Rotherweird

by Andrew Caldecott

  Dance.

  A large package followed, containing two gowns, one with a purple stripe on the sleeves (Form Master) and one with a green stripe (history teacher). The covering note read:

  Regalia enclosed – check for size.

  Yours most sincerely, Angela Trimble.

  PS And no old-world accoutrements such as computers or talking machines. We study by the book and we talk face to face.

  When the afterglow of the gowns had worn off, nagging questions took root. Why had Rotherweird School chosen him? Why had it not asked for references? Why had Rhombus Smith not mentioned his predecessor? Had he or she been an outsider too? But these thoughts did not deter Oblong, they intrigued him. He wrote that evening to Rhombus Smith:

  Dear Headmaster,

  Please send last year’s reports, and suggested history subject(s).

  Yours, Jonah Oblong

  The requested reports came by return with a covering note in a cultured hand:

  Dear Mr Oblong,

  How delightfully enthusiastic. Material as requested. Great Depression?

  With kind regards,

  Rhombus

  The reports divided between pupils from the town (white paper, and the great majority), and countrysiders from the surrounding valley (green). The former were honoured with Christian names, the latter listed only by initials at the end – again, a whiff of discrimination. The Form Master’s name had been erased, as had that of the previous teacher of modern history.

  Oblong decided against the Great Depression and in favour of the American Civil War, a subject on which he had expansive notes and which should have something for everyone. He immersed himself for the next week in the causes and the opening engagements; he would have time enough in Rotherweird to master the rest.

  6

  Strange Company

  Oblong returned, as instructed, four days before the start of term. The journey followed his first – train to camper-van to charabanc – but with frost on the ground and a cloudless sky. Through rolling fields, orchards and occasional farms, Rotherweird Town with its two peculiar bending bridges and a forest of towers danced in and out of sight. A rocky escarpment rose sheer from the riverbank on the northeastern side, its prominence emphasised by the town’s single church, whose crenellated stone tower dominated the skyline. Further east, beyond the river, stretched a forbidding expanse of marshland, relieved only by a single prominence to the south on which stood a watch tower, now deserted and, to judge from the absence of any track or road, unreachable.

  For variety Boris delivered him to the North Gatehouse this time, leaving Oblong free to progress down the Golden Mean to the School, over whose entrance hung a cast-iron book attached to a pair of spectacles. Beyond he could see a series of interconnected quads, the open spaces laid to grass.

  The Porter’s Lodge, its walls honeycombed with pigeonholes, guarded the gateway. Miss Trimble was on duty. If dressed less severely, with her hair let down, in both senses, she would be attractive, in a Junoesque way, mused Oblong. He tapped the glass.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘back for more!’ as if greeting the proverbial bad penny.

  Feeling more like a new boy than a teacher, he trotted behind her to the form room. The quality of the equipment and prevailing tidiness impressed. Wallcharts illustrated the evolutionary stages of the frog and the chicken pox virus, but in a degree of scientific detail unusual for the age group. Miss Trimble appeared embarrassed by their presence and hastily rolled them up. Her unease prompted the thought that he must have two predecessors: the Form Master (clearly a biologist) and the modern historian. He checked the exercise books for biology and history. Although, as in the reports, both their names had been excised, their handwriting was very different. Detecting the scent of suppressed scandal, he gently challenged Miss Trimble, who replied curtly that Rotherweird School did not ‘do nostalgia’ and advised him to concentrate on present colleagues.

  ‘Most are back, and they all like their tea. The staffroom is over there – through the big oak door and left. Then back to me for your lodgings.’

  Silence descended as Oblong entered, and a sea of unfamiliar faces examined him from head to foot.

  An early middle-aged man in a tracksuit broke the ice. ‘Boris said to keep an eye out. I’m Gregorius Jones, PE – healthy mind in a healthy body – and your posture, if I may say so, is deplorable in one so young. I do a free staff Pilates class on Tuesday evenings if you wish to arrest your physical decay. But now it’s introductions . . .’

  Most were cursory in their welcome, though not rude. The warmest greeting came from a jovial man, conspicuous for a surprisingly successful combination of large ears and aquiline nose.

