Free In Loco Parentis by Nigel Bird Page B

chest.
    Rumour’s always been that the two have a thing going. I’ve been over to the music cupboards on a Friday after orchestra and could swear it’s full of the smells of sex. Could just be the scents of middle-age, mind.
    â€œMorning,” I say, cheerily as I can muster.
    They both reply in kind.
    â€œNice weekend?” I ask. Seems like a perfectly normal question.
    â€œFor God’s sake, man, stop mumbling,” Phil says. He’s got rubber cheeks that are far too big for his face and lips the size of Jagger’s. “You need to learn to annunciate.”
    He’s said it before. Usually shuts me up. Not this time.
    â€œSo what have you two been up to?” I wanted to settle things down when I came in, now I want to see him squirm.
    Should have known better that to think I was capable of achieving such a thing.
    â€œIf you don’t mind Mr Campion,” he says. I size him up wondering how I should start to tear him apart. “Some of us have work to do.” He’s bigger than me. Taller, broader, heavier. No matter, I’d have him in seconds. Put in the nut, I reckon, or go for the flab. As long as I took out some teeth and broke his nose it’d be worth whatever book they threw at me.
    He flounces off, sucking in his face like he’d rather be in drag.
    Mildred picks up her handbag and walks out too, leaving her cigarette burning in the ash-tray.
    Phil Carpenter heads upstairs, Mildred out through the door towards the playground.
    Me, I sit and roll a cigarette and wonder if what’s going on in their lives is any worse than what’s going on in mine.

the music lesson
    My class are sitting in the hall, legs crossed and struggling with the words.
    Daphne Duke’s kids are in the row behind and standing and singing out. She’s sitting on a chair, her back straight as a Roman road. In her white blouse and plain below the knee skirt, she looks like she slept through the Sixties.
    Carpenter’s face is red. He’s hitting the piano keys harder than usual. “For God’s sake,” he shouts and slams the piano lid down to get everyone’s attention.
    I look over at Daphne and she’s blushing. Probably wondering about what Jesus might do in this situation.
    Zulfi is oblivious to it all. He’s grabbing on to the wall-bars we’ll use for gym after break. Carpenter stamps across and brushes his hair behind his ears. Can’t even give a bollocking without preening himself first.
    â€œYou boy. What’s your name?”
    Zulfi stops what he’s doing at last. Looks up and there’s a finger pointing into his face. He doesn’t say anything, just sits straighter and folds his arms.
    â€œZulfikar,” I say.
    Carpenter’s lips twist into the expression of one who’s just stepped in shit. “Who?”
    â€œZulfi.”
    â€œWell Zulfi,” he says, “Can’t you read?” Course he can’t. He’s 5 and the words are written in a spider’s handwriting on a laminate sheet. All my work with Zulfikar is undone in that moment.
    It’s my job to step in. To go over and sort Carpenter out. But I’m a coward. I imagine muttering some defence and having it trashed in front of two classes. Instead of doing anything, I cling on to the radiators and let it pass.
    â€œWell Zulfi, let’s see some action here. Open your lips.” He mimes his lesson to the children. I’m surprised nobody pukes.
    Carpenter goes back to the piano and counts them in – one, two, three.
    Of course Zulfi goes for the wall-bars as soon as they’re past the first verse. I step over to go and sort it out.
    The piano stops and the floor shakes under the stomps.
    I turn my head and see him rage, looking like a bullfrog with a sun-tan.
    There’s nothing he can do to Zulfi, though. I’m right in his path. I reckon that just raises his temperature by another couple of