It was a comfortable life, really, John Watson mused as he marked the Fifth Form's tests. Rewarding, yes. Undemanding, again, yes. And yet...
Finishing Posner's paper, a good, solid B, Doctor Watson sighed. Roberts' paper, now uppermost on the pile, was a mess of tortured, twisted and tangled characters, numerals and symbols. To make things worse, Roberts was a bright student, obliging him to at least attempt to decipher the handwriting - St. Baker's School did not charge thousands of pounds a year for its teachers to be foiled by mere dyspraxia, as had been impressed upon the teaching staff by the rather formidable Mrs. Roberts. With another, more resigned sigh, the good doctor set to work.
It wasn't so much the lack of excitement, he decided, strolling across the cricket pitch, en route to the village pub. It was the... the uniformity. There may seem to be little distinction between the two, yet boredom was to be expected, a teacher in a boarding school could hardly expect to have the same challenges as in an inner city comprehensive. No students mugged on the way home, no knives smuggled into school, no truancy. But surely, some of the students should be different. Not aspiring politicians, doctors, bankers, studying and schmoozing and competing, from out of the womb, practically. It seemed bred in, sometimes.
And how did he fit in, John Watson, MB, BChir, BSc(Hons)? How had he, a grammar school boy, a doctor, a soldier, ended up here, teaching these smug little rich boys how to get into Oxbridge? For them, it seemed to be all so easy, insulated from reality. Maybe that was it, his great moral qualms. You managed to forget all that when you took the job, the nasty, malicious little voice behind his eyes whispered.
The glowing yellow light spilling out of The Black Horse's windows came into view as John broached the hilltop, shaking him out of his reverie. The Cotswold stone of the wall beside the door was briefly illuminated as one of the villagers stepped outside, then again, as he lit a cigarette. The rumble of voices from within was becoming clearer now, a babble of accents - west country, generic middle class, and even upper class. For a moment, John was reminded of the classic, sketch "...I am upper class, I look down on him..." It made an odd mix, in his opinion, the locals, the professionals "moved out of the city - such good schools here, you know," and the occasional minor member of the gentry. And he... he was there to meet some of the staff from school.
Greg saw him as soon as he entered the pub, and beckoned him over to the bar.
"John! Thought you'd never get here? What kept you? Mike, pint of bitter for John," he said, with a nod to the landlord.
John took a seat on the barstool as Mike began pumping the tap into an old-fashioned tankard.
"Marking, you know how it is - end of term assessments."
Greg nodded sympathetically, passing over a five pound note, and sliding the proffered drink across to John, who drank appreciatively.
"Just be grateful you don't have to mark History essays, that's all I can say. My god, don't the prep schools teach them anything about constructing an argument these days?" Greg held his head in his hands in mock resignation.
This time it was John's turn to nod sympathetically, and he obliged.
"Are Molly and George in yet?"
"In the bathroom." Greg flicked his hand towards the ladies. "Why on Earth do women do that?"
"What?"
"All go to the bathroom together. You're a doctor, you should know."
John smiled, shaking his head.
"I think that is beyond medical science, Greg. Try asking a psychologist. Or better yet, a woman. Here's a pair of them now, seize the chance."
Molly emerged from the toilet, George following her, searching in her handbag as she did. Molly slid in between John and Greg and rested against the bar.
"Same again, Mike," smiling at him before turning to John. "Hi there, stranger." She smiled at him too, then turned back to Mike to pay for the drinks.
George, who had been moving slowly across the room, absorbed in her handbag, suddenly sprang into motion as the seat next to John was vacated by the man sitting nearest the wall. She claimed it swiftly, smiling vicariously, though, in truth, no-one else had so much as moved towards it.
"Right, everyone. End of term assessments done and marked? Good. Now, to prevent a perfectly good evening from being spoilt by complaining -" she paused as Molly passed her a gin and tonic "-thank you, Molly. As I was saying, John, you have nothing to complain about, you had to mark maths questions, for which there is one right answer, and you, Molly, mark a similarly right-or-wrong topic. As for you, Gregory, you do not have to endure the terrible pain of fourteen year old boys attempting to be antagonistic and argue that The Taming of the Shrew is a good model for family structure. So drink up and either shut up or agree that your pain is as nothing to mine."
With that, George took a great gulp of her drink. The others smiled.
"She always did have a flair for the dramatic," Greg stage whispered "I've heard there's an am-dram group starting up in the village. Fancy joining, George?"
George's reply was a profane gesture, causing both Greg and Molly to erupt with laughter. Ignoring them, George slipped a file from her handbag across to John.
"There's a new student starting on Monday. He'll be here tomorrow, though. A chance to settle in, meet the other boys over the weekend. You know the sort of thing. He's sixteen. He'll be in your house."
"Umm... okay," John said, flicking through the file."He's sixteen, so he'll be in Fifth Form, then?"
"No." George replied empathically. "Definitely not. In fact, he'll be in the Upper Sixth. And he - he might need a little bit of extra support from you, John."
John sighed. This, he decided, was probably code for 'precocious little git.' Brilliant, because there clearly weren't enough of them at St. Bakers as it was.
"Go on, then. What's his name. Chummley Fitton-Fortescue or something?"
"No, Holmes, actually. Funny first name. Sherlock."