The Future King: Logres (10 page)

The Nutcracker

Mr Graham was spread
out at his desk.

He wasn’t a particularly tall man, but he was intimidating, and he
had a large stomach that started above his heart and rounded off far below his
middle. As Arthur approached him with his newly written paper, Mr Graham
ordered him to wait with a fat extended finger. He didn’t hurry himself to
finish the page that he was reading, and by the time he closed his crisp copy
of
Politics in New National England
others were beginning to wander into class.

‘Well?’ Mr Graham’s eyebrows rose expectantly.

‘I rewrote it, as you asked.’

Mr Graham snatched the paper off him, a thick scowl shadowing his
features. ‘This is hand-written. You know I can hardly read handwriting,’ he
grunted. ‘You’re supposed to type up all your work.’

‘I couldn’t at such short notice, sir.’

‘What, no computer? Don’t tell me you didn’t have time to print this,
Arthur. What about that library you’re always working at? Why not do it there?’

‘I can’t do schoolwork during work hours,’ he excused. ‘And my
computer’s not working.’

Mr Graham considered this for a moment, squinted, and then abandoned
the essay on his desk. ‘Very well,’ he relented, ‘but next time make sure it’s
printed. Handwriting is only for exercise books. It works the muscles.’

‘Don’t you want to read it?’

‘Later. Now hurry up and sit down. You’ve already wasted enough of my
time this week.’ He pulled himself up out of his chair. Arthur retreated,
though his destination was no haven. Bedivere ignored him and when he tried to
reach his seat the other boy made it as difficult as possible. ‘Hurry up and
sit, all of you!’ Mr Graham barked. ‘I don’t have time for your dilly-dallying.
Sit!’ He turned to the chalkboard and scrawled something nearly
incomprehensible across it.

The lesson was long and tedious. Not once did Bedivere’s brown eyes
shift from the surface of their desk, and a hand-drawn spiral on the front
cover of his exercise book expanded and intensified. With yesterday’s behaviour
clearly at the forefront of his mind, Mr Graham kept a close eye on them,
squinting after them both suspiciously as they exited the classroom at the
eventual sounding of the bell.

With nothing else to do at lunchtime, Arthur went to sit in Marvin’s
musty classroom with a mushrooming headache. Idly, he traced the proclamations
of infatuation and foul language engraved into his desk. Marvin was marking
papers.

‘What kind of imbecile thinks that the Industrial Revolution
originated in the United States?’ he harrumphed, exasperation creasing his
features. ‘Have I not been making my lessons clear enough? The United States,
as we know it, didn’t exist until 1776.’

Arthur peered over his school bag. ‘Who came up with that gem, then?’
he asked, pleased that he at least knew the origins of England’s most
done-to-death historical event, second only to the World Wars.

‘Now now, Arthur. What sort of teacher would I be if I told you
that?’ His eyes smiled. ‘Let’s just say their name begins with a T. That leaves
three options, no?’

‘Three?’ asked Arthur.

‘Oh no, that’s in one of my other classes,’ Marvin corrected. ‘Never
mind. I suppose it’s rather obviously Mr Hareton, anyway.’

Arthur rolled his eyes. ‘That’s hardly surprising.’

‘No?’

‘I don’t know why you don’t just smack him around the head with a
textbook.’

Marvin seemed amused. ‘Is that what you would do?’

‘It might give the rest of us a chance to learn something. He never
shuts up. Why don’t you just throw him out?’

‘Oh, believe me, the thought has crossed my mind on several
occasions.’ Slowly Marvin shook his head. ‘But I learned long ago that the best
form of punishment for Mr Hareton is the lesson itself. Why throw him out into
the corridors when he clearly hates learning so much?’

Arthur grinned. He loved his lessons with Marvin, loved spending his
extra hours in this room. Yes, it smelt as if it hadn’t been cleaned in fifty
years, and yes, the pile of books next to the teacher’s chair was so
precariously stacked that all the students had bets on when it would finally
collapse, but Marvin was at his level, thought in the same manner as he and
Bedivere did, as opposed to all the other students at Logres, who looked at him
as if he were mad if he ever tried to hold an intelligent discussion with them.

‘Ah!’ was the next exclamation. ‘This genius seems to think that
steam engines ran on oil. What a Hawking!’

Arthur laughed. ‘Not Tom again, I hope.’

Marvin scribbled red ink across the page. ‘No, not this time,’ he
sighed. ‘Do you know what the worst thing about marking students’ papers is,
Arthur? It’s the fact that I can’t simply write,
wrong
. No, one must never write
wrong
on a student’s paper. Nor may I write
incorrect
.
It all has to be
good try
, or,
wonderful attempt
. Or my personal
favourite,
not quite right
.’

Arthur flicked back through his exercise book and frowned. ‘I’ve got
a couple of
not quite rights
in here,
Marv.’

‘Well of course! No one can always be
quite right
.’

‘Next time just write
wrong
,
please. I won’t sue you for it.’

‘You might not, but the committee of teachers and parents would have
my head.’ Abandoning his marking, Marvin stretched. ‘So, how did that
not quite right
paper go down with Mr
Graham?’

‘I have no idea. He didn’t even read it. I don’t think he’s going
to.’

‘He probably just wanted to make a point.’ Marvin rubbed his deep-set
eyes. ‘I wouldn’t worry about it. I don’t. I feel confident enough in your
abilities to be sure that having to write such drivel won’t brainwash you, like
it has nearly every other student at this school.’

