Different Class (24 page)

And then, the day before New Year’s Eve, came the news that a boy had disappeared. Not in the local press this time, but in
The Times
, and on TV, on
Nationwide
and the nine o’clock news. At four fifteen or thereabouts, a teenage boy had disappeared on his way home from White City, barely half a mile away.

No one had seen anything suspicious. No one knew where the boy might have gone. Last seen at a corner shop, where Mill Lane turns into Parkside Road, he’d stopped to buy a bottle of squash, and then had apparently disappeared from the face of the planet—

The boy was Charlie Nutter. And he had last been seen less than a hundred yards away from Harry’s house on Parkside Road, just over from the clay pits.

P
ART
F
OUR

Fama volat.
      (V
ERGIL
)

1

December 1981

So that was Christmas, Mousey. Old films; Queen’s Speech; dinner in front of the TV. It’s OK, unless you’re used to a higher level of excitement. And then there’s the way you have to pretend that you’re having a brilliant time; opening presents; reading cards; pretending they’re just what you wanted. The new bike on the front porch that you have to pretend is
such
a surprise. The money from your grandparents in a re-used envelope, with a card that looks as if it came from a second-hand shop in the fifties. And then there’s the turkey, dried to a crisp, and the pudding, and the mince pies; and the carol service in the Church, with the red-haired Mulberry girl wearing a long white nightgown and singing ‘Little Donkey’.

I’ve not seen Poodle or Goldie much. Poodle’s had some trouble at home. Doesn’t surprise me, really. He never could keep a secret. Anyway, his Condition now seems to be public knowledge, thanks to his mother. Seems she found some of Poodle’s drawings, hidden inside a schoolbook. It didn’t take long to get him to confess, and then it was just a matter of time.

Poodle’s mother took the lead, with the Church’s help, of course. A group of regular preachers, including Goldie’s dad, Mr Speight and some visitors from another Church, got together, had some talks, and finally staged a Group Event. I didn’t join in. I could have done, but I’d been through something similar after what happened at Netherton Green, and I didn’t want reminding. I still remember what it was like: standing in front of everyone; the shouting; the chorusing; the noise; the way the preacher spoke to me, as if I wasn’t really there, but somewhere else, and floating. And then there was the baptism, in a font of water. Not so much a baptism as a
drowning
, I thought at the time; a means of getting those demons out. But the water was cold; and his hand on my head was pushing me under the surface; and the noise of the congregation was a giant clatter and baffle and roar, and I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I would die—

‘Why didn’t he go to the Chaplain?’ said my dad to Poodle’s mum.

As if Dr Burke would have known what to do. A useless jellyfish of a man, who couldn’t spot a
real
problem if it were happening right under his nose. I didn’t say that to Dad, of course. But honestly, the idea of going to the Chaplain for any kind of personal advice is just too hilarious for words. He’d probably just tell you to run a few laps, take a shower, and pray.

Poor Poodle. Goldie says he’s been ill. Stomach ’flu, or something. But Goldie has other things on his mind. Or rather, one thing. Becky Price, the red-haired Flamingo girl from Church. Turns out she’s a goer – at least as far as third base – and Goldie’s completely obsessed, both with her and with all the nasty thoughts that generally come with the package.

‘Just don’t tell my dad,’ he said. ‘He’s nuts about chastity. If he finds out about me and Beck, he’ll go crazy. He’s done it before.’

Turns out Goldie’s dad once caught him playing with himself in bed, or something, and came to the conclusion that he’d been corrupted by the other kids at his school. I can’t say I’m surprised, actually. It’s what I would have expected of him.

Goldie grinned. ‘You would, though,’ he said. ‘Given a chance, wouldn’t you?’

I shrugged. No, Mousey, I don’t think I would. Personally, I think I’m immune to that kind of temptation. But Goldie’s spending all his time with Becky down by the clay pits. They use the back of Poodle’s old car. They’ve got a mattress in there, and rugs, and sometimes they light a fire outside, in a metal dustbin. I don’t think Poodle knows about that. He’s more or less grounded till term starts. Now, with everything at Church, it won’t be long before he cracks. What will he do then? Who knows? And isn’t that all part of the fun?

2

September 19th, 2005

I did not sleep well last night. As a result, this morning is tiled with the gritty light of insomnia. This happens more often than not nowadays, especially when I indulge. And it does not help that Dr Devine is a whirlwind of nervous energy; organizing litter patrol, reporting potential Health & Safety risks and bonding with his new protégé, Markowicz, whose term so far – at least from the number of times I have had to cover his classes – seems to have been almost entirely taken up by meetings, conferences and courses.

In Devine’s book (and the Head’s, it seems) this makes Markowicz a Promising Young Man, destined for the greatness of a full-time administrative post, rather than actually teaching boys. A dull old business, this teaching of boys, to which such sticklers as Eric and I have devoted our whole careers, but which Markowicz will escape within three years, as one of the Heads of the future.

