Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  Devine sniffed. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘No, you’re ridiculous, Devine. You always were, but this is beyond farcical. And frankly, watching you try to compete with a man half your age makes me queasy.’

  He looked indignant. ‘Compete?’ he said. ‘Straitley, I have nothing to prove.’

  Of course, he’s deluded, poor Devine. The man has no sense of proportion. His feelings of inadequacy towards the younger Markowicz have completely addled what little common sense he had. The genocide of the Bell Tower mice; the removal of the Honours Boards; the crackdown on litter; the endless Health & Safety reports, and now, visitors’ badges for staff—

  ‘Oh, please,’ I told him. ‘You’re this far from matching outfits.’ I held out my index finger and thumb about a millimetre apart.

  Devine’s nose went slightly pink, but he maintained his dignity. ‘I know you’re under stress,’ he said. ‘But there’s really no need to be puerile. Some of us have a purpose, Roy. Some of us are not stuck in the past. Some of us still have ambitions beyond the playing of silly practical jokes.’

  ‘This is no joke, it’s a tragedy,’ I said, and walked out of the Common Room, only to meet Eric Scoones coming in with a garden gnome under his arm.

  ‘Did you put this in my locker?’ he said.

  I’ve known Eric sixty years, of course, which means that I know every wrinkle and crease. I know when he is lying, when he is feeling insecure and, most of all, when he is feeling guilty. And guilt was in his face then – as well it might be, given the circumstances. A joke, but all the same, I suspect it gave old Eric a nasty shock, much of the kind that Billy Bones received from Blind Pew at the Admiral Benbow.

  I assumed a Sphinx-like expression.

  ‘Don’t pretend it wasn’t, Straits. I know it was you. And I’m not amused.’

  I turned and gave him my most quizzical stare, the one I reserve for first-form boys trying to persuade me that Rover has eaten their Latin book, or that they are allergic to Prep. ‘Why would I put a garden gnome in your locker, Eric?’ I said.

  He stepped back into the corridor and pulled the Common Room door closed. ‘Because you’re vindictive, that’s why,’ he said, sounding almost plaintive now. ‘Because you’ll never let me forget that awful business with Harry Clarke. Do you think it was easy for me?’

  ‘Easier than for Harry,’ I said.

  ‘Harry was an idiot.’ The plaintive expression hardened. ‘Fraternizing with the boys – what did he think would happen, eh? Everyone knows you don’t bring boys home. Especially not when you’re – you know.’ His voice, already low, now dropped to a baleful hiss. ‘No one sane runs that kind of risk. We all know what it leads to. Who knows what really happened? But no schoolmaster worth his salt would have put himself in the firing line.’

  The invisible finger plucked at my ribs. I felt myself getting angry. ‘So you’re just fine with what happened, then? You think Harry deserved it?’

  Eric took on a stubborn look. ‘That’s not what I’m saying. I just think that you should let it go, that’s all. I mean, Harry’s gone now. It’s over. There’s no point in the both of us being tarred by association.’

  ‘No chance of that with you, eh?’ My voice was sharp, and Eric flinched. Of course, he knew what I meant by that; he’d left St Oswald’s for eight years, right after the Nutter affair, to teach at King Henry’s Grammar School, where he’d tried for promotion several times without success, before at last admitting defeat and coming home to St Oswald’s.

  The fact is that King Henry’s School is Oxbridge to the battlements, and Scoones, with his degree from Leeds, was neither polished, nor subtle, nor young enough, nor impressive enough to hope for anything more than a Junior Master’s post and the chance to run the French Exchange. Most days we make a joke of this, but Eric’s defection still rankles; especially for what it meant to Harry, when the time came for his friends to rally round.

  Eric handed me the gnome, which seemed to have been laughing throughout. ‘I’m guessing this is yours,’ he said. ‘I never want to see it again.’ Then, without another word, he went on his way to the Bell Tower, slouching a little, as if still burdened with something too heavy to carry upright.

