Equality is a wonderful idea.
But just how leopard-like does the kid have to be before it
can safely lie down with the leopard?
Or should we wait for the leopard to change its spots?
At the very beginning of this story, I gave a potted
description of myself. Perhaps I should enlarge on that. I
thought of myself as a rebel, but there is no such thing as
an old rebel. If a rebel survives long enough to outlive
the Establishment, then a new cause is required - or that
ageing rebel is in danger of becoming the Establishment. I
found my cause - training the next generation of the
rebellion.
My task? Trying to stop them from blowing the wheels off
the pushchair before they could walk. We had promised them
the Future, but they had to survive long enough to find a
Brave New World of their own.
The Latin and Art didn't help much, but my qualifications
in Social Security Form-Filling and Dole-Queue Waiting,
provided many a useful hint. When a student came to me,
struggling with difficult work tasks and feeling overloaded
with course-work and mystifying new concepts, I could help
them over the hump - that terrible moment that comes when
you strive your hardest, have expended all your energy, and
still, your goals seem unobtainable. A few wise words, a
steady shoulder, and a shared laugh at the recounting some
of my, more foolish youthful exploits.
A moment to take another breath, then one more step
forward. Then another ...
Still too smart to be conned by the System, but learning to keep my mouth shut. A fallen angel, perhaps, but one who enjoyed the company of sinners.
As a Laboratory Technician at the Lower Methil Annexe, I
made a point of being different. I fully supported the
teaching staff, but I was determined to form my own, unique
identity. The most obvious stand-out being the 'ice cream
coat'.
Laboratory technicians were supplied, as standard, with
long, white laboratory coats - the sort they show in
television adverts to give a product a veneer of scientific
credibility. We actually bought long, white 'food coats',
made of cotton and polyester. Much harder wearing than the
official nylon laboratory coats. The teaching staff in the
Radio, TV and Electronics Department wore lightweight grey
nylon jackets - absolutely useless when touched with a hot
iron. You can safely clean the tip of a hot soldering iron
with the sleeve of a food coat.
The only fault with a 'food coat' was the length. I was
never a fan of dusters and frock coats, so a new food coat
was immediately 'tailored'. A prompt surgical removal of
the surplus length below the bottom pockets, produced a
stylish ice cream coat. A quick stitching of a bottom hem,
the application of an iron (a domestic - not soldering -
variety), and I became a laboratory technician with style.
Two bottom pockets for the odd hand tool, cigarette packet
and lighter, one breast pocket for the selection of
coloured pens, and two slits above the bottom pockets
provided an easy access to the trouser pockets and a
discrete way to scratch any itches.
The Motor Vehicle Department and the Electrical
Installation Department favoured a long, brown food coat.
They tended to get somewhat dirtier than the Electronics
people. They looked very similar to the brown coats worn by
BBC technical staff, to differentiate the workers from the
celebrities and other non-working TV people.
Rico Napier wore a suit, and smoked roll-your-owns.
Archibald McCrae, the Janitor, wore a boiler suit. Of
course!
Any male staff, who came from the main College in
Kirkcaldy, wore suits, waistcoats and ties. Their kind of
dirty work never required any kind of overall.
Miss Penelope Pillan, the Principal's Secretary, looked
good, whatever she wore.
Working at the Lower Methil Annexe, had its points: good,
bad, or merely difficult.
Amongst the good points was a certain freedom from
authority. We were a long way from the bureaucracy of the
main College in Kirkcaldy. Rico Napier led the Methil team
- never pushed it. And, providing the required work was
done, no-one was overly concerned about how it
happened.
The bad points were few. The wages were not excessive, and
a few hours at night-school were required to top up my bank
balance. Due to a bureaucratic determination - that
laboratory technicians cannot work overtime - my actual job
title at night-school was 'Demonstrator'. As a life-time
casual anarchist, it appealed to me to be paid, by 'The
System'; to be an accredited 'Demonstrator'. Bizarrely,
being a 'Demonstrator', in the employ of Fife Education
Authority, made me a 'Civil Officer'. Not a 'Civil
Servant', you may note!
The difficult points revolved around my position in the
College. Despite being universally addressed as 'surr!" by
the students, I had no real authority. I was not in the
chain of command. I gave no orders (well, no 'official'
orders, that is!). Yet the students seemed to consider me
the leading authority on all matters not directly related
to the College and the Curriculum.
The students soon learnt that grey coats riddled with burn
marks meant Radio & TV, brown coats meant Electrical,
and grease-stained brown coats meant Motor Vehicle.
Students knew whom to approach when they needed the answer
to an appropriate question.
All other questions? They came to me - the guy with the ice
cream coat.
"Where is the best place tae buy a cheap pint?"
"The East Dock Bar. They'll let anyone in who has money in
their pocket."
A fine establishment for any drinker who has zero social
aspiration.
"How can I win at 3-card brag?"
"Easy! Don't play cards."
Sadly, no-one ever took that advice.
"Can we claim student bus-travel expenses when we cadge a
lift to the College from one of the staff?"
"Only if you hand over half of the money to the person who
owns the car and pays for the petrol."
Strangely, no student was ever amenable to sharing their
ill-gotten gains!
Where I did have a problem was in the 'Agony Aunt'
department. I was only a few years older than most of the
students, and my romantic adventures were, to be honest,
like churches in Methil - few, and far between.
Unfortunately, after the affair (probably not the most
accurate word) of the Snooker Match, the term before, I
seemed to have acquired the status of the Don Juan of Lower
Methil. True, I had played a game of snooker with Miss
Penelope Pillan, the Principal's secretary, and the evening
had concluded rather well. But, according to the Annexe
gossip, I had 'conquered the Ice Queen', scored the highest
break, and survived to tell the tale. Anything that I tried
to say, any denial, only magnified the legend.
I will admit that I had found Miss Pillan to be a
fascinating person, but she still terrified me. She was
remorselessly intelligent, suffered no fools, and had
visited places that I had only encountered in books. I was
only a young, inexperienced laboratory technician. From the
little about Miss Pillan that I had discovered, she was
older than me. For a young man, that is difficult. Those
few years had forged an impassible barrier. I felt young,
foolish, and full of doubt.
The students had no doubt at all! I was the expert, and on
matters of a romantic nature, they came to ask 'The Man'!
With the advantage of my extra years, and the lack of any
contradicting party, I was able to answer (or dodge around)
the nervous questions.
