Sidney Chambers and The Forgiveness of Sins (39 page)

Sidney could hear Adam practising his Dvo
ř
ák piece when he arrived. He spoke to the boy’s mother by the dovecote. ‘It must be hard for you, Mrs Barnes – to still be here, in this house where it all happened.’

‘I’ve kept Luke’s room as it was. I haven’t changed anything. Just made the bed. Washed and ironed his clothes. Put them back. Sometimes I go to his room and sit at his desk. I try to imagine what it might be like to be him.’

‘I wondered why your son Adam was still at the school?’

‘He said it was what he knew. I don’t know if he was being brave or not. I’m not sure how many friends he has. He doesn’t go out much. He enjoys his music, though. And he likes your wife. She’s been good to him. He needs someone other than me to stick up for him.’

‘I think she would do anything for her pupils. Is Adam at home? I thought that might have been him playing the piano just now.’

‘He’ll be up in his room. I don’t know what he’s doing. Reading probably. He likes
The Lord of the Rings
.’

Sidney climbed the stairs. He felt anxious and thought of Anna. Was this what having a teenager was going to be like in ten years’ time: the nervous confrontation with a closed door?

Adam Barnes was drawing a fossil and had a half-finished packet of Toffos on his desk to keep him going. The room looked out on to the dovecote. The boy could watch his mother from here, Sidney thought, and always see that she was safe. He was suddenly touched by how much the boy cared for and looked after her.

(He thought of little Anna; how she watched him as he drove the car, as he carved the Sunday roast, as he lifted her high above his head. ‘
Careful, Daddy
.’)

There were a few photographs of past holidays, but none containing any images of Adam’s father. Sidney asked again about the explosion at the school.

‘It doesn’t matter, does it? Anyone could have done it. We all hated Paine. That’s what did for my brother Luke. He couldn’t stand it any more.’

‘Mr Paine was bullying him?’

‘And Rev Kev. They took it in turns; found excuses to beat him.’

‘Even when he was in the sixth form?’

‘I think it was different then. Luke didn’t like to talk about it. I knew something was wrong. He wasn’t being hit. But they gave him money, I think, special privileges. They let him drink in their rooms. I know that much. Then things happened, although I don’t like to imagine them.’

‘You think the teachers did things with your brother that were against his will?’

‘They said that if he told anyone anything then he’d die before he was thirty. Turns out they were right. But by the time he killed himself he didn’t have much will left. They got him drunk. They made him feel bad about himself.’

‘So how much did he tell you?’

‘Only that I was lucky to be in a different house. And that if any teacher hit me or did anything I didn’t like then I was to tell him and he could get it stopped.’

‘So he had some level of power over his persecutors?’

‘He would have hated to use it.’

‘Did he leave you a note?’

‘He didn’t need to. I was the one that found him.’ Adam Barnes would not meet Sidney’s eye. ‘I called my dad. He’s the doctor. I knew I had to protect Mum. But in the end, she reached us first. I think she guessed what had happened. Somehow. I don’t know.’

‘Did anyone from the school say they were sorry?’

‘Pearson. He showed me something Luke had carved into his desk.
Mors potius macula.
’

‘Death rather than disgrace,’ Sidney translated. ‘Do you think that message was meant for everyone?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What were the last words your brother said to you?’

‘
“Have you got rugger this afternoon?” I think he wanted to check I wouldn’t be home.’

‘Apart from that . . .’

‘
“If anything happens to me, I want you to kill those bastards.
”
’

‘He assumed you would know who he meant?’

‘Mr Paine, Rev Kev.’

‘But Rev Kev’s in prison. Did you therefore try and kill Mr Paine?’

Adam Barnes thought for a moment and then answered simply, ‘What would happen if I said that I did? Is revenge forgivable?’

It was almost two hours later when Sidney began to wend his way home through the unhurried splendour of an English summer afternoon. The atmosphere was at odds with his feelings. He was going to have to persuade the school to let Marcus Pearson back after retracting a false confession. He would have to ensure that there was a police inquiry into Trevor Paine’s behaviour (and any other members of staff who had abused their position of trust); and, at the same time, he would try to prevent the punishment of Adam Barnes. If the boy was to have any chance of securing a good reference for university then he would need an unblemished school record.

Sidney walked back into his home, longing to see his daughter and appreciate her uncomplicated innocence and unquestioning love. He called her name and Hildegard answered as she came from the kitchen.

‘She’s swimming.’

‘Is that all right? Sabine can swim, can’t she?’

‘I decided they both needed to calm down. We all do.’

‘Why? What has happened?’

Over a pot of tea, and after Sidney had told his wife all about Adam Barnes (‘Are you sure? Adam?’ before checking her pupil would be given a sympathetic hearing), Hildegard explained that Christopher Clough was in hospital. It was not serious, but he had been wounded in a domestic incident.

‘Give me the details.’

‘Sabine was doing the ironing.’

‘Here?’

‘No. At Canon Clough’s. She was not fully dressed; she was only wearing her panties.’

‘What? Or, perhaps more to the point, why?’

‘He offered her more money if she took her top off. She was just finishing what she was doing when things went wrong. I don’t think I need to explain . . .’

‘You do.’

‘Canon Clough found he could no longer control himself. He had promised that he didn’t need to touch her, that looking was enough, but this was a lie. I could have told her it would end this way. Of course, the man wanted more. Luckily Sabine had just unplugged the iron when he made his move and she was able to defend herself.’

‘With the iron?’

‘Exactly. A very hot iron.’

