The next day, Mr. Bray was suspended from school pending an enquiry, and in the light of its findings never came back. The next term, Tracey revealed that she wasn’t pregnant after all (to the open relief of more than one of the fifth-formers), there was a new and very young PE teacher called Miss Applewhite who accepted my asthma excuse without question or curiosity, and even without the benefit of karate lessons, I found I had gained a dubious kind of respect among some of my peers as the pupil who had dared stand up to that bastard Bray.
As I said, a well-placed stone can bring down a giant. Bray was the first. The test case, if you like. Perhaps my classmates sensed it, sensed that I had somehow acquired a taste for fighting back, because after that, much of the bullying that had made my life at school unbearable came to a quiet end. I was no more popular than before, of course; but whereas people had hitherto gone out of their way to torment me, they now left me to my own devices, staff and pupils alike.
Too little, too late. By then I was going to St. Oswald’s almost every day. I lurked in corridors; I talked to Leon during breaks and lunchtimes; I was recklessly happy. Exam week came, and Leon was allowed to revise in the library when he had no exam to sit, so together we escaped into town, looked at records—and sometimes stole them, although Leon had no need to do so, having more than enough pocket money of his own.
I, however, did not. Virtually all my own money—and this included my small weekly allowance as well as the lunch money I no longer spent at school—went on perpetuating my deception at St. Oswald’s.
The incidental expenses were astonishing. Books; stationery; drinks and snacks from the tuck shop; bus fare to away matches, and, of course, uniform. I had soon discovered that although all boys wore the same uniform, there was still a certain standard to be maintained. I had presented myself to Leon as a new pupil; the son of a police inspector; unthinkable, then, that I should continue to wear the secondhand clothes I had pilfered from lost property, or the scuffed and muddy trainers I wore at home. I needed a new uniform; shiny shoes; a leather satchel.
Some of these items I stole from lockers outside school hours, removing the name tags and replacing them with my own. Some I bought with my savings. On a couple of occasions I raided my father’s beer money when he was out, knowing that he would come home drunk and hoping that he would forget exactly how much he had spent. It worked, but my father was more careful of these things than I had expected, and on the second try I was almost caught out. Fortunately, there was another suspect more likely than I was; a terrific row ensued; Pepsi wore sunglasses for the next two weeks; and I never risked stealing from my father again.
Instead I stole from shops. To Leon I pretended that I did it for fun; we had record-stealing competitions and divided the loot between us in our “clubhouse” in the woods behind the school. I proved unexpectedly good at the game, but Leon was a natural; totally unafraid, he adapted a long coat especially for the purpose, slipping records and CDs into large pockets in the lining until he could hardly walk with their combined weight. Once, we were very nearly caught; just as we came to the doorway the lining of Leon’s coat split, spilling records and their sleeves everywhere. The girl at the checkout gaped at us; customers stared open-mouthed; even the store detective seemed paralyzed with astonishment. I was ready to run; but Leon just smiled apologetically, picked up his records with care, and only then bolted for it, the wings of his coat flapping out behind him as he ran. It was a long time before I dared visit the shop again—though we did eventually, at Leon’s insistence—but, as he said, we’d brought most of it with us anyway.
It’s a question of attitude. Leon taught me that, though if he’d known of my imposture I suspect even he would have conceded my superiority at the game. That was impossible, however. To Leon, most people counted as “banal.” Sunnybankers were “rabble”; and the people who lived on the council estates (including the flats on Abbey Road, where my parents and I had once lived) were “pram-faces,” “slappers,” “toerags,” and “proles.”
Of course, I shared his contempt; but if anything my hatred ran deeper. I knew things that Leon, with his nice house and his Latin and his electric guitar, could not possibly know. Our friendship was not a friendship of equals. The world we had made between us would not support any child of John and Sharon Snyde.
It was my only regret that the game could not last forever. But at twelve one does not think often of the future, and if there were dark clouds on my horizon, I was still too dazzled by my new friendship to notice them.
