themselves. You used to be … not like that. I loved you then.”

“And showed it!” he said bitterly.

With a cold little smile she said, “Goodbye Mr Kerr,”

and went too fast to the front door to be overtaken before he managed to open it for her.

“Thanks,” she muttered, passing through. When she was halfway down the garden path he cried on a note of pain, “Mavis!”

She paused and looked stonily back. He said wistfully, “Good luck, Mavis!” and meant it. She suddenly smiled back with what seemed affection, shrugged her shoulders and went away. He looked after her, a hand pressing part of his stomach where twelve years later an ulcer would develop after his African wife left him.

Closing the door he returned to the living-room, lifted Mavis's quarter-smoked cigarette from the ashtray and looked at it for a long time. Then he threw it into
the hearth and went on tying up his books.

FIVE

OTHER

SOBER

STORIES

In 1986 the British government abolished physical punishment in the schools it controlled. This story is from the dark age before that happened.

One Friday afternoon at fifty-nine minutes and several seconds past three o'clock a no longer young, slightly plump teacher stood in an open doorway gazing at the dial of his wristwatch. He concentrated on the second hand to avoid facing a chattering queue of twelve-year-old boys who chattered and jostled each other in ways he despaired of preventing.

“Control yourselves, keep in line,” he told them, “no need for impatience. Every one stand still beside your neighbour. If you aren't standing by your neighbour when the bell rings I'll make you …”

An electric bell rang and the queue charged from the room. As the boys poured past he muttered, “All right,
off you go,” then closed the door behind them.

“Well McGrotty,” he said striding briskly to his desk, “this is the end of the week and no doubt you're as keen to leave as I am. Let's get rid of the painful business fast. Put out your hand.”

He took from the desk a leather belt which forked at the end like a snake's tongue. Raising it till the thongs fell behind his right shoulder he approached a small poorly dressed boy who stood with shoulders hunched close to ears, hands thrust deep in pockets of shorts.

“Hand out!” said the teacher again.

“Naw sir,” muttered McGrotty, thrusting his hands in deeper.

“Why not?”

“I was just picknup a pencil.”

The teacher sighed and said, “All right, McGrotty, since you seem in no hurry to leave we'll review your case once more. Did you hear me tell the class – the whole class – that nobody must leave their seat without first putting up their hand and asking my permission?”

“Yes sir.”

“Did I also say that whoever left their seat without permission would get three of the belt?”

“Yes sir.”

“And then you left your seat without permission. Yes or no?”

“Yes sir.”

“So put out your hand.”

“Naw sir.”

“Why
not
?”

“Cos I was just picknup a pencil.”

The teacher sighed again, sat at his desk and spoke with the belt draped over his knee.

“McGrotty, I realize as well as you do that there is nothing wicked – nothing antisocial – nothing criminal in leaving a seat to pick up a dropped pencil. But we had anarchy in the classroom today. Anarchy! Pellets were fired, someone threw a book while I was getting rulers from the cupboard, whenever I turned my back somebody did something horrible to someone else. I heard you squeal loud enough. Who kicked you? You didn't have that when you came to my classroom this afternoon.”

The teacher pointed to a livid bruise below McGrotty's dirty left knee cap. McGrotty glowered silently at the floor.

“Did Sludden do that?”

McGrotty said nothing.

“Did McPake?”

“I didnae do anything.”

“I am perfectly aware, McGrotty, that you are neither a troublemaker nor a bully. But I cannot protect you from troublemakers and bullies in a class where nobody sits still and nobody does what I say. That is why I announced that I would give three of the belt to the first boy who left his seat without permission. Sludden and McPake knew I meant it. Why, McGrotty, why in the name of goodness didn't
you
?”

“I was just picknup a …”

The teacher struck a crashing blow on the desklid with the belt, sprang up and roared, “Hand out McGrotty! We've no witnesses here! If you don't take this belt on your hand you'll feel it where it lands on you!”

He advanced wielding the belt over his head. McGrotty
backed into a corner, shut his eyes tight and stuck a hand supported by the other hand as far out as possible. His face, screwed into agonized expectation of worse agony, upset the teacher who paused and pleaded, “Be a
man
, McGrotty!”

McGrotty stood still with outstretched hands and tears sliding down his cheeks. The teacher flung the belt onto his desk and sat down holding his head as if it ached. He said wearily, “Go away. Leave me alone. For God's sake leave me alone McGrotty.”

Though not looking straight at the boy the teacher knew what happened next. McGrotty lowered hands, wiped cheeks with jacket sleeve, walked to the door. McGrotty opened it, stepped out, hesitated, yelled, “Ye big fat stupit wet plaster ye!” slammed the door and ran away. The teacher had no wish to run after him. His depression was not much deepened by McGrotty's parting words. He thought, “I could have belted him if I'd wanted to. He knows it and that's why he's mad at me.” A minute later the teacher got up, locked the classroom cupboards, locked the classroom door behind him, followed McGrotty downstairs and gave the keys to the headmaster's secretary.

He was not the last teacher to leave school that Friday. At the playground gate a small three-wheeled vehicle propelled by a rear engine overtook him. This braked and the driver asked if he wanted a lift into town. He
did and climbed in beside a grey-haired woman with a leg in a metal brace. She said, “You're usually away a lot earlier.”

“Yes, I had someone to sort out. One-B-nine got out of hand and I had to keep the ringleader behind for extra discipline – three of the best – wham wham wham. I think he got the message.”

“Was it Sludden?”

“No.”

“McPake?”

“No.”

“Who was it?”

“McGrotty.”

“I've always found McGrotty a poor spiritless creature. It's Sludden and McPake I keep my eye on in one-B-nine.”

“They never bother
me
.”

“Which shows you can't generalize about children from one class to the next. You live in town?”

“No, out Carntyne way.”

“Meeting your wife in town?”

“No, Friday is my night off.”

“Your night off what?”

He frowned because her terse questions made him feel uncomfortably childish. At last he said, “Have you noticed how almost everything we do becomes a habit?”

“It's inevitable at our age.”

“It may be inevitable but it worries me. I can stand it at work – teaching would be impossible without routines – but surely private life should be different? Yet on Sunday we have the usual long lie, late breakfast
and afternoon stroll in the park. On Monday or Tuesday I change my library book, on Wednesday or Thursday a babysitter comes and we go out to a film or visit friends. And when we visit friends our conversations are much the same as last time. Never any new ideas. Never any new … behaviour. So on Fridays I have a night off. I go into town and let the unexpected happen.”