Gentlemen & Players (19 page)

5

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysMonday, 25th October

On the whole, a poor start to the new half-term. October has turned menacing, tearing the leaves from the golden trees and showering the Quad with conkers. Windy weather excites the boys; wind and rain means excited boys in the form room over break; and after what happened last time I left them to their own devices, I dare not leave them unsupervised even for a moment. No break for Straitley, then; not even a cup of tea; and my resulting temper was so bad that I snapped at everyone, including my Brodie Boys, who can usually make me laugh even at the worst of times.

As a result the boys kept their heads down, in spite of the windy weather. I put a couple of fourth-formers in detention for failing to hand in work, but apart from that I hardly had to raise my voice. Perhaps they sensed something—some whiff of prestrike ozone in the air—that warned them that now was not the time for a display of high spirits.

The Common Room, as I understand, has been the scene of a number of small, sour skirmishes. Some unpleasantness about appraisals; a computer breakdown in the office; a quarrel between Pearman and Scoones concerning the new French syllabus. Roach has lost his credit card and blames Jimmy for leaving the Quiet Room door unlocked after school; Dr. Tidy has decreed that as of this term, tea and coffee (hitherto provided free of charge) must be paid for to the tune of £3.75 a week; and Dr. Devine, in his capacity as Health and Safety representative, has officially called for a smoke detector in the Middle Corridor (in the hope of driving me from my smoker’s den in the old Book Room).

On the bright side, there has been no immediate comeback from Strange over Pooley and his torn blazer. I have to say that surprises me a little; I’d have expected that second warning to have arrived in my pigeonhole by now, and can only suppose that Bob has either forgotten the incident altogether or dismissed it as end-of-term foolishness and decided not to take it further.

Besides, there are other, more important things to deal with than one boy’s ripped lining. The offensive Light has lost his driving license, or so Kitty tells me, following some kind of an incident in town over the weekend. There’s more to it than that, of course, but my enforced restriction to the Bell Tower meant that for most of the day I was out of the mainstream of Common Room gossip, and therefore had to rely on the boys for information.

As usual, however, the rumor mill has been at work. One source declared that Light had been arrested following a police tip-off. Another said that Light had been ten times over the legal limit; yet another, that he had been stopped with St. Oswald’s boys in the car with him, and that one of them had actually been at the wheel.

I have to say that at first, none of it troubled me overmuch. Every now and then you come across a teacher like Light, an arrogant buffoon, who has managed to fool the system and enters the profession expecting an easy job with long holidays. As a rule they don’t last long. If the boys don’t finish them off, something else usually does, and life goes on without much of a blip.

As the day wore on, however, I began to realize that there was something more afoot than Light’s traffic offenses. Gerry Grachvogel’s class next to mine was unusually noisy; during my free period I stuck my head around the door and saw most of 3S, including Knight, Jackson, Anderton-Pullitt, and the usual suspects, apparently talking amongst themselves whilst Grachvogel sat staring out of the window with an expression of such abstracted misery that I curbed my original impulse—which was to interfere—and simply returned to my own room without a word.

When I got back, Chris Keane was waiting for me. “I didn’t by any chance leave a notebook here, did I?” he asked as I came in. “It’s a little red leather book. I keep all my ideas in it.”

For once I thought he was looking less than calm; recalling some of his more subversive comments, I thought I could understand why.

“I found a notebook in the Common Room before half-term,” I told him. “I thought you’d reclaimed it.”

Keane shook his head. I wondered whether or not I should tell him I’d glanced inside, then, seeing his furtive expression, decided against.

“Lesson plans?” I suggested innocently.

“Not quite,” said Keane.

“Ask Miss Dare. She shares my room. Maybe she saw it and put it away.”

I thought Keane looked slightly worried at that. As well he might, knowing the contents of that incriminating little book. Still, he seemed cool enough about it and simply said, “No problem. I’m sure it’ll turn up sooner or later.”

Come to think of it, things have had rather a habit of disappearing in the last few weeks. The pens, for instance; Keane’s notebook; Roach’s credit card. It happens occasionally; the wallet I could understand, but I really couldn’t see why anyone would want to steal an old St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, or indeed my form register, which has still not resurfaced—unless it is simply to annoy me, in which case it has more than succeeded. I wondered what other small and insignificant items had disappeared in recent days, and whether the disappearances might be in some way related.

