It was they, the losers, who would not let it go; who perpetuated the Thunderpants jokes; who harped incessantly on beans and asthma until every lesson without me seemed like a freak show without the freak, and at last Mr. Bray began to feel suspicious.
I’m not sure where he spotted me. Maybe he had me watched as I slipped away from the library. I had grown reckless; already Leon filled my life and Bray and his ilk were nothing but shadows in comparison. In any case he was waiting for me the next morning; I found out later that he had swapped supervision duties with another teacher to make sure he caught me.
“Well, well, you’re looking very full of beans for someone with such terrible asthma,” he said as I ran in through the late entrance.
I stared at him, half-paralyzed with fear. He was smiling viciously, like the bronzed totem of a sacrificial cult.
“Well? Cat got your tongue?”
“I’m late, sir,” I stammered, playing for time. “My dad was—”
I could feel his contempt as he towered over me. “Perhaps your dad could tell me more about this asthma of yours,” he said. “Caretaker, isn’t he, at the grammar school? Comes into our local from time to time.”
I could hardly breathe. For a second I almost believed that I did have asthma; that my lungs would burst with the terror of it. I hoped it would happen—at that time death seemed infinitely preferable to the possible alternatives.
Bray saw it, and his grin hardened. “See me in the changing rooms after school tonight,” he said. “And don’t be late.”
I went through the day in a haze of dread. My bowels loosened; I couldn’t concentrate; I went to the wrong classrooms; I couldn’t eat my lunch. At afternoon break I was in such a state of panic that Miss Potts, the teacher trainee, noticed and asked me about it.
“Nothing, miss,” I said, desperate to avoid further attention. “Just a bit of a headache.”
“More than a headache,” she said, coming closer. “You’re very pale—”
“It’s nothing, miss. Really.”
“I think maybe you should go home. You might be coming down with something.”
“No!” I could not prevent my voice from rising. That would make things infinitely worse; if I didn’t turn up, Bray would talk to my father; any chance I had of evading discovery would be lost.
Miss Potts frowned. “Look at me. Is anything wrong?”
Silently, I shook my head. Miss Potts was just a student teacher, not much older than my father’s girlfriend. She liked to be popular—to be important; a girl in my class, Wendy Lovell, had been making herself sick at lunchtimes, and when Miss Potts had found out about it, she had phoned the Eating Disorders Helpline.
She often talked about gender awareness; was an expert on racial discrimination; had attended courses on self-assertion and bullying and drugs. I sensed that Miss Potts was looking for a Cause, but knew that she would only be at school until the end of term, and that in a few weeks’ time, she would be gone.
“Please, miss,” I whispered.
“Come on, sweetheart,” said Miss Potts, wheedling. “Surely you can tell me.”
The secret was simple, like all secrets. Places like St. Oswald’s—and even to some extent, Sunnybank Park—have their own security systems, built, not on smoke detectors or hidden cameras, but on a thick stratum of bluff.
No one brings down a teacher—no one thinks to bring down a school. And why? The instinctive cringing in the face of authority—that fear that by far outstrips the fear of discovery. A master is always Sir to his pupils, however many years have passed; even in adulthood we find the old reflexes have not been lost but have only been subdued for a time, emerging unchanged at the right command. Who would dare call that giant bluff? Who would dare? It was inconceivable.
But I was desperate. On one side there was St. Oswald’s; Leon; everything I had longed for; everything I had built. On the other, Mr. Bray, poised over me like the word of God. Did I dare? Could I possibly carry it off?
“Come on, dear,” said Miss Potts gently, seeing her chance. “You can tell me—I won’t tell a soul.”
I pretended to hesitate. Then, in a low voice, I spoke. “It’s Mr. Bray,” I said, meeting her eyes. “Mr. Bray and Tracey Delacey.”