5
Wednesday, 15th September
There was a drawing tacked to my form notice board when I came in after yesterday’s lunch; a crude caricature of myself sporting a Hitler mustache and a speech bubble saying Juden raus!
Anyone could have placed it there—some member of Devine’s set, who were in after break, or one of Meek’s geographers, even a duty prefect with a warped sense of humor—but I knew it was Knight. I could tell from the smug, bland look on his face, from the way he never met my eye, from the small delay between his yes and his sir—an impertinence only I observed.
I removed the picture, of course, and crumpled it into the wastebasket without even seeming to look at it, but I could smell the insurrection. Otherwise, all is calm, but I have been here too many years to be fooled; this is only the specious calm of the epicenter; the crisis is yet to come.
I never did find out who saw me in the locker room. It might have been anyone with an axe to grind; Geoff and Penny Nation are both the type, always reporting “procedural anomalies” in that pious way that hides their real malice. I’m teaching their son this year, as it happens—a clever, colorless first-year boy—and ever since the set lists were printed they have paid an unhealthy amount of attention to my methods in class. Or it might have been Isabelle Tapi, who has never liked me, or Meek, who has his reasons—or even one of the boys.
Not that it matters, of course. But since the first day back I’ve had the feeling that someone was watching me, closely and without kindness. I imagine Caesar must have felt the same when the Ides of March came around.
In the classroom, business as usual. A first-year Latin group, still fatally under the impression that a verb is a “doing word”; a sixth-form group of no-more-than-average students, plowing their well-meaning way through Aeneid IX; my own 3S, struggling with the gerund (for the third time) between smart comments from Sutcliff and Allen-Jones (irrepressible, as ever) and more ponderous observations from Anderton-Pullitt, who considers Latin a waste of time better spent on the study of First World War aircraft.
No one looked at Knight, who got on with his work without a word, and the little test I gave them at the end of the lesson satisfied me that most of them were now as comfortable with the gerund as any third-year can reasonably expect to be. As a bonus to his main test, Sutcliff had added a number of impertinent little drawings, showing “species of gerund in their natural habitat” and “what happens when a gerund meets a gerundive.” I must remember to talk to Sutcliff someday. Meanwhile the drawings are Sello-taped onto the lid of my desk, a small, cheery antidote to this morning’s mystery caricaturist.
In the department, there is good and bad. Dianne Dare seems to be shaping up nicely, which is just as well, as Pearman is at his least efficient. It isn’t altogether his fault—I have a soft spot for Pearman, in spite of his lack of organization; the man has a brain, after all—but in the wake of the new appointment, Scoones is becoming a thorough nuisance, baiting and backbiting to such an extent that the quiet Pearman is perpetually on the verge of losing his temper, and even Kitty has lost some of her sparkle. Only Tapi seems unaffected; perhaps as a result of her burgeoning intimacy with the obnoxious Light, with whom she has been seen on numerous occasions in the Thirsty Scholar, as well as sharing a telltale sandwich in the school Refectory.
The Germans, on the other hand, are enjoying their spell of supremacy. Much good may it do them. The mice may have gone—victims of Dr.
Devine’s Health and Safety regulations—but Straitley’s ghost endures, rattling his chains at the inmates and causing occasional mayhem.
For the price of a drink in the Scholar I have acquired a key to the new German office, into which I now retire every time Devine has a House Meeting. It’s only ten minutes, I know, but in that time I usually find that I can cause enough inadvertent disorder—coffee cups on the desk, phone out of alignment, crosswords completed in Sourgrape’s personal copy of the Times—to remind them of my continued presence.
My filing cabinets have been annexed to the nearby Book Room—this also troubles Dr. Devine, who was until recently unaware of the existence of the door that divides the two rooms, and which I have now reinstated. He can smell my cigarette smoke from his desk, he says, and invokes Health and Safety with an expression of pious self-satisfaction; so many books must surely present a fire hazard, he protests, and speaks of installing a smoke detector.
