I opened the diary, and as I flicked through it I noticed that certain pages had been torn from it. I turned to the front and immediately saw a four-line stanza centered in the very middle of the frontispiece.
If you turn these pages and look inside
Read my words and attempt to read my mind
Put thoughts of a happy future aside
Always alone, always looking behind.
C.D.
The message sent a chill through me. I looked up from the pages. For a moment I thought about shutting the damned thing and delivering the diary back to Shaw. But, in truth, I knew I had no option. I turned the leaf-thin pages and started to read.
31 August 1959
I made my way through the boys to the schoolroom next to the library. Faces looked up at me as I entered the class. I looked around the room for a spare desk and found one right at the back. There was a boy with black hair and dark eyes next to me. I placed my satchel on the desk and sat down. I smiled and said hello, but he just stared back at me. I pretended to search for something in my bag, a pencil or a rubber, hoping that the fear would go away and that by the time I looked up again, everything would be all right. I counted out the seconds using my fingers, pressing my nails into my palm, but by the time the master arrived, I had lost count and my hands were all red.
The master said good morning. His name was Mr.Hamilton-Parker and he said he was going to be our form teacher for the year. He moved on to the register, calling the names. Adams? Yes, sir. Ammerson? Yes, sir. And so it went on until he came to me. Davidson? I couldn’t speak. My throat felt all swollen. He looked up and called my name again. I tried to cough. Yes, sir, I whispered. The master didn’t hear me, so I had to say it again. Someone at the back made a joke about my voice. The black-haired boy next to me, who I later learned was called Levenson, sniggered, and I saw other boys turn their heads to look at me. I felt my face redden. Mr.Hamilton-Parker told the boys to be quiet and got on with the register.
During assembly I kept trying to catch Dad’s eye, but he didn’t look in my direction, not even when he had finished playing. The headmaster, Dr. Hart, welcomed the new boys to the school and hoped that we would make him proud. He is sure that we have an exciting future ahead of us and that we will all be happy at Winterborne.
1 September 1959
Mum asked me how was it when I came through the door. I told her that it was fine, all right. What’s wrong with your lip, she said. Nothing, I told her. Rugger, that was all. It must have been a rough game, she said. She told me to be more careful. Dad was at the sink, washing some vegetables he had just pulled from the garden. When I walked past him on the way to the stairs, he didn’t look at me. In my room, I ripped the uniform off me.
I came downstairs and saw Mum’s eager face. She told me to sit down and tell her about my day. She asked Dad whether he had seen me at school. Just at assembly, he said. Mum asked me whether I had made any nice friends. I nodded, but I didn’t tell her the truth.
3 September 1959
In English Mr. Crace asked me to read a Shakespeare sonnet out loud. As I started to read I tried to imitate how the other boys spoke, but halfway through the sonnet I realized it was a stupid thing to do. I could hear Levenson and his friend Jameson sniggering at the back of the room, and by the time I finished the classroom erupted with laughter. The boys looked to Mr.Crace to join in on the joke, but he banged his fist on the desk and told the class to stop laughing. The room fell silent. I wanted to disappear.
The master turned to me and asked me to read the poem again, but in a more natural way, in my own voice. He turned to the boys and told them that Shakespeare would have spoken with a local accent. Making fun of dialect only showed one’s ignorance, he said. I looked at him as if to say, please, no, but he nodded and looked at me with kind eyes. I stumbled over the first few words,feeling that my voice was coarse, ugly even, but when I finished, Mr. Crace said it was beautifully done. He then asked Levenson and Jameson to read out sonnet18, taking one line each at a time. When the boys turned to the sonnet in the book, the classroom echoed with laughter once more. This time Levenson and Jameson were the butt of the joke. Levenson went first, stumbling over the words, “Shall I compare thee to a Summer’s Day?” and then it was Jameson’s turn, “Thou art more lovely and more temperate.” By the time Jameson said the last line, the two boys were blushing and squirming in their seats. Even I found it funny. But when I looked up, I saw Levenson staring at me with hatred.
