Flour Babies - Anne Fine [4]
‘Get a brain, Simon Martin!’
Simon Martin… Martin Simon… Of course.
Mr Cartright heaved himself back into his usual position on the desk. So there was the explanation. Simple enough. Mere clerical error.
Martin Simon… Simon Martin…
He let the flurry of excitement ride for a few moments longer.
‘Where’ve you been, Sime?’
‘Got stuck, din’t I?’ declared the newcomer proudly. ‘In Dr Feltham’s class.’
‘Dr Feltham’s!’
Another roar of laughter, and even Mr Cartright had to smile, trying to picture this huge, strapping and unthinking lad marooned amongst Dr Feltham’s boffins.
‘Tole him I din’t blong. But would he listen? Not him. Not till that other ear’ole finally came along and rescued me. And even then –’
To cut off what was clearly all set to develop into a prolonged riff of resentment, Mr Cartright held the plastic tub of votes out towards his brand new pupil.
‘Pick one,’ he said.
Simon Martin’s look of deep disgruntlement turned into one of even deeper suspicion.
‘Wossit for?’
‘Just pick one.’ Mr Cartright sharpened the tone to an order. ‘Now.’
Simon Martin reached in and picked the one that happened to be written most neatly.
‘What does it say?’
The lad stared at it for a few moments. His massive caterpillar eyebrows crumpled in confusion as he struggled with Martin Simon’s perfect handwriting. Then:
‘Chile… chile… chile dev-lop-ment,’ he read aloud stumblingly.
‘Development.’
Mr Cartright managed to slide in the correction a split second before the explosion.
‘That’s babies, isn’t it?’
‘We’re not doing babies, sir!’
‘That is girls’ stuff. It is!’
‘I shan’t be coming in at all now! Not till it’s all over, anyhow.’
‘I’m blaming you, Sime!’
‘You can’t call it science. It’s just a great big cheatl’
‘Pick again, Sime!’
Hastily, Mr Cartright upended the tub over the waste bin. The remaining votes floated down to join whatever it was Luis Pereira had spat in earlier.
Mr Cartright flicked through the pages of Dr Feltham’s vast Science Fair memorandum. Oh, what a ghastly way to start the term! Why couldn’t the man arrange things the way every other school did, and leave the great tribute to the wonders of science until the last couple of weeks before the holidays, when classes like 4C could be left peaceably slacking? That was the trouble with enthusiasts, of course. They never allowed for other people’s weaknesses.
Finding the right page at last, Mr Cartright raised his voice like someone announcing the winner of an Oscar, and declared solemnly:
‘And the experiment Dr Feltham has chosen for this topic is –’
He glanced round. He hadn’t even said it yet, and already a sea of disgusted faces was staring back at him.
‘Flour babies!’
Now scorn was supplanted by confusion.
‘Sir?’
‘Is that flour babies or flower babies?’
‘They both sound weird to me.’
‘What are they?’
‘Whatever they are, they don’t sound much like proper Science.’
Secretly, that was what Mr Cartright thought. He glanced at the list again. Could it be a mistake? Another clerical error?
No. There it was, clear as paint.
Flour babies.
Right.
Mr Cartright slapped Dr Feltham’s memorandum down on the desk. Whatever they were, there was no time to read about them now. Already, Wayne Driscoll’s cheeks were puffed to bursting, and he was waving his imaginary stopwatch about wildly.
And, sure enough, the bell rang.
Just one more short ritual to get through, and the lesson would be over. Who would be first today?
Bill Simmons.
‘Excuse me, Bill Simmons. I don’t remember anyone telling you this lesson was over. Back in your seat, please.’
‘But, sir! Sir! The bell’s rung.’
‘That bell’s for me, Bill. It is not for you.’
His heart wasn’t in it, though. No, not today. In fact, to get rid of them just that little bit sooner, he even stooped to pretending he hadn’t seen Russ Mould’s bottom hovering an insolent ten inches clear of the chair, ready to make the big getaway.
‘All right, 4C. Off you go.’
They hurled themselves at the door in a disorderly rabble, leaving him wondering.
Flour babies… What on earth?
2
Simon Martin sprawled