J.T. Edson - Blonde Genius

“Of course, darling, we’re letting our daughter study the Arts,” a svelte, elegant woman countered her plumper, less attractive friend’s boasts concerning her daughter’s exceptional brilliance in the Wise Shopping class. “I’ve always thought that commerce was rather unbecoming for a well-raised girl.”

“Don’t you find it chilly, being sat so close to the back?” the plump lady parried bitingly. “It’s lovely and warm up where we are.”

“Here she is,” Mr. Izzy Ginzberg announced, indicating the School Swot. “This is the young lady I’ve been telling you about. Amanda, come and meet Mr. Garibaldi.”

“Good evening, sir,” Amanda said politely, ignoring the hand that the tall, very handsome, trendily-attired Italian thrust eagerly towards her.

“She’s real cute, Izzy,” Garibaldi enthused, giving Amanda a look which had charmed and won over ladies on four continents. “Why don’t you and me go for a walk, little one?”

“I’m sure I could help you find your granddaughter, if she’s here, sir,” Amanda replied, with disarming, yet some how chilling and malevolent innocence. “But I have a message to deliver. Excuse me, please.”

Annoyance showed on Rico Garibaldi’s face. He was not used to members of the weaker sex treating him with such casual disdain. Before he could follow the departing girl, Ginzberg had caught him by the arm and restrained him.

“Don’t be stupid, Rico,” the Wise Shopping wholesaler advised. “You try any of your Latin lover stuff on her and you’re a dead pigeon.

“Hah! She liked it,” Garibaldi grinned, taking a long cigarette-holder from his pocket. “And before the night’s out, she’ll be back begging to go out with me.”

“Mate, mate, mate!” Ginzberg said, shaking his head sadly. “This’s your first visit here, and you won’t be coming back—”

“Why shouldn’t I come back?”

“Because you’ve hurt the School Swot’s feelings. That’s like telling the judge you’ve been kipping with his wife all night before the trial. You’ve had your lot here.”

“That’s life,” Garibaldi said, fixing a cigarette into his holder.

“The missus wants me,” Ginzberg declared and hurried away.

Actually. Mrs. Ginzberg was still complaining about the lack of consideration displayed by their neighbourhood detective superintendent and had no desire to be interrupted. Ginzberg had merely used that as an excuse to get away from such a danger to his social position. He wondered if he should follow Amanda and apologise. If he and his wife should be moved from their front row status through Garibaldi, he promised that he would never forgive the Italian.

One’s social standing within the Profession could be gauged accurately by the row in which one was seated when attending a Benkinsop’s Debating Evening. The lower orders were placed at the rear and, in a carefully maintained and jealously studied scale, the quality increased until reaching the elite on the rows nearest to the dais.

Working in close conjunction with their numerous and efficient outside sources of information. Miss Benkinsop and Amanda correlated the details which enabled them to control the seating arrangements rigidly. It was a task calling for extreme diplomacy, tact and a remarkable insight into the private affairs of the Profession. Aware of the great store that was set by parents—especially the wives—and pupils in being awarded their correct social status, the headmistress and the School Swot regarded accuracy as being of the utmost importance. One mistake in placement might easily have led to industrial unrest of a Severe nature.

That was one of the reasons why Amanda had been sitting in the entrance hall. When Miss Benkinsop was otherwise engaged, the School Swot took care of the seating arrangements. In the event of a dispute over allotted places, Amanda was empowered to act as arbitrator. Her word, being backed unhesitatingly by Miss Benkinsop’s authority, was considered as being final.

While there might have been the occasional quibble over an appointed position, it never reached a discordant level. Such behaviour, before the cream of the Profession, would have been unthinkable. Not only would it have incurred the disaproval of one’s social and business betters, or inferiors, it would have brought an even more unpleasant result. With Amanda’s help, Miss Benkinsop had a devastatingly effective means of dealing with the situation.

Although it was completely unnecessary—a mere trifle like remembering the correct placement of two hundred or so guests being child’s play to Amanda—she always kept a copy of the seating plan pinned prominently to the table at which she sat. Faced with a dissenter, or a person whom Miss Benkinsop had decided needed a lesson in good manners, the School Swot would ask—loudly enough to be heard by the other occupants of the hall—for the offender’s name. Receiving it, she would display a convincing attitude of innocent confusion. Then, starting pointedly at the back row, she would work her way very— very— slowly forward. While the offender—and his wife—stood writhing with embarrassment, she would continue her ‘search’ for the correct place. If the offence was deemed sufficiently heinous, she might even apply the ultimate penalty. She would, in the most apologetic manner, call Miss Benkinsop into consultation as if unable to accept that such a person could possibly be a legitimate visitor.

After receiving the full treatment, for having used what Miss Benkinsop regarded as excessive and unnecessary violence in a wage-snatch, one errant parent had been heard to comment that he would rather face a twenty-stitch razor redemption, or a good kicking from Maxie Spenders efficient minders, than go through it again. Certainly his behaviour had improved and he had worked his way from the back row—to which he had been relegated—to his previous position.

All of the gymnasium’s equipment had been removed. to make room for the Debating dais and rows of seats. Passing along the gap between the north and west rows. Amanda found the teacher whom she had been sent to contact and delivered Miss Benkinsop’s message.

Having carried out the headmistress’s instructions, Amanda made her way towards the seats which had been reserved for the guests of honour. in passing, she noticed that Rico Garibaldi was sitting on the front row at the northern side of the dais. He had arrived with a letter of introduction from a senior member of the Mafia, so Miss McCoy had said when requesting information as to his placement in the hall, which had entitled him to such a prominent position. Ignoring his wink and wave of the long cigarette holder, the School Swot joined Fiorelli’s “wife”.

“Hi, Amanda,” Rosalie Fieldbank greeted, showing more reverence than one might have expected for an Old Benkinsopian meeting the girl who had once been her fag. “Where’s Benkers and Alf?”

“They’ll be along soon,” Amanda promised. “Have you met everybody?”

“‘All except old Frithy-Bab. She still doesn’t come to the Debating Evenings, I see.”

“No,” Amanda smiled.

“How’re her mushrooms growing?” Rosalie asked.

“She’s producing some quite exotic varieties,” Amanda admitted.

“That’s one name for them,” Rosalie said, with a shiver.

Miss Hortense Frithington-Babcock, the deputy headmistress, was a rather vague, somewhat absent-minded elderly lady who had been connected with the Benkinsop Academy practically since it had first been founded. There was, however, no foundation in the traditional Third Form rumour that she had been in attendance when the first Amelia performed her “undraped” dance for the Prince Regent and Beau Brummel. Everybody liked admired and respected her; regarding her hobby of cultivating rare species of mushrooms as the harmless eccentricity of a senior and still very useful member of the staff.