Erasmus Hobart and the Golden Arrow
‘Evening, Clarence,’ Erasmus greeted him politely.
The headmaster bristled visibly: he hadn’t spent thirty years studying, teaching and clambering his way up the greasy pole to be referred to as Clarence. Particularly not by teachers who were barely out of university. Feeling that complaint would achieve little, however, he reserved his indignation for a particularly loud snort.
Erasmus gave a concerned smile. ‘Are you coming down with something?’ he asked.
Clarence chose to ignore the comment. ‘You’re here rather late, Mr Hobart,’ he observed; his manner clipped and deliberately formal like a sergeant major striving to resist a speech impediment.
Erasmus looked up at the clock, which gave the time as a quarter to nine. Time had obviously passed in the present whilst he was in the past, which was interesting. Perhaps there was some kind of chronological concept of now for a given life form? He wondered whether the relationship was a one-to-one affair, or whether he could expect to go away for a week only to find that a year had passed in his own time.
Clarence tapped his foot impatiently until Erasmus regained his concentration and returned his gaze. The teacher looked at the headmaster with curiosity, as if only just aware of his presence.
‘I said, “You’re here rather late,” Mr Hobart.’
‘I know,’ said Erasmus. ‘But you know how it is. You start on the marking and before you know it the kids are back.’
‘And have you been here all the time?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Have you been out?’
Erasmus considered this, then gestured towards the door which separated the classroom from the school beyond. ‘I assure you, Clarence, I have not been through that door all evening,’ he said.
The headmaster’s expression flickered between doubt and satisfaction. Despite his misgivings over Erasmus’ sense of decorum, if the teacher’s claim was true he could only wish the rest of the staff would show the same level of dedication – perhaps then the school would be higher in the league tables. He glanced at the blackboard: it was covered in squiggles which, to his eyes, were an unintelligible mess. He felt no shame at his inability to comprehend the information – after all, he’d studied Latin at university, not this newfangled nonsense.
‘Is that for your history class?’ he said.
Erasmus looked at the board himself, as if seeing it for the first time. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s physics.’
‘It looks very complicated,’ said the headmaster, caught between trying not to sound ignorant and wondering what Erasmus was doing scribbling physics notes on the blackboard of the history room.
‘Yes. I presume you didn’t come here to compliment me on my level of education, Clarence. What can I do for you?’
‘I was wondering if you’d seen anybody lurking about.’
‘This evening, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anyone in particular, or are you just hoping for company?’
The headmaster wrung his hands awkwardly. He wished that, of all his teachers, he could have found someone other than Hobart on the premises. The others might have been less dedicated, but they at least answered questions when prompted. Hobart could be astoundingly vague, and it was never clear if this was an act.
‘It’s just that Botch—’ he stopped himself from using the man’s soubriquet just in time, ‘that Mr Bulcher has reported a burglary.’
Erasmus nodded. The school caretaker, known affectionately to the students as Old Botchit, was a long-standing fixture of the school. Even Mr Salmon, the ancient maths master the students referred to as Guppy, seemed to have no memory of when the man had taken up the brush and cap and begun his duties. But then Guppy couldn’t remember his own arrival either – popular conjecture amongst the children had it he’d been beached when the waters of Noah’s flood had retreated. Botchit lived in a small cottage at the end of the school drive, a property that came with the job, and when the demands of the school were not upon him, he could usually be found tending his vegetable garden.
‘Burglary, you say?’ Erasmus remarked. ‘Have they been at his cabbages again?’
Clarence took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They’ve taken his privy.’
Erasmus scratched his forehead and blinked a few times. ‘His privy,’ he echoed, as if the concept were too fantastic to grasp.
‘Yes. You know – that damned outside toilet of his.’
Erasmus masked his awkwardness with a resigned shrug. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, he does keep saying he wants to get rid of it.’
‘That’s beside the point,’ said Clarence, his voice rising slightly in pitch.
Erasmus toyed with his tweezers then began to pick at the splinter in his thumb. ‘Anything else taken?’
‘Not that we can tell, no.’
‘It’s not really a problem then, is it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well. Bolcher’s been talking about getting rid of it; now it’s gone. Saves him paying the council a tenner to cart it off, doesn’t it?’
