Gentlemen & Players (5 page)

He has aged, of course. He must be close to retirement now. But he hasn’t changed; still the same affectations, the gown, the tweed jacket, the Latin phrases. I felt almost fond of him today, as if he were an old uncle I hadn’t seen for years. But I can see him behind his disguise, even if he does not see me. I know my enemy.

I’d almost expected to hear of his retirement. In a way it would have made things easier. But after today, I’m glad he’s still here. It adds excitement to the situation. Besides, the day I bring St. Oswald’s down, I want Roy Straitley to be there.

5

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysTuesday, 7th September

There’s always a special kind of chaos on the first day. Boys late, boys lost, books to be collected, stationery to be distributed. The classroom changes didn’t help; the new timetable had failed to take into account the renumbering of the rooms, and had to be followed by a memo that no one read. Several times I intercepted columns of boys marching toward the new German departmental office instead of toward the Bell Tower, and had to redirect them.

Dr. Devine was looking stressed. I had still not cleared out my old office, of course; all the filing cabinets were locked, and only I had the key. Then there were registers, holiday work to collect, fee checks to be sent to the Bursar’s office, locker keys to distribute, seating arrangements to be made, law to be enforced.

Luckily, I don’t have a new form this year. My boys—thirty-one of them in all—are old lags, and they know what to expect. They have got used to me, and I to them. There’s Pink, a quiet, quirky lad with a strangely adult sense of humor, and his friend Tayler; then there are my Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones and McNair, two extravagant jokers who earn themselves fewer detentions than they deserve because they make me laugh; then redheaded Sutcliff; then Niu, a Japanese boy, very active in the school orchestra; then Knight, whom I do not trust; little Jackson, who has to prove himself on a daily basis by picking fights; large Brasenose, who is easily bullied; and Anderton-Pullitt, a clever, solitary, ponderous boy who has many allergies including, if we are to believe him, a very special form of asthma which means that he should be excused from all kinds of sports, as well as maths, French, Religious Education, homework on Mondays, House Meetings, Assemblies, and Chapel. He also has a habit of following me around—which has caused Kitty Teague to make jokes at the expense of my
Special Little Friend
—and bending my ear about his various enthusiasms (First World War aircraft, computer games, the music of Gilbert and Sullivan). As a rule I don’t mind too much—he’s an odd boy, excluded by his peers, and I think he may be lonely—but on the other hand, I have work to do and no desire to spend what free time I have in socializing with Anderton-Pullitt.

Of course, schoolboy crushes are a fact of teaching, with which we learn to deal as best we can. We’ve all been on the receiving end at some time or another—even people like Hillary Monument and myself, who, let’s face it, are about as unsightly a pair as you’re likely to find out of captivity. We all have our ways of dealing with it, though I believe Isabelle Tapi actually encourages the boys—certainly, she has any number of
Special Little Friends
, as do Robbie Roach and Penny Nation. As for myself, I find that a brisk manner and a policy of benevolent neglect usually discourage overfamiliarity in the Anderton-Pullitts of this world.

Still, all in all, not a bad lot, 3S. They have grown over the holidays; some look almost adult. That ought to make me feel old, but it does not; instead I feel a kind of reluctant pride. I like to think that I treat all the boys equally, but I have developed an especial fondness for this form, which has been with me for the past two years. I like to think we understand each other.

“Oh,
sü-üür
!” There were moans as I handed out Latin tests to everyone.

“It’s the first day, sir!”

“Can’t we have a quiz, sir?”

“Can we do hangman in Latin?”

“When I have taught you everything I know, Mr. Allen-Jones, then perhaps we may find time to indulge in trivial pursuits.”

Allen-Jones grinned, and I saw that in the space marked FORM ROOM on the cover of his Latin book, he had written
Room formerly known as 59.

There was a knock, and Dr. Devine put his head around the door.

“Mr. Straitley?”

“Quid agis, Medice?”

The class sniggered. Sourgrape, who never did Classics, looked annoyed. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Straitley. Could I have a quick word, please?”

We went out into the corridor while I kept watch on the boys through the panel in the door. McNair was already beginning to write something on his desk, and I gave the glass a warning tap.

Sourgrape eyed me disapprovingly. “I was really hoping to reorganize the departmental workroom this morning,” he said. “Your filing cabinets—”

“Oh, I’ll deal with those,” I replied. “Just leave it all to me.”

