Different Class (31 page)

So much for my speculation. Harrington had come in alone. The girl Bethan told me as much, when she came to deliver my pint and my ploughman’s. I am not what you might call a regular at the Scholar, but people tend to remember me. In fact, I believe that Bethan (who runs the Pink Zebra during the day, a small café at the edge of the Village) goes out of her way to spoil me with larger-than-regulation servings of cheddar with my crusty cob. I rather like Bethan, in spite of the black star tattoos that spiral tribally up her arms, and the row of studs in her eyebrow.
Not
a look I admire, as such, but she has a glow.

I sat in the Scholar for over an hour, watching Johnny Harrington. During that time he ordered two more doubles on the rocks, and ate a packet of peanuts. He did not speak to anyone, except for Bethan at the bar, and later on his mobile phone. Then, he left in a hurry, without even finishing his drink.

I would have liked to follow him. But he would have seen me. Instead I watched from the window as, rather than heading for the car park – where that silver BMW gleamed under a lamp-post – he set off at an angry pace towards the trees of Malbry Park, where he was soon lost from view. I had no way of knowing for sure where the man was heading. But the path he’d taken led across the park towards the big houses of Millionaires’ Row. Was that where Harrington’s caller lived? Or was I chasing moonbeams?

Of course I had no answers to any of these questions. But I could tell one thing, at least: that under the remaining veneer of charm and sophistication, under the fog of alcohol, little Johnny Harrington – the perfect politician, a man as sleek as a bag of weasels – was in the throes of a rage that he could barely control. I wondered what could have provoked it. He’d always seemed so coolly immune to normal human weakness—

And then the thought occurred to me that perhaps the thing that I’d been hoping for ever since that first Briefing had just been handed to me on a plate – a weapon to use against him. Do I
need
a weapon? The fact that I reacted so quickly to the idea suggests that perhaps I do. I tried it on for size, like an unexpected new hat, and found that it rather suited me. Who would have known it? That Straitley, of all people – the rock of St Oswald’s; the loyal arm, the stone and mortar of the School – should have looked inside himself and found an assassin looking out?

An assassin
. How melodramatic. And yet, how curiously apt. What was it the Chaplain said?
This Head fails, the School goes down
. That, of course, must not happen. But last year, a solitary
Mole
demonstrated with what ease a stone can bring down a giant. And St Oswald’s has weathered storms before. The old ship is a survivor. Harrington and his posse are nothing but suited privateers, stripping her of everything that might still be of value.

A little thing. That’s all it was. But I’d thought the man impregnable. Now he has shown his underside, and for the first time this term, there is hope. Shakespeare’s Caesar said it best:
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings.

Well, it’s never too late to change. The underling has seen the light. Harrington and I are at war, and I mean to bring him down. And if St Oswald’s goes down with him? But that won’t happen. The Chaplain is wrong. The old frigate has survived too many storms to be wrecked by a cabin boy.

She will survive.
I
will survive.
Ad astra per aspera
.

9

September 27th, 2005

My form was rather subdued today. Allen-Jones is still suspended in the wake of the nail-varnish incident, and the chemistry of the whole group is different without him. His influence, though not what you’d call
disruptive
, is certainly tangible, and in his absence, the rest of my Brodie Boys were unusually silent. Sutcliff and McNair are on report, which means that for every lesson they have to produce a card that the relevant Master has to sign, with space for comments on appearance, behaviour and punctuality. No boy likes being on report, but today I thought I sensed something more; a silent resentment in their eyes, as if they felt I had let them down.

Something has to be done, and fast. But Harrington is untouchable; hedged about by his deputies, he has no obvious weaknesses; his prejudices kept well under wraps. Except for that anger. But what good is that? And how can I use it against him?

Know thine enemy
. But how? It occurred to me that, with the right skills, one might hack into his computer; find incriminating notes – love letters to his secretary, falsified accounts, pamphlets preaching hatred – that would lead to his disgrace and removal. But the computer is not my friend. I spent twenty minutes after School at my new workstation, and barely managed to turn it on. No, I needed a younger man. Someone technologically adept.

And so, after School, I went to find Winter, my erstwhile partner-in-crime. I found him outside, by the bins, and by the time I’d explained my difficulties, he was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

‘The computer doesn’t think for itself,’ he said at last. ‘It’s only as smart as you are. Unless you know just how to look, you’re like a budgie with a mirror, bashing your head against the glass.’

Not a complimentary assessment of my technical know-how, but all the same, quite an accurate one. I’m beginning to wonder how Gloria’s boy ended up being a cleaner at all.

‘Do
you
know about computers?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘What do you need to know?’

I told him. ‘Of course, I’ll pay for your time. Consider it research,’ I said.

‘Research?’ said Winter. ‘I’ll do it for free. Consider it a favour.’

I wonder what I have begun. Roy Straitley, the subversive. You’d as soon expect the gargoyles on the Chapel roof to rebel, as to think that I would do
anything
that might harm St Oswald’s. But the New Head is a parasite. The Honours Boards; the old ways; our relationship with the boys; everything is being siphoned away, to be replaced by mixed classes; Suits; computer stations; e-mail; paper-free offices; Abuse Gurus – things that may look good on paper, but that never touch the heart of the place, because St Oswald’s has always run, not on paper, but on blood, sweat, chalk dust, work and most of all on
loyalty
– loyalty to the boys, the School, and most of all, to each other—

I may be playing the role of Canute, trying vainly to hold back the tide. But nevertheless, I have to believe that I can save St Oswald’s. Any weapon is fair game – a garden gnome; a computer. For years I have resisted change in the hope that it may pass me by. Now I must be the agent of change, uncomfortable as that may be. I find myself thinking back to that old joke of Harrington’s:
How many St Oswald’s Masters does it take to change a lightbulb
? Perhaps the question should really be:
How many lightbulbs will it take to expose Johnny Harrington’s infamy?

