Gentlemen & Players (7 page)

Of course I was still angry at the unfairness of it; at the fees that my father could never have afforded; at the fact that, fees or not, I could never hope to be accepted. But in spite of that, we had a relationship. A benign symbiosis, perhaps, like the shark and the lamprey. I began to understand that I need not be a parasite; I could let St. Oswald’s use me as I used it. Lately I had begun to keep records of things to be done around the school; cracked panes, loose tiles, damaged desks. I copied the details into the repairs book in the Porter’s Lodge, signing them with the initials of various teachers to avoid suspicion. Dutifully, my father dealt with them; and I felt proud that in a small way I too had made a difference; St. Oswald’s thanked me; I was approved.

It was a Monday. I had been wandering along the Middle Corridor, listening at doors. My afternoon Latin class was over and I was considering going to the library, or the art block, and mingling with the study-period boys there. Or perhaps I could go to the Refectory—the kitchen staff would have gone by then—and sneak some of the biscuits left out for the teachers’ after-school meeting.

I was so absorbed by my thoughts that as I rounded the bend into the Upper Corridor I almost bumped into a boy who was standing, hands in pockets, face to the wall, beneath an Honors Board. He was a couple of years older than I was—I guessed fourteen—with a sharp, clever face and bright gray eyes. His brown hair, I noticed, was rather long for St. Oswald’s, and the end of his tie, which was hanging disreputably out of his sweater, had been scissored off. I gathered—with some admiration—that I was looking at a rebel.

“Watch where you’re going,” said the boy.

It was the first time any St. Oswald’s boy had bothered to speak to me directly. I stared at him, fascinated.

“What are you here for?” I knew that the room at the end of the Upper Corridor was a Master’s study. I’d even been in it once or twice; a small airless place, knee-deep in papers, with several huge and indestructible plants sprawling ominously from a high and narrow window.

The boy grinned. “Quaz sent me. I’ll get off with a caution, or DT. Quaz never canes anyone.”

“Quaz?” I was familiar with the name; overheard in after-school conversations between boys. I knew it was a nickname and could not put a face to it.

“Lives in the Bell Tower? Looks like a gargoyle?” The boy grinned again. “Bit of a
podex
, but he’s all right really. I’ll talk him round.”

I stared at the boy with growing awe. His confidence fascinated me. The way he spoke of a Master—not as a creature of terrifying authority, but as a figure of fun—made me inarticulate with admiration. Better still, this boy—this rebel who dared to flout St. Oswald’s—was talking to me as an equal, and
he didn’t have the slightest idea who I was!

I had never until then imagined that I might find an ally there. My visits to St. Oswald’s were painfully private. I had no school friends to tell; confiding in my father or Pepsi would have been unthinkable. But this boy—

At last I found my voice. “What’s a
podex
?”

The boy’s name
was Leon Mitchell. I gave my own as Julian Pinchbeck, and told him I was a first year. I was rather small for my age, and I thought it would be easier for me to pass as a member of another year group. That way Leon would not question my absence from year Assemblies or Games.

I felt almost faint at the enormity of my bluff, but I was elated too. It was really so easy. If one boy could be convinced, then why not others—maybe even Masters?

I suddenly imagined myself joining clubs, teams, openly attending lessons. Why not? I knew the school better than any of the pupils. I wore the uniform. Why should anyone question me? There must have been a thousand boys at the school. No one—not even the Head—could be expected to know them all. Better still, I had all the precious tradition of St. Oswald’s on my side; no one had ever heard of such a deception as mine. No one would ever suspect such an outrageous thing.

“Don’t you have a lesson to go to?” There was a malicious gleam in the boy’s gray eyes. “You’ll get bollocked if you’re late.”

I sensed this was a challenge. “I don’t care,” I said. “Mr. Bishop sent me with a message for the office. I can say the secretary was on the phone, and I had to wait.”

“Not bad. I’ll have to remember that one.”

Leon’s approval made me reckless. “I bunk off all the time,” I told him. “No one’s ever caught me.”

He nodded, grinning. “So what is it today?”

I almost said
Games
but stopped myself just in time. “RE.”

Leon pulled a face. “
Vae!
Don’t blame you. Give me the pagans any day. At least they were allowed to have sex.”

I sniggered. “Who’s your form teacher?” I asked. If I knew that, I could find out for sure what year he was in.