“Then there’s the desk—and the books—not to mention all those enormous
plants
—”

“Just make yourself at home,” I said in an airy tone. “Don’t mind my stuff at all.” There was thirty years of assorted paperwork in that desk. “Perhaps you’d like to transfer some of the files to the Archives, if you’re free,” I suggested helpfully.

“I would not,” snapped Sourgrape. “And while we’re at it, perhaps you can tell me who has removed the new number fifty-nine from the door of the departmental workroom and replaced it by this?” He handed me a piece of card, upon which someone had written:
Room formerly known as 75
in an exuberant (and rather familiar) young scrawl.

“I’m sorry, Dr. Devine. I don’t have the slightest idea.”

“Well, it’s nothing more than theft. Those door plaques cost four pounds each. That comes to a hundred and thirteen pounds in all for twenty-eight rooms, and six of them are gone already. I don’t know what you’re grinning at, Straitley, but—”

“Grinning, did you say? Not at all. Tampering with room numbers? Deplorable.” This time I managed to keep a straight face, though Sourgrape seemed unconvinced.

“Well, I shall be making enquiries, and I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye out for the culprit. We can’t have this kind of thing happening. It’s disgraceful. This school’s security has been a shambles for years.”

Dr. Devine wants surveillance cameras on the Middle Corridor—ostensibly for security, but actually because he wants to be able to watch what everyone gets up to: who lets the boys watch test cricket instead of doing exam revision; who does the crossword during reading comprehensions; who is always twenty minutes late; who nips out for a cup of coffee; who allows indiscipline; who prepares his work materials in advance, who makes it up as he goes along.

Oh, he’d
love
to have all those things on camera; to possess hard evidence of our little failures, our little incompetencies. To be able to demonstrate (during a school inspection, for instance) that Isabelle is often late to lessons; that Pearman sometimes forgets to arrive at all. That Eric Scoones loses his temper and occasionally cuffs a boy across the head, that I rarely use visual aids, and that Grachvogel, in spite of his modern methods, has difficulty controlling his class. I know all those things, of course. Devine merely suspects.

I also know that Eric’s mother has Alzheimer’s disease, and that he is fighting to keep her at home; that Pearman’s wife has cancer; and that Grachvogel is homosexual, and afraid. Sourgrape has no idea of these things, closeted as he is in his ivory tower in the old Classics office. Furthermore, he does not care. Information, not understanding, is the name of his game.

After the lesson
I discreetly used the master key to get into Allen-Jones’s locker. Sure enough, the six door plaques were there, along with a set of small screwdrivers and the discarded screws, all of which I removed. I would ask Jimmy to replace the plaques at lunchtime. Fallow would have asked questions and might even have reported back to Dr. Devine.

There seemed no point in taking further action. If Allen-Jones had any sense, he wouldn’t mention the matter either. As I closed the locker I caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and a lighter concealed behind a copy of
Julius Caesar
but decided not to notice them.

I was free for most of the afternoon. I would have liked to stay in my room, but Meek was in there with a third-year maths class, so I retreated to the Quiet Room (sadly a no-smoking area) for a comfortable chat with any colleagues who happened to be available.

The Quiet Room is, of course, a misnomer. A kind of communal office with desks in the middle and lockers around the edges, it is here that the staff grapevine has its roots. Here, under the pretext of marking, news is disseminated, rumors spread. It has the added advantage of being precisely
underneath
my room, and this lucky coincidence means that if required, I can leave a class to work in silence while I have a cup of tea or read the
Times
in congenial surroundings. Any sound from above is distinctly audible, including individual voices, and it is the work of an instant for me to rise, apprehend, and swiftly punish any boy who creates a disturbance. In this way I have acquired a reputation for omniscience, which serves me well.

In the Quiet Room I found Chris Keane, Kitty Teague, Robbie Roach, Eric Scoones, and Paddy McDonaugh, the RE master. Keane was reading, occasionally making notes in a red-bound notebook. Kitty and Scoones were going through departmental report cards. McDonaugh was drinking tea whilst flicking through the pages of
The Encyclopaedia of Demons and Demonology
. Sometimes I think that man takes his job a little too seriously.

Roach was engrossed in the
Mirror
. “Thirty-seven to go,” he said.

