Different Class (44 page)

‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he said. ‘Funny kind of business. The Union’s behind you all the way.’ He shuffled his feet for a moment. ‘Fact is, it’s irregular,’ he went on. ‘This Gunderson thing shouldn’t have gone to the Head at all. It was, if anything, a departmental matter.’

His eye fell on a thick stack of Honours Boards propped up against the near wall, covered in a dust-sheet but nevertheless unmistakable. Winter had taken some of them down into the cellar, but a hundred and fifty Honours Boards take up even more space than I’d thought. Besides, the cellar is rather damp, and the Honours Boards deserve better.

‘Taking up art?’ said Devine.

‘Burglary,’ I told him. ‘A hundred and fifty Honours Boards that Harrington was planning to sell – to furnish theme pubs and the like.’

That shocked him, as I knew it would.

‘Don’t believe it? Report me,’ I said.

Devine gave me a quelling look. ‘You really
are
trying for martyrdom, aren’t you, Straitley?’ he said in his most superior voice. ‘I’m really just here to tell you that the Union will back you if it comes to any kind of a dispute. It’s clear to me that the Gunderson boy set this thing up with his girlfriend to try and settle a score with you. The Old Head wouldn’t have given a story like this the time of day.’

I shrugged. ‘Long live the King,’ I said. ‘He’s had me in his sights from the start. I suppose I ought to be grateful. I get to choose my final farewell. The hemlock bowl, or the razor blade. Socrates, or Seneca.’

Devine gave an irritated kind of sigh. ‘Always so dramatic,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I bother. Look, Straitley,’ he went on. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Harrington’s been in touch with Survivors.’

‘Really?’ I said, listlessly.

‘Of course, he’s one of the founders, and Blakely’s one of its shining lights. But he thinks that after what happened last year, it might be a good idea to offer some of the boys trauma counselling. And now, with this ridiculous Mulberry girl thing, he thinks there might be what he calls a
toxic learning environment
—’

‘I suppose he means the mice,’ I said.

‘He does
not
mean the mice,’ snapped Devine. ‘He means the School. Our department. Blakely’s been delving into our files; the Harry Clarke affair; Fabricant’s book on the Marquis de Sade; even that ridiculous thing with you illustrating the First Declension with
merda
instead of
mensa
.’

I was impressed. ‘You knew about that?’

‘Of course I did. Everyone did. The thing is, it was a harmless joke. But now if they’re going to scrutinize every joke, every chance remark for signs of
subliminal messages—
’ He looked at the gnome on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s bad enough Markowicz badgering me every time he’s been on a course. It’s bad enough having to waste my time obsessing about mouse traps, and name tags, and writing out departmental policy documents on things that any half-decent Master would already
know
how to deal with—’

He paused, and I could see he looked tense. The nose, always an indicator of high emotion, twitched alarmingly.

‘But Sourgrape – I mean, Dr Devine – I thought you
worshipped
Markowicz. I thought that angel voices sang, and bluebirds flew wherever he went. I thought he was exactly what the department needed; a new broom, a breath of fresh air.’

Devine made a percussive noise at the back of his throat. ‘
Hck!
That may have been –
premature.
’ He glanced at the garden gnome again, then said, with irritation: ‘I have to say, Straitley, I would have thought you could at least ask me to sit down. I’ve been on my feet
all day
—’

‘I thought you didn’t want to stay,’ I began, as he handed me his coat.

‘And a cup of tea would be nice. Earl Grey, if you have it.’

In all my years, I’d never seen Devine looking so jumpy. I gestured him to a place by the fire and poured him a glass of brandy. He took the glass without comment, and sniffed.

‘I’ve been approached,’ he said at last. ‘Regarding my early retirement.’

Ah. The point emerges. ‘
Tempus fugit, non autem memoria
,’ I said, lighting a Gauloise.

‘
Tempus
be damned,’ said Devine. ‘I’m only sixty. I’m in my prime!’ He took a rather fraught sip of his brandy. ‘They’ve spoken to Eric Scoones as well. Apparently, the department needs to be downsized.
Downsized!
With Markowicz absent half the time, and that Malone woman having hysterics everywhere—’ He drank some more brandy. ‘He’s got to go.’

‘Who? Markowicz?’

‘No, Straitley. The
Head
.’

I looked at the man with renewed respect. I had no idea old Devine was such a revolutionary. And for the first time in thirty-four years, I found myself in total agreement with him.

I said: ‘The thought
had
crossed my mind. But the man’s untouchable.’

Devine looked morose. ‘I know. He’s perfect. Even my wife thinks so.’ He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Invited us over for drinks one day. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since.’

‘I see.’ I tried not to smile. Mrs Devine is a lady of firm and frank opinions, one of which is a long-held desire to see Devine take early retirement, and accompany her on a world cruise before they’re too old to enjoy it. From what I know of Devine, a world cruise is more or less the definition of
L’enfer, c’est les autres
. He sees retirement looming with all the unbridled joy of the captain of the
Titanic
first catching sight of the iceberg.

‘In any case, Roy,’ he said, downing the last of the brandy, ‘it goes without saying I’m on your side. What can I do?’

I have to say, I didn’t know. But the thought that Devine could take my side –
Devine
, of all people—

‘It’s too late,’ I told him. ‘I’ve tried. And anyway, my Brodie Boys—’ I told him about Allen-Jones, and La Buckfast’s ultimatum.

