The Staff Room (standard:drama, 1663 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Oct 12 2003	Views/Reads: 4761/2459	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A teacher's last day before his retirement.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

servant and we'll miss you so much.” 

“Here, here,” came the cry. 

Though Harry had been informed earlier that week of his paltry pension
lump sum, it appeared that the posh battleaxe had a heart after all. 
Harry blushed as he opened the envelope and fondled the thin wad of 
notes. 

“Seventy-five pounds. Splendid,” he lied, through gritted teeth, his
fists clenched tightly. 

“You deserve it, Randy,” enthused Drunken Duncan. 

“And now I'm going to make your morning complete, Harry,” said Miss
Cunningham, lighting yet another foul cigarette. 

Not the piano, please anything but the piano, Harry said to himself,
displaying his false smile. 

“It's Greensleeves time,” coughed the Headmistress. “I know it's your
favourite.” 

How over the years, Pink Floyd had been misconstrued as Greensleeves was
beyond Harry. He had many times woken in a cold sweat during the night, 
stirred by the irritating tune of Greensleeves. 

“Alas my love you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously, And I have
loved you so long, delighting in your company.” 

Harry felt a hand on his knee, and the overpowering odour of cheap
perfume told him that the hand belonged to Ferris the ferret. He nudged 
his coffee cup accidentally on purpose and marvelled, as it deposited 
its tepid brown contents onto the chest of the sex-hungry English 
teacher. 

Greensleeves was my delight, Greensleeves my heart of gold, Greensleeves
was my heart of joy, And who but my Lady Greensleeves.” 

Marjorie Ferris sprang to her feet and screamed; her nipples that were
enhanced by the coffee, not escaping the attention of Tucker and 
Winter. Drunken Duncan approached and tried to console Miss Ferris, his 
whiskey breath repulsing Harry, who made his excuses and headed for the 
toilet. 

After locking himself in a cubicle, he slumped onto the seat and
examined his reward for thirty-five years service. “Seventy-five poxy 
pounds,” he moaned, the grimace turning into a smile. “That's just over 
two pounds for every year that I've worked here! Thirty-five years of 
my life I gave and for what?” 

Early the following morning, the staff of Moss Grove as usual inhabited
the room behind the green door. They each checked their wristwatches, 
wondering where Good Old Harry was. Never before had he missed a day at 
work or been late. 

“Perhaps he's had a heavy night,” exclaimed Drunken Duncan, feigning
drinking a pint. 

“You haven't worn the old bugger out have you, Marjorie?” asked the
winking Mr Tucker, nudging his perverted accomplice. 

Miss Cunningham played on regardless, the echoes of All Things Bright
and Beautiful escaping through the open window and reaching the 
arriving schoolchildren. 

All heads turned as the silver Harley Davison drowned out the music of
the piano. Like the Red Sea, the children parted and watched excitedly 
as the silver machine accelerated towards the school building. 

The rider, clad in black leather, his face concealed by his visor,
steered the motorcycle through the entrance and sped along the 
corridor, the amazed spectators pressing themselves against the walls. 
Inside the staff room, Miss Cunningham ceased her piano playing and 
turned her head towards the door. The Harley Davison barged into the 
room and the rider cut the engine. He lifted his visor and watched as 
the staff gazed open-mouthed. 

“Mr Randall! What is the meaning of this?” asked Miss Cunningham,
puffing on her cigarette. 

Harry climbed off his machine and approached the retreating
Headmistress, his face registering anger. He reached into his pocket 
and Miss Cunningham squirmed. A can of special brew lager was produced 
and Harry proceeded to drink it teasingly, his mockery directed at 
Drunken Duncan. 

“Good Old Harry's here, Duncan, only today I'm not so good.” 

“But Randy, you should be delighted, as today you're retiring.” 

Harry's eyes threatened to pop from their sockets when he glared wildly
at the Maths teacher. “It's Mr Randall, you drunken, pathetic 
alcoholic.” 

Harry lifted the can above Duncan's head and giggled like a child as he
poured the cold golden liquid onto the bald man's head. 

“You're out of order, Harry,” came the plea from Mr Tucker. 

“I'm out of order? Miss Cunningham, if I were you, I would keep an eye
on your two perverted P.E. teachers. I heard them only yesterday 
discussing the colour of Gemma Bailey's knickers.” 

“What's come over you, Mr Randall?” asked Marjorie Ferris. 

“Well, my dear, let's just say that I've been waiting for this day for a
long time... I hate this school and everything about it, including you 
lot! Take you for instance, you ugly old hag! You dress like a teenager 
and wear short skirts to try and impress me, but in reality, you 
disgust me. Why would I be remotely interested in a woman with her face 
resembling a chewed up toffee?” 

“Mr Randall!” yelled the Headmistress. You've obviously been drinking.
Go home before you do something you'll regret. Of course, I'll be 
obliged to deduct a day's wages from you.” 

Harry edged towards the raging woman, who was standing hands on hips,
her customary cigarette dangling from her lips. He bypassed her, and 
with the aid of the stool, he mounted her beloved piano. Harry marched 
up and down, stamping his feet wildly on the keys. 

Miss Cunningham wrapped her hands around one of his legs, much to the
amusement of her watching colleagues. Harry lost his balance and fell 
to the ground, the fretting Miss Ferris running to his aid. “Are you 
okay, Mr Randall?” 

Harry struggled to his feet and pushed her aside. “Leave me alone, you
pathetic, sex-starved old crone!” 

He turned back towards the Headmistress, who planted herself defiantly
in front of her piano, hands on hips, her cigarette clamped between her 
teeth. Harry smiled, marched across the room and picked up a fire 
extinguisher. 

“Mr Randall! You let off that extinguisher and I'll have no choice but
to fire you.” 

“You know, it'll be bloody worth it.” He squeezed the handles together
and the white foam was directed into the face of the startled 
Headmistress. He laughed loudly, the tears streaming down his face, as 
he emptied the extinguisher onto the screaming woman. Harry hurled the 
empty container at the piano before mounting his motor cycle. 

“Do you know? I feel bloody great! No, fucking great! There, I've said
it. Fucking goodbye!” 

He sparked the engine into life and sniggered, as the staff congregated
behind the damaged piano. He lowered his visor and manoeuvred his 
machine into the corridor. Harry Randall left the premises of Moss 
Grove Primary School a content man 


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