The Princess and his Prince

Doctor Hubert Unsworth regarded his young colleague with evident warmth, even though his final effort to persuade Gareth Ilar Philip Maximillian Konstandin Sebastian Robinson to remain as a teacher at Thornberry Independent Grammar School had failed. For a moment, the older man fell into  a private meditation of himself and Elspeth remarking to each other how the 31 year old reminded them of their dear departed son, Edwin.

“That photograph Elspeth took of you when we bumped into each other in the Theatre Gardens last month, I hope you do not mind, but we have had it enlarged and framed.”
“Oh,” taken aback slightly at the sudden change of subject, Gareth quickly recollected their unexpected meeting. He had felt ever so slightly self-conscious dressed casually as he was in a tight fitting tee-shirt, frayed jeans and with a pint of bitter in his right hand.

“Elspeth thinks your smile is rather lovely,” added the Headmaster gently.
“ Oh” repeated Gareth. “I don’t mind at all, headmaster.”

“Good, Good. We thought we ought to tell you what we have done, you see.”

Gareth nodded.

Dr. Unsworth slapped his palms on his desktop, recalling himself to school matters.

“Well, I am glad that you have found what you want in Eastamptonshire. But you are a loss to Thornberry and to education.”

“But I was only ever a supply teacher.”

“Ah but you have a vocation for teaching Gareth. That matters more than ever these days. Not that I criticise, I shall be glad to be retiring even if it is for reasons of health. But at least it will give Elspeth and I a year, perhaps two, if the specialist is right.”

There was no getting away from it thought Gareth. He had come to his current post in 2015 having finished his second deployment in Afghanistan as a British Army Volunteer Reservist. This had served as bond with Hubert Unsworth who had served for many years in the then Territorial Army. In the 18 or so months since his return from Afghanistan and his arriving here, he had watched Dr. Unsworth’s physical decline. As indeed had the entire school.

Gareth pretended not to notice the pill Dr Unsworth placed between his lips, but discretely pushed a glass of water in his direction.

“I gather Adam Langdon is hovering in the entrance hall regaling poor Mrs. Dingwell on the merits of those two sketches he has done of the school,” he said between sips.

“They are rather good, headmaster.”

“They are better than that Gareth. But my goodness, doesn’t young Mr. Langdon know it.

“And he is here to see you by the way. The excellent Mrs. Dingwell surmises that he comes bearing an artistic endeavor just for you.”

Before Gareth can respond a pungent smell heralded the arrival of  Ms. Doris Aylett:  all human kindness, Deputy Head; dedicated to her vocation and to Hubert Unsworth.

Gareth Robinson rises to his feet. Her practiced cheeriness is something not to be taken for shallowness, even though it fills the room.

“Good morning headmaster.” Noting the presence of the most junior member of the teaching staff with but the faintest hint of disapproval she added, “Good morning Mr. Robinson.”

“Good morning Doris.”

“Good morning Ms. Aylett,” comes a reply in unison.

Dr. Unsworth coughed and taking another sip of water loosened his tie as unobtrusively  as he could.

“Another perfume, Doris?”

“Oh headmaster, I’m so glad you like it. It is called, ‘Forever Rapture.”

As his seniors continue to chat, Gareth moved discreetly behind the headmaster to open a window. Ms. Aylett knows there is something about the young man, who then positioned himself a step back and at her esteemed colleague’s left hand, but she cannot for the life of her discern what it is. Decent to the very chore Doris silently reproached herself for disliking the man. But she could not escape the thought that she is pleased that this will be Mr. Robinson’s last day at Thornberry Independent Grammar.

“You will have noticed Adam Langdon in the entrance hall, Doris.”

“Ah yes headmaster; and of course where there is Adam Langdon, his knight in shinning armour is never far away. In this instance he is sat in his car reading a volume of the American poet John Ashbery’s work.”

Gareth glanced through the window. Bellow, students were arriving in numbers and there in the car park was Simon Crawford.

“They should both going to Oxford in the autumn,” sighed Dr. Unsworth, “I still cannot quite believe that one has opted for Leeds, the other for Eastampton.”

“Simon Crawford should  be a guest of Her Majesty and probably would be, if his father were not Sir Peter Crawford, late of the Home Office; and Adam Langdon were not the son of The Rt Hon Wilfred Langdon, QC, MP and former Attorney-General.” Ms. Aylett’s angry words seemed to chill the headmaster’s office.

For a moment, no one spoke; all was still. It was as if a taboo  had been broken.

The headmaster and his deputy exchanged pained, ‘ whoops! Not in front the most junior member of the teaching staff’ glances, and that might have stilled the conversation. But today for some reason the deputy head seemed determined to act as she had never before and threw discretion to the wind.

“What are we hiding here? exclaimed Doris Aylett. Mr. Robinson  knows what a thug the poetry reading Simon Crawford can be, where Adam is concerned. It was he who took Crawford’s victim to hospital, after all.

“And you and I know what that police superintendent said to us about that other matter concerning Simon Crawford’s suspected beating up of those two men last year.”

