Gentlemen and Players

by Joanne Harris

  Of course I heard about the scene with Straitley almost at once. The St. Oswald’s grapevine runs fast; any incident is reported within the day. Today had been a particularly bad one for Colin Knight. At registration, the spat with Straitley; at break, an incident with Robbie Roach over missing homework; at lunchtime, a flare-up with Jackson—also of 3S—which resulted in Jackson being sent home with a broken nose and Knight suspended for the week.

  I was on duty in the grounds when it happened. I could see Knight in his protective overalls, gloomily picking up litter from the rose beds. A clever, cruel punishment; far more humiliating than lines or detention. As far as I know, only Roy Straitley uses it. It’s the same kind of overall my father used to wear and which the half-wit Jimmy wears now: large, bright orange and visible from right across the playing fields. Anyone who wears it is fair game.

  Knight had tried unsuccessfully to hide behind an angle of the building. A knot of smaller boys had gathered there and were making fun of him, pointing out scraps of litter he had missed. Jackson, a small, aggressive boy who knows that only the presence of a loser like Knight prevents him from being bullied, was hanging around close by with a couple of other third-years. Pat Bishop was on duty, but out of earshot, surrounded by boys, on the other side of the cricket pitch. Roach, the history teacher, was on duty too but seemed more interested in talking to a group of fifth-formers than sorting out discipline.

  I went up to Knight. “That can’t be much fun.”

  Knight shook his head sullenly. His face was pale and sallow, except for a red spot on each cheekbone. Jackson, who had been observing me, broke away from the little group and edged warily closer. I could see him measuring me with his eyes, as if to determine the threat I represented. Jackals do much the same thing when circling a dying animal.

  “Want to join him?” I said sharply, and Jackson scuttled back to his group, startled.

  Knight gave me a look of furtive gratitude. “It’s not fair,” he said in a low voice. “They’re always picking on me.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “Oh yes,” I said quietly. “I’ve been watching.”

  Knight looked at me. His eyes were hot and dark and absurdly hopeful.

  “Listen to me, Colin. Isn’t that your name?”

  He nodded.

  “You have to learn to fight back, Colin,” I said. “Don’t be a victim. Make them pay.”

  “Pay?” Knight looked startled.

  “Why not?”

  “I’d get into trouble.”

  “Aren’t you already?”

  He looked at me.

  “Then what’s to lose?”

  The end-of-break bell went then, and I had no time to say anything else, but in any case I didn’t have to; the seeds were sown. Knight’s hopeful gaze followed me across the school yard, and by lunchtime, the deed was done; Jackson was on the ground with Knight on top of him and Roach running toward them with his whistle bouncing against his chest and the others standing by in slack-jawed amazement at the victim who finally decided to fight back.

  I need allies, you see. Not among my colleagues, but further down in the substrata of St. Oswald’s. Strike at the base, and the head will finally topple. I felt a fleeting stab of pity for the unsuspecting Knight, who will be my sacrifice, but I have to remind myself that in any war there must be casualties, and that if things go according to plan there will have to be many more before St. Oswald’s founders in a crash of broken idols and shattered dreams.

  KNIGHT

  1

  St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysThursday, 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 let
ters. 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 flapp
ed 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.