Mr. Tulley’s going to be the umpire. He’s already sat on the other side of the net in a high up chair smoking a pipe, which is what he does on important days instead of cigarettes. He’s just told Whickham and Pugh to start warming up.
Mrs. Marston’s sitting on the bench right in the middle facing Mr. Tulley. She loves anything to do with tennis, so she’s in an especially good mood. She’s changed out of the clothes she was wearing at church this morning, and now she’s got on big sunglasses, red lipstick, and a pair of slacks, which are showing her legs. All the seniors fancy her, and they’re always talking about her, even more than they talk about Miss Newman’s big bosoms. She’s twenty-three years old. We know that because it came out in a French lesson when we were learning to say how old we are. She said ‘j’ai vingt-trois ans,’ and that’s how we found out. Although that’s quite old, it’s younger than the other teachers apart from Miss Newman and Mr. England. Her husband works in Gloucester and sometimes comes to fetch her from school in his e-type Jaguar. He must be very rich to have such a snazzy car.
All Mrs. Marston’s favourite seniors are around her, sucking up as usual. Johnson’s on one side, Wallington’s on the other, and Ford is right behind leaning over to tell her something. She likes Johnson on account of his being good at music, and he’s got a real crush on her. He’s holding an umbrella over her head to stop her getting sunburned. Ford’s one of her favourites on account of the fact he’s ‘debonair’. That’s what she says about him. It means he’s carefree and gay—I looked it up in the dictionary. But Wallington’s her real favourite. He’s the best rugby player in the school and is going to Brecon College next term, even if he doesn’t do so well in his common entrance, because he’s so good at that game. He’s a bit like a grown-up in a way. He had a broken voice and cubic hair by the time he was eleven, and he’s very, very strong. Also, he’s got the biggest willy in the whole school. I’ve seen it when he’s been in the foot bath after games because he walks around without a towel round himself to show it off. He’s as famous for his big willy as he is for the rugby. Lorrimer and Theo said that once when they were down at the playing field they saw him rolling around in the long grass kissing Mrs. Marston with his shirt all unbuttoned, but I’m not sure that can really be true, because I don’t think a teacher would do that even with someone who’s a senior and as grown up as Wallington. He’s still only thirteen, after all. But she does seem to like him an awful lot.
Tom Whickham’s won the first set. If he gets the next one, it means he’s won the whole tournament and is the best player in the school both at tennis and at table tennis, and Pugh will be the second best. One day Tom Whickham will be Mrs. Marston’s favourite because of being such a good player and so good looking at the same time.
I’m not really watching the tennis though, because I’m looking at Tom Thumb. I’ve managed to sit on the same bench as Gilligan, even though everybody else wanted to. It was just by accident really. I was already sitting down and he came along and sat beside me, so I’ve got the best view of his blazer pocket where Tom Thumb is living. He’s poking his head out and looking around. Gilligan’s all proud even though his face is wet with sweat from having to wear his blazer because of the pocket.
It’s the strangest thing in the whole world that Gilligan’s Tom Thumb is still alive when all the others have died. Theo’s been keeping a little space in the graveyard especially for him, and now it might just be that he’ll never have to be put there. Fancy Gilligan being the best at looking after his chick! You’d never think it was possible if you saw him. He’s absolutely the clumsiest boy in the whole school. Last term he dropped a whole crate of milk that he was carrying in for milk break; I never saw Miss Carson so angry. Later on, when she’d calmed down, I heard her saying that he was just growing too fast. Sometimes his voice is all deep, then it suddenly goes squeaky, and he’s getting very bad spots now. It’s dead odd because although he’s getting bigger all over, it looks as though his feet and hands are growing even faster than the rest of him. The funniest thing is when he’s in the swimming pool. He tries so hard, but however much he kicks his legs, he moves just a very few inches with tons and tons of splashing. He’s got a great big head and all the wet curls on it go from side to side with the spray making a mist, and his mouth’s wide open with his eyes shut tight. You can’t help but have a good laugh at him.