  ‘Meet the one and only Vesey Bolitho,’ said Gregorius, ‘Head of the South Tower Science Faculty and our resident astronomer. Vesey and I share a common interest in heavenly bodies and perfect motion.’

  ‘Delighted – I always welcome a stray visitor to our strange cosmos.’ Bolitho lowered his voice. ‘It’s sad the statutes do not permit at least a Middle Ages historian. Galileo, Brahe, Copernicus –

  such men are my heroes. I teach their teaching, but nobody can teach their times. Still, one black hole is better than several. Do drop by one evening – I have a decent telescope near the South Tower. Meantime’ – he gestured to the seething mass of teachers –

  ‘circulate like a planet if you wish to be a star.’

  In Bolitho Oblong detected a welcome sense of mischief.

  ‘And make your friends from the South Tower,’ whispered

  Gregorius Jones.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘Their science is nicer.’

  Oblong circulated, struck by how colleagues addressed each other by surnames. An old-fashioned formality flourished in Rotherweird School. Least welcoming was Hengest Strimmer, a youngish man with half-moon glasses and curly dark hair, of precocious talent, presumably, being head of the North Tower Science Faculty. A colleague, Vixen Valourhand, slim and slight with short hair, hung back, looking more bored than hostile.

  Strimmer declined Oblong’s proffered hand.

  ‘Remember the last historian,’ Strimmer said to Jones. ‘Fifty guineas this one doesn’t make next term.’

  Vesey Bolitho returned, and Gregorius Jones went with him. Oblong did not resent his isolation; respect had to be earned. He decided to explore. The Music School had the latest in recording technology. The modern language faculty in Babel Building and the imposing gym were no less blessed: so, a remarkably endowed school with no visible tribute to any benefactor. The South Tower Science Faculty boasted a large dome, Vesey Bolitho’s observatory.

  Access to the North Tower Science Faculty proved less easy. In a remote quad a long iron fence with sharpened railings offered only one narrow gate, presently open but festooned with a rosary of padlocks and the off-putting sign, North Tower Science Faculty: Academic Appointments only.

  Deciding he could stretch reconnaissance to an academic appointment, Oblong slipped through, only to leap back. The mastiff’s jaws missed his thigh by inches. Teeth bared, revealing mottled black and pink gums, the dog snapped, growled and snapped again. Strimmer emerged from the gloom.

  ‘Can’t you read?’

  ‘Sorry, I thought—’

  Strimmer put on an infantile voice. ‘“I’m an outsider, I’ve no time for their petty rules”.’

  ‘I’m just puzzled as to why this Faculty is so well defended.’

  Oblong shuffled forward, the dog lunged, Strimmer smiled and Oblong took a pace back. The mastiff reverted to nuzzling the back of Strimmer’s right thigh, programmed apparently to love his own and to attack anyone else who crossed the lintel.

  Oblong dangled a toe. Another snap.

  ‘Call yourself a historian? The wise guard their valuable resources.’ Strimmer patted the animal’s head. ‘He eats test tubes for pleasure.’

  Oblong denied Strimmer the satisfaction of an immediate retreat. ‘Perhaps you kn
ew the last modern historian?’

  ‘Well enough to know they’d choose an imbecile to replace him.’

  Discretion finally triumphed over valour. Oblong returned to the Porter’s Lodge. ‘I met a charming man with a charming dog.’

  ‘It can be hard to tell them apart,’ responded Miss Trimble with the flicker of a smile.

  Maybe he could make a friend or two in this unusual school. The thought emboldened him. ‘What does the South Tower do?’

  ‘They design light entertainment for the outside world, from toys to telescopes.’

  ‘And the North Tower?’

  Miss Trimble turned her wrist and glared at her watch. ‘You’d best be getting on,’ she replied. She provided keys, an address (3 Artery Lane) and a succinct summary – first left, third right, second left, fourth right, down a cul-de-sac, left again at the end, right, left, right, left, almost to the town wall.

