e Arches
P J G Robbins
Under the Arches
By P J G Robbins
Copyright 2014 P J G Robbins
Discover other titles by P J G Robbins:
Dreamweavers: Awakening
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‘Miss Marsh.’
‘Miss Marsh.’
‘Miss Angelina Marsh will you please pay attention!’
Miss Angelina Marsh withdrew herself from gazing mindlessly out of the window and turned her attention to the front of the class, where the stern face of one Mrs Adcock awaited her. She was standing with her hands on her hips and a deep frown on her face.
‘Are you quite finished daydreaming?’ she snapped.
Angelina nodded sullenly.
‘Right,’ said Mrs Adcock, snapping her fingers as she said it, which was her way of demanding full attention. ‘Who can show me how the graph to the following equation will look?’
Angelina stifled a yawn. Already her mind was starting to wander again. Mrs Adcock, or Mr sAdcock as it was written on most of the children’s notebooks, had never taken much of a liking to her. It had started the previous year, Angelina’s first year at Vicarage Girls School, in Watford. She had found Mrs Adcock’s classes extremely dry and uninspiring, and whilst she dutifully completed all the homework (without the help of the internet), she had never once felt the urge to participate in class. Never once had she volunteered an answer, or offered her thoughts on how simplest to rearrange an equation, and this did not sit well with Mrs Adcock.
Mathematics. The bane of so many children Angelina’s age. It was surprising how many of them struggled with the simplest of calculations. Frustration at this lack of ability was always painfully apparent in the way Mrs Adcock addressed her pupils, and their loathing for her was possibly the first thing they learned upon joining the school. It was the same every year. September would come around and with it the chance for a fresh start. Then the first maths lesson would arrive and with it came an unchanged Mrs Adcock, and by the end of the first period some bright spark would have usually figured out that the simple repositioning of the space in someone’s name could lead to hilarious results. And so the legend that was Mr sAdcock lived on and the perpetual boredom of maths classes continued for another year.
Angelina didn’t mind maths. In fact she had rather a flair for it. Perhaps it was the reason that she found the classes that little bit more mind numbing. If she wasn’t being stretched then her mind had a tendency to wander and nowhere was this more apparent than in Mrs Adcock’s classes. She had not made her gift known to most of the other students. Being branded a maths geek on top of everything else was something she was sure she could live without. In any case, they would only end up copying her work and she was in no mind to let that happen. She was happy to let them think that she just went home and found the answers elsewhere, like they all did.
Bang!
The violent sound of Mrs Adcock’s hand slamming down on the desk in front of her jolted Angelina back into the classroom.
‘You will see me after school young lady, by which time I expect you to have prepared a long list of reasons why it is important to pay attention in class.’
‘Great,’ thought Angelina, cursing her wandering mind. ‘Detention again. As if I need any more excuse to spend time in school.’
Mrs Adcock gave her a contemptuous look before returning to the front of the class. Some of the other girls sniggered and began whispering amongst themselves. Angelina looked down at the scrap of paper that had appeared in front of her. It read simply: My office. 3:45pm sharp!
The end of the lesson came and went and the rest of the day passed in a haze of historical dates, French verbs and Shakespeare. It was a truly gruesome way to finish off the week. She was outside Mrs Adcock’s office at 3:42pm, knowing it unwise to further anger an already irate teacher. There was already a queue of at least half a dozen students waiting outside, most of whom were older than her, but there were also a couple of troublemakers from her year too.
Mrs Adcock was one of the few teachers blessed with an office of her own, because she also happened to be deputy head of the school. Quite how she had never made it as far as head teacher was something that had always baffled Angelina. For a start, she was old enough to have occupied an exhibition on pre-history at the Natural History Museum in London. Perhaps it was her rather backward view of the world and her unique way of endearing herself to the pupils that had kept her from that lofty position.
Eventually Mrs Adcock arrived and the lectures began. Angelina noticed it was already four o’clock and one by one the students went in, most of them holding sheets of paper with the answers to some list of questions that Mrs Adcock had set them. Those who saw her all too frequently never bothered doing them, for she never looked at the answers, instead preferring to prattle on about the importance of a good education and how rude children nowadays were. The lecture was virtually the same each time it was given, and despite only being subjected to it on a handful of occasions the previous year, Angelina had it memorised almost word for word.
Finally her turn came and Angelina took a deep breath and plunged into the room.
Later that afternoon Angelina walked out of the school gates and onto the path that ran beside Wiggenhall Road. She was feeling a little out of kilter, for Mrs Adcock had not given one bit of her usual lecture spiel. She had instead expressed her sympathy and understanding for Angelina’s personal situation and how she hoped that her parent’s divorce would not put Angelina off her studies. Angelina had sat in dumb silence for the whole time, merely nodding or shaking her head when appropriate, in agreement with the deputy head. Her parent’s divorce had happened over two years previously and Angelina had long since put it out of her mind. Perhaps Mrs Adcock had only just found out. In any case, she was now out of school and could enjoy the rest of her birthday.
As Angelina walked home, over the bridge that crossed the railway lines and past the petrol station at the bottom of the hill, she reflected on finally making it as far as being a teenager. She would find a way to celebrate the achievement with a few of her friends later. For now though, the weather was nice, and the leaves in Oxhey Park were turning a beautiful golden colour. There was a whole weekend to look forward to and no school work to get in the way.
The next day was a Saturday and Angelina’s mum had promised to take her shopping in the Harlequin Centre in town as a treat. Angelina was excited, not at the prospect of having lots of new things – there would be some, and a few of them might be new – but at the chance to spend some quality time with her mother. Since her Dad had left them Angelina’s mum had taken on extra work in order that she could keep paying the mortgage on the flat they lived in. They could have moved elsewhere, perhaps to South Oxhey where the houses were cheaper, but Angelina had thrown a tantrum at the idea of leaving her old room behind and they had ended up staying. Angelina felt a certain amount of guilt about this, not least when she saw her mum emerge bleary-eyed and dishevelled some mornings, but the subject had never been brought up again and it was something that Angelina had no desire to do.
The flat was situated just off Eastbury Road in Watford, which ran along up and over a small hill south of the town centre, close to Bushey Arches. It looked out over Oxhey Park, a pleasant open space of modest size that overlooked the River Colne as it skirted the nearby retail parks. It was the only home Angelina had ever known, hence her attachment to her room. It was not a large flat, with the lounge and kitchen area effectively being part of the same room, and only being separated by a small breakfast bar. There were also two bedrooms, a bathroom and a storage cupboard. Yet in past years Angelina’s parents had furnished it sympathetically, giving it an airy, open feel, whilst still leavi
ng enough character to call it home.
It was a bright September morning, which was a refreshing change following the dreary August that had just passed. It always seemed to rain in the school holidays, which was doubly depressing for Angelina since most of the things she enjoyed doing involved being out of doors. Most of the other kids her age would be holed up in front of the TV or an Xbox for most of the six weeks, but Angelina had little interest in such things, except perhaps the Discovery Channel or the various twenty-four hour news broadcasts. Unfortunately her mum could not afford a Sky package, so Angelina had to watch what she could on the terrestrial channels. Programmes such as Panorama and Whistleblower were of more interest to her, since they shed a stark light on the once comfortable world she had grown up in. Her mum said that she should not be troubling herself with such things at her age, but Angelina found most of the programmes aimed at her age group patronising and had resolved not to waste her time with them. The exception was Spongebob Squarepants. Spongebob had kept her going through the break-up of her parents and she owed it to him. Plus he was cool, in his own squishy, yellow, twisted way.
She spent the entire morning and most of the afternoon with her mum, walking in