4 September 1959
At the end of the afternoon, just as most of the other boys were going off to their dorms or study rooms, I walked down the long, dark corridor toward the front entrance. As I stepped out, the sunlight blinded me. I looked down at the gravel pathway, blinking. I turned the corner and went behind the outbuildings, directly into the path of the sun. My foot hit something and I stumbled.
“Watch where you’re going, Davidson,” said a boy. He had his foot outstretched. It was Levenson. “Not only can he not speak properly, he can’t even walk,” said Jameson. “What shall we do with him,” asked the dark-haired boy. They grinned at one another, and a moment later I was being pushed behind one of the outbuildings, out of sight. “Stop snaking around, blondie,” Jameson said to me, pushing me up against a brick wall. “Can’tyour daddy afford to let you board with the rest of us?Or are you too much of a mummy’s boy? Was that it?”The two of them laughed as they started to hit me, lightly at first. I tried to fight back but they were too strong for me. One of them smacked me across the face and the other elbowed me in the stomach. As I bent over double, I saw a drop of blood fall onto the ground. “Not such a pretty boy now, are we?” one of them said. They called me other names too.
I stood up and saw, in the distance, walking along the path between the school and the music room, a man in a tweed jacket. My eyes were smarting from the pain, but I was sure he looked over in my direction. It was my father. There was no need to shout over to him because he had seen me. He would come over and stop it. He would rescue me. But instead of running over to me, he turned and carried on along the path until he disappeared. The boys punched me in the stomach and ran off.
23 September 1959
I came downstairs after finishing my homework to see Mum all red-faced. She told me that tea was nearly ready. “Where’s your dad?” she asked. “Not cleaning his guns again, is he?” I told her I would go and check the garden.
I went out the front door, across the narrow track and through the blue gate that leads into the long garden.“Dad?” I shouted. “Dad?” I walked down the lawn. Insects swarmed around the fruit bushes. I reached out to touch a berry, but as my fingers began to form themselves around the fruit, I felt a buzzing on my skin. It was a lazy bluebottle.
I caught a glimpse of Dad, his back to me, standing by the shed at the bottom of the garden. “Tea’s ready, Dad,”I said. He didn’t appear to hear me, so I repeated the words. But as I walked toward him, he didn’t turn to greet me. He just carried on looking at a patch of earth. I asked him whether he was all right and walked around the strip so that I could see his face. His eyes looked strange. His face was pale. Eventually he came to and told me he was just daydreaming.
19 October 1959
I didn’t say a word at school today. I don’t really mind. Not talking is easy once you get used to it. Anyway, I’d much rather write things down. Mr. Crace says the written word lasts forever.
20 October 1959
On the way to history, I saw Levenson and Jameson.I turned and started walking in the other direction. If I went out the main entrance, I could walk around the school to the back door. I thought I had given them the slip. But just as I was running up the side of the school, I saw Jameson in front of me. I turned to run, but Levenson was behind me. I thought about taking off across the fields, but if I did that I was certain to miss the lesson. I stood still, not knowing what to do. I heard their feet on the gravel as they came toward me. Jameson pushed me against the
wall, and I saw Levenson’s angry eyes. He raised his hand to hit me, but just as he wasabout to strike, an arm came to rest on his shoulder. It was Mr. Crace.
He asked them what was going on and the boys said nothing. Mr. Crace asked me whether that was true and I nodded. I could tell he did not believe us. We were just having a lively discussion, said Levenson. If that was the case, Mr. Crace said, then all of us would not mind coming along after school to take part in the debating society. Levenson and Jameson tried to protest, but he stopped them. The Pemberly brothers had both gone down with something, he said, and the society could do with a couple of extra loudmouths. He told them to go and then turned to me. He spoke softly, kindly. He told me not to worry. I did not need to join in with the debate if I did not want to. I could take the minutes.
