Blaggers

by Echo Freer

  The previous year, she’d been foolish enough to take ten pounds from Cynthia Bigg, one of Harley’s sidekicks, on the off chance that Bodicea House would win the hockey tournament. She’d thought it strange at the time as both Harley and Cynthia were in Hippolyta House and they were by far the strongest of the three house teams. So strong, in fact, that Mercedes was offering two to one on Hippolyta. They were almost a dead cert. Bodicea, on the other hand, was the weakest with odds of fifteen to one and Mercedes’ own team, Minerva, were eight to one. She’d taken Cynthia’s money in good faith only to discover, the day before the tournament, that half Hippolyta’s front line had gone down with food poisoning whilst Minerva’s centre forward had mysteriously fallen down some steps and sprained her ankle. Bodicea had romped home, winning the cup for the first time in seventeen years and Mercedes had had to fork out one hundred and fifty pounds to Cynthia.

  From then on she’d made a point of not taking bets on sporting fixtures; she might be running a book on the side but she did have some scruples and there was no way she was going to encourage anyone to nobble their own players.

  ‘Yeah, that’d be about right - too scared to take my money,’ Harley sneered.

  The two girls eyeballed each other. They were so close Mercedes could count the blackheads on Harley Spinks’ nose. ‘Well, if you really want to part with your money, Pizza-face, I’ll give you twenty-five to one that you haven’t used Clearasil for at least a month!’ She snatched the twenty pound note from between the other girl’s pudgy fingers and tucked it in the top of her black over-knee socks. ‘All for a good cause.’

  The sound of approaching sneezing broke the tension and Harley grabbed back her money. ‘No chance!’ She turned to leave the classroom but spat out one last threat before she went. ‘I’ll have you for this!’

  Mercedes slipped down from her desk and smiled disarmingly. ‘Why don’t you do that, Harley? Let’s say, three weeks’ time, ten o’clock, House Tennis Cup? See you on court.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll see you before then, Mercedes,’ Harley hissed. ‘You can bet on it!’

  As she strutted from the room, the class breathed a sigh of relief. Jenny folded the last square of loo paper into her bra, patted it into shape and then fastened her blouse. En Min wrote the final word of the conclusion to Fern’s experiment, then passed the book to Fern and stretched out her fingers; writing in someone else’s style was quite a strain on the old wrists.

  ‘Wow, En! That’s brilliant,’ Fern squealed, gratefully. ‘Even I’d think I’d written it myself.’

  Mercedes returned her attention to the missing money. She’d started running the sweepstake at the beginning of the year, taking a pound per number from one to forty-nine. When the Lotto was drawn, whoever had picked the number of the bonus ball won twenty pounds and the other twenty-nine went into a secret fund. The enterprise had been so successful that Mercedes now ran three sweepstakes on both Wednesdays and Saturdays, making a profit of one hundred and seventy four pounds a week. Only this week she was ten pounds light and it was niggling her. She could hear the sneezing getting louder as their form-mistress approached. She’d hoped this would be sorted before first lesson but it looked unlikely at this rate.

  ‘I just can’t work it out,’ she said to Jenny.

  Jenny had stood up and was turning over the waistband of her skirt. She gave a twirl. ‘Is it even?’

  ‘Yes,’ Mercedes said, absent-mindedly.

  ‘Mercedes! You didn’t even look! Come on, we’ve got Information Technology first lesson. This is important.’

  ‘Jenny, he’s at least eighteen. Admit it - I was being generous giving you a hundred to one. Old Godders stands more chance of getting it on with Duckie than you do with Connor.’

  And then she realised! Year 9! Mercedes had ticked them off in her book but had forgotten that she hadn’t actually collected the money. Phew! She closed her ledger and slipped it into her desk with a sense of relief.

  Jenny was still preoccupied with the hem of her skirt, alternately hoisting and tweaking then trying to look over her shoulder to check the back of it. ‘A snog you said. And I’ve still got a month to get it.’

  Mercedes laughed. ‘Yeah, but it has to be given willingly. All bets are off if I find him tied to a computer with your lippy all over him!’

