'Okay, back to RETURN and go through each stage slowly this time, step by step. You can't go wrong if you think about each move.'
Her frown told him she wasn't convinced. Neither was he.
He left Jeanette biting her lower lip and pressing each key with exaggerated deliberation as though it was a battle of wills between girl and machine.
'Hey, Kelly, that's good.'
The fourteen-year-old glanced at him and beamed, her eyes touching his just a little too deeply. He peered at the screen, impressed.
'Is that your own spreadsheet?' he asked.
She nodded, her gaze now back on the visual display.
'Looks like you won't get through the year on those expenses.'
'I will when I send the printout home. Dad'll pay up when he sees the evidence.'
Childes laughed: Kelly had soon discovered the potential of microelectronics. There were seven such machines on benches around the classroom, itself an annexe to the science department, and it seemed all were in constant demand even when he was not there to supervise. He had been fortunate when he had come -
fled
-
to the island, for the colleges there, so many of them private concerns, were keen to embrace the computer age, well aware that fee-paying parents regarded such knowledge as an essential part of their children's education. Until his arrival, Childes had been employed on a freelance basis by a company specialising in aiding commercial enterprises, both large and small, to set up computer systems tailored to their particular needs, advising on layout and suitable software, devising appropriate programs, often installing the machinery itself and running crash courses on their functions. One of his usual tasks was to smooth out kinks in the system, to solve problems that invariably arose in initial operation, and his flair -
intuition,
some called it - for cutting through the intricacies of any system to find a specific fault was uncanny. He had been highly skilled, highly paid, and highly respected by his colleagues; yet his departure had come as a relief to many of them.
Kelly was smiling at him. 'I need a new program to work on,' she said.
Childes checked his watch. 'Bit late to start one now. I'll set you something more difficult next time.'
'I could stay.'
One of the other girls giggled and, despite himself, Childes felt a sudden, ridiculous flush. Fourteen years old, for Chrissake!
'Maybe you could. Not me, though. Just tidy your bench until the bell goes. Better still, run through Jeanette's program with her - she seems to be having difficulties.'
A mild irritation flickered in her eyes, but the smile did not change. 'Yes, sir.' A little too brisk.
She sidled rather than walked over to Jeanette's monitor and he mentally shook his head at her poise, her body movement too knowing for her years. Even her close-cropped sandy hair and pert nose failed to assert her true age, and eagerly budding breasts easily defeated any youthful image presented by the school uniform of blue skirt, plain white shirt and striped tie. By comparison, Jeanette appeared every inch the young schoolgirl, with womanhood not yet even peeking over the horizon. It seemed aptitude was not confined just to learning.
He shifted along the benches, leaning forward here and there to give instructions to the other girls, some of whom were sharing machines, soon enthused by their enthusiasm, helping them spot their own 'bugs', showing them the correct procedures. The bell surprised him even though he knew it was imminent.
He straightened, noticing Kelly and Jeanette were not enjoying each other's company. 'Switch off your machines,' he told the class. 'Let's see, when do I take you again…?'
'Thursday,' they replied in unison.
'All right, I think we'll cover the various types of computers then, and future developments. Hope you'll have some good questions for me.'.Someone groaned.
'Problem?'
'When do we get on to graphics, sir?' the girl asked. Her plump, almost cherubic, face was puckered with disappointment.
'Soonish, Isobel. When you're ready. Off you go and don't leave anything behind; I'm locking up when I leave.'
The concerted break for the door was not as orderly as the principal of La Roche Ladies College would have wished for, but Childes considered himself neither teacher nor disciplinarian, merely a computer consultant to this school and to two others on the island. So long as the kids did not get out of hand and appeared to absorb much of what he showed them, he liked to keep a relaxed atmosphere in the classroom; he didn't want them wary of the machines and an informal atmosphere helped in that respect. In fact, he found the pupils in all three schools remarkably well-behaved, even those in the boys college.
