Nine Till Three and Summers Free

by Mike Kent

  Major Beddington suddenly stopped at the base of the largest tree he could find.

  ‘Now, group yourselves around here, will you?’ he said. ‘I want to take a soil specimen from the floor here, and compare it with this morning’s stuff from the valley. You’ll find it quite different. Phyllis, where are the entrenching shovels? Phyllis?’

  Miss Fosdyke was hovering around the back of the group, holding a handkerchief to her head and looking decidedly ill.

  ‘I’m sorry Andrew,’ she called. ‘I’m feeling rather queasy. Must be the heat, I think. What was it you wanted?’

  ‘Two entrenching tools, Phyllis, please.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought they were with you. I’m sure you had them.’ The Major rummaged through the canvas sacks and gave a grunt of satisfaction.

  ‘It’s all right, Phyllis, I’ve found ‘em. Now, you two men, take the shovels and dig out a large section, will you? Take the top turf off first. Want to leave things as we find them. I hope that’s the first thing you’ll teach children when you’re showing ‘em how to excavate. You’ll need to go fairly deep. I want a sample from about two feet down.’

  He handed the tools to Daines and MacKenzie, who cut away a square section of turf and then pushed the shovels firmly into the ground. The Major lifted the first complete section of earth from the shovel, like a proud father handling his first child.

  ‘Good. Now while they’re digging, the rest of you have a look at this section. What do you notice? More acidic, much darker humus, drier composition, fluffy texture in the upper layer. Good idea to watch for truncation too. Phyllis, pass me a soil tester, will you? Phyllis? Phyllis?’

  He stood on tip-toe, and looked around the group. It was only when the back row of students turned round to look for her as well that he realised she was lying, immobile, on the ground behind them.

  ‘Good God!’ The Major exclaimed, more irritated than concerned, ‘The bloody woman’s fainted!’

  Willing hands hurried forward to help Miss Fosdyke into an upright position. She groaned softly and held her forehead with her hands, while Charlton and Daines helped her to a fallen tree trunk by the Major’s side. He immediately began fanning her face with the metal end of an entrenching tool. Her eyes fluttered open.

  ‘I do apologise, Andrew,’ she said faintly. ‘Most unusual. I can’t think what came over me. I’ll be all right now, thank you.’

  ‘Nonsense. You can never tell. Need to get the blood back to your head. Put your head between your knees.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be necessary,’ she persisted firmly. ‘I think I’ll be quite alright now. I think it must have been the fish paste sandwiches.’

  ‘Fish paste sandwiches? What fish paste sandwiches?’

  ‘The ones we had for lunch, Andrew.’

  ‘We didn’t have fish paste sandwiches for lunch. We had corned beef. Or jam.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry Andrew,’ Miss Fosdyke said weakly, ‘but I think I know a fish paste sandwich when I see one. I can certainly tell the difference between fish paste and jam.’

  Dudley suddenly looked vaguely guilty and hobbled to Miss Fosdyke’s side.

  ‘I think I can possibly explain, dear lady,’ he said. ‘Were these sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, by any chance? If so, I rather fear you may have eaten some fish paste which wasn’t as fresh as it might have been.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about, man?’ the Major barked, looking at Dudley in disgust. ‘Are you telling me Miss Fosdyke has been eating fish paste sandwiches belonging to you?’

  Dudley leaned forward and stroked his beard. ‘Well, I can’t say that categorically, old boy, but I did leave a packet of sandwiches in the porchway last night. I think somebody may have put them in the lunch bag by mistake.’

  The Major thought for a moment and then looked aghast. ‘Good God, man,’ he shouted. ‘That was me! God in heaven, I’ve poisoned the bloody woman!’

  Miss Fosdyke began to moan softly. The Major, embarrassed and annoyed, gripped her by the back of the neck and pushed her head violently into her lap. She gave a strangulated cry, and he stepped backwards into the hole that MacKenzie and Daines had dug a few minutes ago. A fat drop of rain splashed on his nose.

  ‘Goddammit!’ he shouted. ‘Why didn’t some fool warn me the hole was there?’

