Finding Arcadia Page 3

  “His work includes some interesting publications”—Henry coughs and pauses for a second, looking directly at Arcadia—“on the biological foundations of human bonds such as trust. If we are lucky,” he turns to the new teacher, “perhaps he will deliver a talk on some of his findings?” The invitation is received with a nod and a brief smile.

  Henry is reaching the end of his script. “Dr. Starr is also an accomplished pianist and will be joining Pipe-Major Scott and Mrs. Norman-Neruda in the music programme. Please join me in welcoming him to the Priory School.” Henry raps on the lectern with his knuckles as the rest of the students knock on the tables also, carrying on until Mr. Ormiston raises his hand for quiet. He gestures for Dr. Starr to take a seat and runs through the notices of the day.

  “So I bet you’re excited about our new teacher, Arsey. You looked positively Starr-y-eyed when your boyfriend introduced him.”

  For reasons that remain unclear, Sebastian Harker has also chosen to attempt biology A-levels. It is conceivable that this is due to rumours that there is a unit on human reproduction in which nude bodies are studied. Given the extensive amount of pornography available on the Internet, that seems an implausible justification. In any event, her classmate demonstrates no greater talent for biology than he does for puns.

  “Very droll, Sebastian,” is all she says.

  Since Milton’s death, she has not challenged Sebastian directly about his connection to the former Headmaster. Discreet inquiries and a brief foray into Sebastian’s email account indicate that he was merely following instructions in exchange for artificially positive reports from the school to his parents. In the absence of such incentives, his behaviour remains annoying but tolerable.

  She does look forward to meeting the new teacher, however. The last few students file into the small classroom as the clock nears the hour. It is the last class of the day and Henry is going to be late.

  The clock strikes, the door opens, and they rise. The new teacher, Dr. Starr, enters together with Henry. Sharing a private joke. Sharing a history?

  “Do please sit down,” Dr. Starr says to them.

  “That was a nice speech this morning,” she whispers as Henry takes his seat at the desk next to hers. “You’ve known our new teacher for some time. Not a relative. But maybe a family friend? I didn’t realise your parents hung out with scientists.”

  Henry stiffens slightly, then shakes his head. “Nice try, Arcadia.”

  At the front of the classroom, Dr. Starr surveys the dozen students. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. It is my pleasure to be taking over from Mr. Ormiston as we explore life and living organisms in A-level Biology. We will be continuing the study of genes—the building blocks of life—and I’m pleased to let you know that I have arranged for a little field trip on Wednesday.”

  Field trips are uncommon during A-levels. Exercises to encourage bonding were a feature in the earlier years at the Priory School: camping as yearlings, a trip to France in second year (known in the school’s idiosyncratic argot as “remove”). By A-levels the school tended to focus more on academics. The Botanic Gardens perhaps?

  “But first, since Henry was so kind as to mention some of my work in his introduction, I thought I might start with a story that shows some of what biological anthropology can tell us about the world—and may also help me learn a little about each of you. I admit up front that it is a little unrealistic, but bear with me.”

  The teacher paces across the front of the classroom. He is used to working in a larger environment, a lecture theatre presumably. Not content with the small space at the front of the room he moves down between the desks.

  “So imagine, if you will, that you are stranded on a desert island. There is food and water, but no means of communication with the mainland. No mobile phones. It is not clear when—or whether—a rescue ship will come.

  “You are not alone on this island. In addition to yourself there are three other people. The first is an old woman whom you have only just met. She is clearly unwell and in need of medical attention; if she does not get to a hospital soon, it is possible that she will die. The second person is an old school friend of yours, whom you have not seen in years. While at school he saved your life—a debt you promised to repay, but have not since had the chance. His wife is in hospital on the mainland, about to give birth to their first child. Lastly, the third person is someone you met only recently, but who you are convinced is the love of your life. All of you want to get off the island. The sun is beginning to set, it starts to rain, and there is no shelter to speak of.”

