Ahead of his Time by Adrian Cousins (read novels website .TXT) 📗

Sunday. Fortunately, I had the invoice in my pocket, and Jenny didn’t question why the car was sold when the garage was closed or that Martin had paid a bloody fortune for it. She accepted Mr Thacker had achieved a quick sale, but I stumbled when she challenged me on why I had the invoice.

I injected an over-elaborate lie about Martin and girlfriend trouble to cover up the reason for staying in the rental house, and the Grand Inquisitor accepted this story. However, my well-versed ability to lie had left me high-and-dry as she scrutinised the version of events regarding my friendship with Martin. When specifically pushed on why he’d returned from South Africa, and when we both worked at some company called Waddington Steel, I sunk further into the cavernous hole I was digging for myself.

Jenny was not angry; it was far worse. I could see in her eyes she was losing trust as all my answers were vague, and now the last five months were unravelling at high speed. The only slow down to my life falling apart was when Beth awoke, hungry and screaming her head off, but that was just hitting the pause button. For the second consecutive night, we went to bed on an unresolved argument.

Although I loved my job as a teacher, today, I just wasn’t in the mood for it. I desperately needed to get hold of George, although he’d said he would call me at lunchtime so I’d just have to wait, but Jesus, that was hours away. Moping into the school office, I decided I’d just have to get on with it. The efficient Miss Colman was already in the office, and as always, looking efficient.

“Morning, Mr Apsley, cold again, isn’t it? I didn’t like all that snow we had at the weekend. They forecast more tonight; did you hear?”

“Morning, Miss Colman,” I replied, not really in the mood for talking as I rummaged through my pigeon-hole yawning my head off.

“Are we tired, Mr Apsley? That was a very big yawn,” she said, as she passed me a hand-delivered letter. The envelope just bore mine and the school names but no address. I gathered up the letter with some other school paperwork, shovelled it all in my briefcase, and headed off to the staff room. I was going to need copious amounts of coffee to get through the day.

The morning lessons dragged. I set my students tasks that negated the need for much involvement from me, which was unfair to them, but hey, I was pooped and had nothing to offer them this morning. Whilst the class were reviewing an exercise just before lunch, I’d actually nodded off in my chair. As I slipped into a well-needed slumber, one of the students who sought some assistance with the exercise I’d set had come up to the front and nudged my shoulder. As I jolted awake, the inevitable happened as all thirty students fell about in hysterics. I was fully aware the incident would go around the school like wildfire. The only positive was this rather embarrassing episode couldn’t be posted on Instagram. Teachers in forty-years time, I imagine, had a much tougher time.

I padded into the office just after noon.

“I’m expecting a call from The Fairfield Chronicle between now and one. Can you put it through to the staff room when it comes through, please?” I asked Miss Colman.

“Of course. Oh, Mr Apsley, is there a news item you’re reporting?”

“What?” I shot Miss Colman a confused look.

“Fairfield Chronicle … the call you said about?”

“Oh, I see. No, my good friend, George, is a Type-Setter there.”

“Oh, how exciting, working for a newspaper! He’ll get to see the stories before anyone else! Is there an exciting news item today?”

“Yeah, very exciting. Sorry … I have no idea.” It didn’t take much for Miss Colman to get excited. She lived on her own, and I knew any snippet of gossip had her ears pricking up. I thought if she’d lived in my day, she would have loved all forms of social media, posting daily, and probably creating and updating her stories hourly.

“By the way, don’t forget Mr Clark would like you to interview the two gentlemen this afternoon for the temporary caretaker role. The interviews are at one and two pm.”

“Oh, bollocks,” I mumbled. Fortunately, Miss Colman didn’t hear me.

“I do hope Mr Trosh soon recovers from his operation. He’s always so helpful, and the school just isn’t the same without him.”

“Yes, Clive is a lovely man. I think, Miss Colman, you carry a torch for our dependable caretaker.” I swivelled and smirked at her, knowing full well I was right as she often conjured up jobs for Clive to do in the school office just so she could have him close by.

“Mr Apsley! Really! I’ll have you know that I’m a respectable lady, and Mr Trosh is a gentleman!”

“Quite.” I moved over to her desk, and had a quick glance left and right to check no one overheard us, which would have been impossible as we were the only two people in the office, but I seemed to have copied this manoeuvre from Miss Colman over the last few months. “Miss Colman, everyone knows you have a soft spot for Clive, and everyone also knows he would do anything for you. If I’ve learned anything over the last five months, if you get a second chance you have to take it. I suggest you get yourself up Fairfield General later today and see how Clive is. I know he’ll be over the moon to see you.”

Miss Colman burned bright, the flush rising up her face akin to an unstoppable flow of red-hot lava. “Mr Apsley! I shall do no such thing!”

“Yes, you will. Even if I have to take you up there myself.” I smiled as she shot her hand to her mouth. Her neck and face still burning bright, lighting up the room like a Belisha beacon.

Miss Colman coughed, shuffled some papers,