  I went back to my form-room feeling unexpectedly depressed. I put the gnome on my bookcase, where it continued to laugh at me throughout the day. Sixth-Form Ovid came and went, without the girl Benedicta, who seemed to be missing this morning; then fourth-form Latin, and then on to lunch, where my Brodie Boys seemed distant, almost secretive, and then a long afternoon that dragged on like the tail of a particularly slow and bedraggled bird – a pheasant, perhaps – as the day grew darker and wetter. Devine, too, came and went, with Jimmy, bringing traps to poison the mice. During my free period, Markowicz allowed his class to make so much noise that I could barely concentrate enough to read the paper.

  By the end of School I was feeling tired and discouraged. I looked at the gnome, still watching me with an air of jaunty dissipation, and felt ridiculous. Eric was right, I told myself. I’m wasting my time. And for what? That business is over. Harrington is untouchable. So far, Winter’s ‘research’ has given me nothing I do not know. And as for shaming Devine or Eric into joining my campaign – how could I ever have thought that would work?

  The girl Benedicta was waiting for me outside the Common Room after School.

  ‘Sorry I wasn’t in Latin today,’ she said. ‘I was in the Library.’

  ‘Really?’ I was curious. St Oswald’s Library is hardly the obvious place for truancy. ‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes.’ The girl was nothing if not forthright. ‘It’s Allen-Jones,’ she told me. ‘He’s being bullied for being gay.’

  I felt the old heart sink a little. ‘Rupert Gunderson again?’

  She gave me a look designed to convey the full extent of my incompetence. ‘He isn’t the problem,’ she said. ‘It’s the Head; Dr Blakely; the Chaplain; pretty much all of the Games staff – basically, St Oswald’s, sir. It’s a toxic environment.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘What happened?’

  ‘They’ve been making him talk to the Chaplain,’ said Ben. ‘Telling him he isn’t gay, but that he’s reacting inappropriately to undue influence, or something. As if you could choose to be gay or not. As if it’s a fad, like Pokémon.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, never mind.’ The girl Benedicta waved aside my pitiful ignorance and went on: ‘The point is, sir, that they’re talking as if being gay’s his choice, or even his fault. Like they caught him smoking, or taking drugs. Like it’s a phase. It isn’t fair. You have to stop it, sir.’

  I nodded. Yes, of course I must. But it isn’t as simple as she appears to think. Her trust in me is commendable, but I am a single old King on the chessboard, surrounded by Queens and Bishops.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I promised her. Then, as a sudden thought crossed my mind: ‘You’re taking this very much to heart. Is it – I mean—?’

  She looked at me with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. It struck me that in ten years’ time, she would make a natural school-mistress; a trainee Dragon of a calibre to which Miss Smiley and Miss Malone could only ever dream to aspire.

  ‘Well, of course I am,’ she said. ‘Can’t you tell?’

  I admitted that I hadn’t had a great deal of exposure.

  ‘Will it make a difference?’ she said.

  ‘Not in the least,’ I told her. It struck me that, from having lived in (almost) total ignorance of the world of what she and Allen-Jones would undoubtedly term the ‘sexually diverse’, I was now apparently surrounded by them.

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ I told her.

  She looked relieved. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Of course, she is still young enough to have confidence in her elders. But frankly, I found my heart sinking as I considered what to do. A King, alone, has little power. He relies on the other pieces to act, dictating strategy fro
m afar. But what pieces do I have? Only Winter; a single pawn, who may perhaps one day graduate to something a little more weighty.

  I tried Dr Burke. But the Chaplain was vague, even beyond his usual level of vagueness, speaking of ‘changing policies’ as he misted his orchids, while refusing to meet my eye. I suspect the Head has got to him. But what is Harrington trying to do? I do not think for a moment that this is just about Allen-Jones. He is merely one of the pawns. I am the primary target. And though I cannot see the shape of the trap that the Head is preparing, I know it’s just a matter of time before it finally closes on me . . .

  9

  October 7th, 2005

  Today, the theft of the Honours Boards was finally announced in the Common Room. I was conscious of Devine watching me as Dr Blakely made the announcement, calling it a ‘despicable crime’, and urging us to be vigilant in our search for the culprit. His implication was that someone in School must have been privy to the theft, possibly a pupil, and that the boards would probably turn up in a local lumber yard or garage sale. Alternatively, opined Dr Blakely, the theft may have been intended as a prank of some kind – here I felt Eric’s eyes on me – in which case, it was likely that they would turn up sooner, rather than later.

