by M. J. Trow
‘Hmm.’ Maxwell sniffed extravagantly. ‘Full English, unless I miss my guess.’
‘My favourite,’ Nolan yelled, flinging himself backwards in Maxwell’s arms.
‘Not for every day,’ Jacquie reminded him, coming back into the room. ‘Just today.’
Nolan patted his stomach. ‘I won’t get fat, Mums,’ he said. ‘Not like Pansy.’
‘That’s Mrs Donaldson to you,’ Maxwell said, tapping him softly on the top of his head. ‘And she’s not fat.’
Jacquie raised an eyebrow at him.
‘She’s just big-boned.’ Maxwell grunted as he hefted Nolan higher in his arms. ‘Are you going to walk now, sunshine, or are you so “on holiday” you don’t have to?’
Nolan jumped down. ‘I don’t need a carry,’ he said. ‘Not now I go to proper school.’
‘Tell me that this evening after Blackgang Chine,’ Maxwell said. ‘Perhaps Mums can carry us both.’
‘Ah,’ Jacquie said. ‘The famous Policewoman’s Lift.’
‘Woman Policeman’s Lift,’ Maxwell corrected, automatically. He cocked an ear. A sound had been growing outside in the corridor. It was as if an army muttered. And the muttering grew to a grumbling; and the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling, as out of their rooms Year Seven came tumbling. ‘Hey up, Maxwells. The kids are on the march. If we’re going to get so much as a sausage, I suggest we get a wiggle on.’
Nolan flung open the door, to a chorus of coos and aahs from various girls. He was swept up into the throng and was just a tousle of curls at the head of the stairs as Year Seven took the corner on the lam and were gone. Jacquie and Maxwell stood in the sudden echoing silence for a moment. Behind them, a door opened and the ghost of Pansy Donaldson peered out, blinking.
Maxwell looked around for a wandering child and, seeing none, hailed her. ‘Pans! How the devil are you?’
She winced at the sound and then winced at the muscular effort of the wince. She raised a hand and tried a smile.
‘Excellent!’ boomed Maxwell. Jacquie had often been impressed at his vocal dexterity. He appeared to have become James Earl Jones doing an English accent. He walked up to the woman. ‘Come along with us,’ he cried. ‘Nice full English fry-up with all the trimmings, that’s what you need. Nice runny egg. Black pudding. Fried bread. Yummy!’ He swept her down the corridor, her slightly green face pressed firmly into his shoulder. Jacquie, stifling a giggle fell in behind. She could just hear Pansy’s protestations and felt, not for the first time, that she was glad she wasn’t her right now.
The dining room was like a madhouse. The hotel had decided that it would be a help if they set up a buffet instead of table service and so one end of the room looked like a rugger scrum. Some tables had occupants, heads down in their plates, elbows out for speed, tomato sauce the predominant colour. The Maxwells looked around for Nolan and saw him tucked between two girls, getting outside a cooked breakfast which consisted of his usual weekly intake of grease. Then they looked around rather more anxiously for a table out of the way of the flying bacon fat and were relieved to see Sylvia’s hand waving from the safety of a table in the bay window at the far side of the room. Maxwell steered Pansy over as Jacquie peeled off to elbow her way into the melee and get them both some food.
‘Mrs Donaldson,’ said Sylvia brightly. ‘How are you feeling this morning?’
‘Not too good,’ the woman mumbled. ‘Bit of a … headache, actually.’ She swallowed with an effort. ‘Coming down with something.’
‘Never mind,’ Guy smiled sweetly and leant across to her to pat her hand. ‘Nice bracing walk along to the Needles and you’ll be fine.’
She looked up, but moving her head very slowly. ‘Needles?’ she whispered. ‘Bracing?’
Guy whipped out his list of activities and traced a finger along a line. ‘Yes. Mr and Mrs Maxwell are visiting the fossil coast, followed by early evening at Blackgang Chine. Sylvia and myself are taking our group to Parkhurst Forest looking for red squirrels, followed by a town trail. Mr and Mrs Medlicott are taking their group sketching at Carisbrooke Castle. As you have the smallest group, you will be dropped off last and the coach driver will be your health and safety backup.’ He turned his radiant smile on Pansy, with no effect. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’ he asked Maxwell.