But with Tom Thumb, he’s just somehow managed to do it alright. When he’s feeding him, he’ll be concentrating so hard that his tongue will come out with the effort of trying to get his great big fingers to do what he wants them to, and there’s Tom Thumb, fluttering his wings like mad while he sits in the middle of Gilligan’s palm, eating the spiders and things that are being put straight into his mouth. Then Gilligan sticks out one of his fingers, and Tom Thumb perches on it looking around at everything and taking it all in. Probably he’s forgotten his parents by now. He must think he’s a human being, and Gilligan is his dad. It’s a really brilliant thing to watch actually, especially since he’s been doing a bit of flying around the locker room and then coming back to Gilligan’s hand.
Henry Pugh has managed to win the second set, which is a surprise because he wasn’t looking so good after losing the first one. Everyone shouts encouragement because now it’s a really exciting game that’s going to go on for another whole set. Tom Whickham looks up at Mrs. Marston, trying to lip read what she’s saying, which I can see is ‘keep up close to the net!’ You can see that she wants him to win.
Whickham’s won the first game in the set after quite a bit of effort. The ball’s been going back and forward for the longest time in the match and then Whickham, who’s doing what Mrs. Marston told him to and is right up to the net, hits the ball so that it goes to the far corner of the court right behind Pugh to where he can’t possibly hit it back. There’s a huge cheer, and I can hear the Headmaster’s booming voice shouting out, ‘Jolly good rally!’ Just at that moment, I look at Tom Thumb sitting in Gilligan’s palm. I don’t know whether it’s because of the noise, but suddenly he flaps his wings and hovers in the air about six inches above Gilligan’s hand. He stays like that for a second or two, like a hummingbird, and then he’s on top of Gilligan’s head, burying himself in his curly hair. I start to laugh and so does Gilligan. He’s got a very loud laugh so that the whole school looks at him, and when they see what’s happening, with Tom Thumb looking out from inside the curls, they start to laugh as well.
‘Quiet, please,’ says Mr. Tulley, ‘Whickham leads in the final set by one game to nil. Two sets all. Resume play, please. Mr. Whickham to serve.’
Gilligan slowly puts his hand up towards his head so that Tom Thumb can sit in his palm again, and just as he gets it to his forehead, the chick half jumps and half flies back into his hand. He ruffles his feathers for a bit like birds do when they’re having a bath and cocks his head to one side.
And then, Gilligan’s palm is empty again. Tom Thumb swoops over the tennis court just as Whickham’s about to throw the ball in the air to serve. Everyone breathes in with surprise, and I can hear Webster and the other small boys nearly screaming with excitement. Tom Thumb has reached right to the other side of the court, and he’s sitting on the post that’s holding up the fence behind Mr. Tulley. There’s a second of silence and then another cheer. Tom Thumb rearranges his feathers as though he’s showing off. Whickham smiles and lets the ball drop. He puts his hands on his hips while he stares at the little bird, and even Mr. Tulley who was trying to get them to restart the match has taken the pipe out of his mouth and swiveled round in his chair to look up at the post. Gilligan’s got a smile on his face.
Tom Thumb looks different now. Just a minute ago he was a fluffy ball in Gilligan’s palm. Now he’s as sleek as though his feathers have been oiled, and he looks like all the other house martins that are flying around high up in the sky above us. He’s not a chick anymore, and no one had noticed him changing. Perhaps it all h
appened right this very minute as he crossed the court.
He’s flying again! He’s swooping straight along the net, just like he did the first time, and everybody makes a whooping noise. Gilligan puts his hand in the air, and Tom Thumb heads straight for it. When he just about gets there, he hovers again, only an inch or two away as though he’s trying to decide whether to land or not. Just for a single second, he touches Gilligan’s fingers, though he never stops beating his wings.
Then he’s off.
