colleague had not been greatly looking forward to her retirement. Sitting back and resting was no fine ambition compared with the satisfaction of stretching elastic young minds. Better, too, to die while still searching for her own particular Philosopherâs Stone.
Beatrice had been too much of a realist, too, she was sure, not to have observed the inevitable advances of old age, the decline in physical activity, the slow closing-in of horizons, that went with the passing years. Her manner had got more and more dry with the passage of time, though the girls whom she taught did not seem to mind. Miss Simpson smiled wryly to herself in the privacy of her study. There was no doubt that Beatrice Wansdyke had long ago reached that point in a schoolmistressâs career when she was cherished by her pupils as much for her idiosyncrasy as her teaching.
The Head laid the revised timetable back on her desk. No ⦠Beatrice Wansdyke wouldnât have minded dying in harness, her duty done, her old friend Hilda Collins her chief mourner. Sheâd nursed her aged parents, kept her temper and her peace over the years with the silly, snobbish, brainless creature whom her brotherâs son had married, and done what she could for her dead sisterâs children. Nobody could have done more for the boy, Nicholas, than Beatrice, and who, added Miss Simpson charitably, could say yet that she had failed? He might improve and settle down in time. Who could say?
Would he, though, she wondered, come to the funeral on Saturday?
The young man who was the subject of Miss Simpsonâs thoughts was at that particular moment by no means as sure as Pauline Wansdyke had been that he would be at his auntâs funeral. This uncertainty had nothing to do with his wish to be there. It was to do with the nature and conditions of his present employment.
âNo,â the foreman was saying flatly, âyou canât have next Saturday off.â
âFor a funeral,â mumbled Nicholas Petforth.
The foreman, it transpired, had heard that one before. Many times.
âShe was the only aunt I had,â said Nicholas Petforth truthfully. That, though he didnât tell the foreman so, was the whole trouble in the family. Aunts had been a bit on the short side. His father had had no sisters and his mother only one. This situation didnât usually matter, but it had mattered in their family when it came to the point.
âAnd Saturday,â said the foreman without emotion, âis the only time this season that Luston Town will be playing Newcastle United.â
Nicholas Petforthâs mobile face looked quite blank.
âAway,â added the foreman meaningfully. âYouâd need the whole day to get there. And ââ he was a soured man ââ and youâd be late back on Monday morning into the bargain.â
âAh, football.â Petforth rearranged his features upon the instant to project a keen interest in the game. Negotiations about his going to the funeral had reached a delicate stage and he didnât want them spoilt by an injudicious reference on his part to spectator sport.
âBack late on Monday with a headache,â added the foreman for good measure.
Petforth dragged up a remark heâd overheard being made at a recent tea-break. âThe Town team havenât a chance without their usual centre-forward.â
The foreman nodded. âUnluckiest accident in the history of the Club.â
âAnd just before the big match,â agreed Petforth solemnly. He became suitably deferential. âDo you think if heâd been fit to play ⦠supposing he hadnât broken his legâ
The foreman shook his head. âNot a hope, if you ask me.â
âAh â¦â Nicholas Petforth was careful not to make a specific comment. He had learnt a lot since he had come to work on the construction site. In his time there he had come to perfect an ideal response to