"You will construe, Watler!" Dr. Gimlet's ever-watchful eyes bored into Watler as the hapless fourth former squirmed under his lancet gaze. It was rum luck to be saddled with double Latin, when he would far rather have been at the cricket nets, but now Watler really was on the spot. Dr. Gimlet, the Kittiwake Of St Ninians, did not suffer fools gladly -especially not where the construation of Juvenal was concerned. Hesitantly, Watler began: " Frontonis platani conuulsaque marmora clamant semper et adsiduo ruptae lectore columnae...er... " In English!" rasped irritable master. " The stale themes are...er, giving her breasts and the skins of beasts? " offered Watler. The angular master moved with surprising speed for a man of his venerable years, as he descended upon the boy, his black gown flapping like bat-wings behind him. The Kittiwake swiped Watler across the ear, to the accompaniment of a sickening crack from the stout cane he was famous for carrying. Man of The Nets, Watler may have been, but as his ear split open, the flaxen-haired Demon Fielder of The Fourth burst into scalding tears of pain. Gimlet strode swiftly back to the front of the class. A palpable silence hung over the room. " You will translate Juvenal's Sixth Satire, by Friday afternoon, second Latin period, Watler." " Oh lumme!" sobbed the humiliated junior. Upon seeing their compatriot in The Fearsome Foursome, dished up with such treatment, his friends Crook and Watler sat up straight and paid attention. The Kittiwake was obviously in a somewhat shirty mood. The pair looked wretchedly at the classroom clock and sighed as they realised there was still a full quarter of an hour to go. As they were musing upon this, events took an unexpected turn. Dr.Gimlet turned his attention to an altogether shadier figure at the Gaz, the Thug Of St. Ninians was a new face in the Latin Room. His previous school hadn't done Latin. Consequently, up until this moment, The Thug had not yet had the formidable pleasure of meeting Dr. Gimlet. " Boy!" Gaz looked idly up from the racing paper which he'd been perusing. " Wot?" " How dare you answer me in that tone! You will continue where Watler left off." The Thug Of St Ninians summoned a generous amount of phlegm from somewhere deep in the back of this throat. He arched his tongue into a groove and with a casual toss of his head, lazily lobbed a fat grolly ceilingwards.The double-headed greeny spun in the air like a miniature helicopter, until it hit an overhead light, where it slid and hung on a wet strand, like a foul Damoclean globule over the master's head. The Kittiwake of St. Ninians was, by now, volcanic. " Boy!" he roared. " Oh fuck off." Gaz sighed, " I really haven't got time." Gaz snapped his pencil in half and gazed intently at the incandescent Latin master: " Let's get this straight." Gaz drawled. " If I have to come out there, it will only be for the purposes of tearing your fucking head off and shitting down your neck. Don't be a cunt all your life, Prof. Take a day off for once -like yesterday, for instance." At this juncture, Watler, who'd previously been occupying himself by dabbing at the vermillion stream of blood from his head wound, interjected: "Please sir,-if I may have permission to be so bold sir. I wouldn't tangle with him sir." The Kittiwake regarded his earlier victim contemptuously: "You do not have permission Watler. And I will tangle as I see fit." he snapped.
With that, the master moved rapidly up the
aisle of desks, stout cane swishing through the air as
he approached The Thug. Gaz hardly batted an eyelid as the angular form of Dr.
Gimlet advanced
towards him, the afternoon sunlight glinting on his spectacles. As the
Kittiwake's bony
arm shot out to seize the boy, the vice-like hand on the end of that arm closed
on thin air.
Gaz dragged the unfortunate man across two
rows of upturned desks, delivering a disabling boot to
the Kittiwake's kidneys. It is doubtful whether the distinguished Latin master
felt the pain of the
prolonged kicking which The Thug subsequently doled out to him, since he became
insensible
shortly after Gaz broke his jaw with one monstrous roundhouse punch. Luckily
for Dr.
