Chapter Two --The New Tutor, Part II

Despite Gemma's fears, Phil found Mina more interesting than annoying. Well, make that interesting and annoying. The two were often sharp with one another, and Gemma had the impression that Mina could be even sharper if she'd let herself.

Yet by the end of the first month, Gemma was able to report to Gordon that the new tutor was a capable and effective instructor. If the tone Mina took with the students was sometimes more biting than Gemma might have wished, she also managed to teach them a good deal. And her tartness was understandable. The University of the Midlands didn't exactly attract the most highly-motivated scholars.

Phil frequently laughed aloud at some of Mina's exchanges with them. "I had to skip the lecture, Professor; I, uh, had something else to do," said one young man. "Did I miss anything important?"

"Nothing at all, Mr Gresham," Mina had replied. "I'm fairly confident that you would have gained very little from being present."

The boy's eyes had flickered uncertainly; he wasn't sure whether he'd been insulted. "Er, okay, thanks," he said as he left.

"I'm sorry I didn't seem very well-prepared, but these tutorials are harder than you realise, Professor," protested another student. "I mean, I know you're smarter than us and everything. . ."

Mina had raised an eyebrow. "My dear Miss Haskell," she'd said, her voice dry enough to cure wood. "You're too kind."

The students all called Mina "Professor," although she wasn't, not technically, and it wasn't a title they bestowed on any of the other part-timers. It was Mina's age, Gemma supposed, and, well, there was just something about her. . . Gemma wished she could get her own students to meet their deadlines and appointments with the regularity that Mina's did or to apologise when they didn't. Most people even stood up straighter when they talked to the "professor."

Philippa found Mina Morgan fascinating and spent endless hours speculating about her and trying to mine nuggets of information from her. In this endeavour she was stymied, however; Mina resisted all attempts to draw her out and refused every invitation to pub or cinema or dinner. Gemma was sure that money was at least part of the reason. She sometimes wondered whether Mina could even afford enough to eat; often she'd spend hours at the school without consuming more than a carton of yoghurt.

But when Gemma mentioned this concern to Phil in the office one afternoon, Phil wasn't terribly sympathetic.

"Who wouldn't starve on what we get paid?" she demanded. "But I wouldn't worry about it. Morgan's a managing sort, and, well. . .she'll manage. What I want to know is, who is she? Why is she here? Face it, Gem, she could do better than this place. And there are so many things about her that just don't add up. That walking stick, for instance. She doesn't need it, not to walk with, that's obvious. But it's never out of her sight. What's the story with that?"

"Maybe it's a sword cane with a poisoned tip," Gemma joked. "She's a spy, MI5."

Phil didn't smile. "No matter what she says about Scotland, I'm not sure she's even from the UK. There are so many ordinary things she just doesn't know about. I swear, at first she wasn't even sure how to use the kettle. And the photocopier? The computer? She's learned fast, I'll give her that, but in the beginning it was like everything was new to her. Maybe she's really an American; don't they have a witness protection thing? For people who testify against the Mafia?"

There was a silence as they both contemplated the notion of Mina Morgan on the run from the Mob.

"It can't be anything like that," Gemma said finally. "Besides, even in America they have photocopiers and computers."

"You know what I think?" asked Phil after a moment. "I think she's been in prison."

"What!" Gemma couldn't help laughing.

"No, think about it -- it's the only thing that makes sense. All right, maybe she is from Scotland. But what else would explain why she left there and came down here to East Bumfuck where she doesn't seem to know a soul and takes a terrible job and won't say a word about herself and acts like somebody who's been in a coma for ten years?"

"Well. . ." Put that way, Gemma thought. . .it would answer a lot of questions.

"Do you think she killed someone?" whispered Phil dramatically. "I'm sure she's capable of it."

"Oh, stop," said Gemma. But Phil was right; prison did make a sort of horrible sense.

"You're the head tutor. Can't you get hold of her personnel file?"

"No." Gemma was firm. "It's none of our business, really."

"Come on."

"No."

Phil shook her head in irritation. "You are so. . . Well, fine. Whatever. I'm sure I'm right, anyway. For one thing, it would explain where she learnt to be such a posh dresser."

Gemma had to laugh again at that, although Mina's clothes were another reason to suspect that she didn't have much money. Occasionally she'd exchange the striped jumper for an equally-baggy green one or replace the rusty black skirt and heeled black boots with a pair of faded jeans and scuffed brown boots. But the tartan muffler and the blue waistcoat were constants, and everything was far from new. Still, Gemma liked the jeans; they emphasised the feline grace that she always noticed in Mina.

"Seriously," Phil went on. "She looks like she looted the rubbish bins at an Oxfam shop. In the dark. I'm tempted to give her some fashion tips. . ."

"Don't you dare," Gemma warned. Phil was probably kidding, but you could never tell. "She's just eccentric. Leave her alone."

"Don't you at least want to know what crime she committed?"

"We don't know that she committed any crime at all!" Gemma exclaimed. But although she didn't like to admit it, she was half-convinced. "Oh, Phil," she said soberly. "I'd hate think of her in prison."

"Softie," Phil scoffed. "I'm sure our Mina held her own there. And you know what else? I think she's one of us."

"What do you mean? An organic chemist?"

Phil rolled her eyes. "No, brainless. One of us -- a lesbo, a dyke, a sister of Sappho, call it what you will."

"You're mad."

"No, I'm not. I can tell. Just the way she interacts with people; she responds more to women. You can see it with the students."

Gemma sat forward. "Has she done something inappropriate. . .?"

"God, sweetie, you are too funny. No, nothing like that. I don't mean she's trying to seduce anyone. It's just. . .she likes women. I can feel it."

"She's at least sixty years old!" Gemma knew she was being silly, but for some reason, she needed to object. Their elderly physics tutor, a lesbian convict? All of a sudden, it was just too much.

"So? What's her age got to do with it?" Phil demanded. "I think she's hot. . .that hair and those boots. . ."

"Phil! Don't forget your girlfriend is sitting right here."

Philippa laughed and held out her hand. "A tenner says Mina Morgan is a lavender lady."

"A tenner," Gemma agreed, shaking hands.

A knock sounded on the door frame, and Gemma turned to face what she assumed were two students, a boy and a girl. God, I hope they haven't been listening, she thought. Aloud, she said, "Good afternoon. Are you looking for one of us?"

The boy answered. He was about eighteen, slight, with glasses and unkempt dark hair. "We wanted to see, er, Mina Morgan," he said.

"She's not here at the moment," Gemma said, knowing they could see that for themselves. "You're her students?"

"Actually," said the girl, pushing bushy brown hair out of her eyes, "we're. . .her grandchildren."