“I think,” Miss Barabou said, “we should phone somebody.”
But Miss Wayley was busy trying on the cap in front of the yellowed, broken mirror hanging on the wall, “Don’t I look sporty, though? Say, this is kind of cute. I wouldn’t mind having one myself. Makes me feels years younger.”
“Be serious.”
“I am.”
“It looks like a man’s cap to me. Have you seen any strange men around town lately?”
“If I had,” Miss Wayley said cheerfully, “I’d be on leave of absence tracking him down, believe you me.”
“Be serious.”
“I can’t. I feel sporty. Here, you try it on, Marie.”
“I wouldn’t dream of...”
“Go on. See how it looks. Just for fun.”
Miss Barabou took a quick glance at the door to make sure it was locked, then she, too, tried on the plaid cap. For one instant, in the cracked mirror, she did indeed look sporty, but the instant was overwhelmed by years of common sense. “It’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing such a thing.”
“Well, I would. I can just picture myself whizzing along in some snazzy convertible...”
“Why a convertible?”
“Because that’s what the cap’s for, riding in a convertible with the top down. I’ve seen them in the movies.”
“That’s how it happened, then.”
“What did?”
“Someone was riding along the cliff road in a convertible and his cap blew off and landed on the beach where Agatha found it.”
“It couldn’t blow off, easily, anyway. That’s what the elastic band at the back is for, to keep it tight-fitting so the wind won’t blow it off.”
“How odd,” Miss Barabou said, and for the first time she appeared disturbed by the possibilities. “I know it sounds silly, but — well, you don’t suppose there’s been a crime committed?”
“No such luck.”
“Please be serious.”
“I am. I said no such luck and I mean it. Nothing ever happens around here.”
“There’s always a first time.”
The noise from the two unattended classes was increasing by the minute — thuds, screams, laughter, whistling — but neither of the two teachers paid any attention. Din was a part of their lives and a few decibels one way or another didn’t matter.
“I’d feel like a fool,” Miss Barabou said, “if I called in the police and it turned out to be absolutely nothing.”
“Call anyway.” Miss Wayley selected one of the dozen or so cigarette butts she kept stored in the first aid kit, and lit it with a reckless air. “We might as well whip up a little excitement while the whipping’s good. Here, help yourself to a butt.”
“No thanks. It wouldn’t be sanitary.”
“Sorry I can’t offer you a fresh one. Gee, it’d be wonderful to buy cigarettes cheap the way they do in the States.”
“I’m not sure whom to call.”
“The local constabulary. What a marvelous word, constabulary, isn’t it?”
“The way you chatter, I can’t think.”
“You don’t have to think. Let the local constabulary do the thinking. You and I, we’re teachers, we don’t get paid for thinking, we get paid for teaching, and what a whale of a difference there is.”
“Oh, stop it, Betty.”
Miss Barabou picked up the phone.
Constable Lehman arrived at the school about nine-thirty, a small, droll-faced man in his fifties who took his work, but nothing else, quite seriously. He came in his own private car, an old Buick, a device intended to allay the curiosity of the students. Through no fault of his own the device backfired. A good half of Miss Barabou’s class, and even several members of Miss Wayley’s lower grades, recognized him immediately and such excitement spread through the school that a recess had to be declared.
The children, with the exception of Aggie Schantz, were herded into the yard like wild ponies, and a conference was held in Miss Barabou’s room with the plaid cap on exhibition on her desk. Instead of being nervous, as Miss Barabou had expected, Aggie luxuriated in the special attention she was receiving. She told her story in full detail, and Lehman, who’d had experience with children of his own, did not interrupt her even when she included such nonessentials as what she had for breakfast and how many robins she saw en route to school.
“We count robins,” Miss Barabou said by way of apology and explanation. “For the bird chart. Natural history, you know.”
Lehman’s nod indicated that he understood perfectly, and was, in fact, an old hand at counting robins himself.
“I see more than anybody,” Aggie said, with becoming modesty, “mostly because I have a longer way to go to school. Boris saw an American eagle.”
Lehman pursed his lips. “Did he, now? Well, they say more and more American people are coming up this way every year, why not eagles, too, eh? Can you show me this special path you take down to the beach, Aggie?”
“I can show you. You can’t go down it, though.”
“I can’t, eh? Why not?”
“You’re too old.”
“You may have something there,” Lehman said, and sighed for Aggie’s benefit, and winked for Miss Barabou’s.
Miss Barabou, who was not accustomed to being winked at, blushed in confusion and turned to Aggie. “Of course you’ll show the Constable the path, Agatha. I’ll excuse you from school for the rest of the morning. You go with Constable Lehman.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Get your coat and galoshes on.”
Aggie didn’t move.
“Agatha, did you hear me?”
“I don’t want to go without you.”
“You know perfectly well I have to stay here and supervise my class.”
“You could send them all home,” Aggie said hopefully. “They wouldn’t mind.”
“No, I’m sure they wouldn’t. Neither would I, until it came time to explain to thirty howling parents. Why on earth don’t you want to go with the Constable?”
“The bad men.”
“What bad men?”
“That do nasty things to little girls on beaches.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Miss Barabou’s blush had spread to the tips of her ears and down her neck to the collar of her jersey dress. “I was only trying to — oh well, it doesn’t matter. I give up. I’ll go along, there’s no point in arguing.”
Miss Barabou sat in the back of the Buick alone, holding herself stiff and resistant to the feeling of adventure that was growing inside her with every turn of the road and every glance at the Constable’s face half visible in the rear-view mirror. He’s really quite a nice man. Humorous, too. Betty said she heard he’s a widower, all his children are grown and he lives by himself. He needs a haircut.
She tried to discipline her thoughts by planning the next eighth grade British History assignment, but she could not seem to concentrate properly. The scarlet pompon on the plaid cap which lay on the seat beside her seemed to be taunting her: Come on, live now. The Magna Carta is very old; King John is very dead. Be sporty.
She looked sternly, ponderously, out of the window, though her head felt quite light and empty, as if giddy little bubbles were whirling around inside, released by some strange alchemy she did not understand.
“We’re almost there.” Aggie’s voice pealed with excitement. “Right around the next corner.”
“Roger,” Lehman said.
“What’s that mean?”
“It means right-ho. Roger, dodger, you old codger, I’m a major too.”
“Oh, you make me laugh.”
“I aim to please.”
He stopped the car on the side of the road and all three of them got out, Aggie still giggling behind her hand, Miss Barabou very sober and dignified as if to make up for the levity of the others. Looking down at the water a hundred feet below, and the path by which she was expected to descend, she offered up a short silent prayer.