“Come and have a cig before Latin,” offered John.
“How come you always have ciggies?” Thomas asked.
“Just take ‘em off my old man. He hasn’t got a clue, never misses one once he’s halfway through the pack,” John answered.
“Yeah right, you’re telling us you steal three fags a day from your Dad?” Thomas asked.
“What’s your problem? I'm not fibbing. And when it’s not from my Dad I get them from the headmistress. She smokes so much she always has six packets on her desk. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but when she goes to the loo she always leaves her office door open,” explained John. “I pretend that I need to go see her, I wait patiently in the corridor, then bam! She goes to pee a lot, must have a weak bladder. Then all you gotta do is sneak in...”
“One of these days you’re going to get caught. My word, you’re mad!” Thomas grinned.
“I’m a man is all, not some weak-kneed little boy.”
“Prove it!” insisted Thomas.
“Sometimes I get stiffies,” the other boy explained. “I like girls, and I need my dose of nicotine every day. I swear that when I'm running my own factory like father, I’ll buy a packet every day. I’ll smoke as many as I want, and they’ll be Rothmans, not Marlboros. Better yet, I'll send the workers to go and get them for me – save myself the trip!”
“Better finish that or the supervisors will catch us!”
“Don’t worry, all taken care of – Liam’s on the lookout. When you hear a whistle, then it’s time to run.”
“You got it, mate,” Thomas laughed.
All of a sudden they heard a whistle; Liam had sounded the warning. Quickly they stubbed the cigarette out on the ground, then they picked up the butt and threw it over the wall. Madame Béranger’s class was about to begin. The small woman walked across the courtyard, her leather briefcase in her hand and her large flowery hat balanced on her grey bun.
“I hate that old bag,” Thomas grumbled.
“I bet she’s going to make us do more verb conjugation,” John added. “Imperfect of the subjunctive – I don’t even know what that means in English, let alone in Latin! Dead languages should stay dead, I say; it’s bad luck to speak the language of dead people.”
“I couldn’t give a toss about Latin, it’s so boring. Declension is sadistic...what kind of arsehole could have invented that? I hope that this time she hasn’t drowned herself in that French perfume, her Chanel or whatever,” Thomas sighed.
“Last time she told me to do up my tie before class. Show some respect! Show some respect! Why not learn to speak English if you want respect? She gets on my nerves with her frog accent.”
John and Thomas entered the classroom and sat down at their desks, preparing their paper aeroplanes and other projectiles. Madame Béranger was a few minutes late, as always. John did up his tie, not wanting to get given lines again. All of a sudden the students stood up as Madame Béranger entered. “’Ello children!” she said in a loud voice, rolling the ‘r’ and breathing heavily. She climbed onto the dais, set her bag on the desk and wrote the date on the board. Then she turned around. “I smell cigarettes in here! Ooow-was smoking before my class?” “Oh my goodness!” cried the children, feigning consternation. This was too much for Madame Béranger, who now felt she must identify a guilty party. She chose someone at random. “John, come up to the board.” He did as he was told. “Open your mouth and blow!” John blew. Liquorice! It could not be him. “Starting today, at the beginning of each class, I will call two of you up to the board to test your breath. We cannot have class in these conditions!” John winked at his friend Thomas; he’d almost been had. But there was no-one better at mischief-making than him, and they’d never catch him.
Alan Alfredo Geday