Gentlemen and Players

1

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys

Thursday, 9th September

The class was unusually subdued this morning as I took the register (still missing) on a piece of paper: Jackson absent, Knight suspended, and three others implicated in what was rapidly growing into a very messy incident.

Jackson’s father had complained, of course. So had Knight’s: according to their son, all he had done was to respond to intolerable provocation from the others, abetted—so claimed the boy—by their form tutor.

The Head—still rattled by the numerous complaints about fees—had responded weakly, promising to investigate the incident, with the result that Sutcliff, McNair, and Allen-Jones spent most of my Latin lesson standing outside Pat Bishop’s office, having been named amongst Knight’s chief tormentors, and I had received a summons via Dr. Devine, inviting me to explain the situation to the Head at my earliest convenience.

Of course, I ignored it. Some of us have lessons to teach; duties to perform; papers to read—not to mention the filing cabinets in the new German office, as I pointed out to Dr. Devine when he delivered the message.

Still, I was annoyed at the Head’s unwarranted interference. This was a domestic matter—something that could and should be resolved by a form tutor. Gods preserve us from an administrator with too much time on his hands; when a Head starts getting involved in matters of discipline, the results can be catastrophic.

Allen-Jones said as much to me at lunchtime. “We were only winding him up,” he told me, looking awkward. “We just went a bit far. You know what it’s like.”

I did. Bishop did. I also knew that the Head did not. Ten to one he suspects some kind of conspiracy. I can see weeks of phone calls, letters home, multiple detentions, suspensions, and other administrative nuisances before the matter can be laid to rest. It annoys me. Sutcliff is on a scholarship, which can be withdrawn in a case of serious misbehavior; McNair’s father is quarrelsome and will not submit meekly to a suspension; and Allen-Jones senior is an army man whose exasperation with his bright, rebellious son too often tends to violence.

Left to my own devices, I would have dealt with the culprits rapidly and efficiently, without the need for parental intrusion—for although listening to boys is bad enough, to listen to their parents is fatal—but it’s too late for that now. I was in a dark mood as I descended the stairs toward the Common Room, and when the idiot Meek bumped into me on the way in, almost knocking me over, I sent him on his way with a choice epithet.

“Bloody hell, who rattled your cage?” said Jeff Light, the Games teacher, sprawling from beneath his copy of the Mirror.

I looked at where he was sitting. Third from the window, under the clock. It’s stupid, I know, but the Tweed Jacket is a territorial creature, and I had been goaded almost beyond endurance already. Of course I didn’t expect the freshers to know, but Pearman and Roach were there, drinking coffee, Kitty Teague was marking books nearby, and McDonaugh was in his usual place, reading. All four of them glanced at Light as if he were a spillage someone had forgotten to clean up.

Roach coughed helpfully. “I think you’re in Roy’s chair,” he said.

Light shrugged but did not move. Next to him, Easy, the sandy-faced geographer, was eating cold rice pudding out of a Tupperware box. Keane, the would-be novelist, was looking out of the window, from which I could just see the lonesome figure of Pat Bishop, running laps.

“No really, mate,” said Roach. “He always sits there. He’s practically a fixture.”

Light stretched his interminable legs, earning himself a smoldering glance from Isabelle Tapi in the yogurt corner. “Latin, isn’t it?” he said. “Queers in togas. Give me a good cross-country any day.”

“Ecce, stercus pro cerebro habes,” I told him, causing McDonaugh to frown and Pearman to nod in a remote fashion, as if it were a quotation he vaguely recognized. Penny Nation gave me one of her pitying smiles and patted the seat next to her.

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m not staying.” Gods help me, I wasn’t that desperate. Instead, I put the kettle on and opened the sink cupboard to find my mug.

You can tell a lot about a teacher’s personality from his coffee mug. Geoff and Penny Nation have twin mugs with CAPITAINE and SOUS-FIFRE written across them. Roach has Homer Simpson; Grachvogel has The X-Files. Hillary Monument’s gruff image is belied daily by a pint mug with WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA in shaky young letters. Pearman’s was bought on a school French trip to Paris and bears a photograph of the poet Jacques Prévert smoking a cigarette. Dr. Devine disdains the humble mug altogether and uses the Headmaster’s china—a privilege reserved for visitors, senior Suits, and the Head himself—Bishop, always popular with the boys, has a different cartoon character every term (this term, Yogi Bear); gifts from his form.

My own is a St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, limited edition 1990. Eric Scoones has one, as do several of the Old Guard, but mine has a chipped handle, which enables me to distinguish it from the rest. We built the new Games Pavilion with the proceeds of that mug, and I carry mine with pride. Or would, if I could find it.

“Damn it. First the damn register and now the damn mug.”

“Borrow mine,” said McDonaugh (CHARLES & DIANA, slightly chipped).

“That isn’t the point.”

And it wasn’t; to remove a Master’s coffee mug from its rightful place is almost as bad as taking his chair. The chair, the office, the classroom, and now the mug. I was beginning to feel distinctly under siege.

Keane gave me a satirical look as I poured tea into the wrong mug. “It’s good to know that I’m not the only one having a bad day,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Lost both my free periods today. Five-G. Bob Strange’s English lit class.”

Ouch. Of course everyone knows that Mr. Strange has much to do; being Third Master and in charge of the timetable, he has over the years managed to construct for himself a system of courses, duties, meetings, admin periods, and other necessaries, which leave him scarcely any time for actual pupil contact. But Keane seemed capable enough—after all, he’d survived Sunnybank Park—and I’d seen strong men reduced to jelly by those fifth-formers.

“I’ll be all right,” said Keane, when I expressed due sympathy. “Besides, it’s all good material for my book.”

Ah, yes, the book. “Whatever gets you through the day,” I said, wondering whether or not he was serious. There’s a kind of quiet facetiousness about Keane—a whiff of the upstart—that makes me want to question everything he says. Even so I prefer him infinitely to the muscular Light, or the sycophantic Easy, or the timorous Meek. “By the way, Dr. Devine was asking for you,” Keane went on. “Something about old filing cabinets?”

“Good.” It was the best news I’d had all day. Though after the fracas with 3S, even German-baiting had lost some of its flavor.

“He asked Jimmy to put them in the yard,” said Keane. “Said to get them moved as soon as possible.”

“What?”

“Obstructing a thoroughfare, I think he said. Something to do with Health and Safety.”

I cursed. Sourgrape must really have wanted that office. The Health and Safety Maneuver is one to which only a few dare to sink. I finished my tea and strode purposefully toward the ex-Classics office, only to find Jimmy, screwdriver in hand, fixing some kind of an electronic attachment to the door.

“It’s a buzzer, boss,” explained Jimmy, seeing my surprise. “So Dr. Devine knows if there’s someone at the door.”

“I see.” In my day, we just knocked.