  ‘Miss Fosdyke doesn’t look at all good, Major,’ Barton said kindly. ‘I think we ought to get her back to the Hall. She probably needs a good meal inside her.’

  The Major pulled his leg out of the hole, panting furiously.

  ‘Damn and blast!’ he shouted. ‘We’ll have to abandon some of this afternoon’s work, that’s all. I don’t like the colour of her. Two of you make a stretcher, will you? You, the bearded fool. Get yourself on one end of it.’

  Dudley swallowed hard. ‘Look, old boy,’ he objected, ‘I’d be glad to oblige but I’ve hurt my ankle rather badly and I’m not sure if it would be a good idea.’

  ‘Seems a very good idea to me,’ snapped the Major. ‘You’ve maimed me, poisoned my assistant and probably desecrated half the countryside catching butterflies, so it’s the least you can damn well do. And don’t call me ‘old boy’.’

  Daines and Charlton found two slim branches and constructed a makeshift stretcher using the string from the top of the canvas bags, two jackets and four animal counting frames. The Major hobbled over to it and prodded it with his fingers.

  ‘Try it, will you Phyllis,’ he ordered.

  ‘Really, Andrew,’ she said, ‘I don’t want to make a fuss. I shall be perfectly alright if I can just rest for a little while.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, Phyllis. Frankly, I don’t intend taking any chances. It’s a long way back. They can take turns in carrying you. Though on second thoughts it may be better to keep the bearded fool away from it, I suppose.’

  There was a sudden rumble of thunder, and the woods darkened ominously. A few minutes later, rain began to spatter heavily through the leaves, and the group hurriedly after the Major, who walked with little thought for the stretcher bearers at the rear of the column. At the entrance to the wood, the stretcher suddenly collapsed, pitching Miss Fosdyke into the puddles that were rapidly forming under the trees. She refused to make the slightest attempt at remounting, and Daines and Charlton sighed with intense relief. Duggan and I pulled our open shirts over our heads in an effort to protect ourselves from the weather, but the rain sprayed our faces in bursts, running into our eyes and dripping down our cheeks. The countryside had been transformed, in a matter of minutes, into a wet and gloomy haze like a late February afternoon. Duggan swore as his feet sank up to the ankles in a puddle of mud.

  ‘That’s the end of Summer, then,’ he shouted. ‘I knew it wouldn’t last. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed today, haven’t you, Mike?’

  ‘Thoroughly. I can’t remember when I’ve had such a good time.’

  ‘I wonder if the Major thoroughly enjoyed it too?’

  ‘I’m sure everybody’s thoroughly enjoyed it.’

  ‘I’m sure, too. I love the countryside, don’t you, Mike? Especially when it pisses down with rain and there’s no shelter for miles. What do you think we’ve got for tea?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less. So long as it isn’t fish paste sandwiches.’

  ‘Scrambled eggs on toast with a slice of cheese on top,’ said the waitress, putting four plates of food on the table. ‘Pass it round, please. There’s a tomato each as well.’

  Duggan looked up at her.

  ‘What, a whole tomato?

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What, each?’

  ‘Look, there’s no need to take that attitude. If you’ve got any complaints, you tell Major Beddington. I don’t buy the food. I don’t cook it. I just serve it. I am not responsible. Okay?’

  ‘Of course. What’s the chef
done to this cheese?’

  ‘It’s not a chef. It’s a housekeeper. She’s grilled it.’

  ‘I should call her in then, love,’ said Barton cheerfully. ‘I think it’s ready to own up.’

  ‘I’ll tell her that.’ She looked at him in disgust and turned abruptly in the direction of the kitchen. After everybody had eaten in gloomy silence, Major Beddington rapped a spoon on the table and waited until he had everybody’s attention.

  ‘Miss Fosdyke was going to lecture to you this evening. Unfortunately she is quite sick and I have called the doctor. I shall be lecturing to you myself tonight. We can’t afford to waste any more time. We have wasted enough today already. Not through any fault of mine, I might add. Please go through into the laboratory as soon as you have finished your meal. And bring your specimens with you.’

  ‘I haven’t drunk enough to give him one,’ Barton muttered.