Fortunately, Bob Strange—who in his capacity as Third Master oversees all departmental spending—has made it clear that until the inspection is over there must be no more unnecessary expenditure, and Sourgrape is forced to endure my presence for the moment, whilst no doubt planning his next move.
Meanwhile, the Head continues his offensive on socks. Monday’s assembly was entirely constructed around the subject, with the result that since then, virtually all the boys in my form have taken to wearing their most controversial socks to school—with, in some cases, the additional extravagance of a pair of brightly colored sock suspenders.
So far I have counted: one Bugs Bunny, three Bart Simpsons, a South Park, four Beavis and Butt-Heads, and, from Allen-Jones, a shocking-pink pair with the Powerpuff Girls embroidered on them in sequins. It’s fortunate, then, that my eyes aren’t as good as they once were, and that I never notice that kind of thing.
Of course, no one is fooled by the New Head’s sudden interest in anklewear. The date of the school inspection is approaching steadily, and after the disappointing exam results of last summer (thanks to an overburdening of course work and the latest governmental scheme), he knows that he cannot afford a lackluster report.
As a result socks, shirts, ties, and the such will be prime targets this term, as will graffiti, Health and Safety, mice, computer literacy, and walking on the left-hand side of the corridor at all times. There will be in-school assessment for all staff in preparation; a new brochure is already being printed; a subcommittee has been formed to discuss possibilities for improving the image of the school; and an additional row of disabled parking spaces has been introduced in the visitors’ car park.
In the wake of this unusual activity, the porter, Fallow, is at his most officious. Blessed with the ability to seem very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind, he has taken to lurking in corners and outside form rooms, clipboard in hand, overseeing Jimmy’s repairs and renovations. In this way he gets to overhear a great deal of staff conversation, most of which, I suspect, he passes on to Dr. Devine. Certainly, Sourgrape, though he outwardly scorns the gossip of the Common Room, seems remarkably well informed.
Miss Dare was in my form room this afternoon, covering for Meek, who is ill. Stomach ‘flu, or so Bob Strange tells me, though I have my suspicions. Some people were born to teach, others not, and though Meek won’t beat the all-time record—that belongs to a maths teacher called Jerome Fentimann, who vanished at break time on his first day, never to be seen again—I wouldn’t be surprised if he left us midterm, as a result of some nebulous affliction.
Fortunately, Miss Dare is made of stronger stuff. I can hear her from the Quiet Room, talking to Meek’s computer scientists. That calm manner of hers is deceptive; underneath it, she is intelligent and capable. Her aloofness has nothing to do with being shy, I realize. She simply enjoys her own company and has little to do with the other newcomers. I see her quite often—after all, we share a room—and I have been struck by the speed with which she has adapted to the messy topography of St. Oswald’s; to the multitude of rooms; to the traditions and taboos; to the infrastructure. She is friendly with the boys without falling into the trap of intimacy; knows how to punish without provoking resentment; knows her subject.
Today before school I found her marking books in my form room and was able to observe her for a few seconds before she became conscious of my presence. Slim; businesslike in a crisp white blouse and neat gray trousers; dark hair short and discreetly well cut. I took a step forward; she saw me and stood up at once, vacating my chair.
“Good morning, sir. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
It was seven forty-five. Light, true to type, arrives at five to nine every morning; Bishop gets in early, but only to run his interminable laps, and even Gerry Grachvogel is never in his room before eight. And that “sir”—I hoped the woman wasn’t going to be a crawler. On the other hand, I don’t like freshers to make free of my first name, as if I were the plumber, or someone they’d met down the pub. “What’s wrong with the Quiet Room?” I said.
“Mr. Pearman and Mr. Scoones were discussing recent appointments. I thought it might be more tactful to retire.”
