Notes on a Scandal

People have always trusted me with their secrets,

but who do I trust with mine?

You. Only you.

The first day of a new term.

Here come the local pubescent proles,

the future plumbers and shop assistants and doubtless the odd terrorist, too.

In the old days, we confiscated cigarettes and wank mags.

Now it's knives and crack cocaine.

And they call it progress.

Tony.

Mrs. Hart, art department.

In 1517 Martin Luther nails his 95 points to a church door

in Wittenberg.

Poison granny.

Piss off, you prick.

Before we begin, for those of you who haven't delivered your reports,

please lob them in my general direction. Thank you, Bill. Thank you, Mary.

Thank you, John. Thank you, Elaine.

Ah. Has everyone met our new art teacher, Sheba Hart?

I've asked Sheba to sit in on this meeting. As you all know,

I regard the arts as absolutely essential to our policy of reform through nurture.

Thank you, Chris. Very good. Very good.

Thank you, Sue. I say, that's a big one, isn't it?

I'll be up till the crack of dawn!

Anyone else not handed in their homework? Right, and...

Thank you.

Lovely. Thank you.

Barbara?

This is your report? On the history department?

On its entire workings and your general thoughts for its future development?

You'll find it's quite thorough, Headmaster.

"The history department functions as one would expect for a school of this intake.

"Examination results have been consistent for 30 years,

"below the national average but above the level of catastrophe."

"Recommendation, no change necessary."

It took me most of the summer to write it.

Hard to read the wispy novice.

Piss off, you prick.

Is she a sphinx, or simply stupid?

All right. Off the phone, please. Give me the phone.

Artfully dishevelled today.

The tweedy tramp coat is an abhorrence.

It seems to say, "I'm just like you."

But clearly she's not.

A fey person, I suspect.

Fey.

Come on, come on, pass it. Yes, I'm over here!

Yeah!

- Put your shirt on. - I got the winner.

Glory be. Shirt!

She has certainly rippled the waters of our stagnant pond.

They flock to her.

Even limp little Brian had a go. Oh, the horror.

- Hiya. - Oh, hello.

- That's a lovely blouse. - What? Oh!

And Fatty Hodge has pounced on her.

A dubious double act,

the blonde and the pig in knickers.

I just went past the art studio. It's like bloody Lord of the Flies.

Have they gone for her?

Torn her posters down. There's a paint fight.

They're chanting, "Get your tits out for the lads." Girls, too. It's carnage.

How was madam?

Lost it. "Stop it, you little fucking bastards!"

- You should have stepped in. - He didn't want to patronise the lady.

This time next year she'll be headmistress.

- Oh, Christ, will you shut up? - Sorry. Sorry.

Char, anyone? Babs?

- Milk, no sugar. - Sweet enough?

- Evidently. - Didn't her father invent inflation?

- You what? - Wasn't her dad that academic?

Donald whatsit. Economics bloke. Invented the word "inflation".

Oh, yeah. I know who you mean.

I think you'll find that Mrs. Hart's father was Ronald Taylor.

He didn't invent inflation.

He devised a theory about the relationship between inflation

and consumer expectation.

Davis, get off him! Stop it!

- No, you're an arsehole. - Stop it!

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

Stop it! Stop it immediately!

Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!

You're going to hurt one another! Now, stop it!

Davis, get off him!

Enough!

Outside! Now!

- Fuck off! - Absolute silence. Absolute!

- Why were they fighting, Mrs. Hart? - Their motive was unclear.

Davis, I know. You're a little thug. Who might you be?

- Steven Connolly, Miss. - What?

- Steven Connolly, Miss. - Year?

- Year 10, Miss. - You're the naked footballer.

Why were you fighting? It's a perfectly simple question.

- Dunno, Miss. - You don't know.

One minute you're inert, the next you're trying to castrate a pupil.

Nothing occurred between these two states?

No.

Don't play the hero with me, Connolly. Yes?

Brain, mouth, speak.

He was saying stuff about Miss. It was bang out of order.

- What did you say? - I never said nothing, Miss.

