The Teacher's Tales of Terror by Chris Priestley Page A

authentically Victorian because his grandfather’s grandfather took it from a Zulu warrior and –’
    ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Munro,’ she said. ‘But I must deal with this, I’m afraid.’
    ‘Of course,’ said Mr Munro. ‘I quite understand.’
    Mr Munro’s mouth curved into a half smile. Mrs Nesbitt pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. She suspected that Mr Munro was being somewhat less than supportive.
    ‘Your classroom is through the main entrance, past the hall and the first on the right,’ she said curtly. ‘A teaching assistant should be with the class. They are expecting you.’
     
    Mrs Nesbitt and her secretary trotted away up the steps, leaving Mr Munro standing alone outside the school.
    The jagged spikes along the spine of the school roof and the sharp spire of its bell tower were silhouetted against the leaden clouds. A graveyard chapel could not have looked more sombre. Mr Munro raised his eyebrow once again, and walked slowly towards the entrance.
    He could hear the sound of lessons coming from the classrooms as he walked past. The tiled walls and parquet flooring of the corridors reflected his passage as he strode soundlessly by.
    Once he had reached the classroom in which he was to teach, Mr Munro stopped. Through the window in the door he could see the pupils, all dressed in their Victorian costumes. They were, as Mrs Nesbitt had promised, a ‘lively bunch’. And there was no sign of the classroom assistant. No matter , he thought.
    Mr Munro turned the door handle and walked into the room. The children were still chattering when he seemed to appear in front of them like a thin, dark column of smoke. Some of them did not even register his presence until their neighbours nudged and pointed.
    Mr Munro opened his briefcase, took out a book and slammed it down on the table with such force that it felt as though a shock wave had been sent through the room. A cloud of dust swirled around him.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘My name is Mr Munro.’
    A stony silence followed this announcement.
    ‘I said,’ repeated Mr Munro loudly, ‘good morning, class!’
    ‘Good morning, sir,’ came the response.
    ‘’Morning, sir,’ added a girl near the back a few seconds behind everyone else. A rosy-cheeked boy at the front giggled.
    Mr Munro lurched towards the boy as a snake might towards its prey. The movement was so swift and so alarming that the boy nearly fell from his seat. Mr Munro placed his long fingers on the desk and leaned towards him.
    ‘Are we to be enemies, boy?’ he said, fixing the boy with his cobra stare.
    ‘No, sir,’ said the boy nervously. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’
    ‘Good,’ said Mr Munro, narrowing his eyes and studying the boy’s face intently. ‘That is very good indeed. Because you do not want me as an enemy. Do you understand?’
    This last question was directed to the entire class and – almost in unison – they replied, ‘Yes, sir.’
    Mr Munro smiled. ‘Jolly good,’ he said.
    Mr Munro looked about the room. A great deal of effort had gone into making the room look like a Victorian classroom. There was a print of Queen Victoria, and another of Dr Livingstone. There was a yellowing globe and a map of the Empire. All it had needed was the right teacher to complete the picture. Mr Munro held up the book to the class.
    ‘I thought that I might read you some stories today,’ said Mr Munro.
    There was a weak groan from someone in the second row of desks. Mr Munro silenced it with a glare.
    ‘You do not like stories?’ he asked.
    ‘What sort of stories are they?’ said a curly-haired boy near the front.
    Mr Munro said nothing. He merely stared at the boy. It took several seconds before the boy realised what Mr Munro was waiting for.
    ‘Sir,’ said the boy belatedly.
    Mr Munro smiled.
    ‘They are stories of a rather macabre nature,’ said Mr Munro with an odd grin. ‘I have a taste for such tales.’
    A girl put her hand up.
    ‘Do you mean they are