I hit them with the future tense. It’s a bit like a conjuring trick, really. ‘How do we form the future tense in English?’ I ask them and they walk obligingly into my trap and tell me that we use “will”. Then I ask them each to tell us about something they’re planning to do at the weekend and, though there’s a bit of smutty nudge-nudge-wink-wink stuff, they oblige again: someone is going home; someone else is going to write an essay; another’s parents are visiting; another is going to buy a birthday present and so on. Not a “will” to be found. They’re going to do things or they are doing things – present tense. ‘So when,’ I ask, ‘do we use will?’
I am met by a sullen silence so I write on the whiteboard:
It will be windy tomorrow with heavy showers
Then I add,
You will meet a dark stranger and travel to foreign lands
And
That boy will end up in gaol
‘Predictions,’ I say. ‘That’s what we use will for. If I ask you, “What time does your train leave?” you’ll answer, “10.55” or whatever – the scheduled time – but if I ask, “What time will your train leave?” you may well answer, “I don’t know – your guess is as good as mine”, because I seem to be asking for a prediction.’
They eye my sentences, less than impressed. There’s a bit of shuffling and muttering. ‘Or,’ I say, ‘what about these?’
I will be famous one day
You will do as you’re told
‘Volition,’ I say, ‘literally willing something to happen. And then, if we use the contracted form, we can add these:’
I’ll give you a ring
I’ll pay you back tomorrow
I’ll love you forever
I’ll kill him
‘Statements about the future?’ I ask. ‘Or what?’
Silence. They don’t want to play my game. Then one of the girls says, ‘Promises. They’re like promises – or threats.’
‘Exactly. Promises and lies, the casual undertakings we make every day and hardly expect to keep to. When we’re really confident about a future event, we talk about it in the present: “I leave tonight”; “I start my new job on Monday”; “I’ve got a French lesson this afternoon.” Things that are scheduled, things we can count on, we talk about in the present. And different languages express the future in different ways, so some learners will find the English way of talking about the future incredibly difficult.’
Silence again. They are resentful. They don’t want this to be difficult. This linguistic complexity doesn’t fascinate or intrigue them; it depresses them, and they would like to blame me for making things more complicated than they need to be.
‘As a matter of interest,’ I ask, ‘how many of you are modern linguists?’
No-one raises a hand.
‘Classicists?’ I ask.
No-one again.
‘So I’d be right in thinking you’re not people with a keen interest in language?’
They glance at one another and exchange the odd smirk. Then the boy in the gown says, ‘I don’t suppose Mr Bright explained to you how it works with general studies courses?’
‘He told me you were all people who want to go out to Nepal in your gap year and teach English.’
I’m disconcerted by a burst of laughter. ‘Wishful thinking on Bright Boy’s part,’ says one of them. ‘Most of us haven’t made any plans for gap years yet.’
‘Except to get totally rat-arsed a lot.’
‘And some surfing would be good.’
‘And plenty of tottie.’
‘So how come you chose this course?’ I ask.
‘Hobson’s choice,’ a dark, thin-faced boy says. ‘The options go up and we sign for them: Oxbridge candidates, scholars and exhibitioners first, then prefects, then the rest of us. This was what was left.’
So this whole thing is a total con. I will strangle Marcus Bright. So help me, I will strangle him with my own two puny little hands. (Note, please, the will of volition.)
‘Well,’ I say, ‘since you’ve been so frank with me, I’ll be frank with you. I’m not getting paid for teaching you. My boss at Marlbury College has strong-armed me into giving my time and expertise free to this course on the understanding that you’re all going to be doing your bit for the developing world. Now I’m apprised of the true situation, it’s quite probable that you won’t be seeing me again. Maybe you’ll be able to spend the time playing snooker in the common room. But I feel honour bound to complete today’s session, so here’s a puzzle for you.’ I write two columns of words on the white board:
milk egg
anger tantrum
rain snowflake
applause prize
toast sandwich
furniture sofa
money pound
‘What,’ I ask, ‘is the difference between the two columns?’
