“She seemed very nice.”
“I’m happy to think you have had the privilege of knowing her.”
“Well, she doesn’t come in all that often, actually,” said the girl. “Just to see to the box, you know.”
Mr Hive nodded. “An indefatigable worker for good causes.” He again examined the box on the bar, this time a little narrowly; then he gave it an affectionate pat. “One of her favourite charities, that one,” he declared.
He returned to his seat. There were now seven or eight other people in the room. He surveyed them, one by one, over the top of his glass and decided that he liked them all, from the young couple with bright, country complexions and a careful way of sitting, to the ruminating old farmer whose extraordinary facial resemblance to a sheep was emphasized by his habit of emitting at the end of each swig of his beer a quiet little “Baaa”.
Mr Hive had just begun his fourth double brandy when three men entered the bar in a group. For a few moments they stood just inside the door while the foremost glanced searchingly round the company.
He was a man of medium height, with thin, brushed-back hair of no particular colour, a plump but sallow face and unblinking, protuberant eyes. His way of leaning forward from firmly planted feet suggested a readiness to be launched at very short notice. Even had Mr Hive not known who this man was, his powers of deduction would have told him that here was the classic attitude of preparedness for boys’ wicked wiles: the stance of a schoolmaster.
As it was, he recognized at once Mr Kingsley Booker, M.A., fourth year form-master and teacher of geography, religion and swimming at Flaxborough Grammar School. Mr Booker’s two companions he did not know, but he felt sure he was going to like them. He donned a smile in readiness.
Booker saw Hive and said: “Ah.” He came across the room at a slightly increased angle of forward tilt, as if walking against a stiff wind. He made introductions.
“Mr Mortimer Hive...Mr Clay—my headmaster.”
Mr Hive shook the soft, very warm hand of a brisk and tubby man who regarded him with eager concentration. Mr Clay had the cleanest, shiniest face Mr Hive had ever seen. His little beak-shaped nose was absolutely smooth, like pink porcelain, and had almost as high a polish as the lenses of the pince-nez it supported.
“And this is Mr O’Toole, the County Youth Employment Co-ordinator.”
“Now then, cocky,” said Mr O’Toole, affably. He did not offer his hand but turned at once to satisfy himself that some sort of drink-buying facilities existed in the room.
Hive asked what he could have the pleasure of fetching them. Mr Clay said after some consideration that a small and extremely dry sherry would be very nice. Mr Booker said he fancied to try this lager-and-lime that he had heard people talk about. Mr O’Toole said: “Pint of wallop.”
The girl behind the bar looked pleased to hear Mr Hive’s four-part order. “You’ve made some friends, then? That’s nice.” She set about the wettest part of the job first—pulling a pint of mild ale for the Youth Employment Co-ordinator.
“Oh, it’s a sociable little town,” said Mr Hive.
She poured a Tio Pepe, then a British-type lager which she vaccinated with a heavy dose of lime cordial. “For the ladies,” she announced waggishly. Mr Hive was about to correct this misconception, but decided to let it stand and to take whatever credit it might reflect.
Mr Booker helped to dispense the drinks round the table. The action revealed a big leather patch on each elbow of his tweed jacket. Both the jacket and the buttoned woollen cardigan beneath it looked as if they had been lived in for a considerable time.
Mr Clay accepted his sherry with a prim little nod that was in character with his general economy of movement (Must have a very tight skin, poor fellow, mused Mr Hive) and put it down some distance off, as though he intended to save it for Christmas.
“You are from London, I gather,” said the headmaster.
Mr Hive acknowledged that he was.
“A city of great opportunity.”
“Boundless.”
“You will appreciate, Mr Hive, that for our young people London is a magnet. To them, it promises fulfilment. We educationists may have a more sceptical view—and with good cause, I venture to say—but we do not flatter ourselves that we can correct the näive assumptions of youth. Only experience can do that.”
Mr Hive heard beside him a short, bitter laugh. It came from Mr O’Toole, who was rubbing the side of his jaw with the rim of his already empty glass. This friction made a curious sound—describable perhaps as a rasping tinkle.
“What the headmaster is leading up to, I think...”
“Now, Booker; pray allow me to do my own leading. Mr Hive will see its object soon enough.” Mr Clay inclined a little closer to Mr Hive and waited for him to make a quick swallow of what remained of his brandy. He continued: “We arrange from time to time at the school what we term a careers symposium. It is attended by boys of the fifth and sixth forms and they are able to put questions to representatives of a variety of professions whom we invite as guests.”
“What a splendid idea!” exclaimed Mr Hive.
A tiny smile of pleasure augmented the glints and gleams of the headmaster’s polished face. “We have, I think I may say, found the idea a useful one.”
“Splendid!” (Mr Hive had decided that “splendid” was a splendid word.)
“Quite. Now it so happens that just such a symposium has been arranged for this evening, in, ah, twenty-five minutes’ time. The panel—I fancy that is the word—is a not undistinguished one. We have been promised the attendance of a solicitor, also an estate agent, an inspector of police, and a—let me see—a manager of a saw-mill, I believe.
“Unfortunately—and I come now to the point I have had in mind ever since Booker here happened to mention your presence in the town, Mr Hive—unfortunately, I say, all these gentlemen follow their professions locally. Sound men, you understand, very sound. But I fear that some of our pupils are slow to respond to familiar example. It is the exotic that appeals to them. Now if they were to be presented with some stimulus to their imagination in the form of a visitor from the Great Metropolis...”
“The great M’Trollops...” muttered Mr O’Toole, nastily. He had stood his empty glass back on the table and was now repeatedly ringing it, like a bell, with flicks of his middle fingernail.
Mr Booker rose to his feet. “Let me do the honours, sir,” he said to Mr Clay. The headmaster shook his head. “Not just at the moment.” The glasses of both Mr Hive and Mr O’Toole were by Booker’s hand; he had seen neither actually in motion. He picked them up and departed for the bar.
Mr Clay was uncertain of whether his implied invitation had been grasped. He kept his regard steadily on Mr Hive who gazed back with enormous benevolence but continued to say nothing.
“I should esteem it a great favour, sir,” the headmaster said at last, “if you would come along to our, ah, little symposium and possibly say a few words to the boys on the subject of your career.”
Mr Hive’s eyes widened and shone; his mouth opened; he spread a hand over his heart. He stood up. The hand left his chest, made a couple of circular motions and remained, fingers spread, in the air. “Lead me, my dear sir,” he cried, “to your siblings!”