Maxwell's Island by M.J. Trow

towards him. He slowed down as he got nearer and waved a piece of paper.
    â€˜Mr Medlicott?’ he asked.
    â€˜No,’ Maxwell told him. ‘Peter Maxwell. But this is the group you are looking for, all the same. And you are?’
    â€˜Barton,’ the man replied, extending his hand. ‘How do you do?’
    â€˜Well, Mr Barton,’ Maxwell began, ‘Thanks for helping us out at such short notice.’
    â€˜No, my first name’s Barton,’ the man explained. ‘My surname is Joseph.’
    â€˜That must cause confusion sometimes,’ Maxwell remarked.
    The man looked puzzled. ‘No, not really. Anyway, here’s my CRB. You’ll need that for your records, I expect.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ Maxwell took the document and put it in his trouser pocket. ‘It really is so good of you to do this.’
    â€˜No problem,’ Joseph said. ‘I’m at a bit of a loose end as a matter of fact. I’m a supply teacher here and it’s a bit quiet at the beginning of term.You know how it is, no one has had a nervous breakdown yet.’
    Maxwell patted his shoulder. ‘Quite. Still, early days, Barton. Early days. Shall we?’ He gestured onto the coach and the supply teacher bounced aboard. Maxwell faced the sea of upturned faces. ‘All present and correct?’ All the faces nodded back. ‘Then let’s go.’ He spoke to the local man. ‘We need to step on it a bit, Mr Joseph,’ he said. ‘We’re meeting the fossil walk in about …’ he turned to consult the clock, ‘… ten minutes ago. So any short cuts would be welcome. Wagons roll!’ It was an excellent Ward Bond, all things considered, but only Maxwell knew it.
    And the Leighford High School Year Seven Getting To Know You Trip was finally under way.
    Â 
    The fossil walk was delightfully relaxing. The guide walked at the front, some lad in his gap year who was going to read palaeontology when he’d learnt how to spell it, and Year Seven were strung out in a line behind him, heads down scanning the sand. Nolan was holding hands with Sasha, one of the more trustworthy girls, and every now and then bent down and picked up something for her to stow in her bag. She was developing a slight list to starboard, but didn’t seem to mind. About ten per cent of the rocks he presented her with were fossils. One was a crab, which she would discover later; sufficient unto the day is the crustacean thereof.
    Maxwell and Jacquie walked at the rear, hand in hand, straggling behind with the stragglers.
    â€˜Do you know,’ she said to her husband. ‘This is actually rather nice.’
    The September sun was warming the sand and was bouncing back from the reddish cliff which rose not very high to their right. The sea was lapping gently as the tide turned, the waves too relaxed to bother with foam, spume or any of the other natural phenomena that this particular piece of beach could come up with in less clement weather. In years gone by, the combination of deadly rocks and poor navigational instruments had taken their toll along this stretch of beach and the waters had rolled over dead men without number. Today, the very slight breeze could just about lift the feather fringe on their son’s forehead. The seagulls were high and far away, just a wisp of white against the blue, their calls coming and going as they wheeled clockwise up on a thermal.
    Maxwell smiled down at her and squeezed her hand. ‘It is,’ he said, almost keeping the surprise out of his voice. ‘You’re not disappointed, are you? Really? We can still go somewhere else later, if you want.’
    â€˜If I had any holiday left, we could,’ she said. Was this the right moment to talk about her promotion prospects? Perhaps not; that conversation would be best kept until they got home. ‘Never mind; my allocation starts again after Christmas. Perhaps we can get away in