Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  Harry called boys by their first names at a time when no one else did this; which, far from undermining discipline, seemed actually to enhance it. Harry believed individuals ought to be treated as such, and made an effort to know as much about the boys in his care as he could. Worse still, Harry encouraged those boys to see him as a human being; even inviting them to his house at weekends and after School. The reason Harry’s Laughing Gnome had remained an ongoing joke for so long was that every boy in Harry’s form was privy to it and part of the plan. That’s twenty-nine boys, each with a gnome, each one with instructions of military precision on when and where to position it next for maximum disruptive effect.

  Yes, it was ridiculous. Yes, it was juvenile. But when, on the last day of Michaelmas term, Devine came into his form to find twenty-nine gnomes sitting on desks in front of twenty-nine grinning boys, the mad surge of laughter that ensued was enough to lift the lid off the sky and allow the blaze of the sun to shine through.

  I heard it from my form-room; the Old Head from his office; and Harry Clarke, in the Bell Tower, gave his boyish, open grin. It had been a cold, dark term. But just then, for a moment, all the world was in sunlight.

  Once more I looked up at the mantelpiece. Harry’s last gift to me grinned back, the paint a little faded now, but the gleeful expression unchanged.

  Use it well, says Harry’s note. I mean to do him justice.

  3

  December 1981

  Dear Mousey,

  So what with the fuss about Poodle, I’ve had to put some of my plans on hold. Most of that’s due to my parents, who, on learning of his Condition, wanted to know exactly how close I was to Poodle, and what kind of things he’d said to me.

  Now they keep trying to introduce me to nice girls from Church (nice girls from Church, like Becky Price), in case being queer could be catching. I wish they’d stop. It’s embarrassing. What happened to Platonic love? Why does it always have to be about sex?

  And then there are the little talks: talks about friends, and girls, and school, and if anything’s ever happened to me at school that made me feel uncomfortable. I thought about saying: My teacher’s queer. He likes to put his hand on my leg and touch me through my trousers. That would make them both sit up. They might even believe me. They’d certainly take it to the Head, and to the Board of Governors, and even maybe to the police. But then they’d take me out of school, and I’d never see Harry again.

  I’ve thought about Harry a lot this week. I’ve ridden my new bike past his house. Once or twice, I’ve even stopped to have a look in at the windows. Harry has curtains, like everyone else, but they don’t quite meet in the middle. If you stand by the window, you can see inside. Harry’s got a Christmas tree all covered with stars and glass baubles. A proper one, not a tinsel job like my parents always have. And he has candles burning there; and a holly wreath on the door; and everything looks warm and safe, all lined with books and records.

  Yes, it looks safe in Harry’s house. Safe, and warm, and welcoming. The kind of place where you can go to talk about anything at all, and someone’s there to listen. I’d already been there so many times, always meaning to knock at his door. But somehow I’d always chickened out. I guess it’s a big step, Mousey.

  Today I went back, on my bike. This time, I was planning to knock. I’d brought Harry’s present with me – a special edition of Pink Floyd’s The Wall – and his Christmas card, of course. I knew they’d be late, but that was OK. At least he’d have them before New Year. And I’d get to see his face as he read the card, and maybe then, I’d tell him—

  It was cold. There was snow on the ground. I was wearing my duffel coat. Even so, I was freezing, and I could see my breath in the air like the ghosts of the people I’d been. I left my bike by Harry’s front gate and looked through that gap in the curtains. The fire was lit in the front room. I could see a pot of tea on a stool next to the fireplace. Two cups.

  I wondered who was there with him. He hasn’t got any family. He’s never mentioned a girlfriend. Perhaps a colleague from work, I thought – perhaps Mr Straitley, or even Scoones. I know they’re friends. I don’t know why. They don’t have a thing in common. Then the kitchen door opened, and two people came into the living room. One was Harry. The other was skinny, and curly-haired—

  Oh, Mousey. It was Poodle.

  For a moment I could hardly breathe. Poodle? What was he doing there? It wasn’t that I was jealous – not then – but simply astonished.

