Different Class (29 page)

Once more, I shook my head. I know it was lying, and lying was wrong, but I could hardly admit that I’d stolen her scarf for a mouse exorcism. Besides, I figured that demons were a much bigger sin than lying, or even stealing; so God would be bound to forgive me as long as next time, I got it right.

Mr Rushworth stood up. ‘I think you’re lying, boy,’ he said. His face was always very red, and now it was nearly purple. ‘You were seen taking Mrs Lumb’s scarf from the peg in the form-room. Now, for the last time, tell the truth.
Why did you steal it?
’

Once again, I shook my head. It felt like a betrayal, but Miss McDonald couldn’t know what I’d sacrificed for her. Turns out the scarf was a Hermès – which meant it was something expensive and rare, and not just an ordinary scarf like Mum used to wear over her curlers.

And so I got the cane: three strokes on the back of my hand for the theft; three more for the lying. It hurt, but not half as much as the look on Miss McDonald’s face when she took off my special helper’s badge and pinned it on Mousey’s jumper instead.

You see, Mousey had told on me. Mr Lumb had seen him walking with me to the clay pits, and he had told him everything: the scarf; the mice; the ritual. Not the
reason
, thankfully – I don’t think he understood it himself – but he’d told them enough to condemn me. Apart from the cane, which was bad enough, I lost all my form privileges: the badge, the plants, the board-rubber. I also had to pay for the scarf out of my own pocket money. And Miss McDonald’s demons stayed in Miss McDonald; I could see them in her eyes whenever she happened to look at me.

After that, Mousey was class monitor, and I didn’t talk to him any more. He’d let me down; they’d
both
let me down – and instead of going to the clay pits on Sunday mornings, I had to go to Sunday School with my dad, who was horrified at what Mr Rushworth had told him. Not so much about the mice, or even about Miss McDonald’s scarf, but the fact that I’d been playing out in such a notorious spot, and with boys of a Different Class.

I tried to explain about the demons, but Dad was too angry to listen. And so the horrid school term wore on, and people started to call me names like
poncey
and
spazzer
and
poofter
. I didn’t know what those things meant. But I knew who was responsible; and during the weeks that followed, I racked my brains to think of a plan that would help me get back at Mousey.

6

September 26th, 2005

A blustery day at St Oswald’s today, tearing the paper leaves from the trees. Wind, almost as much as snow, is the schoolmaster’s enemy, making boys excitable; tugging at blazers; pulling off caps; sending papers flying. Perhaps it’s the ozone in the air, but boys are disruptive on windy days, and today St Oswald’s was riddled with little pockets of turbulence. The Foghorn’s mournful cry rang out for most of the morning, and even Devine – still irked, perhaps, by his experience with the gnome – sent a boy out to stand in the corridor, sheepishly, awaiting the dreaded one-to-one. Kitty Teague was looking harassed, following a series of incidents. At present, the Head of Department’s job consists of cover and administrative work – not a great use of Kitty’s time, as I’m sure she is aware. But between Miss Malone’s spiritual malaise, and Dr Markowicz’s frequent incursions into the world of Visual Aids,
someone
has to hold the fort. Thus: Kitty’s classes have been left in the hands of the wispy Miss Smiley, with predictable results.

Only Bob Strange seems happy. His smile, rarely seen in happier days, illuminates the Lower Corridor, where he has taken to lurking, clipboard in hand, outside Ms Buckfast’s office. Doubtless he feels that proximity to the seat of power will give him a better chance when it comes to taking back his fiefdom when the Crisis Deputies leave.

However, it was my own Brodie Boys who caused the most disruption today – or rather, they were the catalyst for what happened afterwards. You wouldn’t think a bit of paint – even in such enticing shades as Sexy Cerise, Victoria Plum and Spangly Watermelon Surprise – could affect the discipline of an entire year-group, but according to Markowicz, it represents the thin end of a dangerous wedge that could culminate in anarchy.

I refer, of course, to the nail varnish still adorning the finger-ends of Tayler, McNair and Allen-Jones. My personal policy is to ignore such trivia as untucked shirts, subversive socks and similar
accoutrements
, designed to draw attention away from the
really
important things, like Latin translation, irregular verbs and keeping the classroom litter-free. Indeed, I’ve always found that where teenage rebellion fails to shock, it quickly loses its appeal – but the idiot Markowicz, in spite of having attended more courses than a normal human being can stand, is apparently unaware of the most elementary rules of teenage psychology.

As ill-luck would have it, this lunchtime my boys were in the Middle School Common Room with the girl Benedicta while Markowicz was on duty there. If I hadn’t already judged the man, his method of dealing out discipline would have already marked him in my mind as one of life’s hopeless cases – a Jackass, according to my Rough Guide to the Common Room – a man who believes that anything can be achieved simply by braying loudly enough, and who invariably comes down hardest on the most harmless of miscreants, in the hope that the
real
toughs will be fooled into obedience.

This was why my Brodie Boys, conversing with their usual level of exuberance, were immediately singled out by Markowicz, who took offence, first to their high spirits and then to the nail polish, and who, after a slight altercation of the kind no member of staff should ever allow in a public forum, found themselves summoned into the presence of Dr Blakely, aka Thing One. The girl Benedicta tried to object, and was duly sent to Ms Buckfast, who seems to have had the common sense not to make a fuss. However, as a result of this, Sutcliff and McNair were late to afternoon classes, and Allen-Jones never reappeared. When I made enquiries (via Bob Strange) I was told that the boy had been suspended, following a ‘serious breach of discipline’, details of which could be found in an e-mail sent by Dr Blakely and copied to the Head of Year.

