Different Class (56 page)

‘Any word of Spikely?’

‘Not yet.’

‘He always was a little toad. Making up lies about members of staff. Trying to take advantage.’

‘There’s a change of direction,’ I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could. ‘I thought you said Harry deserved what he got.’

Eric looked sheepish. ‘I was upset. I said lots of things I didn’t mean. I hope you didn’t think I was—’

‘No, Eric. I didn’t,’ I said.

Eric gave a long sigh and sat on one of the pupils’ desks. I thought that he looked very old, but I suppose both of us do. I tried to recall what else he had said, but all I could remember was that moment on Friday morning, when he had told me his mother had died. Everything that has happened since then – my search for the letter; Harrington; the scene on the canal bridge – all of that seems like a fantasy now, a story from the
Boy’s Own Paper
.

‘That’s what happens when you get old,’ said Eric. ‘You fuck everything up.’

I opened the window and lit a Gauloise. With luck, the smoke would be gone before the boys began to arrive. Once more, his use of profanity – Eric Scoones, who never swears – made me feel uncomfortable. I suddenly thought of my mother, who, in the later stages of her dementia, had broken a lifetime of taboo, and started to swear like a trooper.

‘You spoke about leaving St Oswald’s,’ I said.

Eric nodded. ‘I’m tired, Straits. A nice little flat in Paris, perhaps; the Tuileries and the Folies-Bergère. I’ve waited for this all my life. I don’t want it to be too late.’

Too late? Perhaps it is, I thought. Too late to give Harry what he deserves. Too late for him; too late for me. Too late to save St Oswald’s.

‘You could come and visit,’ he said. ‘Maybe in the holidays.’

‘That sounds nice,’ I told him, knowing that I never would. Dementia runs in families. Perhaps that’s why I stayed here so long. An active mind dispels the fog, and I’m glad to say that my memory – in spite of certain incidents of standard absent-mindedness – is as good now as it ever was. But now that I look at him closely, I see a change in Eric. Those moods of his; the rages. The unexpected profanity. Does he sense it approaching, I thought? Is
that
why he wants to retire?

He gave me a smile; a shade too bright. ‘You ought to think of retiring yourself. See the world before it’s too late.’

I shrugged and put out my cigarette. ‘Why bother?’ I said. ‘It’s all here.’

We sat for a while in silence: he watching the dawn from the window. I could tell he wanted to ask what Spikely had told me on Friday night. For a moment I thought of telling him. Then I decided against it. After all, what do I know? That business ended years ago. And maybe Winter was right, after all – there are things we need not
know
, even though we may
feel
them. A man may be good in so many ways, and still carry darkness inside him. Eric is no exception. Nor was Harry – nor am I.

And so we went down to the Common Room, for a look at the morning’s papers and a leisurely cup of tea. The place was already buzzing with news, and rumour, and speculation. I braced myself for a barrage of questions, to which I had only vague answers.

‘Any news of the Head yet? I hear he’s out of surgery.’

‘Is it true you saw the attack?’

‘Any idea of when he’ll be back?’

Well, a head injury is never predictable; for a while, it was touch and go. Bob Strange is delighted; he gets to be Second Master while Ms Buckfast covers for the Head.

Spikely has not resurfaced, as yet. Harrington remains unclear about what happened on the bridge, and without details of a motive, the police seem disinclined to act. I can see their point, of course. After such a long time, how could I be completely sure that the attacker was Spikely at all? Devine, who recognized him, did not actually
see
the attack, and so his role as a witness seems rather less than critical – much to Devine’s annoyance, who sees himself as a memory machine of limpid, Teutonic efficiency.

However, the
Malbry Examiner
has been reluctant to let the case go. Its dislike of the Grammar School dates back to a time when the editor failed the St Oswald’s entrance exam at the age of eleven, and now he never misses a chance to remind us of our mistake. The fact that the Head of St Oswald’s had been assaulted, late at night, in the course of what was assumed to be some kind of assignation, was already fuel enough for the
Examiner
’s furnace, but when it was revealed that a witness had identified David Spikely – who, as it happens, now seems to be missing from his Malbry home – the speculation intensified. Add to that the death of Charlie Nutter in October, underneath the very bridge on which Harrington was attacked, and you have the beginnings of quite a promising story.