  Poodle?

  Poodle isn’t special, I thought. Poodle isn’t supposed to be here. And yet he was, in a V-necked jumper with a snowflake on the front, talking to Harry as if he had every right in the world. And then he turned towards the light from the starry Christmas tree, and there was a great big smile on his face, a smile I’d never seen before. It was like Harry had given him the best Christmas present of his life. And then he kissed him, Mousey. That little queer kissed Harry.

  When I was still at Netherton Green, there was a book: The Pied Piper. It was the story of a man with a magical gift for making people follow him. After saving the town of Hamelin from rats, when the greedy Mayor wouldn’t pay him his wage, he started to play a tune on his pipes and all the children followed him. They followed him right out of the town, and into the side of a mountain, where they vanished forever – except for one little lame boy, who couldn’t keep up and was left behind. Well, that’s what I felt like, Mousey; like the one that was left behind. And though I was angry at Poodle – oh, angry enough to do anything – I also felt angry with Mr Clarke, who had played me his music, and led me a dance, for whom I’d made such sacrifices – but who, in the end, had left me behind, because I wasn’t special enough.

  I watched for another few minutes or so. I wasn’t going to knock at the door. I guess I thought Harry would push him away, maybe simply throw him out. But Harry didn’t do that. Instead he let Poodle hold him, but keeping his own arms by his sides, and then, very gently, he stepped away, and poured them both a cup of tea from the brown pot by the fire.

  Mousey, I didn’t know what to do. Wasn’t Poodle meant to be ill? Had he been avoiding me? And what had he said to Harry? Had he mentioned the rabbits? The rats? The games down at the clay pits?

  The clay pits. The thought of them made me feel calmer, somehow. Perhaps it’s because I associate them with getting rid of bad feelings. Poodle was still drinking his tea, looking stupidly happy. I couldn’t just march in there, so I did the next best thing. He’d stolen from me, Mousey. The moment I’d been waiting for; the look on Harry’s face as he opened his present; the perfect day we would have had if stupid Poodle hadn’t been there – that’s what he’d stolen, Mousey. All I could do was pay him back. And I knew right then what to do.

  So I rode my bike down to the clay pits. I found Poodle’s den in the rusted-out car. And for thirty minutes or so, I went about building a bonfire. First, I took out Poodle’s books and ripped out all the pages. I stuffed his magazines inside the back of the car with some bits of wood and added some stacks of old comics. Then I used one of his cigarettes to set it alight, like a longship at a Viking funeral.

  It didn’t take long to start burning. But I wanted something more. Something bigger, to match the fire already burning in my heart. So I dragged some pallets across from the far side of the dump and made a wooden cage, in which I stuffed some cardboard, paper, rags – anything at all that would burn. Then I went around the dump, collecting empty cans of paint, petrol, turpentine, solvents, aerosols – things that would help the fire to take (and maybe explode like fireworks). Pretty soon it was getting hot; but I went on feeding it until it really was a funeral pyre, sending a column of thick black smoke high into the winter sky.

  Maybe it was the fumes, or the heat, but I think I zoned out a bit, Mousey. And next thing I knew, I wasn’t alone. Another boy was standing there. He was about my age, I guess. Maybe a little bit older. A boy from the estate, in a brightly coloured nylon jacket, like the Sunnyb
ankers wear. You’d never see a St Oswald’s boy wearing that kind of jacket, or a balaclava, or carrying a sports bag instead of a leather satchel. I knew then that he wasn’t One of Our Sort, but that was OK. I’m not, either.

  ‘All right?’ said the boy.

  His face was small and pinched, like a rat’s. He was quite a bit smaller than me. But he looked scrappy – like a rat – with greasy hair and beady eyes and a little wisp of something on his top lip that might have been the beginning of a moustache. He took out a tin of tobacco and rolled a skinny cigarette.

  ‘Here. Have one of mine,’ I said, handing him one from Poodle’s stash.

  Ratboy took one and put it behind his ear. Then he took another one and lit it from a match, cupping the flame in his bony hands, his face bright red in the firelight.