Maxwell had no idea. Lists were for other people, but he thoroughly approved of the fossil coast idea. What he didn’t approve of was Guy’s use of the word ‘myself’, but they were all on holiday and standards could be allowed to drop a little. He smiled and nodded, as if he knew what was going on. He looked around the room. ‘Has anyone seen the Medlicotts, while we’re listing people?’
There was general head shaking, except from Pansy, who was sitting as totally still as she could manage, with her eyes closed. A child on the nearest table who had been frantically earwigging hoping to hear something to her advantage leant over.
‘Mr and Mrs Medlicott went out for a run,’ she volunteered. ‘I just saw them come back up the front steps.’
‘Thank you, Jazmyn,’ Sylvia said. She turned back to her colleagues. ‘Ears like a bat,’ she mouthed. ‘Watch what you say in front of her.’ She looked anxiously at Pansy and then at Guy. ‘Do you have the group lists?’ she asked him.
He foraged in his bag and handed them over. She looked down the lists and then handed it across to Maxwell, pointing pointedly at a name.
‘Point taken,’ he said. ‘We’ll move her. As long as she isn’t the vegan.’
They looked across at the child, who was eating a sausage thick with brown sauce.
‘Whilst allowing that a sausage isn’t necessarily meat as we know it,’ Maxwell said, ‘I think we can assume she isn’t. Move her, then.’ He looked again at the paper and made a few changes.
Jacquie, a little rumpled, got back to the table carrying a tray. ‘It’s like … it’s like …’ She was lost for words.
‘And this is a woman,’ Maxwell said, pulling out her chair for her and bobbing up as he always did when a lady joined the table, ‘who arrests axe murderers on a daily basis. And even she is horrified by the shenanigans of Year Seven.’
She smiled modestly. ‘I haven’t arrested an axe murderer for days, Mr Maxwell. I’ve been concentrating on poisoners since August Bank Holiday.’
Maxwell patted her on the back. ‘Keeping the streets safe,’ he said proudly and he lapsed into the tag line of an old TV show he had almost forgotten. ‘“There are eight million stories in the Naked City. This has been one of them.”’
The bat-eared child couldn’t make it out. Was all that true or not? This Big School lark wasn’t as easy as she’d been expecting.
The noise got less as more mouths got filled by food, then rose again in a slow crescendo, underscored by burping. Maxwell got to his feet and quietly cleared his throat. The noise stopped as though switched off at the wall.
‘I’m going to read out the final lists for activities today. Remember the people on either side of your name and then you’ll always know if you are with the right group. When I have finished, you have half an hour to get back to your rooms and into appropriate clothing and back down to the lobby, where you will wait in silence, in lines. You won’t make a single sound while I am speaking or I will kill you. You won’t argue, or I will kill you. Is there anyone who doubts that I will kill you?’ His eyes raked round the room. Not a soul stirred, especially not the traveller in underwear. ‘Good.’ He read out the lists of names. They were met by silence. ‘Right, everyone back up to their rooms. The clock is ticking.’ The room erupted in bedlam. ‘Silently!’ He raised his voice a scary notch and the noise was muted to a dull roar. He sat back down and slurped his last mouthful of coffee. Nolan had appeared at the end of the table.
‘Hello, poppet,’ said Sylvia. ‘Are you looking forward to today?’
Nolan smiled at her. She was his favourite babysitter of all. More fun than Mrs Troubridge. Not as strict as Grandma. ‘I want to come with you to see the squirrels,
’ he said. ‘Are they really red?’
‘Well, more ginger, really,’ Sylvia said. ‘And you can see them later in the week with Mum and Dad – all the groups are swapping round.’
He mulled it over. It was true that Blackgang Chine sounded all right, but his father had said that it was the oldest theme park in the country. Did that mean that all the rides were broken? Eventually, he nodded. ‘OK. I’ll go with Mums and Dads.’
‘Why, thank you,’ said Jacquie, bowing her head. She looked across at Pansy, who was swaying. ‘Mrs Donaldson.’ Then, louder, ‘Mrs Donaldson!’
The woman’s eyes flew open. ‘What?’ she cried, momentarily disoriented.
‘Are you ready to go? For your brisk walk to the Needles? Blow the cobwebs away, hmm?’
Pansy Donaldson was not as other women. She took a deep breath and gave her hangover its marching orders. ‘Brisk walk? Certainly.’ She got up and walked steadily out of the room. The others watched her go, admiration written on every face.
