Gentlemen & Players (21 page)

8

Friday, 29th October

Dear old Bishop. Funny he should ask. As a matter of fact I know of at least two: one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.

Literature, I’ve noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual clichés into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband’s clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It’s almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.

Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half crushed beneath his masochistic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible—she is a woman, after all—and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.

She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his classes, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy’s appraisal; forgets a lunchtime duty; spends all break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty’s locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).

Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it’s more efficient to work in departments—in blocks, if you like—than to diffuse my efforts all over the school.

As for my other projects…Tapi’s escapade has missed today’s papers. A good sign; it means the
Examiner
is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the school in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular—seems he wasn’t quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time), and expects full Union support and a generous settlement, in or out of court.

Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap’s prone to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he’s been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality—there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion, or gender (ha!)—all the same he knows that to be a homosexual in a boys’ school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.

In normal circumstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr. Devine, technically his boss and head of department, would never understand. It’s his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What
was
he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi’s plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.

And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to give Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonishing (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for the Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.

As for Roy Straitley, don’t think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the IT lab after school when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new IT teacher.

“But I
didn’t
write him a rotten report,” Straitley was protesting. “I sat through his lesson, filled out the form, and took a balanced view. That was it.”

“Poor class control,” said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. “Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?”

There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. “I didn’t write this,” he said at last.

“Well, it certainly
looks
like your writing.”

There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the IT room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley’s face, but decided against it. I didn’t want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.

“I didn’t write this,” repeated Straitley.

“Well, who did?”

“I don’t know. Some practical joker.”

“Roy—” Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I’ve heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. “Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn’t the brightest we’ve ever had—”

“No,” said Straitley. “He isn’t. But I didn’t write him a stinker. You can’t file that assessment if I didn’t write it.”

“Of course not, Roy, but—”

“But what?” There was an edge to Straitley’s voice now. He’s never liked dealing with Suits, and I could tell the whole thing annoyed him.

“Well, are you sure you didn’t just—
forget
what you’d written?”

“What do you mean,
forget
?”

He paused. “Well, I mean, maybe you were in a hurry, or—”

Behind my hand, I laughed silently. Beard is not the first staff member to have suggested that Roy Straitley is
slowing down
, to use a Bishop phrase. I’ve planted that seed in a couple of minds already, and there have been enough instances of irrational behavior, chronic forgetfulness, and small things going astray to make the idea plausible. Straitley, of course, has never considered this for a moment.

“Mr. Beard, I may be nearing my Century, but I am far from senility. Now if we could possibly move on to a matter of some importance”—(I wondered what Meek would say when I told him Straitley considered his assessment to be a matter of no importance)—“perhaps you have managed to find time in your busy schedule to read my report on Colin Knight.”

At my terminal, I smiled.

“Ah, Knight,” said Beard weakly.

Ah, Knight.

As I said, I can identify with a boy like Knight. In fact I was nothing like him—I was infinitely tougher, more vicious and more streetwise—but with more money and better parents I might have turned out just the same. There’s a long streak of resentment in Knight that I can use; and his sullenness means that he is unlikely to confide in anyone else until the point of no return has been passed. If wishes were horses, as we used to say when we were kids, then old Straitley would have been stampeded to death years ago. As it is, I have been tutoring Knight (on quite an extracurricular basis), and in this, if nothing else, he is an apt pupil.

It didn’t take much. Nothing at first that could be traced to me; a word here; a push there. “Imagine
I’m
your form tutor,” I told him as he followed me, puppylike, on my duty rounds. “If you have a problem, and you feel you can’t talk to Mr. Straitley about it, come to me.”

Knight had. Over two weeks I have been subjected to his pathetic complaints, his petty grievances. No one likes him; teachers pick on him; pupils call him “creep” and “loser.” He is miserable all the time, except when rejoicing at some other pupil’s misfortune. In fact he has been instrumental in spreading quite a number of little rumors for me, including a few about poor Mr. Grachvogel, whose absences have been noted and eagerly discussed. When he returns—
if
he returns—he is likely to find the details of his private life—with whatever embellishments the boys may have added—emblazoned on desks and toilet walls throughout the school.