Or had been able to answer. Till this year, when the East Fife Technical College Lower Methil Annexe admitted the first female students on Pre-Apprenticeship courses. In the space of a few weeks, the Annexe had changed from an industrial monastery to a co-educational equal-opportunity centre-of-learning. It was then that the questions became more varied, and much more difficult. We were all forced to adapt. Evolution or revolution.
We were all, profoundly grateful that I had discovered the Ladies, only a few months before. The Ladies' toilets, of course. I had noticed that Ladies (the female of the species as opposed to the male) existed some time before that. I just did not have a great understanding of Ladies in general. This made me an expert in a College where the average student was barely aware of the existence of human beings who buttoned their coats on the other side. They all came to me for fatherly/brotherly advice. To 'The Man' who was terrified by the Principal's secretary. I was indeed fortunate that, with their visual impairment, they could not see the blindfold that I wore.
The first day of a new term might be busy for most people
at the Lower Methil Annexe, but not for a laboratory
technician. The full-time teaching staff had a nice long
summer holiday (one of those terrible burdens that have to
be suffered if you are a teacher) but the support staff
only got a fortnight. So in those weeks where the teachers
and students were struggling to acquire a Leven Beach
suntan, and the College lay empty, all the little jobs that
had been neglected all year, were done. In the final week
before the new term, I even did a little floor sweeping and
window cleaning to fill in the time.
I did say empty, but, in fact, the janitor occasionally
became confused with the drink, and remembered to turn up.
And so, on that first day of the new co-educational term,
with nothing of consequence on my schedule, I settled
myself comfortably in a little niche under the Angel, and
watched the new students arrive. I was curious to see what
equal opportunity would bring.
New students are easy to spot. They arrive early (or
dreadfully late due to ignorance of bus times and routes).
The old hands turn up just in time. New students become
confused with a building that resembles a picture house,
and spend a moment or two, deciding which one of the four
front doors is the correct one.
I could see the first two figures of the new intake,
hesitate outside before choosing Door Number 2! Sadly, this
was the Lower Methil Annexe of East Fife Technical College,
and we did not present door prizes. Although, I must
confess, the first figure through the door was attractive
enough to deserve one.
The first entrant was a classic beauty. She was tall for a
Methil girl, elegant, with a well formed face framed by
long, dark flowing hair. Much, much more appealing than our
usual Annexe inmate.
I found myself staring at her, possibly a little longer
than good manners would allow. There was something about
her face. I was certain that I had never met her before,
yet there was a fleeting familiarity.
Before I could make any further conjectures, her companion bustled through the doorway. An inch or two shorter, but heavier built, the second girl sported a shock of flagrant red hair. The freckled face, the healthy complexion and determined smile as she hefted a large kit-bag, made me think of Highland Games and ladies' sporting events. Not lawn bowls - I was certain of that - but something involving hockey sticks and compound fractures. Or possibly even cabers ...
I stopped staring at the first girl because the second was
staring at me. Possibly as the next event. I blinked
first.
The Highland Amazon turned, and said a few words to the
Classic Beauty, who looked around, considered for a moment,
then smiled . and pointed to me. Being the only person
wearing a white lab-coat, in fact, the only other person
around, I was the obvious one to ask.
As they approached, I prepared my "Welcome to the Lower
Methil Annexe" speech. Before I could get in the first
word, the kit-bag was grounded a fraction of an inch away
from my toes, and cheery, freckled face demanded ...
"Heh, Jimmy! Where's the Ladies?"
Obviously a believer in subtlety and charm.
Her friend regarded her with a wry smile and a hint of
admonishment.
"Helen! That is no way to ask anyone!"
"It is if yer needin tae go!"
Definitely a Fifer. Possibly not Methil - but certainly no
further than Pittenweem or Cupar, and I had misgivings
about the term 'lady'. My day was developing all kind of
previously unsuspected possibilities.
I abandoned the nascent welcome speech, and focused on a
subject that was truly within my area of expertise. As the
discoverer, only the term before, of the Lower Methil
Annexe Ladies' Powder Room, I was uniquely qualified to
answer the question.
"Are ye goin tae stand there all day, Mister?"
Sometimes, all you can do is stand there and look stupid. I
managed to do that quite well.
"Helen!"
That elegant face turned to me. Offered an apology.
"I sorry, Mister ... ?" She encouraged.
"Collins. Neil Collins." At least I managed that
much.
"Mister Collins. I must apologise for my friend Helen. She
does tend to be a trifle blunt at times. Helen! Please
apologise." Helen thought about it for a moment, then
opened up with a smile that would be the envy of the
Cheshire Cat.
"Oh! All right then. Just cause ah like ye!"
I murmured a faint acceptance. What happened to people she
didn't like? Suddenly, I found myself wondering what was in
the kit-bag. Not that I had any intention of asking.
Ever!
"Mister Collins?"
Obviously, the dark-haired girl was used to the paralysing
effect of the direct questions favoured by her friend. I
pulled myself away from contemplation of the Kit-Bag and
its theoretical contents.
"Yes. Miss ... ?"
"Weronika. Weronika Lewitsky."
She pronounced the 'w' as a 'v'.
"And this is my friend Helen Anderson."
The Kit-Bag owner confirmed this with a nodded grin.
I finally managed to lever my derailed welcome speech back
on to the track.
"Ladies! Welcome to the Lower Methil Annexe of East Fife
Technical College. I am the Laboratory Technician. If you
have any requirements, just let me know."
My brief smile was terminated by a meaningful nudge of the
Kit-Bag.
"The Ladies! Big man! Where's the Ladies?"
I pointed across the foyer, to the door with the newly
refurbished brass sign.
"Just across there."
Helen swept up the Kit-Bag and aimed for the Ladies.
Weronika took a moment to thank me, before following her
friend. Such a haunting smile. So familiar, but, as yet,
un-placeable.
I watched them as they crossed the foyer. Helen spoke to
Weronika as they approached the door leading to the Ladies.
At that distance, I could not hear, and, with her face
turned away, I could not attempt to lip read. Weronika
glanced in my direction as she replied.
"He's nice. But he's too old, Helen."
Thankfully, they vanished through the door before my
embarrassment became obvious.
To my eternal relief, Helen Anderson - one of the new
Pre-Apprentice students - was not really interested in me.
For someone who could be described as 'sturdy' or 'robust',
there was only place where she could naturally choose to
park her Kit-Bag. Next to Podge Cunningham. If there ever
was a case of love at first sight, it was those two. Both
were in the heavyweight division.
Podge might be a bit slow when it came to talking, but
Helen could talk enough for two. A perfect match.
