I am distracted throughout the Sunday afternoon Pinafore rehearsal, forgetting my lines about eight times, until Seb tells me to sort my life out, dearie, or get the hell out of Dodge.
I trot swiftly back to the flat, wondering if I will get any credit for being early, my jaw set, fingers crossed, every cell on high alert, though my bottom appears to be throbbing presciently in anticipation of the festivities to come.
I quell the urge to cry ‘Hi, honey, I’m home,’ as I slip through the front door, and instead listen out for any readable sign of Sinclair’s intentions for me.
It is quiet.
I enter the living room timidly; he looks up from the table, where he is poring over some papers, and checks his watch. I am five minutes early.
“Take a seat,” he directs me. I perch uncertainly on the sofa and he returns to his calm scrutinising. I feel as if I am waiting for a job interview and by the time he takes off his reading glasses and puts the papers aside, I swear I have developed a twitch.
“Come and stand here please,” he says, indicating a spot opposite him across the table. Impossible to stand there like that in the glare of his disapproving attention without finding my head starting to droop in classic contrite fashion. He steeples his fingers and straightens his spine, in full intimidating effect. “Well, then, Miss Newland, we have a catalogue of misdemeanours to address today, don’t we?”
“Yes, sir,” I mumble.
“Stand up straight, Miss Newland, and speak clearly, if you please.”
I jolt into military stiffness and bark, “Yes, sir.”
“I don’t expect to arrive in my own home and find it colonised by semi-conscious girls, helping themselves to my liquor, polluting the air with cigarette smoke and damaging my property in the early hours of the morning. Do you consider that to be an appropriate payment for my hospitality?”
“No, sir.”
“Then why did you do it, Miss Newland? I require an explanation.”
“I…er….don’t know really. We were drunk.” I shrug awkwardly, palms upward in supplication, hoping this interrogation will not be lengthy. I am beginning to cower.
“You were drunk,” he says, laying on the appalled hush of his tone very thick. “That is your entire rationale behind this litany of disrespectful behaviour?”
“Yes. Sir.” My eyes are back on the floor.
“So then,” he says, back to robust full voice. “How shall I deal with you, Miss Newland? What would be a suitable disincentive to repeat this behaviour, do you think?”
He’s asking me?
“Oh…I won’t do it again,” I assure him. “Honestly, never, ever.”
“You’ll forgive me if I’m not entirely convinced by your claim. I’m starting to wonder if you are, in fact, incorrigible, and as such, beyond correction.”
“Oh no, I’m not,” I bleat. “I’m not beyond correction.”
“Let’s see, shall we?” He rises from his chair and my heart starts to thump sincerely. “Follow me.”
He sweeps past me and out towards the hall. Where…are we going? We leave the flat and then the building, walking swiftly down the gravel drive and taking a sharp left up towards the Downs.
“Where are we going?” I ask breathlessly, breaking into a light canter in my efforts to keep up with his long-legged pace.
“You’ll find out in due course,” he says tersely, taking my wrist as we cross the road over to a patch of verdant new-spring growth on the edge of the urban oasis of green. Walking into the dense darkness of the grove, I am curiouser and curiouser, until Sinclair stops in a
quiet spot and hands me a Stanley knife. I am totally confused now. Does he want me to stab myself? I don’t think what I did was that bad… I flick my eyes blankly between the professor and the blade.
“Erm..?” I say queryingly.
“New growth,” says Sinclair mysteriously, waving his hand at the surrounding woodland. “The saplings are sprouting. Soon their branches will be coarse and woody, but just now, they are at their most flexible.”
“I, er, see,” I say, not processing this botanical lesson on the level that he seems to intend.
“Their most whippy,” he clarifies, and I literally jump.