Different Class (57 page)

‘
Their
bigotry?’ he said. ‘Young man, St Oswald’s is a Christian school. We have no obligation to protect or promote the so-called
perspectives
you’re talking about.’

‘I think you have,’ said Allen-Jones. ‘Your homophobic policies are directly responsible for the fact that I’m being victimized in the first place. Basically, sir, you’re promoting hatred, which is a crime, according to the 1994 Criminal Justice and Public Order Act.’

Dr Blakely
oof
-ed in outrage. ‘Promoting
what
?’

‘Hatred, sir. Right here, in this pamphlet, sir.’

For a moment I wondered which pamphlet he meant. Then I remembered the pink pamphlet that Mr Winter had shown me, written by Johnny Harrington; published and distributed by the Church of the Omega Rose, and latterly by Survivors.

‘
HOMOSEXUAL, HELLBOUND
,’ Allen-Jones read the title aloud. ‘Are you telling me your organization didn’t produce this? Because here’s the Survivors logo, right here, and—’

‘That’s
enough
!’ Dr Blakely, inflated to capacity, almost exploded with outrage. I imagined him standing there, looking down at Allen-Jones (vaguely unkempt, with his shirt untucked, and the remnants of that Sexy Cerise glittering on his bitten nails). ‘Who do you think you are, eh, to tell
me
how I should run my school? Nothing but a little queer who thinks he can get attention by stirring up trouble and making threats. Well, you might get away with that elsewhere, but St Oswald’s has a moral code. We don’t tolerate perversion. Do you understand?’

There came no reply from Allen-Jones.

‘Now get out of my office,’ said Dr Blakely hoarsely.

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

For a moment there was silence. Then came Allen-Jones’s voice. ‘Did you get all that, Ben?’

‘Perfectly,’ said the girl Ben. She turned to Ms Buckfast, who had followed the proceedings with her usual serenity, and said in a rather gruff voice: ‘I thought you should know, we recorded all this. I think the
Malbry Examiner
would be happy to get an early scoop, after which I’m thinking the
News of the World
, or maybe the
Daily Mail
. Or both.’

Ms Buckfast gave a little smile. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘It depends on how much support you’re prepared to give to me and Allen-Jones.’ She shot me a sideways look. ‘Mr Straitley’s been
very
supportive. In fact, you might say
indispensable
.’ She faced Ms Buckfast defiantly. ‘I heard he was under pressure to leave. That can’t be true, can it, miss? I mean, that would be
scandalous
.’

La Buckfast’s Madonna-like gaze did not falter for a moment. ‘Benedicta—’

‘Ben,’ said the girl.

‘Ben. Of
course
,’ said La Buckfast. ‘Mr Straitley’s retirement remains his choice entirely. I certainly wouldn’t put pressure on him to leave. As one of the few remaining independent schools to still offer Classics to students, I think it would be very short-sighted of us to lose one of our unique selling-points. And as for Allen-Jones, I feel sure that Mr Straitley will manage to resolve any misunderstandings – with my full support, of course.’

I felt an odd sensation in the region of my third waistcoat button. Not the invisible finger this time, but a softening, like melted ice cream. As if, after forty years of dealing with pupils in ways that, according to my Brodie Boys, ranged from benevolent neglect to callous and cruel indifference, I had suddenly acquired that most perilous of organs – a heart.

I assumed a stern demeanour. ‘I have to say, Miss Wild,’ I said, ‘that you and young Master Allen-Jones seem to share the same deplorable love of drama. If only you had come to see
me
, instead of indulging in what I can only refer to as
shenanigans
, Ms Buckfast and I could have dealt with your problem without all this unpleasantness.’

Ben assumed a meek expression. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

‘Now you and Allen-Jones are going to give
me
that recording,’ I said. ‘And we won’t hear any more about talking to the newspapers, or anything like that. What happens in St Oswald’s gets dealt with in St Oswald’s. That’s the way we work here. We’ve been doing it for a long time.’