All schools have their skeletons. St Oswald’s is no exception. Most of the time, we try our best to keep them in the closet. But this time, the only recourse we have is to throw open
all
the closets, light as many bulbs as we can and catch the vermin as it comes out.

Winter agreed to call round later this evening, after work. He told me he’d look up Harrington, using my staff workstation. I wasn’t entirely convinced that the internet was the means of snaring Harrington, but Winter has a way with technology, and I cannot afford to overlook anything that may be useful. To whom was Harrington speaking last night on his flashy mobile phone? And where did he go afterwards?

Winter arrived at seven o’clock, by which time it was already dark. I forget how fast the nights draw in at this time of year; how much earlier autumn starts than it always used to. My partner-in-crime was carrying a blue folder containing a number of printed sheets.

‘You found all that
today
?’ I said.

Winter shrugged. ‘It isn’t much. The New Head’s online profile is very clean. He doesn’t use social networking sites – at least, not under his own name. He doesn’t have a MySpace, or a blog. He doesn’t use Friends Reunited, although he is mentioned there once or twice. He sometimes buys books on Amazon, but never leaves a review. As for Google—’

I stopped him there, and explained that he’d lost me at ‘online’.

He grinned at that. ‘Sorry. I’ll start again.’

Half an hour later I was, if not fluent, then at least vaguely conversant in the language of the internet. Winter is, of course, a native speaker. He tells me he spends hours online every night, ‘posting’ and ‘blogging’ and so on.

‘But what does it achieve?’ I said, genuinely mystified.

He shrugged. ‘It’s a community. People online interact in much the same way they do in any other community, except that they get to choose who they meet and who they interact with. In real life, you might never meet the handful of compatible people who share your specific interests. Online, you can find them in seconds. You can engage. You can be someone else. You can pretend, for an hour or two, that you’re not stuck here in Malbry.’

How interesting. I had no idea. I wonder if Winter has any friends outside of his virtual community. I suspect his social skills may be lacking; or maybe he simply prefers to be ‘someone else’, as he puts it.

‘Where would you rather be?’ I said.

Winter gave a wry smile. ‘I sometimes think of Hawaii,’ he said. ‘Did you know the Hawaiian archipelago is the longest island chain in the world?’

I shook my head. I’ve been to France a couple of times (mostly on Eric’s insistence) to help out with School trips, but otherwise, St Oswald’s has been my life’s adventure, remaining as exotic now as it was on the first day.

‘Planning a holiday?’ I said.

I thought Winter looked wistful. ‘Maybe someday. Not right now. The flights are pretty expensive.’

‘Maybe you’ll win the Lottery.’

‘Maybe one day I’ll get to play.’

I looked at the file. It contained all we had on little Johnny Harrington. A sparse, if spotless record of online purchases (mostly books); membership of a golf club; donations to several charities, including Survivors and Save the Children; a stay-at-home wife called Elizabeth, prominent in local good works, who likes to buy cashmere sweaters and who lists her calories online. Both his parents are alive and living in the Cotswolds. He has no siblings, and as far as we know, no remaining ties with Malbry.

‘Is that all you found?’ I asked.

Winter opened the blue file. ‘No, sir. I also found this.’ He passed me a printed facsimile of the
Malbry Examiner
.

Well, you know the page, I suppose. It’s the page everyone remembers; with Harry in
that
photograph. Not the most flattering picture, taken on a Sports Day in September ’81, with Harry in shorts and a running singlet, each of his arms flung around a boy. One of those boys was Harrington, impeccable even after his run, the parting in his hair as straight as if the Romans had built it, and even after all this time, I felt a stab of irrational rage at the boy; his loathsome smoothness. The other boy at Harry’s side was a third-year boy from Harry’s form called Tencel or Tessel, whom I’d never taught. Standing apart from the little group was Charlie Nutter, looking away as if at something beyond the frame. And in the background was David Spikely, whose asthma excluded him from Games, grinning at the camera. I wondered how he’d managed to get into the picture at all. He certainly hadn’t run the race. Maybe he’d come to watch his friends. Probably the photographer hadn’t even noticed him.

Winter looked at me curiously. ‘You must have been aware of this,’ he said. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

I sighed. ‘I meant to tell you,’ I said. My heart was still pounding alarmingly. The invisible finger, having poked, moved on. ‘But not tonight, if you don’t mind. It’s rather a difficult story to tell, and I think we both need time to prepare.’

He nodded. ‘Another time, then, sir.’

‘Thank you, Mr Winter.’

When Winter had left, I poured myself a glass of wine and made myself a Welsh rarebit, and read one of Harry’s old diaries. Nothing much there; except for a note about Eric Scoones, who was in charge of the French film club, showing
La Cage aux Folles
, and a sketch of Dr Devine as a drill sergeant, sharp nose twitching fretfully, watching a phalanx of schoolboys running laps around the Quad. From his mouth came a speech bubble, containing the words
Quick, March!
Beneath it, the legend:
Metro-gnome
.

My eyesight was protesting by then. Or maybe it was the smoke from the fire. And so I put the book away and thought about my partner-in-crime, alone in his dead mother’s house, his face illuminated in blue from the glow of the computer screen, talking with his invisible friends. It seems a very lonely way for a man of his age to live. And yet he seems to enjoy it. Of course, he may feel the same about me. But I have St Oswald’s. For now, at least – and for ever, I hope—