or two about rhythm,’ Arlo said, loading discs into the machine. He tapped the remote control against his lips. ‘The Russian, Modest Petrovich Mussorgsky, died in 1881 and the Jamaican, Robert Nesta Marley, died in 1981. Listen to this.’ He chose “Pictures at an Exhibition” by the former and “Get Up Stand Up” by the latter. The boys were entranced; toes tapped, rulers and pens bounced gently against the edges of the desks. They would gladly have relinquished cricket to listen to more but the bell went and Mr Savidge ejected the discs and released the class.
‘Well done, guys,’ he said. ‘See you whenever.’ And he took up his gazing out of the window.
From the empty classroom, Arlo looked out across the rolling manicured lawn to the plotted and pieced playing fields beyond. He considered that schoolboys in cricket whites at that distance were basically interchangeable with the sheep scattering the North York Moors beyond the school’s grounds. They shared that peculiar characteristic of inactivity interrupted by sudden bouts of gleeful gambolling. But neither sheep nor cricket did much for Arlo. He was more of a dogs and tennis chap. Just then, he quite fancied a knock-around on court. He checked his timetable. He had a couple of hours until he taught the first years but then only the odd half-hour during the rest of the day and no opportunity that evening because he was on prep duty. He gathered his papers and books into the worn leather satchel the boys often teased him about and wandered over towards the main building.
He came across Paul Glasper in the staff room, enjoying a cup of coffee with the illicit luxury of the Sun newspaper. ‘It’s today’s,’ Paul bragged.
‘Who smuggled that in?’ Arlo laughed.
‘One of those blokes doing the electrics in Armstrong House,’ Paul said.
‘There’s a waiting list for it,’ came Nigel Garton’s voice from behind a copy of the Daily Telegraph which better befitted his Head of Physics stature, ‘and I’m next.’
‘You lot are incorrigible,’ said Miranda Oates, enjoying a digestive biscuit and a copy of Heat magazine. Arlo flicked his finger against it. Miranda peered up at him. ‘There’s more world news in this than in that,’ she said, tossing her head in the direction of Paul and the Sun. ‘This is essential reading,’ she smiled. ‘It helps me keep my finger on the zeitgeist. It helps me understand my students.’
‘Bollocks!’ came Nigel’s voice from behind the Telegraph, while Paul asked Miranda if he could have a flip through the magazine once she’d finished.
‘Only an English teacher could use “zeitgeist” in such a context,’ Arlo laughed, spooning instant coffee granules into a relatively clean mug. ‘Anyone for tennis? Paul? Fancy a knock-about?’
‘I’m busy,’ said Paul, shaking the Sun and snapping it open again.
‘Dickhead,’ Arlo laughed. ‘Nige? Come on, a quick game, set and match? You slaughtered me last week.’
‘And I’d love to slaughter you again, but I’m nipping into Stokesley for a haircut.’
‘You look gorgeous, Mr Garton,’ Arlo teased, ‘for a physics teacher.’
‘I’ve got a date,’ Nigel said.
‘I’ll come,’ said Miranda.
‘No, you won’t,’ Nigel said, ‘much as a threesome is on my wish list. But I try not to bed my colleagues.’
‘Not with you, prat,’ she said, ‘with you, Arlo – I’ll have a knock-up with you.’
‘Ooh er, missy,’ murmured Paul, who obviously wasn’t as engrossed in the Sun as the others thought.
Arlo gave her a glancing smile and made much of checking his watch. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, I think I’ll go into Stokesley with Nige and get my hair cut too.’
‘You haven’t got any bloody hair, Arlo,’ Paul piped up again.
‘I have more than you,’ said Arlo, running the palm of his hand lightly over the fuzz of his crop. ‘This is long, for me. I can practically do a comb-over on my receded parts.’
‘Do you have a date too?’ Paul asked.
Arlo baulked.
‘Well, you’re not joining me,’ Nigel protested.
Paul caught the look on Miranda’s face that said, I’ll be your date Arlo, before she buried her head in Heat when she sensed she’d been noticed.
‘Miranda’s got a demon serve,’ Paul told Arlo.
‘Another time,’ Arlo told her. ‘I’ll come into Stokesley with you, Nige.’
They belted along an empty road, lush flat fields to the left soon giving way to the sparser grazing on the moors rising and rolling away.
‘Daft, isn’t it,’ Arlo remarked. ‘We’re the teachers but I feel like I’m bunking off.’
‘You need to get out more,’ Nigel teased.
‘Probably,’ Arlo conceded. ‘It’s just so easy to not leave the school grounds now. When I first joined, I was exploring the region at every opportunity – rarely stayed in unless I was on duty. Now, four years on, I go out for a haircut, or to the pub once a week for precisely three pints and a scotch, and that’s about it.’
‘It’s cyclical,’ Nigel said. ‘I went through that. But I’ve been there two years longer than you and I’m telling you, I now plan my next outing hourly.’
‘Who’s your date?’ Arlo asked.
‘She’s called Jennifer,’ said Nigel. ‘I met her in Great Ayton last weekend. She was in front of me in the ice-cream queue at Suggitts.’
‘You sad old git,’ Arlo laughed, ‘spending your free time hanging out at ice-cream shops waiting for totty.’
‘Sod off,’ Nigel said. ‘She’s a lawyer. She was with some cycling group and they’d stopped off at Suggitts. You know how they do. All those Sunday riders.’
‘Well,’ Arlo said thoughtfully, ‘good luck.’
‘Haven’t had a shag in months,’ Nigel muttered. He looked at Arlo though he knew the answer. ‘You?’
‘Nope,’ Arlo said, assuming Nigel knew it was actually years but didn’t dare comment.
‘Miranda Oates would have you,’ Nigel told him.
‘I don’t mix work and pleasure,’ Arlo said.
‘All work and no play … as they say,’ Nigel warned him, pulling into a parking bay and putting a permit on his dashboard.
‘She isn’t my type,’ Arlo said.
‘Who is, then?’ Nigel asked as they walked towards the barbers. ‘In all the time I’ve known you, I haven’t a clue who your type is.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ said Arlo, relieved that they’d arrived.
Half an hour later, they were back in the car, Nigel’s short black hair slicked this way and that with product-assisted trendy nonchalance. Arlo’s hair was cropped even closer to his head, the style coming more from the fine shape of his skull, his smooth forehead, the slight but neat receding of his hairline. ‘I can’t believe they charge me twelve quid for what was essentially a couple of minutes with mini horse clippers.’
‘Mine was twelve quid too – and I had a blow-dry and a load of styling goop,’ Nigel laughed.
‘And you look lovely, darling,’ Arlo said drily. ‘It’ll be your lucky night.’ Nigel swerved as he turned to wink at Arlo, before tootling more cautiously through Stokesley and back out into the