Gentlemen & Players (10 page)

5

Wednesday, 15th September

There was a drawing tacked to my form notice board when I came in after yesterday’s lunch; a crude caricature of myself sporting a Hitler mustache and a speech bubble saying
Juden raus!

Anyone could have placed it there—some member of Devine’s set, who were in after break, or one of Meek’s geographers, even a duty prefect with a warped sense of humor—but I knew it was Knight. I could tell from the smug, bland look on his face, from the way he never met my eye, from the small delay between his
yes
and his
sir
—an impertinence only I observed.

I removed the picture, of course, and crumpled it into the wastebasket without even seeming to look at it, but I could smell the insurrection. Otherwise, all is calm, but I have been here too many years to be fooled; this is only the specious calm of the epicenter; the crisis is yet to come.

I never did find out who saw me in the locker room. It might have been anyone with an axe to grind; Geoff and Penny Nation are both the type, always reporting “procedural anomalies” in that pious way that hides their real malice. I’m teaching their son this year, as it happens—a clever, colorless first-year boy—and ever since the set lists were printed they have paid an unhealthy amount of attention to my methods in class. Or it might have been Isabelle Tapi, who has never liked me, or Meek, who has his reasons—or even one of the boys.

Not that it matters, of course. But since the first day back I’ve had the feeling that someone was watching me, closely and without kindness. I imagine Caesar must have felt the same when the Ides of March came around.

In the classroom, business as usual. A first-year Latin group, still fatally under the impression that a verb is a “doing word”; a sixth-form group of no-more-than-average students, plowing their well-meaning way through
Aeneid IX
; my own 3S, struggling with the gerund (for the third time) between smart comments from Sutcliff and Allen-Jones (irrepressible, as ever) and more ponderous observations from Anderton-Pullitt, who considers Latin a waste of time better spent on the study of First World War aircraft.

No one looked at Knight, who got on with his work without a word, and the little test I gave them at the end of the lesson satisfied me that most of them were now as comfortable with the gerund as any third-year can reasonably expect to be. As a bonus to his main test, Sutcliff had added a number of impertinent little drawings, showing “species of gerund in their natural habitat” and “what happens when a gerund meets a gerundive.” I must remember to talk to Sutcliff someday. Meanwhile the drawings are Sello-taped onto the lid of my desk, a small, cheery antidote to this morning’s mystery caricaturist.

In the department, there is good and bad. Dianne Dare seems to be shaping up nicely, which is just as well, as Pearman is at his least efficient. It isn’t altogether his fault—I have a soft spot for Pearman, in spite of his lack of organization; the man has a brain, after all—but in the wake of the new appointment, Scoones is becoming a thorough nuisance, baiting and backbiting to such an extent that the quiet Pearman is perpetually on the verge of losing his temper, and even Kitty has lost some of her sparkle. Only Tapi seems unaffected; perhaps as a result of her burgeoning intimacy with the obnoxious Light, with whom she has been seen on numerous occasions in the Thirsty Scholar, as well as sharing a telltale sandwich in the school Refectory.

The Germans, on the other hand, are enjoying their spell of supremacy. Much good may it do them. The mice may have gone—victims of Dr. Devine’s Health and Safety regulations—but Straitley’s ghost endures, rattling his chains at the inmates and causing occasional mayhem.

For the price of a drink in the Scholar I have acquired a key to the new German office, into which I now retire every time Devine has a House Meeting. It’s only ten minutes, I know, but in that time I usually find that I can cause enough inadvertent disorder—coffee cups on the desk, phone out of alignment, crosswords completed in Sourgrape’s personal copy of the
Times
—to remind them of my continued presence.

My filing cabinets have been annexed to the nearby Book Room—this also troubles Dr. Devine, who was until recently unaware of the existence of the door that divides the two rooms, and which I have now reinstated. He can smell my cigarette smoke from his desk, he says, and invokes Health and Safety with an expression of pious self-satisfaction; so many books must surely present a fire hazard, he protests, and speaks of installing a smoke detector.

Fortunately, Bob Strange—who in his capacity as Third Master oversees all departmental spending—has made it clear that until the inspection is over there must be no more unnecessary expenditure, and Sourgrape is forced to endure my presence for the moment, whilst no doubt planning his next move.

Meanwhile, the Head continues his offensive on socks. Monday’s assembly was entirely constructed around the subject, with the result that since then, virtually all the boys in my form have taken to wearing their most controversial socks to school—with, in some cases, the additional extravagance of a pair of brightly colored sock suspenders.

