light on the carpet and Betts has gone. Cyclops, inaudible. Then holding out a hand . . . I should think that lens clean by now.
He takes the camera.
Catrine Catrine . . . a sigh over her his eyepatch his eggshell three scribbles on his forehead . . . I realize that last term’s incident with the Gredville boy might have its ripples felt in some disagreeable ways—
That had nothing to do with it, Mr. Stokes. They asked me— And we all want to be liked—
That was not the reason.
But it is not in keeping with the academic code by which you have agreed to abide, by which we all, in order to live harmoniously at Monstead, must agree to abide, to take photographs of your classmates undressed and on the hockey pitch.
He is ridiculing her.
You understand my obligation to ensure this sort of thing does not happen twice.
It was meant to be art.
Cyclops swivels his chair to the window. After a moment . . . Where are you getting these ideas, girl?
Father gave me the camera for Christmas, sir.
So it’s Teddy who’s responsible.
A joke but answer even more seriously . . . Oh no, Mr. Stokes it wasn’t
Father’s
idea.
Swivels back to her . . . Evans.
Sir, I saw paintings and at the Modern—
When boys do such things you should walk away—
There was a sculpture—
I’m inclined to forgive this brief excursion into your artistic—
I can’t really draw but I thought well—
Character, of course a show of remorse should be swiftly undertaken—
I have a camera and art has naked—
Evans. The behavior you have chosen to display is not in keeping with the tenor of Monstead life. Now your father is ahem an old friend, you are a confused little girl and I can only think additional focus on your studies and less focusing of your lens will result in a happier situation all round.
Yes sir.
I have brought your ahem. Incident before the Conduct Committee. Since art appears to be your downfall, I propose an immersion in the sciences. Therefore you will spend an hour before breakfast each morning for the period of one month assisting Miss Dyer from the fifth form in cleaning, sorting and preparing Chemistry materials. Mr. Gilbert specifically requested your help.
Requested her specifically.
Stokes flicks at a blemish on the desk . . . Apparently Miss Dyer is somewhat preoccupied, certain matters at home seem to require her concentration.
Specifically.
Monday morning then at seven o’ clock sharp you are to meet Miss Dyer at the chemistry lab. I hope this month will encourage you to see our world in a more scientific light, that you may put some of these foolish notions behind you, leave them behind as child’s play and approach the world with the mind of a scientist. Our Mr. Gilbert seems to think you have some real talent in this area and it’s not too early to begin bending your thoughts to your A level subjects. Perhaps you will be one of our science girls, Miss Evans, there aren’t many, most seeming to prefer English or the dramatic arts, but there’s always room for an exception . . . standing moving around the side of his desk . . . I think your father will regard this as fair, don’t you?
My father? Please don’t tell my father, Mr. Stokes.
Cyclops looks pleased, she has shown panic, a coming unglued. He presses his lips together to convey—what? There are questions, yes there are questions. Silently he nods her toward the door.
A moment outside, listening to the creaks of Cyclops swiveling. A talent for science. Then she bolts down the red stairs out the grand entrance shouldering open the heavy door asked for her specifically front lawn parking lot between the cars of secretaries and cleaners the ones who go home at night to gas fires and attentive pets running across to the patch of trees breaking through them breathing hard through them blurred coming up against the wall to outside.
Can’t they take a joke. Rough hand troubling the bricks, like finding like. Face against the cool red. Don’t
He takes the camera.
Catrine Catrine . . . a sigh over her his eyepatch his eggshell three scribbles on his forehead . . . I realize that last term’s incident with the Gredville boy might have its ripples felt in some disagreeable ways—
That had nothing to do with it, Mr. Stokes. They asked me— And we all want to be liked—
That was not the reason.
But it is not in keeping with the academic code by which you have agreed to abide, by which we all, in order to live harmoniously at Monstead, must agree to abide, to take photographs of your classmates undressed and on the hockey pitch.
He is ridiculing her.
You understand my obligation to ensure this sort of thing does not happen twice.
It was meant to be art.
Cyclops swivels his chair to the window. After a moment . . . Where are you getting these ideas, girl?
Father gave me the camera for Christmas, sir.
So it’s Teddy who’s responsible.
A joke but answer even more seriously . . . Oh no, Mr. Stokes it wasn’t
Father’s
idea.
Swivels back to her . . . Evans.
Sir, I saw paintings and at the Modern—
When boys do such things you should walk away—
There was a sculpture—
I’m inclined to forgive this brief excursion into your artistic—
I can’t really draw but I thought well—
Character, of course a show of remorse should be swiftly undertaken—
I have a camera and art has naked—
Evans. The behavior you have chosen to display is not in keeping with the tenor of Monstead life. Now your father is ahem an old friend, you are a confused little girl and I can only think additional focus on your studies and less focusing of your lens will result in a happier situation all round.
Yes sir.
I have brought your ahem. Incident before the Conduct Committee. Since art appears to be your downfall, I propose an immersion in the sciences. Therefore you will spend an hour before breakfast each morning for the period of one month assisting Miss Dyer from the fifth form in cleaning, sorting and preparing Chemistry materials. Mr. Gilbert specifically requested your help.
Requested her specifically.
Stokes flicks at a blemish on the desk . . . Apparently Miss Dyer is somewhat preoccupied, certain matters at home seem to require her concentration.
Specifically.
Monday morning then at seven o’ clock sharp you are to meet Miss Dyer at the chemistry lab. I hope this month will encourage you to see our world in a more scientific light, that you may put some of these foolish notions behind you, leave them behind as child’s play and approach the world with the mind of a scientist. Our Mr. Gilbert seems to think you have some real talent in this area and it’s not too early to begin bending your thoughts to your A level subjects. Perhaps you will be one of our science girls, Miss Evans, there aren’t many, most seeming to prefer English or the dramatic arts, but there’s always room for an exception . . . standing moving around the side of his desk . . . I think your father will regard this as fair, don’t you?
My father? Please don’t tell my father, Mr. Stokes.
Cyclops looks pleased, she has shown panic, a coming unglued. He presses his lips together to convey—what? There are questions, yes there are questions. Silently he nods her toward the door.
A moment outside, listening to the creaks of Cyclops swiveling. A talent for science. Then she bolts down the red stairs out the grand entrance shouldering open the heavy door asked for her specifically front lawn parking lot between the cars of secretaries and cleaners the ones who go home at night to gas fires and attentive pets running across to the patch of trees breaking through them breathing hard through them blurred coming up against the wall to outside.
Can’t they take a joke. Rough hand troubling the bricks, like finding like. Face against the cool red. Don’t
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