Open Writing

She was lonely. A widow, with two teenage children who bombarded her ears with music that reminded her of a slimy sludge-monster: glutinous, sound rising from horror-filled depths to terrorize the senses of all within hearing-distance, occasionally sliding back from whence it came, leaving only the wails of bagpipes taken dreadfully ill with an unmentionable stomach ailment.

Nancy loved her children, but their lives were so different from that which she lived in her mind. As she stood in the cool strong-room, her eyes grew blind to the concrete floor, the shelves of files, the safe, the tangled wires.

In her mind, she and Mr. Passmore were alone together in front of a roaring log fire on a winter evening. Speakers on the hi-fi sent the gentle sounds of Barenboim and the English Chamber Orchestra weaving the sensuous magic of Beethoven's first piano concerto through the pine-scented room. As the pianist delicately touched the keys, Mr. Passmore's fingers touched Nancy's face. She felt them, long and tender, stroking her cheeks, her hair. His face came closer, fine-featured, delicate, his eyes dark brown, gazing into her own.

"You're beautiful, Nancy, so beautiful," she heard his dark voice, deep and husky, as his lips brushed hers, then clung. She felt his hands running down her back, his body pressed hard against hers, as the music hushed, sighed and roared in her head. Her body, aroused, moved with his. She felt the strong line of his back under her hands, her fingers, playing tunes up and down his spine. Her face was flushed and hot, her breathing fast and shallow.......

"Mrs. Lovett!" Mr. Passmore' voice on the intercom across the office, sounding impatient, jarred her from this pleasant fantasy.

Flustered, Nancy fled the strong-room, clutching file and register. Her thigh once again met the corner of her desk as she lunged for the "talk" button on her intercom unit.

"Yes, Mr. Passmore?" her voice was a little husky from her passionate imaginings. She cleared her throat, not daring to look across at Gill, who was sure to raise an eyebrow at her blushes. "Sorry, I was in the strong-room. Did you want me?"

"Always, Nancy - I always want you!" For a moment, his voice was husky, too.

Nancy's blush deepened, spread down her neck and under her collar. She felt hot right down to her toes, deliciously warm inside. Silenced, she stared at the intercom until that deep voice spoke again, in a more businesslike tone.

"Actually, Nancy, I was wondering if you'd spoken to Methuselah about the mice yet - we really can't have mice in the office block. I'm sorry to nag, but we do need our computers, don't we?"

"Er - of course, no problem. I did ring for Methuselah, but at his age it takes a while for him to get here. Don't worry, I'll look after it for you."

"Here's Methuselah now," said Gill as Nancy pushed the off-button on the intercom.

Methuselah was Mr. Passmore's right-hand man, the person who looked after the physical problems around the school that the headmaster’s confinement barred him from solving.

"Hello, Miss Nancy," grinned the old man. It wasn't for nothing he was known as Methuselah. Almost sixty years ago, Methuselah started work as a lowly cleaner and had slowly worked his way up in the hierarchy of the school. "What is it you need, Miss Nancy?” he huffed and puffed through naked gums until he regained his breath. “I have come all the way from the bottom of the school. Hauw, but it is a long way to walk now that I’m 'mdala!"

"Oh Methuselah, I’m sorry to bring you all that way. Thank you for coming so quickly. Before you go back, sit with Rosie in the kitchen for a while and ask her to make you some tea." She smiled at the old man. His face rumpled into a million chocolate wrinkles. Brown eyes twinkled back at her. They were firm friends, united in their devotion to Mr Passmore.

"Methuselah," she continued, "Mr. Passmore is worried - there are mice in the school. He doesn't want them getting into the office block and chewing the wiring. Can you please set traps, or put down poison, or something? I know nothing about catching mice, but I know you'll work out something!"

"Oh, no problem, Miss Nancy! I'll put the birds in small cages, and put the cat in the aviary tonight. And I’ll put down some traps here in the office block just in case the ones that escape come here. Tomorrow - no mice!" Methuselah lifted his hand in silent greeting, turned, and moved in slow motion to the kitchen and his cup of tea. Neither he nor Nancy thought further about mice, birds or cats.

The school day continued. Telephones rang, children needed band-aids on scratches, parents asked questions that had been answered for them a hundred times in newsletters they'd not read. Teachers wanted copies of exam papers and work-sheets, requested typing, cried on the secretaries’ shoulders about broken hearts, or demanded encouragement or congratulations.

