“Letter?” Sally and Kitty had always been close, I knew; but even so this distress seemed unwarranted. “What letter?”
For a moment she seemed incapable of answering. Then she looked at me through the ruins of her makeup and said in a low voice, “An anonymous letter. About Chris and me.”
“Really?” It took me a while to understand what she was saying. Kitty and Pearman? Pearman and Miss Teague?
I really must be getting old, I thought; I had never suspected. I knew they were friends; that Kitty had been supportive—frequently beyond the call of duty. But now it all came out, though I tried hard to stop it; how they had kept it a secret from Sally, who was ill; how they had hoped to marry someday, and now—now—
I took Kitty to the Common Room; made tea; waited with it for ten minutes outside the ladies‘. Finally Kitty came out, looking pink-eyed and rabbity under a fresh coat of beige powder, saw the tea, and burst into helpless tears again.
I’d never have thought it of Kitty Teague. She’s been at St. Oswald’s for eight years, and I’d never seen her close to this. I offered my handkerchief and held out the tea, feeling awkward and wishing (rather guiltily) for someone more qualified—Miss Dare, perhaps—to take over.
“Are you all right?” (The clumsy gambit of the well-meaning male.)
Kitty shook her head. Of course she wasn’t; I knew that much, but the Tweed Jacket is not known for his savoir-faire with the opposite sex, and I had to say something, after all.
“Do you want me to fetch someone?”
I suppose I was thinking of Pearman; as Head of Department, I thought, the whole thing was really his responsibility. Or Bishop; he’s the one who normally deals with emotional crises among the staff. Or Marlene—yes!—a sudden wave of relief and affection as I remembered the secretary, so efficient on the day of my own collapse, so approachable with the boys. Capable Marlene, who had endured divorce and bereavement without breaking down. She would know what to do; and even if she didn’t, at least she knew the code, without which no male can hope to communicate with a woman in tears.
She was just coming out of Bishop’s office as I arrived at her desk. I suppose I take her for granted, as do the rest of the staff. “Marlene, I wonder if—” I began.
She eyed me with well-feigned severity. “Mr. Straitley.” She always calls me Mr. Straitley, even though she has been Marlene to all members of the teaching staff for years. “I don’t suppose you’ve found that register yet.”
“Alas, no.”
“Hmm. I thought not. So what is it now?”
I explained about Kitty, without giving too many details.
Marlene looked concerned. “It never rains but it pours,” she said wearily. “Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this place, you know. What with Pat running himself into the ground, everyone on hot bricks over the school inspection and now this—”
For a moment she looked so harassed that I felt guilty at having asked her.
“No, it’s all right,” said Marlene, seeing my expression. “You leave it to me. I think your department’s got enough to be dealing with as it is.”
She was right about that. The department was down to myself, Miss Dare, and the League of Nations for most of the day. Dr. Devine was off timetable for administrative purposes; Grachvogel was away (again), and during my free periods this morning I took Tapi’s first-year French class and Pearman’s third-year, plus a routine assessment of one of the freshers—this time, the irreproachable Easy.
Knight was absent, and so I was unable to challenge him about the graffiti on my fence, or about the pen I had discovered at the scene. Instead I wrote a complete account of the incident and delivered one copy to Pat Bishop and a second to Mr. Beard, the Head of IT, who also happens to be Head of the Third Form. I can wait; I have proof of Knight’s activities now, and I look forward to dealing with him in my own time. A pleasure deferred, so to speak.
At break I took Pearman’s corridor duty, and after lunch I supervised his group, Tapi’s, Grachvogel’s, and mine in the Assembly Hall, while outside the rain poured down incessantly and, across the corridor, a steady stream of people filed in and out of the Head’s office throughout the long afternoon.
Then, five minutes before the end of school, Marlene delivered a summons from Pat. I found him in his office, with Pearman, looking stressed. Miss Dare was sitting by the desk; she gave me a sympathetic look as I came in, and I knew we were in for trouble.
“I take it this is about the Knight boy?” In fact I had been surprised not to see him waiting outside Pat’s office; perhaps Pat had already spoken to him, I thought; although by rights no boy should have been questioned before I had had the opportunity to speak to the Second Master.
For a second, Pat’s face was blank. Then he shook his head. “Oh, no. Tony Beard can deal with that. He’s the Head of Year, isn’t he? No, this is about an incident that happened last night. After the meeting.” Pat looked at his hands, always a sign that he was out of his depth. His nails, I saw, were very bad; bitten down almost to the cuticles.
“What incident?” I said.
For a moment he did not meet my eye. “The meeting ended just after six,” he said.
“That’s right,” I told him. “Miss Dare gave me a lift home.”
“I know,” said Pat. “Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr. Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.”
I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.
“Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,” said Pat. “He was polishing the floor, waiting to lock up.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Why? What’s happened?”
That might explain Pat’s manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat’s appointments, and he’d had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that’s what really counts at St. Oswald’s.
“Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.”
I didn’t believe it. “What incident?”
Miss Dare looked at me. “Apparently he didn’t check all the classrooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs, and broke her ankle. She didn’t get out till six o’clock this morning.”
“Is she all right?”
“Is she ever?”
I had to laugh. It was typical St. Oswald’s farce, and the Second Master’s mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. “Oh, you can laugh,” said Pat in a sharp voice, “but there’s been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.” That meant Devine. “Apparently someone spilt something—oil, she says—on the steps.”
“Oh.” Not so amusing, then. “Surely you can have a word with her?”
