The Grin of the Dark

TWENTY-THREE - MISS MOSS

We're nearly at the school when I have a last try. 'I know you were on the stage, but did you really not see me buy the paper?'

'I was looking for you,' says Mark.

'I was at the stall not a hundred yards away.'

'Looking for Tubby.' When this clarifies nothing he adds 'For you, I mean.'

'No need to put that face on every time you mention him.' I wait for his eyes and grin to shrink to reasonable dimensions before I say 'You must have seen what I'd bought when I came on the stage.'

'Some bits of paper and your DVD.'

'All right, I know it's the comic you cared about most.'

I'm not even sure why I brought up our visit to the fair. I had the newspaper, even if neither Natalie nor Mark remembers seeing it. It isn't in the apartment, but Natalie insists that she wouldn't have thrown it away. Could I have lost it on the way home? While I don't like to think so, it seems more reasonable than suspecting her parents. At least I can summarise the newspaper report in my book. Meanwhile I've locked the posters and the DVD and Keystone Kapers in the drawer of my desk.

Parents and their white breaths are gathering outside the schoolyard. More than one parent stares at me longer than I glance at them. Beyond the children dashing about the yard or settling into groups I see the woman with the handbell. 'I'm just coming in for a word, Mark,' I say and squeeze his shoulder as we pass beneath the wrought-iron name. He runs to join his admirers as I make my devious way through the crowd of children.

The little woman is mostly monochrome: black suit and tights and shoes, white blouse, grey hair. Her economically compact face grows neutral but watchful. 'May I help you?' she says.

'You're the head.'

'I'm Miss Moss.'

Her look may be a warning that her name is no occasion for mirth, but it makes my face eager to contradict her. 'That's the head,' I say, and when her raised eyebrows signify her patience 'I'm Mark Halloran's, well, not parent, sadly, not yet anyway. Guardian, would it be? I'm with his mother.'

I don't know whether her doggedly polite expression or my unwieldy face is compelling me to babble, but she doesn't help by asking 'Had you something you wanted to say?'

'I've already said a mouthful. Make that a bunch of them. I'm not just mouthing, am I? Can't you hear me?' Instead of uttering any of this I jabber 'I expect you'll be seeing a lot of that. Today's style of relationships, I mean. I just wanted to establish who I am in case anyone's wondering.'

'And who is that?'

'The way I heard it, some of the parents.' Resentment or sleeplessness makes me add 'If that's what they are, of course.'

'I was asking for your name.'

I release a laugh that seems as uncontrollable as my face. I haven't regained control of my speech when a voice says 'Simon Lester.'

I feel as if I've been provided with a soundtrack. 'Thank you, Mark,' the headmistress says and hands him the bell. 'You can be my ringer.'

Presumably I'm dismissed. I could fancy that he's ringing me out of the schoolyard. Children move away from me, because they're forming queues, of course. Parents clap and stamp their feet, but only to keep warm. The bell hasn't finished ringing energetically as I pass beneath the name. 'Thank you, Mark,' Miss Moss repeats.

The instant I turn to look, he assumes his Tubby face and swings the bell so wildly I'm afraid he may dislodge the clapper. A number of children laugh, some of them nervously, and their lines begin to grow haphazard. I grin at Mark and put my finger to my lips and wag my other hand. He responds only to the grin, and Miss Moss seems unimpressed by my performance. As she claps for silence I hurry away. Perhaps she's right to blame me for encouraging Mark, however unintentionally.

I don't know when the bell stops clanging except in my head. Surely I can't still hear it as Tower Bridge comes into view. Is an entertainer ringing one? I seem to glimpse a wild-haired figure prancing through the crowds, unless his baggy clothes are dancing in the wind along the ruffled river. I don't see him leave the bridge, and there's no sign of him when I do. I let myself into the apartment building and waste time wondering if I heard another door shut besides the outer one. I'm too feverishly awake now to catch up on my sleep, and so I log online, to be greeted by an email from Rufus.

Salutations, Simon!

Keep the problems coming and we'll solve them. Let's meet for lunch and we'll show you how. It's about time your publishers bought you one. Can you make in the net for one o'clock tomorrow? It's on Old Compton Street between Greek and Filth, I mean Frith. Oh, and don't give this online nonsense another thought.

There's nothing like a reunion!

Rufus Wall

Editor in Chief, LUP On Film