the possession seemed to have left Nan by then. She was able to whisper, with her head bent over her plate so that only the boys could hear, “Mr Wentworth’s using his spoon. Look.”
“Do you think we dare?” said Nirupam.
“I’m going to,” said Charles. “I’m hungry.”
So they all used their spoons. When the meal was at last over, they were all dismayed to find Mr Wentworth beckoning. But it was only Nan he was beckoning. When she came reluctantly over, he said, “See me at four in my study.” Which was, Nan felt, all she needed. And the day was still only half over.
That afternoon, Nan came into the classroom to find a besom laid across her desk. It was an old tatty broom, with only the bare minimum of twigs left in the brush end, which the groundsman sometimes used to sweep the paths. Someone had brought it in from the groundsman’s shed. Someone had tied a label to the handle: Dulcinea’s Pony. Nan recognised the round, angelic writing as Theresa’s.
Amid sniggers and titters, she looked round the assembled faces. Theresa would not have thought of stealing a broom on her own. Estelle? No. Neither Estelle nor Karen Grigg was there. No, it was Dan Smith, by the look on his face. Then she looked at Simon Silverson and was not so sure. It could not have been both of them because they never, ever did anything together.
Simon said to her, in his suavest manner, grinning all over his face, “Why don’t you hop on and have a ride, Dulcinea?”
“Yes, go on. Ride it, Dulcinea,” said Dan.
Next moment, everyone else was laughing and yelling at her to ride the broom. And Brian Wentworth, who was only too ready to torment other people when he was not being a victim himself, was leaping up and down in the gangway between the desks, screaming, “Ride, Dulcinea! Ride!”
Slowly, Nan picked up the broom. She was a mild and peaceable person who seldom lost her temper – perhaps that was her trouble – but when she did lose it, there was no knowing what she would do. As she picked up the broom, she thought she just meant to stand it haughtily against the wall. But, as her hands closed round its knobby handle, her temper left her completely. She turned round on the jeering, hooting crowd, filled with roaring rage. She lifted the broom high above her head and bared her teeth. Everyone thought that was funnier than ever.
Nan meant to smash the broom through Simon Silverson’s laughing face. She meant to bash in Dan Smith’s head. But, since Brian Wentworth was dancing and shrieking and making faces just in front of her, it was Brian she went for. Luckily for him, he saw the broom coming down and leapt clear. After that, he was forced to back away up the gangway and then into the space by the door, with his arms over his head, screaming for mercy, while Nan followed him, bashing like a madwoman.
“Help! Stop her!” Brian screamed, and backed into the door just as Miss Hodge came through it carrying a large pile of English books. Brian backed into her and sat down at her feet in a shower of books. “Ow!” he yelled.
“What is going on?” said Miss Hodge.
The uproar in the room was cut off as if with a switch. “Get up, Brian,” Simon Silverson said righteously. “It was your own fault for teasing Nan Pilgrim.”
“Really! Nan!” said Theresa. She was genuinely shocked. “Temper, temper!”
At that, Nan nearly went for Theresa with the broom. Theresa was only saved by the fortunate arrival of Estelle Green and Karen Grigg. They came scurrying in with their heads guiltily lowered and their arms wrapped round bulky bags of knitting wool. “Sorry we’re late, Miss Hodge,” Estelle panted. “We had permission to go shopping.”
Nan’s attention was distracted. The wool in the bags was fluffy and white, just like Theresa’s. Why on earth, Nan wondered scornfully, did everyone have to imitate Theresa?
Miss Hodge took the broom out of Nan’s unresisting hands and propped it neatly behind the door. “Sit down, all of you,” she said. She was very put out. She had intended to come quietly into a nice quiet classroom and galvanise 2Y by confronting them with her scheme. And here they were galvanised already, and with a witch’s broom. There was clearly no chance of catching the writer of the note or the witch by surprise. Still, she did not like to let a good scheme go to waste.
“I thought we would have a change today,” she said, when everyone was settled. “Our poetry book doesn’t seem to be going down very well, does it?” She looked brightly round the class. 2Y looked back cautiously. Some of them felt anything would be better than being asked to find poems beautiful. Some of them felt it depended on what Miss Hodge intended to do instead. Of the rest, Nan was trying not to cry, Brian was licking a scratch on his arm, and Charles was glowering. Charles liked poetry because the lines were so short. You could think your own thoughts in the spaces round the print.
“Today,” said Miss Hodge, “I want you all to do something yourselves.”
Everyone recoiled. Estelle put her hand up. “Please, Miss Hodge. I don’t know how to write poems.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to do that,” said Miss Hodge. Everyone relaxed. “I want you to act out some little plays for me.” Everyone recoiled again. Miss Hodge took no notice and explained that she was going to call them out to the front in pairs, a boy and a girl in each, and every pair was going to act out the same short scene. “That way,” she said, “we shall have fifteen different pocket dramas.”
By this time, most of 2Y were staring at her in wordless despair. Miss Hodge smiled warmly and prepared to galvanise them. Really, she thought, her scheme might go quite well after all.
“Now, we must choose a subject for our playlets. It has to be something strong and striking, with passionate possibilities. Suppose we act a pair of lovers saying good bye?” Somebody groaned, as Miss Hodge had known somebody would. “Very well. Who has a suggestion?”
Theresa’s hand was up, and Dan Smith’s.
“A television star and her admirer,” said Theresa.
“A murderer and a policeman making him confess,” said Dan. “Are we allowed torture?”
“No, we are not,” said Miss Hodge, at which Dan lost interest. “Anyone else?”
Nirupam raised a long thin arm. “A salesman deceiving a lady over a car.”
Well, Miss Hodge thought, she had not really expected anyone to make a suggestion that would give them away. She pretended to consider. “We-ell, so far the most dramatic suggestion is Dan’s. But I had in mind something really tense, which we all know about quite well.”
“We all know about murder,” Dan protested.
“Yes,” said Miss Hodge. She was watching everyone like a hawk now. “But we know even more about stealing, say, or lying, or witchcraft, or—” She let herself notice the broomstick again, with a start of surprise. It came in handy after all. “I know! Let us suppose that one of the people in our little play is suspected of being a witch, and the other is an Inquisitor. How about that?”
Nothing. Not a soul in 2Y reacted, except Dan. “That’s the same as my idea,” he grumbled. “And it’s no fun without torture.”
Miss Hodge made Dan into suspect number one at once. “Then you begin, Dan,” she said, “with Theresa. Which are you, Theresa – witch or Inquisitor?”
“Inquisitor, Miss Hodge,” Theresa said promptly.
“It’s