  Oblong found himself engulfed in the bustle of a market town without cars. Bicycle rickshaws, lovingly decorated and powered by Boris Polk’s vacuum technology, served as taxis, their occupants in this season swathed in brightly coloured blankets. Their bells and the warning cry ‘Rickshaw!’ formed an integral part of Rotherweird’s street music. Between them darted conventional bicycles, front baskets filled with books or produce. Clothes had colour and variety for both sexes with a bewildering array of different styles, be it hats, trousers or coats. Rotherweird’s designers, keen to be self-sufficient and original, had gone their own way.

  Shops, now closing, declared their wares or services on swinging hand-painted signs. Streets bore their names on rectangular iron plates set in the walls, painted white on dark green. While the Golden Mean, running north-south, was direct and generous, side streets were narrow and rarely straight. In darker alleys half-timber houses bent towards each other in greeting. Towers of oak and plaster dominated architecturally with several joined by suspended covered passages, some tall and thin, others short and stubby, many twisted by time, all with windows. At lower levels too, bridges joined buildings, creating below them havens from bad weather, settings for gossip and betrayed secrets. Elaborate balconies hung from the lower levels of the more prosperous towers; exterior staircases wound up to doors in the oddest places. In daytime, with such a varied skyline, light and shadow constantly shifted at street level.

  In Market Square, the hub of the town, shops and stalls clustered around the imposing façade of the Town Hall, one of the few buildings built of dressed stone. The shops were owned by townsfolk, the mobile stalls by local countrysiders whose names were emblazoned across the awnings. As dusk eased into night, the stalls, also vacuum-powered, were being guided home to their respective farms. The portcullis rose punctually to allow their escape: countrysiders could not lawfully stay beyond seven o’clock.

  Market Square was, in effect, a roundabout, thanks to its central tower, set on stilts and hung with oak shingles, whose four-sided clock, halfway up, chimed citizens to church and municipal meetings. Higher up, the tower bulged to accommodate the enormous single bell that gave the structure its name: Doom’s Tocsin.

  Number 3 Artery Lane proved to be a misnomer, less artery and more an insignificant vein in Rotherweird’s complex circulatory system. Oblong’s rooms occupied the highest habitable level of a ramshackle tower, reached by a creaking wooden staircase that had not quite rotted through. He had a small kitchen and bathroom as well as a comfortably furnished bedroom and study. The panelled walls were stained dark. From his study window, he could see the foaming rush of the Rother.

  His spirits rose when he saw a vase of paper flowers, supplies in the kitchen and a laid fire in the study. He was on tiptoe on a chair, arranging his books, when he was ambushed by a croaky woman’s voice.

  ‘I’m your general person – people call me Aggs.’

  Oblong clung on as the chair tipped back. Two firm hands righted him and he turned to find a short lady with frizzy white hair and teeth like tombstones. Late middle age, he guessed.

  ‘I does all the School town lodgings,’ she continued, describing the reach of her empire with a sweep of the hand, ‘you and Thingummy and Mr Whatsit over there.’

  ‘Hi.’ Oblong shook Aggs’ proffered hand. She had a grip like granite.

  ‘A floor to yourself – how about that?’

  ‘Very nice, very suitable.’

  ‘Suitable for what?’

  ‘Study and repose.’

  ‘Study and repose! You keep to that and I’m an Austrian,’ retorted Aggs with a knowing wink.

  Oblong, sensitive to the demands of overtime, suggested she need not stay so late.

  ‘Need tells me my hours, Mr Oblong, and in my book, welcomes and farewells come first.’

  Oblong asked what a general person did.

  ‘What you makes of ’er. Cook, cleaner, washer and spy,’ chortled Aggs, as she put on some toast and the kettle. ‘We’re gonna be friends.’

  ‘Aggs as in Agatha?’

  ‘Agapanthus. Even Mr Smith don’t get that right. Now you get some fuel inside you or you’ll get those books all wrong. Some goes by height, some by subject and some alphabetical – I’m a subject person myself. Why put pillows in with saucepans?’

  As he obediently consumed his second tea, Aggs delivered instructions on working fridge and cooker, a weather forecast for the coming month, a list of essential shops, the opening and closing times of Rotherweird’s only pub, The Journeyman’s Gist, and, to conclude, an assurance that he would have no trouble with Form IV. He had only to turn up at eight-thirty on the first day of term – gowned.