  Dr. Starr pauses. The dark and stormy night is a bit melodramatic. Echoes of Mr. Ormiston and his trolleys, but going on a different track.

  “Fortunately, you are an amateur hot air balloonist. You have your balloon in working order, and the prevailing wind will carry you to the mainland and safety by sundown. All you would have to do is take off and land, though you can only go one way.

  “There is an important constraint: your basket is big enough only to carry one other passenger. And so the question is: do you take the dying old woman, your healthy friend, or your new sweetheart?”

  A different take on the balloon dilemmas of old, in which the question was not whom to take in but whom to throw out. Not much of a dilemma here, surely.

  “Excuse me, Dr. Starr?” Henry has raised his hand, continuing after a nod: “Is it possible to take one person but then send a rescue party back for the other two?”

  Dr. Starr offers an indulgent smile. Or patronising? “It is possible, Henry. But it will take at least a day for the rescue party to arrive. In that time, the old woman may die, your friend’s wife will have given birth, and your sweetheart’s passion for you will have cooled.” He claps his hands to focus attention. “So which will it be? Who would take the old lady?”

  Henry, along with half the students, raises his hand. “Good, good,” says Dr. Starr. “The humanitarian impulse that you are displaying is one of the key reasons for the success of the human species: we look out for one another, we help our wounded. One of the basic notions of any community is that it offers protection, especially for the weak. Some have speculated that there is an altruism gene in humans, encouraging good Samaritans.

  “Altruism is not limited to humans,” he continues. “One species that also shows altruistic tendencies is—of all things—the vampire bat. These nocturnal mammals feed off the blood of cows, horses, and other large animals while they sleep. In difficult times, however, a bat may return to its roost hungry; if it goes more than two days without blood, it will starve. If that happens, other bats that have been able to feed may start to regurgitate blood into the sick bat’s mouth.”

  The idea of vampire bats vomiting up blood causes a few faces to blanch. “Not very pleasant, I grant you,” Dr. Starr concedes. “Yet it’s the difference between life and death. Most of the bats will help out in this way, even if means that they get less nutrition themselves. There is some evidence that bats that refuse to cough up, as it were, are left to die if they fall on hard times themselves.

  “So, even if there is such an altruism gene, it is not always expressed—in this case, at least, most of you decided that your friend and your lover could wait, though the old lady could not.”

  Another clap. “Others made a different choice, however. Who would have taken the old friend to his wife in the hospital?” Three hands go up. “Interesting,” he muses. “Less compelling than humanitarianism, but no less important to society, are the bonds of trust that bind us together. Unless obligations are respected, people’s faith in institutions breaks down. Long before there were laws, codes of honour and chivalry bound us to each other, even in conflict. Debts are to be repaid, obligations fulfilled. The old woman may yet survive the night, but your friend may never forgive you—because his wife may never forgive him.”

  Dr. Starr has been keeping track and, like her, knows that only she and Sebastian have yet to raise their hands.

&
nbsp; “And you two, hopeless romantics, would have flown off with your sweetheart?” He pauses next to Sebastian. “It’s true that the reproductive urge is among the strongest in biology—on a par with the survival instinct. Most of us manage to control ourselves until we’ve fulfilled our obligations and helped the sick and the dying. But you couldn’t wait, eh?”

  Sebastian shifts uneasily in his seat as a couple of the students start to giggle. “Well,” he begins, “you told us her passions were cooling. I’m sure the friend would understand. And, like you said, the old bird could be OK.”

  Dr. Starr raises an eyebrow. “One of the unknowns, of course, is what an hour trapped next to you in a basket would do to her passions.” Sebastian is trying to establish whether he should be offended as Dr. Starr turns to Arcadia. “And you would also fly the coop with your sweetheart? I must say that I’m a little surprised, as females are usually more in control of their hormones than males. What is your name?”