Jimmy, however, was delighted. “When you see the red light, he’s with someone,” he said. “If it’s green, he buzzes you in.”

“And the yellow light?”

Jimmy frowned. “If it’s yellow,” he said at last, “then Dr. Devine buzzes through to see who it is”—he paused, wrinkling his brow—“and if it’s someone important, then he lets them in!”

“Very Teutonic.” I stepped past him into my office.

Inside, a conspicuous and displeasing order reigned. New cabinets—color-coded; a handsome watercooler; a large mahogany desk with computer, pristine blotter, and a framed photograph of Mrs. Sourgrape. The carpet had been cleaned; my spider plants—those scarred and dusty veterans of drought and neglect—tidily disposed of; a smug NO SMOKING sign and a laminated timetable showing departmental meetings, duties, clubs, and work groups, hung on the wall.

For a time, there was nothing to say.

“I’ve got your stuff, boss,” said Jimmy. “Shall I bring it up for you?”

Why bother? I knew when I was beaten. I slouched off back to the Common Room to drown my sorrows in tea.

2

Over the next few weeks, Leon and I became friends. It was not as risky as it sounds, partly because we were in different Houses—he in Amadeus, whilst I claimed to be in Birkby—and in different years. I met him in the mornings—wearing my own clothes under my St. Oswald’s uniform—and arrived to my own classes late, with a series of ingenious excuses.

I missed Games—the asthma ploy had worked very well—and spent my breaks and lunches in St. Oswald’s grounds. I began to think of myself almost as a genuine Ozzie; through Leon I knew the Masters on duty, the gossip, the slang. With him I went to the library, played chess, lounged on the benches in the Quad like any of the others. With him, I belonged.

It would not have worked if Leon had been a more outgoing, more popular pupil; but I had soon learned that he too was a misfit—though unlike me, he remained aloof by choice rather than necessity. Sunnybank Park would have killed him in a week; but St. Oswald’s values intelligence above everything else, and he was clever enough to use his to good advantage. To Masters he was polite and respectful—at least, in their presence—and I found that this gave him an immense advantage in times of trouble—of which there were many. For Leon seemed to actively court trouble wherever he went: he specialized in practical jokes, small neat revenges, covert acts of defiance. He was rarely caught. If I was Knight, then he was Allen-Jones: the charmer, the trickster, the elusive rebel. And yet he liked me. And yet we were friends.

I invented tales of my previous school for his amusement, giving myself the role I sensed he expected of me. From time to time I introduced characters from my other life: Miss Potts, Miss McAuleigh, Mr. Bray. I spoke of Bray with real hatred, remembering his taunts and his posturing, and Leon listened with an attentive look that was not quite sympathy.

“Pity you couldn’t get your own back on this guy,” he commented on one occasion. “Pay him back in kind.”

“What do you suggest?” I said. “Voodoo?”

“No,” said Leon thoughtfully. “Not quite.”

By then I had known Leon for over a month. We could smell the end of the summer term, its scent of cut grass and freedom; in another month all schools would break up (eight and a half weeks; limitless, unimaginable time) and there would be no need for changes of uniform or perilous truancies, forged notes or excuses.

We had already made plans, Leon and I; for trips to the cinema; walks in the woods; excursions into town. At Sunnybank Park exams—such as they were—were already over. Lessons were ramshackle; discipline, lax. Some teachers dispensed with their subjects altogether and showed Wimbledon on television, while others devoted their time to games and private study. Escape to Oz had never been easier. It was the happiest time of my life.

Then, disaster struck. It should never have happened; a stupid coincidence, that was all. But it brought my world crashing down, threatened everything I had ever hoped for—and its cause was the Games teacher, Mr. Bray.

In the excitement of everything else, I had almost forgotten Mr. Bray. I no longer went to Games—had never shown aptitude in any case—and I had assumed that I was not missed. Even without him, Games had been a weekly torment: my clothes tossed into the shower; my sports kit hidden or stolen; my glasses broken; my lukewarm efforts to participate greeted with laughter and contempt.

Bray himself had been the principal instigator of these jeering sessions, repeatedly singling me out for “demonstrations” in which my every physical shortcoming was pointed out with relentless precision.

My legs were skinny, with prominent knees; and when I had to borrow games’ kit from school (mine had “disappeared” once too often and my father refused to buy a new set), Bray provided me with a giant pair of flannel shorts, which flapped ludicrously as I ran, earning me the nickname “Thunderpants.”

His admirers found this exquisitely amusing, and Thunderpants I remained. This had led to a general understanding among the other pupils that I had a flatulence problem; Speccy Snyde became Smelly Snyde; I was bombarded on a daily basis with jokes about baked beans, and in form matches (during which I was always last to be picked) Bray would cry to the other players: Watch out, team! Snyde’s been on the beans again!

As I said, I was no loss to the subject, or, I thought, to the teacher. But I had failed to take into account the man’s essential malice. It was not enough for him to hold court to his little clique of admirers and sycophants. It was not even enough to ogle the girls (and, on occasion, to dare a quick fumble under cover of a “demonstration”), or to humiliate the boys with his trollish humor. Every performer needs an audience; but Bray needed more. Bray needed a victim.

I had already missed four Games lessons. I imagined the comments:

Where’s Thunderpants, then, kids?

Dunno, sir. In the library, sir. Down the toilet, sir. Excused Games, sir. Asthma, sir.

Asshole, more like.

It would have been forgotten eventually. Bray would have found himself another target—there were plenty of them around. Fat Peggy Johnsen, or spotty Harold Mann, or muffin-faced Lucy Robbins, or Jeffrey Stuarts, who ran like a girl. In the end he would have turned his gaze on one of them—and they knew it, watching me with increasing hostility in class and Assembly, hating me for having escaped.

It was they, the losers, who would not let it go; who perpetuated the Thunderpants jokes; who harped incessantly on beans and asthma until every lesson without me seemed like a freak show without the freak, and at last Mr. Bray began to feel suspicious.

I’m not sure where he spotted me. Maybe he had me watched as I slipped away from the library. I had grown reckless; already Leon filled my life and Bray and his ilk were nothing but shadows in comparison. In any case he was waiting for me the next morning; I found out later that he had swapped supervision duties with another teacher to make sure he caught me.

“Well, well, you’re looking very full of beans for someone with such terrible asthma,” he said as I ran in through the late entrance.

I stared at him, half-paralyzed with fear. He was smiling viciously, like the bronzed totem of a sacrificial cult.

“Well? Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m late, sir,” I stammered, playing for time. “My dad was—”

I could feel his contempt as he towered over me. “Perhaps your dad could tell me more about this asthma of yours,” he said. “Caretaker, isn’t he, at the grammar school? Comes into our local from time to time.”

I could hardly breathe. For a second I almost believed that I did have asthma; that my lungs would burst with the terror of it. I hoped it would happen—at that time death seemed infinitely preferable to the possible alternatives.