  Sooner, rather than later, repeated Dr Blakely, with a sinister emphasis, and once more I felt Eric’s eyes shift – oh, so briefly – towards me. Devine said nothing – in fact, Devine might have been stone – and I found myself feeling grateful for my colleague’s Teutonic composure. Eric could never keep a secret, not even when we were boys, and if I give him the tiniest hint, my crime will be public property before you can say Carpe diem. I see that I’m going to have to be very careful around Eric, at least until the Honours Boards are safely hidden somewhere else. It shouldn’t be too difficult. That garden gnome still rankles, and he barely says a word to me.

  After morning Break, I was called into the Headmaster’s office. Thing One and Thing Two were both there, as was the Chaplain. Thing One – Dr Blakely – was looking rather smug, I thought, and the Chaplain slightly put out, which I thought boded ill for me. Ms Buckfast was sitting by the window, in a linen dress that managed to be at the same time demure and obscurely provocative, her red hair caught into a loose bun. My immediate thought was: This is it: they’ve found me out. But if so, why was the Chaplain there?

  ‘Roy,’ said the Head. ‘We’ve had a complaint.’

  For a moment I was back there, in Shitter Shakeshafte’s office, the smell of old leather and cheese as strong as if it were only yesterday. It was a surreal feeling, that of being flung backwards in time, to find myself as an old man summoned before the boy who was.

  ‘Let me guess. Rupert Gunderson.’

  ‘Almost,’ said Harrington. His expression was serious, and yet I could see him smiling. ‘Rupert Gunderson’s girlfriend. Her name is Chanelle Goodman. I believe you’re teaching her Latin group.’

  I was taken slightly aback. Then I remembered the Goodman girl, one of my Sixth Form from Mulberry House. A clone of her Headmistress, trailing clouds of hairspray, with a tendency to sit at the back and giggle at the rude words. I remember wondering why she had chosen to study Latin, as she seemed to have so little interest in either the language or literature. But why would she have made a complaint? And about whom?

  ‘Apparently, you’ve been studying Vergil’s Aeneid IX,’ said the Head. ‘More specifically, the tale of Nisus and Euryalus.’

  I was puzzled. ‘And?’ I said.

  ‘The girl claims that you, Mr Straitley, were using the text as a manifesto for what I believe the ancient Greeks referred to as Paiderastia; a distasteful cultural phenomenon in which young men – minors, I believe – were known to indulge in erotic relationships with older men. Quite an inappropriate topic for a Latin lesson, I would have thought.’

  I was completely dumbfounded. ‘Is that what she told you?’ I said. ‘I mean, I may have touched upon the subject – this is Classics, Headmaster – but that’s hardly the same thing as using the text as a manifesto—’

  The Head gave me a sympathetic look. ‘I know, Roy. But this is 2005. We have a responsibility. We have to be very careful about the kinds of message we give out. And after that business with Allen-Jones—’

  ‘Being beaten up is a business now? Are you saying I encouraged him?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything,’ said the Head. ‘But boys, as you know, are susceptible to all kinds of influence. If, consciously or otherwise, a respected Master allows, or even seems to approve, a practice that society has deemed reprehensible . . .’

  ‘Now wait a minute, Headmaster,’ I said. I could feel the invisible finger pressing against my sternum. Beneath it, I was all rage. ‘If any allegation has been made against me by Miss Goodman – with or without the collusion of her boyfriend – I think I’m entitled to hear it, and to have representation.’

  The words sounded odd coming from my throat. In all my years of teaching, I’ve never asked for Union help. Partly because Dr Devine happens to be my Union representative, but mostly because I’ve felt able to deal with my problems myself. Of course, in the old days I could always rely on the Head to support me (in public, at least). Now I strongly suspect that the Head is cheering on the lynch mob.

  Harrington smiled. ‘Do you think so? Well, perhaps it’s for the best. I’ll ask Danielle to arrange a time for all of us to meet again. Until then—’ That smile again. ‘Chanelle’s parents have asked that she be withdrawn from Latin lessons until the matter is correctly resolved. She’s a very sensitive, spiritual girl, and easily triggered.’

  ‘Triggered?’ I said.