“Slimy Strange. English. A real
cimex
. What about yours?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell Leon anything that could too easily be disproved. But before I could answer there was a sudden shuffle of footsteps in the corridor behind us. Someone was approaching.

Leon straightened up immediately. “It’s Quaz,” he advised in a quick undertone. “Better scat.”

I turned toward the approaching footsteps, torn between relief at not having to answer the form-master question and disappointment that our conversation had been so short. I tried to imprint Leon’s face into my memory; the lock of hair falling casually across his forehead; the light eyes; the ironic mouth. Ridiculous to imagine that I would ever see him again. Dangerous even to try.

I kept my expression neutral as the Master entered the Upper Corridor.

I knew Roy Straitley by his voice alone. I’d followed his classes, laughed at his jokes, but only at a distance had I ever glimpsed his face. Now I saw him; a hunched silhouette in a battered gown and slip-on leather shoes. I ducked my head as he approached, but I must have looked guilty, because he stopped and looked at me sharply. “You, boy. What are you doing here out of lessons?”

I mumbled something about Mr. Bishop, and a message.

Mr. Straitley didn’t seem convinced. “The office is on the Lower Corridor. You’re miles away!”

“Yes, sir. Had to go to my locker, sir.”

“What, during lessons?”

“Sir.”

I could tell he didn’t believe me. My heart raced. I dared a glance and saw Straitley’s face, his ugly, clever, good-natured face frowning down at me. I was afraid, but behind my apprehension lay something else; an irrational, breath-taking sense of hope. Had he seen me? Had someone finally seen me?

“What’s your name, son?”

“Pinchbeck, sir.”

“Pinchbeck, eh?”

I could tell he was thinking what to do. Whether to question me further, as instinct dictated, or simply to let it go and deal with his own pupil. He studied me for a few seconds more—his eyes were the faded yellow-blue of dirty denim—and then I felt the weight of his scrutiny drop. I was not important enough, he’d decided. A Lower School boy, out of lessons without permission; no threat; somebody else’s problem. For a second my anger eclipsed my natural caution. No threat, was I? Not worth the effort? Or had I, in all these years of hiding and skulking, at last become completely and irrevocably invisible?

“All right, son. Don’t let me see you here again. Now scat.”

And I did, shaking now with relief. As I ran I distinctly heard Leon’s voice behind me, whispering: “Hey, Pinchbeck! After school. Okay?”

I turned, and saw him wink at me.

7

St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysWednesday, 8th September

Drama belowdecks; the great blundering frigate which is St. Oswald’s has hit the reef early this year. Firstly, the date of the imminent school inspection has been announced for December 6th. This always causes disruption on a massive scale, especially among the higher echelons of the administrative staff. Secondly—and from my point of view, much more disruptive—next term’s unusual fee increases were announced this morning by second-class post, causing consternation at breakfast tables throughout the county.

Our captain continues to maintain that this is perfectly normal and all in keeping with the rate of inflation, though he remains at present unavailable for comment. Some reprobates have been heard to mumble that if we, the staff, had been informed of the prospective increase, then perhaps we would not have been taken so much by surprise by this morning’s influx of angry phone calls.

Bishop, when questioned, supports the Head. He is a poor liar, however. Rather than face the Common Room this morning, he ran laps around the athletics track until assembly, claiming that he felt unfit and needed the exercise. No one believed this, but as I walked up the steps to room fifty-nine I saw him through the Bell Tower window, still running and dwarfed to forlorn proportions by the elevated perspective.

My form received the news of the fee increase with the usual healthy cynicism. “Sir, does this mean we get a proper teacher this year?” Allen-Jones appeared unmoved by either the room-numbering incident or my own dire threats of the previous day.

“No, it just means a better-stocked drinks cabinet in the Head’s secret study.”

Sniggers from the form. Only Knight looked sullen. Following yesterday’s unpleasantness, this would be his second day of punishment duty, and he had already been the object of ridicule as he paced the grounds in a bright orange jumpsuit, picking up discarded papers and stuffing them into an enormous plastic sack. Twenty years ago it would have been the cane and the respect of his peers; it goes to show that not all innovations are bad.

“My mum says it’s a disgrace,” said Sutcliff. “There’s other schools out there, you know.”

