Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  The thing is, no parent can possibly have the objectivity of a Master. No parent really believes, deep down, that their son could be a liar; a bully; a cheat; a thief – or worse still, just an average boy, unexceptional in every way. Masters know the truth, of course. Few boys are exceptional. All boys are lazy. All boys lie. And parents, however progressive or realistic in theory, have a ridiculous blind spot where their particular boy is concerned, making them unreliable at best, and at worst, a downright liability.

  ‘Lack of progress?’ I said. ‘I don’t think that’s entirely—’

  ‘With respect, Mr Straitley. You’ve known my son for less than a term. I have known him for fourteen years. And I know when he is not working to his full capacity.’

  I gave an inward sigh. Oh, gods. An educator. Some parents are not content to let a mere Master teach their son. They have to teach him by proxy, poking a thumb into every pie, making themselves unbearable, proffering opinions on all subjects, from PE to School dinners. I suppose I should have expected this; the fact that the parents had home-schooled the boy should have warned me that they were not yet ready to relinquish control over their son’s education.

  ‘Johnny’s very bright,’ I said. ‘Well above the class average. Top marks in Latin. Top marks in Maths. He can’t be top in everything.’

  Mrs Harrington waved aside her son’s achievements in Latin and Maths.

  ‘We’re quite aware of how bright he is,’ she told me. ‘But, as you already know, he’s finding it hard to fit in here. He isn’t used to being in such a large school environment, and, of course, he’s extremely sensitive.’

  Sensitive. Now there’s a word that strikes unease into a Master’s heart. Parents and psychologists use it when combating instances of inappropriate behaviour, where it acts as a get-out-of-jail-free card whenever the boy in question feels the need to assert his personality.

  ‘But Johnny has been to school before,’ I said. ‘Two years in a junior school. Did he have the same problems there?’

  I saw Mrs Harrington’s face twitch. ‘That place wasn’t good for him,’ she said. ‘Too many negative influences. That’s why we sent him here, Mr Straitley. A good, traditional boys’ school. We thought that would make things easier.’

  ‘What kind of negative influences do you mean?’ I was curious. The file I had on young Harrington from his previous school contained nothing untoward. Certainly, nothing to suggest that he had left under a cloud, or that any kind of incident was connected with his departure.

  Mrs Harrington twitched again. Her husband put a hand on hers. She dropped her gaze immediately.

  ‘We feel that most schools in this country try to sexualize children far too early,’ said Dr Harrington. ‘We’d rather see our son brought up with unambiguous moral values, rather than being led to believe that immorality is a choice, or that foul language, or references to sodomy or fornication are acceptable because they occur in so-called “literature” rather than the real world.’

  I gave another inward sigh. ‘I see. This is about Johnny’s English exam.’

  Dr Harrington nodded. ‘In part. When a boy is given trash to read, he becomes lazy and indolent. Before long, he starts to believe that learning doesn’t matter, or that hard work can be faked, or that his elders can be mocked—’

  I sensed the approach of a sermon. ‘I’m afraid the School curriculum can’t be altered just for one boy. I’m sure Johnny’s faith is strong enough to withstand a bit of Chaucer.’

  ‘It isn’t just a question of faith,’ said Dr Harrington crisply. ‘It’s a question of innocence. Our son is an innocent. It’s your job to see that he stays that way. As for the curriculum, we’ve arranged for Johnny to be moved out of Mr Fabricant’s group. We think a sound teacher and a different reading list would solve most of his problems.’

  ‘Well,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would. But don’t you think—’

  ‘We’ve taken advice from Mr Speight, who happens to be a member of our church. He fully supports our decision. In fact, he believes that it should be up to the parents to decide which books are suitable for their sons to study. And I, for one, don’t think that Mr Fabricant, with his predilection for French pornography, is fit to choose the syllabus.’

  French pornography? ‘You mean his book on the Marquis de Sade.’

  ‘Absolutely. And I mean to speak to the Headmaster about this. Parents have a right to know if a pervert is teaching their sons.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call Mr Fabricant a pervert,’ I protested.

