As soon as 2Y had shuffled away to the school hall, Mr Crossley sped to the staff room, hoping to find someone he could consult about the note.
He was lucky enough to find Miss Hodge there. As Theresa Mullett and Estelle Green had observed, Mr Crossley was in love with Miss Hodge. But of course he never let it show. Probably the only person in the school who did not seem to know was Miss Hodge herself. Miss Hodge was a small neat person who wore neat grey skirts and blouses, and her hair was even neater and smoother than Theresa Mullett’s. She was busy making neat stacks of books on the staff room table, and she went on making them all the time Mr Crossley was telling her excitedly about the note. She spared the note one glance.
“No, I can’t tell who wrote it either,” she said.
“But what shall I do about it?” Mr Crossley pleaded. “Even if it’s true, it’s such a spiteful thing to write! And suppose it is true. Suppose one of them is—” He was in a pitiable state. He wanted so badly to attract Miss Hodge’s attention, but he knew that words like witch were not the kind of words one used in front of a lady. “I don’t like to say it in front of you.”
“I was brought up to be sorry for witches,” Miss Hodge remarked calmly.
“Oh, so was I! We all are,” Mr Crossley said hastily. “I just wondered how I should handle it—”
Miss Hodge lined up another stack of books. “I think it’s just a silly joke,” she said. “Ignore it. Aren’t you supposed to be teaching 4X?”
“Yes, yes. I suppose I am,” Mr Crossley agreed miserably. And he was forced to hurry away without Miss Hodge having looked at him once.
Miss Hodge thoughtfully squared off another stack of books, until she was sure Mr Crossley had gone. Then she smoothed her smooth hair and hurried away upstairs to find Mr Wentworth.
Mr Wentworth, as Deputy Head, had a study where he wrestled with the timetable and various other problems Miss Cadwallader gave him. When Miss Hodge tapped on the door, he was wrestling with a particularly fierce one. There were seventy people in the school orchestra. Fifty of these were also in the school choir and twenty of those fifty were in the school play. Thirty boys in the orchestra were in various football teams, and twenty of the girls played hockey for the school. At least a third played basketball as well. The volleyball team were all in the school play. Problem: how do you arrange rehearsals and practices without asking most people to be in three places at once? Mr Wentworth rubbed the thin patch at the back of his hair despairingly.
“Come in,” he said. He saw the bright, smiling, anxious face of Miss Hodge, but his mind was not on her at all.
“So spiteful of someone, and so awful if it’s true!” he heard Miss Hodge saying. And then, merrily, “But I think I have a scheme to discover who wrote the note – it must be someone in 2Y. Can we put our heads together and work it out, Mr Wentworth?” She put her own head on one side, invitingly.
Mr Wentworth had no idea what she was talking about. He scratched the place where his hair was going and stared at her. Whatever it was, it had all the marks of a scheme that ought to be squashed. “People only write anonymous notes to make themselves feel important,” he said experimentally. “You mustn’t take them seriously.”
“But it’s the perfect scheme!” Miss Hodge protested. “If I can explain—”
Not squashed yet, whatever it is, thought Mr Wentworth. “No. Just tell me the exact words of this note,” he said.
Miss Hodge instantly became crushed and shocked. “But it’s awful!” Her voice fell to a dramatic whisper. “It says someone in 2Y is a witch!”
Mr Wentworth realised that his instinct had been right. “What did I tell you?” he said heartily. “That’s the sort of stuff you can only ignore, Miss Hodge.”
“But someone in 2Y has a very sick mind!” Miss Hodge whispered.
Mr Wentworth considered 2Y, including his own son Brian. “They all have,” he said. “Either they’ll grow out of it, or we’ll see them all riding round on broomsticks in the sixth form.” Miss Hodge started back. She was genuinely shocked at this coarse language. But she hastily made herself laugh. She could see it was a joke. “Take no notice,” said Mr Wentworth. “Ignore it, Miss Hodge.” And he went back to his problem with some relief.
Miss Hodge went back to her stacks of books, not as crushed as Mr Wentworth supposed she was. Mr Wentworth had made a joke to her. He had never done that before. She must be getting somewhere. For – and this was a fact not known to Theresa Mullett or Estelle Green – Miss Hodge intended to marry Mr Wentworth. He was a widower. When Miss Cadwallader retired, Miss Hodge was sure Mr Wentworth would be Head of Larwood House. This suited Miss Hodge, who had her old father to consider. For this, she was quite willing to put up with Mr Wentworth’s bald patch and his tense and harrowed look. The only drawback was that putting up with Mr Wentworth also meant putting up with Brian. A little frown wrinkled Miss Hodge’s smooth forehead at the thought of Brian Wentworth. Now there was a boy who quite deserved the way the rest of 2Y were always on to him. Never mind. He could be sent away to another school.
Meanwhile, in Music, Mr Brubeck was asking Brian to sing on his own. 2Y had trailed their way through ‘Here we sit like birds in the wilderness’. They had made it sound like a lament. “I’d prefer a wilderness to this place,” Estelle Green whispered to her friend Karen Grigg. Then they sang ‘Cuckaburra sits in the old gum tree’. That sounded like a funeral dirge.
“What’s a cuckaburra?” Karen whispered to Estelle.
“Another kind of bird,” Estelle whispered back. “Australian.”
“No, no, no!” shouted Mr Brubeck. “Brian is the only one of you who doesn’t sound like a cockerel with a sore throat!”
“Mr Brubeck must have birds on the brain!” Estelle giggled. And Simon Silverson, who believed, strongly and sincerely, that nobody was worthy of praise except himself, gave Brian a scathingly jeering look.
But Mr Brubeck was far too addicted to music to take any notice of what the rest of 2Y thought. “‘The Cuckoo is a Pretty Bird’,” he announced. “I want Brian to sing this to you on his own.”
Estelle giggled, because it was birds again. Theresa giggled too, because anyone who stood out for any reason struck her as exceedingly funny. Brian stood up with the song book in his hands. He was never embarrassed. But instead of singing, he read the words out in an incredulous voice.
“‘The cuckoo is a pretty bird, she singeth as she flies. She bringeth us good tidings, she telleth us no lies.’ Sir, why are all these songs about birds?” he asked innocently. Charles thought that was a shrewd move of Brian’s, after the way Simon Silverson had looked at him.
But it did Brian no good. He was too unpopular. Most of the girls said, “Brian!” in shocked voices. Simon said it jeeringly.
“Quiet!” shouted Mr Brubeck. “Brian, get on and sing!” He struck notes on the piano.
Brian stood with the book in his hands, obviously wondering what to do. It was clear that he would be in trouble with Mr Brubeck if he did not sing, and that he would be hit afterwards if he did. And while Brian hesitated, the witch in 2Y took a hand. One of the long windows of the hall flew open with a
