Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
Kissing the Dragon - 2. Announcement
Phil, having blanked Chris from memory, decides to turn his attention to his end of term proposal for staging Journey’s End by R C Sherriff, a first world war play set in the trenches of northern France, and insists I help out for the sake of historical authenticity. So much for making a quick getaway. Midway through a tedious one-sided discussion about Brodie helmets and putties, a sound draws our attention. Barnie Bennett, Chemistry and Physics, starts clinking a half empty beer glass with a stainless steel Parker pen. At first I wonder if he is demonstrating some Archimedean principle or another to a poor unwilling soul until the hubbub in the room dies down and all attention turns his way.
“Fellow teachers, I have an announcement to make,” he calls out, pleased with himself. Other guests in the pub also quieten, bemused by the random show. I know the announcement cannot be anything to do with student performance because he already teaches the best and brightest in the county.
“Some of you may be aware that I have been dating the lovely Jennifer Stone for over six years now. Almost a jail term, what?” he says, pausing for laughter or some witty repartee or another.
After a few moments of hushed and frankly awkward silence, he carries on. “We decided to take things slow to judge whether we had the right, excuse the expression, chemistry.”
Still nobody laughs.
“Most of you have met Jenny and know she teaches at Cawley Girl’s School. You may not know, however, is that she was in the squad for the 1984 Olympics, a reserve on the relay team. So even as a sprinter of some renown, she agreed to take things slowly.”
Still nothing. Assessing the lukewarm reaction, Barnie’s light mood evaporates.
“Anyway, last night I proposed and she accepted,” he finishes quickly, after turning and nodding to Megan behind the bar. “So by way of celebration I wanted to buy all teaching staff and friends a drink.”
Finally those last magic words produce the desired reaction. Everyone in the room cheers while some go up and chat to him, swatting him on the back. Phil downs his pint and ploughs his way to the bar. I decide this is my cue to escape, not feeling qualified to give anyone advice on a future longterm relationship when I have failed so miserably at mine. I look around for somewhere to place my half empty glass.
“Colin sweetheart,” comes Kimberley’s silken tones, her musky perfume alerting me to her presence seconds before the sound of her voice. Perhaps I ought to feel annoyance at being stopped from leaving but she is someone I am more than happy to chat to. To round off the picture of sexy sophistication, she displays a full martini glass held over her award-winning cleavage. “Just noticed you were here. Where were you hiding?”
“By the window. Cornered by Phil.”
“Poor you. And doesn’t our diminutive drama diva look priceless today. Peter Jackson would hire him in an instant. So what are you forcing into my gorgeous fifth form boy’s heads this term?”
“Power struggles, communist rebellions, military coups,” I reply, trying to sound upbeat. “Something for all the family. At the moment we’re tackling the rise of communism in early twentieth century Russia. This week they’ve been covering the events leading up to the October Revolution. Part of the exam syllabus.”
“Did you show them The Storming of the Winter Palace.”
“The film by Nikolai Evreinov? Total communist propaganda. I’m teaching them what really happened that day, which was far more pedestrian. Winter Palace is as historically accurate as The Tudors is about the life and times of Henry VIII.”
“I adore The Tudors.”
“Of course you do. That’s why you teach English Literature.”
“Blood, mayhem and rampant sex. The lifeblood of your average red-blooded adolescent male.”
“I bow to your superior knowledge,” I answer, bowing my head to sip from my wine glass.
“All joking aside, good to see you made the effort to join. And I must say, the clean cut look suits you,” she says, hesitating a moment, her eyes travelling up and down my torso. “Love the new haircut. Fresh faced and dashing. Should have done it years ago. Throw on a tux and you could be the next James Bond.”
In the process of swallowing a mouthful of wine, I feel my cheeks redden but manage to control myself. Compliments are harder to stomach than criticism. After a weekend visit to a hair salon recommended by my lodger Billy, his hairdresser friend insisted I remove a beard I have sported for the best part of six years. A creature of habit, I baulked at first but then relented. Strange how such a small change can feel so cathartic. In my home room the boys passed mild comment but few others appear to have noticed.
“Thanks,” is all I could muster.
“Now tell me,” she says, getting down to the real business. “What do you make of our gorgeous Viking? I noticed the two of you in cahoots.”
“He seems nice enough.”
She lowers the vodka martini glass from her cleavage and puckers her lips into a moue.
“Colin. Spill.”
People can always trust Kimberley to cut to the chase. Almost on cue, I lift my gaze above Kimberley’s right shoulder and spot Chris at the bar, turning to look our way. On making eye contact, his grin melts into a mock grimace when he notices who I am talking to.
“No idea,” I say, wrenching my gaze back to Kimberley. “We talked about general stuff. He seems like a genuinely decent chap. I didn’t pick up any secret gay signal, handshake, or coded conversation, if that’s what you’re about to ask.”
“Did you play the perfect Englishman and offer to show him around?”
“I am not a tour guide. And I’m spoken for, remember?” I reply, trying to act miffed. In turn, Kimberley rolls her eyes heavenwards. “Although we are having a game of tennis after school next Wednesday.”
“You are?” she says, suddenly interested. “I didn’t know you played tennis.”
“What can I say? I’m a dark horse.”
“Who instigated that?”
“He did. And before you say anything, it’s just tennis, Kimberley. Racquet, ball, net.”
“Shorts, sweat, shower,” she counters, then rambles on as my pulse speeds up at the thought of showering together after the game. For some of us, not all adolescent fears are overcome by adulthood. I will need to mentally prepare myself for that eventuality to avoid any unexpected embarrassment. “And I suppose you’ll be having a drink afterwards?”
“Winner buys beer,” I answer, still distracted by the idea of being naked together with the American. “And dinner. Which means, of course, muggins here will be the one out of pocket.”
“Dinner?” says Kimberley, her mouth falling open. “So it is a date. Whose idea was that?”
“His. And for heaven’s sake, Kim, it’s not a date,” I answer, a little over defensively. Was it a date? “He’s just being sociable.”
“Sociable my arse. I saw the way he was looking at you. As the bard says, ‘young men's love, then, lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.’ And if the night ends with a snog or something better, make sure you spill the beans—”
“Shakespeare used the word ‘snog’?”
“—so I can stop wasting my time.”
“You’ll be the first person I tell,” I lie.
“And drop the ‘husband at home’ routine, Colin. Even the first year boys know you’re single again.”
I know I colour at that remark, but she has no chance to comment because Barnie, who has been doing the rounds, toasting his good fortune with a number of other groups, totters up with three shot glasses clenched precariously in his fists.
“Engagement party’s Saturday week at eight. Croxburgh rugby club pavilion. Partners welcome. Make sure you’re there.”
“Eight days?” says Kimberley. “Well, God created the earth in less time, so I should be able conjure someone up by then. Colin here is already fixed up.”
“Kim!”
“Tequila,” says Barnie, thrusting the clinking cluster between us. “Drink. Toast.”
Kimberley and I look to each other, her with a sweet grin, me with mock contempt, before taking one each. Barnie is already in the process of downing his.
“To the future,” she says, winking at me. “And to a match played in heaven.”
Smiling sweetly at her, I raise my glass and clink hers. About to take a gulp, Phil appears at my side, grabs my elbow and spills most of the contents down my sleeve.
“Sorry Colin,” he says, always relishing some drama or another. “But Megan requires your presence in the public bar. Apparently an old friend of yours is causing a bit of a stir.”
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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