So far I have counted: one Bugs Bunny, three Bart Simpsons, a South Park, four Beavis and Butt-Heads, and, from Allen-Jones, a shocking-pink pair with the Powerpuff Girls embroidered on them in sequins. It’s fortunate, then, that my eyes aren’t as good as they once were, and that I never notice that kind of thing.

Of course, no one is fooled by the New Head’s sudden interest in anklewear. The date of the school inspection is approaching steadily, and after the disappointing exam results of last summer (thanks to an overburdening of course work and the latest governmental scheme), he knows that he cannot afford a lackluster report.

As a result socks, shirts, ties, and the such will be prime targets this term, as will graffiti, Health and Safety, mice, computer literacy, and walking on the left-hand side of the corridor at all times. There will be in-school assessment for all staff in preparation; a new brochure is already being printed; a subcommittee has been formed to discuss possibilities for improving the image of the school; and an additional row of disabled parking spaces has been introduced in the visitors’ car park.

In the wake of this unusual activity, the porter, Fallow, is at his most officious. Blessed with the ability to seem very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind, he has taken to lurking in corners and outside form rooms, clipboard in hand, overseeing Jimmy’s repairs and renovations. In this way he gets to overhear a great deal of staff conversation, most of which, I suspect, he passes on to Dr. Devine. Certainly, Sourgrape, though he outwardly scorns the gossip of the Common Room, seems remarkably well informed.

Miss Dare was in my form room this afternoon, covering for Meek, who is ill. Stomach ‘flu, or so Bob Strange tells me, though I have my suspicions. Some people were born to teach, others not, and though Meek won’t beat the all-time record—that belongs to a maths teacher called Jerome Fentimann, who vanished at break time on his first day, never to be seen again—I wouldn’t be surprised if he left us midterm, as a result of some nebulous affliction.

Fortunately, Miss Dare is made of stronger stuff. I can hear her from the Quiet Room, talking to Meek’s computer scientists. That calm manner of hers is deceptive; underneath it, she is intelligent and capable. Her aloofness has nothing to do with being shy, I realize. She simply enjoys her own company and has little to do with the other newcomers. I see her quite often—after all, we share a room—and I have been struck by the speed with which she has adapted to the messy topography of St. Oswald’s; to the multitude of rooms; to the traditions and taboos; to the infrastructure. She is friendly with the boys without falling into the trap of intimacy; knows how to punish without provoking resentment; knows her subject.

Today before school I found her marking books in my form room and was able to observe her for a few seconds before she became conscious of my presence. Slim; businesslike in a crisp white blouse and neat gray trousers; dark hair short and discreetly well cut. I took a step forward; she saw me and stood up at once, vacating my chair.

“Good morning, sir. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”

It was seven forty-five. Light, true to type, arrives at five to nine every morning; Bishop gets in early, but only to run his interminable laps, and even Gerry Grachvogel is never in his room before eight. And that “sir”—I hoped the woman wasn’t going to be a crawler. On the other hand, I don’t like freshers to make free of my first name, as if I were the plumber, or someone they’d met down the pub. “What’s wrong with the Quiet Room?” I said.

“Mr. Pearman and Mr. Scoones were discussing recent appointments. I thought it might be more tactful to retire.”

“I see.” I sat down and lit an early Gauloise.

“I’m sorry, sir. I should have asked your permission.” Her tone was polite, but her eyes gleamed. I decided that she was an upstart and liked her the better for it.

“Cigarette?”

“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“No vices, eh?” Please Gods, not another Sourgrape.

“Believe me, I have plenty.”

“Hm.”

“One of your boys was telling me you’d been in this room for over twenty years.”

“Longer, if you count the years as an inmate.” In those days there had been a whole Classics empire; French was a single Tweed Jacket weaned on the
méthode assimil
; German was unpatriotic.

O tempora! O mores!
I gave a deep sigh. Horatius at the bridge, single-handedly holding back the barbarian hordes.

Miss Dare was grinning. “Well, it makes a change from plastic desks and whiteboards. I think you’re right to hold out. Besides, I like your Latinists. I don’t have to teach them grammar. And they can spell.”

Clearly, I thought, an intelligent girl. I wondered what she wanted with me. There are far quicker ways up the greasy pole than via the Bell Tower, and if that was her ambition, then her flattery would have worked better on Bob Strange, or Pearman, or Devine. “You want to be careful, hanging around this place,” I told her. “Before you know it, you’re sixty-five, overweight, and covered with chalk.”