  ‘That your bonfire?’ Ratboy said.

  I nodded.

  ‘Wicked,’ said Ratboy. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Ziggy.’

  ‘Mine’s Lee. That your bike?’ I’d left it propped up against a rock down by the side of the Long Pond. I nodded. ‘Wicked,’ said Ratboy.

  We didn’t talk much after that. Just stood and smoked and watched Poodle’s stash go up in flames. Estate boys don’t talk much, as a rule. They play football, eat chips, smoke roll-ups. They say, All right? instead of Hello, or sometimes they just nod, or spit. There’s a whole language of spitting, there on the Sunnybank estate. It’s got its own grammar, and everything.

  And then, a few minutes later, Poodle came ambling along. He stopped ambling when he saw the smoke, though, arriving in a hurry. I saw him coming up the path below the ridge between the Long Pond and the Pit Shaft, and went to meet him, taking a route between the junked cars and rocks and ancient fridges. I didn’t want him to see me talking to Ratboy.

  I dodged around the back of a rock and came out behind him.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  I jerked my head to where Ratboy was standing, up on the ridge, fifty yards away. He looked bigger from where we were. The bonfire made him look dangerous.

  ‘Who is it?’ said Poodle.

  ‘Dunno. A Sunnybanker.’

  Poodle isn’t very good with Sunnybankers. He’s the kind of boy they like to wait for in the park, and bully for his lunch money. Up on the ridge, Ratboy didn’t look back, just kept on looking into the flames. The air smelt of burning rubber, and smoke, tobacco, charred paper and secrets.

  Poodle looked on helplessly. Of course he thought Ratboy had burnt his stash. I wished there’d been more for me to burn. I wished it could have been Poodle’s house. I wished it could have been Poodle.

  ‘You were at Mr Clarke’s,’ I said.

  Poodle looked at me, surprised. ‘He told me I could come any time. He’s helping me with my problem.’

  ‘Since when?’

  That anger again. Since when did Poodle call the shots? Has he not learnt anything? I started to think that he might be in need of another lesson. He cried like a baby when we did the rabbits, but that was ages ago.

  And yes: perhaps I needed it, too. It’s not my fault; my Condition means that sometimes I just do these things. And sometimes, yes; I go too far. But if God made me, which my dad and everyone else at Church seem to think – then I guess it’s God’s fault I’m this way. You can take it up with Him.

  Poodle was looking at Ratboy again. ‘Bastard Sunnybanker.’

  ‘We need to teach him a lesson,’ I said.

  I was looking at Ratboy too, but I was thinking of Poodle.

  Poodle looked at me doubtfully. ‘How?’

  I explained what we would do. The Pit Shaft wasn’t far away. If we could get him to come to the edge, to look into the water—

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘We’ll pull him out – eventually.’

  Poodle looked uncertain. ‘No way. Ziggy, he’ll kill us. He’s crazy.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘He’ll be soaking wet. Anyway, it’s two to one. He’ll know that he can’t mess with us, and he’ll never come here again.’

  Poodle bit his finger. ‘You’ll stay with me? You promise?’ he said.

  ‘Course I will. I promise.’

  ‘OK.’

  Still keeping his eyes on Ratboy, he started to move towards the pit. Ratboy didn’t turn round. The sound of the bonfire was still too loud.

  ‘Stand by the edge. Right there,’ I said. ‘Then we’ll call him over.’

  ‘What are we going to say?’

  I shrugged. ‘Say you saw a body in there. Pretend you can see it floating.’

  Poodle shivered.

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Look as if you’ve spotted it. Just a little further—’

  And that was what happened, Mousey. I honestly didn’t mean it to happen that way. Well, of course I meant it, but not the way it turned out. That was an accident. Not my fault. The best-laid plans of mice and men—

  Which brings us back to you, Mousey.

  4

  September 20th, 2005

  How do criminals manage their guilt? I arrived at St Oswald’s today fully expecting to find the police waiting for me in the Bell Tower, ready to accuse me of the theft of the Middle School Honours Boards. In fact, after a fitful night’s sleep, I had become so convinced of this that I had already prepared a short speech, to be delivered on the occasion of my arrest.

