Flour Babies - Anne Fine [39]
She glanced up to where, framed in the staffroom window, Mr Cartright was blowing the smoke of his last surreptitious cigarette before class out between the folds of the curtain.
He gave a little wave, then, taking her look of temporary indecision for one of pitiful entreaty, he threw up the sash window, all set to bellow at Simon for daring to set foot on hallowed turf.
‘– and be of good cheer,’ he heard Simon singing at the top of his voice.
Be of good cheer? The snatch of song rang a bell instantly in Mr Cartright’s brain. He couldn’t help staring down at Simon with a teacherly blend of pleasure and pride. What price psychology now? Why, the lad was a walking tribute to good old-fashioned horse sense. Look at the change in him, for heaven’s sake. One morning he was moping around like a fool, in love with his revolting little sack of flour. A word in his ear from his wise old class teacher, and look at him. Right back to normal (well, normal for him, of course), and courting the only real love of his life, the heavenly Miss Arnott, in fine voice, and full throttle.
‘Others may settle to dandle their babies –’ Simon’s glorious warm tenor rang out, over the grounds.
The pause that followed lasted a beat too long. It was, Mr Cartright thought, a bit like that old oriental torture of waiting for the water drip.
When he could stand it no longer, he threw the window up higher, leaned out and roared in the great,tuneful baritone he used to haul them back to time in hymns:
‘My heart’s a tall ship, and high winds are near.’
Simon dropped to his knees, exhausted. Miss Arnott fled. And Wayne came thumping up behind.
‘What was Old Carthorse bellowing about?’
‘My heart’s a tall ship,’ panted Simon. ‘And high winds are near.’
Wayne made a face.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
Simon looked up to ask Mr Cartright. But it was too late. Perfectly content with the satisfactory rounding off of a lovely old sea song, Mr Cartright had stubbed out his cigarette, pulled down the window, and vanished.
As had been proved more than once on the football field, dogged determination was one of Wayne’s most salient characteristics.
‘How can a heart be a tall ship?’ he persisted.
‘I don’t know, do I?’ snapped Simon. ‘We’ll have to ask someone.’
‘Who?’
Wayne looked round. The only person in sight was Martin Simon, who was strolling along the path reading The Quest for The Holy Grail.
‘Ask him. He’s an ear’ole. He might know.’
Simon’s face brightened. Yes, Martin Simon might know. Anyone who puffed round all day reading poetry – often in French – was bound to have no trouble putting a fancy line of a song into plain English. No trouble at all.
Simon picked himself off his knees, and walked over the grass, till he was almost directly in front of Martin.Sticking out his foot, he waited calmly and deliberately until Martin tripped over it, and The Quest for The Holy Grail fell out of his hand on to the grass.
‘Sorry,’ said Simon, stooping to pick it up and hand it back.
‘Thanks,’ Martin said, somewhat warily.
But Simon felt that, by reaching down to pick up the book, he had already established his good faith. There was no need for any further tact.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re an ear’ole. You read poetry. What does it mean if someone says they’re a tall ship?’
Martin hesitated. It could be the start of a tease. But, on the other hand, there was a serious and determined look about Simon, as if, like Sir Galahad in the book that he’d just handed back, he was on some sort of quest.
‘A tall ship?’
‘Yes, a tall ship.’
You had to hand it to these clever dicks, Simon reflected as he stood waiting for the answer. If anyone strolled up to him and asked him a question like that, he’d push them in the face and stride off. But Martin didn’t seem to find it either odd or insulting to be asked a question about what might even be a poem. He simply took off his glasses and wiped them while he had a little think, then asked:
‘What did this person say exactly?’
No point in beating round the bush, thought Simon. So,