“Doris! please, enough. We were told that in the very strictest confidence. The superintendent probably said more than he should. At all events, you and I cannot know the full facts of the matter.”

The deputy head consulted her watch. In ten minutes Dr Unsworth would be taking the morning assembly. She glanced in undisguised reproach at Mr. Robinson.

“I had hoped for a few minutes of private conference headmaster.” With that the deputy turned on her heals.

“Dear Doris is right of course. She abhors injustice almost as much as she does acts of violence. But it is a police matter. I am sorry you had to witness  our unhappy exchange. Anyway, with Adam and Simon leaving TIG today, there will be no consequences for the school,- however the Metropolitan Police resolve what happened last year, on the other side of London. ”

With a laboured sigh  Dr Unsworth rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Thank-you dear boy,” he said, glad of Gareth’s arm. “You had better receive whatever tribute Adam Langdon wishes to bestow in the Geography Laboratory. It is not in use until 10.00. And thank-you for your tactful silence, just now.”

Gareth had remained silent because he had nothing he wished to contribute; besides he knew a great deal more than either Dr. Unsworth or Ms. Aylett about a special branch file entitled ‘Ealing Broadway 323.’

“One final thing, Gareth. Elspeth and I are having a few friends round for dinner next Wednesday. Nothing too spectacular or extravagant, you understand. May I tell her you will come?”

Adam Langdon positively beamed as he followed Mr. Robinson into the lavishly appointed classroom dedicated to the study of geography. Despite the energetic role play earlier that morning, when for Adam’s delectation Simon had afforded his own arse as a substitute for Mr. Robinson’s, it was the teacher’s bearing and demeanour that first so appealed to Adam. No man dressed so well as Mr. Robinson he reminded himself, as quickly banishing thoughts of what the teacher might look like in only his underwear,- and less, Adam took care to close the classroom door behind him. If nothing else, he would savour these minutes alone with Mr. Robinson.

Adam knew what he was going to say. He had spent most of the last 25 minutes going through every word in his head. But alas, when Mr. Robinson opened their conversation with one of his warmest smiles and wished him a happy birthday, Adam was appalled to hear himself all but whine that the handsome and fascinating man before him had failed to show up at his birthday party. The entirely rational and reasonable reply that as Adam’s teacher, Gareth could not properly do so, neither placated the younger man, nor recalled him to the script in his head.

“Until 4.15pm when the school day ends and with it your status as a student here, I remain in loco parentis.”

Adam gazed into the grey-blue eyes. Without thinking, he flicked imaginary specks of dust from Gareth’s jacket and adjusted the perfect Windsor knotted tie, that of course needed no adjusting. Boldly, he ran his fingers through Gareth’s light brown fringe, so that it might more perfectly enhance his features. Adam’s entire body tingled as Gareth took hold of his wrists.

“You flatter me Adam, but you go too far.”

The authoritative and manful tone of voice sent another tingle through his body, as Gareth loosened his grip. It was not Adam’s habit to simper, other than to annoy, or sometimes to play up to the image people for whom he didn’t give a toss anyway, had of him.

“Right now, I’m not looking for another relationship,” said Gareth.

The words shot through Adam’s brain as if a laser of hope. Hope of what, a hope not for now, today, but for some point in the future? Somewhere in his brain, the words, “are you bi?” assembled themselves. But before this crassness in pursuit of clarity could be uttered, a further  observation momentarily made Adam’s head spin.

“Besides,”  Gareth all but whispered, “I am twelve years older than you.”

“Yes, I know, Gareth.. Sir. Isn’t it wonderful? 31 is such a beautiful age; you make it so. The hazel eyes holding Gareth’s gaze shone defiantly, as Adam relished the boldness his own words.

No brush off, however considerately constructed would do. It had done with Ferdy last year, when Gareth was at home in Triesenbourg. At the time, Ferdy had a girlfriend and Gareth of course had been engaged to Dhasharna and intent on marrying her now that her traditionally minded Indian born parents had been reconciled to the match. Besides, Ferdy and he being Fiorentine, knew their fling, for all its intensity, for what it was.

“Halve of me is English, Adam. That halve implores you to listen to my Fiorentine halve.”

As if examining them for inspiration, Gareth took his would be suitor’s hands in his.

“I am truly honoured by your regard. But nothing has changed.”

He drew Adam’s hands to his lips and essayed a pattern of kisses.

“In Fiorentine culture, this means that I am obliged to you. If I may be of service to you at some point in the future, you need only say.”

Sounds not too distant, indicated that the final assembly of the school year was coming to its close. Soon, the geographers would be reclaiming what Dr. Unsworth was pleased to call their ‘laboratory.’

“I understand you have something for me, Adam.”

“Er.. Yes, I do,” Adam replied with a mixture of surprise and great dignity. He gathered himself, marshalled his emotional resources. At this moment he did not know whether to curse or cry. He handed his teacher a cardboard cylinder.

“It is a drawing of you. I think I have the detail and the colouring about right. “