Bray saw it, and his grin hardened. “See me in the changing rooms after school tonight,” he said. “And don’t be late.”

I went through the day in a haze of dread. My bowels loosened; I couldn’t concentrate; I went to the wrong classrooms; I couldn’t eat my lunch. At afternoon break I was in such a state of panic that Miss Potts, the teacher trainee, noticed and asked me about it.

“Nothing, miss,” I said, desperate to avoid further attention. “Just a bit of a headache.”

“More than a headache,” she said, coming closer. “You’re very pale—”

“It’s nothing, miss. Really.”

“I think maybe you should go home. You might be coming down with something.”

“No!” I could not prevent my voice from rising. That would make things infinitely worse; if I didn’t turn up, Bray would talk to my father; any chance I had of evading discovery would be lost.

Miss Potts frowned. “Look at me. Is anything wrong?”

Silently, I shook my head. Miss Potts was just a student teacher, not much older than my father’s girlfriend. She liked to be popular—to be important; a girl in my class, Wendy Lovell, had been making herself sick at lunchtimes, and when Miss Potts had found out about it, she had phoned the Eating Disorders Helpline.

She often talked about gender awareness; was an expert on racial discrimination; had attended courses on self-assertion and bullying and drugs. I sensed that Miss Potts was looking for a Cause, but knew that she would only be at school until the end of term, and that in a few weeks’ time, she would be gone.

“Please, miss,” I whispered.

“Come on, sweetheart,” said Miss Potts, wheedling. “Surely you can tell me.”

The secret was simple, like all secrets. Places like St. Oswald’s—and even to some extent, Sunnybank Park—have their own security systems, built, not on smoke detectors or hidden cameras, but on a thick stratum of bluff.

No one brings down a teacher—no one thinks to bring down a school. And why? The instinctive cringing in the face of authority—that fear that by far outstrips the fear of discovery. A master is always Sir to his pupils, however many years have passed; even in adulthood we find the old reflexes have not been lost but have only been subdued for a time, emerging unchanged at the right command. Who would dare call that giant bluff? Who would dare? It was inconceivable.

But I was desperate. On one side there was St. Oswald’s; Leon; everything I had longed for; everything I had built. On the other, Mr. Bray, poised over me like the word of God. Did I dare? Could I possibly carry it off?

“Come on, dear,” said Miss Potts gently, seeing her chance. “You can tell me—I won’t tell a soul.”

I pretended to hesitate. Then, in a low voice, I spoke. “It’s Mr. Bray,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Mr. Bray and Tracey Delacey.”

3

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys

Friday, 10th September

It has been a long first week. It always is; but this year especially the silly season seems to have started early. Anderton-Pullitt is away today (one of his allergic reactions, says his mother), but Knight and Jackson are back in lessons, Jackson sporting an impressive black eye to go with his broken nose; McNair, Sutcliff, and Allen-Jones are on behavior report (Allen-Jones with a bruise to the side of his face which distinctly shows the marks of four fingers, and which he claims he got from playing football).

Meek has taken over the Geography Society, which, thanks to Bob Strange, now meets weekly in my room; Bishop has damaged an Achilles tendon in the course of an overenthusiastic running session; Isabelle Tapi has taken to hanging around the Games department in a series of increasingly daring skirts; Dr. Devine’s invasion of the Classics office has suffered a temporary setback following the discovery of a mouse’s nest behind the wainscoting; my coffee mug and register are still missing, which has earned me Marlene’s disapproval, and when I returned to my room after lunch on Thursday I discovered that my favorite pen—green casing, Parker, with a gold nib—had disappeared from my desk drawer.

It was the loss of this last item that really annoyed me; partly because I only stepped out of my room for a half hour or so, and more importantly, because it happened at lunchtime, which suggested to me that the thief was a member of the form. My very own 3S—good lads, or so I thought, and loyal to me. Jeff Light was on corridor duty at the time, and so, by chance, was Isabelle Tapi, but (unsurprisingly) neither of them noticed any unusual visitors to room fifty-nine during that lunch hour.

I mentioned the loss to 3S in the afternoon, hoping that someone might have borrowed the pen and forgotten to return it; only to be met with blank stares from the boys.

“What, no one saw anything? Tayler? Jackson?”

“Nothing, sir. No, sir.”

“Pryce? Pink? Sutcliff?”

“No, sir.”

“Knight?”

Knight looked away, smirking.

Knight?

I took the register on a piece of paper and sent the boys away, now feeling distinctly uneasy. It hurt me to have to do it, but there was only one way to discover the culprit, and that was to search the boys’ lockers. As it happened I was free that afternoon, and so I took my passkey and list of locker numbers, left Meek in charge of room fifty-nine and a small group of lower-sixths unlikely to cause any disruption, and made my way to the Middle Corridor and the third-form locker room.

I searched in alphabetical order, taking my time and with especial attention to the contents of pencil cases, finding nothing but half a carton of cigarettes in Allen-Jones’s locker and a girlie magazine in Jackson’s.

Then came Knight’s; almost overflowing with papers, books, and assorted junk. A silver pencil box shaped like a calculator slid out from between two files; I opened it, but there was no pen. The next locker was Lemon’s; then Niu’s; Pink’s; Anderton-Pullitt’s—piled high with books on his all-consuming passion, First World War aircraft. I searched them all; found a stash of forbidden playing cards and a pinup or two, but no Parker pen.

I spent over an hour in the locker rooms, long enough for the class-change bell to go and the corridor to fill up, though fortunately, no pupil decided to visit his locker between lessons.

Left feeling more annoyed than before; not so much for the loss of the pen—which could, after all, be replaced—but for the fact that some of my pleasure in the boys had been spoiled by the incident, and the fact that until the thief was identified, I would not be able to trust any of them again.

The following day I was on after-school duty, watching the bus queue; Meek was in the main Quad, barely visible in the mass of departing boys, and Monument was at the Chapel steps, supervising the proceedings from on high.

“Bye, sir! Have a good weekend!” That was McNair, racing by with his tie at half-mast and his shirt hanging out of his trousers. Allen-Jones was with him, running, as always, as if his life were in peril. “Slow down,” I called. “You’ll break your necks.”

“Sorry, sir,” yelled Allen-Jones, without checking his pace.

I had to smile. I remember running like that—surely not so long ago, when weekends seemed as long as playing fields. Nowadays they’re gone in a blink: weeks, months, years—all gone into the same conjuror’s hat. All the same, it makes me wonder. Why do boys always run? And when did I stop running?

“Mr. Straitley.”

There was so much noise that I had not heard the New Head walk up behind me. Even on a Friday afternoon he was immaculate; white shirt, gray suit; tie knotted and positioned at precisely the correct angle.

“Headmaster.”

