Pillow Talk Read Online Free PDF Page B

the soul of music – wouldn't you say?’ he repeated, dragging his teacher's gaze away from the view outside. ‘But sir, if you put that kind of thing in your GCSE do you think the judges give you better marks?’
Judges. Sirs. Arlo changed his sigh into another smile and focused on the boy. ‘I think the examiners would mark you higher if you said something along the lines of rhythm being the lifeblood of music, Nathan. Think of blood, all of you – how it pulses, how it pumps. If blood doesn't pump – if it ceases to pulse around our bodies – what are we?’
The class was silent.
‘Come on, guys, what are we?’
The class loved it when their teacher called them ‘guys’.
‘Fish?’ offered Lars.
‘ Fish? ’ said his teacher.
‘Fish are cold-blooded,’ Lars muttered while the class began to snigger. ‘Isn't that the same thing?’
‘No no no,’ Arlo said, thinking he ought to check it anyway with Mr Rose the biology teacher. ‘I'm talking physically and metaphysically. Come on, guys, if our blood isn't being pumped then it's not pulsing around our body – then what are we?’
The boys gawped at him.
‘We are dead!’ he said.
There was a murmur, a gasp or two. Schoolboys love the word ‘dead’.
‘So, if rhythm is the lifeblood of music, it must mean it is at the heart of it. Music needs rhythm to breathe its life into the listener – don't you think?’ There was silence as twenty-five pens scribbled away at exercise books, frantic to copy Sir's quote verbatim. Good old Lars with his fish, Arlo thought. But poor old Nathan – he'd been on the right track but with the wrong metaphor, just a little un-scientific when it came to the particular anatomy of music. Arlo considered how, though the whole class was committing his improvement on Nathan's quote to memory, the GSCE examiners would no doubt put a red line through the lot. ‘If it's not on the curriculum, it doesn't exist,’ Arlo said under his breath though not so quietly that the eternally eager Finn right in front of him didn't start to write that down too.
‘Finn – you can't quote me on that.’
‘Sorry, sir.’
Arlo glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes till his charges swapped rhythm for the thwack of leather against willow. ‘Mussorgsky and Marley,’ he announced, browsing the CD shelves much to the boys' anticipation. ‘They knew a thing or two about rhythm,’ Arlo said, loading discs into the machine. He tapped the remote control against his lips. ‘The Russian, Modest Petrovich Mussorgsky, died in 1881 and the Jamaican, Robert Nesta Marley, died in 1981. Listen to this.’ He chose “Pictures at an Exhibition” by the former and “Get Up Stand Up” by the latter. The boys were entranced; toes tapped, rulers and pens bounced gently against the edges of the desks. They would gladly have relinquished cricket to listen to more but the bell went and Mr Savidge ejected the discs and released the class.
‘Well done, guys,’ he said. ‘See you whenever.’ And he took up his gazing out of the window.
From the empty classroom, Arlo looked out across the rolling manicured lawn to the plotted and pieced playing fields beyond. He considered that schoolboys in cricket whites at that distance were basically interchangeable with the sheep scattering the North York Moors beyond the school's grounds. They shared that peculiar characteristic of inactivity interrupted by sudden bouts of gleeful gambolling. But neither sheep nor cricket did much for Arlo. He was more of a dogs and tennis chap. Just then, he quite fancied a knock-around on court. He checked his timetable. He had a couple of hours until he taught the first years but then only the odd half-hour during the rest of the day and no opportunity that evening because he was on prep duty. He gathered his papers and books into the worn leather satchel the boys often teased him about and wandered over towards the main building.
He came across Paul Glasper in the staff room, enjoying a