I smiled at La Buckfast. I noted that she, too, was smiling. Of course, this new development may not be a bad thing for her. Allen-Jones’s little stunt has conveniently, and at a single stroke, removed Dr Blakely from the list of candidates for the Headship. For a moment I wondered if maybe she had anticipated, even somehow
encouraged
the plan. But that was a deduction too far. La Buckfast may be Machiavellian, but from that to suspecting that she might have orchestrated the whole thing—

No. That would be ludicrous. Wouldn’t it? Of course it would.

I left with the girl Benedicta. ‘I’m not leaving, Ben,’ I said.

‘Is that an official statement, sir? Interested parties need to know.’

I said: ‘It’s a promise. Will that do?’

That seemed to satisfy her. She smiled. ‘I had to look up what you said, sir.
Obesa cantavit
. The fat lady sang.’

‘
Did
I say that?’ I prevaricated.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Ben.

I shrugged. ‘I say all kinds of things. I don’t expect pupils to
listen
.’

Arriving in my form-room, I found that Sutcliff had taken the register; McNair had filled in the absence slips; Niu was in the process of watering my spider plants. It struck me that my boys are often at their most productive in my absence. My policy of benevolent neglect gives them the chance to think for themselves, rather than rely on me. In short, my (few) deficiencies are all for the benefit of the boys.

I opened my desk drawer to look for my packet of Liquorice Allsorts. Harry’s gnome was lying there, next to the bottle of claret, a slightly debauched grin on its face. Devine must have returned it, I thought. The man is full of surprises.

I took it out and stood it on the desk.

‘New supply teacher, sir?’ said Allen-Jones.

‘No. Just a reminder,’ I said. ‘A gnome is where the heart is.’

E
PILOGUE

St Oswald’s Grammar School
Michaelmas Term, November 12th, 2005

The Chapel of St Oswald’s dates back to the sixteenth century. It is a listed building, much to the dismay of the Bursar, a Protestant, who sees its maintenance and repair as an unnecessary extravagance in these times of renewed austerity. I rather like it, however; its small, stained-glass windows; its buttery stone; its old oak pews, pitted and scarred by generations of scholars carving their names in secret, in the shadows.

That reminds me. I must see to reinstating those Honours Boards. Maybe somewhere less public than the Middle Corridor, but they belong to St Oswald’s just as surely as I do. Maybe here in the Chapel itself, next to the war memorial, with the names of our dead boys painted in gold down the panels. Perhaps I’ll talk to the Chaplain, when all of this has settled down.

Tonight, however, the Chaplain has one last duty to perform. Not as publicly as I’d hoped, but I know Harry would understand. Jimmy Watt was my partner-in-crime; he has access to ladders as well as a full set of School keys, and Jimmy has always been helpful to those who treat him kindly. It’s easy enough to open the Chapel after dark on a Saturday night; tomorrow I shall take him for a thank-you drink and a bite to eat at the Scholar. Even Bob Strange’s cameras have been turned off for the evening – I told you the ancillary staff was secretly in charge of the place.

We held Harry’s memorial by candlelight in the Chapel. It wasn’t a large gathering. Eric Scoones; the Chaplain; myself, and, surprisingly, Dr Devine, his nose twitching with heightened emotion. I spoke a few words. We sang a hymn. And then we played the record that Harry had asked the Chaplain to play – Devine gave an audible sigh as he recognized ‘The Laughing Gnome’, but there was an odd look on his face, which might have been a tiny smile.

We scattered Harry’s ashes on the rose bed by the Quad; a place with a view of St Oswald’s and plenty of sunshine in winter. Then we shared the claret that Eric had brought for my birthday, and drank a toast to absent friends – more and more of them nowadays – using the Chaplain’s silverware.

‘Well, this was nice,’ said Dr Devine in a slightly mocking tone. ‘But really, Roy, we have to move on. We can’t keep living in the past.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I told him. ‘The past feels very comfortable. It’s a favourite armchair, moulded to fit my dimensions. I’m getting too old and fat for ergonomic furniture.’

‘I hear you’ve decided against retirement?’

I nodded.

‘Hm. Probably wise. And Eric?’ he said in a quiet voice, while Eric went to hang up his coat.