It was late afternoon when Nancy and Gill said goodbye, through their intercom units, to Mr. Passmore, exhorted him not to stay too late or work too hard, and walked together to their cars through the perfumed spring gardens.

Early next morning, the reception area was chaotic. Parents, children and teachers swirled and eddied in the foyer. Nancy and Gill were bombarded with questions, demands, donations and complaints. When the noise died down, they collapsed at their desks and begged Rosie for tea.

"I wonder if Methuselah sorted out the mice?" Gill said.

"I certainly hope so. Mr Passmore won't be too pleased if they've made their way into his office." Nancy looked around. The cabling seemed fine. She saw that Methuselah had put down traps, presumably baited with cheese. The traps were sprung, the cheese gone, and a trail of mouse-droppings went neatly around the traps and in a neat line through the gap under the door to the headmaster’s office.

Nancy realized that she’d been so busy, she hadn't had a chance to say hello to Mr Passmore this morning. She pushed the intercom's ‘talk’ button. "Good morning, Mr. Passmore, how are you today?" she asked cheerfully.

Like a stretched audio-tape, Mr Passmore’s voice wowed and wavered back at her through the speaker. "Goo-ood mor-ning, Mrs. Lo-vett... Not so-o we-ell, I - think - I've caught - a - vi-rus - of - some - sort..." The velvet voice deepened, slowed, wound down.

"Heavens, he sounds dreadful!" said Gill.

"Well, I know it's a cardinal sin to go into his office, but I can't just leave him there like that. He really sounds desperately ill!" Nancy was worried. "I'm going in, whether he likes it or not. I'm sure his deformity or whatever it is he's shy about can't be as bad as he imagines. He needs help - I'm going in there!"

Nancy tugged at her ear-ring, stood up and marched across the office, bumping her thigh as usual on the corner of her desk. She rapped on the solid oak door to the headmaster’s office. Without waiting for an answer, she turned the handle and walked in. The office was dark. Thick, musty black-out curtains clung to the windows. The air smelt stale and unused.

"Mr. Passmore," Nancy said as she hesitated, just inside the door, standing in a small puddle of light. "Mr. Passmore, I'm sorry to barge in, but - but you sounded so ill, I - I thought maybe you needed help? ... Mr. Passmore? … Mr. Passmore, are you okay? Look, I know you don't want to be seen, but - but I can't help you in the dark like this, I'm going to turn on the lights."

She fumbled along the wall until her fingers found the light-switch. The room filled with throbbing white light. Nancy blinked, blinded by their brightness. Then she blinked again, this time in surprise. The room was empty. There was no Mr. Passmore. There was only a large computer terminal placed centrally on the large, otherwise-empty desk.

The trail of little black droppings on the floor led to the wires connecting the computer terminal to the plug in the wall. Frayed, mouse-chewed connecting wires...

As Nancy advanced towards the desk, the computer screen turned a sickly green, and Mr. Passmore's voice wowed, rose and dipped as the power surged on and off through the damaged cable: "Nan-cy - he-elp me - please - he-elp me... I - re-ally - do-on't - like - mice........!"

It couldn't be true! Mr. Passmore, merely a computer? A dead - well, dying - computer?

"Good morning, Nancy," the warm, sexy, alive voice sounded behind her, laughter hiding in its velvet.

She spun round. There he stood, tall, broad-shouldered, bearded, with laughing brown eyes and fine features, just as she'd imagined him to be.

"Mr. Passmore!" Nancy exclaimed. Then added hesitantly, "You are Mr. Passmore, aren't you?"

"Yes, Nancy. I'm sorry I've been such a mystery all these years, but - well - you know, I really enjoy fly-fishing - and the computer's so efficient, I thought I could get away with it indefinitely." He had the grace to look ashamed. "But, the mice finally caught up with me. The computer sent a warning to my den at home, so I knew the game was finally up, and I'd have to come into the office today." Mr. Passmore crossed to the damaged wiring, disconnected it, and fitted a new cable. "There, that should do the trick!" he said, switching the system on again.

The computer hummed quietly to life. "Good morning, Mr. Passmore," it said in his own voice. "Good morning, Nancy. Please ask Methuselah to get rid of the mice this time?"

The flesh-and-blood Mr. Passmore grinned. "I must say, though, it was worth the trip! I've wanted to meet you for a long time, Nancy! What do you say, should we leave the school to the tender mercies of Gill and the computer, and go out for a really nice lunch somewhere?"

*

Until next time… ‘here comes Treble!’

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