  ‘Then what exactly would you call a man who makes a celebration of filth, and writes books encouraging young people to treat it as literature?’

  I steered the discussion back to less difficult waters. Of course, Johnny Harrington’s parents had a right to their beliefs, but as far as education is concerned, I’ve always believed that religion, like politics, is something best left at the School gates.

  ‘English aside, how does Johnny feel about the way he’s settling in? It’s sometimes hard for a seventh-term boy to make friends as quickly as the rest. But he does have a couple of good friends. Charlie Nutter, for instance—’

  ‘That’s not a connection we’re keen to encourage,’ interrupted Dr Harrington.

  ‘Really? Why?’

  There was a pause. They looked at each other.

  ‘Charlie Nutter is a troubled young man,’ said Mrs Harrington at last. ‘Much as we sympathize, we don’t think Johnny should be spending too much time with him. He has—’

  ‘Demons?’ I suggested, and smiled.

  ‘Quite,’ said Mrs Harrington.

  4

  September 16th, 2005

  Ira furor brevis est. Rage is a brief insanity. My anger over the Head’s refusal to allow Harry’s memorial service had not cooled overnight, but it had become a little more cautious. Thus this morning I arrived at Harrington’s office at seven fifteen, to find him already in there, pouring a cup of coffee from the espresso machine in the corner and looking fresh and guileless.

  Some men do not change very much from the teenage boy they used to be. Harrington has grown, of course, but the essentials remain the same. The smooth, blond hair; good skin; the suit that might have come from a fashion magazine. I caught the briefest glimpse of his unguarded expression before the politician’s smile appeared, stretching over his features like a cartoon mask.

  ‘Mr Straitley! Please, come in.’

  That was disingenuous. His deliberate use of my surname – inviting me to ask him to call me Roy, or seem churlish in not doing so – the smug, proprietary way in which he gestured towards the chair positioned in front of the Headmaster’s desk – the blotter still scarred by repeated explosions from Shitter Shakeshafte’s torpedo pen – oh, he was a politician all right; smarter than most politicians, double-dipped in a toxic brew of arrogance and sanctity.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to come in so early,’ he said. ‘There are so many things to do. Good thing I need so little sleep.’

  He poured me a cup of coffee in the Head’s own china. ‘I’d be lost without my espressos,’ he said. ‘Beats the staffroom brew any day.’

  He waited for me to take it. Finally, I did. It would have been foolish not to; but the thought that he had manipulated me, even in such a small way as to accept an unsolicited cup of coffee, was enough to make my heart notch up, and the invisible finger prodded me admonishingly.

  I sat in the chair in front of the desk. ‘You should call me Roy,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me I intimidate you, after all these years.’

  He smiled. ‘Is anyone ever really at ease calling an old schoolmaster by his Christian name? But I was never shy of you. I always respected you very much.’

  Really. How utterly warming, I thought.

  ‘That’s why I wanted to see you today, even though I know what you want, and you know why I can’t give it to you.’

  I sipped my espresso. It was too strong, and would have me running to the bathroom all morning. At
my age, these things matter; besides my legs are not as spry as they were twenty-four years ago. A bathroom visit takes planning and time.

  I wondered who had warned him. The Chaplain? Devine? Ms Buckfast? Or maybe even Eric, still trying to curry favour with a management that has long since ceased to think of him as management material?

  ‘I had no idea I was so predictable,’ I said. ‘Or indeed, so prescient.’

  He smiled again. ‘Oh, Roy,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how sorry I am. But at this stage, to hold any kind of memorial for Harry Clarke, or even to mention that business in connection with the School, would mean the worst kind of publicity. All schools have their scandals, of course, but the nature of the Clarke affair makes it all the more urgent for us to keep the story away from the press. It’s not a personal grievance, you know. It’s for the good of St Oswald’s.’