He flies back towards the post, a bit higher this time, and when he reaches it, he doesn’t stop. He’s past it and dipping down below the hedges that are on the river bank, and he’s out of sight. When he comes back into view, he’s over the water and getting higher and higher. I shield my eyes from the sun like everybody else and strain to look for him. Before long he’s up nearly as high as the other house martins. For a moment, he turns and it seems he might be coming back, but he’s still getting higher and higher, far away over the river and still climbing, doing loops and swirling round. Then I don’t know which one is him because he’s just the merest black dot amongst all the others.
He’s gone. He’s not coming back. Everybody knows it.
Ford, who’s been leaning over Mrs. Marston’s bench, stands up straight and looks at Gilligan. He puts his hands above his head and starts to clap. Then Wallington stands up and joins in, and it spreads to the whole school with everyone on their feet. Mr. Tulley gets down from his high up seat so he’s standing as well, and Mrs. Marston joins in the clapping, though she doesn’t stand up. Even the Headmaster’s balcony has joined in with baby Mark clapping his little hands together while he’s sitting on Miss Newman’s lap.
‘Well done, Flopsy,’ shouts Ford, because that’s what the seniors call Gilligan. He’s the only one sitting down now, and I’m right beside him standing up and clapping with everybody else. When I look at his face I see there are huge tears rolling down his cheeks. They’re falling on his great big clumsy hands that looked after Tom Thumb so well, and where he was sitting just a few moments ago before he flew away to freedom.
Q
Mr. England’s not come back after all. The whole of Monday morning has gone by, and he’s still not here.
I knew it before everybody else. Mr. Short came into breakfast this morning and leaned over the prefects’ table with a Bible open in his hand, so I knew he was setting the chapter for Ford to read in Assembly. That’s usually Mr. England’s job. Mr. Short never usually comes into breakfast because he lives in the village with his wife in their own house, and the first we see of him is in Morning Assembly. And it’s dead odd for him to set the lesson anyway. Mr. Burston does it when Mr. England’s not here, and that hardly ever happens.
Now I’m absolutely sure that something terrible has happened because yesterday even Mr. Burston was expecting him back today. He told Ford that Mr. England would be setting the lesson. I thought everything would be back to normal, and I really hate it that it’s not.
No one on my table seemed to notice Mr. Short coming into the dining room apart from me. None of the others mentioned it during the rest of breakfast, nor when we all went upstairs for bed making, and not even when we were queuing for Assembly. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to start a conversation about it because if I was to say it out loud and everyone started saying ‘You’re right, Teasdale. He’s still not back,’ it would feel as though it becomes the real proper truth. I didn’t want that. I really didn’t want that.
When I was making my bed I prayed so hard for it not to be true that Mr. England still wasn’t here. We came downstairs, and I listened for his voice in the Common Room. While I was standing outside the door, Mr. Short opened it to come out. I wanted to peep in to see if the brown corduroy jacket was over the chair by his desk. But it wasn’t. Before the Assembly bell, even though his Mini’s wrecked and will never be there again, I went outside to look at the empty space by the kitchen where he used to park it.
After that I felt better for a bit because then I was thinking that even if he wasn’t back it didn’t necessarily mean it was anything at all to do with the police coming on Saturday. It was quite possible that he’d phoned to say that he was delayed because he was staying with his father and would be the tiniest bit late, because, after all, his arrangements must be different now that he doesn’t have the car. When I told myself that, it worked in my head for a moment, and I was feeling quite a bit better about it. But it didn’t last because there was immediately another voice in my head saying that Mr. England is never late whatever happens, so then I was worried again and searched every corner of my brain for a better explanation.
At Morning Assembly, when the door opened, we all stood up as usual. Mrs. Marston came in first, as she usually does because she’s the only lady member of the teaching staff apart from Mrs. Agnes the art teacher, who’s only here in the afternoons on account of looking after her little granddaughter in the mornings. The really strange thing is that it was as though I had x-ray eyes and could see who was in the corridor following her, and I absolutely knew that Mr. England was still not here. I was thinking so hard about it that just for a minute I didn’t see that Mr. Burston was missing as well.