It annoys him to be called Headmaster. It reminds him that in the history of St. Oswald’s he is neither unique nor irreplaceable. “Was that a member of your form,” he said, “dashing past us with his shirt untucked?”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I lied. The New Head has an administrator’s fixation on shirts, socks, and other uniform trivia. He looked skeptical at my reply. “I have noticed a certain disregard for the uniform regulations this week. I hope you’ll be able to impress upon the boys the importance of making a good impression outside the school gates.”

“Of course, Headmaster.”

In view of the impending school inspection, Making a Good Impression has become one of the New Head’s main priorities. King Henry’s Grammar School boasts a stringent dress code—including straw boaters in summer and top hats for members of the Chapel choir—which he feels contributes to their superior position in the league tables. My own ink-stained reprobates have a less flattering view of their rivals—or Henriettas, as St. Oswald’s tradition names them—with which I must admit to having some sympathy. Sartorial rebellion is a rite of passage, and members of the school—and of 3S in particular—express their revolt by means of untucked shirts, scissored ties, and subversive socks.

I tried to say as much to the New Head but was met with a look of such abhorrence that I wished I hadn’t. “Socks, Mr. Straitley?” he said, as if I had introduced him to some new and hitherto undreamed-of perversion.

“Well, yes,” I said. “You know, Homer Simpson, South Park, Scooby-Doo.”

“But we have regulation socks,” said the Head. “Gray wool, calf length, yellow-and-black stripe. Eight ninety-nine a pair from the school outfitters.”

I shrugged helplessly. Fifteen years as Head of St. Oswald’s, and he still hasn’t realized that no one—no one!—ever wears the uniform socks.

“Well, I expect you to put a stop to it,” said the Head, still looking rattled. “Every boy should be in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I shall have to send a memo.”

I wondered if the Head, as a boy, had been in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I tried to imagine it and found that I could. I gave a sigh. “Fac ut vivas, Headmaster.”

“What?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“And speaking of memos . . . My secretary e-mailed you three times today asking you to see me in my office.”

“Really, Headmaster?”

“Yes, Mr. Straitley.” His tone was glacial. “We’ve had a complaint.”

It was Knight, of course. Or rather, Knight’s mother, a bottle blonde of indeterminate age and volatile temperament, blessed with a large alimony settlement and subsequent leisure time to lodge complaints on a termly basis. This time it was my victimization of her son on the grounds of his Jewishness.

“Anti-Semitism is a very serious complaint,” announced the Head. “Twenty-five percent of our customers—parents, that is—belong to the Jewish community, and I don’t have to remind you—”

“No you don’t, Headmaster.” That was going too far. To take a boy’s side against a Master—and in a public place, where anyone might be listening—was beyond disloyal. I could feel my temper rising. “This is a matter of personalities, that’s all, and I expect you to back me fully in the face of this completely unfounded accusation. And while we’re at it, may I remind you that there is a pyramid structure of discipline, beginning with the form tutor, and that I don’t relish having my duties taken over by someone else without being consulted.”

“Mr. Straitley!” The Head was looking rather shaken.

“Yes, Headmaster.”

“There’s more.” I waited for it, still seething. “Mrs. Knight says that a valuable pen, a bar mitzvah present to her son, vanished from his locker some time yesterday afternoon. And you, Mr. Straitley, were seen opening third-form lockers at just about exactly the same time.”

Vae! I cursed myself mentally. I should have been more careful; should—according to the regulations—have searched the lockers in the presence of the boys themselves. But 3S are my own form—in many ways, my favorite form. Easier to do as I always did: to visit the culprit in secret—to remove the evidence—to leave it at that. It had worked with Allen-Jones and his door plaques; it would have worked with Knight. Except that I had found nothing in Knight’s locker—though my gut still told me he was guilty—and had certainly not removed anything.

The Head had hit his stride. “Mrs. Knight not only accuses you of repeatedly victimizing and humiliating the boy,” he said, “but of more or less accusing him of theft, then, when he denied it, of removing an item of value from his locker in secret—perhaps in the hope of making him confess.”

“I see. Well, this is what I think of Mrs. Knight—”

“The school’s insurance will cover the loss, of course. But it raises the question—”

“What?” I was almost at a loss for words. Boys lose things every day. To provide compensation in this case was tantamount to accepting that I was guilty. “I won’t have it. Ten to one the damn thing will turn up under his bed or something.”

“I’d rather deal with it at this level than have the complaint go to the governors,” said the Head, with unusual frankness.

“I bet you would,” I said. “But if you do, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by Monday morning.”

HM blanched. “Now take it easy, Roy—”

“I’m not taking it at all. A Headmaster’s duty is to stand by his staff. Not to go running scared at the first piece of malicious tittle-tattle.”

There was a rather cold silence. I realized that my voice—long-trained in the acoustics of the Bell Tower—had become rather loud. Several boys and their parents were loitering within earshot, and little Meek, who was still on duty, was watching me open-mouthed.

“Very good, Mr. Straitley,” said the New Head in a stiff voice.

And at that he went on his way, leaving me with the sense that I had scored at best, a Pyrrhic victory, and at worst, the most devastating kind of own goal.

4

Poor old Straitley. He was looking so depressed when he left today that I almost felt sorry I’d sneaked his pen. He looked old, I thought—no longer fearsome but simply old, a sad, baggy-faced comedian past his prime. Quite wrong, of course. There’s real grit in Roy Straitley; a real—and dangerous—intelligence. Still—call it nostalgia if you like, or perversity—today I liked him better than ever before. Should I do him a favor? I wonder. For old times’ sake?

Yes, perhaps. Perhaps I will.

I celebrated my first week with a bottle of champagne. It’s still very early in the game, of course, but I have already sown a good number of my poison seeds, and this is just the beginning. Knight is proving to be a valuable tool—almost a Special Little Friend, as Straitley calls them—talking to me now almost every break, drinking in my every word. Oh, nothing that might be directly incriminating—I of all people, should know better than that—but with the help of hints and anecdotes I think I can guide him in the right direction.

His mother didn’t complain to the governors, of course. I didn’t really expect her to, in spite of her histrionics. Not this time, anyway. Nevertheless, all these things are being filed away. Deep down, where it matters.

Scandal, the rot that makes foundations crumble. St. Oswald’s has had its share—neatly excised for the most part by the governors and trustees. The Shakeshafte affair, for instance—or that nasty business with the caretaker, fifteen years ago. What was his name? Snyde? Can’t remember the details, old chap, but it just goes to show, you can’t trust anyone nowadays.

In the case of Mr. Bray and my own school, there were no trustees to take matters in hand. Miss Potts listened with widening eyes and a mouth that went from pouty-persuasive to crabapple-sour in less than a minute. “But Tracey’s fifteen,” said Miss Potts (who had always made an effort to look nice in Mr. Bray’s lessons, and whose face was now rigid with disapproval). “Fifteen!”

I nodded. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told you.”

