A Christmas Gift. Sue Moorcroft

than time for him to man up. She sighed as she reached the female staff locker room. Left over from when the house had been a luxury private residence, the locker room had a sumptuous pale grey marble shower room attached.

      Queen of the lightning-fast shower, she switched on the water, wriggled out of her running kit and hung it on the radiator so it wouldn’t be clammy for the run home, and jumped into the spray. Soon she was dressing in the clean clothes she unrolled from her backpack. Two further minutes with hairbrush, tinted moisturiser and mascara wand and she was ready to start her day.

      As she emerged into the corridor, students were streaming towards rehearsal rooms or first sessions, crowding her with their backpacks and instrument cases and confining her pace to what she thought of as ‘the student shuffle’.

      Chatter and laughter rippled through the air. Georgine smiled. She loved this time of year. Halloween and bonfire night had passed and now the students were looking towards the main event of the term: Christmas. Already posters advertising A Very Kerry Christmas, Uncle Jones were appearing in Middledip, Bettsbrough and even as far afield as Peterborough.

      Some of the students called, ‘Hey, Georgine!’ and she returned their greetings, only pausing when a tall, solemn youth with a guitar-shaped gig bag on one shoulder fixed his gaze on her and announced sternly, ‘Got me grade seven acoustic guitar.’

      Not fooled by the unsmiling delivery from Tomasz, a student generally held to be ‘challenging’, she raised her hand for a high-five. ‘Fantastic, Tomasz! That’s awesome!’

      ‘I’ll get a stiffycut.’ Tomasz’s heritage might be Polish but his accent was pure Bettsbrough. He performed his part in the high-five as if obliged to humour her, but triumph shone in his eyes before he turned away.

      Georgine was still grinning at his pronunciation of ‘certificate’ when she reached the office suite, calling ‘Morning!’ to Fern as she passed through the admin office and reached the door marked Norman Ogden at 8.30 a.m. precisely.

      ‘C’mon in,’ Oggie called genially and gestured towards one of the tub chairs that stood around his desk. ‘Tell me all the news.’

      Georgine settled herself in the brown chair. She was long past hunting for hidden meaning in Oggie’s habit of opening meetings with informal questions, knowing he’d listen with apparently equal interest to progress reports, student concerns, personal news or downright gossip. Previous years working in mainstream schools as a teaching assistant or arts support staff had made Georgine deeply appreciative of a head like Oggie.

      She knew if she told him about the men banging on her door he’d instantly offer any support he could, but she felt sick just at the idea of sharing such shaming information, so she got straight down to business. ‘Tomasz has passed grade seven acoustic guitar. He’s waiting for his certificate.’

      Oggie gave several claps of his big hearty hands. ‘I’ll find him later to offer congratulations. He seems to have settled a bit this term.’

      Georgine nodded. ‘Because it’s his second year, maybe.’ Knowing Oggie would want an update on the progress of the show, she opened her file and reported speedily on music, dance and drama rehearsals, winding up with finance. ‘I’ve negotiated a better discount with the Raised Curtain by supplying our own lighting and sound crews from the theatre-tech students. It’ll be great experience.’ Experience was a buzzword at Acting Instrumental.

      She closed the file and shifted to the edge of her chair ready to get on with her day. A Christmas musical-theatre piece was a fantastic showcase of student abilities and evidence for their courses, but it meant a lot of sweat from the events director.

      Oggie stretched and settled more comfortably. ‘A new guy’s joining us today and I’d like to introduce you.’

      Georgine sat back in her chair again. ‘A staff member? I didn’t know you were recruiting.’

      Oggie made a vague cycling motion of his hands. ‘Not formally. But when the right person comes up … I know Joe will make a valuable contribution.’

      ‘I’m sure,’ she replied politely. ‘What’s his role?’

      Oggie’s eyebrows lifted as he considered her question. ‘To be defined. He has broad experience with contemporary bands – road manager and drum technician, and so forth. He could be helpful with lighting rigs and sound desk. I’ll call him in. He’ll have to be accompanied everywhere he might encounter students until his DBS comes through, so I’m landing him on you for a bit.’

      Georgine didn’t protest, not just because Oggie was the boss, but because he was the best boss in the world and must have good reason to bring in someone who hadn’t got his Disclosure and Barring Service certificate in order, so she didn’t even look at her watch as he made a call. ‘Joe? Ready for you. Come to reception and Fern will see you to my room.’

      It was typical of Oggie to say ‘room’ rather than ‘office’. Georgine had never heard him refer to himself as ‘principal’ and he expected students to address staff by first names. Staff and students alike called him Oggie.

      She was roused from these reflections as Oggie’s gaze shifted to the doorway. He smiled. ‘C’mon in, Joe.’

      Georgine turned in her seat to offer a friendly greeting. ‘Hi. I’m Georgine France.’

      The tall, clean-shaven man with a brutally short haircut blinked at her through thin-rimmed glasses. His expression froze. Then he cleared his throat and muttered, ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Joe Blackthorn,’ before nodding politely and seating himself in one of the other chairs.

      Oggie embarked on outlining to Joe the role Georgine held at Acting Instrumental. Though Georgine played her part in the conversation, warm and welcoming, she was intrigued by the strained behaviour of her new colleague. Somehow, she expected tall, handsome men to be bursting with confidence, yet this one was behaving as if he was suffering severe anxiety. It might explain why Oggie would choose a low-key and unorthodox induction to their establishment.

      ‘So, Joe,’ Oggie wound up. ‘Stick with Georgine for now. She’ll give you a quick tour and an idea of how we do things.’ Oggie raised his dark eyebrows. ‘That OK? Great.’

      Joe evidently understood they were being dismissed and rose, murmuring, ‘Thanks for giving up your time,’ in Georgine’s direction.

      Swooping up her file, Georgine replied, ‘Not a problem,’ though having to keep him with her or pass him like a baton to another staff member just added to her load. ‘If we start in the new block, we can finish in this building.’

      ‘Sure.’ He stood back to let her lead him out to the glass corridor that linked the buildings and gave them a view of a paved area currently empty of anything but benches, flower tubs and twinkling frost.

      At the end of the corridor, Georgine turned to her near-silent companion, noticing the way he kept one step behind, as if it was uncomfortable to let his soulful brown eyes meet her gaze. Lifting her voice over a sudden burst of drumming, she said, ‘This block holds sound studios and rehearsal rooms.’ The drumming paused, and the sound of an argument took its place, culminating in a snarled, ‘Tosser! You knew that was mine.’

      ‘Whoops!’ Georgine quickly followed the sound through a doorway and found a group of teenagers surrounding two gangly lads squaring up to each other, faces red and eyes glittering. One of them was Tomasz, whose good mood over his ‘stiffycut’ appeared not to have lasted.

      ‘No tutor here yet, guys?’ she asked calmly.

      Both heads swivelled her way, faces wearing matching expressions of dismay. Tomasz rubbed his ear sheepishly. ‘Not yet.’

      ‘We’re waiting for Errol for Music Industry,’ volunteered the other, backing away as if the field of battle had nothing to do with him.

      Georgine treated each to a keen stare. ‘I’m sure he’ll be here any time. You don’t need me to wait with you. Do you?’

      Both