Guy spoke for them all. ‘Wow!’ he said.
Out at the coach, Maxwell’s worst fears were realised. The driver was leaning against the door, swathed in a map. Unfortunately, the map was of the Isle of Man. Jacquie, quick as always to detect the underground rumblings that were the precursors to Maxwell’s rare bursts of temperament, scurried forward and gently removed the map from the man’s confused grasp.
‘I don’t seem to be able to find Ventnor,’ he muttered.
‘I wonder if you would be happier with this GPS,’ Jacquie suggested, in the tone she had often used to convince drunks that sitting in the back of a police car and having a nice ride home would be a better idea than shinning up the war memorial.
He pursed his lips in a soundless whistle and then shook his head. ‘I don’t have much truck with those sort of things as a rule,’ he said. ‘Give me a good old map, every time. Except that,’ he reached for the map again but Jacquie held it behind her back, out of his reach, ‘I’m just having a bit of trouble finding Ventnor.’
‘Yes, I can see that,’ Jacquie said. Then a thought struck her. ‘Why were you looking for Ventnor? I don’t think we’re going to Ventnor today, are we?’
‘Not as such,’ the driver conceded. ‘But I went there once when I was a kid and we were staying with my Auntie Irene. I thought that if we got there, I might find my bearings a bit better.’
‘I see,’ Jacquie said slowly. ‘Perhaps your Auntie Irene could help us.’
‘Do you know my Auntie Irene?’ the driver asked, perking up.
‘Um, no.’ Jacquie was looking at Maxwell desperately, but he just waved placidly at her and she knew she was on her own. ‘But I thought you said last night that you were going to stay with her.’
‘Oh, yes, that’s right,’ the man said. ‘I couldn’t find her house, though. Anyway, she might have moved. Or be dead, even. It has been thirty years. And she wasn’t really my auntie. That’s just what we called her. Auntie Irene. Or Julia. I can’t really remember.’
Jacquie was not often speechless. Her years as woman policeman, in various ranks and trades under that umbrella, had taught her most quirks of humankind. But this man was something else. She sighed and tapped him in a friendly way on the arm. ‘Wait here,’ she said.
‘Houston, I think we have a problem,’ Maxwell drawled as she rejoined the little knot of staff on the steps of the hotel.
‘I think finding Houston would be relatively easy,’ Jacquie said. ‘It’s going to be anywhere on the Isle of Wight that is going to be a bit difficult.’
Tom Medlicott moved a little closer. Bat-eared Jazmyn was perilously near. ‘I was never happy about having him as staff backup,’ he said. ‘The man is clearly an idiot.’
‘He has his CRB clearance,’ Pansy said, as if that solved everything.
‘I don’t care,’ the Head of Art snapped. ‘I’m not worried that he might steal a purse or attack anyone. I’m worried that he can’t find his arse with both hands.’
‘Ssshhhh!’ everyone shushed him, and all the Year Seven heads snapped up.
‘Well,’ he continued, lowering his voice. ‘He can’t. It’s a wonder we got here at all. I’m going to phone Leighford and find out what to do.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ Maxwell said. ‘It’s Saturday. And anyway, the Head Teacher is Legs Diamond.’ It wasn’t the most professional thing to say to a new colleague, but what the hey, it was time he was introduced to the real world.
Medlicott was stumped, but only briefly. ‘I’ll ring the county hall here, then,’ he said.
‘Still Saturday,’ Sylvia pointed out.
‘Out of hours,’ Pansy butted in, with her admin-perspective hat on. ‘County halls never close completely.’
‘And if they do,’ Medlicott said, ‘then we’ll just combine the groups until Monday.’
He disappeared into the hotel foyer, and was seen dimly through the glass doors, gesticulating at the receptionist. He was soon back, with a map and a broad grin. ‘Apparently, they do close completely, unless we want to report a problem with roads, floods, or other life-or-death situation with children or the elderly. But,’ he raised a finger before the chorus of ‘I told you so’ could gather momentum, ‘Rachel, the receptionist, has a friend who is a teacher, who has a CRB certificate that he can show us today and who knows the Island like the back of his hand. He’s on his way.’
‘Isn’t that rather … unconventional?’ Maxwell asked.