As for Devine, I believe he sees himself as Dr Blakely’s potential successor, once the Crisis Team has completed the salvaging of St Oswald’s. Like Bob Strange, he still expects the new, streamlined St Oswald’s to find a special place for him in reward for his years of service. The likelier outcome, I believe, is that he will be encouraged to take premature retirement to make way for a younger, cheaper man, knocked off like the rest of the barnacles while the likes of Markowicz rise to take the helm of the ship. He may speak highly of courses, but he himself avoids them, preferring to work at the chalk-face (although he would never admit to this), and I suspect that Markowicz’s all-too-frequent absences will soon begin to gall him. Devine believes in departmental self-sufficiency, which means that when a colleague is absent, the other members will cover for him. And Devine has too much pride to ask the League of Nations to fill the shoes of his absent protégé, besides which, as Head of House and Health & Safety Officer, he has by far the most free time of anyone in the department. This means that, in effect, Devine teaches
two
timetables every time Markowicz goes on a course. As a result, I thought he looked tired as he came into the Common Room for his morning coffee.

‘Overdoing things, Devine? You’re looking a little worse for wear.’

He sniffed. ‘Never better, thank you.’

‘How’s young Markowicz?’ I asked. ‘Shaping up, is he?’

Again, that sharp, percussive sniff. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it. ‘Very nicely, thank you,’ he said. ‘Give him a term, he’ll be right at home.’

‘Well, he’s certainly got
you
where he wants you,’ I said. ‘How many days has he been in School? Is he even housetrained yet?’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Devine. ‘I’ll have you know that Markowicz has been fast-tracked for success. We’re very lucky to have him here.’

I sensed a note of depression, and smiled. ‘Of course we are. What is it this time? Assertiveness training? Computer skills?’

‘Visual aids.’

‘Marvellous.’

Gerry Grachvogel, the well-meaning ass whom Markowicz has now replaced, was a firm believer in visual aids – and was even rumoured to use glove puppets with the younger classes, a tactic which had earned him the nickname
Kermit
from my Brodie Boys. I wonder whether Markowicz will ever earn himself a nickname, or whether he will be one of those staff members – like Thing One and Thing Two – that the boys barely recognize when they meet them in the corridor. I suspect the latter.

‘Come on, Devine,’ I said. ‘I can practically hear your teeth gnashing. Glove puppets and flashcards?’

‘Not at all,’ said Dr Devine. ‘Educational computer games to aid in language acquisition. Given the current trend for using IT in the classroom, Markowicz – and
I
– felt it would be useful to investigate the new software available. Now if you don’t mind—’ He gathered his papers under his arm and picked up his briefcase. ‘I have to go. Registration in five minutes.’

First lesson was Sixth-Form Latin with my boys and the Mulberry girls, to which the Headmistress, Miss Lambert, had chosen to invite herself, ostensibly to check on the girls, but in actual fact to check on me.

Call-me-Jo
installed herself right at the back of the classroom, legs crossed almost high enough to reveal her stocking-tops under the sky-blue tweed skirt.

I could tell that the boys found this alarming, as did the girl Benedicta, the only one of the Mulberry girls who seems to have any kind of sense. The rest of the girls clearly adore their stylish Headmistress, and there was a great deal of giggling during our translation of a passage from
Aeneid
IX, mostly instigated by the Headmistress herself, who believes that learning should be ‘fun’, and that ‘fun’ entails a great deal of giggling. At this rate my boys will be out of control by Christmas, and the whole curriculum will be
raptus regaliter
– as Allen-Jones puts it, or ‘royally screwed’.

I’ll admit I was a little short with the woman, especially when she asked the class whether ‘romance had blossomed yet’ between any of my boys and her girls. Damn the woman to Hades and back. She’s like a Jane Austen character. Next she’ll be picking out muslin and asking the vicar for afternoon tea.

The girl Benedicta gave me a look of sympathy as the class filed out. ‘Sorry, sir,’ she mouthed at me almost inaudibly as she left.

I watched her go, intrigued and concerned. That girl is far too sensible. Mulberry House will spit her out like a cat with a furball. The other girls are trouble enough, with their hair-flicking antics, their eye for the boys and their interminable giggling, but if ever
real
trouble raises its head, I’m guessing Ben will be behind it. This feeling is exacerbated by the fact that she seems to be getting friendly with Allen-Jones, of all people. I’ve seen them together, and although fourth-year boys are not allowed into the Sixth-Form Common Room, she sometimes comes into the fourth-year room (sixth-formers can go anywhere), where she can often be seen chatting to my Brodie Boys, in defiance of the convention that states that boys and girls do not mingle, and that different year groups exist in a state of mutual antagonism. Still, my boys are unusual, and rather more fun than her peers, I suspect. Their friendship is a small ray of light in Harrington’s growing darkness.

The rest of the day was difficult, fraught as it was with potential for war. Eric is still avoiding me, following our recent fracas. Miss Malone – aka the Foghorn – was absent, which meant that I had to cover for her. According to Kitty Teague, she suffers from depression. I sympathize, of course – but St Oswald’s is not for the sensitive, and I suspect that the Foghorn may commandeer many more of my free afternoons, now that the honeymoon is over.