Other, would-be, romantic notions would only be resolved
with time, effort, and the occasional punch-up! The Annexe
might have gone co-educational, but there were only a
handful of girls compared to a football crowd of boys. This
did not seem to present a problem to the girls. Indeed, I
suspect that they rather enjoyed their status. Teenage
girls tend to more mature than comparable-aged boys. In a
situation where words failed to deter the rutting male, the
female knee proved to be extremely effective.
Fortunately, the Lower Methil Annexe was not burdened with
too many of the old, decrepit traditions ...
"A woman can't do a man's job."
"Women are too flighty and unreliable."
"They might get pregnant!"
Only with some assistance from the opposite sex, so I am
informed!
"Men are the wage earners. Women only work for pin
money."
"Women are too weak and fragile for some jobs."
Obviously, someone who had not yet encountered our delicate
little Helen!
The teaching staff tended to open-minded, and the students
had minds that were malleable - their opinions had not yet
fossilised into the bedrock of society.
Now that we were co-educational, I was asked some questions
that had never arisen before.
"Surr! D'ye think ah'm guid lookin?"
"Helen. I don't really think that qualifies as an
appropriate question to ask any member of the College
staff!"
"That's why ah'm askin you, Surr!"
The was just the first day! Already, I was too old, too
young, and too confused to think. Fortunately, thinking
does not play a large part in the educational
process.
Not then. Not now.
It was time to start work.
On that first day of the new co-educational year, Rico
Napier had co-opted Miss Penelope Pillan as an adviser to
the Methil teaching staff. She would also provide a female
contact point for the new girls. All good, sensible stuff.
Miss Pillan had informed the Principal, in Kirkcaldy, that
this was a 'good idea', and he had readily agreed. Miss
Pillan could be extremely persuasive. He may even have
believed that it was 'all his idea'.
She had also determined that I could play a useful part,
and I was promptly summoned to the meeting in Rico Napier's
office.
When I entered the office, Rico was fiddling with his
cigarette-rolling machine. In all the time that I had known
him, I had never seen Rico actually rolling a cigarette. I
had always presumed that the rolling ritual must require
some intense concentration, and was not possible when
others were present. I simply never knew. I always bought
my cigarettes by the packet.
Miss Pillan, a total non-smoker, watched with interest.
Marvelling at Rico's dexterity as he assembled a
roll-up.
Hold the machine in the left hand. Separate the two rollers
by running a finger along the cloth wrapped around them.
Select a pinch of tobacco with the right hand - generous
pinch for a big smoke, a few shreds for a parsimonious
puff. Sprinkle the tobacco into the trench formed between
the rollers. Correct any unevenness in the density.
Push the two rollers together, and use the left thumb to
effect a trial roll. Select a cigarette paper from the
packet, and insert the non-adhesive end into the tiny gap
between the closed rollers. Use the left thumb again, to
draw the paper into the machine, effectively wrapping up
the tobacco.
Wet the tongue, then slide the machine past the mouth,
lightly moistening the strip of adhesive on the
paper.
Another roll of the thumb, and the paper disappears inside
the rollers. A short pause, then pop apart the rollers.
Like some fairground conjurer, a completed roll-up appears
for final inspection.
I had tried, once, to manufacture a roll-your-own. Money
had been in short supply. The same could be said for
expertise. I ended up with a scattering of tobacco stuck to
a soggy piece of crumpled paper. Like a very cheap and
nasty macaroon bar!
After that miserable attempt, if I couldn't afford to buy a
packet of cigarettes, I managed to live without. Rico could
afford the ready-made variety. He just liked to make his
own.
"Good morning, Neil."
Rico gestured towards Miss Pillan. Like all good magicians,
Rico took advantage of the mis-direction, and made the
cigarette machine disappear.
"Penelope has come here, at my request, to assist us with
the new, female student intake."
Another twist of the wrist, and the newly created roll-up
was slipped into the top pocket of his jacket.
"She has some good ideas on how to deal with the
administration side of things. I feel that she would be an
asset to the Annexe, when it comes to the paperwork.
However ..."
Some words always make you pay very close attention. Rico
was about to play the 3-card trick!
". when it comes to matters of a more personal nature,
Penelope feels that some assistance may be
necessary."
That first card was a King. Miss Pillan looked at me with
neutral expression, but I was sure that the eyes were
keeping their own secrets.
"Thomas has told me ..."
'Thomas'? I always called Rico 'Mister Napier' or
'Sir!'
"... that you have an excellent, informal relationship with
the students. That you have often dealt with emerging
problems without involving the College in an 'official
capacity'. Situations where the students would be reluctant
to approach bureaucrats like myself."
Next card - a Queen. Now she was smiling. It was my turn to
put up the straight face. My career, as an independent
trader (and laboratory technician), had been moderately
successful, up till now. Was my little dog-and-pony show
about to be cancelled 'for the duration'?
Rico cut in.
"If I may, Penelope. I think what Miss Pillan is trying to
say is this. The students know you, and trust you. They'll
come to you when they would be most reluctant to approach
me."
I was a wheeler-dealer myself. I knew a pitch when I heard
one. I kept the face unchanged. I waited for Rico to turn
over the last card.
"Would you be prepared to help Miss Pillan get organised
during her stay here? Offer her some informal guidance.
Help her to make contact with the students."
I had to rewind that last bit. Did Rico say 'stay here'.
Where on earth would she be able to set up her tent?
Not in Rico's office. That was 'official' territory.
Not in the Staff Room, nor the Student Common Room. No
privacy.
And she could hardly pitch that tent in the Ladies.
That only left one place!
The broadening smile on Penelope Pillan's face, convinced
me once more, that she was adept at mind reading.
"We thought, perhaps, that you could easily fit another
desk into your workshop. Share premises, so to speak. I am
certain that we could come to an arrangement."
Before I could reply, Rico stood up, then walked around to
the office door.
"Must go. I have a meeting with the teaching staff."
I could have sworn that he was concealing a grin, as he
nodded to Miss Pillan.
"I'll leave you two to discuss the details."
His last card lay uncovered. An Ace.
"Thank you very much, Mister Napier."
Well, words almost like that!
He was gone, and I was left with Miss Pillan. This was
going to be difficult.
At the end of the previous term, I had spent a wonderful evening with Penny, playing snooker and being the leading man in a Methil western. A man doing what a man's gotta do! But this was work, and there was no place for personal affairs in the Annexe. She was the Principal's Secretary, for Heaven's sake! And older than me.
"Well, Miss Pillan, welcome to the Annexe. It seems that we
will be working together."
The formality of my welcome brought a passing shadow over
her smile.
