He gave the ghost of his usual smile. ‘I just wanted a word, sir.’
‘Latin or English?’
‘Both, sir.’
I reached into my top desk drawer and brought out the Liquorice Allsorts. ‘Allsort?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Now I’m getting worried,’ I said. ‘No one ever turns down an Allsort except for Dr Devine, who, as we know, has issues.’
‘OK.’ He took a pink one. ‘Let’s call it preventative action.’
‘I think that’s very wise,’ I said.
I waited for him to finish his sweet, and used the opportunity to wipe down the blackboard – upon which in my absence, some youthful, exuberant hand had scrawled the oldest phonetic joke in the Latin book: Caesar adarat forte. Brutus adsum jam. Caesar sic in omnibus. Brutus sic intram. The oldest, silliest jokes are the best, and that one was old before I was. But it still comes out occasionally; like a Christmas bauble brought out every year, missing a little more glitter each time, but mellow with nostalgia. I find it reassuring; a reminder, perhaps, of more innocent times.
‘Now, what’s on your mind?’ I said.
‘Well,’ said Allen-Jones. ‘I’m gay.’
That wasn’t what I’d expected to hear. As a rule, boys don’t talk to me about their sexual proclivities, or, indeed, about anything of what you might call an intimate nature, traditionally preferring to confide in one of the French assistants – who are generally far more approachable than Dr Burke, the School Chaplain.
‘Gay?’ I repeated foolishly.
I thought of what Harry Clarke had described. That anywhere-but-here look. I wondered if I had that look now, and how often Harry had seen it before on the faces of his friends. As if being queer could be catching, somehow, the fear of contagion eclipsing the warmth. And yet my Brodie Boys seemed just as cheery as ever. I remembered them talking the other day about the impending Mulberry girls – this class is a fruit-free zone – and how they’d all laughed. How I wish I’d been able to laugh like that with Harry Clarke. Instead, it was awkward for a while, after which we never spoke of it again.
Allen-Jones just looked at me. He has a very direct gaze, rather adult for such a young boy. ‘It’s just that I thought I should tell you, sir. In case it causes problems.’
‘Problems?’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’
He shrugged in a rather world-weary way, more suited to my own age than his. ‘Well, it’s hardly what you’d call a sympathetic environment,’ he said. ‘I mean, much as I love the dear old place, it’s more of a rugby-and-chapel place than a stage for musical theatre.’
I took a breath. ‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, unless this somehow affects your ability to do your Latin homework, I don’t think we’ll have a problem. In fact, unless you need my advice, I’ll probably forget about it altogether.’
Allen-Jones looked a little startled, as if he’d expected resistance. ‘Really?’
I helped myself to an Allsort. ‘You seem surprised.’
He grinned. ‘No, sir. It’s just that – other people aren’t always as – well.’
‘What other people?’
‘The Chaplain.’
I was surprised. ‘You told him?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Allen-Jones.
St Oswald’s – which has no official School counsellor – has always encouraged boys to go to the School Chaplain for spiritual and moral guidance, but as far as I know, few boys do this. The fact is that Dr Burke, though sound in his way, and well meaning, is most definitely one of the Old Guard. A member of staff since the sixties, unmarried and wholly devoted to his work, he has encountered, in his role as School Chaplain, such diverse aspects of adolescent behaviour as drug abuse, anorexia, glue-sniffing, depression, various mental disorders and, of course, sexual issues of all kinds, none of which he had previously encountered, and which even now fill him with disbelief. The thought that one of our boys might be a friend – or even a passing acquaintance – of Dorothy would probably leave him speechless.
The Chaplain’s answer to most things is Pull yourself together, boy, often combined with instructions to play more outdoor sports (he was a rugby man in his youth, and still has the nose to show for it). Nowadays our boys prefer to shelter him from Life’s more brutal realities and to take their problems to a different confessional; that of the Modern Languages lab, where the youthful French assistants are available, both for linguistic advice and contemporary, Gallic sympathy.
‘It started last term,’ said Allen-Jones. ‘The Chaplain teaches me RE. And when he sets us homework, I have to go into his form-room to hand it in.’
