Different Class (12 page)

‘So, no Mulberry girls,’ said McNair.

‘Not for us,’ said Allen-Jones.

‘As if
you’d
care,’ said Pink.

He grinned. ‘This class is a fruit-free zone.’

Pink gave a snort of laughter. The rest of my Brodie Boys joined in. I thought there was an edge to the sound – something not quite familiar – and I caught Allen-Jones looking at me, just for a moment, obliquely, as if to gauge the level of my interest.

‘
Do
Mulberry girls count as fruit?’ said McNair.

‘Only if you’re making a pie,’ said Pink, and they were off again into a burst of that laughter that comes so easily to boys; the almost existential mirth that simply comes of being young. The feel of it; the rib-racking way it grabs you and shakes you breathless – I almost remember how that felt, in the days when I was fourteen. That feeling of something wound up tight, like a clockwork animal, springing into action somewhere within the region of the solar plexus and coming out as laughter. Nowadays that mechanism has become old and rusty. I rarely laugh aloud any more. And when I do, it sounds like the call of a lonely bird, ungainly and harsh.

What
is
it with me nowadays? I never used to be so sentimental. Perhaps it’s this Harrington business, coming back to haunt me. Damn it, why did he have to come
here
? There must be a hundred ‘failing schools’ in need of the touch of a Super-Head. Why here? Why St Oswald’s? Even allowing for the peculiar nostalgia of a man approaching middle age, his memories of the dear old place can hardly be the sweetest.

The bell rang, marking the start of the first lesson. The boys all left for their classes, some more efficiently than others. Anderton-Pullitt was the last to go, still rummaging in his desk even after most of my group (a first-form class) had already found their places.

I bit back a sharp reprimand. Anderton-Pullitt is
always
late, due to his inability to stop rearranging his schoolbooks. According to his personal file, this is an obsessive-compulsive disorder connected with his new syndrome, and must be treated with sympathy. I have my own opinions on this. But in the current climate, it’s best to keep those opinions to myself. Besides, the ghosts of pupils past were whispering to me today – and to such a degree that, turning to the blackboard again, for the first time in twenty-four years, I almost wrote
merda, merdam
instead of the usual
mensa
.

The knock at the door, when it came, took me completely by surprise. As a rule, St Oswald’s staff do not wander from form to form during lessons, nor does the Headmaster inflict surprise visits on his colleagues when they are attempting to teach the First Declension to twenty-four fidgety first-years.

‘
Quid agis, Medice?
’ I said, making a joke of my surprise.

Harrington came in, his smile like a rack of headlights. ‘I hope you don’t mind, Mr Straitley,’ he said, ‘but I’m going to be sitting in on some classes over the next few weeks. I’m just a New Boy here, you know. I have to learn the ropes, and fast!’ This was addressed to my first-years, who obligingly shuffled and grinned.

Harrington found himself a seat – the left-hand corner, at the back. Knight’s old place. Of course. I should have expected it. But thirty-four years of St Oswald’s have given me a poker face. I managed a smile at Harrington.

‘Very well, young man,’ I said. ‘The subject is first-year Latin. Don’t think you’re getting an easy ride. Let’s see what
you
remember.’

2

Michaelmas Term, 1981

Dear Mousey,

Remember, remember, the Fifth of November. Gunpowder, treason and plot
. Funny, how we celebrate death. Even in Church, the pictures all seem to be about some kind of torture. Do you know what they did to Guy Fawkes? He jumped off the scaffold and broke his neck, cheating the audience of their show. They hanged and quartered him anyway, and put his severed head on a spike, as if he could never be dead enough. My dad says it’s barbaric. And yet, he’s fine with us going to Church, seeing Jesus nailed to a cross and St Stephen all full of arrows. I mean, what’s the difference? Dead is dead, and martyrdom is in the eye of the beholder. Jesus died so we might live. That sounds better than it is. Like paying for a new sofa in monthly instalments, only to find that by the time you’ve paid, the thing’s already worn out.

I once asked Miss McDonald why people had to die. She said: ‘To make room for babies who haven’t been born.’

Well, Mousey, I wasn’t convinced. Why did we need more babies? And if there were no more babies, then would I live forever?

Tonight was the bonfire in Malbry Park. They’d been building it since last week. By now it was a massive pile; hundreds of pallets, and firewood, and mattresses, and newspapers, and guys made of rags and old clothes stacked as tall as a building. Next to the bonfire, the fireworks were pretty uninspiring. I got as close to the fire as I could. The heart of it was bright orange and roaring like a lion. I wondered if that was what Hell was like. I got a toffee apple. Then Poodle got a bit sick with the smoke, and we had to move further away.

‘What d’you want to be so close for, anyway?’ said Goldie, whose face had gone red with the heat.

‘I wanted to know what it felt like,’ I said. ‘Standing at the gates of Hell.’

Goldie gave me a funny look.

‘You know, when they used to burn witches,’ I said. ‘They thought they were being kind to them. Getting them used to what was to come. You know, like endurance training.’

‘That’s sick,’ Poodle said.

‘I don’t know. It’s kind of cool.’

The thing is with Goldie and Poodle, they don’t always get me. We don’t really have much in common. Apart from being New Boys, of course. And apart from not having siblings. Still, it’s pretty cool sometimes to have someone to talk to in Church, and sit next to in lessons, and have a laugh with occasionally. It means that I fit in at last. I don’t attract attention. And
that
means there’s no trouble from Dad – a welcome change from Netherton Green.