Gimlet, the afternoon bell rang. The Thug looked regretully at the clock:
"That'll have to do for now. Some
people just don't know when they're well off do they? Christ
in a bucket! -what a fuckin' cunt!"
" Crikey Gaz." gasped Watler.
" That was sterling stuff."
" Whizzo! " Crook and Hartley
chorused.
" Oi! Watch the fabric,
Piss-flaps! Forty-five sovs a metre that costs in Ilford" "
Sorry, old chap. " said Watler. " It's just...well, nice to
see the Kittiwake's wings clipped."
He's a fucking cunt." replied The Thug. " And it just needed
pointing out to him. By the way,
how's your mate Bearcroft doing since his 'accident'?"
" He still has the nightmares, but
Matron says he might be alright to leave the school
sanatorium
at the end of next week", Hartley replied. The Thug cackled. "Well
send him my regards
and tell him to be lucky. Now if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have an
appointment with my
turf accountant."
And with that, The Thug slouched off
across the quadrangle and down the majestic, elm- lined
school drive, towards the great wrought iron gates of St. Ninians. This would
be bound to lead to
more trouble, thought Watler. Everybody knew that St Ninians boys weren't
allowed to leave
school, without prior permission. No point in anyone trying to tell a chap
though. Crook and
Hartley discussed the pros and cons of being 'out-of-bounds'. Jiggered if they
could make head or
tail of Gaz. He seemed to be a law unto
himself. Unknown to the three chums, however,
the Thug of St Ninians, doughty as he may have been, was just about to meet his
nemesis.
Montague
Evans, the Divinity master, was strolling amiably along the lane back to school
when
he
first caught sight of the surly figure shambling towards him. It was a pleasant
afternoon and splinters
of summer sunshine pierced the thick canopy of chestnut leaves above the
teacher as he
walked purposefully on. He'd enjoyed a light lunch with the Bishop of St
Botolphs, followed
by a stimulating discourse on matters theological. It was his custom to do this
once a fortnight
since it gave him valuable food for thought when he later prepared his
religious instruction
for those scholars in his charge.
Evans was a popular master with the boys
and was known to one and all as the Elephant Of St.
Ninians. This had less to do with his firm but affable manner than the fact
that he actually was an
elephant. His history was, it was true to say, unconventional but he was a
teacher of no
little integrity and substance who had arrived at his vocation only after much
personal endeavour.
Having escaped from a travelling circus as a youngster, he'd found himself in a small
Welsh mining village called Twdr-Y-Ffinniog. Here a kindly miner and his wife
took pity on the
forlorn pachyderm and brought him into their home. After enroling him in the
parish school, the
childless couple discovered that young Montague was a gifted and outstanding
scholar.
The promising young elephant was a model
pupil, with a natural aptitude for Bible studies. Indeed,
from the age of nine he'd been reading the lesson each Sunday in his village's
tiny Baptist
chapel. Shortly thereafter, when the choir master discovered that young
Montague could
trumpet notes from his trunk approximating a high tenor, he took the Elephant
under his wing.
Soon, the very hills surrounding the green Welsh valley reverberated with such stirring
classics
such as Bread Of Heaven and Y Sospan
Bach, and as the proud ranks of the
village choir rattled the chapel's rafters each sabbath, no voice rang out
louder or more proudly
than the celestial trumpet of young Montague Evans, the Elephant of
Twdr-Y-Ffinniog.
Indeed, it was this musical talent,
coupled with his prowess as a scrum half for the village rugby
team, which eventually secured the God-fearing young pachyderm a place at
grammar school
and later, a scholarship at no less a seat of learning than Trinity College,
Cambridge. Here he
might have won a rowing blue had it not been for the fact that most of the
boats available
for his use precluded his entering many of the competitions, by virtue of their smallness
and fragility. Undeterred by this, he now put away childish things and
concentrated on his
studies, triumphing three years later with a double first in Theology. He might
have entered
the Church at this point but his humble background dictated to his conscience
that he pass
back some of his learning to future generations as a thanksgiving for his good
fortune.