  Not that I felt guilty, no. But I was convinced that my countenance would reveal my crime, and so I was slightly taken aback to find not the police but Devine at my door, looking annoyed, and carrying a brightly coloured garden gnome.

  ‘Straitley, a word,’ he said.

  A few of my boys had already arrived and were reading, or talking among themselves. My Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones, Sutcliff, Tayler and McNair, were exuberantly discussing the weekend’s exploits, which seemed to have involved a great deal of song, and the wearing of several shades of sparkly nail varnish, the remnants of which still endured.

  ‘Do boys wear nail polish nowadays?’ I said when Allen-Jones pointed it out. My lackadaisical attitude to breaches of uniform protocol usually suits the boys perfectly, but in this case they were aiming to shock, which was precisely why I’d ignored them.

  ‘The girls wear varnish,’ said McNair. ‘If they can, then we can too. Otherwise it’s gender discrimination.’

  ‘Alas, the rules of the outside world have yet to make an impact here. If I were you, I’d take it off,’ I advised, without looking up from the pile of books I was marking.

  It was at this point that Devine arrived, holding the gnome and looking as dangerous as a man can look whilst holding a garden gnome. I have to admit, my mind had been so fixed on those Honours Boards that I’d almost forgotten Harry’s gift, and how I had deployed it . . .

  I stepped out into the corridor. ‘How can I help you, Devine?’ I enquired.

  ‘This,’ he said in a damning tone, ‘was on my porch on Sunday morning.’

  ‘Gnome, sweet gnome,’ I quipped – rather ill-advisedly, because Devine’s nose went alarmingly pink.

  ‘Well, of course I’m assuming that you put it there.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ I said. ‘And do you have any reason for this, or is it simply a question of Conlige suspectos semper habitos?’

  Dr Devine gave a kind of hiss. ‘There are no usual suspects,’ he said. ‘Only you, Straitley, would find this amusing. Besides,’ he went on, ‘I hear Harry Clarke left you some of his effects.’

  I nodded. ‘You heard correctly.’

  For a moment Devine peered at me through narrowed eyes. ‘The Chaplain also tells me you’ve been talking about a memorial.’

  Once more I nodded.

  He gave a sigh. ‘That isn’t going to happen,’ he said. ‘You, of all people, should understand why.’

  I said: ‘He should be remembered.’

  ‘He is remembered,’ said Devine. ‘Isn’t that the problem?’ He handed me the garden gnome. ‘Let the past be the past,’ he said, in a rather gentler tone. �
��I know how you felt about Harry Clarke.’

  ‘No, I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘And I know you weren’t exactly friends. But Harry was part of St Oswald’s, just as much as you or I. Whatever else you thought of him, he still deserves a memorial.’

  Devine shrugged. ‘It can’t be done. Not under the current Head. Or indeed, under any Head—’

  I looked at him. ‘It isn’t right. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘I don’t! And even if I did—’ He stopped. That legendary self-control was on the verge of breaking. I am not fooled by his chilly façade. I know Dr Devine as well as anybody knows him. He is driven by ambition, not love. The gods of progress have claimed him, of course, but his heart is as sound as the Bell Tower. When that business erupted last year, I saw his confidence falter. I know how close he came that term to breaking down completely. We all have our comforts, our touchstones. Mine is tradition – the Honours Boards, the photographs, the scent of books and chalk dust. His are somewhat different: Health & Safety; e-mail; Information Technology. He thinks that if he stays abreast of all the current developments, then he will never have to grow old, retire or claim his pension.

  Though it annoys me, I understand. Both of us share the unspoken fear of a life beyond St Oswald’s; a life without the discipline of lesson bells or timetables; no Quiet Room; no marking; no Prep; no weekends or holidays. St Oswald’s Masters do not live long past retirement. Captivity sustains us; too much freedom eats us alive. Devine has no more love for Johnny Harrington than I, and yet he will follow him to the grave, not from loyalty, but fear.