“Yes, but any zoo would be happy to take you,” I said vaguely, searching in my desk for the register. “Dammit, where’s the register? I know it was here.”

I always keep the register in my top drawer. I may
look
disorganized, but I usually know where everything is.

“When will
your
salary go up, sir?” That was Jackson.

Sutcliff: “He’s a millionaire already!”

Allen-Jones: “That’s because he never wastes money on clothes.”

Knight, in a low voice: “Or soap.”

I straightened up and looked at Knight. Somehow his expression managed to be insolent and cringing at the same time. “How did you enjoy your litter round yesterday?” I said. “Would you like to volunteer for another week?”

“You didn’t say that to the others,” muttered Knight.

“That’s because the others know the line between humor and insolence.”

“You pick on me.” Knight’s voice was lower than ever. His eyes did not meet mine.

“
What
?” I was genuinely amazed.

“You pick on me, sir. You pick on me because—”

“Because what?” I snapped.

“Because I’m Jewish, sir.”

“What?” I was annoyed with myself. I’d been so preoccupied with the missing register that I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and allowed a pupil to draw me into a public confrontation.

The rest of the class was silent, watching us both expectantly.

I regained my composure. “Rubbish. I don’t pick on you because you’re
Jewish
. I pick on you because you can never keep your trap shut and you’ve got
stercus
for brains.”

McNair, Sutcliff, or Allen-Jones would have laughed at that, and things would have been all right. Even Tayler would have laughed, and he wears a yarmulke in class.

But Knight’s expression did not change. Instead I saw something there that I had never noticed before; a new kind of stubbornness. For the first time, Knight held my gaze. For a second I thought he was going to say something more, then he dropped his eyes in the old familiar way and muttered something inaudible under his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure, sir.”

“Good.”

I turned back to my desk. The register might have gone astray, but I know all my boys; I would have known the moment I entered the room if one of them were missing. I intoned the list anyway—the schoolmaster’s mantra—it never fails to calm them down.

Afterward I glanced at Knight, but his face was lowered, and there was nothing about his sullen expression that suggested revolt. Normality had been resumed, I decided. The small crisis was over.

8

I debated for a long time before keeping Leon’s appointment. I
wanted
to meet him—more than anything, I wanted to be his friend—though this was a line I had never crossed before, and on this occasion, there was more at stake than ever. But I liked Leon—had liked him from the first—and that made me reckless. At my own school, anyone who spoke to me risked persecution from my school yard tormentors. Leon was from another world. Despite his long hair and mutilated tie, he was an insider.

I did not rejoin the cross-country group. The next day, I would forge a letter from my father, saying that I’d had an asthma attack during the run, and forbidding me to take part again.

I had no regrets. I hated Games. I especially hated Mr. Bray with his fake tan and his gold neck-chain, flaunting his Neanderthal humor to that little circle of sycophants at the expense of the weak; the clumsy; the inarticulate; the losers like me. And so I hid behind the Games Pavilion, still dressed in my St. Oswald’s clothes, and waited, with some apprehension, for the end-of-school bell.

No one spared me a look; no one questioned my right to be there. All around me, boys—some in blazers or shirt sleeves, some still in their sports’ kit—jumped into cars; tripped over cricket bats; exchanged jokes, books, prep notes. A bulky, boisterous-looking man took charge of the bus queue—it was Mr. Bishop, the Second Master—while an older man in a black and red gown stood at the Chapel gates.

This, I knew, was Dr. Shakeshafte, the Head. My father spoke of him with respect and some awe—after all, he had given him his job.
One of the old school
, my father would say with approval:
tough but fair. Let’s hope the new man’s half as good
.

Officially, of course, I knew nothing of the events that had led to the New Head’s appointment. My father could be oddly puritanical about some things, and I suppose he felt it was disloyal to St. Oswald’s to discuss the matter with me. Already, however, some of the local papers had caught the scent, and I had heard the rest from overheard remarks between my father and Pepsi: to avoid adverse publicity, the Old Head was to remain until the end of term—ostensibly to induct the new man and to help him settle in—after which he would leave on a comfortable pension provided by the trust. St. Oswald’s looks after its own: and there would be a generous out-of-court settlement for the injured parties—on the understanding, of course, that no mention was made of the circumstances.