I said as much to Keane. “Well, it’s a school,” he said. “Things vanish in schools.”

Perhaps, I thought; but not St. Oswald’s.

I saw Keane’s ironic smile as he left the room, almost as if I had spoken aloud.

At the end of school I went back into Grachvogel’s room, hoping to find out what was on his mind. Gerry’s a good enough chap, in his way, not a natural in the class, but a real academic with a real enthusiasm for his subject, and it bothered me to see him looking so under the weather. However, when I stuck my head around his classroom door at four o‘ clock, he was not there. That too was unusual; Gerry tends to hang around after hours, messing with the computers or preparing his interminable visual aids, and it was certainly the first time I’d ever seen him leave his room unlocked.

A few of my boys remained at their desks, copying up some notes from the board. I was unsurprised to recognize Anderton-Pullitt, always a laborious worker, and Knight, studiously not looking up, but with that smug little half-smirk on his face that told me he had registered my presence.

“Hello, Knight,” I said. “Did Mr. Grachvogel say if he’d be back?”

“No, sir.” His voice was colorless.

“I think he left, sir,” said Anderton-Pullitt.

“I see. Well, pack up your things, boys, quick as you can. Don’t want any of you to miss the bus.”

“I don’t catch the bus, sir.” It was Knight again. “My mother picks me up. Too many perverts around nowadays.”

Now I try to be fair. I really do. I pride myself upon it, in fact; my fairness; my sound judgment. I may be rough, but I am always fair; I never make a threat that I would not carry out, or a promise I do not mean to keep. The boys know it, and most of them respect that; you know where you stand with old Quaz, and he doesn’t let sentiment interfere with the job. At least I hope so; I’m getting increasingly sentimental with my advancing years, but I don’t think that has ever got in the way of my duty.

However, in any teacher’s career there are times where objectivity fails. Looking at Knight, his head still lowered but his eyes darting nervously back and forth, I was reminded once more of that failure. I don’t trust Knight; the truth is there’s something about him that I’ve always detested. I know I shouldn’t, but even teachers are human beings. We have our preferences. Of course we do; it is simply
unfairness
that we must avoid. And I do try; but I am aware that of my little group, Knight is the misfit, the Judas, the Jonah, the one who inevitably takes it too far, mistakes humor for insolence, mischief for spite. A sullen, cosseted, whey-faced little cuss who blames everyone for his inadequacies but himself. All the same, I treat him exactly as I do the rest; I even tend to leniency toward him because I know my weakness.

But today there was something in his manner that made me uneasy. As if he knew something, some unhealthy secret that both delighted him and made him ill. He certainly
looks
ill, in spite of his smugness; there is a new flare of acne across his pallid features, a greasy sheen to his flat brown hair. Testosterone, most likely. All the same I cannot help thinking the boy
knows
something. With Sutcliff or Allen-Jones, the information (whatever it was) would have been mine for the asking. But with Knight…

“Did something happen in Mr. Grachvogel’s class today?”

“Sir?” Knight’s face was a cautious blank.

“I heard shouting,” I said.

“Not me, sir,” said Knight.

“No. Of course not.”

It was useless. Knight would never tell. Shrugging, I left the Bell Tower, heading for the Languages office and our first departmental meeting of the new half-term. Grachvogel would be there; maybe I could talk to him before he left. Knight—I told myself—could wait. At least until tomorrow.

There was no
sign of Gerry at the meeting. Everyone else was there, which made me more certain than ever that my colleague was ill. Gerry
never
misses a meeting; loves in-service training; sings energetically in assemblies; and always does his prep. Today he wasn’t there; and when I mentioned his absence to Dr. Devine, the response was so chilly that I wished I hadn’t. Still miffy about the old office, I suppose; all the same, there was more in his manner than the usual disapproval; and I was rather subdued during the course of the meeting, going over all the things that I might unwittingly have done to provoke the old idiot. You wouldn’t know it, but I’m quite fond of him really, suits and all; he’s one of the few constants in a changing world, and there are already too few of those to go round.