That was the bait, and she took it, as I had known she would. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” said Miss Potts firmly. “All you have to do is tell me everything.”

I did not keep my after-school appointment with Bray. Instead, I sat outside the Headmaster’s office, shaking with fear and excitement, and listening to the drama unfolding within. Bray denied it all, of course; but the besotted Tracey wept violently at his public betrayal; compared herself to Juliet; threatened to kill herself; and finally declared that she was pregnant—at which announcement the meeting dissolved into panic and recriminations, Bray scuttled off to call his Union rep and Miss Potts threatened to inform the local newspapers if something was not done at once to protect more innocent girls from being led astray by this pervert—whom, she said, she had always suspected, and who should be locked up.

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

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.

Still, amusing though it may be, this remains a small diversion. St. Oswald’s has withstood a thousand petty dramas of the same ilk. My second week has passed; I am more than comfortable in my role; and although I am tempted to enjoy my newfound situation for a little longer, I know that there will be no better time to strike. But where?

Not Bishop; not the Head. Straitley? It’s tempting, and he’ll have to go sooner or later; but I’m enjoying the game too much to lose him so soon. No. There’s really only one place to start. The Porter.

That had been a bad summer for John Snyde. He had been drinking more than ever before, and at last it was beginning to show. Always a big man, he had thickened gradually and almost imperceptibly over the years, and now, quite suddenly, it seemed, he was fat.

For the first time I was conscious of it; conscious of the St. Oswald’s boys passing the gates; conscious of my father’s slowness, of his bloodshot eyes, of his bearish, sullen temper. Though it rarely came out in work hours, I knew it was there, like an underground wasps’ nest waiting for something to disturb it.

Dr. Tidy, the Bursar, had commented on it, although so far my father had avoided an official reprimand. The boys knew it too, especially the little ones; over that summer they baited him mercilessly, shouting, John! Hey John! in their girlish voices, following him in groups as he attended to his duties, running after the ride-on lawn mower as he drove it methodically around the cricket fields and football pitches, his big bear’s rump hanging off either side of the narrow seat.

He had a multitude of nicknames: Johnny Fatso; Baldy John (he had become sensitive about the thinning patch on top of his head, which he tried to camouflage by greasing a long strip of hair to his crown); Doughball Joe; Big John the Chip-Fat Don. The ride-on lawn mower was a perpetual source of merriment; they called it the Mean Machine or John’s Jalopy; it was continually breaking down; rumor had it that it ran off the chip fat that John used to grease his hair; that he drove it because it was faster than his own car. A few times, boys had noticed a beery, stale smell on my father’s breath in the mornings, and since then there had been numerous halitosis jokes; boys pretending to become inebriated on the fumes from the caretaker’s breath; boys asking how far over the limit he was, and whether he was legal to drive the Mean Machine.

Needless to say I usually kept my distance from these boys during my forays into school; for although I was certain my father never even saw beyond the St. Oswald’s uniform to the individuals beneath, his proximity made me uneasy and ashamed. It seemed at these times that I had never really seen my father before; and when, goaded finally into undignified response, he lashed out—first with his voice, and then with his fists—I writhed with embarrassment, shame, and self-loathing.

Much of this was the direct result of my friendship with Leon. A rebel he might have been, with his long hair and his shoplifting forays, but in spite of all that, Leon remained very much a product of his background, speaking with contempt of what he called “the proles” and “the mundanes,” mocking my Sunnybank Park contemporaries with vicious and relentless accuracy.

For my own part, I joined in the mockery without reserve. I had always loathed Sunnybank Park; I felt no loyalty to the pupils there and embraced the cause of St. Oswald’s without hesitation. That was where I belonged, and I made certain that everything about me—hair, voice, manners—reflected that allegiance. At that time I wished more than ever for my fiction to be true, longed for the police-inspector father of my imagination and hated more than words could say the fat, sullen caretaker with his foul mouth and thick, beery gut. With me he had grown increasingly irritable; the failure of the karate lessons had compounded his disappointment, and on several occasions I found him watching me with frank and open dislike.

Still, once or twice, he made a feeble, halfhearted effort. Asked me to a football match; gave me money for the pictures. Most of the time, however, he did not. I watched him sink deeper every day into his routine of television, beer, takeaways, and fumbling, noisy (and increasingly unsuccessful) sex. After a while even that stopped, and Pepsi’s visits grew less and less frequent. I saw her in town a couple of times, and once in the park with a young man. He was wearing a leather jacket and had one of his hands up Pepsi’s pink angora sweater. After that she hardly came to see us at all.

It was ironic that the one thing that saved my father during those weeks was the thing he was growing to hate. St. Oswald’s had been his life, his hope, his pride; now it seemed to taunt him with his own inadequacy. Even so, he endured it; performed his duties faithfully, if without love; squared his stubborn back to the boys who taunted him and sang rude little chants about him in the playground. For me, he endured it; for me, he held out almost to the last. I know that, now that it’s too late; but at twelve so many things are hidden; so many things still to be discovered.

“Hey, Pinchbeck!” We were sitting in the Quad under the beech trees. The sun was hot, and John Snyde was mowing the lawn. I remember that smell, the smell of school days; of mown grass, dust, and of things growing too fast and out of control. “Looks like Big John’s having a spot of bother.”

I looked. So he was; at the limit of the cricket lawn the Mean Machine had broken down again, and my father was trying to restart it, swearing and sweating as he pulled at the sagging waistband of his jeans. The little boys had already begun to close in; a cordon of them, like Pygmies around a wounded rhino.

John! Hey, John! I could hear them across the cricket lawn, budgie voices in the hazy heat. Darting in, darting out, daring one another to get a little closer every time.

“Geddout of it!” He waved his arms at them like a man scaring crows. His beery shout reached us a second later; high-pitched laughter followed. Squealing, they scattered; seconds later they were already creeping back, giggling like girls.

Leon grinned. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll have a laugh.”

I followed him reluctantly, keeping back, removing the glasses that might have marked me. I needn’t have bothered; my father was drunk. Drunk and furious, goaded by the heat and the juniors who wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Excuse me, Mr. Snyde, sir,” said Leon, behind him.

He turned, gaping—taken by surprise by that “sir.”

Leon faced him, polite and smiling. “Dr. Tidy would like to see you in the Bursar’s office,” he said. “He says it’s important.”

My father hated the Bursar—a clever man with a satiric tongue, who ran the school’s finances from a spotless little office near the Porter’s Lodge. It would have been hard to miss the hostility between them. Tidy was neat, obsessive, meticulous. He attended Chapel every morning; drank chamomile tea to soothe his nerves; bred prize-winning orchids in the school conservatory. Everything about John Snyde seemed calculated to upset him: his slouch; his boorishness; the way his trousers came down well over the waistband of his yellowing underpants.

“Dr. Tidy?” said my father, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, sir,” said Leon.