“Believe me, I have.” Pat sighed. “Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy’s part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.”
Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr. Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress. You name it, she’d claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.
As for the publicity—the Examiner would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.
“As if we hadn’t enough to deal with, just before an inspection,” said Pat bitterly. “Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?”
8
Friday, 29th October
Dear old Bishop. Funny he should ask. As a matter of fact I know of at least two: one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.
Literature, I’ve noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual clichés into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband’s clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It’s almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.
Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half crushed beneath his masochistic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible—she is a woman, after all—and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.
She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his classes, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy’s appraisal; forgets a lunchtime duty; spends all break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty’s locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it’s more efficient to work in departments—in blocks, if you like—than to diffuse my efforts all over the school.
As for my other projects…Tapi’s escapade has missed today’s papers. A good sign; it means the Examiner is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the school in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular—seems he wasn’t quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time), and expects full Union support and a generous settlement, in or out of court.
Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap’s prone to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he’s been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality—there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion, or gender (ha!)—all the same he knows that to be a homosexual in a boys’ school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.
In normal circumstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr. Devine, technically his boss and head of department, would never understand. It’s his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What was he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi’s plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.
And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to give Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonishing (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for the Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.
As for Roy Straitley, don’t think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the IT lab after school when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new IT teacher.
“But I didn’t write him a rotten report,” Straitley was protesting. “I sat through his lesson, filled out the form, and took a balanced view. That was it.”
“Poor class control,” said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. “Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?”
There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. “I didn’t write this,” he said at last.
“Well, it certainly looks like your writing.”
There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the IT room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley’s face, but decided against it. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.
“I didn’t write this,” repeated Straitley.
“Well, who did?”
“I don’t know. Some practical joker.”
“Roy—” Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I’ve heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. “Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn’t the brightest we’ve ever had—”
“No,” said Straitley. “He isn’t. But I didn’t write him a stinker. You can’t file that assessment if I didn’t write it.”
“Of course not, Roy, but—”
“But what?” There was an edge to Straitley’s voice now. He’s never liked dealing with Suits, and I could tell the whole thing annoyed him.
“Well, are you sure you didn’t just—forget what you’d written?”
“What do you mean, forget?”
He paused. “Well, I mean, maybe you were in a hurry, or—”
Behind my hand, I laughed silently. Beard is not the first staff member to have suggested that Roy Straitley is slowing down, to use a Bishop phrase. I’ve planted that seed in a couple of minds already, and there have been enough instances of irrational behavior, chronic forgetfulness, and small things going astray to make the idea plausible. Straitley, of course, has never considered this for a moment.
“Mr. Beard, I may be nearing my Century, but I am far from senility. Now if we could possibly move on to a matter of some importance”—(I wondered what Meek would say when I told him Straitley considered his assessment to be a matter of no importance)—“perhaps you have managed to find time in your busy schedule to read my report on Colin Knight.”
At my terminal, I smiled.
“Ah, Knight,” said Beard weakly.
Ah, Knight.
As I said, I can identify with a boy like Knight. In fact I was nothing like him—I was infinitely tougher, more vicious and more streetwise—but with more money and better parents I might have turned out just the same. There’s a long streak of resentment in Knight that I can use; and his sullenness means that he is unlikely to confide in anyone else until the point of no return has been passed. If wishes were horses, as we used to say when we were kids, then old Straitley would have been stampeded to death years ago. As it is, I have been tutoring Knight (on quite an extracurricular basis), and in this, if nothing else, he is an apt pupil.
It didn’t take much. Nothing at first that could be traced to me; a word here; a push there. “Imagine I’m your form tutor,” I told him as he followed me, puppylike, on my duty rounds. “If you have a problem, and you feel you can’t talk to Mr. Straitley about it, come to me.”
Knight had. Over two weeks I have been subjected to his pathetic complaints, his petty grievances. No one likes him; teachers pic
k on him; pupils call him “creep” and “loser.” He is miserable all the time, except when rejoicing at some other pupil’s misfortune. In fact he has been instrumental in spreading quite a number of little rumors for me, including a few about poor Mr. Grachvogel, whose absences have been noted and eagerly discussed. When he returns—if he returns—he is likely to find the details of his private life—with whatever embellishments the boys may have added—emblazoned on desks and toilet walls throughout the school.
Most of the time, though, Knight likes to complain. I provide a sympathetic ear; and although by now I can perfectly understand why Straitley loathes the brat, I have to say I’m delighted with my pupil’s progress. In slyness, in sullenness, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.
A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can’t make an omelet without killing people.
9
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysFriday, 29th October
That ass Beard. That perennial ass. Whoever thought he could make a decent Head of Year? Began by practically saying I was senile over Meek’s idiotic assessment form, then had the temerity to question my judgment on the subject of Colin Knight. Wanted more evidence, if you can believe it. Wanted to know whether I had spoken to the boy.
Spoken to him? Of course I’d spoken to him, and if ever a boy was lying…It’s in the eyes, you know; the way they skitter repeatedly to the left-hand corner of the picture, as if there were something there—toilet paper on my shoe, perhaps, or a big puddle they wanted to avoid. It’s in the meek look, the exaggerated response, the succession of honestly, sirs and I swear, sirs, and behind it all, that sneak smug look of knowledge.
Of course I knew all that would end when I produced the pen. I let him talk; swear; swear on his mother’s grave; then out it came, Knight’s pen with Knight’s initials on it, discovered at the scene of the crime.