Besides, there were other demands on my time. One boy had failed his Latin exam and needed extra tuition; another’s parents were divorcing and he was taking it badly; and the girls of Mulberry House were putting on a production of Antigone, in which four of my fifth-form boys were also participating. Result: two of them had already fallen in love with the girl who was playing the lead, a rather attractive redhead apparently destined for greatness, which ill-timed attack of puppy love would probably cost them at least a grade.
And so you see, when Harrington came to me with alarming news, it took me entirely by surprise. First, that he should have noticed the problem before I did myself; second, that a boy of fourteen should have such unusual insight. It made me reassess the boy – and question my own instincts.
It was during Assembly on Friday, the last week in November. The boys had gone to Chapel, but I’d stayed in room 59 to go over some fourth-form papers. At eight forty-five, the sky was still dark, with a sick orange glow that boded no good.
Harrington came in, alone; fresh-pressed and looking like springtime. ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you, sir.’
I put down my pen. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything the matter?’
He seemed to consider the question. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Sit down. Take your time.’
I’ll admit my heart had sunk a bit. After the whole mensa-merda débâcle and the raft of complaints that had followed it, I was more than half expecting another account of profanity in The Canterbury Tales, or immoral conduct in Geography, even though, since the talk in the locker rooms, Harrington Senior’s complaints had ceased as abruptly as they had begun.
The boy took a seat at a desk at the front. I’ve always thought room 59 had a vaguely nautical character; two double rows of wooden desks facing an elevated deck, on which I stand like a captain on the deck of his pirate ship, surveying the galley slaves below. This time I felt like a High Court judge listening to a plaintiff. Harrington’s voice was as colourless as it had always been, but I thought that this time there was a tremor there – perhaps of some concealed emotion.
‘It’s a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Sir, I think he’s in trouble.’
A friend of mine. That usually means a problem of a delicate nature. I wondered why Harrington, of all people, should have chosen to come to me with such a problem, instead of to the Chaplain, the School’s official counsellor in matters of the heart and soul.
‘It isn’t me,’ said Harrington. ‘It really is a friend of mine.’
Well, the boy didn’t have many friends. If he wasn’t talking about himself, it could only be Nutter or Spikely, the other two-thirds of the threesome. David Spikely, an average boy from an average family. Rather slow in French, perhaps; but there was nothing to suggest the boy might have a problem. And Charlie Nutter; pale, uninteresting; with patches of eczema on his hands. Never spoke a word in class. Never drew attention.
But his father was Stephen Nutter, one of our local MPs; a rubber bulldog of a man, known for his outspoken views. I’d always guessed that Nutter, MP, might have been disappointed in his rather ordinary son – some men feel the need to affirm themselves through their offspring, and I’d imagined Nutter Senior to have had something very different in mind when he became a father. Mrs Nutter was pale and bland – rather like her son, in fact – a thin, sharp-faced woman, active in local charities, who often appeared in the Malbry Examiner, promoting some good cause or other. Between them, I doubted that Charlie Nutter had much of a chance to get into trouble of any kind.
‘Does – your friend – know you’re talking to me?’
Johnny Harrington shook his head. From my vantage point I could see the pencil-straight parting in his hair.
‘Then what makes you think he’s in trouble?’ I said. ‘Has he told you so?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then what?’
I’ll admit that the fact that he’d come to me made me feel strangely paternal. Perhaps I’d judged the boy too fast; after all, he was new to the School – in fact, new to most schools – and he might have had trouble settling in. For the first time, I considered the possibility that my robust approach to pastoral care might not have been the best in his case.
I said: ‘While we may not see eye to eye on matters of English Literature, I hope you believe that whatever you say will be treated in confidence. I don’t go running to the Head when one of my boys comes to me for help. Now, what seems to be the problem?’
For once, I thought he struggled to find the right words to express himself. ‘Sir,’ he began. ‘I don’t – I mean—’
‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’
For a moment he looked away, keeping his hands very still in his lap. Then he raised his eyes to mine. ‘Do you believe in possession, sir?’
