Читать книгу Zero Per Cent - Mark Swallow - Страница 13

Next term’s new idea from Bumcheeks, to which he dedicated a lengthy assembly, was Culinary Studies. Equal opportunities for the boys, while the girls go to do ‘Motor Vehicle’. He had appointed Mrs Sally Donald, and us lads were soon offering up sincere thanks that her restaurant career had veered in our humble direction. For me personally she filled the gap created by the news (surprise, surprise) that there was now a Mrs Carew. But more than that, Mrs Donald (who insisted on us calling her Sal) won us over with her brilliant lessons. We sat like so many rows of fresh fairy cakes longing for her smiles, which she sprinkled across us in hundreds and thousands. And all because she had cottoned on to a new educational idea that us boys like to be praised.

The Culinary Studies suite was like a busy restaurant kitchen. We were her apprentices and she would threaten one moment to slice us up with her knives and next kiss her fingers in our face, all but hugging us before popping out for a fag on her window ledge. She was not good at hanging on to her cigarettes which kids tended to nick by the bushel from her bulging bag but it was seen to that she never lost her purse or mobile. Bumcheeks was always dropping in on the ‘new subject’.

“We can’t have you doing nothing in my lessons, honoured Head,” she’d say, and before he knew it his bumcheeks would be framed in a little apron and he’d be beating the guts out of an egg.

Ms Grundle, the school catering manager, was a less amused but no less frequent visitor, huffing in to retrieve pans and ladles which Sal had taken from the canteen. It seemed that “Lady Disgruntle”, as Sal called her to her face, was an even more embittered member of the support staff than Mr Schuman or Razza’s dad.

One morning Sal praised my rock cakes and drew the class’s attention to my tray. “They’re not perfect, Jack, but they’re pretty perfect.” She munched into a second, her crumbed and glossy lips confiding that I’d ruin her with such baking.

“Why don’t you get a bit of praise in other subjects too?” said Ronaldson when I told him. “French, for example. It used to be your best subject. Mrs Carew has complained about you twice this week already…”

But I couldn’t give a monkey’s now about silly little Mrs Carew. Very next day I got a commendation for rapid progress on carrot cake. Undiluted praise was much better than a boring relationship which had not been going anywhere.

And a few weeks later Sal summoned me to a lunchtime meeting in the Culinary Studies suite. None of the peers was called. Was it to be a one-to-one souffle tutorial? But Mr Finch, Head of Business Studies, was perched on a stool in his grey and brown mail-order clothes, prodding a drop scone.

Sal beamed at me, dusted flour from her chest where it always seemed to gather, and outlined her scheme for me to go commercial with my heavy finger food.

“You want me to sell, miss? In break?” I settled on a stool.

“Certainly do, Jack. Carrot cake, soda bread, cheesy puffs. The rock cakes, of course. And this morning’s drop scones are… mmm, sensational.”

“I’ll second that,” said Finch. “Do you do a sausage roll?”

“But, miss, you may not realise that selling’s been banned.”

And so it had, ever since kids had arrived in school swollen twice normal size because there were crisp-running profits to be had. Michael and Razza had gone further than anyone else and had managed to make a buck recycling gum. (They chipped it off the bottom of desks and melted it down in Michael’s mum’s best saucepan with a couple of bags of caster. Then they rolled it on silver foil and cut it peppermint cream style.)

“But this will be an officially sanctioned project,” said Sal gleefully. “School inspectors love this stuff and so does the Head.”

“Projects with a Business Studies dimension,” chimed Finch.

“I see… Where do you want me to do it?”

“Playground, of course!”

“I’ve retired from the playground, miss.” I got to my feet. “It holds nothing for me these days.”

“OK. So what about the corridors?”

“Corridors are for fighting and bullying, miss.”

“Where else is there, Jack?”

“Library?”

“Crumbs in Mr Schuman’s bindings? Forget it.”

“So that only leaves one place,” I said with a grin, easing back on to the stool. “A place where the project will get a lot of exposure…a place where Lady Disgruntle already sets up every break…”

Sal put a hand on her hip and smiled with dawning awareness.

“Beyond The Dooooor…” I teased.

And they were there.

“The staffroom!” we barked together.

“What about the competition?” asked Finch, suddenly rubbing his beige knee.

“Lady Disgruntle will be swept aside!” cried Sal. “The Head is hot for Culinary Studies right now! It got him a mention in the Times Ed.”

“This really should work. Pure competition. And rampant demand. We’re gannets at break,” said Finch.

Sal handed round the plate.

“To GCSE status for Culinary Studies!” she said, toasting the plan.

“To Business Studies in, er, action,” said Finch.

“To the staffroom,” I cried and we each whoomphed a drop scone.