Flour Babies - Anne Fine [46]
I really liked having that flour baby to look after, even though I got sick of her and she drove me mad. I liked seeing her sitting on top of the wardrobe watching me while I lay in bed at night. I liked chatting to her at breakfast. And I liked cuddling her to make Macpherson jealous. Last night, when I was rocking her in my arms, Mum said I reminded her of someone. She didn’t say who, and I didn’t have to ask. But it was good to know he used to rock me like that when I was a baby. Maybe he really did love me, in his way.
Quite forgetting, in the emotion of the moment, that the handkerchief had already been pressed into service more than once, Mr Cartright drew it out, and, lighting on a fairly dry patch, blew his nose in a trumpeting fashion. Then, bravely, he forced himself to read to the end.
He just wasn’t very good at showing it, running away like that. But I can’t talk, can I? My flour baby ended up such a mess, I practically got my ears torn off. But I really did care about her. I really did.
Mr Cartright could bear it no longer.
‘For heaven’s sake, lad,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘If you love the thing that much, go and fish it out of the waste bin. Take it home.’
Simon said nothing. But, flushing scarlet, he unconsciously leaned forward and gripped the sides of his desk.
Slowly, suspiciously, Mr Cartright tipped Simon back a few inches, lifted the desk lid, and peered in.
The flour baby peered back at him anxiously, out of the dark.
Mr Cartright lowered the desk lid. He looked at Simon. Simon looked at him. Then Mr Cartright said:
‘Do you want to know your problem, Simon Martin? You sell yourself too short. Your flour baby is a squalid and disgusting little creature. She wouldn’t pass any hygiene tests, and, if she were real, she wouldn’t win any Natty Baby competitions. But if keeping what you care for close and safe counts for anything, I’ll tell you this. You’ll make a better father than most.’
Then, clearing his throat loudly, he strode off as fast as he could, back to the sanctuary of his own desk.
10
Fired with determination to get the whole flour baby project out of the way for good, Mr Cartright kept everyone working. And as the clock hand rolled around the hour, interminably slowly, the sense of righteous outrage always felt by the members of 4C when sustained effort was expected of them merged with their resentment of Simon for his two terrible mistakes: picking the project in the first place, and being wrong about the Glorious Explosion.
For form’s sake, Mr Cartright pretended he was deaf to the flurries of malignant whispering around him.
‘What sort of Warpo chooses to do babies anyhow?’
‘We could have chosen any of the others. We could have done food.’
To try and distract them, he picked up the sheet of paper Russ Mould had just pushed aside with a huge sigh of relief.
‘Here. Someone’s finished. Let me inspire the rest of you by reading out Russ’s final entry.’
He held it in front of his eyes for a few moments, trying – and failing – to decipher it.
‘You’re holding it upside down,’ Russ said reproachfully.
Hastily, Mr Cartright turned the page the other way up.
‘Ah, yes!’ he said. ‘That’s better.’
He peered at it for a few moments longer, concentrating hard, and then, defeated, gave it back to Russ.
‘I wonder if you haven’t been just a shade over-ambitious,’ he suggested gently. ‘Trying to move on to joined-up writing quite so soon.’
As he stepped away, the bell rang, precipitating the usual frenzy of illicit bag-packing and chair-scraping.
‘Wait till the voice goes green!’ss he roared.
The squall abated for a moment.
Mr Cartright decided to make for the staffroom, and his reviving cup of coffee, a few minutes ahead of the stampede. Imposing his will on the whole lot of them with the darkest of looks, he moved backwards to the door. Then,
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Off you go.’
Before the words were even out of his mouth, he was away, down the long corridor.
With authority gone, the pack instantly