PART TWO
O mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter annos!
(VERGIL)
1
September 8th, 2005
Officially, the first day of term, when boys invade the premises. How much more efficient things would be if they did not; and yet, how dull.
‘Morning, sir!’ That was Allen-Jones, who always manages, even on the first morning of a new term, to look as if he has slept in his clothes. There was ink on his collar, and his tie was at half-mast. But that grin of his was unchanged; brash and curiously sweet.
‘Good morning, Mr Allen-Jones. From your studious demeanour, I take it you spent the summer holidays in useful toil, meditation and contemplation of the ablative absolute.’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said, flinging his schoolbag on to his desk. Last year’s Hello Kitty item has been replaced by one equally unsuitable; this year’s offering featuring the comic-book character Wonder Woman. This is, of course, against the rules, which clearly state that schoolbags should be plain, marked only with the School crest. In the case of Allen-Jones, the School crest, in the form of a sticker, has been placed provocatively in Wonder Woman’s ample cleavage. These small transgressions, I knew from experience, were entirely for effect, and, as always, I disappointingly failed to rise to the bait, but turned my attention instead to my new class register, delivered from the School office in a pristine paper folder.
I have kept last year’s 3S. Now they are 4S – a move designed to reassure, to provide continuity in these changing times. I find myself slightly unsettled – of course, one knows that boys can change, but after all these years I am still surprised to see how much they grow over the summer holidays. Last term they were still boys; this term, they have thickened and grown like young trees, pushing and jockeying for space.
Here are my jokers, my Brodie Boys: Allen-Jones, Sutcliff and McNair. Here’s Anderton-Pullitt, the odd little boy now showing the signs of the odd little man he will one day become. Here’s Jackson, the schoolyard scrapper, and Pink, the class philosopher. There’s Brasenose, a fat boy whose mother overfeeds him, and Niu, the Japanese boy, who defies every cultural stereotype by loving English Literature and hating Maths and Science.
There is one notable absence, of course. Colin Knight, whose name I crossed off the register in November of last year, but whose silent presence still endures, sullen as the boy himself. He alone has not thickened or grown: his face is still hairless, his voice unbroken. Not that he ever speaks to me; except sometimes in my darkest dreams. Some of the boys have had counselling following their schoolfriend’s death – not that Knight had many friends, but death is always upsetting to those who consider themselves immortal.
Even now, no one sits in Knight’s place – the left-hand corner desk at the back – though no one is really conscious of this, except for this old warhorse, of course, who remembers far more than is good for him.
I have a new class register now; neatly printed; unblemished. Even so, I find myself leaving a slight pause after Jerome, B – before going on to Knockton, J – a tiny, barely perceptible pause, just long enough, perhaps, for a Master to clear
his throat, or for a sullen boy at the back to say – Sir! – in that cold, bland voice.
It occurs to me now that Johnny Harrington was the boy Colin Knight would have wanted to be; cool and self-possessed and bold; unafraid of authority. Was that why I disliked Colin Knight? Because somehow he reminded me of little Johnny Harrington?
‘I’ve heard we’re getting girls this year,’ said Tayler, whose parents are both Governors, and who hears all the news before I do.
‘Is that true?’ said Allen-Jones.
‘It’s a merger with Mulberry House,’ said McNair.
‘Well, technically, not a merger,’ said Anderton-Pullitt in his ponderous tone. ‘Dr Harrington says it’s all about consolidation of resources.’
It seems that Harrington’s Crisis Team have taken a special interest in Anderton-Pullitt. Maybe because of what happened last year, when he was so nearly a casualty of the tragic events that claimed the life of Colin Knight. Or perhaps it is because this year, Anderton-Pullitt has been diagnosed as having ‘special needs’, which, his mother assures me, explains his eccentricities.
I’d always assumed that this was true of all my boys, but nowadays some are more special than others, it seems. I have already informed Mrs Anderton-Pullitt that, as long as her son continues to fulfil all my special requirements – such as prompt delivery of homework and full attention given in class – then I shall attempt to cater to his.
