Free What Was She Thinking? by Zoë Heller Page B

little fellow: angry, violent, and, I would hazard, a bit mad. I doubt that he is susceptible to any of the rehabilitation procedures provided by St. George’s. Our best bet, in my opinion, would be to expel him. I stress, however, that this course of action does not guarantee an end to such incidents. The periodic eruption of unruly, and even criminal behaviour in our student body would seem to be a fact of school life for the foreseeable future. Given the socioeconomic profile of our catchment area, only a fool would imagine otherwise.

    “Well?” Pabblem said when I looked up. “Is that a helpful contribution?”
    “I think it could be,” I said. “You asked me to offer suggestions, and I did. I wrote what I truly believe.”
    “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Pabblem banged his white fist on the desk.
    There was a silence, during which he smoothed back a strand of hair that had fallen into his eye. “Look, Barbara,” he went on in a quieter voice. “By commissioning you to write this paper, I was giving you an opportunity to make your mark on things.” He smiled. “If attacked with the right kind of creative thinking, this is the kind of project that turns a teacher into deputy head material …”
    “But I don’t want to be a deputy head,” I said.
    “That aside,” he said, the smile vanishing from his face, “the sort of despair you preach here has no place at St. George’s. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to have another go at this.”
    “So you’re censoring me.”
    He laughed, mirthlessly. “Come on, Barbara, let’s not be childish. I’m giving you a chance to improve on your first effort.” He got up from his chair and walked to the door. “The holidays are coming up. That should give you a good chunk of time to think about this. If you could have a new draft back to me at the start of next term, that’ll be fine,” he said.
    “If you don’t like what I have to say, why don’t you give it to someone else?” I asked.
    He opened the door. “No, Barbara,” he said firmly. “I want you to do this. It’ll be a good learning experience for you.”
     
     
    The following Monday, as I was being shown to a table at La Traviata, someone held out an arm like a tollgate to bar my way. It was Sheba, sitting in a booth with Sue. “Barbara!” she said. “I’ve been looking for you! I wanted to thank you again for helping me out on Friday.”
    I shrugged. “You’re quite welcome.” Then I gestured to the waiter who was showing me to my table. “I should go.”
    “Oh, but won’t you sit with us?” Sheba smiled at me brightly.
Sue, sitting opposite her, drummed her chubby fingers on the Formica table and frowned.
    “Well … ,” I said.
    “Oh, please do,” Sheba said. “We haven’t ordered yet.”
    Clearly, she had not been informed about the cold war between Sue and me. This came as both a relief and a vague disappointment. Was it possible that I had never even come up in their conversations?
    “Are you sure?” I said. “I don’t want to barge in on you …”
    “Don’t be silly,” Sheba said.
    “All right then.” I turned to the waiter. “I’ll sit here, thanks.”
    “Smashing!” Sheba shifted over to make room for me on her side of the booth. Sue lit a cigarette. Her expression suggested the kind of deeply private, strictly incommunicable anguish of someone who has just slammed the car door on her thumb.
    “Barbara was completely marvellous the other afternoon,” Sheba said, as we all examined the chalkboard menu on the wall above us. “I was on the verge of going loony with two of my H.C. boys. And she came along and saved the day.” She turned to me. “I hope I didn’t make you late for the head.”
    I shook my head. “I wish you had. Our meeting certainly didn’t deserve promptness.”
    “Oh dear,” she said. “It didn’t go well then?”
    “He didn’t like the report he made me write about the St. Albans business,” I said.
    “What did