The headmaster flushed hotly, but refrained from comment. This argument wasn’t leading anywhere. ‘And you haven’t seen anyone this evening?’ he reiterated firmly.
‘Not as such, no.’
‘As such?’ Clarence could feel his temperature rising again.
‘Well, apart from yourself, that is,’ said Erasmus. ‘Obviously, I’ve seen you now, but I haven’t seen anyone else since the boys left.’ Erasmus told himself this was at least technically true: having travelled back in time, he could not have seen anyone after the boys left – at least not in their time.
Clarence, loosening his tie to allow some air to flow around him, shook his head. ‘If you hear anything, let me know,’ he said.
Erasmus nodded and Clarence turned to leave. A few steps from the desk he paused, then turned back to look at Erasmus. The schoolteacher raised his eyebrows quizzically and the headmaster paused again, balanced on the heel of his foot, then stood up straight and eyed the teacher critically.
‘Just out of interest,’ he said, ‘what is that you’re wearing?’
Erasmus looked down at his outfit. He was still dressed in the garb of a mediaeval peasant, a costume he had thought sensible for his first foray into history. He racked his brains for a suitable explanation.
‘Erm, it’s for the school play,’ he said.
‘What, Robin Hood? But you’re not in it.’
‘No,’ said Erasmus, nodding slowly as he thought, ‘but I thought it might help to engage the children’s enthusiasm for their history lesson if I got into the spirit of the thing.’
Clarence nodded, looking less than satisfied but reluctant to pursue the matter.
‘You spend far too much time here,’ he said, revising his earlier opinion about people who threw themselves into their work. ‘Don’t you have any family?’
‘Not here, no. My sister’s family lives in Australia, but I rarely see them.’
‘No wife? Girlfriend?’
‘No. Should I have?’
Clarence, who was constantly reminded by his wife how lucky he was to have her – despite the evidence to the contrary – decided not to answer the question.
‘I still don’t understand why you spend so much time here,’ he said. ‘You have a home of your own, don’t you?’
‘Of course, but the school canteen does do a wonderful line in tea. In fact, that’s a thought – I might go and get one now.’
Erasmus locked the door that led to the storeroom and strode purposefully towards the main classroom door. Clarence watched him with curiosity.
‘Why did you lock that?’ he said.
‘It’s the storeroom.’
‘Yes, but we haven’t used those since we built the centralised storage facility.’
Erasmus shrugged. ‘Better safe than sorry,’ he said. ‘That burglar might want to make off with a shelf next.’
Clarence watched Erasmus’ retreating back as he left the room. There was something very odd about that man. He wished he knew what it was so he could fire him and get someone else.
Chapter Three
Gold and brown were the colours of the driveway of St Cuthbert’s School as it lay beneath the crisp blue sky of another autumn day. A playful breeze dislodged a flurry of leaves from the trees lining the drive, almost smothering Botchit, as he raked the wind’s earlier deposits into a neat pile. He sighed and leant a moment on his rake contemplating the decaying leaves. They were probably symbolic of something, but he couldn’t be bothered working out what.
St Cuthbert’s was one of a dying breed – a state-funded school with a private-school mentality. Once it had been a boy’s grammar, but those days had passed and the school struggled to maintain the prestige it had lost. Botchit was a remnant of those older days – a caretaker with his own cottage in the grounds – but every passing term made him feel slightly less a part of the changing regime.
The sound of a sputtering engine marked the arrival of one part of the new regime. The battered Mini struggling up the drive might have looked like it belonged to one of the old guard, but it was, in fact, the property of one Erasmus Hobart – or as some of the students called him behind his back – Hobbit.
As the vehicle passed, its engine misfired, giving the impression a cannon had gone off. A cloud of acrid black smoke drifted up to obscure the view, leaving Botchit coughing in its wake.
How the vehicle had ever managed to pass its MOT was one of life’s great mysteries. Though pupils would expound on theories involving men in grubby overcoats who exchanged cash-stuffed brown envelopes, none of them really thought that Hobbit would be capable of such dastardly deeds.