  For the good of St Oswald’s. I suppose he thought that would move me. After all, St Oswald’s has been my life. I am as firmly attached to the place as the gargoyles on the Chapel roof, and, like the gargoyles, I am trained to divert the foul water of scandal away from our saints and effigies.

  ‘There was no proof,’ I told him. ‘The boy was obviously disturbed.’

  Harrington looked at me closely and with unsettling sympathy. ‘Roy, I’m getting the sense that somehow you hold yourself to blame.’

  ‘I don’t blame myself,’ I said, rather more sharply than I’d intended. The invisible finger prodded and sought the soft spot under my breastbone. ‘I don’t blame anyone but—’

  You. I almost said it aloud. You. You’re the one I’ve always blamed. You, with your little attaché case, and your pair of sycophants. As if God cares who a man loves, just as long as he can love—

  Harrington was still looking at me. ‘It was a very difficult time,’ he said, with that look of compassion. ‘What happened that year marked us all. Did you ever have any counselling? I did, and it helped me. I know you’re not a man of faith, but Survivors helped me enormously.’

  I said: ‘I don’t need counselling.’

  ‘But you are concerned about closure.’

  Closure. What a loathsome word, with its transatlantic affectation of sympathy and psychobabble. No, I am not concerned about closure, you hypocrite, but about justice. What happened to Harry was unjust: and as we grow old, and our memories blur and shift and recede with time, injustice is the one that stays most poignant, most persistent. Injustice outlives a broken limb; the death of a parent; a heart attack. Injustice is the tiny shard of something broken in the soul that can never be mended.

  ‘Well, if it helps,’ said Harrington, ‘the Chaplain gave me this for you.’

  And from under his desk, he brought out a cardboard box – one of those boxes that used to contain half a dozen reams of paper – before the days of the paper-free office and the ubiquitous e-mail. It was sealed with parcel tape, and felt surprisingly light in my hands. I’d expected something heavier.

  ‘You know what it is?’ said Harrington.

  I nodded. ‘Yes. I think I know.’

  ‘Well, it’s all yours,’ said Harrington. ‘I hope it gives you peace of mind. And – speaking of which – Rupert Gunderson.’

  ‘Gunderson?’ I’d been so lost in the past that I’d almost forgotten him. ‘Listen, the boy’s a bully. I dealt with the situation. And it’s hardly my fault if the parents think—’

  Harrington looked pained. ‘Roy, please. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Gunderson has some serious emotional problems. In fact, Marcus Blakely’s been looking into his case.’

  I made the Old Head’s favourite sound. Oof. From what I’d seen so far of Dr Blakely, the boys would run circles around him.

  ‘I’ll thank Dr Blakely to leave it to me where any of my boys are concerned.’

  He sighed. ‘I appreciate your feelings, Roy, but it looks as if in this case, young Allen-Jones may be mostly to blame.’

  ‘What, for being bullied?’

  He shook his head. ‘I think we should both leave this to Marcus. It’s what he’s best at, and besides, you and I both know how easy it is to let a personal preference get in the way of the facts of a case. Marcus is new. He doesn’t have any – preconceptions.’

  Preconceptions? Personal preference? Was he accusing me of favouritism?

  Ira furor brevis est. If I’d had the chance to reply, I might have ended my career. And maybe Harrington knew that, because when Danielle came in with the news that the Chairman of Governors was on the phone and needed a word, I saw a look come over his face – just for a second, but it was there: the look of a cat disturbed with its prey – and I wondered if he’d been trying to make me rise to the bait, to push me into an argument that could only end in my resignation—

  Then the look was gone; in its place, a wry smile and a shrug.

  ‘Sorry, Roy. Have to go. We’ll talk about this another time.’ He indicated the cardboard box. ‘Don’t forget your legacy.’

  I left the office, box in hand. Danielle was back at the front desk. I like Danielle; in spite of her big hair and hoop earrings and unquenchable enthusiasm for television reality shows, her instincts are generally good. I was certain that, at another time, she would have fielded the call from the Chairman of Governors and left the Head and Yours Truly to finish their conversation. I owed her something, I told myself.

