The MGC returns? C2
Joan was not a woman given to excessive worry or introspection. Pushing the current worry to one side as something she wasn't yet in a position to do anything about, she resumed her teaching duties, briskly tackling a second class of first-year learners until the lunch bell went. She ate lunch on her own while performing routine school admin duties, and in the early afternoon, took a senior class in cookery. These were fourth-year pupils who she had taught since girls had first arrived at the Assassins' School four years before, and she had every confidence in their ability to do the advanced stuff.
She unlocked the black-painted Special Ingredients Cupboard, the one that the first-year pupils stared at with helpless covetous longing, and smiled at her class.
"Lord Downey has asked us to prepare a batch of his special almond slices. He has also requested a selection of special-recipe mint fancies. I'm sure we can accommodate his wishes! Now remember, girls, this sort of patisserie work calls for special precautions. Latex gloves and breathing masks on, if you please!" She paused, and added: "And we will use Number Twelve oven. The one that can be contained inside a sealed fume cupboard. "
It was a regular chore, and a good grading task for senior students. Joan smiled, and set about sifting some powdered white arsenic. Hard work. A jolly good antidote to concerns.
"Miss?" asked a pupil.
"Yes, miss Finchley?"
"Does anyone, you know, ever eat these? I would have thought everyone knew by now that if the Master asks you to his study, the sherry's safe but you don't touch the almond slice. Nor the mints."
Joan knew when to reward an intelligent question.
"Two reasons, m'dear. One, it's traditional. And you don't muck around with traditions. Two, I believe Lord Downey sometimes practices a sort of Zlobenian Roulette with the almond slices. He'll put out a plate where some are safe and some are not, and the visitor has to make a fast decision under pressure as to which is which. I do understand he has the antidote handy for those who get it wrong, though! His way of dealing with overconfidence, apparently. And of course, it gives you gels practical hands-on training in working with poisons!"
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She wound down in the latter part of the afternoon with a class in her other speciality, Elocution and Deportment. She made no apologies for teaching both: the Concordat said that the trained Assassin had to be able to seamlessly blend in with the highest social classes in all regards. And these days, the School's pupils came from just about all over the Disc, which meant, regrettably, that many of them carried accents and habits that had to be somewhat ironed out.
She glanced at her notes. Three boys, first and second year students, one a talented charity entrant from Dimwell, and two overseas pupils from Howondaland. She nodded.
"I shall talk to you individually in a moment." She said. "But first I want you to be absolutely clear what the purpose of those lessons is. It might feel as if, in an hour when your classmates have been given a Free Study period, you have been unfairly singled out for extra work."
She paused.
"This is partially true. You have been identified by your form teachers and House Masters as boys who will benefit immensely from additional training. I will coach you, over the course of our sessions, into altering and changing your patterns of speech so that they conform to the accepted values of Received Pronunciation Morporkian. Let me make it absolutely clear this is not being done out of unthinking reflex snobbery." Joan remembered a much younger teacher, also called Joan Sanderson-Reeves, who had taught elocution out of unthinking reflex snobbery , and who had been a stuffed shirt of a gel who jolly well deserved a great big kick in the pants. Joan glanced in a mirror - the Guild premises had a sufficiency - , and wondered what had become of the tiresome little stuffed-shirt snob. She grew up, probably.
"No, gentlemen. The purpose of my small, intimate, classes is to enable you to learn a new skill, of value to the assassin's School graduate, called blending in. Over the course of the nest few years, you will attend parties, receptions, and formal presentations with some of the highest and most powerful and influential people in this land. Some will become friends and patrons, some will become, possibly, clients, some might even be both. It will be no service to you, and will detract from the skills and abilities you will ultimately develop, if you go into a formal reception speaking street Morporkian, or with pronounced Howondalandian accents that make you sound as if you've got off the latest orange boat just in at the docks. This is a pragmatic course. Some people speak of comparative linguistics, which argues that no one accent or dialect has any intrinsic superiority over any other. A utopian idea, gentlemen, but one which in this city is absolutely dead wrong. It may even render you dead, in the social sense, which is bad news for an Assassin seeking contracts."
She smiled briefly at the three boys.
"Nobody is going to stop you being a Dimmie at home, or being as Howondalandian as you care to be, when among your own. Indeed, with Miss Smith-Rhodes among my colleagues, I would not presume to destroy your native accent altogether! " (Joan inwardly winced, remembering a sincerely-made attempt to offer Johanna Smith-Rhodes her services to "iron out that accent, my dear." Well, they'd all learnt since then.)