They are pretty unwilling to engage, but the girls have a go. The column on the left is ‘more abstract,’ they suggest. ‘Milk, abstract?’ I ask, but they have got a point and after a while I give them a clue. ‘The indefinite article,’ I say. ‘Try the indefinite article.’
And then they get it. The words on the left can’t have “a” or “an” put in front of them (except “toast”, but that’s as in a toast to the bride and groom, not as in breakfast food). These are uncountable nouns and they give foreigners a lot of trouble because they’re not uncountable everywhere. I add for good measure that when talking of uncountable nouns the opposite of “more” is “less”, but when speaking of countable nouns, its opposite is “fewer”. They don’t believe me, of course, because they hear “less” used wrongly all the time: in one hour on The PM Programme, I heard “less people”, “less problems”, “less trains”, “less cars” and “less newspapers”. It’s become an old-fashioned distinction, but it happens to be an obsession of mine. A few years ago, a former pupil of mine at William Roper became the manager of our local Sainsbury’s and the notices at the express tills were changed from “nine items or less” to “nine items or fewer”. I wept with pride. By such small victories do I mitigate my defeats.
A bell rings and they leave. The boy in the gown is last to go, and now I look at him properly, I know who he is. He is a remarkably good-looking boy: tall and graceful with pale skin, blue eyes and dark hair and lashes. He also has an air of adult composure.
‘Edmund,’ I say. ‘It is Edmund, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ He’s surprised but not flummoxed. He looks at me quite coolly with his mother’s pale blue eyes.
‘I notice you’re wearing a gown, so I assume you’re a scholar.’
‘I’m a modern languages exhibitioner, yes.’
‘But you didn’t say so when I asked if there were any modern linguists.’
‘No.’
‘And you, presumably, did have a choice of general studies courses.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you chose this course because you’re interested in language?’
‘I chose it because I wanted to meet you.’
‘Really?’ I am startled and can’t disguise it.
‘My mother told me about you.’ He is giving me a disconcertingly appraising look.
‘I see. Well, we met under difficult circumstances.’
‘So she said.’
Did I tell Glenys my name? I don’t think I did. It was all so confusing, with Freda screaming and her brandishing her spade, and I was too busy swearing at her to introduce myself, as I recall. So, she got my name from Alex Driver or Neil Cunningham, no doubt. And then she thought it was worth telling Edmund about me. I am amazed to find that I have been the subject of such interest.
‘Tell me,’ I say, cleaning the white board to cover my confusion, ‘the scholars first thing, does it apply to all aspects of school life?’
‘Oh yes.’ His smile is sardonic, adult. ‘We know our own degrees.’
‘Macbeth,’ I say. ‘Is yours one of those families where people are quoting Shakespea
re all the time?’
‘It is. But Macbeth especially. My mother was playing Lady M when Hector met her and he went to every performance, apparently. I think they both know every word.’
‘I thought actors were superstitious about quoting from Macbeth.’
‘It’s only supposed to be bad luck if you quote it in a theatre. Anyway, it’s quite old-fashioned to be superstitious about it now. Well, thank you for an interesting class. I hope you do come back next week.’
And he’s gone, leaving me thinking about Macbeth. Renée Deakin said her hoax caller had quoted from Macbeth: “I don’t want you battering at my peace”, that’s what she claimed she said. So either the caller was someone who had spent a lot of time with the family or Renée had picked the line up from Glenys and embroidered her account, or – or what?
Cycling back to college, I plot my revenge on Marcus Bright. My first instinct is to storm in to see the principal, tell him he’s been had and suggest we abort the project. Then, in consideration of Janet’s nerves, I decide that e-mailing him might be preferable. By the time I get into my office, however, I have a much better idea, because I know, if I’m honest, that telling Norman Street the truth will get me nowhere: he won’t admit he’s been conned and he won’t give up on this as long as he thinks he can get us into that picture in The Herald. So, as snitching on Marcus isn’t an option, I decide on blackmail instead.