This is common practice at St Oswald’s; members of staff setting homework sometimes prefer to have it marked before they see the boys again. As Allen-Jones’s story emerged, I began to understand his concern. Apparently, a fifth-form boy by the name of Rupert Gunderson has been giving him trouble since the beginning of term.
‘What kind of trouble?’ I said.
He shrugged. ‘Every time he sees me, he hits me and calls me names. It’s really very tedious, sir.’ A tiny tremor in his voice indicated how close he was to tears. ‘I have to go into the Chaplain’s room to hand in my RE homework. And now it’s Gunderson’s form-room. I see him all the time. And this morning he said if I came in again, he’d – well. I’d rather not say, sir.’
‘I see.’
It all made sense to me now. Of course, Dr Burke never spends more time in his form-room than he absolutely needs to. It’s a Middle Corridor room, not very far from the Chapel, where he has a very nice office, in which he likes to spend his free time listening to choral music and looking after his collection of orchids.
I considered Gunderson. An undersized, aggressive boy to whom I’d once taught Latin (with little success), I wasn’t surprised to hear that he had found someone younger to bully.
‘I know him,’ I said. ‘I’ll have a word. He won’t trouble you any longer.’
Once more, Allen-Jones looked surprised. ‘But you don’t have any proof,’ he said.
‘I don’t need proof,’ I told him. ‘I know Gunderson. I know you. It’s really quite straightforward.’
For some reason, this didn’t seem to reassure him as much as I’d hoped.
‘What’s wrong?’ I said.
‘I thought you’d need proof, sir.’
‘Well, I don’t.’
‘I could give you proof.’ And, keeping his back to the glass door, he lifted his shirt to show me a complex arrangement of duct tape strapped around his skinny ribs, holding in place something that looked to me like a toy walkie-talkie.
‘What on earth?’ I began.
He explained his projected scheme. Allen-Jones is a bright boy, though he sometimes over-complicates things. In this case, his solution to the Gunderson problem was characteristically elaborate. He planned to take this contraption around to Gunderson’s form-room, where, he assured me, he would be duly menaced by Gunderson, and I would be able to listen in by means of a second receiver, connected to a recording device, which would permit Allen-Jones to take the evidence straight to the Head of Middle School, and thereby to Thing One and Thing Two, and yea, unto the Head himself—
I interrupted this fantasy. ‘I don’t need evidence,’ I said. ‘Trust me. Henceforth, at your approach, young Gunderson will melt away like the snows of yesteryear. Do you have a book to hand in?’
Allen-Jones nodded.
‘Then come with me. We’ll face the beast together.’
10
September 14th, 2005
I’ll confess, it has been some time since I had to get angry. Over the course of thirty-four years, I’ve earned a reputation; and nowadays I find that I need not raise my voice more than two or three times a year, usually with a New Boy as yet unacquainted with the ropes. Still, there’s no harm in beginning a term with a nice big bang, especially if there’s a bully involved. I followed Allen-Jones to the Chaplain’s room
and lingered outside the frosted-glass door for just long enough for Gunderson to incriminate himself.
Gunderson was at his desk, holding court to a circle of friends. The Chaplain, once a rugby man, has a soft spot for sportsmen, and Gunderson, though academically weak, happens to be on the rugby team. He has grown since I taught him, acquiring a sheath of muscle. But the face remains the same; the pinched and slightly simian look, grinning with mean enjoyment.
He stood up as Allen-Jones came in. ‘I thought I told you last time,’ he said. ‘No queers allowed in here.’
Allen-Jones walked up to the desk, looking nervous, but composed. ‘Why? Do you feel threatened?’ he said. ‘Or is it because I don’t fancy you?’
The other boys – Gunderson’s friends – had stood up in solidarity. Now they stared at the younger boy as if they couldn’t believe what he’d said.
‘You’re dead,’ said Gunderson, making a lunge for Allen-Jones.
