Hero for Hire

The Head secretly liked her reputation as a tough old boot; it gave her the upper hand in dealing with staff, children and especially parents. She groaned inwardly. A vision appeared of a line of parents being frogmarched to a firing squad, only pausing long enough to empty their purses and wallets into a bag for the school fund. She shook her head. No, that would be too good for them. The Spanish inquisition ... No one expects the Spanish Inquisition.

“Why are you smiling Miss Hatchette?” Asked Sharon, her petite, blond and very young secretary.

Miss Hatchette narrowed her eyes at Sharon and mentally added George, (Sharon’s father and the primary 'member' of the school Board of Governors) to her list of those to be interrogated at length by her newly appointed sadistic Spanish Inquisitors.

“Oh, just a private joke, nothing really.”

“I bet you was thinking about these new Big Brover contestants last night on the TV, weren’t ya? Aren’t they wicked! I likes the footballer, he’s dead fit, and that over bloke he's ...”

“Sharon!”

“Yes Miss?”

Miss Hatchette shook her head. Handing Sharon, the whole TV production crew and whoever else dreamed up that dreadful program Big Brother to her Inquisitors for extra-special treatment. Oh, they would be busy today. “Yes, Sharon, 'wicked' indeed.” Smiling thinly, she added: “Has Mrs Goodbottom arrived?”

“Oh, Mrs Goodbottom! Oh, you know I can’t call her in, I always gets the giggles - what with that name, and what with her husband and all …”

Miss Hatchette gritted her teeth. “Call her in, Sharon – now!”

Sharon recognised when it was time to shut up and do as she was told, especially when Miss Hatchette had ‘that’ look on her face.

“Yes, Miss Hatchette,” Sharon said meekly, and went and opened the adjoining door to the waiting room. She managed an almost straight face when she called: “Would you like to come through, Mrs Goodbottom?”

Mrs Goodbottom was anything but like her name Miss Hatchette decided, watching her walk in and settle into the straight back interview chair. She mentally adding an extra ‘t’ to the ‘but’. An extreme example of the ‘pear’ shape might best describe her. Not helped by the black and white horizontal striped sweatshirt, checked slacks and one too many fast food burgers. No, that’s not really fair, she chided herself immediately, she might just have a ‘condition.’

“I’m sorry your husband couldn’t make it, would you like a drink?” Miss Hatchette began, determined to be polite..

“A diet coke, if you have one please.”

Miss Hatchette managed to avoid rolling her eyes by staring at the papers on her desk.

“Sharon? A diet coke please.”

“Is my little Jimmy in trouble again?”

Miss Hatchette paused. She ticked off in her mind the weekly instances of the delightful Jimmy causing destruction through high-spirited pranks. He just needs 'special attention'. Yes, from her Inquisitors.

“No, no, not this week, not yet anyway …”

“He’s a good boy really, takes after his dad.”

“Yes, so I see. No, this is really all about your husband, Mrs Goodbottom …” Miss Hatchette paused again, shuddering inwardly as she glimpsed two boys walking past her window. She struggled to re-focus on the task at hand, searching for the right words.

“Look, I know your husband has become something of a ... well, a 'hero' for what he did …”

“Yes,” Mrs Goodbottom interrupted quickly, “I know he has, I know what you’re going to say, but he means well - and it’s because he’s well, ‘between jobs’ right now - that he feels he can make a difference ... this way.”

“Well, how can I put this Mrs Goodbottom … it’s just that, unlike in America, here in England you see, Superhero’s are not … really all that acceptable.” Miss Hatchette paused, leaning forward, eyes narrowed as if to strike, “and especially not in their choice of costume.”

Mrs Goodbottom, like a mouse cornered by a cat, shifted uncomfortably, said nothing and awaited her fate.

Miss Hatchette continued to purr, “I do really need you to prevail upon him not to continue with this campaign – or at least get a decent costume.”

But the strain was too much. The purring turned into a snarl, “This school is becoming a laughing stock Mrs Goodbottom! For God's sake the media now want to come in and do a story - and it’s just not on! It's not right for boys to be walking around like that! Not in my school, do you understand?”

Mrs Goodbottom wrung her hands and squirmed, working her mouth like a drowning fish for what seemed a terrible long time under the glare of Miss Hatchette's fury. Eventually she said managed to squeak: 'I’ll tell him what you said, really I will,” she said, adding sheepishly, “I think it’s a bit silly too …”

“A bit?”

“It was only just a bit of fun …”

“A bit of fun that’s gone too far … your Jimmy copied his dad, then all his mates joined in - and now it’s the ‘cool’ thing to do,”

Miss Hatchette threw her hands in the air in exasperation, silently cursing the modern cult of personality. It dawned upon her that she would have to become her own Spanish Inquisition if she was to nip this in the bud. It had to stop. Now.

As she fixed Mrs Goodbottom with her most fearsome glare, her peripheral vision saw, outside her window, more boys leaping into heroic battle.

“Maybe,” Miss Hatchette growled, “it's acceptable in American comics for hero’s to walk around with their pants on the outside of their trousers - but not in real life, not in England - and most certainly not here in MY school. Over my dead body will they continue to walk around wearing their underpants on the outside of their trousers!”