  ‘Were you my predecessor’s general person?’

  ‘Not one of mine, if he ever had one.’

  There are good liars and indifferent liars and a few, like Aggs, whose lies were so obvious, they could hardly be called liars at all. Her face, tuned to candour, went awry. Eyebrows arched and nostrils flared as she looked at her shoes.

  Oblong decided against inflicting further misery. She was clearly acting under orders.

  *

  For two days Oblong kept mainly to his rooms, in part to avoid worsening weather, in part from shyness, and in part from a determination to be fully prepared for his first class. Aggs had stocked his cupboards with an array of supplies, so there was no pressing need for more shopping.

  On his last free evening Oblong decided to be more adventurous, only to encounter two buildings with a declared hostility to visitors. The first hid behind a high wall displaying intermittent signs in red script: Prohibited Quarter – ROTHERWEIRD MANOR – KEEP OUT. Despite this injunction, heavy restoration work appeared to be in progress. The second, a fine building open to view, boasted an equally forbidding message in a plaque set in the wall, which read: Escutcheon Place and beneath it: Marmion Finch, Herald of Rotherweird. NO VISITORS.

  The exterior of Escutcheon Place was a heraldic work of art: stone snakes wound their way up oak beams either side of the imposing double front door; four griffins cast in lead stood guard along the top cornice; shields were set above each window, and a magnificently florid ‘R’ for Rotherweird adorned the double doors.

  In the Manor and the Herald’s house – apparently the town’s oldest properties, and both barred to visitors – must lurk the reason for Rotherweird’s peculiar constitution, he decided before rebuking himself. He had a contractual obligation to keep to 1800 and thereafter, if addressing the world beyond the valley, and to treat Rotherweird history as off-limits entirely. Here he must live in the moment. Private speculation could only lead him astray.

  At intervals along the Golden Mean and the other major streets, open stairwells with extravagant names like Jacob’s Ladder and Blind Man’s Stair spiralled up like helter-skelters. Oblong passed several before realising that they gave access to an open aerial walkway, Aether’s Way, which straddled the prosperous western quarters of the town at various levels. He ascended, and found rows of craftsmen and traders huddled in competitive groups – each with a sho
pfront and an elaborate iron sign. Some of the signs were static, others had tiny metalwork doors opening and shutting; chemists’ jars emptying and refilling, lettering changing colour; clock hands rotating; models walking, flying and flapping wings.

  Intermittently he chanced on more grandiose façades sculpted with scenes illustrative of particular skills: Rotherweird’s Guild Halls. Oblong set about collecting them and noting their whereabouts. In the coming week he discovered ten – the Carvers, Glassblowers, Bakers, Timekeepers, Tanners, Milliners, Metalworkers, Toymakers, Masons and Mixers. Only two eluded him.

  On Aether’s Way the traders were not unfriendly. Word appeared to have travelled fast, with, ‘Evening, Mr Historian!’ swiftly becoming a common refrain. He found it invigorating, watching other walkers pass below as he tried to assemble the working pieces of this extraordinary town. One tower – Vlad’s, Rotherweird’s distillery and purveyor of spirits, whose shopfront opened onto Aether’s Way – boasted brass bubbles at uneven intervals on the tower’s sides. The window display was impressive for the variety of bottles, in shape and colour, and their contents – whiskies, gin, brandies, and wines both ordinary and fortified.

  Rotherweird’s sole pub, The Journeyman’s Gist, was his final port of call. The inn sign depicted a traveller, hand to ear, as if garnering intelligence, above the name of the landlord, Bill Ferdy, whose brew, Feisty Peculiar, had so impressed. In keeping with the prevailing style the walls, a mix of white plaster and dark oak beams, enclosed one large room with several tables set between a crowded bar at one end and a blazing fire at the other. On one side were wooden stalls where board games were being played. Rugs softened the flagstone floor.

  A powerful man with a friendly face addressed him from behind the bar in a country burr. ‘Who be thou then? I’m sure to be asked.’