Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  Without his confirmation of David Spikely’s story, there would have been no reason to give Spikely any credence. It would have been Harry’s word against – at best – the fractured and inconclusive account of a pupil who hadn’t named him directly, who clearly had mental issues and who had spent less than a year at the School. Without Johnny Harrington’s corroboration, there would have been no inquiry; no search; no link to the death of Lee Bagshot – a tenuous link at best, and based on nothing but circumstance. In short, the case would have been thrown out of court. Harry would never have been condemned.

  In retrospect, we were all to blame. It was all so ridiculous. Harry’s arrest; his suspension from School; then, ten months later, a trial that none of us expected to see. And even when the trial began, we were still complacent. In all St Oswald’s history, no one had ever struck out as hard against the body of the School. No one expected Harry to lose. No one believed that a jury, faced with so little evidence, would reach a guilty verdict.

  We were wrong. History has a habit of awarding the victories to small boys armed with slingshots. St Oswald’s was the giant; powerful, untouchable. The boys were Spikely and Harrington – and the ghost of Lee Bagshot, of course. Gilded by Time and circumstance, the gawky little rat-faced boy with the outdated mullet, grinning at the camera as if he has all the time in the world, had become an icon of everything that was tragic and doomed. Belatedly, the clay pits were marked for urban renewal; flowers were left at the scene of the crime; money was sent to the family. The tragedy had become something else; the symbol of a class war. And the jury – all from Sunnybank Park, Pog Hill, Abbeydale and the estates; consisting of the unemployed; housewives; old-age pensioners – were ready to believe the worst; as easily swayed by Mrs Bagshot’s tears as by Spikely’s tale of suffering.

  And so Harry was sent to serve his time at Her Majesty’s pleasure. We corresponded for a while, but I soon ran out of things to say. Eric had left St Oswald’s to work at King Henry’s, our rival school; the Old Head had retired at last, and I had a department to run. Time just got away from me. I know how terrible that sounds; but St Oswald’s is a heartless old frigate. If a man falls overboard, the ship cannot afford to wait. The sailor sinks or swims alone.

  I tried to explain this to Winter, as I worked methodically through his blue file. It was getting late by then. The fire had died down to a glow. The bottle of brandy I’d opened looked dangerously close to the dregs. Well, I’d needed something to give myself the courage to speak. Winter was still on his first glass, looking polite and attentive. Gloria, with the Spanish eyes, had raised an excellent listener.

  The last item in the folder was printed on pink paper. It took me a moment to recognize it – the font was slightly different, the paper more expensive, but the text was almost identical to that little pamphlet: HOMOSEXUAL, HELLBOUND – printed and distributed by the Church of the Omega Rose.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ I asked him.

  He indicated the logo on the back of the pamphlet. A stylized S, made to look like two mirrored figures, linking hands, with this year’s date printed underneath. I knew that logo. I’d seen it before, on collecting tins and posters.

  ‘Survivors.’ The organization to which Dr Blakely, aka Thing One, aka the Abuse Guru, has links. Until now I’d only thought of him as another cut-out soldier, to go with Johnny Harrington’s growing fortress of paperwork. But to see that little pamphlet again, published by Survivors—

  ‘What does it mean?’ I asked Winter.

  ‘I’ve been looking into Survivors,’ he said. ‘It was formed in ’88, soon after Harry Clarke’s arrest. Initially a phone helpline, staffed by a handful of volunteers. It was called—’

  ‘Survivors Speak Out.’ I remembered it vaguely now: its public face had been Liz McRae, David Spikely’s therapist. During the trial, she had been called as an expert witness. A young thing, I remembered now; surely no older than twenty-five, with a sensible honey-brown bob and a crowd-pleasing earnestness. It was she who had instigated the initial investigation, alerting the social services following a series of conversations with her charge, during which he had mentioned a member of St Oswald’s staff, and certain unsavoury events. The fact that Spikely had never actually named Harry as his abuser was seized upon by Harry’s counsel, but Miss McRae had kept her calm, pointing out that survivors of traumatic events were often unable to speak out, or even to articulate apparently trivial details relating to the experience.