Devine’s nose went a telltale pink. ‘So you’re giving up?’ he said.

‘I can’t see an alternative. If I don’t, they’ll expel Allen-Jones, and maybe the other boys as well.’

Dr Devine gave a sniff. ‘So much for your anti-establishment stance. You talk about rebellion, but the moment it comes to a fight, you fold. Typical Classics response.’

He stood up, rather shakily, and took his coat from the peg by the door.

‘Thank you for the brandy,’ he said. ‘But I prefer the kind of courage that
doesn’t
come from a bottle.’

He left, with something approaching a flounce. At a different time, I might have found some comedy in the situation. Devine, taking my side against the higher management. The Suit lying down with the Tweed Jacket.
O tempora! O mores!

I don’t suppose I shall sleep tonight. Harry’s box has been calling me. I’ve already spent an hour or two sorting out his photographs, the newspaper clippings he’d kept, the old copies of the School Magazine – including a review of
Antigone
, showing Ms Buckfast as a young girl, leggy in sandals and a sheet, smiling at the camera—

I think I’d been expecting some kind of epiphany. A fifth-act
dénouement
that would simultaneously unravel the mystery, expose the villain, reveal the plot and vindicate the hero, all in one neat manoeuvre. Instead, there’s nothing but fragments; memories of times gone by; snapshots; clippings; notebooks; scraps; the litter of a human life. Oh, Harry. I’d always assumed that you left me the box for a
purpose
. I’d expected the contents to lead me to some kind of revelation. But now, picking through those forgotten things – a button; a ring; a notebook filled with class notes from another school – I realize that you left them to me, not because they were important, but because you didn’t have anyone else.

I wonder, when my time comes, to whom will I leave
my
possessions? The clock I had from my parents’ house that sits upon my mantelpiece; my modest library of books; my wireless; my photographs? Will someone take them in, or will my house be cleared by a dealer, to be sold off at a series of flea markets and jumble sales, or worse: to be dumped in some desolate spot like the old clay pits of yesteryear, the photographs washed white in the rain, the books gnawed by rats; my School gown falling into rags by the dark and lonely water.

I know. I’m getting maudlin. But sometimes, the futility of everything falls in on me. What have I really achieved in life? Who would really remember me if I died tomorrow? I have no family, no friends. Only my pupils and colleagues. Outside of St Oswald’s, I am nothing but an old house awaiting clearance. Whether I fight back or not, tomorrow, or next week, or next month, Harrington will make his move to sweep me from the chessboard. I cannot stand against him for long. He has all the artillery. He has youth on his side; youth and influence and guile. Who am I? Just an old man, so far behind the times that even a cleaner knows more about the rules of this strange and scornful new world.

Another glass of claret, I think. And maybe a slice of fruit cake, with a piece of Wensleydale. My doctor wouldn’t like it, but if I’m going to stay up all night, I’ll need the extra energy. From the mantelpiece, Harry’s gnome watches me with a knowing eye. Beside him, the Bowie record in its paper envelope. I’m not really a fan, of course. But tonight, that cheery little tune seems to be the only link to a fast-disappearing reality. I put it on the turntable, heard the hiss and scratch of years. Then the helium voices, suspended in music like insects in tar. It’s a ridiculous little tune. And yet, somehow, it comforts me. When I play it, Harry Clarke seems somehow less forgotten, less dead. I close my eyes for a moment, not feeling anywhere near to sleep. And the next thing I know, it’s morning, and I’m sitting stiffly in my chair beside the record player, with a dead fire in the grate and the dead sound of the needle jumping on the turntable –
tick, tick, tick
– like a clock counting down the seconds . . .

P
ART
S
EVEN

Alea iacta est.
      (C
AESAR
)

1

November 1st, 2005

Headmaster, and Chairman of the Governors
,

It is with the greatest regret that I find myself obliged to hand in my notice as Classics Master of St Oswald’s. Ill-health—

No. Not ill-health. Doctor’s orders. Not my old GP, of course, but a far more dangerous quack. Dr Harrington, MBE, whose toxic form of medicine might once have suited a Plague Doctor mask.

On the advice of the doctor, I have come to believe that it is no longer possible for me to discharge my duties adequately. As a result—

That sounds very stiff. On the other hand, I
feel
very stiff; compressed into a jacket of words, when I want to run and shout.

As a result
—

As a result, I took a small nip of brandy to warm my chilled bones this morning, which made the Bursar look at me in an odd way in the Common Room. I wondered why he didn’t make some kind of hilarious comment – the Bursar loves his comments – then, when I went to the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, I realized why he’d kept silent.

I looked terrible. Not in my usual unkempt way, with chalk dust on my suit lapels and my hair in scarecrow spikes. Today I am almost colourless, and old – as old as damnation. Usually, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a boy of about fourteen, with eyes that crackle with mischief in a face that has suffered some kind of a collapse – but a boy of fourteen nevertheless, wearing a very convincing mask.

Today, I look like my father in the days before he died. I know I shaved, but half my face seems to have escaped the blitz. There was a brown stain – tea, I think – on the collar of my shirt. I pulled on my gown to conceal the fact that my suit was less than spotless, but now I looked like an assemblage of black litter-bags, held together with frayed string.