  I suddenly remembered I had left my polythene bag of wild flowers on the dressing table in our bedroom, and I hurried upstairs to fetch it. As I left the room, I noticed three pork pies, a french stick and a lettuce on Dudley’s bed, and I wondered where Dudley had got them from. Like a man returning from a week’s diet on a health farm, my hand tentatively moved towards one of the pies. Then I remembered Dudley’s fish paste sandwiches and thought better of it. Perhaps the food had been left over from his grandmother’s funeral. When I reached the laboratory, Major Beddington had already started his lecture. His eyes followed me to the back of the room, and he waited impatiently until I had found an empty stool.

  ‘Now that we all seem to be here, kindly empty your specimen bags and spread your collection in front of you. You’ll find a lot of the plants have been duplicated. This little specimen, for example. Hypericum perforatum if I’m not mistaken. Check it in your floras. Notice that the veins are pellucid, but the reticulations aren’t. Look at this drawing of it. The leaves are thickly dotted with pellucid glands. Now, what else have you got?’

  He walked around the centre table and stopped beside Samuel Charlton’s stool.

  ‘You’ll notice we have collected a large variety of yellow flowers. Very common colour. Sometimes quite difficult to tell the difference between the varieties. Coltsfoot, fleabane, ragwort… all of them have similarities to the dandelion. This hawkweed, for example…’

  Charlton coughed awkwardly. ‘That’s a hawkbit,’ he said. Major Beddington looked at Charlton curiously, as if he had body odour.

  ‘It’s a hawkweed, young man. Look at the leaves. They’re more linear. Look at the basal rosette.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid it definitely is a hawkbit.’ Charlton smiled nervously, not anxious to upset the Major again that day, but determined to prove his point. ‘I’ve just dissected one and looked at it under the microscope. There’s no latex.’

  ‘He’s probably right, Major,’ said Barton. ‘He’s got a GCE in it.’

  ‘What?’ the Major frowned.

  ‘He’s very clever. He’s got a GCE in it.’

  ‘I’ve got an ‘A’ level in Botany,’ said Charlton humbly.

  ‘I don’t care if you’ve got an ‘A’ level in woodlice,’ said the Major testily. ‘I have travelled every inch of Pinerose Valley and this is quite definitely a hawkbit.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what I said. It’s a hawkbit.’ Charlton nodded enthusiastically. The Major stared at him.

  ‘What? You said it was a hawkweed. What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘No, I think I said it was a hawkbit. You said it was a hawkweed.’

  ‘Whatever you said it was, it isn’t, and never has been lad. And that’s an end to it.’

  Charlton looked extremely hurt, and the Major beat a hasty retreat to the back row of the laboratory, where Dudley was frowning into his microscope.

  ‘Excuse me, old boy,’ he said, ‘but do you think we could have a rest from this? Frankly, it’s getting a little tedious.’

  The Major looked at him warily and raised his eyebrows. ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘I’m afraid my particular interest doesn’t happen to be flora. Do you think we could do something on butterflies or owls? I’m certain there’s a family of Tawny owls…’

  ‘If you were here for three weeks, I would be perfectly happy for you to sit in a tree and live with them,’ the Major snapped. ‘As it is, I can merely attempt to put as much nature into your mind as possible without fossilising your brain, and trust that at some time in the future you’ll be able to teach children an appreciation of the countryside. Provided, of course, you haven’t polished off much of the fauna by leaving your fish paste sandwiches everywhere.’

  He stepped back from Dudley cautiously, like a child who has put a match to a firework and is uncertain what it might do.

  ‘Now, where was I? Right, gentlemen, in this flower the yellow petals are grouped in cymose clusters. Large number of stamens… the calyx and corolla marked with dots and lines…’

  He paused to pick up the next flower and I suddenly realised how tired I was. My eyelids drooped as Major Beddington’s words travelled round the room in waves and seemed to merge into a blur of Latin names. I fought to keep my eyes open, but the day had taken its toll and I drifted on a tide of obscure botanical knowledge. A picture of Samantha floated into my mind. She was walking towards me carrying a plate of pork pies.