As a result, I observed Dr. Shakeshafte with some curiosity from my position at the school gates. A craggy-faced man of about sixty, not as bulky as Bishop, but with the same ex-rugbyman’s build, he loomed over the boys like a gargoyle. A cane evangelist, I gathered from my father—good thing too, teach these boys some discipline. At my own school, the cane had already been outlawed for years. Instead, such people as Miss Potts and Miss McAuleigh favored the empathic approach, whereby bullies and thugs were invited to discuss their feelings before being let off with a caution.

Mr. Bray, himself a veteran bully, preferred the direct approach, so like my father’s, in which the complainant was advised to
stop whingeing to me and fight your own battles, for Christ’s sake
. I pondered the exact nature of the battle that had resulted in the Head’s involuntary retirement and wondered how it had been fought. I was still wondering when, ten minutes later, Leon arrived.

“Hey, Pinchbeck.” He was carrying his blazer over one shoulder, and his shirt was hanging out. The scissored tie poked impudently from his collar like a tongue. “What’re you doing?”

I swallowed, trying to look casual. “Nothing much. How did it go with Quaz?”

“
Pactum factum,
” said Leon, grinning. “DT on Friday, as predicted.”

“Bad luck.” I shook my head. “So what did you do?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, nothing,” he said. “Bit of basic self-expression on my desk lid. Want to go into town?”

I made a quick mental calculation. I could afford to be an hour late; my father had his rounds to do—doors to lock, keys to collect—and would not be home before five. Pepsi, if she was there at all, would be watching TV, or maybe cooking dinner. She had long since stopped trying to befriend me; I was free.

Try to imagine that hour, if you can. Leon had some money, and we had coffee and doughnuts in the little tea shop by the railway station, then we went around the record shops, where Leon dismissed my musical tastes as “banal” and expressed a preference in such bands as the Stranglers and the Squeeze. I had a bad moment when we passed a group of girls from my own school, and a worse one when Mr. Bray’s white Capri stopped at some lights as we were crossing the road, but I soon realized that in my St. Oswald’s uniform, I might as well really have been invisible.

For a few seconds Mr. Bray and I were close enough to touch. I wondered what would happen if I tapped at the window and said, “You are a complete and utter
podex
, sir.”

The thought made me laugh so much and so suddenly that I could hardly breathe.

“Who’s that?” said Leon, noticing me noticing.

“No one,” I said hastily. “Some bloke.”

“The girl, you prat.”

“Oh.” She was sitting in the passenger seat, turned slightly toward him. I recognized her: Tracey Delacey, a couple of years older than I was, the current fourth-form pinup. She was wearing a tennis skirt and sat with her legs crossed very high.

“Banal,” I said, using Leon’s word.

“I’d give her one,” said Leon, grinning.

“You would?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

I thought of Tracey, with her teased hair and lingering smell of Juicy Fruit gum. “Uh. Maybe,” I said, without enthusiasm.

Leon grinned as the little car pulled away.

My new friend
was in Amadeus House. His parents—a university P.A. and a civil servant—were divorced (“but that’s okay, I get double the pocket money”). He had a younger sister, Charlotte; a dog called Captain Sensible; a personal therapist; an electric guitar; and, it seemed to me, limitless freedom.

“Mum says I need to experience learning beyond the confines of the patriarchal Judaeo-Christian system. She doesn’t really approve of St. Oz—but Dad’s the one who foots the bill. He was at Eton. Thinks day-schoolers are proles.”

“Right.” I tried to think of something honest to say about my own parents, but could not; in less than an hour’s acquaintance I already sensed that this boy held more of a place in my heart than John or Sharon Snyde ever had.

Ruthlessly, then, I reinvented them. My mother was dead; my father was a police inspector (the most important-sounding job I could think of at the time). I lived with my father for part of the year, and for the rest of the time with my uncle in town. “I had to come to St. Oswald’s midterm,” I explained. “I’ve not been here long.”

Leon nodded. “That right? I thought you might be a newbie. What happened with the other place? D’you get expelled?”

The suggestion rather pleased me. “It was a dump. My dad pulled me out.”

“I got thrown out of my last school,” said Leon. “Dad was livid. Three grand a year, they were getting, and they chucked me out on a first offense. Talk about banal. You’d think they’d make more of an effort, wouldn’t you? Anyway, we could do worse than St. Oz. Specially now Shakeshafte’s leaving, the old bugger—”

I saw my chance. “Why’s he going, anyhow?”

