Flour Babies - Anne Fine [6]
Simon caught only the last words, ‘Wait and see’. But he was seeing it already! BANG!!!! And then a floury mushroom cloud obliterating the hated prison of the classroom. He rose in spirit with its snow-white glory, and only floated down in time to overhear the last of Mr Cartright’s desperate attempts to turn down this astonishing and unparalleled blessing.
‘Why can’t they do something in Mr Higham’s workshops?’
A new voice now, raised in anguish.
‘Eric! My workshops are buzzing! It’s the Science Fair! Why, there’s the slopes to set up for the slope friction experiment. And the skeleton house to build for 4F’s electronic burglar alarm system. The base for Harrison’s thermistor-powered fan hasn’t even been begun yet. Nor has the frame for the Hughes twins’ electric power station. Even the maggot farm needs a few repairs, or we’ll have maggots all over.’
Simon saw a flash of Mr Higham in the gap, spreading his hands.
‘I’m sorry, Eric. It’s more than my job’s worth to let your crowd into the workshops at the moment. Last time I frisked Rick Tullis on the way out, he had four of my screwdrivers stuck down his underpants. Four! And that Sajid Mahmoud of yours only has to look at a wood plane for its blade to slip out of true. I’m sorry, Eric. But no,’
If Simon hadn’t been so outraged with Mr Cartright for trying to spurn this gift sent from the gods, he might have felt pity at the broken tone of his voice now.
‘I won’t forget this,’ Mr Cartright was saying. ‘Next time any of you are in a fix, I shall remember this!’
Prudently, Simon drew his heel back as the voice neared the doorway.
‘One hundred and twenty-four pounds of white flour! In my classroom! With that bunch! And not one of you came to my rescue. Not one. I shan’t forget this. No. I shan’t forget.’
Simon’s foot moved sharply away from the door, just as Mr Cartright wrenched it open.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘You tole me to come here, sir.’
‘Well, now I’m telling you different. Go away. Go back to the classroom at once.’
‘Yes, sir.’
On principle, Simon stooped, quite unnecessarily, to untie his shoelace and tie it again, in his own time. He wasn’t sorry he took the trouble, either, because although the small gesture of defiance earned him a quite alarming glare from Mr Cartright, it also kept them both standing there long enough to hear, unmistakably clearly, from inside:
‘He’s got it wrong again, you know. This time he must have multiplied the one by a seven. It’s odd the way his mind works.’
Satisfied that honours were now even, Simon shambled off. And Mr Cartright shambled after him. He let the boy draw ahead down the long corridor, to give himself time to think. What was the best thing to do? True, he’d made a firm announcement that the very next boy to make any noise at all would have to choose the topic. And Simon had picked the flour babies. But, fair’s fair, the lad’s neanderthal door-wrenching habits were purely accidental. He hadn’t been trying it on. He just naturally opened doors like a gorilla.
No need to hold firm unnecessarily.
They could just choose again.
Cheered, Mr Cartright speeded up. Working things out, he’d fallen quite a way behind. Far enough behind, in fact, to miss Simon Martin’s breathless announcement to the waiting class as he burst through the door first.
‘Them flour babies! They’re dead brilliant! Better than soap, and maggots, and everything! Best science I’ve ever heard!’
Rolling in twenty seconds later, Mr Cartright doused down the noise without even bothering to tune in to its content. He heaved his rump up on the teacher’s desk, and began in a conciliatory fashion.
‘Well now,