Miss Dare smiled and picked up her marking. “I’m sure you have work to do,” she said, making for the door. Then she stopped. “Excuse me for asking, sir,” she said. “But you’re not planning retirement this year, are you?”

“Retirement? You must be joking. I’m holding out for a Century.” I looked at her closely. “Why? Has someone said anything?”

Miss Dare looked awkward. “It’s just that—” She hesitated. “As a junior member of the school, Mr. Strange has asked me to edit the school magazine. And as I was going over the staff and departmental lists I happened to notice—”

“Notice what?” Now her politeness was beginning to get on my nerves. “Out with it, for gods’ sakes!”

“It’s just that—you don’t seem to have an entry this year,” said Miss Dare. “It makes it look as if the Classics department has been—” She paused again, searching for the word, and I found myself reaching the limits of my patience.

“What? What? Marginalized? Amalgamated? Damn the terminology and tell me what you think! What’s happened to the bloody Classics department?”

“Good question, sir,” said Miss Dare, unruffled. “As far as the school’s literature is concerned—publicity brochures, department listings, school magazine—it just isn’t there.” She paused again. “And, sir…According to the staff listings, neither are you.”

6

Monday, 20th September

It was all over the school by the end of the week. Given the circumstances, you might have expected old Straitley to keep quiet for a while, to review his options and maintain a low profile, but it isn’t in his nature to do that, even when it’s the only wise thing to do. But being Straitley, he marched straight down to Strange’s office as soon as he had confirmed the facts and forced a confrontation.

Strange, of course, denied having done anything underhand. The new department, he said, would simply be known as Foreign Languages, which included Classical and Modern Languages, as well as two new subjects, Language Awareness and Language Design, which were to take place in the computer labs once a week as soon as the relevant software arrived (it would, he was assured, be in place for the school inspection on December 6th).

Classics had neither been demoted nor marginalized, said Strange; instead the entire profile of Foreign Languages had been upgraded to meet curriculum guidelines. St. Henry’s, he understood, had already done so four years before, and in a competitive market—

What Roy Straitley thought of that is not on record. Thankfully, from what I heard, most of the abuse was in Latin, but even so, there remains a polite and meticulous coldness between them.

“Bob” has become “Mr. Strange.” For the first time in his career, Straitley has adopted a work-to-rule attitude to his duties; insists on being informed no later than eight-thirty the same morning if he is to lose a free period, which, though correct according to regulations, forces Strange to arrive at work more than twenty minutes earlier than he would in normal circumstances. As a result, Straitley gets more than his fair share of rainy-day break duties and Friday afternoon cover sessions, which does nothing to ease the tension between them.

Still, amusing though it may be, this remains a small diversion. St. Oswald’s has withstood a thousand petty dramas of the same ilk. My second week has passed; I am more than comfortable in my role; and although I am tempted to enjoy my newfound situation for a little longer, I know that there will be no better time to strike. But where?

Not Bishop; not the Head. Straitley? It’s tempting, and he’ll have to go sooner or later; but I’m enjoying the game too much to lose him so soon. No. There’s really only one place to start. The Porter.

That had been
a bad summer for John Snyde. He had been drinking more than ever before, and at last it was beginning to show. Always a big man, he had thickened gradually and almost imperceptibly over the years, and now, quite suddenly, it seemed, he was fat.

For the first time I was conscious of it; conscious of the St. Oswald’s boys passing the gates; conscious of my father’s slowness, of his bloodshot eyes, of his bearish, sullen temper. Though it rarely came out in work hours, I knew it was there, like an underground wasps’ nest waiting for something to disturb it.

Dr. Tidy, the Bursar, had commented on it, although so far my father had avoided an official reprimand. The boys knew it too, especially the little ones; over that summer they baited him mercilessly, shouting,
John! Hey John!
in their girlish voices, following him in groups as he attended to his duties, running after the ride-on lawn mower as he drove it methodically around the cricket fields and football pitches, his big bear’s rump hanging off either side of the narrow seat.

He had a multitude of nicknames: Johnny Fatso; Baldy John (he had become sensitive about the thinning patch on top of his head, which he tried to camouflage by greasing a long strip of hair to his crown); Doughball Joe; Big John the Chip-Fat Don. The ride-on lawn mower was a perpetual source of merriment; they called it the Mean Machine or John’s Jalopy; it was continually breaking down; rumor had it that it ran off the chip fat that John used to grease his hair; that he drove it because it was faster than his own car. A few times, boys had noticed a beery, stale smell on my father’s breath in the mornings, and since then there had been numerous halitosis jokes; boys pretending to become inebriated on the fumes from the caretaker’s breath; boys asking how far over the limit he was, and whether he was legal to drive the Mean Machine.