3
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysFriday, 10th September
It has been a long first week. It always is; but this year especially the silly season seems to have started early. Anderton-Pullitt is away today (one of his allergic reactions, says his mother), but Knight and Jackson are back in lessons, Jackson sporting an impressive black eye to go with his broken nose; McNair, Sutcliff, and Allen-Jones are on behavior report (Allen-Jones with a bruise to the side of his face which distinctly shows the marks of four fingers, and which he claims he got from playing football).
Meek has taken over the Geography Society, which, thanks to Bob Strange, now meets weekly in my room; Bishop has damaged an Achilles tendon in the course of an overenthusiastic running session; Isabelle Tapi has taken to hanging around the Games department in a series of increasingly daring skirts; Dr. Devine’s invasion of the Classics office has suffered a temporary setback following the discovery of a mouse’s nest behind the wainscoting; my coffee mug and register are still missing, which has earned me Marlene’s disapproval, and when I returned to my room after lunch on Thursday I discovered that my favorite pen—green casing, Parker, with a gold nib—had disappeared from my desk drawer.
It was the loss of this last item that really annoyed me; partly because I only stepped out of my room for a half hour or so, and more importantly, because it happened at lunchtime, which suggested to me that the thief was a member of the form. My very own 3S—good lads, or so I thought, and loyal to me. Jeff Light was on corridor duty at the time, and so, by chance, was Isabelle Tapi, but (unsurprisingly) neither of them noticed any unusual visitors to room fifty-nine during that lunch hour.
I mentioned the loss to 3S in the afternoon, hoping that someone might have borrowed the pen and forgotten to return it; only to be met with blank stares from the boys.
“What, no one saw anything? Tayler? Jackson?”
“Nothing, sir. No, sir.”
“Pryce? Pink? Sutcliff?”
“No, sir.”
“Knight?”
Knight looked away, smirking.
Knight?
I took the register on a piece of paper and sent the boys away, now feeling distinctly uneasy. It hurt me to have to do it, but there was only one way to discover the culprit, and that was to search the boys’ lockers. As it happened I was free that afternoon, and so I took my passkey and list of locker numbers, left Meek in charge of room fifty-nine and a small group of lower-sixths unlikely to cause any disruption, and made my way to the Middle Corridor and the third-form locker room.
I searched in alphabetical order, taking my time and with especial attention to the contents of pencil cases, finding nothing but half a carton of cigarettes in Allen-Jones’s locker and a girlie magazine in Jackson’s.
Then came Knight’s; almost overflowing with papers, books, and assorted junk. A silver pencil box shaped like a calculator slid out from between two files; I opened it, but there was no pen. The next locker was Lemon’s; then Niu’s; Pink’s; Anderton-Pullitt’s—piled high with books on his all-consuming passion, First World War aircraft. I searched them all; found a stash of forbidden playing cards and a pinup or two, but no Parker pen.
I spent over an hour in the locker rooms, long enough for the class-change bell to go and the corridor to fill up, though fortunately, no pupil decided to visit his locker between lessons.
Left feeling more annoyed than before; not so much for the loss of the pen—which could, after all, be replaced—but for the fact that some of my pleasure in the boys had been spoiled by the incident, and the fact that until the thief was identified, I would not be able to trust any of them again.
The following day I was on after-school duty, watching the bus queue;
Meek was in the main Quad, barely visible in the mass of departing boys, and Monument was at the Chapel steps, supervising the proceedings from on high.
“Bye, sir! Have a good weekend!” That was McNair, racing by with his tie at half-mast and his shirt hanging out of his trousers. Allen-Jones was with him, running, as always, as if his life were in peril. “Slow down,” I called. “You’ll break your necks.”
“Sorry, sir,” yelled Allen-Jones, without checking his pace.
I had to smile. I remember running like that—surely not so long ago, when weekends seemed as long as playing fields. Nowadays they’re gone in a blink: weeks, months, years—all gone into the same conjuror’s hat. All the same, it makes me wonder. Why do boys always run? And when did I stop running?
“Mr. Straitley.”
