winchester 2

The teacher looks like Father Christmas. He’s invited the student round for sherry. They’re going to talk about his Oxbridge exam, or something like that. The teacher bellows instead of talking. He’s a cult figure. He knows it. A very large fish in the pond. He’s had some good ideas in his time, but he’s so bored of teaching. Fed up to the back teeth. He likes some students. Most are witless.

The teacher gets a bit drunk. It’s an Autumn evening. The student is old enough to be allowed a few drinks. The teacher looks at the student. There’s not much discussion of literature. There’s not much discussion about anything. From time to time the teacher bellows the word: Fletch!

A slug has appeared on the teacher’s carpet. Not a snail, but a slug. There’s no knowing how it got there. It knuckles forward like an embarrassed gate crasher.

The teacher suggests they go for a walk. They walk out onto the open wastes of the playing field. It’s a clear, crisp night. The teacher starts talking about Wordsworth. He says that Wordsworth understood things. He looks around him and the lines sprout in his mind. Lines he’s taught so many times.

The teacher waddles in a roly poly way towards the boy. He grabs at him. The boy is taken by surprise. Father Christmas is trying to hug him. It’s been a long time since the boy’s believed in Father Christmas, but this association, and the meaty arms trying to surround him, are repulsive.

The boy, who is not so much of a boy, breaks away. He runs across the fields. The great voice resonates in the chill.

Fletch! It booms.
Fletch! The voice echoes across the darkness.