I phone Marcus and make him an offer he can’t refuse. I tell him that the boys have dished the dirt on his shabby little trick; he protests that his intentions had been honourable but that other general studies courses offer an edge for Oxbridge candidates; I say that’s not my problem and I will continue to teach the course only if I receive the first cheque to the William Roper PTA the following week.
‘£400 for this term,’ I say. ‘£50 a session for eight sessions, and cheap at the price. A further cheque after Christmas if you want me to carry on. I assume you can find the funds for that?’
‘We do have a visiting lecturer fund,’ he says.
‘What could be more appropriate?’ I ask. ‘Why didn’t we think of that before?’
19
WEDNESDAY 27th OCTOBER
No more cakes and ale
I’m doing a lot better with my Marlbury Abbey class now I know where I stand, and I’m getting some female solidarity from the girls, who kept a low profile the first week but are now raising their heads above the parapet. They’ve actually been thinking. They came back last week with some questions about countable and uncountable nouns and they wanted to know what you should tell beginners about how to form the future tense. The boys looked lofty, of course, but we can live with that.
Marcus was as good as his word, too, and I got my cheque last week. Instead of ushering me into the common room, he took me over to the bursar’s office. The bursar, balding and bearded like the middle-aged Shakespeare, was most gallant but demurred at my request to have the cheque made out to the PTA.
‘If it’s coming from the lectures fund, Marcus,’ he said, ‘we’ll pay it to your charming lecturer. And you, dear lady, are at liberty to give the money to whomsoever you please.’
I had to admire the grammatical perfection of “to whomsoever” even as I bridled at “dear lady”.
‘Fine,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m sure we can trust Mrs Gray to do the gentlemanly thing.’ And they both laughed heartily. They don’t actually care what I do with it.
I’ve also got Marcus to cough up for a set of copies of a good text book, Beginning English, so this week I distribute them. ‘If you do go to Nepal,’ I say, ‘treat this as your bible and you won’t go far wrong.’ Just as I say this, a man in a dog collar comes into the room and they all leap to their feet. ‘Carry on, chaps,’ he says, and they subside into silent scrutiny of Beginning English. He takes me aside. ‘Canon Aylmer,’ he says, shaking my hand. ‘Headmaster. Just thought I’d pop in and welcome you. Awfully good of you, this. How are you finding us?’
‘Well –’ I stammer. I’ve no idea how I’m going to continue, but it doesn’t matter because he is a man who answers his own questions.
‘Just like any other school really, aren’t we?’
‘I think that depends on what other school you have in mind, Canon,’ I say.
He looks at me over his half moon glasses. ‘Well yes, of course, some wouldn’t… but young people are all the same underneath, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’d say they’re as different from one another as adults are.’
‘Would you? Would you?’ He casts an eye over my class. ‘I don’t think I know many of these chaps,’ he says, and adds conspiratorially before he leaves, ‘not some of our brightest sparks, I think.’
I’ve invited Eve and Colin to supper tonight. This is partly by way of apology and reconciliation and partly as cover for inviting David too. I know, I know. I’ve weakened and I shouldn’t have. I convinced myself that he’s just shy, and confused because I sort of dumped him once before, so I decided I’d invite him over – with Eve, Colin, Ellie and my mother, so it’s perfectly harmless – and if he said no, then I’d know he really doesn’t like me, and if he said yes, then I’d know he was just shy and I’d have given him an unmistakeable signal that I liked him and I really would wait then for him to make the next move. Well, he said yes, and I’m cooking goulash, which is one of my stand-bys, and I go into the health food shop next to the school for caraway seeds and smoked paprika.
The shop is called The Burnt Cake and I imagine it has catered for the stomachs of the Marlbury Abbey boys since the days when their monastic fare really did need eking out. Hot pies and ginger parkin, I imagine, were the order of the day. When my girls were small, it was a sweet shop, stocking every flavour of crisp from hedgehog to barbecued lobster and every chocolate bar in the galaxy. A Saturday treat was to buy liquorice here because it offered all sort of shapes including – wonder of wonders – skipping ropes, complete with sugar-beaded handles. About five years ago it reinvented itself as a health food shop, which must have pleased the boys’ parents and saved them a fortune in dentists’ bills. Out are the gaudy displays of chocolate bars and elaborate pyramids of bottled drinks; in are flapjacks and cereal bars, packets of nuts and dried fruit, wholemeal rolls and fruit loaves, sacks of grains and pulses, a wide assortment of spices and a shelf of batty “natural” remedies.