“Shit.” He slouched off, bearish, toward the office.

Leon grinned at me. “I wonder what Tidy’ll say when he smells that breath?” he said, running his fingers over the Mean Machine’s battered flank. Then he turned, his eyes bright with malice. “Hey, Pinchbeck. Want a ride?”

I shook my head, appalled—but excited too.

“Come on, Pinchbeck. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.” And with one light step he was on the machine, pressing the starter button, revving her up—

“Last chance, Pinchbeck.”

I could not refuse the challenge. I jumped up onto the wheel rim, balancing as the Mean Machine lurched into motion. The juniors scattered, squealing. Leon was laughing wildly; grass sprayed out from behind the wheels in a triumphant green spume; and across the lawn John Snyde came running, too slow for it to matter but furious, feather-spitting crazy with rage.

“You boys, there! You fucking boys!”

Leon looked at me. We were nearing the far end of the lawn now; the Mean Machine was making the most terrible noise; behind us we could see John Snyde, helplessly outdistanced, and behind him, Dr. Tidy, his face a blur of outrage.

For a second joy transfixed me. We were magical; we were Butch and Sundance, leaping from the cliff’s edge, leaping from the mower in a haze of grass and glory and running for it, running like hell as the Mean Machine kept going in majestic, unstoppable slo-mo toward the trees.

We were never caught. The juniors never identified us, and the Bursar was so irate at my father’s behavior—at his foul language on school premises, even more than at his drunkenness or his dereliction of duty—that he omitted to follow up whatever leads he might have had. Mr. Roach, who had been (officially) on duty, was given a ticking-off by the Head, and my father received an official warning and a bill for repairs.

None of this had any effect on me, however. Another line had been crossed, and I was elated. Even sticking it to that bastard Bray had never felt as good as this, and for days I walked on a rosy cloud, through which nothing but Leon could be seen, felt, or heard.

I was in love.

At the time I dared not think so in as many words. Leon was my friend. That was all he ever could be. And yet that’s what it was: blazing, purblind, triple-infatuated, sleepless, self-sacrificing love. Everything in my life was filtered through its hopeful lens; he was my first thought in the morning; my last at night. I was not quite besotted enough to believe that my feelings were in any way reciprocated; to him, I was just a first-year; amusing enough, but by far his inferior. Somedays he would spend his lunch break with me; at other times he might keep me waiting for the entire hour, completely unaware of the risks I ran daily for the chance of being with him.

Nevertheless, I was happy. I did not need Leon’s constant presence for my happiness to flourish; for the time it was enough simply to know he was close by. I had to be clever, I told myself; I had to be patient. Above all I sensed that I must not become tiresome, and hid my feelings behind a barrier of facetiousness whilst evolving ever more ingenious ways to worship him in secret.

I exchanged school sweaters with him, and for a week I wore his around my neck. In the evenings I opened his locker with my father’s master key and went through Leon’s things, reading his class notes, his books, looking at the cartoon doodles he drew when he was bored, practicing his signature. Outside of my role as a St. Oswald’s pupil I watched him from afar, sometimes passing by his house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him—or even his sister, whom I worshipped by association. I memorized the number plate on his mother’s car. I fed his dog in secret. I combed my lank brown hair so that I fancied it looked like his, cultivated his expressions and his tastes. I had known him for just over six weeks.

I anticipated the approaching summer holidays at the same time as a relief and a further source of anxiety. Relief, because the effort of attending two schools—albeit erratically—was beginning to take its toll. Miss McAuleigh had complained about missing homework and frequent absences, and although I had become skilled at forging my father’s signature, there was always the danger that someone might meet him by chance and blow my cover. Anxiety, because although I would soon be free to meet Leon as often as I wished, it meant running even more risks, as I continued my imposture as a civilian.

Fortunately, I had already completed the spadework within the school itself. The rest was a question of timing, location, and a few well-chosen props, mainly costumes, which would establish me as the well-off, middle-class individual I pretended to be.

I stole a pair of expensive trainers from a sports shop in town, and a new racing bike (my own would have been quite impossible) from outside a nice house a comfortable distance away. I repainted it, just to be sure, and sold my own on the Saturday market. If my father noticed, I would have told him I had traded in my old bike for a secondhand model because it was getting too small for me. It was a good story, and would probably have worked, but by then, with the end of term, my father was at last beginning to unravel, and he never noticed anything anymore.

Fallow has his place now. Fat Fallow, with his loose lips and ancient donkey jacket. He has my father’s slouch too, from years of driving the ride-on mower, and like my father’s, his gut spills out obscenely from over his narrow, shiny belt. There is a tradition that all school porters are called John, and this is true of Fallow too, though the boys do not call after him and bait him as they did my father. I’m glad; I might have to intervene if they did, and I do not want to make myself conspicuous at this stage.

But Fallow offends me. He has hairy ears and reads the News of the World in his little lodge, wearing ancient slippers on his bare feet, drinking milky tea and ignoring what happens around him. Half-wit Jimmy does the real work; the building, the woodwork, the wiring, the drains. Fallow takes the phone calls. He enjoys making the callers wait—anxious mothers asking after their sick sons, rich fathers detained at a last-minute meeting with the directors—sometimes for minutes on end as he finishes his tea and scrawls the message on a piece of yellow paper. He likes to travel, and sometimes goes on day trips to France, organized by his local workingmen’s club, during which he goes to the supermarket, eats chips by the side of the tour bus, and complains about the locals.

At work he is by turns rude and deferential, depending on the status of his visitor; he charges boys a pound for opening their locker with the master key; he gloats at the legs of female teachers as they walk up the stairs. With lesser staff he is pompous and opinionated; says “Know what I mean?” and “I’ll tell you this for nothing, mate.”

With the higher echelons he is obsequious; with veterans, nauseatingly pally; with juniors like myself, brusque and busy, with no time to waste on chat. He goes up to the Computer Room on Fridays after school, ostensibly to turn off the machines, but actually surfing Internet porn sites after hours, while outside in the corridor, Jimmy uses the floor polisher, passing it slowly across the boards, bringing the old wood to a mellow shine.

It takes less than a minute to obliterate an hour’s work. By eight-thirty on Monday morning the floors will be as dusty and scuffed as if Jimmy had never been there at all. Fallow knows this; and though he does not perform these cleaning duties himself, he nevertheless feels an obscure resentment, as if staff and boys were an impediment to the smooth running of things.

As a result, his life consists of small and spiteful revenges. No one really observes him—a Porter lives below the salt and so may take such liberties with the system that remain unnoticed. Members of staff are mostly unaware of this, but I have been watching. From my position in the Bell Tower I can see his little lodge; I can observe the comings and goings without being seen.

