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‘That big stick,’ Erasmus persisted.
‘What big stick?’ Atkinson replied, sure that admitting the object’s existence after attempting to hide it would carry far worse penalties than continuing to pretend it wasn’t there.
‘That big stick behind your back.’
‘Big stick, sir? I can’t see a big stick.’
‘You can’t? Well I can. It’s six feet long and sticking above your head. Perhaps I should ask Mr Salmon to give you some remedial lessons. That way you’ll know that six feet is more than four foot five.’
Atkinson, realising when he was beaten, pulled the item in front of him and looked at it in surprise, trying to convey the impression he’d never seen it before.
‘Well?’ Erasmus inquired.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a bow, sir.’
‘And?’
‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing with it? I trust you aren’t trying to shoot the school cat?’ In truth, Erasmus wouldn’t have minded this particular activity – he and the school cat had been engaged in a battle of wits since the rabid moggy had attempted to sink its claws into his leg on his first day.
‘No, sir,’ Atkinson protested. ‘It’s for the play. We’re doing Robin Hood, sir.’
‘Not with that you’re not,’ Erasmus told him. ‘Bring it here.’
‘Si-ir,’ Atkinson whined.
‘Here,’ Erasmus repeated, his voice going down in pitch and up in volume. It was a subtle change, but one to which experienced troublemakers had learnt to respond. Atkinson may not have been an experienced troublemaker, but he was still intelligent enough to surrender the bow into the master’s hand.
‘When can I have it back?’ he asked.
‘You can have it at the end of term and not before,’ Erasmus told him and his tone told Atkinson that any argument was about as futile as expecting divine help to part the waters of the Trent in search of a lost ball.
The boy looked down at his feet with a hangdog expression, awaiting whatever fate Hobbit had in store for him. Erasmus smiled at the tousled head. He wasn’t a cruel man – it wasn’t that long since his own scholarly career of mischief had come to an end – and the boy’s antics were scarcely as disruptive as – to take an example at random – creating a build-up of static electricity that separated a teacher from his wig. Since he knew Atkinson wasn’t the type to intend a major disruption, Erasmus decided on clemency. Not immediately, though: he waited until the boy glanced up then gave him a stern look, prompting him to examine his shoes even more minutely. Then, after he had waited for what he felt was an appropriate time, he dismissed the boy. Atkinson, grateful at being spared punishment, nodded politely before turning on his heel and running back to where Davis was waiting.
‘Atkinson!’ Erasmus called out after him.
Atkinson turned.
‘Walk. Don’t run.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Atkinson called back and he then continued his journey at a more sedate pace.
After watching the boy for a few moments, Erasmus examined the bow with interest. It wasn’t the normal bit of twig and string you found attached to teenage boys; it had real tension in it. He tugged it experimentally, considering what it would do for his odds against the school cat. Then, realising he was still blocking the driveway, he tried to bring the bow in through the car window. This proved difficult, since the bow spanned roughly six feet, whilst the car was only about five feet from wing mirror to wing mirror. He eventually managed to wedge one end of the bow in the passenger’s footwell whilst the other end stuck out of the sunroof, giving the impression of a dodgem aerial. Driving carefully so as not to get the bow caught in any low tree branches, he proceeded along the driveway to his parking space, leaving a trail of wide-eyed children, many with their hands held firmly behind their backs.
The bow was cumbersome to carry from the car to the classroom. The passage between the two single-storey buildings which constituted the particular block was narrow, and only by holding the bow upright was progress possible. How the boy had managed to get the thing to school was a mystery.
At the end of the passage, Erasmus found himself faced with a door and a problem. Because this particular block of classrooms had been adapted from service buildings on the former manor, the doors were short and squat – presumably in order to force servants to duck and thus remember their place. The bow was, therefore, a foot taller than the door. Erasmus adjusted his grip on the briefcase in his left hand and reached for the door handle, attempting to manoeuvre the bow with his right hand as he did so. It was an unsuccessful effort: by the time one end was touching the wall behind him, the other was pressed firmly against the lintel above the door. He stared at the weapon thoughtfully, the physicist in him consumed by the interesting problem in three-dimensional geometry this presented. He tried shifting his posture, attempting to bend the bow to his will by careful application of weight. The bow, however, had other ideas and remained stubbornly straight.
And it was as he was so occupied that the door-handle turned purposefully beneath his hand. Erasmus, caught off-balance by the sudden absence of door, nearly fell into the corridor beyond. It was the presence of the petite, blonde woman in the corridor which prompted him to arrest his descent and stumble to an awkward state of balance.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ she said near-simultaneously.
‘What for?’ they said in unison.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Erasmus. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit preoccupied.’
‘Ah,’ said the woman, smiling. ‘What’s her name?’
Erasmus looked at the bow. ‘I don’t think he gave her one,’ he said. ‘One of the boys, you see.’
‘One of the boys?’ The woman’s eyebrows arched slightly as she found herself worrying whether the man was a lunatic. It would be a disappointment if he were, she considered.
