day. Ten years ago, even five, people had said he was much too good to be a schoolmaster; ought to be lecturing, ought Frank, ought to have his doctorate. They had stopped talking in those terms, but Frank had kept his pretensions; only his clothes mirrored his state, the neckties starved narrow with dearth of variety, disappointed jackets in sagging tweed. Colin saw himself; the regalia of stagnation, the shroud of opportunity, rags of receding hope.
“We ought to get together, Colin. You must come to dinner.”
“Surely,” Colin said. “We will. After the exams?”
Now Colin sat with a pile of exercise books before him. Form 1C. The Vikings. He tried to gather strength to open them.
“Smith of English? Who said that thing, ‘Work fascinates me: I can sit and look at it for hours’?”
“It came off a matchbox, I imagine. I don’t know. Ask Smith of Woodwork.”
If Florence did not understand…if Florence was not sympathetic…then when the Christmas holidays came, and all the schools closed, and all evening classes were over (and Sylvia knew they were)…then, when he could no longer mumble about Parents’ Evenings as he sidled out in the mornings (and hope that she would not somehow find out)…then when his small ingenuity was defeated, how and when and where was he going to see Isabel?
Smith of English made a sound expressive of pain.
“
Colin looked up. “Pardon?”
“All right, listen. This is 3A. This is the O-Level stream, this. ‘George Orwell wrote
“They have those cribs, you know, those little books. They just copy down any date that takes their fancy. 1867 will be
“Mm,” Smith said. “How about this next one then? ‘George Orwell wrote
But Florence, thought Colin; tell Florence? “Excuse me,” he said. He fished in his pocket and went over to the phone.
“Colin’s ringing his turf accountant again,” Smith said.
“Luther King House. Social Services.”
“I’d like to speak to Miss Field, please.”
“Just one moment. Putting you through.”
Click.
“Yes?”
A small sensation in Colin’s chest rose and lodged itself in his throat. Grief.
“Yes?”
That deadly secretarial voice, that hope-crusher, that frustrated old maid; some slab-toothed old hag with thin knees pressed together and her glasses on a little gold chain, some Medusa in an Orlon cardigan.
“I wanted Miss Field,” he whispered.
“Miss Field is not in the office at present.”
“When will she be back?”
“I’m afraid I couldn’t say.”
“Can’t you ask? Someone in your office should know where she’s gone and when she’ll be back.”
A slight intake of breath told him that offence had been given and taken.
“Miss Field is a busy social worker with a full caseload and I think it most unlikely that her colleagues would be aware of all her intended movements in the course of the day. In any case it is not our practice to divulge what visits a caseworker is making, as we do not breach the confidence of our clients.” She paused, to let this sink in. “If this is an emergency, I can pass you on.”
“No, could you just find out—”
“I can pass you on to another caseworker.”
“Thank you, I only want to speak to Miss Field.”
“Shall I pass you on?”
“No.”
“Would you care to leave your name?”
“That’s all right.”
“Would you care to leave your name?”
“Thank you, no, that’s all right.”
“Would you care to leave a message?”
“No message.”
