Flour Babies - Anne Fine [1]
The only boy new to the school what was his name, Martin Simon? – was sitting reading quietly at the back. Mr Cartright cheered up a bit. That was a start, then. One of them could read. He must have had worse classes in his time.
‘Buck up,’ he told them. ‘This shouldn’t take all day. I’ll run through the choices one last time, and then you’ll have to vote. You can carry on eating your voting paper, George Spalder, but I’m not giving you another. Now pay attention, everyone.’
Shifting his vast bottom round, he tapped the blackboard on which, five minutes earlier, he’d chalked up the options Dr Feltham had given 4C for their contribution to the school Science Fair,
textiles
nutrition
domestic economy
child development
consumer studies
reciting them aloud again, for those who had trouble with reading.
A swell of grumbling rose over the fidgets and whispers and shuffling feet, and the creak of chairs being tipped back dangerously on two of their four legs.
‘It isn’t fair, sir.’
‘Boring!’
‘You can’t call that lot Science. It’s not right.’
‘I don’t even know what half of them mean.’
To oblige Russ Mould, Mr Cartright read them off again, this time translating as he went along,
sewing
food
housekeeping
babies and so forth
thrift
Russ Mould was as baffled as ever.
‘Frift? What’s frift?’
Mr Cartright chose to ignore him.
‘For God’s sake, 4C,’ he said. ‘Pull yourselves together. I know most of you have the boredom thresholds of brain-damaged gnats, but surely one of these topics must interest you more than the others. Whichever it is, copy it down on the paper. And do try to get the letters more or less in the right order, Russ Mould, so I can read it. I’m coming round now to collect them.’
Another mutinous wave rose up to greet him.
‘Stupid!’
‘Just trying to pick on us…’
‘Sewing! Housekeeping!’
‘Excuse me. We’re Table 14 in the Science Fair. Come and look at our nice sewed-on buttons.’
‘Dead interesting. Oh, yes!’
‘I bet you’ve never seen a sewed-on button before.’
‘What’s the point in doing things if anyone can do them?’
‘Frift!’
It was Sajid Mahmoud who voiced the general complaint in the most coherent fashion.
‘It isn’t fair. They’re not real Science, are they? None of them. Why can’t we do the exploding custard tins?’
Instantly, it was as if the whole lot of them had been let out of a cage.
‘Yes! They were great!’
‘Dead brilliant.’
‘Hooper’s brother nearly burned his hand off.’
‘Chop lost an eyebrow.’
‘Grew back different.’
Rick Tullis was leaning so far over his desk, it was likely to topple over.
‘Or making soap, sir!’
‘Yes! The soap factory!’
‘Fuller ate his lump for a dare.’
‘Sick eight times.’
‘We had a good laugh.’
‘Should have seen his face. Pale as a maggot!’
At this, Philip Brewster unleashed a fresh hue and cry round the room.
‘Yes! Maggots!’
‘Maggot farm!’
‘Yes! Why can’t we do the maggot farm?’
‘There was one last year. And the year before.’
‘My mum wouldn’t even look at it. She said it was disgusting.’
‘That bully Fletcher was put in charge of running it.’
‘He practically had the maggots trained by the last day!’
Mr Cartright shook his head. It saddened him to have to dampen enthusiasm in any educational sphere. But facts are facts, especially in a school.
‘May I invade your privacy for a moment, Sajid, to ask if you happened to pass the Physics exam at the end of last term?’
Sajid scowled horribly.
‘No, I didn’t, sir.’
‘And you, Rick. Did you pass Chemistry?’
Rick Tullis laughed. And so did everyone who’d been in last year’s Chemistry class along with Rick Tullis.
Mr Cartright turned to Philip, who was still bright-eyed at the thought of running the Maggot Farm.
‘Philip? Any luck with Biology?’
Philip’s expression soured.
‘I didn’t even bother to come in and take it, sir. No point.’
Mr Cartright sighed.
‘Well, there you have it in a nutshell, I’m afraid, 4C. No one is here by accident.’
At the back, suddenly, the new boy,