I have no great expectation of this, however. Anderton-Pullitt has been indulged far more than is good for him, and now that he has a Syndrome, I fully expect him to use it. I anticipate many meetings with Mrs Anderton-Pullitt, in which she attempts to persuade me that her son needs extra time in exams, exemption from Games (which he dislikes) and permission to ignore any homework that gets in the way of his interests. I sense a confrontation. And if the New Head has taken his side—
‘So, no Mulberry girls,’ said McNair.
‘Not for us,’ said Allen-Jones.
‘As if you’d care,’ said Pink.
He grinned. ‘This class is a fruit-free zone.’
Pink gave a snort of laughter. The rest of my Brodie Boys joined in. I thought there was an edge to the sound – something not quite familiar – and I caught Allen-Jones looking at me, just for a moment, obliquely, as if to gauge the level of my interest.
‘Do Mulberry girls count as fruit?’ said McNair.
‘Only if you’re making a pie,’ said Pink, and they were off again into a burst of that laughter that comes so easily to boys; the almost existential mirth that simply comes of being young. The feel of it; the rib-racking way it grabs you and shakes you breathless – I almost remember how that felt, in the days when I was fourteen. That feeling of something wound up tight, like a clockwork animal, springing into action somewhere within the region of the solar plexus and coming out as laughter. Nowadays that mechanism has become old and rusty. I rarely laugh aloud any more. And when I do, it sounds like the call of a lonely bird, ungainly and harsh.
What is it with me nowadays? I never used to be so sentimental. Perhaps it’s this Harrington business, coming back to haunt me. Damn it, why did he have to come here? There must be a hundred ‘failing schools’ in need of the touch of a Super-Head. Why here? Why St Oswald’s? Even allowing for the peculiar nostalgia of a man approaching middle age, his memories of the dear old place can hardly be the sweetest.
The bell rang, marking the start of the first lesson. The boys all left for their classes, some more efficiently than others. Anderton-Pullitt was the last to go, still rummaging in his desk even after most of my group (a first-form class) had already found their places.
I bit back a sharp reprimand. Anderton-Pullitt is always late, due to his inability to stop rearranging his schoolbooks. According to his personal file, this is an obsessive-compulsive disorder connected with his new syndrome, and must be treated with sympathy. I have my own opinions on this. But in the current climate, it’s best to keep those opinions to myself. Besides, the ghosts of pupils past were whispering to me today – and to such a degree that, turning to the blackboard again, for the first time in twenty-four years, I almost wrote merda, merdam instead of the usual mensa.
The knock at the door, when it came, took me completely by surprise. As a rule, St Oswald’s staff do not wander from form to form during lessons, nor does the Headmaster inflict surprise visits on his colleagues when they are attempting to teach the First Declension to twenty-four fidgety first-years.
‘Quid agis, Medice?’ I said, making a joke of my surprise.
Harrington came in, his smile like a rack of headlights. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Straitley,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to be sitting in on some classes over the next few weeks. I’m just a New Boy here, you know. I have to learn the ropes, and fast!’ This was addressed to my first-years, who obligingly shuffled and grinned.
Harrington found himself a seat – the left-hand corner, at the back. Knight’s old place. Of course. I should have expected it. But thirty-four years of St Oswald’s have given me a poker face. I managed a smile at Harrington.
‘Very well, young man,’ I said. ‘The subject is first-year Latin. Don’t think you’re getting an easy ride. Let’s see what you remember.’
2
Michaelmas Term, 1981
Dear Mousey,
Remember, remember, the Fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot. Funny, how we celebrate death. Even in Church, the pictures all seem to be about some kind of torture. Do you know what they did to Guy Fawkes? He jumped off the scaffold and broke his neck, cheating the audience of their show. They hanged and quartered him anyway, and put his severed head on a spike, as if he could never be dead enough. My dad says it’s barbaric. And yet, he’s fine with us going to Church, seeing Jesus nailed to a cross and St Stephen all full of arrows. I mean, what’s the difference? Dead is dead, and martyrdom is in the eye of the beholder. Jesus died so we might live. That sounds better than it is. Like paying for a new sofa in monthly instalments, only to find that by the time you’ve paid, the thing’s already worn out.
