The door opens and Jim Slattery, the English teacher, bustles in to a flurry of good-mornings.
‘Good morning, Jim,’ chime Misses Birchall and McSorley.
‘Good morning, ladies.’ Slattery shakes rain from his anorak and removes his bicycle clips. ‘Good morning, Farley. Good morning, Howard.’
‘Good morning, Jim,’ Farley returns. Howard grunts perfunctorily.
‘Pleasant enough day out there,’ Slattery remarks, as he does every morning it’s not actually raining fire, and makes a beeline for the kettle.
‘Kipper’ Slattery: as re deathliness, Exhibit A. Another old boy, he has taught at Seabrook for decades – in fact he is wearing the same jacket this morning that he did in Farley and Howard’s schooldays, an eye-searing, headache-inducing houndstooth that reminds Howard of a Bridget Riley painting. He is an amiable, shambling man, with shaggy eyebrows that bristle from his forehead like two Yetis about to hurl themselves from a cliff, and has never lacked enthusiasm for his subject, which he communicates in long, rambling sentences that very few of his students have ever had the tenacity or will to disentangle; instead, by and large, they take the opportunity to sleep – hence his nickname.
‘Speaking of frenzied attempts to hump people,’ Farley remembers, ‘did you decide what you’re going to do about Aurelie?’
Howard frowns at him, then glances about in case anyone has heard. The Misses, however, are occupied in their horoscopes; Slattery is drying his feet with a paper towel while waiting for his tea to draw. ‘Well, I wasn’t planning on “doing” anything,’ he says, in a low voice.
‘Really? Because yesterday you sounded quite het up.’
‘I just thought it was a very unprofessional thing to say on her part, that’s all.’ Howard scowls at his shoes.
‘Right.’
‘It’s just not the way you speak to a work colleague. And this whole business of not telling me her name, it’s so juvenile. It’s not like she’s even all that hot. She’s got a highly inflated sense of her own worth, if you ask me.’
‘Good morning, Aurelie,’ the Misses chant; Howard’s head snaps up to see her at the coat-rack, divesting herself of a modish olive-green raincoat.
‘We were just talking about you,’ Farley says.
‘I know,’ she says. Beneath the raincoat is a pencil-line tweed skirt and a delicate cream sweater that exposes clavicles like parts of some impossibly graceful musical instrument. Howard can’t help staring: it’s as if she’s walked into his memory and chosen her outfit from the wardrobe of all the preppy golden-haired princesses he yearned for hopelessly across the malls and churches of his youth.
‘Howard here is wondering why you won’t let him know your first name,’ Farley says, intuitively dodging to one side so that Howard’s sharp elbow finds only the back of the couch.
Miss McIntyre dips her little finger into a small pot of lip-balm and gazes down appraisingly at Howard. ‘He’s just not allowed,’ she says, smearing translucent gunk on her lips. Howard is embarrassed at how erotic he finds this.
‘That’s ridiculous,’ he retorts gruffly. ‘Anyway, I know your name.’
She shrugs.
‘Well, what if I decide that’s what I’m going to call you? What are you going to do then?’
‘I’ll throw you out of class,’ she says expressionlessly. ‘You don’t want that, do you? Not when you’re doing so well.’
Howard, feeling all of thirteen years old, is lost for words. Fortunately the door opens, and her attention is diverted. You can always hear Tom Roche coming: since his accident, his right leg barely moves, so he uses a cane, and with every second step must heft forward his full weight, making his passage sound like a body being dragged. It’s said he’s in constant pain, though he never mentions it.
‘Tombo!’ Farley raises a hand for a high-five that does not arrive.
‘Good morning,’ Tom responds, with deliberate stiffness.
As he passes the sofa, Howard gets a faint whiff of alcohol. ‘Hey, ah, congratulations on the swimming race the other night,’ he calls after him, hearing his own voice girlish and obsequious. ‘Sounds like you really cleaned the place out.’
‘It was a good team performance,’ the taciturn response.
‘Tom’s taken over as coach of the swimming team,’ Howard explains woodenly to Miss McIntyre. ‘There was a big race at the weekend and they swept the boards. First time the team ever won anything.’
‘Tombo’s inspirational,’ Farley adds. ‘The kids’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. Like the Moonies.’
‘It makes such a difference to have someone who inspires you,’ Miss McIntyre says. ‘Like a genuine leader? It’s so rare these days.’
‘Unless he just slipped a little something into their food the night before,’ Farley says. ‘Maybe that’s his secret.’
‘We worked damn hard for that race,’ Tom rejoins from his locker. ‘The boys take it seriously, and we work damn hard.’
‘I know that, Tom. I was joking.’
‘Well, I don’t think it shows a very responsible attitude for a teacher to talk about drug abuse in such a frivolous way.’
‘Would you relax? It was just a joke. Jesus.’
‘Some people around here joke far too much. Excuse me, I have work to do.’ Gritting his teeth Tom jerks himself forward and lurches out the door.
After a moment has elapsed, Miss McIntyre observes, ‘What an interesting man.’
‘Fascinating,’ agrees Farley.
‘He doesn’t seem too fond of you two.’
‘It’s historical,’ Howard says.
‘Howard and Tom and I were in school together,’ Farley says, ‘and it so happened that the two of us were there the night of his accident – he had this terrible accident, I’m sure you must have heard about it?’
She nods slowly. ‘He had some kind of a fall?’
‘It was a bungee jump. Up in Dalkey Quarry, on a Saturday night in November – just this time of year, actually. We were in our final year. Tom was the big sports star – tipped for greatness, just waiting for the call-up to the national team, the rugby team, although tennis, athletics, he was no slouch at those either. The jump ended everything. It took him a year just to walk again.’
‘God,’ Miss McIntyre says softly, her head swinging back to the door he just left through. ‘That’s so sad. And does he… have anyone? To take care of him? Is he married?’
‘No,’ Howard says reluctantly.
‘He’s sort of married to the school,’ Farley says. ‘He’s been here ever since. Teaching civics, helping out with the track and tennis teams. Now he’s coaching swimming.’
‘I see,’ Miss McIntyre says obscurely, still studying the door. Then she rouses, issues them both a brief summary smile. ‘Well. I should get some work done too. I’ll catch you boys later.’
She whisks away, leaving a tantalizing spell of perfume that lingers to torment Howard as the ambient lethargy redescends.
‘Minus fourteen in Minsk yesterday,’ Farley reads from the newspaper. ‘Thirty-three in London… Wow, sixty-seven in Corsica. Maybe we should move to Corsica – what do you say, Howard?’
‘You don’t think she’s into Tom, do you?’ is what Howard says.
‘Who, Aurelie? She just met him.’
‘She seemed interested by him.’
‘I thought you decided she had a highly inflated sense of her own worth. What do you care if she’s interested?’