Different Class (21 page)

It had been a busy few weeks. Over the second half of the Michaelmas term, I’d been engaged in a number of domestic affairs, including some Sixth-Form Latin coaching, the impending arrival of twenty French Exchange students from La Baule, with all the disruption that would entail, another untimely fall of snow and that School production of
Antigone
, which, aside from having claimed the souls of two of my brightest fifth-formers, also meant that Harry was taken up with rehearsals every lunchtime and every night till the end of term.

Then there were the rabbits. A rather nasty incident involving a half-dozen rabbits in a run at the back of the School and cared for by members of my form as part of a science project – all of them found dead one day by the boy assigned to feed them.

At first I assumed that a fox had got in. But there were no marks on the rabbits, which were discovered neatly laid out side by side in their little pen, damp, but otherwise intact. Rumours of black magic instantly ran through the Middle School. The boy, a susceptible youngster by the name of Newman, was very upset by the whole thing, and was duly offered counselling by the Chaplain
and
the Satanic Mr Speight, the combined influence of which froze him into a rigid pillar of misery – rather like a rabbit himself, caught in two sets of headlights.

This isn’t to say that I
forgot
about Charlie Nutter, or Harry Clarke; but they were not my only concerns, and besides, I only had Harrington’s word (and Harry’s, of course) that anything was wrong at all. Given his son’s lacklustre results, I expected to see Stephen Nutter, MP, at one of our end-of-term Parents’ Evenings, at which point I thought perhaps I might broach the subject of Charlie’s unease – no,
not
his sexuality, which I’d decided was none of my business unless it affected his Latin verbs, but maybe his general state of mind. In any case, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Meanwhile, Harrington’s parents were due to see me about their son’s progress, and after the poor start to the term, I was eager to make as good an impression as possible.

They came on a Wednesday evening – the first of three devoted to meetings. In those days, we held these in our form-rooms, at intervals of ten minutes each. Some had allocated times between the hours of six and nine, others just turned up on the night. A row of chairs outside the door enabled the parents to wait their turn. An almost foolproof system, made near-impossible to predict by the fact that St Oswald’s parents, like their sons, are often late for meetings; often rude and badly organized; and anyway, are quite incapable of keeping to their allocated ten-minute slot. As a result, these evenings rarely finished before ten thirty, after which we were all exhausted and in no condition to teach the next day.

I’d taken a break in the Common Room, rather than go home for dinner. The kitchens always sent a tray of refreshments for those who preferred to stay in School, and many of the staff availed themselves of the opportunity. On this occasion, I’d barely started my first sandwich when Dr Devine came into the room, looking pressed and efficient. He gave me a look that seemed to take in every detail of my person, from the crumbs on my tie to the chalk marks on my gown – his own, of course, was immaculate; I suspected he’d actually
ironed
it – and said: ‘When you’ve finished, Straitley, there are parents waiting to see you.’

When you’ve finished, Straitley
. As if a ham and cheese sandwich – and maybe a scone, followed by coffee and a leisurely Gauloise – were some kind of orgiastic feast, which maybe, to Devine, it was.

‘They’re
two hours early
,’ I pointed out.

Devine just gave me one of his looks. It was a look that conveyed in a glance everything that was wrong with me: my unruly hair – more of it then, of course, and distressingly curly; my lackadaisical posture; my tweed jacket, which was durable, if not exactly glamorous; even the smell of chalk dust and smoke that seemed a part of my essential being – all of it marked and judged lacking by Dr Devine, the self-appointed arbiter of everything.

I cursed Devine in Latin and went back to room 59, where I found the Harringtons, sitting outside and dressed for church; she in a beige fur-collared coat and a modest string of pearls, he in the kind of charcoal suit that manages to convey both affluence and self-restraint. I shook their hands and invited them in (much as folklore dictates we should invite a vampire before he can feed).

Mrs Harrington sat down. Dr Harrington (MA, Oxon) remained standing, which meant that I was obliged to perch uncomfortably on the teacher’s desk, neither seated nor standing. Not a good position for a Junior Master trying to project a confident sense of authority. Nowadays, his son relies on just the same kind of tactics.

A moment for Harrington Senior. It was the first time I’d seen him. A tall man with dark-blond hair and a striking resemblance to his son. Long, elegant, brain-surgeon’s hands; an obstinate line between his eyes. Five years older than I was, at most; and yet I found myself stumbling through my words of welcome like an ill-prepared schoolboy.

‘Mr Straitley,’ said Harrington Senior, cutting short the pleasantries. ‘Perhaps, as Johnny’s form-master, you could give us some insight as to our son’s lack of progress over the term.’

That took me rather by surprise. Most parents do not initiate discussion on Parents’ Evenings. In fact, most parents do not expect to hear specific concerns from members of staff, but only attend in order to feel (however wrongly) that they are taking an active part in their son’s education. The truth is that most parents are best kept as far away from their sons’ education as possible, while the professionals deal with the day-to-day business of teaching. Parents’ Evenings are simply a means of reassuring parents that they are doing all they can, and ensuring that they do not feel the need to visit the School again. There are exceptions – boys who actually
need
the School to involve their parents; but for the most part, parents are the least helpful port of call for a Master trying to do his job.

The thing is, no parent can possibly have the objectivity of a Master. No parent really believes, deep down, that their son could be a liar; a bully; a cheat; a thief – or worse still, just an average boy, unexceptional in every way. Masters know the truth, of course. Few boys are exceptional. All boys are lazy. All boys lie. And parents, however progressive or realistic in theory, have a ridiculous blind spot where their particular boy is concerned, making them unreliable at best, and at worst, a downright liability.