I shook my head. I knew what he meant. But I have not yet spoken to Eric about Friday night. Perhaps I never will – after all, he means to leave at Christmas. What good would it do to confront him now?

We finished our wine in a silence of flickering lights and resonances. It was a comforting silence, like that of an old married couple. Once more I thought of my parents, sitting side by side on the beach, wrapped in their tartan blankets. After a while, when the wine was gone, the Chaplain blew out the candles (in deference to Health & Safety) leaving only a single red light burning in the sanctuary.

‘Time to head off, Straits,’ said Eric.

Devine gave a nod. ‘It’s on my way.’

And so the three of us headed for home, leaving the Chapel in darkness, except for the single dull red light that shone through the mullioned windows. Above us, in the rafters, in a little stone niche too high to reach, or even to see very clearly (at least without one of those ladders), Harry’s gnome watched us go; half hidden in the shadows, but laughing quietly to itself at the absurdity of it all – the tragedy and farce of it; the friendships and betrayals; the secrets and the scandals on which our little world of St Oswald’s survives – minus a few Honours Boards, perhaps, but with our honour still (mostly) intact, dragging our heels like schoolboys along the rocky road that leads to the stars.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

It takes a department to build a book, but sometimes even the greatest heroes fail to make the Honours Boards.

Heartfelt thanks, therefore, to my tireless agent, Peter Robinson, and his PA, Federica; to my editor, Marianne Velmans, and desk editor Kate Samano; to copy-editor Deborah Adams and proofreaders Dan Balado and Clare Hubbard. Thanks also to Sarah Whittaker for the stunning cover design, and to everyone at Transworld for their continuing faith in Straitley, St Oswald’s and me.

Thanks, too, to Kyte Photography for the author photo, to my lovely PA, Anne Riley; and, as always, to Kevin and Anouchka for acting as my sounding board and for keeping me grounded in the real world. Thanks to all my ex-teachers, ex-colleagues and ex-pupils, who, consciously or otherwise, helped create St Oswald’s. Thanks to the unsung heroes: the book reps, booksellers, bloggers and festival organizers. And, of course, as always, the readers –
you
– whose appetite for stories keeps the pages turning.

About the Author

Joanne Harris
is one of our best-loved and most versatile novelists. She first appeared on the scene with the bestselling
Chocolat
(made into an Oscar-nominated film with Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp), which turned into the sensuous Lansquenet trilogy (with
Lollipop Shoes
and
Peaches for Monsieur le Curé
). She has since written acclaimed novels in such diverse genres as fantasy based on Norse myth (
Runemarks
,
Runelight
,
The Gospel of Loki
), and the Malbry cycle of dark psychological thrillers (
Gentlemen & Players
,
Blueeyedboy
, and now
Different Class
).

Born in Barnsley, of an English father and a French mother, she spent fifteen years as a teacher before (somewhat reluctantly) becoming a full-time writer. In 2013, she was awarded an MBE. She lives in Yorkshire, plays bass in a band first formed when she was sixteen, works in a shed in her garden, spends far too much time online and occasionally dreams of faking her own death and going to live in Hawaii.

Also by Joanne Harris

THE EVIL SEED
SLEEP, PALE SISTER
CHOCOLAT
BLACKBERRY WINE
FIVE QUARTERS OF THE ORANGE
COASTLINERS
HOLY FOOLS
JIGS & REELS
GENTLEMEN & PLAYERS
THE LOLLIPOP SHOES
BLUEEYEDBOY
RUNEMARKS
PEACHES FOR MONSIEUR LE CURÉ
RUNELIGHT
A CAT, A HAT AND A PIECE OF STRING
THE GOSPEL OF LOKI

With Fran Warde

THE FRENCH KITCHEN: A COOKBOOK
THE FRENCH MARKET: MORE RECIPES FROM A FRENCH KITCHEN
THE LITTLE BOOK OF CHOCOLAT

For more information on Joanne Harris and her books, see her website at
www.joanne-harris.co.uk
or follow
@Joannechocolat
on Twitter