Allen-Jones dodged, only to be caught by two of Gunderson’s friends. At this point, I made my entrance, just as Gunderson was about to administer the beating. The boys let go of Allen-Jones as if he were on fire.
‘Exactly what is going on?’
Gunderson just stared at me. Allen-Jones made for the door as I moved in for the kill. I shan’t bore you with the details of what I said to Gunderson, but it began in the percussive whisper I like to use when hypnotizing prey, and finished with a cannonade that resonated all the way down the Middle Corridor and brought boys’ heads to classroom doors like razor clams to the shoreline.
That should have been the end of it. At any other time, it would have been – but Harrington’s influence in the School is already becoming apparent. Whatever leads a boy to complain about some aspect of School life – be that a method of teaching Latin, a choice of set text in English or a Master’s way of enforcing discipline – the rot is already spreading.
Yes, there’s an atmosphere in School; something vaguely unsavoury. Not at all like last year – when a Mole managed to infiltrate its way inside our not-so-hallowed gates and wreak the kind of havoc that such creatures of the dark may plan – but nevertheless, I can feel it.
It seems that Gunderson has complained – to his parents, and via them, to his form-tutor – about yesterday’s intervention. The result – a summons from Dr Burke – was delivered to room 59 at the end of School by a member of the Junior Choir, and I obeyed with some reluctance and a looming sense of foreboding.
I found the Chaplain in his office, lovingly misting his orchids. He has a surprising number of these, although I confess I don’t see the appeal. There’s something rather unwholesome about those fleshy, mottled heads; so like the pattern of freckles on the Chaplain’s own head, which has been bald since I’ve known him. The spider plants in my form-room are more appropriate to St Oswald’s; like our boys, they require virtually no attention, tolerate water but do not demand a complex delivery system, and respond more positively to neglect than to sensitive handling.
He turned towards me as I came in. ‘Ah. Straitley. Gunderson.’
The Chaplain is a man of few words. A fact generally appreciated by the boys in Chapel – and, in his day, on the rugby pitch – but which in this case gave his words a somewhat brusque delivery.
‘What about him, Chaplain?’ I said.
‘Parents complained to the Head,’ said Burke. ‘Said you humiliated the boy in front of half the Upper School. Boy’s got issues, apparently. Seeing a child psychologist. HM says we need a policy to help us deal with vulnerable boys.’
‘Vulnerable?’ I said. ‘I’ll have you know that Gunderson was having a go at one of my boys.’
The Chaplain looked pained. ‘Who, Gunderson? Surely not. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, you know.’
I took a moment to convey what I thought of Gunderson, his hurt feelings, his psychologist and his parents. Then I explained about Allen-Jones.
The Chaplain looked vaguely bewildered, and said: ‘The boy told you that? Said he was queer?’
I admitted that he had.
The Chaplain raised his eyebrows. ‘Funny thing to tell a chap. No wonder Gunderson was upset. But that’s not what I called you for. Fact is, I’ve had a communication.’ He held out a piece of paper. ‘Thought you ought to know, Roy. This part was addressed to you.’
I knew at once. Don’t ask me how; perhaps because he’d called me Roy. All the same, I went through the motions of expressing surprise and concern; even though I was swimming through a cold and lightless tunnel of dread. The worst of it was, I’d expected it – known of it – for twenty years, sensed it hanging over me like the sword of Damocles. And how appropriate that it should come right now, with Johnny Harrington back on the scene, with his black sack of memories.
I took the piece of paper. A single sheet of cheap blue bond, of the kind they sell in prisons and long-term mental institutions. No date; no address; closely written in blunt grey pencil, in Harry’s unmistakable hand – slanting, almost feminine, with an academic flourish that was worthy of a better, nobler instrument:
Dear Roy,
It’s been a while since I wrote to you, but really, nothing much happens here, and I’d rather hear about life in St Oswald’s than bore you with tales of the everyday. People have been generally good, and have kept me in touch with developments. Eric wrote to me once or twice, and the Chaplain, and ‘SS’. I heard he died soon afterwards. A pity. He was a good man. Certain men seem to project something of immortality.