Needless to say I usually kept my distance from these boys during my forays into school; for although I was certain my father never even saw beyond the St. Oswald’s uniform to the individuals beneath, his proximity made me uneasy and ashamed. It seemed at these times that I had never really seen my father before; and when, goaded finally into undignified response, he lashed out—first with his voice, and then with his fists—I writhed with embarrassment, shame, and self-loathing.

Much of this was the direct result of my friendship with Leon. A rebel he might have been, with his long hair and his shoplifting forays, but in spite of all that, Leon remained very much a product of his background, speaking with contempt of what he called “the proles” and “the mundanes,” mocking my Sunnybank Park contemporaries with vicious and relentless accuracy.

For my own part, I joined in the mockery without reserve. I had always loathed Sunnybank Park; I felt no loyalty to the pupils there and embraced the cause of St. Oswald’s without hesitation. That was where I belonged, and I made certain that everything about me—hair, voice, manners—reflected that allegiance. At that time I wished more than ever for my fiction to be true, longed for the police-inspector father of my imagination and hated more than words could say the fat, sullen caretaker with his foul mouth and thick, beery gut. With me he had grown increasingly irritable; the failure of the karate lessons had compounded his disappointment, and on several occasions I found him watching me with frank and open dislike.

Still, once or twice, he made a feeble, halfhearted effort. Asked me to a football match; gave me money for the pictures. Most of the time, however, he did not. I watched him sink deeper every day into his routine of television, beer, takeaways, and fumbling, noisy (and increasingly unsuccessful) sex. After a while even that stopped, and Pepsi’s visits grew less and less frequent. I saw her in town a couple of times, and once in the park with a young man. He was wearing a leather jacket and had one of his hands up Pepsi’s pink angora sweater. After that she hardly came to see us at all.

It was ironic that the one thing that saved my father during those weeks was the thing he was growing to hate. St. Oswald’s had been his life, his hope, his pride; now it seemed to taunt him with his own inadequacy. Even so, he endured it; performed his duties faithfully, if without love; squared his stubborn back to the boys who taunted him and sang rude little chants about him in the playground. For me, he endured it; for me, he held out almost to the last. I know that, now that it’s too late; but at twelve so many things are hidden; so many things still to be discovered.

“Hey, Pinchbeck!” We were sitting in the Quad under the beech trees. The sun was hot, and John Snyde was mowing the lawn. I remember that smell, the smell of school days; of mown grass, dust, and of things growing too fast and out of control. “Looks like Big John’s having a spot of bother.”

I looked. So he was; at the limit of the cricket lawn the Mean Machine had broken down again, and my father was trying to restart it, swearing and sweating as he pulled at the sagging waistband of his jeans. The little boys had already begun to close in; a cordon of them, like Pygmies around a wounded rhino.

John! Hey, John! I could hear them across the cricket lawn, budgie voices in the hazy heat. Darting in, darting out, daring one another to get a little closer every time.

“Geddout of it!” He waved his arms at them like a man scaring crows. His beery shout reached us a second later; high-pitched laughter followed. Squealing, they scattered; seconds later they were already creeping back, giggling like girls.

Leon grinned. “Come on,” he said. “We’ll have a laugh.”

I followed him reluctantly, keeping back, removing the glasses that might have marked me. I needn’t have bothered; my father was drunk. Drunk and furious, goaded by the heat and the juniors who wouldn’t leave him alone.

“Excuse me, Mr. Snyde, sir,” said Leon, behind him.

He turned, gaping—taken by surprise by that “sir.”

Leon faced him, polite and smiling. “Dr. Tidy would like to see you in the Bursar’s office,” he said. “He says it’s important.”

My father hated the Bursar—a clever man with a satiric tongue, who ran the school’s finances from a spotless little office near the Porter’s Lodge. It would have been hard to miss the hostility between them. Tidy was neat, obsessive, meticulous. He attended Chapel every morning; drank chamomile tea to soothe his nerves; bred prize-winning orchids in the school conservatory. Everything about John Snyde seemed calculated to upset him: his slouch; his boorishness; the way his trousers came down well over the waistband of his yellowing underpants.

“Dr. Tidy?” said my father, eyes narrowed.

