Different Class (4 page)

Michaelmas Term, 1981

Dear Mousey,

So this is St Oswald’s. Can’t say I’m impressed. Everything’s so
old
– the desks, the Honours Boards, the gym, even the staff are all ancient. It’s like being in a museum full of dusty old stuffed animals. Mr Scoones, who shows French films at lunchtimes and probably thinks he’s
très cool
. Dr Devine, who never smiles. And Mr Straitley – the worst of them, with his Latin jokes and his sarcasm. I wish I was back at Netherton Green. I wish I was in a different class.

So many people are animals, under the skin and the uniform. A pig, an elephant, a dog. With his big head and curly hair, Mr Straitley’s a pantomime lion, playing to the gallery of all his baying sycophants. Mr Scoones is a bullfrog, full of air and pompousness. Dr Devine is a mantis, all brittle and righteous. Most of the boys are dogs, of course. Running in packs, begging for scraps, yapping ‘
Yes sir, no sir.
’ I used to have a dog, you know. Not for long. I hate dogs.

The Head of St Oswald’s is Dr Shakeshafte. He looks like a pig. Small eyes, big nose. The other boys call him ‘SS’. At first I thought that this was because he was a German teacher, but now I think it’s something rude. I don’t like him either. On my first day he yelled at me for going the wrong way down South Stair.
South Stair
. In the singular. That’s what they call it here. In fact, there are forty-three (plural)
stairs
, but apparently St Oswald’s rules override the rules of grammar.

And St Oswald’s is a maze. There’s the Bell Tower, of course. That’s where my form-room is. I’ll be running up and down stairs all day. Then there’s the Upper Corridor that runs across the top floor. Below that, there’s the Middle Corridor that connects it with the ground floor, and finally the Lower Corridor at the far end of the building. On either end, there’s a flight of stairs.

This is where it gets complicated. According to St Oswald’s rules, Lower and Middle School boys can only go
up
North Stair, and
down
South Stair. This is to
Ease Congestion
, says Dr Shakeshafte. Out of bounds to Lower and Middle School boys are: the Upper School Common Room, the Sixth Form Common Room, the Staff Common Room (of course), the Quiet Room, the Chapel (outside of services), the boiler room, the Porter’s Lodge and pretty much
all
form-rooms unless a master is present. (That’s what we call them here. Masters. Does that make us all dogs?)

Then there are the
other
rules I am somehow expected to know. Line up outside your classroom. Stand up when a master comes in. Always say
Sir
when you’re talking to a master. Say
Sir
to prefects, too, and make sure you do what they tell you. Don’t take your blazer off unless the Head announces
Shirt Sleeve Order
in Assembly. Don’t eat in the corridors. Always keep your shirt tucked in. Don’t bring your own books into the library. Always keep to the left-hand side. Already I’ve been shouted at a hundred times.
New Boy, don’t do that! New Boy, walk on the left!
How hard is it to remember a name? Maybe I’ll change mine to New Boy.

I sometimes try to tell myself that I’ll only be here for five years, max. That will make me eighteen. I’ll be practically old by then. Sometimes I already feel old. If the average life is seventy years, then I have fifty-six years left. Fifty-six more years. That’s all. And five of them will be wasted here. That leaves me with just fifty-one. Fifty-one years of existence. It makes me shiver all over to think that people will be alive when I’m dead. People who haven’t been born yet; people who’ve never heard of me. Kids who are younger than I am now, with more of their lives ahead of them.

I know I shouldn’t think about that. It doesn’t help My Condition. But it’s like scratching a midge-bite. It hurts a bit, but it feels good, too. Besides, I know how to deal with that now. I’m in control of it, Mousey.

My new form is 3S. There are two other New Boys there. You can tell by their blazers. Everyone else’s blazer is worn shiny at the elbows. The rest of the uniform may be new, but blazers are expensive. Parents like to make them last, at least until the fourth year, when you have to go from a plain blazer to one with a blue trim. Only a New Boy’s parents would buy a blazer for just one year. And only a New Boy’s parents would buy him a briefcase so shiny and new that it actually
creaked
when he opened it. That shine; that creak. Those are the signs of a New Boy.