Sylvia, Guy and Jacquie all looked at Maxwell rather oddly. If he didn’t know unconventional, then who did? Actually they were all pretty impressed by Medlicott’s get-up-and-go. It usually took Bernard Ryan three weeks to find a supply teacher.
‘Possibly,’ Medlicott said, tartly. ‘But frankly, we’ve wasted enough time already and I had to think on my feet.’ He turned to the milling crowd of Year Seven, who were beginning to get testy. ‘OK, kids. Line up in groups. Get on the coach in silence and sit down. First one to speak stays on the bus all day. We’re on our way.’
He walked over to the driver, who was searching in the luggage compartment for another map.
‘You won’t need a map,’ he said. ‘We are about to be joined by an Islander who will direct you. If you would like to get on board and fire up your engine, we will be off.’
Izzy was explaining her husband to the other staff. ‘He gets like this,’ she smiled. ‘He’s very laid-back, but when he’s fired up, there’s no stopping him.’
‘A bit like the engine, really,’ said Pansy flatly. No one laughed.
And that seemed to be true. The kids were on the coach, silently waiting and clutching their bags of packed lunch. The driver was in place and, having finally found his keys, had started the engine, which thrummed softly. The staff formed a small and orderly queue at the door of the coach and Maxwell, as last man, was just climbing aboard when he heard the sound of trainers hitting pavement along the Esplanade. He looked along the side of the coach and saw a curly-headed man of about thirty jogging towards him. He slowed down as he got nearer and waved a piece of paper.
‘Mr Medlicott?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Maxwell told him. ‘Peter Maxwell. But this is the group you are looking for, all the same. And you are?’
‘Barton,’ the man replied, extending his hand. ‘How do you do?’
‘Well, Mr Barton,’ Maxwell began, ‘Thanks for helping us out at such short notice.’
‘No, my first name’s Barton,’ the man explained. ‘My surname is Joseph.’
‘That must cause confusion sometimes,’ Maxwell remarked.
The man looked puzzled. ‘No, not really. Anyway, here’s my CRB. You’ll need that for your records, I expect.’
‘Thanks.’ Maxwell took the document and put it in his trouser pocket. ‘It really is so good of you to do this.’
‘No problem,’ Joseph said. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end as a matter of fact. I’m a supply teacher here and it’s a bit quiet at the beginning of term. You
know how it is, no one has had a nervous breakdown yet.’
Maxwell patted his shoulder. ‘Quite. Still, early days, Barton. Early days. Shall we?’ He gestured onto the coach and the supply teacher bounced aboard. Maxwell faced the sea of upturned faces. ‘All present and correct?’ All the faces nodded back. ‘Then let’s go.’ He spoke to the local man. ‘We need to step on it a bit, Mr Joseph,’ he said. ‘We’re meeting the fossil walk in about …’ he turned to consult the clock, ‘… ten minutes ago. So any short cuts would be welcome. Wagons roll!’ It was an excellent Ward Bond, all things considered, but only Maxwell knew it.
And the Leighford High School Year Seven Getting To Know You Trip was finally under way.
The fossil walk was delightfully relaxing. The guide walked at the front, some lad in his gap year who was going to read palaeontology when he’d learnt how to spell it, and Year Seven were strung out in a line behind him, heads down scanning the sand. Nolan was holding hands with Sasha, one of the more trustworthy girls, and every now and then bent down and picked up something for her to stow in her bag. She was developing a slight list to starboard, but didn’t seem to mind. About ten per cent of the rocks he presented her with were fossils. One was a crab, which she would discover later; sufficient unto the day is the crustacean thereof.
Maxwell and Jacquie walked at the rear, hand in hand, straggling behind with the stragglers.
‘Do you know,’ she said to her husband. ‘This is actually rather nice.’
The September sun was warming the sand and was bouncing back from the reddish cliff which rose not very high to their right. The sea was lapping gently as the tide turned, the waves too relaxed to bother with foam, spume or any of the other natural phenomena that this particular piece of beach could come up with in less clement weather. In years gone by, the combination of deadly rocks and poor navigational instruments had taken their toll along this stretch of beach and the waters had rolled over dead men without number. Today, the very slight breeze could just about lift the feather fringe on their son’s forehead. The seagulls were high and far away, just a wisp of white against the blue, their calls coming and going as they wheeled clockwise up on a thermal.