  It is on the class list and she is one of only two girls in the room, but she plays along: “Greentree, Arcadia Greentree.”

  “So, Miss Greentree, would you also fly off with your sweetheart—or perhaps you were planning to fly off alone?”

  “No, Dr. Starr,” she replies. “Although, since you are on the faculty at Reading, I presume it should really be ‘Professor Starr’? In any event, you mentioned that the central character is an amateur balloonist and that the wind is blowing in the right direction. It can’t be too hard to pilot such a craft.”

  “Indeed.” Dr. Starr smiles again.

  “And so,” she says, “I would give my old friend a quick course in ballooning and then tell him to take the old woman to the hospital where his wife is about to give birth. I would also ask him to send a rescue party for me and my ‘sweetheart’, and then see if we can’t find some protection from the rain.”

  She has stolen his thunder, but he continues to smile. “Very good, Miss Greentree.” The smile lasts longer than it should. He is confirming something, or she has confirmed it for him. Curious.

  Dr. Starr claps once again and they turn their attention back to the textbook and a chapter on mitosis and meiosis.

  After a competently taught class, Dr. Starr puts his notes into a leather briefcase as the students file out, Henry nodding to them both as he heads off to choir. Only she and the good professor remain in the classroom. An opportunity to test a theory.

  “It’s nice that we finally have a teacher who is an expert in biology for A-levels,” she says. “Mr. Ormiston is a fine educator, but this was not his subject matter.”

  Dr. Starr still pretends not to know her. “Thank you, Miss, er, Greentree, is it?”

  He is a reasonably good teacher but a terrible actor. Unlike another biology teacher. “We did have another teacher who might have taught biology,” she continues. “She was only a substitute teacher and unfortunately she had to leave suddenly.” Watching him closely: “Perhaps you have come across her—Sophia Alderman? She might have been an undergraduate at Oxford when you were doing your doctoral studies.”

  He looks at her blankly. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Hard to read him. Might it be the truth? In any case, “Sophia Alderman” is a pseudonym.

  “She left soon after the incident with the former Headmaster. I suppose you must have heard about Mr. Milton, of course. He also studied at Oxford,” she adds, “coincidentally.”

  He is not being drawn, but there is tension in the motion of his hands, which he rubs together as though washing them with soap. Yet, here’s a spot?

  “That would have been before your time, of course,” she observes. “It’s interesting, however, that all three of you studied at Oxford, though only you ended up as a professor.”

  The teacher picks up his bag, preparing to leave. “Yes, well each to his own, eh?”

  Prudence dictates additional research before pressing further, but she decides to try one more gambit.

  “If it’s not out of place, sir, can I ask you a personal question?”

  “You can ask.” He has opened the door for her—in King Lear, the prince of darkness was also a gentleman.

  “Why did you settle for the University of Reading? It must have been something of a step down from Oxford. Less funding, less prestige. I can’t imagine it is what you hoped for after your doctorate.”

  He suppresses a chuckle, but the tightening of his lips shows irritation. She has struck a nerve.

  He takes a deep breath. Controlling himself. “One day, Miss Greentree,” he says, “you may be faced with the choice between being a small fish in a big pond, or a big fish in a small pond. Reading gives me a laboratory, Reading gives me time. And Reading,” his voice lowers slightly—is this intended to be intimidating?—“Reading knows when to leave me alone.”

  She has exited the classroom and he closes the door behind them both, only slightly more firmly than the locking mechanism requires. Walking away, he does not look back.

  What a piece of work is a man. The former Headmaster enlisted students like Sebastian in exercises called “provocation protocols”, testing her response to stressful situations. It is about time she returned the favour to the people watching her. She needs to find out more about Dr. Starr, but first she has a personal matter to attend to.