When we got home, there was parkin, and ginger biscuits, and sandwiches, and Mr and Mrs Poodle and Mr and Mrs Goldie, all of them in their Church clothes, sitting in the lounge and discussing St Oswald’s. Mr Poodle was saying how it was the best thing that had happened to his son in years, and all the others were nodding like dogs.

‘Not sure about the form-master, though. He doesn’t seem altogether sound.’

Sound
. Oh, Mousey. That word again.

Goldie’s father nodded. ‘The Chaplain’s a sensible chap, though,’ he said. ‘And of course, there’s John Speight. If ever you need a sensible man to have a quiet word—’

Dad looked at me. ‘Yes. John Speight’s a marvel with the boys. Pity he doesn’t have a Middle School form. Who are the other Middle School form-masters?’

‘There’s Mr Straitley, Mr Scoones, and—’
Harry
, I almost said. ‘Mr Clarke.’ I picked up a piece of parkin. I noticed that Poodle was looking at me kind of sideways. I smiled and went on: ‘Mr Speight’s cool. I wish he was
my
form-teacher.’

I could tell my dad was pleased. ‘Well, we can’t like everyone,’ he said. ‘That’s what school is for. To learn how to get on with people who don’t necessarily share our ideas.’

If only he knew. I gave Poodle a wink. Poodle looked uncomfortable. His eye began to twitch a bit.

‘Oh, Mr Straitley’s all right,’ I said. ‘As long as you’re one of his favourites. There’s a little group of them. They sit with him at lunchtimes.’

Dad frowned. ‘I’m not sure I approve. I’ve never thought masters should fraternize with pupils.’

‘Oh,
we
don’t get invited,’ I said. ‘We’re not special enough for him.’

I didn’t say anything more after that, but I could see the seeds had been sown. Just a few seeds, but with luck they may grow. These are the best years of our lives. We should be having fun. Right? So far, I’ve not had too much fun, except when I’ve been with Harry. But that could change. I hope it will. And Mr Straitley had better not get in the way. Because when people get in my way, bad things sometimes happen. Mr Straitley deserves a surprise. I deserve a little fun. And, as Harry said himself: there’s more to me than meets the eye.

3

Michaelmas Term, 1981

‘What do you mean,
possession
?’ I said, perhaps a little too sharply. ‘As in nine-tenths of the law, perchance?’

He shook his head. ‘No, sir.’

‘Then what?’

Of course, by then I already knew that young Harrington’s parents were deeply religious. They belonged to a local outfit, rather too modern for my taste, called the Church of the Omega Rose, which was housed in a modest square building down in Malbry Village. The Satanic Mr Speight was a regular visitor, as were a number of our boys. Beyond that information, I hadn’t given the place too much thought.

I myself am Church of England by habit, birth and nostalgia; I go to church at Christmas because I happen to like it, and because I enjoy the hymns, but would never describe myself as
devout
. I tend to believe that certain ideas (love, charity, and the like) are worth promoting, while others (such as stoning, narrow-mindedness, demons, fasting, original sin and contempt for those who are different) are best left to wither quietly on one of the dying branches of faith. Others, I knew, did not agree. Harrington Senior was one of them.

‘You mean,
demonic
possession?’ I said.

Harrington nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

I had to laugh. I thought the boy looked slightly offended.

‘I’m sorry,’ I told him. ‘Please go on. You were telling me about – your friend.’

‘Well, sir. He has all the signs. Mood swings, nervous tics, bad skin, obsessed with death—’

‘That’s
adolescence
, Harrington. I think you’ll find that’s normal.’

The joke, mild as it was, failed to melt his composure. ‘Sir. It
isn’t
normal. He thinks about it
all the time
. He keeps saying he’s going to die, and then he’s going to burn in Hell and there’s nothing anyone can do.’

That made me sit up a bit. Unlike the girls of Mulberry House, my boys were not generally prone to fits of excessive sensibility. Harrington didn’t seem the type to indulge in morbid thoughts, but nevertheless, I told myself, this might be a cry for attention. I found myself checking his face for blemishes, but apart from a single spot on his chin, the boy seemed remarkably acne-free.

‘Is – your friend – a believer?’ I said.

‘He used to be,’ said Harrington. ‘Now, I don’t know what he is.’

‘And do you know of any reason he might be feeling – unhappy?’

He shook his head. ‘He’s not
unhappy
, exactly. My father says there’s something missing in him. Like a light’s been turned out.’

‘
He
thinks there’s a problem, then?’

Harrington shrugged. ‘He thinks we should pray. That’s his answer to everything.’

I said: ‘The idea of possession doesn’t have to be literal. When you say something like:
What’s got into you?
you really mean:
Is there anything wrong?
And when you say:
I’m not myself
—’

‘Sir, it isn’t me, sir.’

I lied. ‘Of course I believe you. But if you can’t tell me the name of your
friend
, or why you think he may be—’

‘Possessed.’

‘Quite.’ I was starting to wonder now whether this might all be some kind of joke. But Harrington’s agitation was real. I would have bet my life on it.

The boy gave me a sideways look. ‘Sir. You don’t believe, sir.’

‘Do you?’

I thought he flinched at that. ‘I only want to help, sir.’

I only want to help
, he said. Who wouldn’t have believed him then? Sincerity tempered with awkwardness – and just the right amount of concern.

‘Then why not tell me the name of your friend?’ I asked, just as the lesson bell went. Outside, in the corridor, came the sounds of activity. Harrington glanced at the door. For a moment, I thought I saw a shadow of something cross his face. Had he seen someone standing there? Someone he wanted to avoid?