“I see.” I sat down and lit an early Gauloise.
“I’m sorry, sir. I should have asked your permission.” Her tone was polite, but her eyes gleamed. I decided that she was an upstart and liked her the better for it.
“Cigarette?”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“No vices, eh?” Please Gods, not another Sourgrape.
“Believe me, I have plenty.”
“Hm.”
“One of your boys was telling me you’d been in this room for over twenty years.”
“Longer, if you count the years as an inmate.” In those days there had been a whole Classics empire; French was a single Tweed Jacket weaned on the méthode assimil; German was unpatriotic.
O tempora! O mores! I gave a deep sigh. Horatius at the bridge, single-handedly holding back the barbarian hordes.
Miss Dare was grinning. “Well, it makes a change from plastic desks and whiteboards. I think you’re right to hold out. Besides, I like your Latinists. I don’t have to teach them grammar. And they can spell.”
Clearly, I thought, an intelligent girl. I wondered what she wanted with me. There are far quicker ways up the greasy pole than via the Bell Tower, and if that was her ambition, then her flattery would have worked better on Bob Strange, or Pearman, or Devine. “You want to be careful, hanging around this place,” I told her. “Before you know it, you’re sixty-five, overweight, and covered with chalk.”
Miss Dare smiled and picked up her marking. “I’m sure you have work to do,” she said, making for the door. Then she stopped. “Excuse me for asking, sir,” she said. “But you’re not planning retirement this year, are you?”
“Retirement? You must be joking. I’m holding out for a Century.” I looked at her closely. “Why? Has someone said anything?”
Miss Dare looked awkward. “It’s just that—” She hesitated. “As a junior member of the school, Mr. Strange has asked me to edit the school magazine. And as I was going over the staff and departmental lists I happened to notice—”
“Notice what?” Now her politeness was beginning to get on my nerves. “Out with it, for gods’ sakes!”
“It’s just that—you don’t seem to have an entry this year,” said Miss Dare. “It makes it look as if the Classics department has been—” She paused again, searching for the word, and I found myself reaching the limits of my patience.
“What? What? Marginalized? Amalgamated? Damn the terminology and tell me what you think! What’s happened to the bloody Classics department?”
“Good question, sir,” said Miss Dare, unruffled. “As far as the school’s literature is concerned—publicity brochures, department listings, school magazine—it just isn’t there.” She paused again. “And, sir…According to the staff listings, neither are you.”
6
Monday, 20th September
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It was all over the school by the end of the week. Given the circumstances, you might have expected old Straitley to keep quiet for a while, to review his options and maintain a low profile, but it isn’t in his nature to do that, even when it’s the only wise thing to do. But being Straitley, he marched straight down to Strange’s office as soon as he had confirmed the facts and forced a confrontation.
Strange, of course, denied having done anything underhand. The new department, he said, would simply be known as Foreign Languages, which included Classical and Modern Languages, as well as two new subjects, Language Awareness and Language Design, which were to take place in the computer labs once a week as soon as the relevant software arrived (it would, he was assured, be in place for the school inspection on December 6th).
Classics had neither been demoted nor marginalized, said Strange; instead the entire profile of Foreign Languages had been upgraded to meet curriculum guidelines. St. Henry’s, he understood, had already done so four years before, and in a competitive market—
What Roy Straitley thought of that is not on record. Thankfully, from what I heard, most of the abuse was in Latin, but even so, there remains a polite and meticulous coldness between them.
“Bob” has become “Mr. Strange.” For the first time in his career, Straitley has adopted a work-to-rule attitude to his duties; insists on being informed no later than eight-thirty the same morning if he is to lose a free period, which, though correct according to regulations, forces Strange to arrive at work more than twenty minutes earlier than he would in normal circumstances. As a result, Straitley gets more than his fair share of rainy-day break duties and Friday afternoon cover sessions, which does nothing to ease the tension between them.