The Aphrodite Experiment

Before she knew where she was, she was sharing a desk and a textbook with Imogene, desperately trying to recall what limited knowledge of 20th Century History she had picked up from a decade before, and frantically trying to keep down her skirt, which persisted in sliding up on the wooden chairs. It was as if she had never left school.

Nothing had changed - the smell, a mix of chalk dust, disinfectant, musty books and polished wood, the same old-fashioned windows that needed a special pole with a hook on it to open them, the same feel of an uncomfortable wooden seat under her posterior, the same generations of carved and inked graffiti on the desk. And, most of all, the desperate hope that the teacher would not call upon her.

She sneaked a discreet look down into her handbag. Her mobile phone looked mockingly up at her. All she need do was pick it up and push a single key, and Mel's reassuring Cockney accent would be reaching through the tiny speaker to embrace her heart. Within a few minutes of her plea, she knew, there he would be, kicking, fast-talking or sneaking past any obstacle that stood in the way of her rescue, extricating her from yet another humiliation. Of course, they'd be the need for an embarrassing explanation of how she'd found herself captive in a schoolroom among a gaggle of girls over a decade younger than herself, dressed in a gymslip, but that would have been a small price to pay.

The problem was, the phone was near, and yet far. She could pull it from her bag, yes. But as a chalked note at the top of the board made clear, use of mobile phones (along with music playing devices) were banned in class, and the appearance of one would make it immediately subject to confiscation. She was thankful she'd switched it to silent while she waited outside the movie theatre, for Mel would surely have rung her when she'd failed to meet their rendezvous, and to have it ring in class right now would be a disaster indeed.

"...but the French did not believe," intoned Miss Dunning, pointing at various areas of the map of Europe she'd pinned to the chalkboard, "that tanks and tracked vehicles could pass through the Ardennes Forest, and trusted wholly in the Maginot Line to repel the Wermacht infantry. Put it away, Cyhthia. So they had stationed their worst trained and least experienced troops there, and only light tanks. Futhermore, yes Kadine, what's so funny. I'm sure you'd like to share it with the rest of the class. You wouldn't? Well, kindly be quiet then. Furthermore they were woefully short of ammunition and morale was very low. What else didn't they have? Fiona? Tuscani? Li Chan? Come on, hasn't anyone done their homework? No, Trevina, not wine, though I'm sure they were short of that as well. Kimberley-Sue? That's right, air support."

Rochelle fidgeted, tugging at her skirt again. It was as if the intervening years, college, her first kiss from Bradley Makepeace, graduation, Harcourt's HardDrives, Mel, had all been a dream. Within an hour, she knew, she'd be on the oval again, with Narlene Costant and her gang flipping up her skirt in front of Adam Paulsson, and Ivor Koolican twanging her bra strap, and the girls teasing her about her skinny legs and the way she could never keep her uniform in pace, and her clumsiness.

"The crack French forces, along with the small British Expeditionary Force had already advanced into Belgium, still fighting, in the minds of their commanding officers, the campaign of 1914. Taylor, what did I tell you about that chewing gum. Spit it out, please, yes, I do mean now. No, girl, into your handkerchief, not at Barbarella. But now, advances were measured in hours, not weeks, and barbed wire and machine guns were of limited use against the German armoured divisions. Pauline, don't pick your nose please, we've just swept up. The panzers scythed though the plodding French and British defences, paralysing their communications, enveloping their slow-moving troops, backed up by their elite infantrymen in trucks, men on motorbikes, armoured cars, mobile artillery, while fighters and bombers roared overhead."

Oh, if only I could be more assertive, Rochelle moaned inwardly. I'm sure other girls don't get into messes like this. I can just imagine what would happen if this behemoth tried ordering Joanne or Helene around. Or Mel. No, on second thoughts, Mel would probably go along with it, for the fun of seeing where it led. I know what I should do. I should stand up and walk out, right now. There's not a thing this horrible woman can do to stop me. She cast her eyes downwards in shame. But I know damn well, I'm not going to do that. Honestly, why does this always happen to me. Bloody web site. Bloody Brianna. Bloody, bloody short-sighted teachers.