When he'd first entered the portals of St
Ninians as a junior Divinity master, little had been expected
of him. Indeed he'd almost been given the post on sufferance, the headmaster at the
time, commenting drily: " Qualifications are all good and well Mr Evans,
but an elephant without
teaching experience, is like the Spartan without a spear. "
Twenty years later, the Elephant
Of St Ninians was as popular as practically any master had ever been at the
school and it
was hard to imagine the old place without him. Admittedly, his mortar board had required some
adjustments. And his trousers and gown had been cut rather more generously than those
of his colleagues. But as he wheeled his bicycle under the ivied cloisters,
trumpeting as he
did so, the hymn, To Be A Pilgrim , Montague Evans felt in a very real sense,
that he had
come home.
On this
balmy afternoon however, The Elephant Of St Ninians regarded the wiry figure approaching
him, noticing that the boy wore his uniform, what there was of it, in a
somewhat casual
manner. Not only this, but he observed that the boy was smoking-an act
certainly prohibited
by school regulations. The master only vaguely recalled the pupil. He was a
fourth former.
More importantly though, he was a St Ninians fourth former who was, at this
juncture severely
out of bounds.
" Name!" boomed the Elephant.
" What's it to you cunt-lugs?"
spat Gaz.
" You're out of bounds Boyo -and
where's your school tie? the master asked.
" Fuck me!" the Thug exclaimed.
" It's a talking elephant. Very funny. Now fuck off."
The God-fearing pachyderm was in no mood
for any nonsense and grabbed the boy's arm with
his trunk. " I think it's about time we went back to our studies don't you
Bach? "
"I
don't know about you, Toilet Breath, but I've got a fortune riding on a gee-gee
in the two-thirty at
Sandown -so why don't you just go and have a wank?"
With his free arm, Gaz produced a small
spring-loaded cosh and gave the Elephant a hefty welt between the eyes. To his amazement
though, the master barely flinched.
" Want to play it rough, do you
lad?" With that, the
Elephant picked Gaz up, by fastening his brawny truck around the youngster's
waist. He hurled
the surprised Thug onto the grass verge in the sun-streaked lane. Before the
winded boy had
time to recover, the burly pachyderm planted his huge front foot on the Thug's
groin and applied
a gentle pressure to that tender area. " What's it to be lad? Squashed
plums -or back to class?"
The Thug realised he'd been beaten.
" Alright then mate. I've had enough. But I'll let you
know
right now; this ain't fuckin' over!"
The Elephant Of St Ninian's smiled: "That's better lad. Now,
quick march! And when we get back to school, you'll find that tie, go to your
lessons and then
report to me before evening prayers."
It was
a flabbergasted Fearsome Foursome,
strolling in the quadrangle during their break who
witnessed the humbled Thug marching back through the school gates, with the amiable
four-legged Divinity master rolling along behind him, happily trumpeting a
hymn.
" Oh my giddy aunt!" " Great scot!" " Wonders will never cease!"
exclaimed Watler, under his breath. A look in the Thug's eyes told
the whole story. A chap had to be a pretty tough customer to if he wanted to
tangle with the
Elephant Of St Ninians. But the Thug wasn't finished yet. Not by any means.
He'd bide his time.
No use to employ an ordinary shooter on a bloke like The Elephant. It would
probably just get him
annoyed. Gaz was busy thinking; an ex-squaddie he'd met in a pub had once
offered him a
Serb rocket launcher he'd brought back from Kosovo. Now that might do the
trick. While the
Thug ruminated vengefully on this idea, he felt a stunning blow to the back of
his head: "Tie!" parped the righteous
Elephant. " Alright Big-nose. Keep your
fuckin'knickers on!" the Thug
muttered. There was no doubt about it, Watler
thought. There were bound to be plenty of shennanigans
How could term-time at St Ninians
be anything like dull with all of this in prospect?
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