Gentlemen & Players by Joanne Harris Page B

I would have liked to stay in my room, but Meek was in there with a third-year maths class, so I retreated to the Quiet Room (sadly a no-smoking area) for a comfortable chat with any colleagues who happened to be available.
    The Quiet Room is, of course, a misnomer. A kind of communal office with desks in the middle and lockers around the edges, it is here that the staff grapevine has its roots. Here, under the pretext of marking, news is disseminated, rumors spread. It has the added advantage of being precisely underneath my room, and this lucky coincidence means that if required, I can leave a class to work in silence while I have a cup of tea or read the Times in congenial surroundings. Any sound from above is distinctly audible, including individual voices, and it is the work of an instant for me to rise, apprehend, and swiftly punish any boy who creates a disturbance. In this way I have acquired a reputation for omniscience, which serves me well.
    In the Quiet Room I found Chris Keane, Kitty Teague, Robbie Roach, Eric Scoones, and Paddy McDonaugh, the RE master. Keane was reading, occasionally making notes in a red-bound notebook. Kitty and Scoones were going through departmental report cards. McDonaugh was drinking tea whilst flicking through the pages of The Encyclopaedia of Demons and Demonology . Sometimes I think that man takes his job a little too seriously.
    Roach was engrossed in the Mirror . “Thirty-seven to go,” he said.
    There was a silence. When no one questioned his statement he elaborated. “Thirty-seven working days,” he said. “Till half-term.”
    McDonaugh snorted. “Since when did you ever do any work?” he said.
    “I’ve already done my share,” said Roach, turning a page. “Don’t forget I’ve been at camp since August.” Summer camp is Robbie’s contribution to the school’s extracurricular program: for three weeks a year he goes to Wales with a minibus of boys to lead walking expeditions, canoeing, paintballing, and go-karting. It’s what he enjoys; he gets to wear jeans every day and have the boys call him by his first name, but still he maintains that it is a great sacrifice, and claims his right to take it easy for the rest of the year.
    “Camp,” scoffed McDonaugh.
    Scoones eyed them with disapproval. “I thought this was supposed to be the Quiet Room,” he pointed out in chilling tones, before returning to his report cards.
    There was silence for a moment. Eric’s a good chap, but moody; on another day he might be full of gossip himself; today he looked glum. It was probably the new addition to the French department, I thought to myself. Miss Dare is young, ambitious, and bright—one more person to beware of. Plus, she’s a woman, and an old-timer like Scoones doesn’t like working alongside a woman thirty years younger than he is. He has been expecting promotion at any time these past fifteen years, but he won’t get it now. He’s too old—and not half conciliatory enough. Everybody knows it but Scoones himself, and any change to the departmental lineup only serves to remind him that he isn’t getting any younger.
    Kitty gave me a humorous look, which confirmed my suspicions. “Lots of admin to catch up on,” she whispered. “There was a bit of a mix-up last term, and for some reason, these records got overlooked.”
    What she means is that Pearman overlooked them. I’ve seen his office—overflowing with neglected paperwork, important files drowning in a sea of unread memos, lost course work, exercise books, old coffee cups, exam papers, photocopied notes, and the intricate little doodles he makes when he’s on the phone. My own office may look the same, but at least I know where everything is. Pearman would be completely at sea if Kitty wasn’t there to cover up for him.
    “How’s the new girl?” I asked provocatively.
    Scoones huffed. “Too smart for her own bloody good.”
    Kitty gave an apologetic smile. “New ideas,” she explained. “I’m