When the masters had reached their seats under the plaque with the names of all the old boys who died in the wars, Lucky Lorrimer, who was standing beside me, whispered, ‘Mr. England’s not back,’ and then it was no good making up stories for myself anymore. That’s when it really became the truth.
Mr. Short took Assembly because he is the Deputy Headmaster. It was ever so strange. It was the first time I’ve seen him do it. It felt all wrong. He doesn’t have a loud voice like Mr. Burston, and it was sounding a bit wobbly, just the same as when I had to sing Once in Royal David’s City at the carol concert last Christmas, and I got all nervous about it. But I don’t really think he could have been that bothered because he is a grown-up and a teacher after all.
Assembly usually finishes straight after the hymn, and that’s the time when Mr. Burston makes his announcements, like last week when we were all told off about how much lavatory paper the school was getting through, and he said that it wasn’t necessary to use more than two or three pieces at a time. It was very embarrassing.
We all waited to see if Mr. Short would say anything after we finished singing, but he just picked up his prayer book and started to go towards the door. The other masters were following him and then, when he was opening the door, he paused very suddenly so that there was nearly a collision of masters behind him. He turned back to face us all and said, ‘Mr. England and Mr. Burston are indisposed, probably for the rest of the day,’ and then he went out.
That’s all. So we still don’t know what is going on. We’ve had French and English this morning with Mrs. Marston, and she’s said nothing about it of course. And then, after milk break, we had Mr. Short for geography, which was a very boring lesson about all the steel they make in Sheffield, and still there’s not the slightest clue about what’s going on. It feels like an emergency is happening, and it’s made worse by the fact that Mr. Burston isn’t in class either. He is here though. I saw him during the break going from the entrance hall into his study. I can see by his face that there’s something very, very wrong.
There’s a very strange feeling all around the school—sort of silent and mysterious, and a bit spooky. When we went into lunch there wasn’t the usual talking when we all sit down after grace. Mr. Burston came in specially to say it, because they hadn’t remembered to appoint anyone, but the oddest thing is that he nearly forgot the words for a second, even though it’s only one sentence without punctuation, and an ‘amen’ at the end. He said, ‘For what we are about to receive…’ and then there was a long pause before he carried on, and after that he went out again without having any lunch at all.
I don’t know why I feel so worried about it all. I haven’t done anything wrong. None of it is
my fault. But I’m just waiting for something bad to happen. Just waiting, and I hate waiting more than anything.
Q
After lunch I sit in Mrs. Agnes’s art class in the library. I’m quite good at art, but I just can’t concentrate at all today. She’s telling us all about perspective, but it’s not going into my head. Mrs. Agnes isn’t in the school very much, and I’m not at all sure she knows about what’s going on. She’s just told us that she’s going to take prep this evening because Mr. England isn’t available today. I think Theo thought that he could find something out and asked her why he wasn’t here, and she said ‘I don’t know’ with a look on her face that proves she knows nothing about it. Probably the other masters haven’t told her because I don’t think they like her very much. She’s not at all like the other members of the staff. I think she used to be a beatnik, actually. Her hair, which is very white, is up in a bun but with straggly bits all around, and she wears an artist’s smock with paint all over it—even when she’s not in class—and a blue denim skirt and sandals on her feet. She’s got a badge on that says ‘Ban the bomb,’ and she votes for Harold Wilson. Last term when George Brown was in all the papers because he had an argument with Harold Wilson and got the sack, I heard Mrs. Marston saying to her ‘No doubt you’ll miss your friend Mr. Brown,’ but she was frowning a bit when she said it. Mrs. Agnes just looked the other way.
Fisheye said to Chirl just now as we were coming into the library, ‘It’s all quite ominous, quite ominous…’ I knew he was talking about Mr. England. I thought that perhaps he’d heard something new about the situation, so while the others were laying the big oil cloth on the library table and setting out the paints, I had a quick look in the dictionary. It said ominous means threatening, like a bad omen, and that means he used exactly the right word if you ask me.
The House Martin Page 21