In At The Deep End

by Anabel Donald

  ‘How do you do. The teachers don’t have to wear paramilitary gear, then?’

  He laughed politely. ‘No. We dress normally.’ He was wearing a light tweed jacket, brown corduroys, a blue shirt, and dark blue tie. ‘I wanted to catch you this morning, but I’m rather pushed for time. I’m Exams Officer, you see, and I’m due to invigilate in the hall in’ – he checked his watch – ‘ten minutes. After that, I’m off. It’s my free afternoon.’

  ‘Perhaps we can meet tomorrow, then?’

  He smiled. He had very good teeth. I wished I could see his eyes clearly, but all I could catch were glints of blue through the glasses. It was a pity he blinked so much. ‘Of course. But I wanted to welcome you, and see if you needed any help.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d just like to wander round, if I may. The Major warned me about the exams – I’ll be careful not to disrupt them.’

  ‘Where are you headed now?’

  ‘I’d like to see some senior boys, I think. I’m interested in your Service to the Community programme.’

  ‘Ah. You’ll want Tim Robertson, then. He’s probably in his room now, in the Duke of Wellington Annexe. Shall I point you in the right direction?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just a moment.’ He darted up the steps and into the main building. I stood alone on the gravel, tilting my face to the sun and thinking about Barty in a vague, pleasant way. Something to look forward to. Where would we go, for our weekend?

  ‘Miss Tanner?’ Alistair Brown was beside me again. ‘Let’s go, shall we? The Duke of Wellington Annexe is behind the main house. If we walk up the path here, we’ll pass most of the school buildings, and I can give you a few pointers to where things are . . . This path is out of bounds to privates.’

  ‘Privates?’

  ‘Ordinary boys are privates, the prefects are non-commissioned officers, the masters are officers. The Major is the Commanding Officer. I’m the Captain, the Deputy Head. The other teachers are Lieutenants. Watch your step, the path’s a bit slippery – it doesn’t get much sun, and the moss tends to creep back. I’ll have to put the next fatigue party on to it.’

  ‘When I got here, this morning, some boys were working in the grounds. Would that have been punishment?’

  ‘Not necessarily. All privates have fatigues chores. We keep them busy.’ He was walking ahead of me, sure-footed on the slippery flags of the path, and he held out his hand to help me up when the path reached narrow, broken stone steps, dark with the shadow of the house one side, the thick foliage of rhododendron bushes on the other.

  At the top of the steps, in the sun, the view opened out to a flat, concrete area dotted with wooden temporary-looking buildings, and the volume went up on the boys’ voices. ‘That is the canteen, over there . . . most of the school should be inside, having their break squash and buns. They’ll be supervised by two NCOs and an officer. The canteen is on the first floor. The ground floor used to be garages. It has been recently converted to provide a fully-equipped CDT block.’

  I looked up, towards the noise. Boyish faces were pressed to the window, all with shorn heads, some still chewing, watching me greedily. Very different from the lack of interest from the gardeners when I’d first arrived. ‘I gather the Major’s told the whole school about my documentary project, then,’ I said.

  ‘He has indeed. The younger boys are extremely excited.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  He stopped and blinked at me. His lenses blurred the expression of his eyes. ‘Ah, well, perhaps I’m a little cautious . . . The Major is an enthusiast. A visionary. He wants the British public to see what we achieve here.’

  I’d stopped too. ‘And you don’t?’

  ‘Let’s say I’m well aware how easy it is for the media to distort things. Many of our boys are very vulnerable. Adolescents are.’

  He was right, of course. ‘I wouldn’t worry too much. The series is going to concentrate on the headmasters themselves. Tell me about these buildings.’

  He smiled, a wide white-toothed charming smile. ‘And you’ve got a job to do. I understand that . . . On your right, the squash courts. We are proud of our squash team. Seven victories in the last seven matches . . .’

  ‘Do you coach the team?’

  ‘We have very well-qualified PE staff . . . On your left, the indoor swimming pool.’ He pointed at an ageing, battered wooden building like an aircraft hangar.