There is an ice cream van parked outside the school gates. My father would never have allowed that, but Fallow tolerates it, and there is often a queue of boys there after school or at lunchtime. Some buy ice cream there; others return with bulging pockets and the furtive grin of one who has balked the system. Officially, junior boys are not supposed to leave the school grounds, but the van is only a few yards away, and Pat Bishop accepts it as long as no one crosses the busy road. Besides, he likes ice cream, and I’ve seen him several times, munching on a cone as he supervises the boys in the yard.

Fallow, too, visits the ice cream van. He does it in the morning, when lessons have already begun, making sure to circle the buildings clockwise and thereby avoid passing under the Common Room window. Sometimes he has a plastic bag with him—it is not heavy, but quite bulky—which he leaves under the counter. Sometimes he returns with a cone, sometimes not.

In fifteen years, many of the school’s passkeys have been changed. It was to have been expected—St. Oswald’s has always been a target, and security must be maintained—but the Porter’s Lodge, among others, is one of the exceptions. After all, why would anyone want to break into the Porter’s Lodge? There’s nothing there except an old armchair, a gas heater, a kettle, a phone, and a few girlie magazines hidden under the counter. There’s another hiding place too, a rather more sophisticated one, behind the hollow panel that masks the ventilation system, though this is a secret passed on jealously from one Porter to another. It is not very large but will easily take a couple of six-packs, as my father discovered, and as he told me then, the bosses don’t always have to know everything.

I was feeling good today as I drove home. Summer is almost at an end, and there is a yellowness and a grainy texture to the light that reminds me of the television shows of my adolescence. The nights are getting cold; in my rented flat, six miles from the city center, I will soon have to light the gas fire. The flat is not an especially attractive place—one room, a kitchen annex, and a tiny bathroom—but it’s the cheapest I could find, and, of course, I do not mean to stay for long.

It is virtually unfurnished. I have a sofa bed; a desk; a light; a computer and modem. I shall probably leave them all behind when I go. The computer is clean—or will be, when I have wiped the incriminating stuff from its hard drive. The car is rented and will also have been thoroughly cleaned by the rental firm by the time the police trace it back to me.

My elderly landlady is a gossip. She wonders why a nice, clean, professional person such as myself should choose to stay in a low-rent flatblock filled with druggies and ex-convicts and people on the dole. I’ve told her that I am a sales coordinator for a large international software company; that my firm has agreed to provide me with a house, but that the contractors have let them down. She shakes her head at this, bemoaning the ineptitude of builders everywhere, and hopes I’ll be in my new home by Christmas.

“Because it must be miserable, mustn’t it, love, not having your own place? And especially at Christmas—” Her weak eyes mist over sentimentally. I consider telling her that most deaths among old people occur during the winter months; that three-quarters of would-be suicides will take the plunge during the festive season. But I must maintain the pretense for the moment; so I answer her questions as best I can; I listen to her reminiscences; I am beyond reproach. In gratitude, my landlady has decorated my little room with chintz curtains and a vase of dusty paper flowers. “Think of it as your little home away from home,” she tells me. “And if you need anything, I’m always here.”

7

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys

Thursday, 23rd September

The trouble began on Monday, and I knew something had happened when I saw the cars. Pat Bishop’s Volvo was there, as usual—always first in, he even spends the night in his office at busy times—but it was almost unheard-of to see Bob Strange’s car there before eight o’clock, and there was the Head’s Audi too, and the Chaplain’s Jag, and half a dozen others, including a black-and-white police car, all parked in the staff car park outside the Porter’s Lodge.

For myself, I prefer the bus. In heavy traffic it’s quicker, and in any case, I never need to go more than a few miles to work or to the shops. Besides, I have my bus pass now, and though I can’t help thinking that there must be some mistake (sixty-four—how can I be sixty-four, by all the gods?), it does save money.

I walked up the long drive to St. Oswald’s. The poplars are on the turn, gilded with the approach of autumn, and there were little columns of white vapor rising from the dewy grass. I looked into the Porter’s Lodge as I walked by. Fallow wasn’t there.

No one in the Common Room seemed to know exactly what was going on. Strange and Bishop were in the Head’s office with Dr. Tidy and Sergeant Ellis, the liaison officer. Still Fallow was nowhere to be seen.

I wondered if there had been a break-in. It happens occasionally, though for the most part Fallow does a reasonable job of looking after the place. A bit of a crawler with the management, and of course he’s been on the take for years. Small things—a bag of coal, a packet of biscuits from the kitchens, plus his pound-a-go racket for opening lockers—but he’s loyal enough, and when you consider that he earns about a tenth of even a junior Master’s salary, you learn to turn a blind eye. I hoped there was nothing the matter with Fallow.

As always, the boys knew it first. Rumors had been flying wildly throughout the morning; Fallow had had a heart attack; Fallow had threatened the Head; Fallow had been suspended. But it was Sutcliff, McNair, and Allen-Jones who found me at break time and asked me, with that cheery, disingenuous air they adopt when they know someone else is in trouble, whether it was true that Fallow had been arrested.

“Who told you that?” I said with a smile of deliberate ambiguity.

“Oh, I heard someone say something.” Secrets are currency in any school, and I hadn’t expected McNair to reveal his informant, but obviously, some sources are more reliable than others. From the boy’s expression I gathered that this had come from somewhere near the top.

“They’ve ripped out some panels in the Porter’s Lodge,” said Sutcliff. “They took out a whole bunch of stuff.”

“Such as?”

Allen-Jones shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Cigarettes, maybe?”

The boys looked at one another. Sutcliff flushed slightly. Allen-Jones gave a little smile. “Maybe.”

Later, the story came out; Fallow had been using his cheap day trips to France to bring back illicit, tax-free cigarettes, which he had been selling—via the ice cream man, who was a friend of his—to the boys.

The profits were excellent—a single cigarette costing up to a pound, depending on the age of the boy—but St. Oswald’s boys have plenty of money, and besides, the thrill of breaking the rules right under the nose of the Second Master was almost irresistible. The scheme had been going on for months, possibly years; the police had found about four dozen cartons hidden behind a secret panel in the lodge, and many hundreds more in Fallow’s garage, stacked floor to ceiling behind a set of disused bookcases.

Both Fallow and the ice cream man confirmed the cigarette story. Of the other items found in the lodge, Fallow denied all knowledge, although he was at a loss to explain their presence. Knight identified his bar mitzvah pen; later, and with some reluctance, I claimed my old green Parker. I was relieved in one sense that no boy in my form had taken them; on the other hand I knew that this was yet another small nail in the coffin of John Fallow, who had at one blow lost his home, his job, and quite possibly his freedom.

I never did find out who had tipped off the authorities. An anonymous letter, or so I heard; in any case, no one came forward. It must have been someone on the inside, says Robbie Roach (a smoker and erstwhile good friend of Fallow); some little snitch keen to make trouble. He’s probably right; though I hate the thought of a colleague being responsible.

