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cup of coffee with the illicit luxury of the Sun newspaper. ‘It's today's,’ Paul bragged.
‘Who smuggled that in?’ Arlo laughed.
‘One of those blokes doing the electrics in Armstrong House,’ Paul said.
‘There's a waiting list for it,’ came Nigel Garton's voice from behind a copy of the Daily Telegraph which better befitted his Head of Physics stature, ‘and I'm next.’
‘You lot are incorrigible,’ said Miranda Oates, enjoying a digestive biscuit and a copy of Heat magazine. Arlo flicked his finger against it. Miranda peered up at him. ‘There's more world news in this than in that ,’ she said, tossing her head in the direction of Paul and the Sun . ‘This is essential reading,’ she smiled. ‘It helps me keep my finger on the zeitgeist. It helps me understand my students.’
‘Bollocks!’ came Nigel's voice from behind the Telegraph , while Paul asked Miranda if he could have a flip through the magazine once she'd finished.
‘Only an English teacher could use “zeitgeist” in such a context,’ Arlo laughed, spooning instant coffee granules into a relatively clean mug. ‘Anyone for tennis? Paul? Fancy a knock-about?’
‘I'm busy,’ said Paul, shaking the Sun and snapping it open again.
‘Dickhead,’ Arlo laughed. ‘Nige? Come on, a quick game, set and match? You slaughtered me last week.’
‘And I'd love to slaughter you again, but I'm nipping into Stokesley for a haircut.’
‘You look gorgeous, Mr Garton,’ Arlo teased, ‘for a physics teacher.’
‘I've got a date,’ Nigel said.
‘I'll come,’ said Miranda.
‘No, you won't,’ Nigel said, ‘much as a threesome is on my wish list. But I try not to bed my colleagues.’
‘Not with you, prat,’ she said, ‘with you , Arlo – I'll have a knock-up with you.’
‘Ooh er, missy,’ murmured Paul, who obviously wasn't as engrossed in the Sun as the others thought.
Arlo gave her a glancing smile and made much of checking his watch. ‘Actually, on second thoughts, I think I'll go into Stokesley with Nige and get my hair cut too.’
‘You haven't got any bloody hair, Arlo,’ Paul piped up again.
‘I have more than you,’ said Arlo, running the palm of his hand lightly over the fuzz of his crop. ‘This is long, for me. I can practically do a comb-over on my receded parts.’
‘Do you have a date too?’ Paul asked.
Arlo baulked.
‘Well, you're not joining me,’ Nigel protested.
Paul caught the look on Miranda's face that said, I'll be your date Arlo, before she buried her head in Heat when she sensed she'd been noticed.
‘Miranda's got a demon serve,’ Paul told Arlo.
‘Another time,’ Arlo told her. ‘I'll come into Stokesley with you, Nige.’
They belted along an empty road, lush flat fields to the left soon giving way to the sparser grazing on the moors rising and rolling away.
‘Daft, isn't it,’ Arlo remarked. ‘We're the teachers but I feel like I'm bunking off.’
‘You need to get out more,’ Nigel teased.
‘Probably,’ Arlo conceded. ‘It's just so easy to not leave the school grounds now. When I first joined, I was exploring the region at every opportunity – rarely stayed in unless I was on duty. Now, four years on, I go out for a haircut, or to the pub once a week for precisely three pints and a scotch, and that's about it.’
‘It's cyclical,’ Nigel said. ‘I went through that. But I've been there two years longer than you and I'm telling you, I now plan my next outing hourly.’
‘Who's your date?’ Arlo asked.
‘She's called Jennifer,’ said Nigel. ‘I met her in Great Ayton last weekend. She was in front of me in the ice-cream queue at Suggitts.’
‘You sad old git,’ Arlo laughed, ‘spending your free time hanging out at ice-cream shops waiting for totty.’
‘Sod off,’ Nigel said. ‘She's a lawyer. She was with some cycling group and they'd stopped off at Suggitts. You know how they do. All those Sunday riders.’
‘Well,’ Arlo said thoughtfully, ‘good