"The French army possessed many more tanks that the Germans, and they were of much superior quality, Destiny are you scratching yourself again? Stop, please. But unlike the Wermacht, that grouped their tanks in special spearhead divisions, the French had parcelled their tanks out among their entire army, so at no point, this information is for your benefit too, Edina, put that magazine away please, and listen, were there enough of them concentrated to put up any serious resistance to the Nazi steamroller. No, Blanchetta, it's a metaphorical steamroller, dear.

I mean, this is a crime, It's kidnapping. Deprivation of liberty. She's got no right, Dragging me around by the ear like that. In fact, it's assault. Not to mention making personal remarks about my mazoo - my bodily development. Oh, I feel so humiliated. Oh Mel, my darling Mel, if only I dared call you! I want to be in your arms, right now, a million miles away from this dreadful woman!

"Within a very short time, the Anglo-French forces in the North were surrounded, while other German armies were turning Southwards, driving towards Paris. Li Chan, I hope that isn't lipstick you're wearing. That wasn't simply a statement, Li Chan, it was an implied question. Well? As I thought. One hours detention. In their command post, many miles behind headquarters, that was not even equipped with radio, the shellshocked French command received with panic the disjointed reports that nonetheless all told the same tale of the disintegration of their armies. Simone, whatever you have to tell Lysistrata I'm sure it can wait until after the lesson. Now, who can show us where Dunkirk is? I'd like someone to come up and point to it on the board. Desdemona? Kadine? Pauline? Oh, come on, surely someone knows. Don't be shy. If no-one volunteers, I shall choose someone at random."

Her eyes began peering myopically around the classroom.

It'll be me she points to, thought Rochelle, her heart sinking.

It was.

Rochelle had vaguely heard of "The miracle of Dunkirk" and its subsequent effect upon history, but she had about as much idea of the port's geographical whereabouts as that of those sexy pink thong panties she'd spent a whole day's pay on, and which had vanished after wearing them once. (The similarity ends there, however, for Dunkirk was not currently lying, much crumpled, in the pocket of Mel's jeans). She was, however, about to receive the first, albeit minor, piece of luck she'd enjoyed all day, for the sympathetic Imogene discreetly pointed it out in the textbook as Rochelle got to her feet.

"Come on girl, we haven't got all day," boomed Miss Dunning. "And for heaven's sake pull those socks up, how many more times do you need to be told?"

"Sorry, Miss, they keep falling down," replied Rochelle, in a small voice, stooping to hoist up the recalcitrant hosiery for the thousandth time that day. She could feel her blush rising.

"Yes, well, you're going to have to do more cross-country runs," snapped Miss Dunning. "Get some meat on those scrawny shanks. Come on then, show us where Dunkirk is."

Rochelle was now faced with a problem. Thanks to Imogene's help, she knew more or less exactly where Dunkirk was. Even without her deskmate's help, she could probably have worked it out by a superficial study of the various arrows Miss Dunning had marked on the map, illustrating the all-conquering progress of the Nazi war machine.

The problem was, the map in question was a large-scale one of the world, covering the whole height of the chalkboard. Which meant that Belgium was right at the top.

Which in turn meant, given that Rochelle's gymslip, already prone to riding up, had become more and more creased while she had been sitting on the wooden chair, and that her panties (also in response to environmental pressure) had disarranged themselves so much that a superficial examiner might have concluded she was not wearing any at all, retaining her modesty and satisfying Miss Dunning's academic requirement were mutually exclusive actions!

"Urm - it's about there," she said, stabbing vaguely in the direction of the Belgian coastline.

"More specific, please."

"M-May I borrow your pointer, Miss?" Rochelle asked, desperately.

"No you may not," snapped Miss Dunning, "The cheek! Use your arm!"

In fact, as Rochelle ruefully concluded, the cheek - or rather cheeks - were the problem. Despite spending a few seconds tugging the gymslip down as far as it would go, as soon as she reached up to point out the place under discussion, the titters from the rest of the class told her the mortifying tale - that the pale moon was, so to speak, in full view! Hastily, she wriggled the skirt back down and scurried back to her desk, her cheeks and forehead blazing.