‘I’d say that the teachers are more brainwashed than the students,’
Arthur duelled. ‘Has it always been this way?’

Marvin’s quick eyes locked onto him, his hands linked behind the back
of his head. His brown jumper had ridden up his shirt, and he had bruises of ink
ingrained into his fingers.

‘I mean has the educational system always been so… so limited?’

‘Limited?’ For a moment Marvin considered his words. ‘Well, any
system of education is limited. Do you think they cover the Nanjing Massacre in
Japanese schools? Do we cover Britain’s involvement in the development of
biological warfare?’

Arthur watched him closely and chewed the inside of his cheek.

‘No, we don’t,’ Marvin ploughed on. ‘So I suppose the answer to your
question is yes, the educational system has always been limited. As time goes
by however, we see variations on that limitation. I would say that today, it is
particularly limited.’

Arthur’s headache threatened to bloom into something more
substantial. ‘But why?’

‘Aha! Thank you Arthur, thank you.’ Marvin waved his hands about,
brimming with excitement. ‘You have just brought us to another vital point.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes, you have. There is a lot that our government would rather we
didn’t know, but even their best efforts can’t censor out everything.
Something,
somewhere
will always get
through. The intellectual is the single most dangerous thing to a government,
and do you know how? I’ll tell you. It’s because they never stop asking
why
.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘I always knew you were a smart one, Arthur. From the moment I saw
you on your first day, I knew you were different. You always asked questions,
always wanted to know, always were the first to pick apart inconsistencies. You
were always, always asking
why.
’

Arthur bit at the dry skin on the inside of his lip. He gazed at
Marvin as his teacher stopped gesticulating and his hands dropped to the table.
He swallowed.

‘
Why
is the most important
question in the universe.
Why
can
change the world. Remember it, Arthur. Never stop asking
why
.’

French was long, and once again Gwenhwyfar found she learnt little
due to her disruptive class. Afterwards they spent lunch in the packed canteen,
with the wet weather raging beyond the windows. Geography was her last subject
of the day, a lesson shared with Viola, and it commenced without much fuss. It
was later, when students were supposed to be working quietly, that she heard
Emily and another girl whispering doggedly.

‘Who?’

‘Who what?’ Emily murmured.

A quiet cough from Miss Barnes caused their voices to hush even more.
Viola sent Gwenhwyfar a sidelong glance.

‘Who’s asking who out?’ the other girl hissed. Gwenhwyfar couldn’t
recall her name.

‘Arthur!’ Emily responded, giggling. She glanced deliberately over
her shoulder. ‘Charlotte’s
devastated
.
Then again, she’s totally deluded if she thinks he will ever go out with her.
She’s too short.’

‘Who’s he asking?’ The girl almost sounded hopeful.

‘Morgan. That sad, skinny girl that always looks at him with lovesick
eyes. I don’t know why, though. She’s so
dull
.’

‘But tall enough, at least,’ the other girl remarked.

Gwenhwyfar felt her heart perform something rather incredible. It
both expanded and imploded at the same time. She didn’t care if it was obvious
she was staring now. She did it anyway.

‘Where did you hear that?’

Emily’s voice lowered to a wicked murmur. ‘Hattie says she saw them
talking at the end of break, by the girls’ toilets.’

‘And he’s asking her out?’

‘Apparently. Poor Charlotte. Then again, I can think of someone else
who’ll be just as
devastated
.’

Viola’s sharp kick to the back of Emily’s chair pulled Gwenhwyfar out
of the trance she’d fallen into. She refused to make eye contact with the girls
in front, even though they both glared at her. ‘What?’ Emily hissed.

‘Sorry.’ Viola pulled a fake smile onto her lips. ‘My foot slipped.’

Disgruntled, the two turned back to bend their heads together.

‘Just ignore them,’ Viola whispered.

Gwenhwyfar couldn’t. Morgan had vanished from the cafeteria towards
the end of break, and had been absent during lunch too. The whispering resumed,
but she tuned out to the particulars. Morgan liked Arthur, she knew she did.
What if Arthur liked Morgan too?

‘Gwen?’ Class work halted, and all eyes turned to the front. The
deputy head stood waiting with his hands clasped behind his back. Miss Barnes
looked at her sternly. ‘Mr Hall here requests that you accompany him to the
principal’s office.’

A susurrus of speculation followed her words.

‘Now?’

‘Yes please. Take your belongings with you.’

Gwenhwyfar packed her bag, picked up her blazer and bundled
everything under one arm. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she said to Viola, as she
self-consciously edged towards the door. The sniggering started before
Gwenhwyfar was led out of the room. She heard Viola kick Emily’s chair again. ‘
Ouch
!’ the first of the Furies
screeched.

She was in trouble; she knew it. As Mr Hall escorted her through the
corridors she picked through everything she might have done wrong. Was it the
money she had taken from her father? Or the nasty comments she’d made when
friends with Emily? It didn’t take long for a more frightening prospect to
prise its way into her mind: perhaps what Charlotte said had spread, and she
was about to be blamed for what had happened on Friday.

Mr Hall ushered her into a polished, large office. Immediately
Gwenhwyfar felt claustrophobic. Waiting for them both was Dr Ravioli.

‘Miss Taliesin, I presume?’ He offered a welcoming smile, but it was
stiff and cold. ‘I’ve met your parents, but I don’t think we’ve spoken. That
will have to change. I generally feel it’s best to hold a meeting with new
students to see how they’re getting along. Sit down, won’t you?’