Flour Babies - Anne Fine [2]
‘I think I might be, sir.’
But Mr Cartright, in full flow, ignored the interruption.
‘And therein lies the explanation of why, sadly, this class can’t do the Exploding Custard Tins. In the absence of total confidence in your skills and commitment, Dr Feltham has entrusted us only with nice, safe and easy topics. Exploding Custard Tins have been reserved for those who passed Physics at the end of last year.’
His eye roved over eighteen sullen faces and one rather intrigued one.
‘Did anyone here pass Physics?’
The new boy raised his hand. Otherwise, no one stirred. And since Martin Simon was pretty well out of everyone’s line of sight, in the back row, Mr Cartright chose not to let his one waving arm detract from the dramatics of the occasion.
‘Anyone pass Chemistry?’
Again, Martin Simon’s hand shot up in the air, to be totally ignored by Mr Cartright. Otherwise, nothing much happened.
‘Goodbye, Soap Factory,’ Mr Cartright said. ‘How was our record in Biology? Anyone have any luck there?’
Martin Simon’s arm waved, a lone reed over the silt of the rest of 4C’s academic hopes. For the third time, Mr Cartright pretended not to see it.
‘So,’ he said flatly. ‘No Maggot Farm for us.’
He spread his huge chalky hands.
‘You can’t say you weren’t warned,’ he told them. ‘I fetch my coffee from the staffroom. I have ears. Mr Spencer, Mr Harris, Mr Dupasque, Miss Arnott. They all said it, more than once. “I’ve warned them over and over,” they all said. “If they don’t work, they’ll end up in 4C.” And here you are.’
‘You can’t help it if you’re stupid,’ George Spalder argued.
‘If you were stupid enough to be in 4C, you’d be on a life-support system,’ said Mr Cartright tartly.
‘So what are we doing here?’
Mr Cartright turned biblical.
‘You’re reaping as ye sowed. And, speaking of sewing, will you please get on and vote. What’s it to be? Textiles, nutrition, domestic economy, child development or consumer studies?’
‘I’m not voting for none of them,’ said Gwyn Phillips. “They’re all stupid.’
Having a sneaking sympathy for this point of view, Mr Cartright said nothing. But when George Spalder added,
‘Girls’ things, that’s what they are!’ he felt obliged to put 4C right.
‘Don’t kid yourselves. While you lot are sitting here grumbling, girls all over the country are making soap,farming maggots and exploding custard tins. They’re studying Chemistry, Biology and Physics. To the Victor the Spoils now. And they passed exams.’
Then, tiring suddenly of the whole boiling, he started striding up and down the rows of desks, chivvying them into voting. ‘Get on with it, Robin Foster. Hurry up, Rick. What difference is it going to make to you? According to Miss Arnott, you hardly ever come to school anyway. Thank you, Tariq. Everyone look at Tariq. He is an example to you all. He chose. He wrote it down, not neatly exactly, but clear enough to read. And now he’s dropped his voting slip in my tub. Thank you, Tariq. Thank you. And thank you, Henry. No need to flick it in. Thank you, Russ. Thank you. Thank you, Martin, and I hope you’ll be very happy wi –’
Mr Cartright broke off. For it was clear the new boy wasn’t even listening. As Mr Cartright’s shadow fell across his desk, he’d simply pulled the forefinger of his right hand out of that ear for a moment, picked up his neatly written vote, and dropped it in the plastic tub. At no point had he so much as glanced up from his book.
Mr Cartright was mystified. Gently, he prised Martin Simon’s fingers out of his ears, and asked him:
‘What are you doing?’
Now the boy was equally confused.
‘Reading, sir.’
‘Reading? Reading what?’
‘Baudelaire.’
Mr Cartright’s eyes widened.
‘Baudelaire?’
He glanced round the room, hoping for one mad moment that none of his other pupils had heard the exchange. Fat chance of that. They were all sitting, ears on stalks.
‘In French or English?’ Mr Cartright asked, thinking to diffuse the tension with a joke.
Young Martin Simon flushed.
Mr Cartright swivelled the book round on the desk.
‘French!’
‘Sorry,’ said