There was so much noise that I had not heard the New Head walk up behind me. Even on a Friday afternoon he was immaculate; white shirt, gray suit; tie knotted and positioned at precisely the correct angle.
“Headmaster.”
It annoys him to be called Headmaster. It reminds him that in the history of St. Oswald’s he is neither unique nor irreplaceable. “Was that a member of your form,” he said, “dashing past us with his shirt untucked?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I lied. The New Head has an administrator’s fixation on shirts, socks, and other uniform trivia. He looked skeptical at my reply. “I have noticed a certain disregard for the uniform regulations this week. I hope you’ll be able to impress upon the boys the importance of making a good impression outside the school gates.”
“Of course, Headmaster.”
In view of the impending school inspection, Making a Good Impression has become one of the New Head’s main priorities. King Henry’s Grammar School boasts a stringent dress code—including straw boaters in summer and top hats for members of the Chapel choir—which he feels contributes to their superior position in the league tables. My own ink-stained reprobates have a less flattering view of their rivals—or Henriettas, as St. Oswald’s tradition names them—with which I must admit to having some sympathy. Sartorial rebellion is a rite of passage, and members of the school—and of 3S in particular—express their revolt by means of untucked shirts, scissored ties, and subversive socks.
I tried to say as much to the New Head but was met with a look of such abhorrence that I wished I hadn’t. “Socks, Mr. Straitley?” he said, as if I had introduced him to some new and hitherto undreamed-of perversion.
“Well, yes,” I said. “You know, Homer Simpson, South Park, Scooby-Doo.”
“But we have regulation socks,” said the Head. “Gray wool, calf length, yellow-and-black stripe. Eight ninety-nine a pair from the school outfitters.”
I shrugged helplessly. Fifteen years as Head of St. Oswald’s, and he still hasn’t realized that no one—no one!—ever wears the uniform socks.
“Well, I expect you to put a stop to it,” said the Head, still looking rattled. “Every boy should be in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I shall have to send a memo.”
I wondered if the Head, as a boy, had been in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I tried to imagine it and found that I could. I gave a sigh. “Fac ut vivas, Headmaster.”
“What?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“And speaking of memos…My secretary e-mailed you three times today asking you to see me in my office.”
“Really, Headmaster?”
“Yes, Mr. Straitley.” His tone was glacial. “We’ve had a complaint.”
It was Knight, of course. Or rather, Knight’s mother, a bottle blonde of indeterminate age and volatile temperament, blessed with a large alimony settlement and subsequent leisure time to lodge complaints on a termly basis. This time it was my victimization of her son on the grounds of his Jewishness.
“Anti-Semitism is a very serious complaint,” announced the Head. “Twenty-five percent of our customers—parents, that is—belong to the Jewish community, and I don’t have to remind you—”
“No you don’t, Headmaster.” That was going too far. To take a boy’s side against a Master—and in a public place, where anyone might be listening—was beyond disloyal. I could feel my temper rising. “This is a matter of personalities, that’s all, and I expect you to back me fully in the face of this completely unfounded accusation. And while we’re at it, may I remind you that there is a pyramid structure of discipline, beginning with the form tutor, and that I don’t relish having my duties taken over by someone else without being consulted.”
“Mr. Straitley!” The Head was looking rather shaken.
“Yes, Headmaster.”
“There’s more.” I waited for it, still seething. “Mrs. Knight says that a valuable pen, a bar mitzvah present to her son, vanished from his locker some time yesterday afternoon. And you, Mr. Straitley, were seen opening third-form lockers at just about exactly the same time.”
Vae! I cursed myself mentally. I should have been more careful; should—according to the regulations—have searched the lockers in the presence of the boys themselves. But 3S are my own form—in many ways, my favorite form. Easier to do as I always did: to visit the culprit in secret—to remove the evidence—to leave it at that. It had worked with Allen-Jones and his door plaques; it would have worked with Knight. Except that I had found nothing in Knight’s locker—though my gut still told me he was guilty—and had certainly not removed anything.