  ‘The swimming pool,’ I said. ‘There was an accident, wasn’t there? I read about it in the papers.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A dreadful thing. I don’t feel we should discuss it . . .’ He went on guiding, as if I hadn’t interrupted. ‘During the Second World War the Rissington Abbey site was used as a military hospital. The pool was built at that time. It was intended as a temporary structure, but it’s still giving us useful service.’

  ‘The boy who died’ – I pretended to look up the name in my notebook – ‘Olivier Desmoulins. You were his housemaster, I believe?’

  ‘I really don’t feel . . .’

  ‘This is a matter of public record,’ I said. ‘I already have what the Banbury Courier said. I’d like to hear your side of the story.’

  I chose the words deliberately and he didn’t miss the implication. ‘My side of the story? Hardly. If you’ve read the Courier you’ll know it was a tragic accident. The school was completely exonerated. Beyond the canteen is the Sports Hall, where the examinations are in progress . . .’

  ‘Was he happy here?’

  ‘Olivier?’

  ‘Yes. Was he happy here?’

  ‘Very happy. Not always well behaved, but very happy. The school suited him.’ He started walking again, and I followed.

  ‘So there’s no chance it was suicide?’ I’d keep trawling as long as he’d let me.

  ‘Absolutely not. The day before he died, he was in excellent form.’

  ‘Did you teach him?’

  ‘Yes. He was in my history group, as lively and argumentative as usual.’

  ‘What was he arguing about?’

  ‘This time I think it was the causes of the Second World War. He blamed the British.’

  ‘The British? How exactly?’

  ‘Something about British hypocrisy. He often made much of the differences between his own country – he was French, you know – and ours.’

  Mr Brown was quite ready to talk about Olivier’s state of mind, I could see. Suicide didn’t seem a bare nerve. ‘Was he bright?’

  ‘Very. Very bright. Especially since he was working in a second language . . .’

  Time to leave Olivier. ‘So you’re a historian,’ I said. ‘How long have you been at Rissington?’

  He went on as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘That’s the Duke of Wellington Annexe, ahead, where the sixth-form boys have their study-bedrooms. The Lower Sixth share a two-bedded room, the Upper Sixth have a room of their own. My flat is at the end, on the left.’

  The concrete area gave way to a gentle slope up to a ridge, backed by trees. The long, flat-roofed, two-storey modern building stretched along the crest of the ridge. The long outer wall facing us was mostly glass: I could see that many of the rooms were occupied. ‘The senior boys aren’t at break, then?’

  ‘Only if they’re on supervisory duty. We have our own kitchen up here. We go to the canteen for lunch and dinner. Each evening, some of us take it in turns to have dinner in the Mess, with the officers and Mrs Ellis.’

  ‘What about the Major?’

  ‘And the Major, of course.’

  ‘Where is the Mess?’

  ‘The dining-room in GHQ. The main house.’

  We’d stopped at the foot of a flight of concrete steps leading up the grassed slope to a doorway in the middle of the building. ‘Olivier was in the lower sixth, wasn’t he? So he’d share a room. Who did he share with?’

  ‘Tim Robertson. The boy you’re going to see.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he called to give evidence at the inquest?’

  ‘M
iss Tanner—’

  ‘Do call me Alex.’

  He blinked shyly. ‘I don’t think . . . Miss Tanner, I don’t see that this has anything to do with your brief here. As I understand it . . .’

  ‘My job is to get a picture of the Major and the school. I’m a researcher. I ask questions. I don’t always know where they’ll lead, but the better the background, the better the research. So why wasn’t Tim called at the inquest?’

  Brown sighed impatiently. ‘Because he was in sickbay at the time.’

  ‘And you’ve been at Rissington how long?’ I pressed. I didn’t know if he’d dodged my earlier question. Apparently not, because he answered readily.

  ‘Six years, now. I heard about the vacancy through my mother.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘She was the matron here. Before her illness. She still helps in the san occasionally, when she’s well enough.’

  ‘She lives here too?’

  ‘We share the flat in the Duke of Wellington Annexe.’

  ‘Is that difficult?’ I said, knowing I was pushing it, but curious about a man in his thirties still living with his mother.