All of which was symptomatic of the children’s attitude to the teacher. Although he was young and wasn’t actually disliked, in his short tenure teaching Science and History at St Cuthbert’s he had already become one of them – a member of the other side in the long-entrenched battle of nerves that was the school. He had his nickname. He even had a mythology developing around him.
Already it was rumoured amongst some in the first form – for whom anyone older than fourteen was pensionable – that Hobbit’s history lessons were taken entirely from personal experience. In a few years, when the current first form had been and gone, this would undoubtedly be accepted as fact by one and all.
As the Mini passed along the drive, pupils, alerted by the wheezing engine, hurriedly hid conkers and other health-and-safety-unfriendly possessions, putting on expressions of saint-like innocence until they were sure he was out of sight and that they were safe from discovery. Others were not so quick to react, nor were they as capable of hiding their mischief.
‘Atkinson! Davis! What are you doing with that?’ The voice of Erasmus Hobart was an attribute that made him a firm fixture of school sports days, carrying some distance across the school fields without the need for a megaphone.
‘What, sir?’ Atkinson replied. He attempted to conceal his contraband behind his back and looked at the master with a gaze of attentive innocence. It wasn’t easy: the teacher’s hazel eyes had a way of making your stomach try to hide in a corner. The boy’s eyes watered involuntarily as he tried to retain the teacher’s gaze.
‘That big stick,’ Erasmus persisted.
‘What big stick?’ Atkinson replied, sure that admitting the object’s existence after attempting to hide it would carry far worse penalties than continuing to pretend it wasn’t there.
‘That big stick behind your back.’
‘Big stick, sir? I can’t see a big stick.’
‘You can’t? Well I can. It’s six feet long and sticking above your head. Perhaps I should ask Mr Salmon to give you some remedial lessons. That way you’ll know that six feet is more than four foot five.’
Atkinson, realising when he was beaten, pulled the item in front of him and looked at it in surprise, trying to convey the impression he’d never seen it before.
‘Well?’ Erasmus inquired.
‘Sir?’
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a bow, sir.’
‘And?’
‘Sir?’
‘What are you doing with it? I trust you aren’t trying to shoot the school cat?’ In truth, Erasmus wouldn’t have minded this particular activity – he and the school cat had been engaged in a battle of wits since the rabid moggy had attempted to sink its claws into his leg on his first day.
‘No, sir,’ Atkinson protested. ‘It’s for the play. We’re doing Robin Hood, sir.’
‘Not with that you’re not,’ Erasmus told him. ‘Bring it here.’
‘Si-ir,’ Atkinson whined.
‘Here,’ Erasmus repeated, his voice going down in pitch and up in volume. It was a subtle change, but one to which experienced troublemakers had learnt to respond. Atkinson may not have been an experienced troublemaker, but he was still intelligent enough to surrender the bow into the master’s hand.
‘When can I have it back?’ he asked.
‘You can have it at the end of term and not before,’ Erasmus told him and his tone told Atkinson that any argument was about as futile as expecting divine help to part the waters of the Trent in search of a lost ball.
The boy looked down at his feet with a hangdog expression, awaiting whatever fate Hobbit had in store for him. Erasmus smiled at the tousled head. He wasn’t a cruel man – it wasn’t that long since his own scholarly career of mischief had come to an end – and the boy’s antics were scarcely as disruptive as – to take an example at random – creating a build-up of static electricity that separated a teacher from his wig. Since he knew Atkinson wasn’t the type to intend a major disruption, Erasmus decided on clemency. Not immediately, though: he waited until the boy glanced up then gave him a stern look, prompting him to examine his shoes even more minutely. Then, after he had waited for what he felt was an appropriate time, he dismissed the boy. Atkinson, grateful at being spared punishment, nodded politely before turning on his heel and running back to where Davis was waiting.
‘Atkinson!’ Erasmus called out after him.
Atkinson turned.
‘Walk. Don’t run.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Atkinson called back and he then continued his journey at a more sedate pace.