"Thank you, Mister Collins. I know that we will be able to
work, together."
The room felt colder. I put it down to the Janitor, and his
equally reluctant heating boiler. Miss Pillan and I, we had
always spoken to each other this way. Why would we
change?
"Because we had a great evening together, you idiot."
I stifled that thought. Work is work.
"If you have any questions, Miss Pillan, perhaps I can make
a start by answering them?"
Miss Pillan thought for a moment.
"Why does everybody call Mister Napier 'Rico'? His name is
Thomas, not Richard"
That was not a question that I had expected. Not a 'Miss
Pillan' question at all! I picked up the packet of
cigarette papers that Mister Napier had left on his desk. I
held them out to Miss Pillan, for inspection. The name, on
the front, stood out in gold. 'Rico. Fine Papers for the
Roll-Up Artist'
"Oh! I never realised."
So Miss Pillan was not an expert in everything. I felt
happier, for that.
"Shall we retire to the drawing room?"
With confidence, comes a little humour. Miss Pillan looked
at me with raised eyebrows.
"My workshop. We can see about arranging a desk."
The smile reminded me of Penny. Formality had become
unimportant.
Thinking back, it occurs to me that Penny was even cleverer than I thought.
As we left Rico's office, the clatter of brass-bound doors,
and the sound of the approaching student menagerie, caught
our attention.
"Aw, look! It's Penny Lope with surr! Is there another
Snooker match on the go?"
A shocked student mass suddenly distanced itself from the
unfortunate individual who had addressed the formidable
Miss Pillan as 'Penny Lope'!
Realising his dread error, the lone student looking around
for a sword to throw himself on.
"Good morning, Mister Rankine."
Penny delivered her greeting without the slightest tingle
of ice.
Reprieved from the shadow of the gallows, young Mister
Rankine stuttered a quick "Hello Miss Pillan, Mister
Collins" before fleeing to blend in with the safety and
protection of the herd.
The crowd parted before us ( Miss Pillan had that effect!),
and we began to ascend the stairs to my office. Halfway up
the stairs, Penny stopped, her arm lightly braced against
the banister. I followed her gaze - she was looking
intently at the Angel above Rico's door. The small hand of
familiarity tugged at the edge of my mind, but before I
could follow that thought, Penny spoke.
"She is beautiful."
"Yes. She is."
There was a sense of confusion in my mind. Who was I
referring to? I could not say with any certainty.
"So lifelike. I wonder who she was."
If anyone had ever asked me questions on my specialised
subject - this was it!
"Her name was Svetlana."
Penny turned to me. Wide-eyed. Questions forming on her
lips.
I smiled. Shook my head. I had the moment, and I was
determined to savour it.
"Later. When we have time. Business first!"
"Mister Collins! You can be an exasperating man!"
I shrugged.
"You, Miss Pillan, can be a demanding woman!"
We confronted each other for a moment. Half way up the
stairs, hand on the hilt of our swords. That Errol Flynn
moment.
"We work together. Colleagues, work-mates, call it what you
will. Wouldn't it be simpler if we just used given
names?"
I'm not saying if that was me, or if that was Penny.
A pause. Then smiles.
The two 'OK's came as one.
All I had to do now, was find room for a desk in my
workshop. My cluttered, over-filled, semi-organised
workshop. Penny failed to hide the look of professional
dismay, as she surveyed the jumble before her.
"Neil! This place is a tip!"
"Penny! This is MY tip!"
A moment. A sigh.
"Our little tip.
The first year of the Co-educational Annexe brought its own
set of problems.
Many of those problems were solved with the aid and
assistance of Miss Penelope Pillan, the Principal's
Secretary from the main College in Kirkcaldy. Released from
her normal duties at the request of Rico Napier, Miss
Pillan dealt with the new problems that came to the Lower
Methil Annexe in its first year as a co-educational
College.
Despite my misgivings, Penelope Pillan and I rapidly
achieved a sound working relationship. In any formal
situation - for example, speaking to the students - we were
Miss Pillan and Mister Collins. When only the two of us
were present, I called her Penny, and she called me Neil.
Although we now shared the same workshop, we became quite
relaxed about personal differences; I smoked as I worked,
and did not object when the open workshop window became a
permanent fixture. It took me two hours, and the
application of a hammer, screwdriver and crowbar, to loosen
thirty years of petrified paint.
Miss Pillan had a delicate, but extremely persuasive cough.
Penny appreciated fresh air.
There was the odd argument. Not too often, but they did not
intrude on our otherwise harmonious working relationship.
One particular Tuesday, I was busy assembling prototype
wiring boards for the Radio, TV & Electronics class.
Penny was working through the class registers; checking the
attendances and making sure that we had not misplaced a
reluctant student or two. I was beavering away. Fit a
component here, twist a wire, solder a joint. I enjoyed
working with my hands. Another soldered joint, a pause for
reflection, a quick check of the circuit diagram. My
cigarette smouldered in the ashtray. I put down the
soldering iron, picked up the cigarette, and enjoyed a
contented puff.
Circuits are like words. Put a few together. The cigarette
acted as punctuation. Short pause - a comma. Long pause - a
period. On to the next sentence.
Penny looked up from her truancy check, and asked me a
question.
"Have you seen Campbell Hutcheson recently?"
I stopped in mid-solder. I had to think about the name for
a moment. Very few people ever used his given name; he was
Too Hot Hutcheson to almost everybody. I put down the
soldering iron.
"I haven't seen him since last week, now that you mention
it."
I reached out towards the ashtray, intending to have
another puff as I contemplated the whereabouts of Campbell
Too Hot Hutcheson. The distraction confused my intentions.
I picked up the hot soldering iron, and placed it against
my lips.
"Oh my goodness, I appear to have been foolish, and burned
myself."
With a lady present, it would have been nice to have
actually said that. Or, even better, not to have done
something so utterly stupid. What I did say was ...
[multiple expletives deleted] I'm sure that you can fill in the blanks!
After the shock of the pain, and the greater shock of the
self-generated idiocy, I could only offer a mumbled apology
to Miss Pillan. Penny was beside me in an instant. She
picked up the abandoned soldering iron and slid it back
into its holder.
"Are you all right?"
She reached to touch my face. She had only gentle concern
for my pain. Like a fool, I buried myself in my
embarrassment, and pulled away. What man likes to
demonstrate his incompetence in front of a woman.
Penny held herself back. Miss Pillan took charge of the
situation.
"Mister Collins! Don't be a baby!"
My male insecurity was taking a beating.
"We will have to do something about that burn before it
gets worse."