‘Is Cloughie all right?’

‘Yes, but he is in hospital as I said. He has burns.’

‘And where is Sabine now?’

‘She said she was going to drop Anna off after swimming. Then she was meeting some friends for a drink.’

‘To drown her sorrows?’

‘I think she plans to celebrate. Her friends want to hear all about it. It’s given everyone an idea of how to deal with their men when they misbehave. It’s not just an iron that can be used in self-defence. Our homes are full of weapons: the carving knife, the meat cleaver, the axe for the wood, the rat poison, and that’s before we move on to the bathroom, the electric fire, the sleeping pills, the medicine cabinet . . .’

‘So are you telling me that the women of Ely are planning a series of outbreaks of domestic violence?’

‘They might be. What are you going to do about it?’

‘Be kinder to you.’

Millingham School had an elegiac feel when Sidney visited the next day. The empty cricket ground and abandoned swimming pool made it seem that summer had ended before its time. He looked out across the silent cricket pitch to the elms beyond and told the headmaster that Adam Barnes had left the Bunsen burners on in the science block as an act of revenge for his brother’s suicide. Luke Barnes had been driven to his death after a sustained campaign of bullying, unnecessary punishment and sexual abuse suffered at the hands of the Reverend Kevin Warner and Trevor Paine. Other teachers may have been involved but further details of the case showed the school in an appalling light.

Sidney made his position clear. ‘You do realise that reforms are essential? All this must be stamped out. There will be a police investigation.’

The headmaster tried to concentrate simply on the explosion. ‘Barnes will admit to what he did?’

‘I believe he will, but this is not really the issue.’

‘It is to me. Prize Day was ruined.’

‘Adam Barnes has suffered a very great deal. He may go on suffering. These events will stay with him for a long time,’ Sidney continued. ‘Forgiving him is the least we can do.’

‘I am not sure about that. I don’t want to show any weakness.’

‘He is going to leave the school in any case. You can say that he has been expelled if you like. I only pray he will find a happier place to complete his studies.’

‘We tried to do our best for him.’

‘I am afraid that you did not. That is the point.’

After much forceful discussion the headmaster said that he would make amends. ‘I will make sure that what Barnes has done doesn’t count against him. Trevor Paine can take early retirement on health grounds.’

‘That is not enough.’

‘He will complain that it’s the fault of “modern times”.’

‘It’s considerably more significant than that and well you know it, Headmaster.’

‘I do know. But it may be too late to change that particular sinner.’

‘It’s never too late to turn anyone away from a destructive path,’ Sidney asserted, ‘whether they are endangering their own life or the lives of others. Ethical positions exist outside time. I will talk to Trevor Paine again. So will the police. There is no excuse for his behaviour. He must understand what effect his actions have had even if he has to do so in prison. I owe that to all the boys who were placed in his care.’

‘I’m sure that is the right thing to do.’

‘It is the only thing to do.’

‘We don’t always know what’s right at the time do we?’ the headmaster said quietly. ‘Sometimes you just have to hope for the best. One can’t always rush to judgement.’ He spoke like a man who had resigned but had forgotten to tell anyone. ‘There are no absolutes.’

‘I think there are,’ said Sidney. ‘Fairness, justice, toleration, support for the weak, care for those in need, truth and love. Surely those principles are no harder to follow in a school than anywhere else?’

‘They shouldn’t be. But the balance between discipline and freedom is often hard with the young.’

‘And sometimes your staff let you down.’

‘It’s impossible to keep an eye on everything. You have to delegate responsibility. There are so many boys, all with differing needs. You have to help them find their own way without ruining them. It’s different with one’s own children. I try to keep mine at a tender distance. That way I do less damage.’

Sidney watched the headmaster’s defeated face soften. His eyes travelled to the family photographs on his desk as the man went on. ‘You never know whether you’ve got things right or not. By the time you’ve adjusted to one stage, they’ve moved on to another. In a school the first year is always the first year. They automatically renew themselves. You can give the same lessons every September and all the problems you have anticipated return. But in a family you have to keep adjusting as your children develop. They are always ahead of you.’

‘You might be good at one stage and hopeless at the next.’

‘You see some parents who are marvellous with the very young and hopeless with teenagers. It can also be the other way round. It’s easier with the children of other people. At a school they come and go. But your own sons and daughters are always with you. You worry constantly. The trick is to find out how much that concern is helpful and when to use it. So you keep re-evaluating the way you parent a child. You can never settle or be complacent. It’s harder to do that in a school. Do you have children yourself?’

‘A daughter. She’s two and a half.’

‘A lovely age. You should be all right until she’s thirteen. Then it’s hopeless. You have to let them reject you. Then you don’t really get them back until they’re married. But then they have children of their own and the whole process starts again.’

‘Do you ever tire of all this?’

‘Teaching? Children? Life? Which do you mean?’ the headmaster asked. ‘I can’t allow myself to tire. I’ve already run off the cliff. I just have to keep remembering not to look down.’

Inspector Keating decided to watch the World Cup final at Sidney’s house. He needed peace away from a wife and three daughters who, he knew from past frustrating experience, would keep interrupting and ask daft questions about the game at all the wrong moments. He made it very clear on his arrival, carrying a brown carrier bag full of bottles of Newcastle Brown Ale, that he didn’t want to talk about Millingham School if there was nothing that couldn’t wait until Monday.

‘All that money and privilege can’t buy happiness, can it?’ he asked, rhetorically, before holding up his hand and announcing: ‘This afternoon is dedicated to football alone and that is all we shall discuss.’