As she took her seat, there was a knock at the door. For the briefest of moments, hope flared in Rochelle's beleaguered psyche. Was it possible, she wondered, that Mel had somehow gained intelligence of her situation, and come galloping (in a purely metaphorical sense, for despite his occasional role of white knight to Rochelle's dis-dressed damsel, he was no horseman) to her rescue?

But even before her eyes - along with the rest of the class - swivelled to the door, that hope died. Clever as he was, even Mel would have no way of knowing where she had gone. She had arrived at the movie theatre, she remembered, at least ten minutes before they had arranged to meet. If he had turned up at the expected time, she would have been long gone by the time he arrived.

In fact, the person who stood at the door was a potbellied and bespectacled middle-aged man, with strands of black hair combed carefully across his bald spot, bifocals, and the most noticeably protruding teeth she had ever seen in her life. He wore a grimy coverall in a blue-grey colour, over a rumpled check shirt, and held a clipboard in his hand. A school janitor, Rochelle decided, if ever she had seen one!

"Yes, Mr Sugden?" snapped the teacher, in an impatient voice.

"I'm sorry to interrupt the class, Miss Dunning," he said, in a light, apologetic voice. "It's just that the caterers have arrived with a refrigerated truck full of sausages, and they won't surrender them until a member of staff signs for them. Since the headmistress is taking the junior girls for hockey, I wondered if you'd be so good as to sign for them. It might cause a problem if there were no sausages for lunch tomorrow."

"Again, Mr Sugden? It was the sardines, last week!"

*****

Mel had always been reluctant to discuss with Rochelle just where he went on his mysterious absences.

Since he sometimes returned from these mysterious errands exhausted, and sporting cuts and bruises, she had always felt it better to let that particular sleeping dog lie. He had, however, occasionally let slip some titbit of information or advice - obviously a lesson he'd learned, doing whatever dangerous thing he did.

When you're trapped somewhere, take a good look round. There's usually a way out they've overlooked. That was one she'd remembered. Take notice of the details, that was another. And when you make your move, do it quick and don't hesitate. He'd been most emphatic about that one.

Thus it was, that ever since she'd been shanghaied by the terrifying pedagogue and arrived in the classroom, at some deep subconscious level (for she had been too fraught to remember his recommendations consciously), she had been following this advice. Without her even realising it, her deep green eyes had been scanning the room, wondering if there might be some overlooked exit. The room had been disappointingly free from hidden trapdoors and entrances to secret passages, and she'd registered that the only way in or out were two doors, the one by which she and the others had entered, and two identical, and closed, doors at the rear of the room, one at each end of the rear wall.

And now, again without actual conscious volition, she was following another portion of this sage, (if highly situation-specific) advice. Minor details, that had made no impression on her conscious mind, and that few would have noticed, were bulking large in her psyche. The very slight emphasis placed by Mr Sugden on the word "sausages". The equally slight lift in Miss Dunning's voice when speaking the word "sardines". The fact that despite her seeming impatience and irritation at the class being interrupted, a kind of dreamy glow had come over Miss Dunning's features.

There were pink spots on her cheeks, which seemed to be spreading and becoming redder, the beginnings, Rochelle could see, of an incipient blush that threatened to become full-blown if not controlled. The softness that had crept into the teacher's voice, despite the complaining nature of the actual words spoken by her, as the conversation continued. That she was making small, unconscious tugs on the hem of her sweater, smoothing her skirt, biting her lip.

Rochelle's actual level of actual sexual experience was, probably, little advanced from the students amongst whom she'd inadvertently found herself. But on one point, she was well ahead. The extra decade of social experience she possessed told her one thing that none of the girls had noticed. The relationship between the janitor and the teacher was a lot more intimate than was normal in such situations.

In short, Miss Dunning was flirting like crazy!

All this, it must be reiterated, was exercising Rochelle's mind on a strictly subconscious level. It was left to the helpful Imogene to actually supply the a piece of practical advice that made it germane to Rochelle's current situation.

Quick. Now's your chance, she whispered, in a hoarse whisper. While she's not looking. The door - at the back!

Clumsy as she could often be, Rochelle could move quickly when she needed to. Pausing only to whisper a fast word of thanks to her neighbour, Rochelle snatched up her handbag and scuttled to the rear of the room, aided by Imogene's quickly putting a finger to her lips to silence any exclamations or giggles from the rest of the class.