Most of the time, though, Knight likes to complain. I provide a sympathetic ear; and although by now I can perfectly understand why Straitley loathes the brat, I have to say I’m delighted with my pupil’s progress. In slyness, in sullenness, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.

A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can’t make an omelet without killing people.

9

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysFriday, 29th October

That ass Beard. That perennial ass. Whoever thought
he
could make a decent Head of Year? Began by practically saying I was senile over Meek’s idiotic assessment form, then had the temerity to question my judgment on the subject of Colin Knight. Wanted more
evidence
, if you can believe it. Wanted to know whether I had spoken to the boy.

Spoken
to him? Of course I’d spoken to him, and if ever a boy was lying…It’s in the eyes, you know; the way they skitter repeatedly to the left-hand corner of the picture, as if there were something there—toilet paper on my shoe, perhaps, or a big puddle they wanted to avoid. It’s in the meek look, the exaggerated response, the succession of
honestly, sir
s and
I swear, sir
s, and behind it all, that sneak smug look of knowledge.

Of course I knew all that would end when I produced the pen. I let him talk; swear; swear on his mother’s grave; then out it came, Knight’s pen with Knight’s initials on it, discovered at the scene of the crime.

He gaped. His face fell. We were alone in the Bell Tower. It was lunchtime. It was a crisp, sunny day; the boys were in the yard chasing autumn. I could hear their distant cries, like gulls on the wind. Knight could hear them too, and half turned longingly toward the window.

“Well?” I tried not to be
too
satisfied. He was only a boy, after all. “It
is
your pen, isn’t it, Knight?”

Silence. Knight stood with his hands in his pockets, shriveling before my eyes. He knew it was serious, a matter for expulsion. I could see it in his face; the blot on his record; his mother’s disappointment; his father’s anger; the blow to his prospects. “
Isn’t it
, Knight?”

Silently, he nodded.

I sent him to the Head of Year, but he never got there. Brasenose saw him at the bus stop later that afternoon, but thought nothing of it. A dentist’s appointment, perhaps, or a quick, unsanctioned jaunt to the record shop or the café. No one else remembers seeing him; a lank-haired boy in a St. Oswald’s uniform, carrying a black nylon rucksack and looking as if the world’s troubles had just descended onto his shoulders.

“Oh, I
spoke
to him all right. He didn’t say much. Not after I produced the pen.”

Beard looked troubled. “I see. And what exactly did you say to the boy?”

“I impressed upon him the error of his ways.”

“Was anyone else present?”

I’d had enough of this. Of course there wasn’t; who else did I think was going to be present, on a windy lunchtime with a thousand boys playing outside? “What’s going on, Beard?” I demanded. “Have the parents complained? Is that it? Am I victimizing the boy again? Or is it that they know full well that their son’s a liar and that it’s only because of St. Oswald’s that I haven’t reported him to the police?”

Beard took a deep breath. “I think we should discuss this somewhere else,” he said uneasily (it was eight o’clock in the morning, and we were on the Lower Corridor, as yet almost deserted). “I wanted Pat Bishop to be here, but he isn’t in his office and I can’t get hold of him on his phone. Oh dear”—at this he tugged at his weak mustache—“I really think further discussion of this should wait until the proper authorities—”

I was about to make a stinging retort about Heads of Year and proper authorities when Meek came in. He gave me a venomous look, then addressed Beard. “Problem in the labs,” he said in his colorless voice. “I think you should have a look.”

Beard looked openly relieved. Computer problems were his field. No unpleasant human contact; no inconsistencies; no lies; nothing but machines to program and decode. I knew that there had been incessant computer problems this week—a virus, so I’m told—with the result that to my delight, e-mail had been completely suspended and Computer Studies relegated to the library for several days.