  ‘Survivors.’ That was where I’d first heard the word spoken in that context. And here, once again, was a link to the Church of the Omega Rose, the organization that had victimized Nutter, brainwashed Spikely and encouraged Johnny Harrington to speak out against Harry. Now I looked at it again, I realized why the style of that nasty little pamphlet now seemed so oddly familiar: I’d heard it just the other day, in the Headmaster’s Assembly—

  ‘Harrington wrote it? Harrington?’

  Winter nodded. ‘It looks that way. And certainly, he was always around. After the trial, the helpline expanded, shortened its name to Survivors. Liz McRae stayed active for several more years as a counsellor, specializing in recovered memory. In 1993 she was awarded an MBE for her charity work. She married in 1991, and is no longer an active part of the group. She has no children, in spite of having had several courses of fertility treatment, and now runs a support group for childless couples in Harrogate. Friends Reunited confirms all this. Her name is Elizabeth Harrington.’

  5

  Michaelmas Term, 2005

  Dear Mousey,

  After the trial was over I spent some more time in therapy, coming to terms with my issues and going over conquered ground. It was fun; I got to talk as if I really mattered. I wasn’t a failure any more. I was a brave survivor, who had dared speak out in court against his ex-abuser. For a while, it was almost exhilarating. But it didn’t last for long. The feeling of triumph faded. I found myself back where I’d started; the little lame boy on the mountainside, listening for echoes.

  Nowadays I rarely feel, and just as rarely dream. Perhaps it’s because I’m older. Perhaps everyone has a limited capacity for strong feelings, which I exhausted in childhood. Now there’s nothing left but that relentless internal counter, that says: Thirty-two more years to go. Less, if you get cancer. Cancer’s what killed Harry Clarke. That, and what happened with Poodle.

  For a while, I drifted. I suppose I was missing the limelight. I did a couple of interviews, sold my story to the Mail, and then looked around for something else. By then I had passed the point at which killing a dog or a rabbit would help. The thrill of pushing Poodle that time had receded into the past. Even the much greater thrill of pushing Goldie had faded.

  Survivors saved my sanity. With the help of Miss McRae, the little helpline grew and grew. Survivors, it seemed, wanted to talk, and there were lots of them around. Miss McRae kept on with my therapy, and from time to time, I would come to talk at one of her meetings. Goldie sometimes came along. He’d stayed in touch with Miss McRae throughout the trial and afterwards, and she was the one who got him involved, first as a part of his therapy, then as a counsellor in his own right.

  By then, Johnny was already training to be a teacher. His connection with the Church meant that he was in touch with motivational speakers from all around the world. And he was good; much better than I was. People liked and trusted him. Gradually, his influence took hold. What had been a small weekly discussion group evolved into a national resource. We had a free helpline, staffed by volunteers; we became a registered charity. Johnny wrote a series of motivational pamphlets (he’d already written some for the Church), and even published a little book called The Survivor’s Gospel. All of this served his career, of course. Even as a teacher trainee, he was fast-tracked for success. Now, as a Head, he organizes visits to schools to talk to staff and pupils on how to spot potential abuse, what counts as abuse in the first place, and recently, online grooming.

  In 1991, he got
married – to Miss McRae, of all people. That was disappointing; I have to admit it rankled a bit. Plus, I think she and Johnny may have discussed me behind my back. Perhaps she told him some of the things that I had told her in confidence. Rather unethical, I would have thought – not that it matters to their kind. They were always a different breed, even when they tried to be friends. And now they’d got what they needed from me, it was back to the scrap heap for Spikely, and up, up the ladder for Harrington.

  Do I sound bitter, Mousey? I don’t mean to sound bitter. Objectively, I’m a success. I have done important things. To avoid unwelcome attention, I’ve changed my name. I delegate. I moved back to Malbry in ’99, the year my mother remarried. Perhaps I needed to go back home. But it’s a far cry from the home I knew, that little house in the Village. Instead, I have a very nice house near the top end of Millionaires’ Row. I am respected; even feared. I have regained my healthy physique. Even my hair has grown back now. Why then do I still feel so unfulfilled, so tragically dead inside?