A boy, then? Somehow that seems even worse; the thought that one of our boys could single-handedly do so much damage.

A boy like Knight, perhaps? It was only a thought; but there is a new smugness in Knight, a look of awareness, that I like even less than his natural sullenness. Knight? There was no reason to think so. All the same I did think so; deep down, where it matters. Call it prejudice; call it instinct. The boy knew something.

Meanwhile, the little scandal runs its course. There will be an investigation by Customs and Excise; and although it is very unlikely that the school will press charges—any suggestion of bad publicity sends the Head into spasms—Mrs. Knight has so far refused to withdraw her own complaint. The governors will have to be informed; there will be questions asked concerning the role of the Porter, his appointment (Dr. Tidy is already on the defensive, and is demanding police reports on all ancillary staff), and his probable replacement. In short, the Fallow incident has created ripples all over the school, from the Bursar’s office to the Quiet Room.

The boys feel it and have been unusually disruptive, testing the boundaries of our discipline. A member of the school has been disgraced—albeit only a Porter—and a breath of revolt stirs; on Tuesday, Meek emerged from his fifth-form Computer Studies classes looking pale and shaken; McDonaugh gave out a series of vicious detentions; Robbie Roach fell mysteriously ill, incensing the whole department, who had to cover for him. Bob Strange set cover for all his classes on the grounds that he was too busy with Other Things, and today the Head took a disastrous Assembly in which he announced (to general, if unvoiced amusement) that there was no truth whatever in the malicious rumors concerning Mr. Fallow, and that any boy perpetrating such rumors would be Dealt With Most Severely.

But it is Pat Bishop, the Second Master, who has been most affected by Fallowgate, as Allen-Jones has named the unfortunate affair. Partly, I think, because such a thing is completely outside his comprehension; Pat’s loyalty to St. Oswald’s reaches back for more than thirty years, and whatever his other faults, he is scrupulously honest. His whole philosophy (such as it is; for our Pat is no philosopher) is based on the assumption that people are fundamentally good and wish, at heart, to do good, even when they are led astray. This ability to see good in everyone is at the core of his dealings with boys, and it works very well; weaklings and villains are shamed by his kind, stern manner, and even staff are in awe of him.

But Fallow has caused a kind of crisis. First, because Pat was fooled—he blames himself for not noticing what was going on—and second, because of the contempt implicit in the deception. That Fallow—whom Pat had always treated with politeness and respect—should repay him in such spiteful coin dismays and shames him. He remembers the John Snyde business and wonders whether he is somehow at fault in this case. He does not say these things, but I have noticed that he smiles less than usual, keeps to his office during the day, runs even more laps than usual in the mornings, and often works late.

As for the Languages department, it has suffered less than most. This is partly thanks to Pearman, whose natural cynicism serves as a welcome foil for the aloofness of Strange or the anxious bluster of the Head. Gerry Grachvogel’s classes are somewhat noisier than usual, though not enough to require my intervention. Geoff and Penny Nation are saddened, but unsurprised, shaking their heads at the beastliness of human nature. Dr. Devine uses the Fallow affair to terrorize poor Jimmy. Eric Scoones is bad-tempered, though not much more than usual. Dianne Dare, like the creative Keane, follows the whole thing with fascination.

“This place runs like a complicated soap opera,” she told me this morning in the Common Room. “You never know what’s going to happen next.”

I admitted that there was occasionally some entertainment value to be had from the dear old place.

“Is that why you stayed on? I mean—” She broke off, aware, perhaps, of the unflattering implication.

“I stayed on, as you so kindly put it, because I am old-fashioned enough to believe that our boys may derive some small benefit from my lessons, and most importantly, because it annoys Mr. Strange.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be. It doesn’t suit you.”

It’s hard to explain St. Oswald’s; harder still from across a gulf of more than forty years. She is young, attractive, bright; one day she will fall in love, maybe have children. She will have a house, which will be a home rather than a secondary annex of the Book Room; she will take holidays in far-flung locations. At least, I hope so; the alternative is to join the rest of the galley slaves and stay chained to the ship until someone pitches you overboard.

“I didn’t mean to offend you, sir,” said Miss Dare.

“You didn’t.” Perhaps I’m going soft in my old age, or perhaps the business with Fallow has troubled me more than I knew. “It’s just that I’m feeling rather Kafkaesque this morning. I blame Dr. Devine.”

She laughed at that, as I thought she might. And yet there remained something in her expression. She has adapted rather well to life at St. Oswald’s; I see her going to lessons with her briefcase and an armful of books; I hear her talking to the boys in the crisp, cheerful tones of a staff nurse. Like Keane, she has a self-possession that serves her well in a place like this, where everyone must fight his corner and to ask for help is a sign of weakness. She can feign anger or hide it when she needs to, knowing that a teacher must be above all a performer, always master of his audience and always in command of the stage. It’s unusual to see that quality in such a young teacher; I suspect that both Miss Dare and Mr. Keane are naturals, just as I know poor Meek is not.

“You’ve certainly come in interesting times,” I said. “Inspections, restructurings, treason, and plot. The bricks and mortar of St. Oswald’s. If you can survive this—”

“My parents were teachers. I know what to expect.”

That explained it. You can always tell. I picked up a mug (not mine; still missing) from the rack by the side of the sink. “Tea?”

She smiled. “The teacher’s cocaine.”

I inspected the contents of the tea urn and poured for both of us. Over the years I have become accustomed to drinking tea in its most elementary form. Even so, the brown sludge that settled in my cup looked distinctly toxic. I shrugged and added milk and sugar. That which does not kill me makes me stronger. An appropriate motto, perhaps, for a place like St. Oswald’s, perpetually on the brink of tragedy or farce.

I looked around at my colleagues, sitting in groups around the old Common Room, and felt a deep and unexpected stab of affection. There was McDonaugh, reading the Mirror in his corner; Monument, by his side, reading the Telegraph; Pearman, discussing nineteenth-century French pornography with Kitty Teague; Isabelle Tapi checking her lipstick; the League of Nations sharing a chaste banana. Old friends; comfortable collaborators.

As I said, it’s hard to explain St. Oswald’s; the sound of the place in the mornings; the flat echo of boys’ feet against the stone steps; the smell of burning toast from the Refectory; the peculiar sliding sound of overfilled sports bags being dragged along the newly polished floor. The Honors Boards, with gold-painted names dating back from before my great-great-grandfather; the war memorial; the team photographs; the brash young faces, tinted sepia with the passing of time. A metaphor for eternity.

Gods, I’m getting sentimental. Age does that; a moment ago I was bemoaning my lot and now here I am getting all misty-eyed. It must be the weather. And yet, Camus says, we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Am I unhappy? All I know is that something has shaken us; shaken us to the foundations. It’s in the air, a breath of revolt, and somehow I know that it goes deeper than the Fallow affair. Whatever it may be, it is not over. And it’s still only September.