"I didn't say anything." What did he say? Come on!

He said she's a tart. He said he gave her one up the arse.

Did you, indeed?

Odious boy. Apologise at once.

- Sorry, Miss. - Deputy head in the morning.

Get back inside, both of you.

Little towers of testosterone. You'll soon get used to them.

Thank you so much.

I'd better... Oh, I'm sorry. We haven't met properly. I'm Sheba Hart.

Barbara Covett.

Her voice is pure, as if her mouth were empty and clean.

As if she'd never had a filling.

The complexion of a white peach.

One can almost see her veins.

Her trendy politics are similarly transparent.

We serve them best if we teach them to read, write and add.

They don't need to know about basket weavers.

- Barbara's keen on the basics. - When you started,

didn't you want to give them a real education

to help them overcome the poverty of their backgrounds?

Oh, yes, of course. But one soon learns that teaching is crowd control.

Come here. You know you're not supposed...

We're a branch of the social services. Put that back, you.

Console yourself with the gems.

That's when it's satisfying. You can make a real difference.

The rest is just cattle-prod and pray.

I can see why others are beguiled by her.

Oh, hello.

I wonder if she possesses the requisite heft?

- Do you fancy a coffee? - Yeah.

Sheba!

Sorry.

That's the year 11s. They're a nightmare.

Do you want to join us? We're going for a quick coffee.

- I've got a bit of an announcement. - You're leaving St George's?

No.

Oh, you're pregnant.

That's fantastic.

Oh, congratulations. When are you due?

- June 7. - A summer baby. How lovely.

I can't believe nobody's noticed. I'm 14 weeks.

Didn't you see how chunky I'm getting?

Didn't like to say. Where are you having it?

Homerton. It's really nice there.

Lovely, friendly nurses.

I'm going to find out at the next scan. 20 weeks.

- Do you want to come to lunch on Sunday? - Where?

To mine. To our house.

- Won't you be with the family? - Oh, yes, but you're very welcome.

It's no big deal. I'll just do a lasagne or something.

I adore lasagne.

Bliss. A merry flag on the Arctic wilderness of my calendar.

One must make an effort when one receives an invitation.

The art of it is seeming not to.

Lasagne tends to disagree with my bowels.

I'll ask for a small portion.

Oh, I think I've got the wrong house.

No, you're bang on. I'm Richard. Come in.

I'm sorry. I thought...

That I'd be 20 years younger and handsome.

- Bash! - The kitchen's on fire!

Sorry if you were there long. The bell's knackered.

- Hi, Barbara. - Hello.

Oh, what a splendid room.

What can I get you? We're semi-pro drinkers here. You name it.

A dry sherry, please.

I think we might have some apricot brandy knocking around.

- A dry white wine? - Done.

Have a seat.

You must be Polly. I'm Barbara.

Hi, Barbara.

- Are you going somewhere? - Excuse me?

- You're all poshed up. - Oh.

I have an appointment.

Later, in town.

- Have you always lived here? - Mum inherited it. It's her little joke.

I only married her for the property. Morning.

- Did Pete go? - Mm.

- He was welcome to stay. - He's not really into lunch.

Cheers.

Mm. Are you interested in wine?

Only the drinking part. You?

I spent the summer on the Amalfi coast...

Here's trouble. Now, now, now, now, now, now, easy, Rocky! Easy.

Easy, peasy. Wheezy.

I'd anticipated a suave young lawyer and two perfect poppets.

Not so. She's married some crumbling patriarch.

He's nearly as old as me.

And then there's the daughter, a pocket princess,

and finally a somewhat tiresome court jester.

Ah, lovely. Thank you.

- I'm going to be a wizard. - Oh.

- Is that when you're grown up? - No. He's been cast in his school play.

I'm gonna wear a cape and my wand...

Amongst next year's cultural highlights, I greatly look forward to Benjamin Hart

in the key role of "The Wizard", and I find myself beside myself with anticipation.

A rogue image swam through me,

hubby's pruney old mouth pursed at Sheba's breast.

After lunch, a rather mortifying family tradition.