  I thought that writing a diary again, after so many years, might help with that. And it seems very natural, Mousey, to write my diary to you. Not that I think you’re still around, or anything like that, of course. But things have come full circle again. Once more the dice are rolling. And this time, it seems as if Fate may have given me the chance to settle another old score . . .

  6

  October 28th, 2005

  A disciplinary hearing is never a very pleasant affair. This one featured Kitty Teague, as my Head of Department; Thing One and Thing Two; Dr Devine; and, of course, the New Head in all his pomp and sanctimony.

  I shan’t bore you with what was said. Suffice it to say that, as of then, I am on report. For the next few weeks or so, someone will shadow my classes, watching out for any irregularities. This is for my protection, says Harrington, with a little smile. The parents of Chanelle Goodman have made a serious complaint. In order to address it (and hopefully, dismiss the charge), we henceforth need to know exactly what goes on in room 59; what kind of comments, if any, are made, and how to address any problems, real or perceived, on either side.

  In short, I have a Special Little Friend to accompany me wherever I go. Two Special Little Friends, in fact: Ms Buckfast and Dr Blakely now take it in turns to shadow me, much as Harry’s Laughing Gnome shadowed the narrator of that jaunty little song. Once more, I suspect that Harrington is trying to put pressure on me to drink the hemlock. He’ll have to do better than that if he means to dislodge this old barnacle from the deck. Still, it’s going to be hard to keep a sunny disposition.

  Ten days have passed since the hearing. Meanwhile, Kitty Teague is being disappointingly correct. She has made no comment so far on the Allen-Jones/Gunderson affair, but goes over the departmental paperwork every day with Thing One (or Thing Two, whichever of them happens to be on duty at the time). So far, however, I have given them no further cause for complaint. My teaching of Aeneid IX proceeds as efficiently as usual. My lessons are marvels of blandness. My Brodie Boys have noticed this, but their efforts to liven up the show have been met with a stony reception.

  La Buckfast watches developments with a look of distant irony, like a Vestal Virgin at a Bacchanalia, while Dr Blakely adopts the look of a rabbit in the headlamps, as if afraid that I will involve him in any form of teaching; a prospect that clearly fills him with dread. Next door, in Dr Devine’s room, Markowicz is present, if not entirely functional. The department is eerily silent, but for the occasional cry of the Foghorn from the Middle Corridor. Even the mice have gone to ground. Of course I know it cannot last. This is the calm before the storm.

  Today it was Ms Buckfast’s turn to perform the honours. I introduced her to my form as a Special Visitor; which works all right with the younger boys, but cuts no ice with the likes of Sutcliff, Allen-Jones and McNair.

  ‘Are you taking trainees, sir?’ asked McNair at lunchtime. ‘It’s just that we couldn’t help noticing the elephant at the back of the room.’

  I raised a quelling eyebrow. ‘Ms Buckfast has expressed a desire to improve her Latin,’ I said. ‘And, though not petite, by any means, Ms Buckfast is hardly an elephant.’

  Allen-Jones, still on report himself, gave me a long and measuring look.

  ‘How’s Rupert Gunderson?’

  Allen-Jones shrugged. ‘I’m keeping away.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ I said. ‘But if he moves in, please tell me.’

  Lunch was a fairly quiet affair. A sandwich in my room, while the boys listened to music on a small transistor radio, brought in covertly by Allen-Jones and concealed inside one of the school desks on the back row of the form-room. Devine came in twice to complain; once about the music, the second time because of the number of boys eating in the form-room, against School regulations and, more specifically, creating a risk of attracting vermin.

  ‘’Raus, Maus,’ said Allen-Jones, as Dr Devine made his exit.

  Devine turned round sharply. Allen-Jones looked innocent – at least as innocent as a boy can look with half a sandwich in his mouth. Devine left, with a face like a sucked lemon.

  ‘Just another day in Mauschwitz,’ said Tayler. My Brodie Boys all burst out laughing. Behind the glass door, Devine paused for a moment, then walked on, with the air of a man deploying almost unbearable self-control.