And so the meeting wore on, with Pearman and Scoones arguing over the merits of various exam boards, Dr. Devine icy and dignified; Kitty unusually lackluster; Isabelle filing her nails; Geoff and Penny Nation sitting to attention like the Bobbsey Twins, and Dianne Dare watching everything as if departmental meetings were the most fascinating spectacle in the world.

It was dark when the meeting finished, and the school was deserted. Even the cleaners had gone. Only Jimmy remained, walking the polishing machine slowly and conscientiously over the parquet floor of the Lower Corridor. “Night, boss,” he told me as I passed. “‘Nother one done, eh?”

“You’ve got your work cut out,” I said. Since Fallow’s suspension, Jimmy has carried out all the Porter’s duties, and it has been a heavy task. “When’s the new man starting?”

“Fortnight,” said Jimmy, grinning all over his moon face. “Shuttleworth, he’s called. Supports Everton. Reckon we’ll get on all right though.”

I smiled. “You didn’t fancy the job yourself, then?”

“Nah, boss.” Jimmy shook his head. “Too much hassle.”

When I reached
the school car park, it was raining heavily. The Nations’ car was already pulling out of their allocated space. Eric doesn’t have a car—his eyesight is too bad, and besides, he lives practically next door to the school. Pearman and Kitty were still in the office, going over papers—since his wife’s illness, Pearman has been increasingly reliant on Kitty. Isabelle Tapi was redoing her makeup—Gods knew how long
that
might take—and I knew I could not expect a lift from Dr. Devine.

“Miss Dare, I wonder if—”

“Of course. Hop in.”

I thanked her and settled into the passenger seat of the little Corsa. I have noticed that a car, like a desk, frequently reflects the owner’s mind. Pearman’s is exceptionally messy. The Nations have a bumper sticker that reads: DON’T FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW JESUS. Isabelle’s has a Care Bear dashboard toy.

By contrast, Dianne’s car is neat, clean, functional. Not a cuddly toy or amusing slogan in sight. I like that; it’s the sign of an ordered mind. If I had a car, it would probably be like room fifty-nine; all oak paneling and dusty spider plants.

I said as much to Miss Dare, and she laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, turning onto the main road. “Like dog owners and their pets.”

“Or teachers and their coffee mugs.”

“Really?” Apparently Miss Dare has never noticed. She herself uses a school mug (plain white, with blue trim) as supplied by the kitchens. She seems remarkably free of whimsy for such a young woman (admittedly, my basis for comparison is not extensive); but this, I think, is a part of her charm. It struck me that she might get on well with young Keane—who is also very cool for a fresher—but when I asked her how she was getting along with the other new staff she simply shrugged.

“Too busy?” I ventured.

“Not my type. Drink-driving with boys in the car. How stupid.”

Well, amen to
that
: the idiot Light had certainly blotted his copybook with his ridiculous antics in town. Easy’s just another disposable Suit; Meek a resignation waiting to happen. “What about Keane?”

“I haven’t really spoken to him.”

“You should. Local boy. I’ve a feeling he might be your type.”

I told you
I was getting sentimental. I’m hardly built for it, after all, but there’s something about Miss Dare that brings it out, somehow. A trainee Dragon, if ever I saw one (though better-looking than most Dragons I have known), I find that I have no difficulty in imagining her in thirty or forty years’ time, looking something like Margaret Rutherford in
The Happiest Days of Your Lives,
if rather slimmer, but with the same humorous twist.

It’s all too easy to get drawn in, you know; at St. Oswald’s, different laws apply than those of the world outside. One of these is Time, which passes much faster here than anywhere else. Look at me: approaching my Century, and yet when I look in the mirror I see the same boy I always was—now a gray-haired boy with too much luggage under his eyes and the unmistakeable, faintly dissipated air of an old class clown.

I tried—and failed—to communicate some part of this to Dianne Dare. But we were nearing my house; the rain had stopped; I asked her to drop me off at the end of Dog Lane and explained that I wanted a chance to check the fence; to make sure the graffiti incident had not been repeated.