Anyway, those two New Boys. Nothing special, either of them. One of them is a golden retriever, well fed and well bred. The other’s a nicely clipped poodle, not big enough to be scrappy, but one that might give you a bite on the leg if it thought you weren’t looking. No one has said much to me up to now. The New Boys are trying to play it cool. Or maybe no one’s interested. Unless you want to join a team, a Seventh Term Boy is surplus. My House Master, Mr Fabricant, came into the form-room the other day at lunch break, trying to sign me up for the School Orchestra, but I told him I couldn’t spare the time.

He gave me a kind of sad-doggy look. ‘Well,
that’s
disappointing,’ he said. ‘I would have thought you’d be happy to join. Make friends; contribute to the House.’

(That’s right, we’re in Houses. Mine is Parkinson House, which means that I get to wear a red tie if I earn a hundred House Points. I doubt I will. Still, Mr Fabricant doesn’t know that. To him, I’m an unknown quantity, all bright and new and shiny.)

I gave him my brightest New Boy smile. ‘I’m awfully sorry, sir,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I’m waiting to see how much work I have to do before I catch up with the other boys. I hope it won’t be
too
much. But until I know for sure, I can’t afford to take on any extra commitments.’

Mr Fabricant looked happier. ‘Oh, well, I suppose that’s all right. It’s nice to see you taking it so seriously. Maybe once you’ve settled in—’

‘I’ll be sure to tell you, sir.’

I noticed Goldie and Poodle watching me as they ate their lunch.

‘What did you get?’ said Poodle.

I always get the same thing. Same sandwich, same piece of fruit, same kind of snack at Break. No sweets, no crisps, no cake, nothing my mum would think common. Like I’m going to be judged, somehow. As if a healthier diet could cure me of My Condition.

‘We could share, if you like,’ I said.

So we pooled our resources. Three sandwiches – one ham in a bap; one cheese and pickle on brown; one peanut butter on Mother’s Pride – two bags of salt and vinegar crisps; half a pork pie; two Mr Kipling’s Bakewell Tarts; a quarter of Yorkshire Mixture; a Blue Riband bar; a Wagon Wheel; some sweet cigarettes; some Lucozade and a satsuma. Goldie’s mother always gives him money to buy whatever he likes. Poodle is hyperactive, and isn’t supposed to eat chocolate. (Of course, he took the Wagon Wheel. I pretended not to care.)

After that, we talked a bit. I learnt that both of them go to our Church. Neither have brothers or sisters. We don’t have much in common, except for those brand-new blazers, but I can’t afford to be choosy. If I’m to fit in here, I’ll need some friends of the kind my father would approve.

After a bit, Poodle spoke up. ‘We don’t have to stay here at lunchtimes,’ he said. ‘We can go to Mr Clarke’s room. He plays records and everything. He’s way cooler than Straitley.’

Mr Clarke is Poodle’s English master. He has a fifth-form, and his room is just above Mr Straitley’s. Mr Straitley’s classroom is a lot like Mr Straitley; messy and covered in chalk dust. There are wooden desks with inkwells, and a squeaky old blackboard. But Mr Clarke’s room is a little glass room built a bit like a greenhouse, with plastic desks, big windows, and posters on the ceiling and walls.

Mr Clarke isn’t my teacher, worse luck. He teaches the other group. Mr Fabricant teaches ours, and although I haven’t been here long, I can already tell that he’s no fun at all. Mr Fabricant is a goat, all grey-haired and straggly. But Mr Clarke is actually cool. He has a record player in his room,
and
a bubblegum machine. He doesn’t mind if boys come in, even boys from another class.

‘Come on,’ said Poodle. ‘Check it out.’

We followed him up to Mr Clarke’s room. It was almost empty. Later I found that the fifth-form had their own Common Room downstairs. Mr Clarke was at his desk, going through a box of LPs, but he looked up as we came in.

‘Ah, you’re just in time,’ he said, pulling an album out of the box. The name of the album was
Animals
. It was by a band called Pink Floyd.