"Now. Mr Christianou Polyvinilchlorinos." She began. "You are twelve years old. Your family are Ephebian immigrants who run a kebab shop in Dimwell. You came to the notice of the Guild following a brutal armed robbery attempt on the premises early one Sunday morning. Shouts and screams were heard, and the Watch reported finding one robber dead, one unconscious, and the third begging to be arrested and taken away from that bloody psycho kid, as he's lethal! Subsequent investigation concluded that you acted in legitimate self-defence against unlicenced thieves – with a selection of improvised weapons, including kebab skewers and one of those unsanitary-looking revolving joints of un-named meat - and there was no case to answer. Lord Vetinari and Commander Vimes both agreed to this School accepting you as a pupil, and working to guide your steps and refine your promise." Nobody wants an eleven-year old killer walking the streets unsupervised, she thought, even if his reasons for killing were good and pressing ones. Far better we get him and teach him to use it properly. "And you're in my class because of the defence you put up at the trial. Remember your own words? Them peeps, they was tryin' to rob the shop, innit?"
Joan winced.
"I can see a need for my intervention there! It isn't even the Ephebian of the great poet Homeboi, who wrote, about a visit to Ankh-Morpork, kackiphloisbois thallassas, "The rolling sewage-coloured seas. Well, my lad, it's time we did something about that hoi-polloi accent of yours!"(1)
Finally, Joan spoke to the two Howondalandian boys, then chalked up a single massive letter on the blackboard.
"This elocution lesson is brought to you today by the letter "a"!" (2) she proclaimed. "It does appear to be one that's rather neglected in the Howondlalandian dialect, and I see it as my positive duty to restore it to its rightful place in your vocal range. Let's get cracking, shall we?"
She chalked up
"All authors are arrogant, and on average have an exaggerated assessment of their own ability".
"You first, Mr Botha" she requested.
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Joan's final job was supervising an after-school homework class for day pupils. Well, so many of them, the charity cases, live in places like Dimwell, or Dolly Sisters, or even the Shades, she thought. Overcrowded slum houses, definitely not conducive to homework.
She was interrupted three times.
"Please, miss" said the messenger, a second year pupil. "Mr Mericet told me to take you this note".
"Thank you. You may go". She stemmed a few muted giggles with a meaningful glare. The note read
Dear Joan.
I heard about the new accusations against you with some alarm. I remain sure they are utterly without foundation. If there is anything at all I can do to assist you to clear your name and reputation, please call for me. I will be waiting.
Yours ever
Humphrey.
She smiled. Dear Humphrey. As one of the very few privileged to know Mr Mericet's first name, she smiled and reflected on the circumstances in which she'd found it out. Just after her own graduation as a mature entrant to the Guild, there had been an official reception for the twenty-one out of thirty who had survived the course. Giddy with champagne and congratulations, she had found herself in earnest conversation with Mr Mericet, the normally dry, forbidding, Poisons master who had passed her from his class with 98%. He had blathered on for a while about how such an outstanding pupil occurs only once or twice in a teacher's career… in the circumstances, may I call you Joan? And I rarely tell anyone this, but my first name is Humphrey… Mericet had run a finger inside his collar for a few moments, looking ill-at-ease, and had then said: "Joan, would you do me the honour of letting me take you out for dinner one night?"
Flattered, and having thought her courting days were long over, Joan had said "Yes. Just once. Then we'll see how it goes?"
And later in the evening, the rumbustious Grune di Nivor had collared her, and after some blather about the rest of you gels are young fillies and I'm far too old for them. Emmanuelle would, I fear, kill me, and then claim her own body as the inhumation weapon. Johanna is… well, a pretty little thing, but too young. And I fear Alice makes her own arrangements. Joan, could I take you to dinner sometime?"
Doubly flattered, and with champagne having taken the place of caution, she'd also said "yes".
And to this day, di Nivor and Mericet existed in an icy state of extreme mutual politeness, all over her…
Emmanuelle, of course, had taken it as a huge joke, the hussy. But she'd still dated both, appreciating the old-time gentlemanliness, the exquisite meals, the witty dining partners, and male interest in her, at a time in her life when she'd resigned herself to spinsterhood. It was a whole new life.
T'Malia had not been amused, though, pointing out that she expected better, somehow, of her most mature teacher, "and if those two silly old men have a rush of blood to the head and end up duelling or something, I'll blame it on you".
Joan wasn't surprised when her next messenger was from Di Nivor.
There was more giggling in the class, which was swiftly stifled.
Dearest Joan.
If there's anything I can do, shout for me and I'll be here.
Ever yours,
Grune.
She sighed.
And then the QCIC messenger arrived with the files.
"Miss Sanderson-Reeves? You are directed to read these. Please sign here."