There was a silence. When no one questioned his statement he elaborated. “Thirty-seven working days,” he said. “Till half-term.”

McDonaugh snorted. “Since when did
you
ever do any work?” he said.

“I’ve already done my share,” said Roach, turning a page. “Don’t forget I’ve been at camp since August.” Summer camp is Robbie’s contribution to the school’s extracurricular program: for three weeks a year he goes to Wales with a minibus of boys to lead walking expeditions, canoeing, paintballing, and go-karting. It’s what he enjoys; he gets to wear jeans every day and have the boys call him by his first name, but still he maintains that it is a great sacrifice, and claims his right to take it easy for the rest of the year.

“Camp,” scoffed McDonaugh.

Scoones eyed them with disapproval. “I thought this was supposed to be the
Quiet
Room,” he pointed out in chilling tones, before returning to his report cards.

There was silence for a moment. Eric’s a good chap, but moody; on another day he might be full of gossip himself; today he looked glum. It was probably the new addition to the French department, I thought to myself. Miss Dare is young, ambitious, and bright—one more person to beware of. Plus, she’s a woman, and an old-timer like Scoones doesn’t like working alongside a woman thirty years younger than he is. He has been expecting promotion at any time these past fifteen years, but he won’t get it now. He’s too old—and not half conciliatory enough. Everybody knows it but Scoones himself, and any change to the departmental lineup only serves to remind him that he isn’t getting any younger.

Kitty gave me a humorous look, which confirmed my suspicions. “Lots of admin to catch up on,” she whispered. “There was a bit of a mix-up last term, and for some reason, these records got overlooked.”

What she means is that
Pearman
overlooked them. I’ve seen his office—overflowing with neglected paperwork, important files drowning in a sea of unread memos, lost course work, exercise books, old coffee cups, exam papers, photocopied notes, and the intricate little doodles he makes when he’s on the phone. My own office may
look
the same, but at least I know where everything is. Pearman would be completely at sea if Kitty wasn’t there to cover up for him.

“How’s the new girl?” I asked provocatively.

Scoones huffed. “Too smart for her own bloody good.”

Kitty gave an apologetic smile. “New ideas,” she explained. “I’m sure she’ll settle down.”

“Pearman thinks the world of her,” said Scoones with a sneer.

“He would.”

Pearman has a lively appreciation of feminine beauty. Rumor has it that Isabelle Tapi would never have been employed at St. Oswald’s but for the minidress she wore at interview.

Kitty shook her head. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s full of ideas.”

“I could tell you what she’s full of,” muttered Scoones. “But she’s
cheap
, isn’t she? Before we know it, they’ll be replacing all of us with spotty-faced upstarts with ten-a-penny degrees. Save a bloody fortune.”

I could see that Keane was listening to this; he was grinning as he made his notes. More material for the Great British Novel, I supposed. McDonaugh studied his demons. Robbie Roach nodded with sour approval.

Kitty was conciliating, as ever. “Well, we’re all having to cut back,” she said. “Even the textbook budget—”

“Tell me about it!” interrupted Roach. “History’s lost forty percent, my form room’s a disgrace, there’s water coming in through the ceiling, I’m working all hours, and what do they do? Blow thirty grand on computers no one wants. What about fixing the roof? What about a paint job on the Middle Corridor? What about that DVD player I’ve been asking for since God knows when?”

McDonaugh grunted. “Chapel needs work too,” he reminded us. “Have to put school fees up again, that’s all. No getting round it this time.”

“The fees won’t go up,” said Scoones, forgetting his need for peace and quiet. “We’d lose half the pupils if we did that. There’s other grammar schools, you know. Better than this one, if truth be told.”

“
There is a world elsewhere
,” I quoted softly.

“I heard there’s been some pressure to sell off some of the school’s land,” said Roach, draining his coffee cup.

“What, the playing fields?” Scoones, a staunch rugby man, was shocked.

“Not the rugby pitch,” explained Roach soothingly. “Just the fields behind the tennis courts. No one uses them anymore, except when boys want to sneak off for a fag. They’re useless for sports anyway—always waterlogged. We’d be just as well selling them off for development, or something.”

Development
. That sounded ominous. A Tesco, perhaps, or a Superbowl where the Sunnybankers could go after school for their daily dose of beer and skittles.