Miss Dunning, still gazing with rapt adoration into Mr Sugden's bloodshot nose - no doubt meaning to favour his bloodshot eyes with the focus of her attention, but this intention being thwarted by her atrocious eyesight - did not even notice as Rochelle quickly slipped past the door, already opening her mouth to suck in the blessed air of freedom.

Only to pull up short as she found herself in an enclosed space, lined on all sides with shelves stacked with various educational supplies!

Not that one, hissed Lysistrata, who was sitting at the back of the room. The other door. That one's the supply cupboard!

Rochelle turned hastily, intending to act upon her advice. Only to register that Miss Dunning, having completed her brief venture into romantic interaction, had turned and made her way back into her position in front of the chalk board, her blush still present, but fading.

Quickly and instinctively, Rochelle stepped back into the cupboard and pulled the door towards her with the faintest of clicks. Who knew what kind of trouble she'd get into, she thought, being caught out of her seat!

The door being shut, it was pitch dark inside.

Rochelle's groping fingers found a light switch which proved disappointingly useless, since clicking it downwards produced no illuminating glow. Like most schools, even those that aspired to a degree of prestige, Mother Theresa Girls' High High School tended to concentrate resources upon things that mattered. A bulb for the supply cupboard was obviously low on this list of priorities.

Perhaps, Rochelle decided, that was just as well. A strip of light under the closed door would surely have given her away. Stooping, she peered through the keyhole. Through a forest of desks and backs she could make out the figure of Miss Dunning, who had reverted from coquette to pedagogue, and was continuing her account of the events of 1940 in Western Europe. She had not even noticed Rochelle's absence.

Damn, damn, damn! Hissed Rochelle to herself. She'd had a choice of two doors, and if only she'd chosen the other one, she'd have been free now, already heading towards the bus stop. A short wait, a quick bus ride, and she'd be back at the movie theatre. With any luck, if she'd have rang Mel as soon as she'd got clear of the school, she'd have been able to tell him what had happened (or at least, invent some plausible story, for what actually had taken place was somewhat embarrassing), and they'd have been in time for the afternoon session of Notting Hill.

Instead here she was, trapped in this tiny prison, smelling of musty books, not even daring to use her phone to call Mel for help, for surely her voice would be heard outside. Any moment now, she knew, Miss Dunning would wonder where she'd gone and make investigations. And would find her, in this ridiculous situation, crouched trembling in the cupboard. As if, Rochelle thought with a snap of temper against fate, I haven't already suffered enough humiliation for one day!

Though a phone call was out of the question, Rochelle's mobile phone did at least possess a small flashlight built into the casing, by use of which she was able to make a brief reconnaissance of her surroundings. This, however, availed her little.

The supply cupboard was slightly larger than a walk-in wardrobe, and has been stated, lined on all sides with shelves. These shelves, in turn, were piled in haphazard fashion with various items of educational application, such as textbooks, computer equipment, boxes of compasses, dividers and other geometric instruments, batteries, a projector, and other such things, none of which were of any use to her in her current fix.

Against the short wall at one end leaned a large framed photograph, of a choleric-looking quadruple-chinned man in a reversed collar, presumably the school's founder. So large was this item that it only just cleared the ceiling, and had had to be leaned slightly against the wall, in order for it to be stowed.

She turned her attention back to the keyhole. Ironically, now that she had neither distraction nor alternative, Rochelle was taking in far more of Miss Dunning's lecture than she had been previously, and before long she would have been confidently able to give any enquirer a full and complete account of the evacuation of the British and French forces from Dunkirk, the Battle of Britain, and Hitler's plans for the ridiculously named (and, thankfully, never realised) Operation Sea Lion.

As if to add even more ironic insult to injury, a few minutes after her aborted escape attempt, Rochelle heard the loud trill of a bell, and the scuffling of students collecting their possessions together.

"Stay where you are, please," came Miss Dunning's voice, following the script used by teachers all over the world whenever a bell rings in class. "That bell is for my benefit, not yours!" - exactly the same words, Rochelle recalled, as used by her own teachers back at Ferrisville High so many years ago. And with about the same effect, for no student can concentrate on a lesson when the bell has gone for the end of the day, and the joys or trials of out of school life await.