  The sneezing reached a crescendo and a woman of about sixty entered the classroom. Miss Godby- Withers had a permanent nasal allergy which, even when she wasn’t sneezing, made her nose twitch like some terrified woodland creature.

  ‘Girls! I have an announcement.’ Her entrance into the room had no perceivable impact on the girls.

  ‘I’ll raise you a Kit Kat,’ Georgia Matthews said, pushing the chocolate bar into the centre of the table where the poker game was taking place.

  ‘Jeez!’ Jessica Johnson tossed her cards on to the table. ‘I’m out!’ She pushed her chair away moodily and walked over to Mercedes’ desk. ‘I really fancied some chocolate as well.’

  ‘Girls!’ The teacher clapped her hands to try and attract the attention of her form but to no avail.

  ‘You can always buy it back from her at break,’ Mercedes said.

  ‘Yes, but she charges double.’

  ‘Gir-irls!’ The word was interrupted by a sneeze, which gave it slightly more volume, and Mercedes looked in the direction of the teacher. She was opening and shutting the drawers of her desk, obviously looking for something. ‘Achoo! Oh dear!’ Mucus was dripping from her nose. ‘Achoo! Has anyone seen my toilet tissue?’ Miss Godby-Withers had long since ceased buying tissues in boxes and now bought toilet rolls in bulk.

  Mercedes nudged Jenny who was plumping up her newly enhanced bosom. ‘Jenny! Give her back a couple of sheets, for heavens’ sake. She’s got a bogey the size of the Jolly Green Giant hanging down.’

  Jenny tutted, reluctantly pulled one sheet of tissue from each cup of her bra and gave them to Mercedes.

  ‘There you go, Godders,’ Mercedes said, handing the crumpled loo roll to the teacher.

  ‘Thank you, dear. Now, there’s a special Upper School assembly this morning. The Head wants to talk to you about your work experience placements - if only you would listen!’

  Work experience! This was what Mercedes had been waiting for. She’d put two options on her form; Walthamstow Stadium and William Hill’s the bookies. Dogs or horses, she didn’t mind. She loved all animals, provided a rank outsider won. Although, on balance, she thought she’d probably prefer to be in on the action at the dog track rather than sitting in a bookie’s office.

  She put the tip of her forefinger on to her thumb to form a circle then placed them on her tongue and whistled loudly to attract the attention of her classmates. It was something her brother Frankie had taught her so that she could call the family’s German shepherd dogs, Attila and Genghis. She loved those dogs and walked them every evening in Epping Forest, which was just at the bottom of their road.

  ‘Listen up!’ The room fell silent. ‘Godders has something to say.’

  ‘Thank you, Mercedes. Now, Miss Pincher wants to see you all in the hall. She has your work experience placements, so...’ The elderly teacher pressed herself against the wall as chairs and tables were knocked over in the exodus. ‘...please go quietly and in an orderly manner.’

  Daphne Pincher walked across the panelled office. She removed a large leather-bound book from the bookcase and sighed. Spiritual Inspiration for School Assemblies - she stared at the cover for a moment contemplating the Upper School assembly she had called, then opened the book, took out the half bottle of vodka that was fitted snugly inside the cut out pages and took a large swig. That was better!

  She didn’t know what was happening to the young people of today. Thirty years ago, when she’d first opened her doors she’d dreamed of her academy being on a par with Roedean or Cheltenham Ladies
College. She’d even had plans to expand and introduce boarders. Now look at it! They were still housed in a ramshackle assortment of converted houses that backed on to the Central Line railway track. And, as for her clientele! She took another quick drink of the spirit before screwing the top back on and replacing the book on the shelf. The calibre of girl they attracted these days just wasn’t the same. True, many were still from professional homes; doctors, solicitors, accountants, that type of family - but there was no one on her register with a title, not even a Right Honourable. And as for some of the families! Well, they hardly bore thinking about.

