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 countryside.
‘It’s a nice enough spring day – but this is a wee bit optimistic,’ Arlo commented, as “Summer in the City” played on the radio. Both he and Nigel knew they would have to tolerate the usual squalls and sudden chills of April before they could move truly to spring, let alone nearer to summer.
‘What exactly is a “loving spoonful”, I’ve always wondered,’ mused Nigel. ‘I think it might be a type of cake. Or a wedding spoon like those Welsh love spoons. Or perhaps a feed-the-poor charity?’
‘Stop philosophising and step on it, will you,’ Arlo said. ‘We’ll miss last lunch at this rate.’
‘My hunger is for Jenn,’ Nigel growled lustily.
‘You prick,’ Arlo laughed. ‘Come on, I’m starving.’
They