  ‘Difficult? In what way?’ He was blinking at me again, hunching his shoulders.

  ‘If she’s ill,’ I improvised. ‘Do you look after her? Isn’t that difficult, with your other duties?’

  ‘We manage,’ he said, rather curtly. ‘Now I’m afraid I must leave you: I’m late already. If you go in that door, you’ll find Sergeant-Major Rees waiting for you. Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  I thanked his retreating back and watched him. He moved well, springy, balanced. Pity about his posture and eyesight. And why wouldn’t he call me Alex?

  The foyer of the Duke of Wellington Annexe was empty. Dark red vinyl floor, cream walls: the left-hand wall taken up by a huge noticeboard covered with lists, timetables, rotas, commands, and exhortations; the right-hand wall dominated by a reproduction of the Goya portrait of the Duke; the far wall, mostly glass, had a doorway to the woods behind. In a corner, a large leafy plant and a discarded khaki sock.

  The building was almost silent. It wasn’t well soundproofed so noises travelled, but they were the noises – cleared throats, scraped chairs – of a group of people being quiet. Possibly even a group of people listening. For me?

  I looked at the room chart on the board. Robertson’s room was on the ground floor, far end, left. I headed for it. As I passed a door it opened and a boy stepped out in front of me. He was perhaps eighteen, tall and heavy set, wearing camouflage trousers, army boots, a khaki T-shirt tight across his well-developed chest and muscular arms. An apprentice Chippendale. His shorn hair was very pale blond and his eyebrows light, ‘Can I help you. Miss Tanner?’ he said, unsmiling. I felt his hostility like a wall as solid as his chest, and a corresponding wave of hostility surged in me.

  ‘Sergeant-Major Rees?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does that mean in plain English?’

  ‘I’m the Head Boy.’

  ‘Hello. I’m fine on my own, thank you. On my way to see Tim Robertson.’

  He stood blocking my way. I moved to go round him and he moved to block me again.

  I’d had enough. I dropped my bag and, as he bent to pick it up, I stumbled against him. He lost his balance and fell sideways. I scooped up my bag and walked past him. ‘So sorry,’ I said over my shoulder. His pale face flushed crimson, with embarrassment or rage, as he scrambled up, but at least he had enough sense not to follow me.

  When I reached the end of the corridor and turned to look, he’d gone.

  I knocked on Robertson’s door.

  ‘Come in.’

  I went in smiling. The room was almost dark, the curtains drawn. I blinked, my eyes adjusting to the sombre shadows, wondering if I had arrived at an awkward adolescent moment. The boy had said ‘Come in,’ though, he must be prepared for visitors.

  When I could see, I looked around. I expected an ordinary, cluttered teenager’s room, with a music centre, books, and the walls covered with posters declaring various temporary allegiances or hormonal impulses.

  But this room was absolutely bare. Just built-in cupboards, two beds, two chairs, two empty desks. No photographs: not even a timetable. Perhaps the military discipline of Rissington Abbey dictated this more than tidiness, this Spartan absence of personality and work in progress.

  Then I noticed that the cream walls were covered by cork boards, battered by generations of drawing-pin displays. So it must be personal choice, the choice of this boy who stood defensively with his back to a desk, his podgy thighs spread wide by the pressure. He was shortish and fattish and he held his hands in front of his chest, as if ready to be clenched into fists.

  ‘Tim Robertson? I’m Alex Tanner . . . I think the Major told the school what I’m doing here . . . I’d like to talk to you about the community service programme. You’re in charge of it, I think?’

  ‘Yes . . .’ he said. ‘I’m Officer Commanding.’ His words agreed but his manner and his body language screamed ‘go away’.

  ‘Is this a bad time to talk?’

  ‘I’m a bit busy, at the moment,’ he said. ‘I’ve a history essay to finish before lunch.’ If he was writing an essay, where had he put it? And why was he so tense, as if he was listening? Was he afraid to be overheard? I put my notebook on the desk and scribbled while I talked. ‘We’ll have to make an appointment, then, because I do think community service is an important aspect of school life.’