  Catching sight of the scruffy Jiffy bag full of money on her desk, she felt her face set with irritation. Take that Bent girl! Asking to do work experience at a greyhound racing track! Daphne Pincher shuddered. She didn’t like the girl - never had. She would quite happily have allocated her a placement with the Kamikaze Aerobatic Squad given half a chance. Not that Mercedes was the worst pupil at the Academy; in fact, academically she was one of those nauseating girls who was good at everything. It would have given Miss Pincher a degree of satisfaction to think that she’d achieved her success in some underhand way but she had to admit that the girl’s talents seemed to be genuine. She couldn’t even complain about her behaviour. True, there were rumours that Mercedes had something to do with the theft of a dozen frogs from the Science lab which were later discovered in the PE kits of Harley Spinks and Cynthia Bigg - but it was only hearsay.

  In truth, the reason for her dislike of Mercedes had more to do with her family than with Mercedes herself. Daphne Pincher would never forget that morning eight years ago when that odious little man had set foot on her premises. Despite numerous references to the non-smoking policy of the school, he had flicked cigar ash on to her carpet and had continued to blow smoke into her office as he strode round reading the small print of every one of the certificates on the wall. Eventually he’d nodded and tossed a brown envelope on to her desk.

  ‘This’ll do nicely, Miss Pincher. Or may I call you Daphne?’ Before Daphne Pincher had had time to refuse, he’d continued, ‘My name is Alan Bent; Big Al to my friends.’ The irony of the epithet had not escaped her. ‘But it don’t look like you’ll be counting yourself in that crowd by the look on your boat race. Either that or you’ve trod in some doggie doos.’ Miss Pincher’s mouth had opened to protest but before she could speak he’d gone on, ‘So, what I want, right, is for my gel to be turned out a proper lady. I want ’er to come out of this gaff with a bit of class, if you get my drift. So, ’ere’s a year’s money up front and I’ll see you right till she’s eighteen. OK?’

  Daphne had drawn herself up to her full height and had been about to hand him back the envelope.

  ‘Sweet! Now that geezer out there,’ he’d pointed out of the window to a gold Rolls Royce in the drive with an ape of a man leaning up against it, ’is my mate ’Orace. Affectionately known as ’Orrible ’Orace when he was on the Island. Are you familiar with the Island, Daphne?’ Assuming that he must mean the Isle of Dogs, or some other East End dive, she had shaken her head, meekly.

  ‘I am, of course, referring to the Isle of Wight...’

  ‘Oh, ye-’ Miss Pincher had had an aunt who’d lived on the Isle of Wight.

  ‘Parkhurst, to be precise. Maximum security prison.’ Miss Pincher slumped down in her chair. ‘So, my mate ’Orace will be the one you’re dealing with on the old sausage front...’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Sausages?’

  ‘Sausage and mash - cash. OK? So if you’ve got any worries on that score, Daphne, just give ’Orace a bell. And I’ll see you at parents’ evening.’

  But he hadn’t. In fact, it had been the first and last time Daphne Pincher had set eyes on Alan Bent and (this was not something she was proud of) she had felt a flutter of relief when she’d read in the papers about his sudden demise that same week. Had it been anyone else of Alan Bent’s age, she would definitely have used the term ‘premature’ to describe his death but for him she decided that ‘overdue’ was probably more appropriate. Her relief had been short lived, however, because at the beginning of the next term, the little girl had been delivered to her care by the gorilla in the greatcoat and had been a thorn in her side ever since.

  The girls in the hall stood up as the double doors at the back of the hall opened and Daphne Pincher B.Ed. MA and OBE (in fact, Mercedes often wondered why she hadn’t just written the whole alphabet after her name), strode down the aisle. She wore black court shoes that echoed with each click of her feet on the parquet floor and her black gown flapped in her wake. She had spindly little ankles that looked as though they would snap at any moment and a sharp nose that hooked over.

  ‘Vulture at six o’clock!’ Mercedes whispered to Jenny.

  Daphne Pincher stopped dead in her tracks, turned on her slender heels and gave Mercedes a look which could’ve withered any self-respecting houseplant, then proceeded to the front of the hall. She opened her hymn book.

