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whether he dared look at her, make some sign of recognition; but immediately decided he had been paralyzed too long, and that it was too late to do so naturally.
    Scratching his left temple to screen his face, he swiveled his eyeballs to glance down at her hands, clasped loosely on her lap. The nails were short, clean and unvarnished. There was a plain silver ring on one little finger.
    Fats moved his elbow discreetly to put pressure on Andrew’s side.
    “Lastly,” Cubby said, and Andrew realized that he had already heard Cubby say the word twice, and that the quietness in the hall had solidified into silence, as all fidgeting ceased and the air became stiff with curiosity, glee and unease.
    “Lastly,” said Cubby again, and his voice wobbled out of control, “I have a very…I have a very sad announcement to make. Mr. Barry Fairbrother, who has coached our extremely socksess…success…successful girls’ rowing team for the past two years, has…”
    He choked and passed a hand in front of his eyes.
    “…died…”
    Cubby Wall was crying in front of everybody; his knobbly bald head drooped onto his chest. A simultaneous gasp and giggle rolled across the watching crowd, and many faces turned toward Fats, who sat looking sublimely unconcerned; a little quizzical, but otherwise unmoved.
    “…died…” sobbed Cubby, and the headmistress stood up, looking cross.
    “…died…last night.”
    A loud squawk rose from somewhere in the middle of the lines of chairs at the back of the hall.
    “Who laughed?” roared Cubby, and the air crackled with delicious tension. “HOW DARE YOU! What girl laughed, who was it?”
    Mr. Meacher was already on his feet, gesticulating furiously at somebody in the middle of the row just behind Andrew and Fats; Andrew’s chair was buffeted again, because Gaia had twisted in her seat to watch, like everyone else. Andrew’s entire body seemed to have become super-sensory; he could feel the way Gaia’s body was arched towards his. If he turned in the opposite direction, they would be breast to chest.
    “Who laughed?” repeated Cubby, raising himself absurdly on tiptoe, as if he might be able to make out the culprit from where he was standing. Meacher was mouthing and beckoning feverishly at the person he had singled out for blame.
    “Who is it, Mr. Meacher?” shouted Cubby.
    Meacher appeared unwilling to say; he was still having difficulty in persuading the guilty party to leave her seat, but as Cubby began to show alarming signs of leaving the lectern to investigate personally, Krystal Weedon shot to her feet, scarlet in the face, and started pushing her way along the row.
    “You will see me in my office immediately after assembly!” shouted Cubby. “Absolutely disgraceful — total lack of respect! Get out of my sight!”
    But Krystal stopped at the end of the row, stuck up her middle finger at Cubby and screamed, “I DI’N’ DO NOTHIN’, YOU PRICK!”
    There was an eruption of excited chatter and laughter; the teachers made ineffectual attempts to quell the noise, and one or two left their chairs to try and intimidate their own registration classes back into order.
    The double doors swung shut behind Krystal and Mr. Meacher.
    “Settle down!” shouted the headmistress, and a precarious quiet, rife with fidgeting and whispers, spread over the hall again. Fats was staring straight ahead, and there was for once a forced air to his indifference and a darker tinge to his skin.
    Andrew felt Gaia fall back into her chair. He screwed up his courage, glanced left and grinned. She smiled right back.
    VII
    Though Pagford’s delicatessen would not open until nine thirty, Howard Mollison had arrived early. He was an extravagantly obese man of sixty-four. A great apron of stomach fell so far down in front of his thighs that most people thought instantly of his penis when they first clapped eyes on him, wondering when he had last seen it, how he washed it, how he managed to perform any of