But no one really escapes in the end. Not from the past, not from ourselves, and especially not from St Oswald’s. Which is why I write to you now, after a silence I hope you’ll forgive, but dying is a dull enough business, even for the interested party, without having to inflict the tedium on to others. Suffice it to say that I’m comfortable – at least as much as I can expect. One institution isn’t very much different from another, although here, of course, they have better soap, and rather more flexible visiting hours.
I thought of getting in touch again, once I was free to do so. I’m still not sure why I didn’t; except that, after what happened last year, I didn’t want St Oswald’s to suffer further embarrassment. An old friend is caring for me now, and will be with me at the end. So instead of writing, which tires me, I have made my Will, of which, as you’ll see, I have asked Dr Burke to be the executor.
There isn’t much to execute. I don’t have much, although I have left you and Eric a couple of keepsakes, which I hope you’ll accept in memory of our friendship. I’ve left the rest to the School, of course. My funeral is paid for. I’ve always despised those who left the arrangements to others. I’ve asked Dr Burke if he can hold the service in the Chapel. As for my ashes, just scatter them somewhere in the School grounds.
Ubi bene, ibi patria. (I think that’s what you used to say.) And thank you for staying in touch, Roy, when so many others slipped away.
Ad astra per aspera,
Harry
I read the letter twice. How very like him it sounded. I could almost hear his voice; warm and somehow woody, like a good old piano. Gods, how I’ve missed Harry Clarke; his humour, his friendship, his decency. Ad astra. To the stars. If only I believed it.
I turned to the Chaplain. ‘When did he die?’
‘Last month. In an old people’s home. They’ve already had the cremation.’
Of course. A man of seventy, childless, unmarried, living off the state – of course. Why waste time with ceremony? Why even bother telling his friends?
‘But what about the service?’ I said. ‘The service in the School Chapel?’
The Chaplain looked slightly uncomfortable. ‘Not a good idea, Roy.’
‘Who says?’ I demanded.
‘Who do you think?’
The Head, of course.
‘And maybe he’s right,’ the Chaplain went on. ‘No one remembers Harry Clarke, and maybe that’s the way it should stay. Water under the bridge, and all that. Forward, not back.’
‘Progress through Tradition?’ I said, so angry now that I could see little flecks of brilliance dancing between us, like fireflies. The invisible finger that still sometimes jabs its warning into the caesura between my third and fourth waistcoat-button applied a note of pressure.
‘Don’t be like that, Roy,’ the Chaplain said. ‘You know it wouldn’t make sense. Don’t want the papers all over us, not after the year we’ve had. Not when things are looking up.’
‘And – are they looking up?’ I said.
‘Nowhere left to look down at, Roy,’ he said, turning back to his orchids. ‘Face it, we’re in crisis. That’s why we’ve got a Crisis Head. This Head fails, the School goes down. We’re all in it together.’
11
September 14th, 2005
I made my way home through Malbry Park. I’ve always liked that place. It’s safe; its changes are always predictable. The leaves are already autumnal now; a sparrow-like scatter of small boys were throwing sticks at a horse-chestnut tree, without much success. The tree is old, and takes its time; the conkers not quite ready. In a week or two, however, they will be plump and glossy.
I used to like conkers as a boy; of course, in those days there was no Devine to tell us all how reckless we were. In those days our pockets were full of them – strikers and chippers and smashers – and our combats were gladiatorial all around the Lower Quad, with the heroes carried in state on the shoulders of the adoring crowd, while the vanquished slunk off, unnoticed, unmourned, to rejoin the proletariat.
I thought about Harry, dying alone to spare his friends the tedium. And I thought about the last time we’d met, and felt a pang that it should have been so many years ago.
What happened to the three of us? What happened to our friendship? It’s hard to think back to those days now, not because my memory fails but because I remember too clearly. That’s the price we pay, of course, for having survived St Oswald’s so long. Current events blur and recede, while the past becomes clear and pitiless. Passing the Thirsty Scholar, I stopped for a modest libation, and found the place full of strangers, laughing and talking and living their lives.