She knew when she saw them. The investigation reports into the new Marriage Guidance Counsellor. Well, she hadn't been forbidden to discuss them with a trusted friend. And she knew exactly who.
After dinner, where Joan had been squeezed onto the long table accommodating Black Widow House as a guest, she went to find that friend, noting that she was not alone.
Joan had responsibilities towards Day Pupils, but had been spared living in and managing a full House. Very slightly winded after negotiating all the stairs with a full load, she had said , on arriving, "They hide you away up here, don't they, m'dear!"
Alice Band was playing Assassins' Chess with a senior pupil. Sounds of splashing and low conversation came from the bathroom. The pupil chess player made to stand up when Joan came into the room, but Joan waved her back with "No, m'dear, let's be informal."
Alice nodded at Joan's burden.
"They're the case files?"
"Yes. I was rather hoping that you'd read them over for me. Second pair of eyes, and all that."
Alice nodded. "This is Hazel Pethley-Thomas. Head of Fourth Year and by default Head of House. She gets special privileges, like beating me at chess."
"Nonsense, Alice. You're a Grand Master!"
"My brother is a Grand Master. But he taught me and I can beat him two times out of five".
She moved a piece. The White Assassin entered the gaming area proper, poised for a lunge at the Black King.
"What have I said to you about hidden movement in the Slurks, Hazel? It can be lethal."
"Indeed, miss." Hazel moved her own Assassin, allowing it to reappear on the board to complete its contract.
"Black Assassin takes White Assassin. Threat to King removed, I believe."
Alice laughed, delightedly. There was movement and splashing from the bathroom, followed by water being drained.
"Ah. They're ready now. Shall we conclude quickly, Hazel?"
As the game finished, as a very narrow victory for White, a generously-built middle-aged woman in Guild servants' uniform ushered a washed and dressing-gowned girl out of the bathroom.
Joan recognised Rose Lympe-Sandgate, the girl she'd had occasion to chastise over personal hygiene. Rose, without prompting, extended ten very clean fingernails out to her Domestic Science teacher. The gesture was just on the right side of over-confident, but noticed by both teachers.
"Now you know the standard to keep to, m'dear, I'm sure you can contrive to stay there, hmmm?" Joan said, gently. The girl nodded.
"Thank you, Topsy." Alice said, whole-heartedly. "Some things work better if they don't come from a teacher!"
"I've got six myself, ma'am." replied Washable Topsy, the Guild laundress. "It's just a case of treating them as if they were one of your own and, you know, just showing them what needs to be done. Like you'd do with your own! Anyway, poor little mite. She's away from home for the first time and missing her family!"
"I'm grateful to you. I know I've kept you well past the end of your shift." Alice passed some coin over to Topsy. The laundress beamed. "Two dollars, miss? Most generous of you!"
Joan looked down at the poor little mite, who was at the beginning of a seven-year training course that could make her into a cold implacable killer, and smiled slightly at the incongruity.
"Noblesse oblige" said Alice. "Hazel, could you possibly take Rosemary back to the First Year dorm for me and see her into bed? If any of the other kids start making "smelly Rosie" remarks, refer them to me. And thank you for the chess game."
The three of them left. Joan waited a few moments before saying "Two dollars? She'd have been happy with fifty pence!"
"We're Assassins, Joan. We're meant to tip extravagantly!"
Joan smiled.
"I'd never have thought of that, you know. Taking the soap-dodger and running her through your own bath! Get her up to the mark and show her what the standard is!"
Alice smiled.
"And you'll also notice I got chaperones round. It felt best! "
"Just so long as the grubby child didn't leave a tide-mark, of course". said Joan, thoughtfully.
Alice let it pass. "Now, all this stuff is to do with the naughty person out there who's taken your old trade name?"
"Yes, and it's damn confusing!"
"Well, let's see if two brains can't make more sense of it… there's some coffee in the scullery? "
(1) On Roundworld, Homer, of course: polyphloisbois thallasas, the ever-rolling wine-red sea of the Iliad. On Discworld, Homeboi's last poetic utterance was during a visit to the fabled lost valley of Loko: he was heard to call Pterodaktylos Eos! early one morning, just as he disappeared without trace. Critics dismiss this as a plagiarism of the rather opinonated lifestyle and political poetess Sappho, whose Brodydaktylos Eos!, when translated into Morporkian by Lady Alice Venturi, was the subject of an indecency action. Both Rosie and Dawn, when summoned to the witness box, avowed that it's no business of anybody but them as to where they put their fingers, thank you very much!
(2) Sesame Street, of course. The show that convinced a generation of British pre-schoolers that the last letter of the alphabet is pronounced "zee". Hated by a generation of British reception school (first-grade) teachers for this reason.