‘Yes. I confiscated it from him this morning. Why they bring these things into school, I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ The relief was palpable in the woman’s voice, but Erasmus didn’t notice it. He did, however, notice the woman as if for the first time – largely because it was the first time.
‘Have we met?’ he asked.
‘No. My name’s Ellen.’ Ellen extended a hand. Erasmus reached out, but was prevented by the bow. Frowning at the weapon, he let it go, gripped and shook before returning to his charge.
Ellen looked at him, but said nothing. She seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Oh,’ said Erasmus. ‘It’s Erasmus.’
‘Your name?’ Ellen wasn’t sure if he wasn’t referring to something else – the species of mould on the lintel, for example. He was clearly a very distracted man.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s an unusual name. Nice.’
‘Thanks. I had unusual parents. At least I presume so – I’ve not made a study. Not my area – psychology.’
‘No? What is?’
‘Physics. And history. Yes, physics and history.’
‘That should make you the best person to work out how to get an ancient weapon into a confined space, then, shouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it should, yes,’ said Erasmus, taking the statement entirely at face value. ‘I think it might be easier if you go,’ he added on reflection.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘If you’re coming through the door. I’ll have more room to turn the bow.’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose I ought to be getting to my classroom anyway. Do you know where they teach geography, by any chance?’
Erasmus frowned. ‘Have you tried asking a geography teacher?’ he asked. ‘I understood there’s a new one starting today.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that. And I suppose if you want to ask someone directions, a geography teacher would be your best bet.’ Ellen moved out of the doorway and stood aside to let Erasmus pass. The teacher looked intently at bow and doorway a moment, then executed a complex twisting motion and slipped the bow into the corridor. Ellen observed the almost childlike smile of triumph on his face as he succeeded. There was a lot for a woman to like in that smile.
‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, her tone hopeful.
‘OK,’ said Erasmus, studiously pushing his briefcase against the door to hold it in place whilst he manoeuvred the bow. ‘Good luck finding your geography teacher.’
Ellen watched him disappearing into the building. Her face would have made an interesting study had there been a psychology teacher to observe it. Perhaps fortunately, psychology had no place on the curriculum.
The classroom was a dark one; the north-facing windows, set just below ceiling height, allowed little natural light to penetrate and a number of electric strip lights struggled bravely to illuminate the dark and cobwebby corners. For Erasmus, however, this was a home away from home. Without the intrusion of sunlight, there was no difference from one season to another, no time except that which he marked with the staccato sound of chalk on blackboard and no distractions to draw the pupils’ attentions away from their studies.
This was a room in which a teacher could set the class an essay question then sit and peacefully while away the hours with a mug of coffee and a pile of books to mark. He had to use a different room for science lessons, of course: the school wasn’t so well equipped as to allow the laboratories to be tied up with his history lessons, but science lessons tended to be in the afternoons when most of the youthful energies had been expended on the playing field, and the pupils always seemed more docile when they were armed with a piece of Veroboard and a power-pack. True, it was probably because they were working out how to electrify Harrison’s pencil case whilst he was out of the room on one of his frequent trips to the lavatory, but Erasmus firmly believed a few electrical shocks were acceptable in the pursuit of knowledge.
For the moment, however, the room was devoid of pupils as Erasmus kept himself occupied working through a series of torturously complex equations on his blackboard. Soon the nine o’clock bell would ring, signifying the end of registration and the beginning of the slow exodus to the first lesson of the morning.
Turning briefly from his calculations, he glanced at the pile of books on his desk; form 3A first this morning – hopefully Atkinson wouldn’t make too much of a fuss about his bow. He looked at the weapon, propped up next to his umbrella in the corner of the room. Where the boy had acquired such an article was a mystery – he hadn’t seen anywhere selling them and Mr Gaunt certainly wouldn’t have got the pupils to make one in woodwork. He shrugged: small boys seemed to have a natural ability to locate destructive implements, no matter how hard they were to acquire. If the UN had had the foresight to send a squad of thirteen-year-old boys into countries suspected of harbouring weapons of mass destruction, you could guarantee they’d locate any nuclear arsenal in a matter of hours. True, they’d probably set off a few bombs just to see what they could do, but at least you’d know where they were and could take the appropriate action.
The sound of youthful conversation drifted through the door and returned the teacher’s attention to the real world. Erasmus checked his watch: it was three minutes past nine – obviously the tannoy still wasn’t working. He checked the volume control on the wall-mounted speaker: it wouldn’t surprise him to find that a pupil had adjusted it – he’d heard Mr Alesage complain they’d put his clock forward in order to get out of double French early. Erasmus glanced at the clock over the board, but not with any particular interest: unlike Mr Alesage, he never relied on school equipment – experience had taught him to wear a watch to work instead.
Hearing the conversation outside was getting louder, Erasmus put down his chalk and began to wind the crank which turned the blackboards on their rollers and gave him a clean surface on which to write. A loud thump outside the door disturbed him and, realising he couldn’t put the moment off any longer, he strode to the door and opened it.