I once asked Miss McDonald why people had to die. She said: ‘To make room for babies who haven’t been born.’
Well, Mousey, I wasn’t convinced. Why did we need more babies? And if there were no more babies, then would I live forever?
Tonight was the bonfire in Malbry Park. They’d been building it since last week. By now it was a massive pile; hundreds of pallets, and firewood, and mattresses, and newspapers, and guys made of rags and old clothes stacked as tall as a building. Next to the bonfire, the fireworks were pretty uninspiring. I got as close to the fire as I could. The heart of it was bright orange and roaring like a lion. I wondered if that was what Hell was like. I got a toffee apple. Then Poodle got a bit sick with the smoke, and we had to move further away.
‘What d’you want to be so close for, anyway?’ said Goldie, whose face had gone red with the heat.
‘I wanted to know what it felt like,’ I said. ‘Standing at the gates of Hell.’
Goldie gave me a funny look.
‘You know, when they used to burn witches,’ I said. ‘They thought they were being kind to them. Getting them used to what was to come. You know, like endurance training.’
‘That’s sick,’ Poodle said.
‘I don’t know. It’s kind of cool.’
The thing is with Goldie and Poodle, they don’t always get me. We don’t really have much in common. Apart from being New Boys, of course. And apart from not having siblings. Still, it’s pretty cool sometimes to have someone to talk to in Church, and sit next to in lessons, and have a laugh with occasionally. It means that I fit in at last. I don’t attract attention. And that means there’s no trouble from Dad – a welcome change from Netherton Green.
When we got home, there was parkin, and ginger biscuits, and sandwiches, and Mr and Mrs Poodle and Mr and Mrs Goldie, all of them in their Church clothes, sitting in the lounge and discussing St Oswald’s. Mr P
oodle was saying how it was the best thing that had happened to his son in years, and all the others were nodding like dogs.
‘Not sure about the form-master, though. He doesn’t seem altogether sound.’
Sound. Oh, Mousey. That word again.
Goldie’s father nodded. ‘The Chaplain’s a sensible chap, though,’ he said. ‘And of course, there’s John Speight. If ever you need a sensible man to have a quiet word—’
Dad looked at me. ‘Yes. John Speight’s a marvel with the boys. Pity he doesn’t have a Middle School form. Who are the other Middle School form-masters?’
‘There’s Mr Straitley, Mr Scoones, and—’ Harry, I almost said. ‘Mr Clarke.’ I picked up a piece of parkin. I noticed that Poodle was looking at me kind of sideways. I smiled and went on: ‘Mr Speight’s cool. I wish he was my form-teacher.’
I could tell my dad was pleased. ‘Well, we can’t like everyone,’ he said. ‘That’s what school is for. To learn how to get on with people who don’t necessarily share our ideas.’
If only he knew. I gave Poodle a wink. Poodle looked uncomfortable. His eye began to twitch a bit.
‘Oh, Mr Straitley’s all right,’ I said. ‘As long as you’re one of his favourites. There’s a little group of them. They sit with him at lunchtimes.’
Dad frowned. ‘I’m not sure I approve. I’ve never thought masters should fraternize with pupils.’
‘Oh, we don’t get invited,’ I said. ‘We’re not special enough for him.’
I didn’t say anything more after that, but I could see the seeds had been sown. Just a few seeds, but with luck they may grow. These are the best years of our lives. We should be having fun. Right? So far, I’ve not had too much fun, except when I’ve been with Harry. But that could change. I hope it will. And Mr Straitley had better not get in the way. Because when people get in my way, bad things sometimes happen. Mr Straitley deserves a surprise. I deserve a little fun. And, as Harry said himself: there’s more to me than meets the eye.
Different Class Page 8