  Dr Blakely intervened. ‘Some references tend to upset her. Apparently both she and Rupert Gunderson find your championing of – certain sexual practices – distasteful and upsetting.’

  I snapped: ‘Well, I find Gunderson’s bullying of one of my boys equally distasteful. From what I hear, Allen-Jones—’

  Dr Blakely smiled. ‘I think that may be a discussion we have to keep for another day. For the moment, let’s reconvene – let’s say as soon as possible, John?’

  Harrington nodded. ‘I’ll make a date.’

  And at those words, a Century of duty and teaching were dismissed – by an upstart in a shiny suit and his pair of lackeys. The Chaplain had the grace to look awkward, and tried to catch me as I went out, but I was far too angry (and beneath that, too afraid) to deliver more than a curt Goodbye. I went through the business of today like an automaton; smiling; talking to the boys; taking tea in the Common Room. But there was a bleakness inside me.

  This is how it begins, I thought. Just as it did twenty years ago, a Juggernaut fuelled by rumours and spite, crushing good men beneath its wheels. Just as it did with all of us. Just as it did with Harry Clarke.

  10

  October 14th, 2005

  The golden lion of autumn is unusually subdued this year. Head tucked quietly over his paws, like a bronze statue over a grave. The dead walk in October; and not just on All Hallows’ Eve. Even the boys are oddly subdued. They sense the coming of winter. I sense it too, deep in my bones, just as I knew instinctively, when Colin Knight went missing last year, that I would never see him again—

  Colin Knight. That wretched boy. I thought perhaps I’d put him to rest. But as Hallowe’en approaches, I find myself remembering the dead. Colin Knight. Harry Clarke. Even Lee Bagshot – although he was not one of ours – perhaps even because of that.

  With the passing of time, I find that the concept of belonging becomes less and less easy to believe in. I once belonged to St Oswald’s. I was a part of it, heart and soul. Now I am in the shadows, contemplating the darkness. Harry, too: now, even in death, he is a pariah. Our sense of belonging is nothing more than bright reflections on water; on a sunny day, we can see the sky; the clouds; each other. But dark water lies in waiting for the unwary; for us all. Dark water doesn’t discriminate.

  My hearing with the New Head has been confirmed for next
Monday. I already know what it will bring. The presence of my Union representative (Dr Devine in person) suggests that I shall receive a written warning, pending further enquiries. Ms Buckfast is already collecting ammunition – she thinks I don’t know about this, but I do. The trace of her scent between lessons betrays her visits to room 59; besides which, my Brodie Boys see everything, and report to me accordingly.

  This was why I was unsurprised, returning to room 59 after my usual cup of tea after School in the Common Room, to find La Buckfast herself at my desk, reading a book of Latin verse.

  ‘You’re looking a little tired,’ she said.

  ‘Really? I’ve never been better.’

  Ms Buckfast put down the Latin book. ‘I was hoping we might have a chat.’

  I did not reply immediately, but instead went to my desk drawer and found a bag of Liquorice Allsorts. I offered her one. She took a pink coconut ice. Funny. I hadn’t thought of her until then as a pink person.

  ‘So, what is it today?’ I said. ‘Boys not co-operating? Some complaint about irregular verbs? School mash not lumpy enough? Or just another pep talk on the inevitability of Progress?’

  La Buckfast smiled. It occurred to me once again that Ms Buckfast reminds me of our erstwhile Miss Dare. Beneath all that professional veneer, there’s something else in hiding.

  ‘Benedicta Wild,’ she said.

  ‘Ben, to her friends.’ My heart sank. ‘You’re not telling me she’s made a complaint, are you?’

  That smile again. ‘No, Roy, she hasn’t. But the Headmistress, Miss Lambert, feels she’s spending rather too much time with you and – what do you call them? Your Brodie Boys?’

  ‘I work in my room at lunchtimes,’ I said. ‘Boys – and anyone else – are free to stay and socialize, if they please. As for Call-me-Jo, I thought she was only too happy to see her girls fraternizing with our boys.’

  ‘It really depends on which boys,’ said Ms Buckfast. ‘Benedicta’s – circumstances mean that a friendship with Allen-Jones may not be the kind Mulberry House wants to encourage. She’s going through a rebellious phase, and—’