The Head had hit his stride. “Mrs. Knight not only accuses you of repeatedly victimizing and humiliating the boy,” he said, “but of more or less accusing him of theft, then, when he denied it, of removing an item of value from his locker in secret—perhaps in the hope of making him confess.”
“I see. Well, this is what I think of Mrs. Knight—”
“The school’s insurance will cover the loss, of course. But it raises the question—”
“What?” I was almost at a loss for words. Boys lose things every day. To provide compensation in this case was tantamount to accepting that I was guilty. “I won’t have it. Ten to one the damn thing will turn up under his bed or something.”
“I’d rather deal with it at this level than have the complaint go to the governors,” said the Head, with unusual frankness.
“I bet you would,” I said. “But if you do, you’ll have my resignation on your desk by Monday morning.”
HM blanched. “Now take it easy, Roy—”
“I’m not taking it at all. A Headmaster’s duty is to stand by his staff. Not to go running scared at the first piece of malicious tittle-tattle.”
There was a rather cold silence. I realized that my voice—long-trained in the acoustics of the Bell Tower—had become rather loud. Several boys and their parents were loitering within earshot, and little Meek, who was still on duty, was watching me open-mouthed.
“Very good, Mr. Straitley,” said the New Head in a stiff voice.
And at that he went on his way, leaving me with the sense that I had scored at best, a Pyrrhic victory, and at worst, the most devastating kind of own goal.
4
Poor old Straitley. He was looking so depressed when he left today that I almost felt sorry I’d sneaked his pen. He looked old, I thought—no longer fearsome but simply old, a sad, baggy-faced comedian past his prime. Quite wrong, of course. There’s real grit in Roy Straitley; a real—and dangerous—intelligence. Still—call it nostalgia if you like, or perversity—today I liked him better than ever before. Should I do him a favor? I wonder. For old times’ sake?
Yes, perhaps. Perhaps I will.
I celebrated my first week with a bottle of champagne. It’s still very early in the game, of course, but I have already sown a good number of my poison seeds, and this is just the beginning. Knight is proving to be a valuable tool—almost a Special Little Friend, as Straitley calls them—talking to me now almost every break, drinking in my every word. Oh, nothing that might be directly incriminating—I of all people, should know better than that—but wi
th the help of hints and anecdotes I think I can guide him in the right direction.
His mother didn’t complain to the governors, of course. I didn’t really expect her to, in spite of her histrionics. Not this time, anyway. Nevertheless, all these things are being filed away. Deep down, where it matters.
Scandal, the rot that makes foundations crumble. St. Oswald’s has had its share—neatly excised for the most part by the governors and trustees. The Shakeshafte affair, for instance—or that nasty business with the caretaker, fifteen years ago. What was his name? Snyde? Can’t remember the details, old chap, but it just goes to show, you can’t trust anyone nowadays.
In the case of Mr. Bray and my own school, there were no trustees to take matters in hand. Miss Potts listened with widening eyes and a mouth that went from pouty-persuasive to crabapple-sour in less than a minute. “But Tracey’s fifteen,” said Miss Potts (who had always made an effort to look nice in Mr. Bray’s lessons, and whose face was now rigid with disapproval). “Fifteen!”
I nodded. “Don’t tell anyone,” I said. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I’ve told you.”
That was the bait, and she took it, as I had known she would. “Nothing’s going to happen to you,” said Miss Potts firmly. “All you have to do is tell me everything.”
I did not keep my after-school appointment with Bray. Instead, I sat outside the Headmaster’s office, shaking with fear and excitement, and listening to the drama unfolding within. Bray denied it all, of course; but the besotted Tracey wept violently at his public betrayal; compared herself to Juliet; threatened to kill herself; and finally declared that she was pregnant—at which announcement the meeting dissolved into panic and recriminations, Bray scuttled off to call his Union rep and Miss Potts threatened to inform the local newspapers if something was not done at once to protect more innocent girls from being led astray by this pervert—whom, she said, she had always suspected, and who should be locked up.