MRS. SIDDIQUI LOOKED up as Sep entered the headmaster’s office, but carried on typing.
“Late again, September?”
“I don’t know—I just got a note to come down.”
“So maybe no trouble for you?”
“I was late today,” said Sep, shrugging and pulling an awkward smile.
“Don’t do that to your handsome face,” she said. “And this hair. Why be having it all over your eyes? How will you see your teachers?”
“Sorry,” said Sep, lifting his fringe.
She nodded and ripped the paper from her typewriter. “So much better. Cheekbones—like your mother. And how is your mother? Anwar says she has not been to the restaurant for a little while.”
“She’s fine,” said Sep quickly.
“Good, good. Now go in. He is doing nothing,” she said. Then added darkly: “Thinking, probably, of fishing.”
Sep thanked her and knocked.
“Come in!” came Tench’s earnest voice.
Sep always forgot the full extent of the headmaster’s fish mania, and so was freshly amazed by the number of flies and reels mounted on the walls. Every frame was connected by a tissue of magazine cuttings full of smiling, rubber-clad men. The room even smelled of fishing—the chemical tang of rubber boots, the tinny smell of water, and the odor of drying socks—as though Tench had just stepped from a tinkling stream.
It was odd to make your work a shrine to your hobby, Sep thought, stepping over a pile of Angler’s Monthly. He wondered if the walls of Tench’s fishing hut were papered with exam results and timetables.
“September!” said the headmaster, looking up, all pork-pie face and badly knotted tie. “Good, that was quick. Caroline must have run up the stairs.”
“Caroline?” said Sep.
“Little girl with the message.” Tench held his hand about waist height to indicate Caroline’s stature. “Fair hair. Wants to be a vet, actually—she’s got work experience lined up, so you’ll see her again no doubt.”
A spool of fishing line lay unraveled on his desk. Until recently there had been a picture of Sep’s mum there too, but Sep had begged her to have it removed.
“Sit down, sit down,” Tench said, gesturing to the soft chairs.
Sep sat, holding his bag. The headmaster sat opposite, but the seats were too low so he perched awkwardly, knees halfway up his chest, like a man on a child’s bicycle.
“How’s your mum?” he said.
“She’s fine, sir,” said Sep stiffly, then added: “Thanks.”
“Good, good. It’s a few days since I’ve seen her, what with one thing and another. She works long shifts, your mother. She’s the best sergeant I’ve ever had . . . we’ve had, I mean! On the island! The best we’ve had.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Sep. His jaw was tight, the bad tooth digging into his gum.
“But I didn’t call you down to talk about your mum! Haha!” said Tench, smiling widely, his wormy lips broad and pink.
“Haha,” said Sep, shifting on the seat.
“No, I wanted to discuss your school career, Sep. Is it still okay to call you Sep? I know it was when you and your mother came to dinner, but we’re in school now, and—”
“Of course, sir.”
“Good. Now, Sep, it looks as though you’ll be finishing your schooling away from the island, which is wonderful for you, of course, a great opportunity. We’re sorry to see you go, and I’d obviously rather you stayed, but if you must leave—”
“I must,” said Sep quickly.
Tench gave him a quick, tight smile. “Well, in that case, there’s a bit of glory to be had for the school: a champion’s catch, you might say. The Dale Hutchison Memorial Scholarship is a prestigious award. No one from the district has ever won it, even on the mainland—it’d be the best thing to happen to the school since Gillian Thomson got her Blue Peter badge. You’re going to be in our hall of fame—”
“What hall of fame?” said Sep.
“You’ll establish our hall of fame,” said Tench without missing a beat.
Sep shuddered, remembering the assembly held in his honor when the college invited him to apply: the headmaster’s long, enthusiastic presentation used so many fishing metaphors that Mrs. Woodbank had called it the “I Have a Bream” speech.
“Thank you, sir,” he said. “So, what do you—”
“I just want to make sure everything’s all right,” said Tench, spreading his big hands. “Mrs. Maguire says you’ve not finished your application—put the final bait on the hook, so to speak. How’s it all going? Your work, your focus . . . things at home?”
Sep bit some loose skin from his bottom lip. “Fine,” he said, touching the pages in his pocket. “I want to go so much, more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I can’t . . . I can’t not go.”
Tench looked out the window at the island, nodded, then turned back. “Some weather, isn’t it? Too hot for you?”
“A bit, sir. I burn easily.”
“So does your mother,” said Tench, and Sep visibly winced as he imagined the headmaster putting sunscreen on his mum. “It’ll rain soon. Don’t worry. This heat is building up to a storm—like a kettle coming to the boil. Brings the fish to the surface, you know. Rain like that.”
“Yes, sir.”
Tench sighed happily. “I’m from the mainland originally, you know. Just outside the city. I miss it sometimes, but I wanted to live in a small town. I wanted that smallness, to know my neighbors. Living here, you can share each other’s lives in a kind of . . . family of families. In Hill Ford I really believe that, neighbor by neighbor, we can work toward a kind of shared happiness, that we can connect to the very essence of the human animal, and all the spiritual nourishment community can bring. And this island has the best fly-fishing in the northern hemisphere. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But other people”—he gestured at Sep with open palms—“they want just the opposite. The big world. And it’s yours if you want it: you’ve got all the bait you need in that box of yours; you just need to reach out your net and take your chance. We’ve never had a student as able as you. If you stayed, you’d get the best results we’ve ever had. But this scholarship . . .”
“I understand, sir. It’s all I think about. I’ll finish my application tonight, after work.”
“Good, good. And please let me know if there’s anything, Sep, anything the school can do. We all want this for you, and I’d like to think you would come and see me. I’m a friend first, and a headmaster second, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose angler comes after that.” Tench looked thoughtful. “And there’s your mother, of course . . . I’ve never really thought about that list before.”
“Maybe you should write it down,” said Sep.
“Now, there’s a good idea,” said Tench, rummaging for a pad among the tackle and line as Sep left the room. “That mind of yours! Say hi to your mum, tight lines—and think of the school!”
“I will, sir,” said Sep, and he went out past Mrs. Siddiqui into the busy corridor, his application form burning like hot steel on his skin.