  ‘Today, I will be talking to you about your work experience, which is an opportunity for all of you to go out into the world as ambassadors of The Daphne Pincher Academy for Young Ladies, whilst, at the same time, being of service to others.’ She retrieved her spectacles from where they were dangling on a chain above her non-existent bosom, and placed them on her nose. ‘Hymn number four hundred and eighty one.’ It was her practice to read the first verse of the hymn - just so that everyone got the gist of it, and this morning she made a point of glaring in the direction of Year 10 as she did so. ‘Dear Lord and Father of mankind, Forgive our foolish ways.’ She lingered on the word foolish, hoping that it might strike a chord with certain girls. ‘Reclothe us in our rightful minds, In purer lives thy service find...’

  The subtleties of her address, however, were wasted on Mercedes: she was taking the opportunity to do a quick recce of her investments. She had money riding on the Maths teacher’s, Mr Ambrose’s tie; he only possessed six and his green and blue polka dot was a clear favourite. Today she was pleased to see that he was wearing the brown and yellow stripes which was too hideous for anyone to bet on, so she stood to make a tidy sum. She also noticed that Connor the computer technician appeared to be smiling in the direction of Jenny, which, financially, was a more worrying prospect. Much as she wanted her friend to see a bit of action, she was hearing alarm bells at the odds she’d offered.

  Jenny, or Jennifer as her parents preferred her to be called, had been a late baby to elderly parents. So elderly, in fact, that Mrs Logan had almost made it into the Guinness Book of Records. Mr and Mrs Logan were now in their early sixties and their views on adolescence had never really progressed beyond their own teenage years. Mercedes felt quite sorry for Jenny. It was bad enough that at parents’ evenings most of the teachers thought that Mr and Mrs Logan were actually her grandparents but, on the few occasions that Miss Pincher had allowed the girls to wear their own clothes to school, Jenny’s mother had sent her off dressed like something from the front of a 1950s knitting pattern. Rumour had it that Jenny’s mother and grandmother had once won the mother and daughter competition at a Butlin’s Holiday Camp in 1955 and Mrs Logan now had similar aspirations for herself and Jenny.

  No wonder Jenny took every opportunity her school uniform afforded to make the most of her assets. So Mercedes didn’t really mind if Jenny and Connor got it together, even if she did have to fork out a hefty sum. After all, you win some, you lose some. And this would be one bet she’d be happy to lose.

  She continued to eye the assembly hall but there was nothing else noteworthy. Godders continued to sneeze for Britain and Duckie’s piano playing was becoming so feeble that it made the phrase, ‘tickling the ivories’ seem like an overstatement. No money to be made out of either of those this morning.

  Then, finally, the moment she’d been waiting for; the announcement of the placements. The list seemed to go on for ever and it crossed Merc
edes’ mind that the old Doberman pinscher had deliberately left her placement till last - just to make her sweat.

  Jenny had got the placement she’d asked for at Kwik Fit. ‘Do you have an interest in mechanics?’ the careers advisor had asked at her interview.

  ‘Absolutely!’ Jenny had replied, failing to explain that the mechanics she was interested in were purely of the male variety.

  Mercedes was irritated to hear that Harley Spinks’ placement was at the local tennis club. No prizes for guessing who’d wangled that for her. She’d probably spend the entire fortnight practising for the tournament. Well, good riddance!

  En Min had been allocated work with a graphic design company and Fern would be working in Nails 4 U in the High Street. They were Laverne Bent’s rivals in the East London beauty salon stakes and Mercedes was hoping that Fern might be able to extract some insider information which would be to her mother’s advantage.

  But right now she didn’t give a monkey’s about her mother’s business, she was becoming impatient about her own placement.

  ‘Mercedes Bent.’ At last! ‘Boreham’s Bank in St James’s Square...’

  Mercedes was in shock. What the hell did she want with doing work experience in a boring bank where she’d have to push a boring pen and wear boring clothes working with boring people? How come everyone else had got the placements they’d asked for yet she’d got tucked up with a load of old raspberry tarts? Mercedes folded her arms in anger. No way! It was at times like this, she decided, that her family might have its uses. And she knew just which member of her family was odds-on favourite to comply.

  She flipped open her mobile phone. ‘Chubby? It’s me. Get down here, will you?’

  Three

  ‘Leave it out, Merce! Course they ain’t gonna let you go down the dog track for work experience. You ain’t eighteen!’