“Yes, sir,” said Leon.

“Shit.” He slouched off, bearish, toward the office.

Leon grinned at me. “I wonder what Tidy’ll say when he smells that breath?” he said, running his fingers over the Mean Machine’s battered flank. Then he turned, his eyes bright with malice. “Hey, Pinchbeck. Want a ride?”

I shook my head, appalled—but excited too.

“Come on, Pinchbeck. It’s too good an opportunity to miss.” And with one light step he was on the machine, pressing the starter button, revving her up—

“Last chance, Pinchbeck.”

I could not refuse the challenge. I jumped up onto the wheel rim, balancing as the Mean Machine lurched into motion. The juniors scattered, squealing. Leon was laughing wildly; grass sprayed out from behind the wheels in a triumphant green spume; and across the lawn John Snyde came running, too slow for it to matter but furious, feather-spitting crazy with rage.

“You boys, there! You fucking boys!”

Leon looked at me. We were nearing the far end of the lawn now; the Mean Machine was making the most terrible noise; behind us we could see John Snyde, helplessly outdistanced, and behind him, Dr. Tidy, his face a blur of outrage.

For a second joy transfixed me. We were magical; we were Butch and Sundance, leaping from the cliff’s edge, leaping from the mower in a haze of grass and glory and running for it, running like hell as the Mean Machine kept going in majestic, unstoppable slo-mo toward the trees.

We were never caught. The juniors never identified us, and the Bursar was so irate at my father’s behavior—at his foul language on school premises, even more than at his drunkenness or his dereliction of duty—that he omitted to follow up whatever leads he might have had. Mr. Roach, who had been (officially) on duty, was given a ticking-off by the Head, and my father received an official warning and a bill for repairs.

None of this had any effect on me, however. Another line had been crossed, and I was elated. Even sticking it to that bastard Bray had never felt as good as this, and for days I walked on a rosy cloud, through which nothing but Leon could be seen, felt, or heard.

I was in love.

At the time
I dared not think so in as many words. Leon was my friend. That was all he ever could be. And yet that’s what it was: blazing, purblind, triple-infatuated, sleepless, self-sacrificing love. Everything in my life was filtered through its hopeful lens; he was my first thought in the morning; my last at night. I was not quite besotted enough to believe that my feelings were in any way reciprocated; to him, I was just a first-year; amusing enough, but by far his inferior. Somedays he would spend his lunch break with me; at other times he might keep me waiting for the entire hour, completely unaware of the risks I ran daily for the chance of being with him.

Nevertheless, I was happy. I did not need Leon’s constant presence for my happiness to flourish; for the time it was enough simply to know he was close by. I had to be clever, I told myself; I had to be patient. Above all I sensed that I must not become tiresome, and hid my feelings behind a barrier of facetiousness whilst evolving ever more ingenious ways to worship him in secret.

I exchanged school sweaters with him, and for a week I wore his around my neck. In the evenings I opened his locker with my father’s master key and went through Leon’s things, reading his class notes, his books, looking at the cartoon doodles he drew when he was bored, practicing his signature. Outside of my role as a St. Oswald’s pupil I watched him from afar, sometimes passing by his house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him—or even his sister, whom I worshipped by association. I memorized the number plate on his mother’s car. I fed his dog in secret. I combed my lank brown hair so that I fancied it looked like his, cultivated his expressions and his tastes. I had known him for just over six weeks.

I anticipated the approaching summer holidays at the same time as a relief and a further source of anxiety. Relief, because the effort of attending two schools—albeit erratically—was beginning to take its toll. Miss McAuleigh had complained about missing homework and frequent absences, and although I had become skilled at forging my father’s signature, there was always the danger that someone might meet him by chance and blow my cover. Anxiety, because although I would soon be free to meet Leon as often as I wished, it meant running even more risks, as I continued my imposture as a civilian.

Fortunately, I had already completed the spadework within the school itself. The rest was a question of timing, location, and a few well-chosen props, mainly costumes, which would establish me as the well-off, middle-class individual I pretended to be.

I stole a pair of expensive trainers from a sports shop in town, and a new racing bike (my own would have been quite impossible) from outside a nice house a comfortable distance away. I repainted it, just to be sure, and sold my own on the Saturday market. If my father noticed, I would have told him I had traded in my old bike for a secondhand model because it was getting too small for me. It was a good story, and would probably have worked, but by then, with the end of term, my father was at last beginning to unravel, and he never noticed anything anymore.