“Excuse me, Mr. Straitley—” That look again, like a man whose last-minute reprieve has finally come. “Duty calls.”

I found Bishop’s (handwritten) note in my pigeonhole at the end of the lunch break. Not before, I’m afraid, though Marlene tells me she delivered it at registration. But the morning was fraught with problems; Grachvogel absent; Kitty depressed; Pearman pretending nothing was wrong but looking rumpled and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. I heard from Marlene (who always knows everything) that he slept in school last night; apparently he hasn’t been home since Wednesday, when an anonymous letter addressed to Pearman’s wife exposed his long-term infidelity. Kitty blames herself, says Marlene; feels she has let Pearman down; wonders if it was her fault that the mystery informant learned the truth.

Pearman says not but remains aloof. Just like a man, says Marlene; too busy with his own problems to notice that poor Kitty is completely distraught.

I know better than to comment on this. I don’t take sides. I just hope that Pearman and Kitty will be able to continue to work together after this. I’d hate to lose either of them, especially this year, when so many other things have already gone bad.

There is one small consolation, however. Eric Scoones is a surprising pillar of strength in a world turned suddenly weak. Difficult at the best of times, he comes into his own at the worst, taking over Pearman’s duties without complaint (and with a kind of relish). Of course he would have liked to be Head of Department. Might even have been good at it—though he lacks Pearman’s charm, he is meticulous in all forms of administration. But age has soured him, and it is only in these moments of crisis that I see the real Eric Scoones; the young man I knew thirty years ago; the conscientious, energetic young man; the demon in the classroom; the tireless organizer; the hopeful Young Turk.

St. Oswald’s has a way of eating those things. The energy; the ambition; the dreams. That’s what I was thinking as I sat in the Common Room five minutes before the end of lunch, with an old brown mug in one hand and a stale digestive in the other (Common Room fund; I feel I should be getting my money’s worth, somehow). It’s always crowded at that time, like a railway terminal disgorging passengers to a variety of destinations. The usual suspects in their various seats: Roach, Light (unusually subdued), and Easy, all three getting their extra five minutes with the
Daily Mirror
before the beginning of afternoon school. Monument asleep; Penny Nation with Kitty in the girls’ corner; Miss Dare, reading a book; young Keane, popping in for a quick breather after his lunchtime duty.

“Oh, sir,” he said, seeing me there, “Mr. Bishop’s been looking for you. I think he sent you a message.”

A message? Probably an e-mail. The fellow never learns.

I found Bishop
in his office, squinting at the computer screen with his close-work glasses on. He removed them at once (he is self-conscious about the way he looks, and those pebble spectacles seem more suited to an elderly academic than an ex-rugby player).

“Took your bloody time, didn’t you?”

“I’m sorry,” I said mildly. “I must have missed your message.”

“Bollocks,” said Bishop. “You never remember to check your mail. I’m sick of it, Straitley, I’m sick of having to call you to my office like some member of the lower fifth who never hands in his course work.”

I had to smile. I do like him, you know. He’s not a Suit—though he tries, gods help him—and there is a kind of honesty about him when he’s angry that you’d never find in someone like the Head.
“Vere dicis?”
I said politely.

“You can cut
that
out for a start,” said Bishop. “We’re in real shit here, and it’s your bloody fault.”

I looked at him. He wasn’t joking. “What’s the problem? Another complaint?” I suppose I was thinking about Pooley’s blazer again—though surely, Bob Strange would have wanted to deal with that himself.

“Worse than that,” said Pat. “It’s Colin Knight. He’s done a bunk.”

“What?”

Pat glared at me. “Yesterday, after his little run-in with you at lunchtime. Took his bag, went off, and no one—and I mean
no one
, not his parents, not his friends, not a single bloody soul—has clapped eyes on him since.”