Chapter
Twenty-Nine
‘Roger’s taken to teaching like
a duck to water,’ Tarquin laughs. ‘Hello, children, don’t pay attention to us.’
The children chatter on our
arrival. A distraction from the lesson.
‘Come now children, settle down,’
says Teague, in a very un-Teague-like voice.
Each child has a stone tablet in
front of them, with scratches of writing.
Our shocked faces are clearly a
cause of concern for Tarquin. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asks. ‘Do you know each other.’
It’s Teague who answers first. ‘I
think I’d remember, Tarquin.’ He crosses to the back of the room to stand with
us. ‘Keep scribing children, a scribing hand is a happy hand. Such little
treasures,’ he smiles, putting a hand to his heart. He makes a face like a
doting parent and I think I might be sick.
Elle laughs, but I can tell it’s
fake. Tarquin and Sandra don’t pick up on it. ‘Just in awe of a teacher at
work,’ she lies.
‘The best person to take you
through things here,’ Sandra says. ‘He’s had the children working twice as hard
already.’
The pair of them smile and say
their goodbyes, leaving us in Teague’s capable hands.
‘Roger?’ I ask. ‘Really?’
‘I felt it was time for a shift
in priorities,’ he says. ‘I felt that ‘Roger’ befitted a man who dedicated his
life to teaching writing to the young of the after.’
Elle raises her eyebrow so it
disappears behind her pink fringe. ‘What are you pulling here, Teague? We’re
not stupid.’
‘Don’t let my old ways blind you…’
‘What your old ways of a couple
of hours ago?’ I ask.
‘Hours?’
he asks. ‘I’ve been here a week, my dear. Time, it appears, does not keep the
same company in this place.’
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