Mrs Harrington maintains that these rumours are groundless. Spikely had been a family friend. There had been no quarrel with him. They had simply drifted apart as the paths of their lives diverged. When Harrington recovers full memory of Friday’s events, he will surely confirm this. Of course, we have no idea of how long Harrington will take to make a full recovery – and even if he does, it may be that he never returns to St Oswald’s.

The Chaplain thinks not. He isn’t alone. ‘My money’s on Dr Blakely,’ he said. ‘Unless you think Bob Strange has a chance.’

‘You don’t think Ms Buckfast might get the job?’

‘
A female Head?
’ The Chaplain was outraged.

Well, I suppose he has a point. St Oswald’s may not – may
never
be – ready for a female Head. And yet, Dr Blakely is too effete; for all his qualifications, he is merely a Suit with nothing inside. Becky Price is something new; not a Dragon; not a Suit; definitely not a Low-Fat Yoghurt.

I called by to see her this morning, while Blakely was taking Assembly, and found that she had moved across to the Headmaster’s office – which, given her new role, makes sense. Danielle was in the anteroom, looking a little downcast. Of course, her ambition to snare a Head must have suffered a serious blow.
Call-me-Jo
Lambert, of Mulberry House, must also be wringing her elegant hands. But Ms Buckfast seems very comfortable in the Headmaster’s office. I see that already she has changed the layout of the furniture, and has brought in a couple of orchids to brighten up the room, which now no longer smells of pine, but of something more subtle.

‘Present from the Chaplain?’ I said, looking at the orchids.

La Buckfast smiled and shook her head. ‘Your friend Mr Winter, actually. It seems he’s a collector.’

I raised my eyebrows. ‘
Winter
gave you orchids?’

She gave her Mona Lisa smile. ‘We parted on more amicable terms than I would have expected,’ she said. ‘Perhaps, if he ever comes back, there’ll be a job for him after all.’

I said: ‘Really? I would have thought that with your history—’

For the first time, the smile reached her eyes. It made her look suddenly beautiful.

‘History,’ said La Buckfast, ‘is nothing but the story of whichever side kept the best accounts. The victors write the history books. The victors paper over the truth. The early history of Europe exists almost exclusively from the perspective of the Romans. But imagine if Boudicca had had a Livy or a Plutarch on her side.’

She saw my puzzled expression and laughed. ‘Oh, Mr Straitley,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to be here at all, at least sit down and have some tea.’ She poured me a mug – that’s right, a
mug
. I noticed the Headmaster’s china set was on the top shelf of the bookcase, where Dr Shakeshafte had once kept his collection of signed rugby photographs.

‘Any more news of the Head?’ I enquired, as I drank my tea. It was surprisingly good, I thought; just strong and sweet enough to stick the ribs.

‘Not much, so far,’ said La Buckfast. ‘I’m putting together a strategy. We’ve made so much progress already this term. Pity to lose momentum. Still, Bob Strange is being very helpful. I think there may be a permanent job for him somewhere on the Crisis Team.’

I said: ‘You seem very calm about all this. I thought you and Harrington were close.’

She looked at me serenely. ‘Johnny keeps his enemies close,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m very good at my job – which is, of course, to make
Johnny
look good.’

‘And now?’

‘I’ll continue to do so,’ she said. ‘Johnny will get invalidity pay, and probably a settlement, too – and then, who knows? An advisor’s job in London, perhaps. Something not too stressful.’

‘You don’t think he’ll come back, then?’

She shrugged. ‘We’ll manage without him. Besides, it’ll give him more time with Liz. You know they couldn’t have children? Liz was devastated at first. Tried all kinds of treatments. But nothing worked. So now she’s a family counsellor, helping childless couples come to terms with their situation.’

She smiled again and sipped her tea. Her mug, I noticed, was one of those you can have made at the print shop: a photograph of a smiling infant, with the caption WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA.

She saw me looking. ‘My grandson,’ she said. ‘Amos. He turned three in July.’

‘I didn’t know you had children,’ I said. ‘You must have had them very young.’

‘My daughter was born when I was sixteen. Her father was even younger.’

She continued to drink her tea, looking serene and beautiful. I’ve always said you can tell a great deal from a person’s coffee mug. In this case, a whole life.

‘Did you stay in touch?’

