’Ah, well,’ said Miss Peterson, 'perhaps we can talk his old man round - hello. June.'
Miss Summers, the art teacher arrived, breathless. Baxter jerked his head up.
’Ah, June. Just in time to put the kettle on.'
‘Am I now?' came the answer. 'If you weren't such a male chauvinist pig, Baxter my boy, you'd see from the rota that . . .’
'The kettle's on.’ interrupted Miss Peterson.
’Good-oh.’ Baxter launched himself from the chair and began assembling mugs on the tea-stained table next to a small sink by the staffroom window.
The door opened and the Deputy Head looked in. ’Ah - the Head would like a few minutes with you people before . . .'
‘Good lord, man,’ said Baxter, ’this place gets more like a madhouse every day. Doesn’t the boss know we have Year Assembly this morning — and we're supposed to teach the troops as well ?’
’I know, he wants to talk to you about the assembly, and the new parents’ advisory committee.’
The door dosed. Everyone began to drink their tea more hastily. Baxter went on grumbling . . .
‘I don't know, new form structure, new timetable, Christmas reports, school and community lark, parents' advisory committees, year assemblies . . . Democracy run riot, if you ask me.'
‘Come on.' said Miss Summers, ‘we’ve always had our year assemblies.'
’Ah that's different. In the old days we used to tell them. Now we're supposed to listen while they discuss. There’ll be no end to it. Before the Welsh Wizard has finished with us. we’ll have the blooming school run by parents and pupils .. .'
He looked round, cup in hand ...
'Think of it, all of you. If that happened, what sort of TAM rating would we get, eh ? Young Graham here will be OK. he'll get the female vote. But what about the likes of me?’
'But Baxter,' said Miss Summers, sweetly. ‘I thought you were appreciated in the school.'
'Me, June, I’m a minority taste - BBC-2, me. But definitely not loved by the rabble. Can you imagine young Jenkins filling in my end of term report ? Think what he’d say. . .'
Miss Peterson looked up seriously. 'I don't think we shall hear very much of young P.J. till term end . . .’
‘What’s this?’ Baxter’s eyes rounded. 'Has the galloping lurgy struck him down at last?'
Miss Peterson shook her head. The boss had him in yesterday and gave him the last warning. Any more malarkey and he's for the high jump.'
'Well that'll be the first sports event he’s ever entered.’ said Baxter. He slammed down his cup. 'Look at the time! Forward men - and persons too,’ he smirked at Miss Summers as he flung open the staffroom door. As he stood in the corridor he bellowed :
’What are you doing there. Doyle? On your way, lad.'
But Doyle had heard all he wanted through his ventilator listening post and was already on his way down the corridor.
Any more trouble and Jenkins was for the chop, eh?
All that was needed was a little bit of trouble then wasn’t it?
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