Before I could protest, Miss Pillan strode to the First Aid
box, fitted on the wall beside the door. She grasped the
handle, and pulled. The box was clipped firmly to the wall,
and the clip refused to budge. No matter! The fixing screws
were simply torn away from the wall. A momentary raise of
an eyebrow chided the recalcitrant First Aid box. Miss
Pillan placed the box on the bench, in front of me. The lid
opened easily; obviously convinced by the fate of the wall
fixing.
Even Miss Pillan must have been dismayed by the contents of
the First Aid Box. No matter how often we checked them, the
Annexe First Aid Boxes were subject to repeated predation,
and rarely contained a full set of anything - with the
exception of triangular bandages. No-one ever stole the
triangular bandages. Not even to deal with a sniffley
cold.
Even the old, standard joke - the packet of three Woodbine
cigarettes - failed. Someone had smoked them.
No salve. No burn ointment. No pain-killers. Just the
bandages, and a resident earwig. This was going to be a
real challenge for Miss Pillan.
Cometh the moment; cometh the woman! Miss Pillan pulled a
travel bag, out from under her desk. A quick search
produced a tube of lip-salve. She knelt down in front of
me, and the cool, soothing balm was applied to the
burn.
I waited till she was finished. In appreciation and relief,
I babbled out the first words that popped into my
head.
"Are you going to kiss it better?"
"Mister Collins!"
The shock and outrage should have nailed me to the spot,
impaled on the spike of my own foolish words. But I could
sense that, behind the indignation, there was the faint
trace of something warmer. A suggestion of interest.
Feeling bolder - and I could hardly place the blame on the
medication - I peered at the earwig, scurrying around on a
field of triangular bandages.
"Seeing as we appear to have acquired a new pet, don't you
think that we should give it a name?"
Miss Pillan bent over for a closer look at our new house
guest. A muffled squeak. Then that chuckle that I was
becoming ever fonder to me.
"Mister Collins! Really!"
Penny looked straight at me. There were tears in her eyes.
Her shoulders shook. She clung to me for support.
"Ah'm no interruptin anythin important, ah'm I?"
Campbell Too Hot Hutcheson, lately of the College
Attendance Register, stood in the doorway.
Speak of the devil and he is sure to appear. Usually with
utterly inappropriate timing.
"Come in, Mister Hutcheson."
I held his attention while Penny discretely dabbed away the
tears. With a feeling of resignation, and the knowledge
that the moment had passed, I addressed the Annexe's
favourite Pantomime Villain.
"What can we do for you?"
Hutcheson sidled up to me - the Huckster seeking the
confidence of the Mark. All done with Hutcheson's misguided
notion of a stage whisper.
"Ah wiz wonderin if ah could have a wee word wi' ye,
Surr?"
He tilted the side of his head in the direction of Penny,
and performed a series of strange, jerking nods. Subtly
(only in his opinion) indicating that he was aware of the
presence of Miss Pillan.
"Kind o' confidential, like. If ye ken whit ah mean."
The wink only made his manner even more bizarre.
Penny, needed all the self control that years of Miss
Pillan had accumulated.
"I will leave you two, alone."
There was a slight tremor to her voice.
"I have a few matters to attend to."
Miss Pillan walked briskly, out into the corridor.
I might have been mistaken; did I hear a faint squeak as
she disappeared down the stairs?
"OK! Mister Hutcheson. What do you want?"
Perhaps a chuckle as she vanished into the Ladies?
Too Hot Hutcheson edged the workshop door closed with his
foot. If he had been the owner of a flat cap, it would have
been gripped between both hands; slowly being wrung with
Dickensian working-class anguish. It all looked a bit
familiar.
"This wouldn't be about another motorbike, and yet another,
freely given offer of my services, by any chance?"
I expected the usual Hutcheson misinterpretation of irony;
the eager acceptance of an offer that had never been made.
Instead, he gave the imaginary cap another twist.
"No! No, Surr. Nothin like that. It's kind o' personal, an'
ah thought that you might be able to help me oot. Put in a
word, mebbe."
I reached across, and switched off the soldering iron. It
didn't look like I would be getting much work done. My sore
lip was responding well to the prompt First Aid from Penny.
My thoughts in that direction, would have to wait.
"Tell me about your 'personal' problem, Mister
Hutcheson."
"It's aboot a wummin, Surr!"
I sat up, abruptly. I hadn't really expected woman trouble,
so soon into the co-educational year. Without waiting for
details; without thinking it through, I jumped straight to
conclusions.
"Mister Hutcheson! Don't tell me that you have managed to
get some girl . pregnant?"
Too Hot Hutcheson stopped twisting his metaphorical flat
cap. He stared at me as if I was mad. I certainly could not
blame him.
"What! Me! How would ah manage that?"
Fortunately, I managed to stop myself before I could
prattle on with a 'birds and bees' lecture!
"Then, you haven't ... er..."
Hutcheson gave me such a look.
"No, Surr! Ah've no gaun an' done that!"
The melancholy look returned, accompanied by the cap
twisting.
"No much chance o' that. No wi' mah luck!"
I carefully composed my next query. No need to put my foot
in, again.
"OK. Tell me all about your problem."
The normally confident Hutcheson, struggled to find the
words. This was not the flamboyant Pantomime character that
we all knew, loved, and locked up our goods whenever he was
present.
"It's Weronika. Weronika Lewitsky. Her in the Pre-App
class."
Hutcheson hesitated. I nodded encouragement. He started to
form a statement - then stopped. He blushed. Too Hot
Hutcheson actually blushed! It was turning out to be a
really strange day!
Hutcheson looked up at some imagined sight, then sighed.
After a moment, he turned back to me.
"Ah kind o' fancy her."
Now, I understood the forlorn look; the sheep's eyes. Too
Hot Hutcheson was in love. Young romance in the happening.
The Pantomime Villain, falling for the Maiden. Not at all
in Too Hot Hutcheson's script! I had to admire the focus of
his intentions. Weronika Lewitsky was a real looker.
I interrupted his daydream.
"Mister Hutcheson! If I might repeat myself? What seems to
be the problem?"
"She's no goin' tae fancy somebody like me, is she?"
"And why not?"
I was curious to know the answer.
"Cause who'd want anythin tae dae wi' a crook like
me?"
His expression was so tragic. I could only do one thing. I
laughed.
The sorrow in his eyes turned to anger. His fists clenched
till the knuckles turned white. I held up my hands in
surrender, before he could hit me.
"Just hold it a moment, Mister Hutcheson. Before you end up
in front of Mister Napier, will you listen to me?"