  She shot me a sympathetic smile. ‘Everything all right?’

  I shrugged. ‘All the better for seeing you. You must have come in very early.’

  I thought she coloured a little. ‘Well, the Head starts early,’ she said. ‘And, of course, I work flexible hours.’

  ‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ I told her, making it sound like a joke.

  She laughed. ‘None of you deserve me,’ she said. ‘Now how about a cup of tea?’

  It was a long, long day today. Domestic matters; marking books; an altercation between two boys. I was on duty all lunchtime, opposite Devine in the yard, and then I was teaching all afternoon. I didn’t have the chance to open Harry’s box until I got home; at which point I was almost reluctant to look inside.

  I left it on the hall table as I went to make myself a snack: I hadn’t had time for lunch, and so had been forced to compensate by eating biscuits between lessons – against my doctor’s advice, but how does he expect me to plan sensible meals when there’s always so much to be done?

  I poured myself a glass of wine and made myself a Welsh rarebit. Wholegrain mustard and cheddar cheese on a fat brown doorstep of granary bread. Here again, the upstart who calls himself my doctor would have had more than a few things to say, but how can you take the advice of a boy who, only a few years ago, was incapable of distinguishing a present from a past participle?

  I poured myself another glass. A man has to unwind somehow. I finished the rarebit and opened the box, still feeling vaguely apprehensive.

  Is this all it comes to? Is this a man’s life? A ceramic urn of the plainest kind, the lid secured with masking tape. Some photographs in an envelope; some newspaper clippings; a vinyl record. Some letters, bound with a rubber band. Old St Oswald’s diaries – over a dozen of them, the kind in which Harry used to write his classroom notes. An assortment of smaller objects that must have meant something to him once – a watch; a ring; a paperweight; a medal; cufflinks; a penknife. The flotsam and jetsam of a life – and then, a parcel, tied with string, and carefully labelled with the words:

  To Roy Straitley:

  Use it well.

  I took the parcel out of the box. Narrow at one end, thicker at the other, it seemed about the same shape as a wine bottle, though weighing rather less. I poured myself another drink. I tore off the wrapping paper. And then I took out the object and put it on the mantelpiece next to my clock and the plastic urn and the photographs of my parents. It looks a little strange there – perhaps a little sinister. Still, no one is likely to see it – at least, not until I put it to use.

  Then I raised my g
lass again, and I made a promise to Harry. It wasn’t the kind of promise you break, even though no one was listening. Then I reached back inside the box and took out the record he’d left me, and put it on my turntable and played David Bowie’s ‘The Laughing Gnome’.

  And then, all alone, in my empty house at eight o’clock in the evening, I finally began to laugh. I’m not the kind of man who tends to laugh aloud much nowadays, but tonight I did, and heartily; and I drank a toast to Harry Clarke, that joker, that innocent, that friend, who, in spite of everything, had never lost heart, or given up hope, or ever stopped looking at the stars.

  5

  Michaelmas Term, 1981

  Dear Mousey,

  Those rabbits were a mistake. They attracted too much attention. But what can I say? I was having fun. Besides, catching rats takes time. We needed something meatier.

  At first I thought Ratty had done the trick. But Goldie and I could both see that Poodle still wasn’t cured. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse. The magazines. The nightmares. The scars. We needed a better solution. Besides, I had my own problems. The rabbits helped with that, too. Poodle cried, but Goldie – well, he’s almost as good as you, Mousey, when it comes to the dirty. And he’s good at saying the words, just like his dad and Mr Speight.

  Of course, he believes in all that stuff. Angels and demons and Heaven and Hell. Plus, like his dad and Mr Speight, he thinks being queer is a mortal sin. I think they make too big a deal. I mean, it’s hardly life and death. But that’s what he’s like, Mousey. Shiny and clean on the outside, but crawling inside with nasty thoughts. Well, can’t blame him for that, I guess. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder why they don’t see what I am. Most people are pretty stupid, though. I guess you just have to expect that.