  It is the end of the school day, meaning that mobile phones can be used. As she walks across the quadrangle to the front gate, she turns hers on and sends a message to Magnus:

  Hi Mangus, need information for Aunt Jean’s birthday please? New teacher Lysander Starr began today—at last biology is taught properly! You’ll know from reading the paper that a cold snap is coming. Weather is connected to mood, so remember to dress warmly. That’s all, recent events suggest a good Christmas! Aracdia

  The second typographical error is probably redundant—her brother would immediately see the reversing of the third and fourth letters in their names pointed to the third and fourth word of each sentence. True to form, Magnus replies with three smiley faces and four emojis whose official Unicode name is “pile of poo”.

  The school clock strikes five; the taxi she has booked is waiting at the front gate. But from behind her she hears a raised voice: Mr. Pratt.

  “Just you wait there, Miss Greentree!” Agitated about something, he is half-walking, half-jogging across the quadrangle. Despite the evening chill, a sheen of sweat glistens on his brow.

  She could pretend not to have heard him, but is unlikely to make it to the taxi first. So she waits for him to catch up with her and then to catch his breath.

  “This is,” he pants, “intolerable. You must stop.” He is obviously distressed, but apart from the brief altercation on the stairs the day before she has not seen him in the past week.

  “Stop what?”

  He looks at her, incredulous. “Why are you tormenting me like this?”

  What does he think she has done? “I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says. Though the two of them clashed in the past, that was usually in the context of his science classes. He does not teach the sixth form students and she now sees him only occasionally at school. Yet his anger, and fear, seem very specifically tied to her. Why?

  A trembling hand smooths the hair off his reddened brow. “I told you that I cannot give you what you want. You can threaten me all you like, but I don’t believe you’ll follow through on it. It’s all lies, anyway.”

  He is rambling and her taxi is waiting. There is an edge of anxiety in his voice. What does he believe she wants?

  “Mr. Pratt,” she says calmly, “that taxi is waiting to take me to visit Mother. You’re clearly upset, but I don’t know what threat you think I have made against you, or what you think I want.”

  His mouth hangs open for a moment, and then he nods suddenly. “Of course, of course.” Realising something, he looks around the quadrangle. Is he worried about being spied on? “You, ah, you run along and visit your mother.” Then in a whisper: “But
please understand that I’ve done my best, and it’s simply not possible.”

  He steps back and gives her an awkward wave. Then turns on his heel and walks back into the school.

  A well-travelled road brings her to the hospital, now a familiar place. She nods to doctors and orderlies as she moves down the corridors to the room in which Mother lies, asleep but more than sleeping. A vase of petunias, brought from the nearby church after yesterday’s service, stands outside the doorway.

  The word coma comes from the Greek for “deep sleep”, though the medical definition of a coma is precisely that a patient lacks a normal sleep cycle and remains unconscious, unresponsive to stimuli, unable to wake. A coma might last for days or weeks, as the body heals itself and the brain slowly returns to normal functioning. Mother has been comatose for six months now, meaning the chances of a full recovery—or any recovery at all—are slim.

  Some patients who do recover say that they recall things said to them while unconscious. Others do not. The literature that the hospital has provided encourages family and friends to speak to the comatose patient and hold their hand. This is said to bring comfort, though it is unclear whether to the patient or to the visitors.

  But, as she learned from Russian chess manuals many years ago, a bad plan is better than no plan at all. And so she holds Mother’s hand and begins to talk.

  “Hello, Mother. It’s me, Arcadia. The autumn colours have peaked and we’re heading towards winter.” She is literally talking about the weather, but since Mother was—since Mother is a keen gardener, it somehow seems appropriate. “I’ve asked Mrs. Pike,” a neighbour, “to look in on the flowerbeds at home every now and then. I go myself on free weekends, though I know you never really trusted the greenness of my thumb.

  “Magnus visited me yesterday,” she continues brightly. “I thought he might drop in on you afterwards—and looking at the alphabetical order in which these magazines have been arranged and the new creak in this chair, I gather that he did. I wonder if he still had cream on his nose from afternoon tea? You would have laughed at that, Mother.”