He stopped. The anger subsided into misery.
"You just think the same, Surr. Naebody fancies a crook. Ah
wiz wrong tae come and ask yer advice. Ah thought that you
would help me out. What, wi' you and Miss Pillan, ah
thought that you would be an expert on how tae pull a
wummin. Could gi'e me a few tips, like."
I couldn't help it. I had to laugh again. My reputation, as
the Don Juan of Methil, was grossly overvalued. And Too Hot
Hutcheson actually believed it!
"Campbell! What have I told you, before?"
He was puzzled. He struggled, and failed, to find an
answer.
"I asked you 'Who was the bigger crook?'."
He thought for a moment.
"Aye, you did, Surr!"
"And who is the bigger crook, Mister Hutcheson?"
He was starting to catch on. Behind the patter, he had a
good mind.
"You are, Surr!"
"And who sits right next to Miss Pillan every day?"
His expression brightened.
"You do, Surr!"
I could see the Hutcheson Calculator grinding away. It
would not take long for Hutcheson to get his mind straight.
I give his thought one more nudge.
"Mister Hutcheson. She's a nice lass. Intelligent. I don't
think that you will need all your usual palaver. Just play
it straight - no ducking and diving. Drop the phoney
image."
He looked at me, but his eyes were contemplating a whole,
new way of presenting himself to the world. I put in the
last word of advice.
"Just talk to her. Who knows? She might just talk
back."
Campbell Hutcheson smiled.
"D'ye really think so, Surr?"
I opened the door, and ushered him out into the corridor.
He had classes, and I had work to do. Before I switched on
the soldering iron, and started back on soldering
prototypes, I gave my advice to Hutcheson, one brief
review.
"Just play it straight. Drop the phoney image."
This from the man who played the game like a small town
magician; who wore an ice cream coat where no-one could see
what his hands were doing. I could recognise hypocrisy when
I see it, but I was never very good at taking my own
advice. I 'fancied' Penelope Pillan, as Mister Hutcheson
would say, but did not know how to deal with my doubts.
Sometimes, if you look real close, you cannot see what you are looking at.
The first co-educational term at the Lower Methil Annexe passed swiftly. Working with Penelope Pillan had turned out to be an interesting experience. I called her Penny; she called me Neil. We worked together on matters of mutual concern. If I said something silly, she would put me right - a less painful process than it had been a year ago. If she said something silly . well, I would struggle to think of an example. She had a brilliant mind; incisive, organised, able to deal with the multitude of problems that Annexe life threw up.
Don't get me wrong. I have no prejudice against intelligent
women. In fact, I much prefer them to women who think a
bubbly smile can substitute for a few working brain cells.
Unlike some, so-called 'intelligent men', I do not believe
that a woman should be 'bright, but not quite as bright as
a man'. I have a good, working brain; there is no modesty
required, neither do I boast about it.
I do occasionally fall for the mistaken belief that I am
cleverer than I really am. That is not a problem. Nature
has evolved a way of correcting such mistakes. She is
called Miss Penelope Pillan!
We would have seemed the ideal couple. Most of the staff
and students seemed to think so, and I caught the faintest
whisper that someone was running a sweep-stake on Penny and
myself. My bet was on Too Hot Hutcheson being that
'someone'! I had no intention of ever tracking down this
Annexe fantasy. I had inside information; you can't put a
bet on yourself!
Penny and I worked together. Worked well. But staff
romances rarely ended in happiness. (I have no idea where I
gathered that particular strand of romantic folklore). She
was a woman of the world; I was a simple laboratory
technician. She was older than me; somehow, that trivial
fact seemed relevant. She was by far, the most qualified of
the two of us. I had seen her name on an envelope that had
been delivered from the main College in Kirkcaldy.
Miss Penelope Pillan PhD
I had achieved a Distinction in the City & Guilds
Radio, TV & Electronics examination, by the most
devious back-door route that could be imagined. She could
call herself Doctor Pillan, if she had wished. She never
did.
Why would such a woman ever take any personal interest in
me?
I considered myself to be professional. I would not let my personal thoughts intrude into the workplace. I had managed to function efficiently, and correctly, alongside people such as Roger McNichol, our one-time Physical Education Teacher, without resorting to physical violence. (except as a last resort!) Surely, it would be so much easier to work beside someone that I liked, and respected?
That first term had been exceptionally busy. Man had taken
his first, faltering steps on the moon. Half a million
people had spent three days struggling through the mud and
rain, listening to the Woodstock Festival. I had all the
store-room stock-taking to do; counting the contents of all
the storage drawers and writing out the purchase orders for
components that we would need in the next term. I would
work out all the numbers, then deliver them to Rico
Napier's office. He would forward them to the main College
in Kirkcaldy. The College Accountant would automatically
cut the numbers in half, with scant regard for need nor
reason. The Principal would give them a cursory glance,
then pen out anything that he deemed excessive. The
heavily-edited purchase orders were then returned to the
Annexe, marked 'for the attention of Ms. P. Pillan'. Penny
might have been seconded to the Lower Methil Annexe but she
was still expected to perform all the clerical duties of
the Principal's Secretary.
I knew how the system worked. I took the number that I
first thought of, then doubled it. I sent duplicates of
everything. Rico Napier never quibbled; he sent all the
paperwork (unexpurgated) to Kirkcaldy. Kirkcaldy never
realised that 'duplicated' meant two copies, so treated it
all as one order. Then halved it under instruction of the
Accountant. Finally, the Principal would chop out a few
random savings 'on principle'. The arithmetic was simple:
Original Purchase Order = £100 [for example]
Purchase Order multiplied by 2 [by me] = £200
Purchase Order plus Duplicate Purchase Order [Kirkcaldy] =
£400
Purchase Order divided by 2 [Accountant] = £200
Purchase Order minus 25% [Principal] = £150
Everyone was happy; the Accountant had achieved massive savings, the Principal had trimmed away any frivolous excesses, and I ended up with 50% more than I absolutely needed. The surplus stock was then traded in barter for those things that money just can't buy!
Penny would spend hours at her desk, wading through a quagmire of paperwork. I could always tell when she reached any Purchase Orders that had originated in my workshop. The brows would furrow, her eyes would take on the 'thousand yard stare', as she battled with a logic system that defied logic. She would then snatch a quick glance at me, if she thought that I was focused elsewhere. There would be the 'sigh of inevitability', then the pen scratch of approval. She was only seconding a motion that had already been passed in Kirkcaldy. Creative accounting in action.