She smiled. ‘When I told him I was pregnant,’ she said, ‘he pleaded with me to abort it. Told me no one would have to know; even said he’d pay for it all. But I wouldn’t. In spite of everything – the church; my parents; the scandal – I kept my baby. I didn’t tell. His family moved away, but we kept in touch. Not that I wanted to be with him – he’d shown me his true colours by then – but because I thought that maybe one day, he’d have the chance to be grateful.’ She looked at the orchid on her desk. The flowers were white, veined with green. ‘And yes, he’s kept me close,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he thought I’d tell his wife. Perhaps he felt that if she knew that we’d had a child, when she never would—’ She paused and took a sip of her tea. ‘Johnny should have known better.’

I nodded. ‘You’re too subtle for that.’

‘How nice of you to say so, Roy.’

Besides, a Head, like Caesar’s wife, must be above suspicion. This business with Spikely, whether or not the real truth ever comes to light, has already done its damage. Harrington has been muddied by this; his gloss will never be the same again. La Buckfast, however, remains untarnished; doing the absent Harrington’s job with such efficiency that, should he decide to return after all, he will find St Oswald’s running much better than when he left.

Of course, there’s still Dr Blakely, that over-qualified imbecile. If ever it comes to replacing little Johnny Harrington, I would have thought that Blakely would be first in line for the top job. And yet, there is no mistaking the ease with which La Buckfast has made the Headmaster’s office her own, adding bright cushions to the old leather chairs; quietly shelving the ugly prints; replacing the brown rug on the floor with a scarlet sheepskin. Well, of course, she came to us as a Rebranding Guru – and the best job she has done so far is in rebranding herself.

‘I like what you’ve done with the office,’ I said.

‘Really? I thought you didn’t like change.’

‘It depends on what kind of change,’ I said.

She sighed. ‘Oh, Roy. I hope you don’t think that this little change of personnel affects your impending retirement. I’m grateful for your help, of course, but from a purely financial perspective, Classics is a drain on resources. In today’s world of technology, Latin has become obsolete. Only a handful of schools offer it – and besides, where does it lead? Where are the job opportunities? Where are the vital skills?’

It’s an argument I’ve heard before from the likes of Bob Strange. We live in a world in which vocational teaching matters far more than the pursuit of wisdom, or the study of civilizations past. And yet, where would our world be without Horace, or Pliny, or Ptolemy? Those men straddled the world like gods. Their voices ring through the ages. We owe it to new generations to keep their words alive. These men taught us to look at the stars – how else could we reach for them?

I was about to answer when there came a peremptory knock at the door. It opened to reveal the girl Benedicta, looking slightly nervous. She was carrying an object that I first took to be a small radio, and which looked rather familiar, and which emitted a crackling sound.

A few seconds later, Danielle appeared. ‘I told her you were in a meeting, miss,’ she said, addressing La Buckfast. ‘She must have snuck in while I was making tea.’

Ms Buckfast smiled. ‘That’s fine, Danielle.’ Then, addressing the girl, she said: ‘Won’t you come in, Benedicta? Mr Straitley was leaving.’

Benedicta shook her head. ‘Not until you’ve heard this.’

She held out the object in her hand. At the press of a switch, the sound of amplified voices reached us. It took me a moment to identify those of Dr Blakely and Allen-Jones. Then I recognized the thing that was not quite a radio. It was that walkie-talkie, the one whereby, according to Allen-Jones’s somewhat over-elaborate scheme, Rupert Gunderson was to be revealed as a menacer of boys.

Through the speaker, Allen-Jones’s voice was very clear now. ‘. . .
think your stance on bullying encourages victimization
,’ we heard. ‘I’ve been bullied because I’m gay, and I’d like to know where your policy of protecting people from challenging perspectives stands when it comes to protecting
me
from bullying and bigotry.’

Well, I thought, my Brodie Boys always did have a certain
panache
. Dr Blakely was fainter, but his voice was still clearly audible. He is not quite as articulate as Allen-Jones, who has, on occasion, managed to persuade me to overlook homework infractions that would, in normal circumstances, have earned him at least a detention. In fact, for a moment, Thing One was able to give vent only to a series of inarticulate
oof
-ing sounds, like someone blowing up a balloon, which finally resolved into speech.