His eyes itched, irritated by the soft contact lenses he wore. He considered changing them for his glasses lying ready for emergencies at the bottom of his briefcase, but decided it was too much trouble. The irritation would pass.
'Knock, knock.'
He looked around to see Amy standing in the open doorway.
'Is sir coming out to play?' she asked. 'You asking me to?'
'Who am I to be proud?' Amy strolled into the classroom, her hair tied back into a tight bun in an attempt to render her schoolmarmish. To Childes, it only heightened her sensuality, as did her light-green, high-buttoned dress, for he knew beyond the disguise. 'Your eyes look sore,' she remarked, quickly looking back at the open doorway, then pecking his cheek when she saw it was clear.
He resisted the urge to pull her tight. 'How was your day?'
'Don't ask. I took drama.' She shuddered. 'D'you know what play they want to put on for end-of-term?'
He dropped papers into his briefcase and snapped it shut. 'Tell me.'
'Dracula. Can you imagine Miss Piprelly allowing it? I'm frightened even to put forward the suggestion.'
He chuckled. 'Sounds like a good idea. Beats the hell out of Nicholas Nickleby again.'
'Fine, I'll tell her Dracula has your support.'
'I'm just an outsider, not a full member of staff. My opinion doesn't count.'
'You think mine does? Our headmistress may not be the Ayatollah in person, but I'm certain there's a family connection somewhere.'
He shook his head, smiling. 'She's not so bad. A little over-anxious about the school's image, maybe, but it's understandable. For such a small island, you're kind of heavy on private schools.'
'That comes with being a tax haven. You're right, though: competition is fierce, and the college's governing body never lets us forget it. I do have some sympathy for her, even though…'
They were suddenly aware of a figure in the doorway.
'Did you forget something, Jeanette?' Childes asked, wondering how long she had been standing there.
The girl looked shyly at him. 'Sorry, sir. I think I left my fountain pen on the bench.'
'All right, go ahead and look.'
Head bowed, Jeanette walked into the room with short, quick steps. A sallow-complexioned girl with dark eyes, who one day might be pretty, Jeanette was petite for her age; her hair was straggly long, not yet teased into any semblance of style. The jacket of her blue uniform was one size too large, shrinking her body within even more, and there was a timidity about her that Childes found disarming and sometimes faintly exasperating.
She searched around the computer she had been using, Amy watching with a trace of a smile, while Childes set about unplugging the machines from the mains. Jeanette appeared to be having no luck and finally stared forlornly at the computer as though it had mysteriously swallowed up the missing article.
'No joy?' Childes asked, approaching her section of the bench and stooping to reach the plug beneath.
'No, sir.'
'Ah, I'm not surprised. It's on the floor here.' Kneeling, he offered up the wayward pen.
Solemnly, and avoiding his eyes, Jeanette took it from him. 'Thank you,' she said, and Childes was surprised to see her blush. She hurried from the room.
He pulled the plug and stood. 'What are you smiling about?' he asked Amy.
'The poor girl's got a crush on you.'
'Jeanette? She's just a kid.'
'In a girls-only school, many of them fulltime boarders, any halfway decent-looking male is bound to receive some attention. You haven't noticed?'
He shrugged. 'Maybe one or two have given me some funny looks, but I - what d'you mean
halfway
decent-looking?'
Smiling, Amy grabbed his arm and led him towards the door. 'Come on, school's out and I could use some relaxation. A short drive and a long gin and tonic with lots of ice before I go home for dinner.'
'More guests?'
'No, just family for a change. Which reminds me: you're invited to dinner this weekend.'
He raised his eyebrows. 'Daddy had a change of heart?'
'Uh-uh, he still despises you. Let's call it Mother's influence.'
'That's pretty heartwarming.'