At the end of the day, we had a chance to talk.
"Neil. May I ask you something?"
I was alone in my workshop with a stunningly attractive
woman. If any question could skip a heartbeat, that would
be the one. I nodded; breathing could wait.
"Who was Svetlana?"
That was not on my Top Ten list of possible questions.
There was a transient feeling of disappointment, then
breathing recommenced. I had promised that I would tell her
the story. Now was as good a time as any. I had an
attentive audience, and I made the story ring.
I started with the 'over-large' store-room, and the
accumulated junk of ages. The obvious clue - a large brass
sign - and the mysterious breeze that drew away the
cigarette smoke. Penny moved closer, the better to hear my
tale.
Of course, I gave my part of the story a little polish, and
I did make the demolition of the partition wall sound more
dramatic than it possibly was in truth, but Penny didn't
mind. Her eyes shone like a child at their first
picture-house matinee; her first viewing of some 'sword and
sandal' epic. OK, I'll never be as good looking as Charlton
Heston and the 'sword' was a brass sign saying 'Ladies';
nevertheless I managed to bring my own sense of magic to
the stage.
"... and that is why we have a Ladies Powder Room in what
was, for many years, a male-only preserve!"
Penny could not resist clapping with glee. That chuckle;
reward enough for my story telling. She reached out and
touched my arm.
"Svetlana! Where does Svetlana come in to the story?"
I could feel the warmth of her fingers. I hurried on with
the story.
"There was a reason why Mister McCrae could not enter that
room. As a child, he had accidentally wandered into the
Ladies, and upset Svetlana. The original model for the
Angel!"
Penny was entranced.
"She must have been truly beautiful!"
"She was."
She might have been held captive by the story, but Penny
had a burning curiosity that always searched for answers.
It occurred to me that she had a mind like mine in some
ways. Her fingers pressed insistently on my arm. Her eyes
fixed on to mine. The room became warmer.
"How do you know all this, Neil."
I seized the opportunity to break away; to turn and point
to a dusty cardboard box on the shelf. And next to it, a
similar-sized box clad in red leather.
"I found these in the store-room. The whole story is in
that box."
The hand that had, moments before, been gripping my arm,
now gently pushed me towards the boxes on the shelf.
"Neil! Please! Bring those boxes here. I must know the rest
of the story."
As I pulled the boxes down, Penny sat perched on the edge
of her chair. I wondered if anyone who had met Miss
Penelope Pillan - The Ice Maiden - would recognise the
matinee urchin, waiting eagerly for the next reel to start.
The next few hours were lost in the story:
Randolph Hughie Simpson and the Methil Mining School. The
battle with Ramsay Tarvit over the provision of an
'unnecessary' facility at the school. Randolph Simpson's
brief foray into politics. A short musical interlude, which
brought us to Svetlana McCrory; the Angel of the Annexe,
Election Campaign Manager and the one, true love of
Randolph Simpson's life.
"Svetlana. Svetlana?"
I could see Penny's incisive mind, worry at the name. I
knew what was coming next.
"Svetlana ... svetty ... the students call the Angel
'Betty'! They must have originally called her 'Sweaty Be
..."
I waited with a grin.
"Oh!"
I had never seen Miss Penelope Pillan so embarrassed! She
could not look me in the face. Not so much an 'Ice Maiden',
more a raspberry ice lolly.
To quote the Chinese saying: There is nothing more
enjoyable than watching your neighbour fall of the roof
whilst trying to mend a tile.
I plead guilty.
In her discomfiture, she failed to spot those last vital
clues. The cause of the original dispute between Red Ramsay
Tarvit and Randolph Hughie Simpson, and the need for a tin
of green paint, suitable for the door of a boiler-house. I
thought that my part as an art thief, could wait for
another day.
Now it was my turn. I reached out with my hand, and tilted
up her chin until I could look directly into eyes.
"Now, you can tell me about Albert."
For a moment, I thought she would turn away. I eased my
hand back a fraction; I would not force her. She gathered
her thoughts, then began to talk. I have never heard such a
heart-rending story. Penny deserves her privacy. There are
many parts of her early life that I was privileged to share
that day, and I will never repeat them to another soul.
Only Penny has that right.
Her childhood was terrible. Adopted at an early age, and
treated like a skivvy. Cinderella without the possibility
of a Prince; Little Orphan Annie without Daddy Warbucks,
cheery songs and a Hollywood cast. She ran away from home
at the age of twelve before physical abuse became something
even darker. A few months later, her adopted parents fled
the country, never to be seen again, to avoid the pressing
demands of a local loan-shark. Abandoning any hope of
Penny's return. Possibly, their first decent act in her
favour.
By her 13th (un-celebrated) birthday, she had slipped
across the English Channel into France; blending in
un-noticed with a coach party of Welsh tourists. In the
language confusion, the authorities in the Port of Calais
simply waved them all through. Penny had only one thing to
cling to. A romantic childhood notion to see Paris. There,
she met Albert Bouchard. A freelance journalist, and a
gentle man.
I'll let Penny tell this part ...
I met Albert in Paris. I had walked all the way from
Calais, terrified that someone might report a lone girl to
the police. I dared not try to hitch a lift. I arrived
cold, foot-sore, and very, very hungry. Paris is an
enormous city, and I had many foolish ideas but few French
words.
Somewhere in the streets around the Gare de l'Est, I found
a small Cafe; tables and chairs on the street, like a
picture postcard. I was tired; I sat at an empty table,
wondering what next to do. The Cafe was busy, full of
office workers arming themselves for yet another
bureaucratic day. Gulping coffee, feeding on croissants and
Le Figaro. A frantic glance at a watch, and they were off.
I discovered that I could snatch a half-eaten roll from a
derelict table, or casually lift an abandoned glass of
water as if it were mine.
I was desperate; I was careless! I did not see that one
customer who had stepped into the Cafe, only for a moment,
to signal for another coffee. The voice from behind
startled me.
'Do English girls help themselves to
breakfast?'
I turned to flee ... then stopped ... turned. I saw Albert
for the first time.
'How do you know I am English?'
His eyes laughed at me.
'A French girl would wait to be served breakfast before
she ran away.'
Albert encouraged boldness in a woman. I let him buy me
breakfast.
As Penny told her story, I could close my eyes and see that young girl sitting in a street-side Cafe. She spoke of Albert as a 'gentle man'. The offer of a bed for the night. The terrified refusal. The casual brushing away of all objections.
'Young lady! I may be a Frenchman, but I prefer to sleep
at home.'
He handed over a key.
'This is for the small office above the Cafe. My office.