  He scribbled in reply, closed the notebook, and handed it to me. ‘Will you be here on Friday? I don’t have any free time tomorrow but I could see you after break on Friday. 1045. If we meet then, I can have the community service records organized for you to see.’

  When I was safely out of the Duke of Wellington Annexe I opened the notebook. Just two lines of writing.

  Mine: I know about Olivier. Must see you. When? Where?

  His: 2.30 today, McDonald’s Banbury.

  Chapter Fourteen

  McDonald’s in Banbury was easier to find than I expected and I was there fifteen minutes early. I bought a cup of coffee, sat at a table by the window, kept an eye out for Tim, and brought my notes up to date.

  After I’d left Tim that morning the Major had pounced on me and given me an excruciatingly thorough tour of the craft block, followed by school lunch (fish fingers, chips, beans; treacle pudding) in the canteen. I had enough carbohydrate loading to run a marathon and I’d be well versed if I ever worked on a doco on the National Curriculum requirements for Craft, Design, and Technology.

  I’d kept the tape recorder running because I found it hard to listen to his monologue. I could always listen to the tapes later, if I needed to check on details or identify the different members of the teaching staff I was introduced to. All men, most in their forties or fifties, anonymous and amiable enough.

  It seemed that my meeting with Alistair Brown hadn’t after all been arranged by the Major. He’d been surprised when I mentioned it during lunch. ‘Really? Said he was busy, when I told him about you. Must have thought about it after we spoke, seen how important it was, p’raps. Huh? What did you make of him?’

  ‘He was very helpful.’

  ‘Remarkable chap. Remarkable. Thought you’d find him interesting.’

  Interesting? I hadn’t found him that. Puzzling, perhaps. I’d got no impression of him at all. ‘He teaches history, I believe.’

  ‘Some history. But he’s mainly concerned with the sixth-form house. The housemaster makes the house; the houses makes the school. Huh? Fine athlete, too. Interested in the physical activities side. My wife thinks the world of him. Good judge of men, my wife.’

  We were in the canteen. The noise level was astonishing. The huge first-floor room had low ceilings. There was harsh light in there, the kind of neon light that hurts the eyes. The boys’ boots clattered on the floor, their cutlery clashed against their plates, and their several pitched voices squeaked or rasped
or growled. There wasn’t a separate staff table: the Major and I were sitting in the least crowded table of all, because boys went to sit anywhere except near us. It was a strange sensation. It wasn’t because they were avoiding staff: I could see staff dotted here and there throughout the huge room, on crowded tables. I didn’t know the reason. They weren’t looking at me, either. None of the gaping and peering I’d seen at break. Not among the older ones. Some of the younger ones couldn’t resist giving me sidelong glances as they passed.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting Mrs Ellis. She comes back next week, you said?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, looking guilty.

  I should have pursued it. But I couldn’t hear properly, I couldn’t eat properly, and I suddenly wanted to be out of the school. I couldn’t wait to get away. It was a relief to be in McDonald’s.

  I put yet more sugar into the coffee, hoping to swamp the taste, wondering why Alistair Brown had met me, why the head boy had been so hostile, and what was going on with Tim Robertson. Was it the evil Martin Kelly had warned me about, or just some adolescents, buggering about?

  Talking of which, here was Tim in the doorway, looking round for me. I waved and he came over. He wanted two cheeseburgers and a strawberry milk shake, although I’d noticed him only an hour and a half earlier, at the far end of the canteen, at a table with much younger boys, eating a substantial lunch. I gave him a tenner and while he went to get the food, I logged the expenses for Plummer, and wondered why whoever bought Tim’s clothes was too mean – or perhaps too poor? Surely not, if they were paying Rissington’s fees – to get him a new pair of trousers. He was wearing grey school trousers, too tight, too worn. They made him look fatter, and nature was doing a great deal in that direction already. His regulation blazer was too small, and shiny with wear. But his tie was neat and his shirt clean.

  He sat down opposite me, gave me the Coke I’d ordered to keep him company, and started on his first cheeseburger. He didn’t offer me any change and I didn’t ask for it, but I was surprised. Was he dishonest, hard-up, or both?