  The afternoon was wearisome, with Ms Buckfast in residence. On several occasions I had to bite my tongue to avoid a pithy Latin phrase – I now suspect La Buckfast knows enough Latin to disapprove. As a result, I’m afraid the lessons may not have been quite as entertaining as they might have been. Silent reading, then a spelling test, and then some silent translation. La Buckfast seemed unmoved, however – I was rather hoping that she would get bored and leave early, but no. Ms Buckfast has staying power.

  Throughout the whole afternoon she watched and listened attentively, occasionally taking notes, or walking about the form-room, checking the boys’ grammar. I have to say she was thorough. And she didn’t yawn once. I’m starting to think she may be a worthy adversary, after all.

  At the end of the day she came to my desk, smiled at me and said: ‘Thank you, Roy. That was most enjoyable.’

  Given that we had spent most of the afternoon in silence, I rather doubted that, but there was a look in her eye that suggested she was far from dissatisfied.

  She lingered at the window, looking out into the Quad. Then she looked at me curiously.

  ‘You don’t remember, do you, Roy?’

  I gave her a look. ‘Is there something special that I ought to remember?’

  She smiled. ‘Well no, of course, there’s no reason you should. But I was once a Mulberry girl. We even spoke a couple of times. I got the impression – even then – that you didn’t approve of girls in the School.’

  ‘A Mulberry girl?’ I tried to recall why I would have spoken to her. Then it came back to me: probably because of the colour of her hair. Of course, she’d been rather more slender then, with the leggy, self-confident strut that seems to be the main attribute of the Mulberry girl abroad.

  ‘You played the lead role in Antigone,’ I said.

  La Buckfast smiled. ‘That’s right,’ she said.

  ‘I recall I lost several boys to that particular production. Still, it happened every time we allowed our boys to tread the boards. Some of them never recovered. But I’m sure I would have remembered your name, if not your face.’

  ‘I married,’ she said. ‘It didn’t last long.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And your maiden name—?’

  ‘Becky Price,’ she told me.

  Becky Price. I see it now. La Buckfast has thickened a little, but something should have alerted me.

  ‘Did you know Harrington back then?’

  ‘Yes. We dated for a while.’ Once more, that Mona Lisa smile. ‘You’ve been wondering, haven’t you?’ said La Buckfast. ‘Wondering if there’s something between us. There isn’t, you know. John’s far too clever to jeopardize h
is reputation.’ She sat on the desk and crossed her legs. I heard the hiss of nylons. ‘You know, I respect you enormously.’

  ‘I find that sentence often precedes something less than palatable.’

  She laughed. It even sounded sincere, until you looked at those eyes.

  ‘Oh, Roy. You’re such a character. But you must see you’ll never win. Better to step out gracefully than to see your career overshadowed by the kind of thing that’s bound to come out if you stay on at St Oswald’s.’

  ‘You mean, you think I should retire?’

  ‘Yes, and as soon as possible. Ill-health should give you sufficient grounds, or maybe a family crisis.’

  ‘You haven’t done your research,’ I said. ‘St Oswald’s is my family.’

  She shrugged. ‘We’d give you full support. Full pay until the end of the year. That, on top of your pension, should leave you more than comfortable.’

  I started to feel angry at that. ‘You think this is about money?’ I said.

  ‘No, of course not,’ said Ms Buckfast. ‘It’s always been about the School. You see, Roy, I have done my research. And I know that change is your enemy. But St Oswald’s is changing. From being a second-rate grammar school, riddled with outdated traditions, we’re going to make it into the finest independent school in the north. We’ll have the best facilities; the best, most highly qualified staff. Boys and girls, working alongside each other in the best possible environment. But for that, we need to change certain things. We need to move on. We need our people to move on.’

  ‘And you think I can’t?’

  ‘I know you won’t.’ She shook her head. ‘Look, Roy. This isn’t personal. I rather like your little eccentricities. But it’s time to go. You know it is. You’re no match for us, and I’d rather see you retire gracefully than leave under a cloud.’