‘What was that noise?’ he demanded of the straggle of boys who were lined along the wall.
‘It wasn’t me, sir,’ Kirkby protested.
‘I asked what the noise was, not who wasn’t responsible. Have you got a guilty conscience or have you just neglected to wash your ears out this morning?’
Kirkby didn’t answer – he couldn’t see what the right answer was.
‘Well?’ Erasmus directed his gaze over the whole class.
‘Please, sir.’ Harrison’s unbroken voice rang out like the song of a lark that had just undergone an intensive interrogation.
‘Yes, Harrison,’ Erasmus prompted.
‘It was my sandwiches, sir.’
‘Your sandwiches? What have you got in them – gunpowder?’
‘No, sir,’ Harrison objected. ‘Barnstaple threw them at the door.’
There was a chorus of ‘sneak’ from the back of the queue. Erasmus took a discreet look and noted Barnstaple and his usual bunch of cronies. He felt sorry for Harrison: he admired the child’s sense of duty and fair play, but sometimes he felt it would be better if the boy just kept his mouth shut. He looked down at his feet and found a small packet of sandwiches, so tightly wrapped in cling-film you felt that Harrison’s mother was trying to suffocate the contents and make sure they were dead. He motioned to the boy at the front of the queue, who obediently bent down, picked up the package and passed it to the master.
Erasmus looked sternly at Barnstaple. ‘Why did you throw this?’ he asked.
Barnstaple maintained a sullen silence.
‘We’ll stand here until someone tells me,’ Erasmus informed them, ‘and you know what that means, don’t you?’
Some of the smaller boys nodded. Erasmus’ system of punishment basically involved adding up the minutes for which his lesson was disrupted and claiming the time back in a detention. It wasn’t an entirely fair system, since the whole class were punished for the fault of a handful of troublemakers but, as Erasmus himself pointed out, his detentions weren’t about punishing people, but about making sure they came out of school with the right amount of education. British education might be going to the dogs, but there was no way this teacher was going to turn his school into just another kennel.
Barnstaple, knowing Erasmus wouldn’t back down and unwilling to undergo an entire hour’s detention, held up a small wooden device.
‘I was testing this,’ he admitted.
‘Bring it here,’ Erasmus demanded. Barnstaple made his way to the front, the line of boys leaning against the wall to let him pass, whilst simultaneously staring curiously at the contraption. Erasmus took the device from the boy and examined it closely.
‘It’s a catapult,’ Barnstaple explained.
‘I can see that,’ Erasmus told him. ‘More accurately, of course, you should call it a trebuchet. Now what are you doing throwing people’s sandwiches with a piece of siege artillery?’
‘I thought they might want to use it in the play.’
‘I see. This would be the famous production of Robin Hood, would it?’
Barnstaple nodded.
‘And where in the legends does it say that the outlaws fired sandwiches from trebuchets, hmm?’
Barnstaple shrugged. ‘They had them back then,’ he managed.
‘Trebuchets, yes,’ Erasmus agreed. ‘However, I believe they were somewhat short of sandwiches and, even if they weren’t, I doubt it would ever have occurred to them to use them as ammunition.’
‘The French used to throw animals over castle walls,’ someone contributed. ‘Perhaps the English just used to throw their lunch.’
Erasmus looked up, trying to find the source of the comment, one eyebrow raised quizzically. He identified the source of the comment as Atkinson and looked at him levelly. ‘Do you understand why the French threw cows over castle walls?’ he asked.
‘Because they had BSE?’ Atkinson suggested.
‘In the thirteenth century,’ Barnstaple sneered.
Erasmus looked at Barnstaple sternly and the boy fell silent. ‘Believe it or not, Atkinson,’ Erasmus continued, looking back towards the boy, ‘you’re actually thinking in the right area. It was common in siege warfare to hurl diseased animals into besieged castles – the idea was that the disease would spread amongst the inhabitants and lead to an early surrender. However, I fail to see what relevance this has to Robin Hood.’ He looked down at Barnstaple once more.
‘I was just getting into it,’ said Barnstaple. ‘You know, history and all that.’
Erasmus pushed back the classroom door and ushered the pupils to their seats. He handed Harrison his sandwiches as he passed. Once the last few pupils had filtered past, he closed the door and made his way to his desk.
‘Taking an interest in history is very commendable,’ he told the class as they stood quietly behind their desks, ‘but plays about Robin Hood actually say very little about the history of this country. In fact, there are significant elements of the plays which flatly contradict history as we know it.’
He motioned for the class to sit and, as they complied, he surveyed them: there did seem to be a spark of genuine interest, even if it had initially revolved around a practical interest in siege weaponry.
He waited for the noises of scraping chairs and low murmuring to subside, then addressed the class. ‘Can anyone give me an example of a historically dubious aspect of the Robin Hood legend?’ he asked.
Harrison raised his hand, eager to be the first to answer. Erasmus decided not to choose the boy: he’d already embarrassed Barnstaple once this morning and it wouldn’t do to let him draw too much attention to himself – not with double physics after lunch, anyway.