‘Lack of progress?’ I said. ‘I don’t think that’s entirely—’

‘With respect, Mr Straitley. You’ve known my son for less than a term. I have known him for fourteen years. And I know when he is not working to his full capacity.’

I gave an inward sigh. Oh, gods. An
educator
. Some parents are not content to let a mere Master teach their son. They have to teach him by proxy, poking a thumb into every pie, making themselves unbearable, proffering opinions on all subjects, from PE to School dinners. I suppose I should have expected this; the fact that the parents had home-schooled the boy should have warned me that they were not yet ready to relinquish control over their son’s education.

‘Johnny’s very bright,’ I said. ‘Well above the class average. Top marks in Latin. Top marks in Maths. He can’t be top in everything.’

Mrs Harrington waved aside her son’s achievements in Latin and Maths.

‘We’re quite aware of how bright he is,’ she told me. ‘But, as you already know, he’s finding it hard to fit in here. He isn’t used to being in such a large school environment, and, of course, he’s extremely sensitive.’

Sensitive
. Now there’s a word that strikes unease into a Master’s heart. Parents and psychologists use it when combating instances of inappropriate behaviour, where it acts as a get-out-of-jail-free card whenever the boy in question feels the need to assert his personality.

‘But Johnny
has
been to school before,’ I said. ‘Two years in a junior school. Did he have the same problems there?’

I saw Mrs Harrington’s face twitch. ‘That place wasn’t good for him,’ she said. ‘Too many negative influences. That’s why we sent him here, Mr Straitley. A good, traditional boys’ school. We thought that would make things easier.’

‘What kind of negative influences do you mean?’ I was curious. The file I had on young Harrington from his previous school contained nothing untoward. Certainly, nothing to suggest that he had left under a cloud, or that any kind of incident was connected with his departure.

Mrs Harrington twitched again. Her husband put a hand on hers. She dropped her gaze immediately.

‘We feel that most schools in this country try to sexualize children far too early,’ said Dr Harrington. ‘We’d rather see our son brought up with unambiguous moral values, rather than being led to believe that immorality is a
choice
, or that foul language, or references to sodomy or fornication are acceptable because they occur in so-called “literature” rather than the real world.’

I gave another inward sigh. ‘I see. This is about Johnny’s English exam.’

Dr Harrington nodded. ‘In part. When a boy is given trash to read, he becomes lazy and indolent. Before long, he starts to believe that learning doesn’t matter, or that hard work can be faked, or that his elders can be mocked—’

I sensed the approach of a sermon. ‘I’m afraid the School curriculum can’t be altered just for one boy. I’m sure Johnny’s faith is strong enough to withstand a bit of Chaucer.’

‘It isn’t just a question of faith,’ said Dr Harrington crisply. ‘It’s a question of innocence. Our son is an innocent. It’s your job to see that he stays that way. As for the curriculum, we’ve arranged for Johnny to be moved out of Mr Fabricant’s group. We think a sound teacher and a different reading list would solve most of his problems.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it would. But don’t you think—’

‘We’ve taken advice from Mr Speight, who happens to be a member of our church. He fully supports our decision. In fact, he believes that it should be up to the parents to decide which books are suitable for their sons to study. And I, for one, don’t think that Mr Fabricant, with his predilection for French pornography, is fit to choose the syllabus.’

French pornography?
‘You mean his book on the Marquis de Sade.’

‘Absolutely. And I mean to speak to the Headmaster about this. Parents have a right to know if a pervert is teaching their sons.’

‘I wouldn’t call Mr Fabricant a
pervert
,’ I protested.

‘Then what exactly
would
you call a man who makes a celebration of filth, and writes books encouraging young people to treat it as literature?’

I steered the discussion back to less difficult waters. Of course, Johnny Harrington’s parents had a right to their beliefs, but as far as education is concerned, I’ve always believed that religion, like politics, is something best left at the School gates.

‘English aside, how does Johnny feel about the way he’s settling in? It’s sometimes hard for a seventh-term boy to make friends as quickly as the rest. But he does have a couple of good friends. Charlie Nutter, for instance—’

‘That’s not a connection we’re keen to encourage,’ interrupted Dr Harrington.

‘Really? Why?’

There was a pause. They looked at each other.

‘Charlie Nutter is a troubled young man,’ said Mrs Harrington at last. ‘Much as we sympathize, we don’t think Johnny should be spending too much time with him. He has—’

‘Demons?’ I suggested, and smiled.

‘Quite,’ said Mrs Harrington.

4

September 16th, 2005

Ira furor brevis est
. Rage is a brief insanity. My anger over the Head’s refusal to allow Harry’s memorial service had not cooled overnight, but it had become a little more cautious. Thus this morning I arrived at Harrington’s office at seven fifteen, to find him already in there, pouring a cup of coffee from the espresso machine in the corner and looking fresh and guileless.

Some men do not change very much from the teenage boy they used to be. Harrington has grown, of course, but the essentials remain the same. The smooth, blond hair; good skin; the suit that might have come from a fashion magazine. I caught the briefest glimpse of his unguarded expression before the politician’s smile appeared, stretching over his features like a cartoon mask.

‘Mr Straitley! Please, come in.’

That
was disingenuous. His deliberate use of my surname – inviting me to ask him to call me Roy, or seem churlish in not doing so – the smug, proprietary way in which he gestured towards the chair positioned in front of the Headmaster’s desk – the blotter still scarred by repeated explosions from Shitter Shakeshafte’s torpedo pen – oh, he was a politician all right; smarter than most politicians, double-dipped in a toxic brew of arrogance and sanctity.

‘I’m sorry you had to come in so early,’ he said. ‘There are so many things to do. Good thing I need so little sleep.’