I find the spice shelves and the caraway seeds but, as the spices are arranged from top to bottom in alphabetical order, I have to crouch down to floor level to find the smoked paprika. When I’m down there, I notice a pair of unmistakeable Marlbury Abbey striped trousers and look up to see Edmund Carson standing at the end of the stack of shelves, turning over cereal bars. He hasn’t seen me, I think. I wonder if he’s allowed out of school during lesson time. Probably not, I’d guess, so I decide it’s better to turn a blind eye. As I’m down there, looking at the relative strength of what’s on offer – gentle warmth is what I’m after, not blowing their heads off – I hear some muttered conversation and I notice that a man has joined Edmund. He’s an ordinary-looking man, in his thirties I suppose, wearing an anorak, and he looks incongruous beside Edmund in his fancy dress uniform. Edmund is tucking something away in a breast pocket and he draws from his side pocket a DVD box, instantly familiar for the vibrant pink rose visible inside. The man takes it, looks at it and turns it over just in time for me to see that it has a 6 stamped on the back. I’m pretty sure the one I saw at Charter Hall had a 4 on it, so I wonder what that can mean.
He puts it in his pocket and I stand up to find Edmund’s eyes on me.
‘Have you lost something?’ he asks.
‘Lost something?’
‘You were down on the floor. I assumed you were looking for something.’
‘Only smoked paprika,’ I say. ‘End of the alphabet.’
He is more composed than I am. How can that be when he’s probably out of school illegally and I’ve spotted him selling off DVDs of his mother’s show
. Wouldn’t any other teenager be embarrassed?
The man leaves and I say, ‘I seem to see those DVDs everywhere. A bit of a cottage industry, is it?’
‘Oh,’ he laughs, ‘yes. They can be ordered online but they’re cheaper if bought direct, and I get paid commission.’
‘I’ve seen the show,’ I say, ‘but I saw the understudy play Amy. I’d love a copy of the DVD if you can get me one.’
‘Of course,’ he says, ‘I’d be delighted.’
Eve’s daughter, Gwen, is serving in the shop (she’s an artist who needs a day job to keep afloat.) I chat to her while she fills some pitta with hummus for me, and I take this away to eat at my desk while I deal with the day’s e-mails. Then I google DVDs of Amy to see what I get. Well, I get lots of hits on the show – ticket agencies, reviews and so on – but not a single site selling the DVDs online. So, I was right. It really is a cottage industry and Edmund, for all his Marlbury Abbey swagger, doesn’t mind touting them around.
I didn’t consider, when I cobbled this party together, that both Ellie and Colin might be embarrassed by David’s presence, having recently been interrogated by him as witnesses/suspects in a murder case, and by the time I think of it, it’s too late. Anyway, it’s no more embarrassing for them than it is for me to eat dinner with Colin, who knows me inside out, so to speak.
It all goes rather well, in fact. We have to eat in the kitchen, since my mother is occupying the dining room, but that’s all to the good as I don’t feel the need to unearth the good china or make sure the glasses match. David shows surprising ease with Ellie and Colin; my mother enjoys a little rant at Colin about the state of the NHS; Ellie and Eve are very funny about their struggles to put on Twelfth Night; the goulash is almost as much of a triumph as Mrs Ramsay’s boeuf en daube and we are all very cheerful. The Carson case isn’t mentioned, but when my mother has gone to bed and Ellie says she’s promised to meet Ben Biaggi to talk about music, the four of us settle down with glasses of brandy and Eve says, casually as you like, ‘So, David, have you had any kind of breakthrough in finding Marina Carson’s killer?’
All the Daughters Page 17