Leon’s eyes widened humorously. “You really are a newbie, aren’t you?” He lowered his voice. “Let me put it this way; I heard he was doing a bit more than just shaking his shaft…”

Things have changed
since then, even at St. Oswald’s. In those days you could throw money at a scandal and it would go away. All that’s changed now. We are no longer overawed by the burnished spires: we can see the corruption beneath the shine. And it is fragile; a well-placed stone might bring it down. A stone, or something else.

I can identify
with a boy like Knight. Small, lank, inarticulate, an obvious outsider. Shunned by his classmates, not for any question of religion, but for a more basic reason. It isn’t anything he can alter; it’s in the contours of his face, the no-color of his limp hair, the length of his bones. His family may have money now, but generations of poverty lie bone deep in him. I know. St. Oswald’s accepts his kind with reluctance in a time of financial crisis, but a boy like Knight will never fit in. His name will never appear on the Honor Boards. Masters will persistently forget his name. He will never be chosen for teams. His attempts to gain acceptance will always end in disaster. There is a look in his eyes that I recognize too well; the wary, resentful look of a boy who has long since stopped trying for acceptance. All he can do is hate.

Of course I heard about the scene with Straitley almost at once. The St. Oswald’s grapevine runs fast; any incident is reported within the day. Today had been a particularly bad one for Colin Knight. At registration, the spat with Straitley; at break, an incident with Robbie Roach over missing homework; at lunchtime, a flare-up with Jackson—also of 3S—which resulted in Jackson being sent home with a broken nose and Knight suspended for the week.

I was on duty in the grounds when it happened. I could see Knight in his protective overalls, gloomily picking up litter from the rose beds. A clever, cruel punishment; far more humiliating than lines or detention. As far as I know, only Roy Straitley uses it. It’s the same kind of overall my father used to wear and which the half-wit Jimmy wears now: large, bright orange and visible from right across the playing fields. Anyone who wears it is fair game.

Knight had tried unsuccessfully to hide behind an angle of the building. A knot of smaller boys had gathered there and were making fun of him, pointing out scraps of litter he had missed. Jackson, a small, aggressive boy who knows that only the presence of a loser like Knight prevents him from being bullied, was hanging around close by with a couple of other third-years. Pat Bishop was on duty, but out of earshot, surrounded by boys, on the other side of the cricket pitch. Roach, the history teacher, was on duty too but seemed more interested in talking to a group of fifth-formers than sorting out discipline.

I went up to Knight. “That can’t be much fun.”

Knight shook his head sullenly. His face was pale and sallow, except for a red spot on each cheekbone. Jackson, who had been observing me, broke away from the little group and edged warily closer. I could see him measuring me with his eyes, as if to determine the threat I represented. Jackals do much the same thing when circling a dying animal.

“Want to join him?” I said sharply, and Jackson scuttled back to his group, startled.

Knight gave me a look of furtive gratitude. “It’s not fair,” he said in a low voice. “They’re always picking on me.”

I nodded sympathetically. “I know.”

“You know?”

“Oh yes,” I said quietly. “I’ve been watching.”

Knight looked at me. His eyes were hot and dark and absurdly hopeful.

“Listen to me, Colin. Isn’t that your name?”

He nodded.

“You have to learn to fight back, Colin,” I said. “Don’t be a victim. Make them pay.”

“Pay?” Knight looked startled.

“Why not?”

“I’d get into trouble.”

“Aren’t you already?”

He looked at me.

“Then what’s to lose?”

The end-of-break bell went then, and I had no time to say anything else, but in any case I didn’t have to; the seeds were sown. Knight’s hopeful gaze followed me across the school yard, and by lunchtime, the deed was done; Jackson was on the ground with Knight on top of him and Roach running toward them with his whistle bouncing against his chest and the others standing by in slack-jawed amazement at the victim who finally decided to fight back.

I need allies,
you see. Not among my colleagues, but further down in the substrata of St. Oswald’s. Strike at the base, and the head will finally topple. I felt a fleeting stab of pity for the unsuspecting Knight, who will be my sacrifice, but I have to remind myself that in any war there must be casualties, and that if things go according to plan there will have to be many more before St. Oswald’s founders in a crash of broken idols and shattered dreams.