After watching the boy for a few moments, Erasmus examined the bow with interest. It wasn’t the normal bit of twig and string you found attached to teenage boys; it had real tension in it. He tugged it experimentally, considering what it would do for his odds against the school cat. Then, realising he was still blocking the driveway, he tried to bring the bow in through the car window. This proved difficult, since the bow spanned roughly six feet, whilst the car was only about five feet from wing mirror to wing mirror. He eventually managed to wedge one end of the bow in the passenger’s footwell whilst the other end stuck out of the sunroof, giving the impression of a dodgem aerial. Driving carefully so as not to get the bow caught in any low tree branches, he proceeded along the driveway to his parking space, leaving a trail of wide-eyed children, many with their hands held firmly behind their backs.
The bow was cumbersome to carry from the car to the classroom. The passage between the two single-storey buildings which constituted the particular block was narrow, and only by holding the bow upright was progress possible. How the boy had managed to get the thing to school was a mystery.
At the end of the passage, Erasmus found himself faced with a door and a problem. Because this particular block of classrooms had been adapted from service buildings on the former manor, the doors were short and squat – presumably in order to force servants to duck and thus remember their place. The bow was, therefore, a foot taller than the door. Erasmus adjusted his grip on the briefcase in his left hand and reached for the door handle, attempting to manoeuvre the bow with his right hand as he did so. It was an unsuccessful effort: by the time one end was touching the wall behind him, the other was pressed firmly against the lintel above the door. He stared at the weapon thoughtfully, the physicist in him consumed by the interesting problem in three-dimensional geometry this presented. He tried shifting his posture, attempting to bend the bow to his will by careful application of weight. The bow, however, had other ideas and remained stubbornly straight.
And it was as he was so occupied that the door-handle turned purposefully beneath his hand. Erasmus, caught off-balance by the sudden absence of door, nearly fell into the corridor beyond. It was the presence of the petite, blonde woman in the corridor which prompted him to arrest his descent and stumble to an awkward state of balance.
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ she said near-simultaneously.
‘What for?’ they said in unison.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Erasmus. ‘I’m afraid I was a bit preoccupied.’
‘Ah,’ said the woman, smiling. ‘What’s her name?’
Erasmus looked at the bow. ‘I don’t think he gave her one,’ he said. ‘One of the boys, you see.’
‘One of the boys?’ The woman’s eyebrows arched slightly as she found herself worrying whether the man was a lunatic. It would be a disappointment if he were, she considered.
‘Yes. I confiscated it from him this morning. Why they bring these things into school, I don’t know.’
‘Oh.’ The relief was palpable in the woman’s voice, but Erasmus didn’t notice it. He did, however, notice the woman as if for the first time – largely because it was the first time.
‘Have we met?’ he asked.
‘No. My name’s Ellen.’ Ellen extended a hand. Erasmus reached out, but was prevented by the bow. Frowning at the weapon, he let it go, gripped and shook before returning to his charge.
Ellen looked at him, but said nothing. She seemed to be waiting for something.
‘Oh,’ said Erasmus. ‘It’s Erasmus.’
‘Your name?’ Ellen wasn’t sure if he wasn’t referring to something else – the species of mould on the lintel, for example. He was clearly a very distracted man.
‘Yes.’
‘It’s an unusual name. Nice.’
‘Thanks. I had unusual parents. At least I presume so – I’ve not made a study. Not my area – psychology.’
‘No? What is?’
‘Physics. And history. Yes, physics and history.’
‘That should make you the best person to work out how to get an ancient weapon into a confined space, then, shouldn’t it?’
‘I suppose it should, yes,’ said Erasmus, taking the statement entirely at face value. ‘I think it might be easier if you go,’ he added on reflection.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘If you’re coming through the door. I’ll have more room to turn the bow.’
‘Ah, yes. I suppose I ought to be getting to my classroom anyway. Do you know where they teach geography, by any chance?’
Erasmus frowned. ‘Have you tried asking a geography teacher?’ he asked. ‘I understood there’s a new one starting today.’
‘Yes, I’d heard that. And I suppose if you want to ask someone directions, a geography teacher would be your best bet.’ Ellen moved out of the doorway and stood aside to let Erasmus pass. The teacher looked intently at bow and doorway a moment, then executed a complex twisting motion and slipped the bow into the corridor. Ellen observed the almost childlike smile of triumph on his face as he succeeded. There was a lot for a woman to like in that smile.
‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, her tone hopeful.
‘OK,’ said Erasmus, studiously pushing his briefcase against the door to hold it in place whilst he manoeuvred the bow. ‘Good luck finding your geography teacher.’
Ellen watched him disappearing into the building. Her face would have made an interesting study had there been a psychology teacher to observe it. Perhaps fortunately, psychology had no place on the curriculum.
The classroom was a dark one; the north-facing windows, set just below ceiling height, allowed little natural light to penetrate and a number of electric strip lights struggled bravely to illuminate the dark and cobwebby corners. For Erasmus, however, this was a home away from home. Without the intrusion of sunlight, there was no difference from one season to another, no time except that which he marked with the staccato sound of chalk on blackboard and no distractions to draw the pupils’ attentions away from their studies.
This was a room in which a teacher could set the class an essay question then sit and peacefully while away the hours with a mug of coffee and a pile of books to mark. He had to use a different room for science lessons, of course: the school wasn’t so well equipped as to allow the laboratories to be tied up with his history lessons, but science lessons tended to be in the afternoons when most of the youthful energies had been expended on the playing field, and the pupils always seemed more docile when they were armed with a piece of Veroboard and a power-pack. True, it was probably because they were working out how to electrify Harrison’s pencil case whilst he was out of the room on one of his frequent trips to the lavatory, but Erasmus firmly believed a few electrical shocks were acceptable in the pursuit of knowledge.
For the moment, however, the room was devoid of pupils as Erasmus kept himself occupied working through a series of torturously complex equations on his blackboard. Soon the nine o’clock bell would ring, signifying the end of registration and the beginning of the slow exodus to the first lesson of the morning.
Turning briefly from his calculations, he glanced at the pile of books on his desk; form 3A first this morning – hopefully Atkinson wouldn’t make too much of a fuss about his bow. He looked at the weapon, propped up next to his umbrella in the corner of the room. Where the boy had acquired such an article was a mystery – he hadn’t seen anywhere selling them and Mr Gaunt certainly wouldn’t have got the pupils to make one in woodwork. He shrugged: small boys seemed to have a natural ability to locate destructive implements, no matter how hard they were to acquire. If the UN had had the foresight to send a squad of thirteen-year-old boys into countries suspected of harbouring weapons of mass destruction, you could guarantee they’d locate any nuclear arsenal in a matter of hours. True, they’d probably set off a few bombs just to see what they could do, but at least you’d know where they were and could take the appropriate action.
The sound of youthful conversation drifted through the door and returned the teacher’s attention to the real world. Erasmus checked his watch: it was three minutes past nine – obviously the tannoy still wasn’t working. He checked the volume control on the wall-mounted speaker: it wouldn’t surprise him to find that a pupil had adjusted it – he’d heard Mr Alesage complain they’d put his clock forward in order to get out of double French early. Erasmus glanced at the clock over the board, but not with any particular interest: unlike Mr Alesage, he never relied on school equipment – experience had taught him to wear a watch to work instead.
Hearing the conversation outside was getting louder, Erasmus put down his chalk and began to wind the crank which turned the blackboards on their rollers and gave him a clean surface on which to write. A loud thump outside the door disturbed him and, realising he couldn’t put the moment off any longer, he strode to the door and opened it.
‘What was that noise?’ he demanded of the straggle of boys who were lined along the wall.
‘It wasn’t me, sir,’ Kirkby protested.
‘I asked what the noise was, not who wasn’t responsible. Have you got a guilty conscience or have you just neglected to wash your ears out this morning?’
Kirkby didn’t answer – he couldn’t see what the right answer was.
‘Well?’ Erasmus directed his gaze over the whole class.
‘Please, sir.’ Harrison’s unbroken voice rang out like the song of a lark that had just undergone an intensive interrogation.
‘Yes, Harrison,’ Erasmus prompted.
‘It was my sandwiches, sir.’
‘Your sandwiches? What have you got in them – gunpowder?’
‘No, sir,’ Harrison objected. ‘Barnstaple threw them at the door.’