I don’t know much about music, you know, except for the kind my parents like. Elgar and Mozart and stuff like that. I’m not allowed to watch
Top of the Pops
, or listen to music on Radio 1. I sometimes do, though, when Dad’s not there, so I know at least some of the hits. But I couldn’t tell you what was so special about this music of Mr Clarke’s, except that it
was
– special, I mean – like fingers playing on my spine. I didn’t even recognize any of the instrumental sounds. I thought perhaps there was something in there that
might
have been a guitar, or a voice, or a synth, or some kind of animal in pain.

And all the song titles were named after animals; ‘Pigs’; ‘Sheep’; ‘Dogs’. That one was my favourite. ‘Dogs’. I felt like someone had opened up a dirty window in my mind.

‘Wow,’ I said, when it finished.

Mr Clarke looked up and smiled. His eyes are like yours, Mousey.

‘Come on up. Feel free to browse.’

There are two full boxes by his desk, one of singles, one albums. Boys are allowed to look at them, as long as Mr Clarke’s in the room, which seems to be pretty much all the time. Some of the artists I recognized; The Carpenters; Roberta Flack; Elton John; The Beatles. But there were lots of others I’d never even heard of.

‘I want to hear them all, sir!’

He laughed. ‘That’s what I like to hear. But not so much of the
Sir
, all right?’ He laughed again at the look on my face. ‘You can call me Harry,’ he said. ‘At least when we’re both off-duty.’

Well, that came as a surprise, you can guess. I’ve never called a teacher by their Christian name before. Not even Miss McDonald. It’s something that you just don’t do. But then, Mr Clarke – no,
Harry
– isn’t a regular teacher. He sees things differently. He’s smart. And I can tell he likes me.

Pigs. Dogs.
Animals.

It’s funny, you know. I always thought I was the only one who saw other people as animals. Turns out someone else does, too. Mr Clarke gets it. What kind of animal is Mr Clarke? A mythical beast of some kind; a unicorn, or a dragon. I mean, I know he’s kind of old, but there’s something in his eyes. Something different, Mousey.

After school, my dad asked if I’d made any friends yet. I told him yes. He asked me their names.

I said: ‘Harry.’

‘And what does Harry’s dad do?’

I told him I didn’t know. (It was true.)

He said: ‘You’ve got to know these things. A man’s friends say as much about him as his clothes, his job, his class.’ (Dad’s very big on class.)

‘I’ll ask him,’ I said.

‘You do that,’ said Dad.

3

September 7th, 2005

Now I try to be fair. Really I do. I treat all my boys the same, you know; but unless you’re Bob Strange, who despises all boys equally, or Eric Scoones, who has no form, and thus makes such small distinction between them that he scarcely ever remembers their names, you’re bound to feel more or less affection for one individual or another.

My Brodie Boys, for instance – Allen-Jones, Sutcliff, Tayler and McNair – in spite of their propensity to wreak mayhem at every turn, hold a special place in my heart. I’ve always had rather a soft spot for the jokers and the subversives. But every decade or so, there’s one – a smart alec; a troublemaker – a boy whose face keeps popping up in all the wrong circumstances and who, years later, can still pop up in a Master’s dreams when one’s dream-self, clad only in a mortar board and a pair of yellow swimming trunks, attempts to teach a subject about which he knows nothing at all to a disruptive class in which that one boy, grinning like an ape, plays the role of ringleader.

The truth is that no Master, however venerable, is ever entirely without insecurities, and there are boys – not so many of them in my case, no more than six in a whole career – who are capable of sniffing out those insecurities, of using them, of twisting them, of single-handedly making a good class into a bad class, a bad class into the stuff of dread.

Johnny Harrington was one of them. That pale-faced, bland, insufferable boy, with his impeccable uniform and his air of barely concealed contempt. How I hated him, then and now – and as he came towards me, with a smile that might
almost
have been sincere, I felt the past rush in on me like a cloud of mustard gas.

‘Why, it’s Mr Straitley!’ he said. ‘Good Lord, you haven’t changed a bit. How long has it been? Twenty-four years? Don’t say you don’t remember me?’