She looked up at him and pulled a face, squeezing his arm before releasing it as they went out into the corridor. On the stairway to the lower floor she was aware of surreptitious appraisal by several pupils, a few nudged elbows here and there. She and Jon were strictly formal with each other in the presence of others on school grounds, but a shared car was enough to set tongues wagging.
They reached the large glass entrance doors of the building, a comparatively new extension housing the science laboratories, music and language rooms, and separated from the main college by a circular driveway with a lawned centre. In the middle, a statue of La Roche's founder stared stoically at the principal white building as if counting every head that entered its portals. Girls hurried across the open space, either towards the carpark at the rear of the college where parents waited, or to dormitories and rest-rooms in the south wing, their chatter unleashed after such long restraint. The salt tang of sea air breezing over the clifftops was a welcome relief from the shared atmosphere of the classroom and Childes inhaled deeply as he and Amy descended the short flight of concrete steps leading from the annexe.
'Mr Childes! Can you spare a moment?'
They both groaned inwardly when they saw the headmistress waving at them from across the driveway.
'I'll catch you up,' he murmured to Amy, acknowledging Miss Piprelly with a barely-raised hand.
'I'll wait by the tennis courts. Remember, you're bigger than her.'
'Oh yeah, who says?'
They parted, Childes taking a direct path over the round lawn towards the waiting headmistress, her frown informing him that he really should have walked around. Childes could only describe Miss Piprelly as a literally 'straight' woman: she stood
erect,
rarely relaxed, and her features were peculiarly angular, softening curves hardly in evidence. Even her short, greying hair was rigidly swept back in perfect parallel to the ground, and her lips had a thinness to them that wasn't exactly mean, but looked as if all humour had been ironed from them long ago. The square frames of her spectacles were in resolute harmony with her physical linearity. Even her breasts refused to rebel against the general pattern and Childes had sometimes wondered if they were battened down by artificial means. In darker moments, the thought crossed his mind that there were none.
It hadn't taken long, in fact, to find that Estelle Piprelly, MA (Cantab), MEd, ABPsS, was not as severe as the caricature suggested, although she had her moments.
'What can I do for you, Miss Piprelly?' he asked, standing beside her on the entrance step.
'I know it may seem premature to you, Mr Childes, but I'm trying to organise next term's curriculum. I'm afraid it's necessary for parents of prospective pupils, and our governing body insists that it's finalised well before the summer break. Now, I wondered if you could spare us more of your time in the autumn term. It appears that computer studies - mistakenly, to my way of thinking - have become something of a priority nowadays.'
'That could be a little awkward. You know I have the other colleges, Kingsley and de Montfort.'
'Yes, but I also know you still have a certain amount of free time available. Surely you could fit in just a few more hours a week for us?'
How did you explain to someone like Miss Piprelly, who lived and breathed her chosen profession, that the work ethic was not high on his priorities? Not any more. Things had changed within him. Life had changed.
'An extra afternoon, Mr Childes. Could we say Tuesdays?' Her stern gaze defied refusal.
'Let me give it some thought,' he replied, and sensed her inner bristling.
'Very well, but I really must have the first draft curriculum completed by the end of the week.'
'I'll let you know on Thursday.' He tried a smile, but was annoyed at the apology in his own voice.
Her short sigh was one of exasperation and sounded like a huff. 'On Thursday then.'
He was dismissed. No more words, no 'Good day'. He just wasn't there any more. Miss Piprelly was calling to a group of girls who had made the mistake of following his route across the hallowed lawn. He turned away, feeling somehow that he was sloping off, and had to make an effort to put some briskness into his stride.
Estelle Piprelly, having reproved the errant girls (a task that for her needed very few words and a barely-raised voice), returned her attention to the retreating figure of the peripatetic teacher. He walked with shoulders slightly hunched forward, studying the ground before him as if planning each footfall, a youngish man who sometimes seemed unusually wearied. No, wearied was the wrong word. There was sometimes a shadow behind his eyes that was haunted, an occasional glimpse of some latent anxiety.