Sometimes I work late. There is a small camp bed that you
can use.'
I hesitated. What should I do. He reached out and closed my
hand around the key. A secret amusement played around his
lips.
'There are no strings. I do not need a
mistress.'
I had no experience of trust, but I so wanted to trust this
man.
'Now off you go young lady. Even beauty such as yours
requires a little sleep. I have a story to file.'
He handed me a folded copy of Le Monde. I could not read a
word, but I could see the byline on one of the
columns.
'Correspondent: Albert Bouchard.'
He stood, then offered a polite, formal bow.
'My American friends call me Albert the Mouth'
Who could not trust such a man?
I sat, entranced, as Penny let the story flow from her memories; each line a tear from a grief held too long. How Albert took a naive young girl under his wing and treated her like a favourite niece. Watched her take her first, stumbling steps in French, then applauded her growing confidence in the language of Art and Culture. He took her to the theatre. Followed her breathless steps as she danced through the galleries; each painting more exciting than the last.
Throughout those wonderful months, he asked for nothing. If he had ever asked, I would have said 'Yes!', without hesitation. I was more than a little in love with him, and one day, I would be old enough ...
Penny paused; lost in a faded memory. Then her expression darkened.
These were not good days for France. The country had lost
so much in the last War, and now she was entangled in
another. Petty pride demanded that what had once been,
would always be. They would lose no more! The upstart
Democratic Republic of Vietnam would be crushed. Indochine
Francaise would prevail!
Albert was a journalist, and the war in Asia was the
biggest story in France. He accepted a commission to cover
events for an international News Agency. Albert would
always follow the story. It was his life.
The excitement was gone from Penny's story. Penny narrated the words, clearly and precisely, as if reading a newspaper out loud, for the benefit of some dim-sighted elderly relative.
When Albert travelled to Hanoi, I went with him. I had nowhere else to go, and Albert would never abandon me. Somehow, he acquired a French Passport for me. He was a journalist; he had connections in the grey halls of politics, and he could talk his way around any obstacle. Never was a man so truly named.
Some of the light crept back into Penny's voice. Those few months in Hanoi were the last wonderful days in her life. She spoke about meeting new people, seeing fresh, exotic places. There was even a hint of humour ...
Of course, most of the people I met, were the refuse of
Hanoi. The rogues and riff-raff of a turbulent city. It
would appear that the favourite residence of Foreign
Correspondents, in the Far East, always seems to be a bar,
a brothel - or both! They told me that, if you wish to know
how sea-worthy the Ship-of-State is, you should live
amongst the rats. They always know.
Albert's favoured residence met all the desired criteria.
We laid down our dusty travel bags in Henry Lo's Biscuit
Shop. The owner was a small, polite Vietnamese; he thought
that a Chinese name and a neon sign in English were a
guarantee of popularity and good business.
I had to ask ...
"Henry Lo's Biscuit Shop? What kind of name was
that?"
For a moment, the sparkle was back in her eye. She even
chuckled.
Everyone thought that it was a wonderful name. Such an
honest name for a house of ill-repute. A biscuit, as you
know, gets its name from being 'cooked twice'. In the
Biscuit Shop, you got 'done' twice. Once, upstairs by the
girls; then 'done' again, downstairs in the gambling-room,
behind the bar! I loved the place.
Despite its dubious standing, I was always perfectly safe.
When Albert was away, chasing a story, Henry and the girls
looked after me.
My education was assured: Henry taught me book-keeping and
business practice, the girls taught me fashion and all the
latest styles, and the other journalist delighted in
teaching me about people, politics and the world.
For when the occasional drunken customer over-stepped his
manners, the girls also taught me self-defence!
I could barely contain my amazement. This was the woman
that I had dared to take into the Snooker Hall in the
Miner's Welfare Institute. I had worried over her safety!
Perhaps I should have been more concerned for the 'Welfare'
of Methil's criminal classes. It would have been safer for
them, if I had taken a female Tiger to the match.
As I diverted my attention to the possible outcome of a
confrontation between the McLaren gang and a Vietnamese
Tiger, I was caught unaware, when Penny suddenly moved
towards me, and clutched at my arms, demanding my
attention. A harsh desperation filled her voice.
One day, Albert was gone. At first, I did not worry. Albert
did that. He would follow a lead; vanish without saying,for
half a day, then come back that evening, and tell me all
about it. I trusted him. For Albert, it was the story;
always the story. That evening, another journalist told me
where he had gone.
'Trust Albert, that lucky sod! Heard about the show, up
at Dien-Bien-Phu, and talked himself on to one of the
follow-on flights.'
There was admiration, and a little envy in his voice.
'Albert the Mouth will be reporting from the heart of
the battle.'
Penny's grip on my arm tightened. My arms began to ache, but that was nothing to the pain evident in her voice.
Albert Bouchard flew out, as a 'non officiel' to Dien-Bien-Phu on 26 March 1954. He died in a small fortress called 'Eliane' on the First Day of May. The French garrison surrendered on 07 May 1954. Albert was not on the list of casualties. He was never officially there.
The pain in my arms became excruciating, but I sat there, unmoving. I have never heard such agony in a voice.
'Albert! Albert! Pourquoi es-tu parti?
Tu n'avais qu'a me le demander.
Je serais parti avec toi!'
I stood there, unmoving. My oh-so-clever mind screamed for answers; my instincts choked for lack of practice. Penny released her grip; her arms slowly fell to her sides. I could only stare at her face. There should have been a tear, a sign ... anything. I should have done something ...
We stood there, worlds beyond reach. Then she turned and
walked out of the workshop. My hand reached out to an empty
room.
Outside, I heard her car start up, and she drove away.
On the following day, I received a note from Kirkcaldy.
"Miss Penelope Pillan will be taking a short period of
leave till the end of the current term.
When she returns, she will be resuming her normal position,
as Secretary to the Principal at the main College in
Kirkcaldy.
I am sure that we are all agreed that Miss Pillan has done
an excellent job at the Lower Methil Annexe, and that the
integration of Female Students can be considered a success,
mainly due to her efforts.
Signed : David Falkland Orr. Principal. East Fife Technical College."
I crumpled the note; threw it in the bin. I spent the day, picking my way through a French-English dictionary. Painfully translating the words that Penny had burned into my brain.
'Albert! Albert! Pourquoi es-tu parti?
Tu n'avais qu'a me le demander!
Je serais parti avec toi!'
"Albert! Albert! Why did you go away?
You only had to ask!
I would have gone with you!"
Oh Penny! I would have gone with you!