As soon as I was free, I went to Dr Blakely’s office to complain. I found him with Markowicz and the Head, which did nothing to allay my disquiet.

‘Ah, Mr Straitley,’ said Dr Blakely. ‘I’m glad you popped in. Your boy Allen-Jones—’

I sat down in his armchair. Pat Bishop’s armchair, to be exact; moulded to his proportions. The new man will never enjoy it: he is too straight, too angular. He has an ergonomic chair to match his shiny new workstation, and a series of abstract prints on his wall replace Pat Bishop’s photographs of rugby players and sporting heroes throughout St Oswald’s history.

‘My boy, Allen-Jones,’ I repeated. ‘Rumour has it you’ve sent him home. How considerate of you to step in on my behalf, without taking the time to consult me.’

Dr Blakely recoiled a little. ‘I sent you an e-mail,’ he began.

Briefly but pungently, I expressed what I thought of his e-mail. ‘We have a pastoral system,’ I said. ‘The form-master is the first port of call. And if one of my boys misbehaves – which, in this case, I question – then I expect to be informed in person, not by a programme on a machine.’

Markowicz gave me a look. Close up, his resemblance to Devine is not as marked as I’d previously thought. Devine, for all his faults, remains a Suit, not a Jackass.

‘The boys were wearing nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I asked them to take it off. They refused. After that I had no choice but to refer them to Dr Blakely.’

I shook my head, pained by his ignorance. ‘And what did you expect?’ I said. ‘You allowed a group of fourth-form boys to draw you into a ridiculous – and public – confrontation. It’s the classic beginner’s mistake. Trainees do it all the time.’

The Head gave an admonishing cough. ‘I think there’s more to it than that,’ he said. ‘I’m looking into the incident. Besides, as you already know, I believe there’s something unwholesome about Allen-Jones’s influence over the boys in your form. Perhaps this needs a different approach. After what happened with Gunderson—’

‘Gunderson’s a bully,’ I said.

‘That’s not what the Chaplain says.’ He smiled, and once again I saw a glimpse of that troubling, dangerous charm. ‘Listen, Roy, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shall be looking into this myself, and I promise I’ll keep you informed throughout. In person, not by e-mail.’

Oh yes, he
sounded
reasonable. But all my instincts told me that I was being sidelined, manoeuvred, cajoled into acquiescence. Little Johnny Harrington was always used to getting his way, and he still knows how to manipulate people into doing exactly what he wants. I can understand his trying to get back at me – a Master he’d never liked as a boy, and who will never accept him. But what does he want with Allen-Jones, a bright, articulate student – perhaps a little impertinent, but certainly no troublemaker? What does Harrington think to achieve by targeting my Brodie Boys?

It annoyed me – perhaps more than it should. Or perhaps I was still feeling nervous about the theft of those Honours Boards. At the end of afternoon school I marked some books, had my tea in the Common Room, then went in search of Winter, my partner-in-crime of the other night, hoping for reassurance.

But Winter was talking to Jimmy Watt outside the School boiler house, where Jimmy spent most of his time in cold weather. I wondered what they were talking about. Jimmy must have noticed the theft of the Honours Boards by now. Did he suspect my accomplice? Or did he suspect
me
?

Jimmy is no detective, but I feared that the disappearance of the Honours Boards on the same day I’d asked him to the pub might have given him pause for thought. After all, I am not in the habit of fraternizing much with the ancillary staff. The idea that Jimmy might already be questioning Winter about me doubled my anxiety.

I decided to play it cool, and left by the rear of the building.

Jimmy saw me and lifted a hand. ‘Good day, boss?’

‘Nothing that a pint won’t cure. How about the Scholar again?’

Jimmy honked laughter. ‘Sounds good, boss. But I got my jobs to do.’

I shook my head with feigned regret. ‘Then I must drink alone,’ I said, and left him, feeling reassured. Jimmy is a simple soul, not given to pretence. If he’d been suspicious, I would have seen it in his face. For the present, at least, my crime has gone unnoticed. And yet I can feel them closing in; the army of Suits and their General. I may not have much time left. Was I wrong to refuse the hemlock bowl? Perhaps. But it’s not in my nature. I will fight them to the death, and if I fail, so be it. Better to fall by the wayside than never to start the journey.

Perhaps I’ll have that drink after all. After the day I’ve had, I think a nice, relaxing pint might be just what the doctor ordered. (Well, not
my
doctor, naturally – who in spite of a C in Latin and a less-than-promising boyhood has grown up to embody all the more sickening virtues, as well as managing to maintain a happy marriage: moderation in drink, regular exercise and, most sickening of all, a strict vegetarian diet.) But, having survived today (so far), a couple of pints and a ploughman’s are hardly likely to kill me. Once more unto the Scholar, then, to drown my sorrows in light ale. And who knows, maybe a crafty Gauloise to seal my deal with the Devil . . .

7

December 1981

There’s something about a betrayal of trust. Something that really preys on you. What Mousey did to me – what
you
did to me, Mousey – changed my view of the world for good, just as Poodle did that day – the day I saw him kiss Mr Clarke. Of course I was only a kid back then. I had no idea what was happening. I only knew that my best friend had ratted me out to Mr Rushworth, that now everyone hated me, even Miss McDonald, who now thought I was a liar.

It was worse than that, though. Something else had got into me. It must have done, because suddenly the bad thoughts were back, and this time, it seemed, they wouldn’t stop. One of them was about Sin, and Miss McDonald and Mr Lumb. The other was
the Wages
of Sin, and what really happens when you die. And then there were the games with the mice – but now they didn’t seem like games. Now they seemed like something more, and I was starting to
need
them.