  I was jogged into consciousness by Duggan’s elbow, and I gazed round the laboratory like a blind man suddenly given sight. The room was quiet and students were peering intently down the barrels of their microscopes. Major Beddington paced up and down the benches, checking for focus and commenting on what he saw.

  ‘I thought I’d better give you a nudge before he got here,’ Duggan said to me, pushing a microscope across to me. I hastily loaded the small glass slide under the retaining clips and focused the eyepiece.

  ‘You’d better give me some idea of what you’re doing. I seem to have missed half of this.’

  ‘About twenty minutes as a rough estimate. We’re looking at the sex organs of a milkwort.’

  ‘Really? Does Barton know?’

  ‘Yes. It’s given him an erection.’

  Dudley lifted his eyes away from his microscope, blinked, and then scratched his chin vacantly. ‘I can’t seem to see very much at all,’ he said to Duggan. ‘I think I’ve got a faulty instrument here. Do you think I could have a look at yours for a moment?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ called the Major.

  ‘It’s my instrument, old boy. It doesn’t work. I’ve cut a section with this, er… scalpel thing, but I can’t see anything at all, unfortunately. Under the instrument, I mean. I can see it perfectly well with my spectacles.’

  ‘Rubbish. Of course it works, man. They all work.’

  ‘Well, that’s as maybe, but I’m afraid mine doesn’t.’

  The Major strode over to him, removed his tiny spectacles and peered into the barrel.

  ‘You’ve got the lens cap on, you clot,’ he said. ‘Good God man, is there nothing you can do right?’ He paused and looked to the side of the microscope. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a flask, Major. It’s full of hot cocoa. I…’

  ‘Hot cocoa? Who the devil said you could bring hot cocoa in here?’

  ‘I’m afraid I need it, old boy. I have a medical condition which requires me…’

  ‘Stop waving your scalpel at me, man. A brain condition, more like. Get that flask out of the way of this equipment before you slop it all over my slides.’

  They both reached across to move the box of slides, and accidentally pushed the thermos flask sideways. It spun round for a moment and then rolled to the edge of the bench, slopping its contents over Major Beddington’s trousers. The Major jumped back forcibly, lost his balance against my stool, and put a hand on Dudley’s shoulder to stop himself falling over. Dudley reacted auto
matically, and shot both hands out to steady the Major’s legs, unfortunately forgetting he was still holding a scalpel. With a cry like a bull at the slaughter, Major Beddington backed away from Dudley like a haunted man, clutching his thigh and making strange roaring noises in his throat.

  ‘Look, I’m most dreadfully sorry, old man,’ said Dudley, horrified. ‘I really can’t imagine how I…’

  His voice trailed away and he sighed deeply as he watched the Major hurry out of the door. For a full minute, Dudley stood staring after him, stroking his beard nervously and wondering whether he ought to go in search of bandages. Then he took a deep breath and turned to me.

  ‘I think I’d better go and spend the night with the owls,’ he said, and walked sadly out of the room.

  JUNE

  LAUNDERING, GUERNSEY… AND THE FINAL RECKONING

  In general, students at teacher training colleges were cossetted from the harsher realities of everyday life, and St James’s was no exception. Their rooms were dusted and tidied every day, the kitchen area, washrooms and bathrooms were cleaned twice a week, and their bed linen was changed by the domestic staff on Friday mornings. Text books, pens, paper and folders were the only really essential items for college work, and even then, most text books could usually be borrowed or shared. Though termly grants were not generous, it was certainly possible to make them last without too much hardship.

  Washing clothes, however, was a grinding chore that couldn’t really be avoided. Most students found they could get away with doing one main wash every fortnight. Leaving it much longer than that was really tempting fate.

  At St James’s, students had two basic options and each had its own disadvantages. The first involved sending washing out to a local laundry firm approved and recommended by the college. Every Friday, a large number of sturdy flat cardboard collection boxes would be left by the doorway in the main corridor, and if a student wanted washing done, he would simply put it in a box, fill in a card with his name and room number, and slip the card into the plastic pocket on the front. Then he prayed that the same laundry would be delivered back the following week.