20 October 1959
As soon as I heard the bell, I made my way to Mr.Crace’s room. I knocked on the door. Mr. Crace told me to come in. I was the first to arrive. I opened the door to find him sitting at the desk, writing. He looked up, pleased to see me.
I heard a knock at the door and the boys started to file into the room. The last ones in were Levenson and Jameson, both scowling at me, as if it was my fault they were there. Mr. Crace told the group that today we were going to discuss democracy. He talked about it for a while and then split us into two groups—Levenson, Knowles, Miller and Wright in one group and Jameson, Dodd, Fletcher and Ward in another. He told me that I could be in charge of the reference books and help theboys find quotations and then take notes of what they say. The boys gathered round my desk, and Levenson and Jameson started to act as if they liked me. Levenson said he wished we had more interesting topics to discuss. Miller asked him what kind of things. “Girls,” sniggered Wright. Levenson told him not to be so stupid. What he’d like to debate is whether the boys should be allowed to murder the headmaster.
I saw Mr. Crace look up from his desk. Levenson said in a funny voice, “Hereby this school passes the motion that its headmaster should be strung up and sacrificed.”That would certainly get his vote, he said.
I caught Mr. Crace looking over and waited for him to tell Levenson off. But it did not happen. Instead, he opened his desk drawer, took out a notebook and scribbled something down.
21 October 1959
“Yesterday changed nothing,” Levenson told me. Then he swiped me over the head and laughed. He called me a name and walked away.
2 November 1959
Today Mr. Cartwright, the music master, was ill, so my father took the class. The boys carried on talking as he walked into the room. He strolled over to the desk and tried to get their attention. They looked straight through him. He swallowed a couple of times. I wished he didn’t have to teach. I knew he was only doing it for my sake.“That’s enough, boys,” Dad said. The noise did notdie down. If anything, I think it got even louder.“Please, come on now,” he said. His face looked tired. I sat there in silence while the boys teased and mocked him. Neither of us did anything about it.
When I got back home, Dad said nothing. I said nothing. But both of us understood. Dad looked old and very, very sad.
3 November 1959
I sat at the top of the stairs, listening. Darkness surrounded me. Mum and Dad were talking in the kitchen. They thought I was in my room, door closed, asleep. Their voices were low and murmuring, but I could just about make out what they said. Dad was upset and Mum tried to comfort him, but it was no use. The headmaster had made it clear that he would lose his job at the school if he could not discipline the boys better. And that meant that I would lose my place. Mum tried to calm him down and warned him about the risk of having another episode. He did not know what to do. There was silence. When I heard Dad start to cry, I crept back upstairs to bed.
4 November 1959
The boys are all excited because of the fire tomorrow night. They have spent the last few days collecting bits of wood from the forest and piling them high in one of the outbuildings behind the school. Some of the older boys have built little trolleys on which to carry the wood. They talked about how many firecrackers they have been given and how it was going to be the biggestbonfire ever. “It’s going to light up the sky for miles around,” they said. I’m looking forward to it too.
5 November 1959
After assembly I followed Dad outside into the music room. He looked worried. He told me he had lots to do and could not chat. He walked over to a music stool, opened it and took out a bundle of music scores. He said that he wanted to put them in order. He said he could arrange them according to composer or key. There was something odd about his manner. He quickly flicked through the scores and mumbled something under his breath.
I asked him whether he was all right. He has three classes—one at eleven, another at twelve and the last one at four. Mr. Cartwright was ill again, he said, and he had to stand in for him—again.
I ran through my own timetable in my head. I told him I would see him later. He did not say anything, andI left him arranging the music scores on top of the piano. The rest of the day passed slowly. I kept looking at my watch, waiting for the best time. At 4:15, in chemistry, I checked my pockets to make sure I had everything I needed. I raised my arm and asked if I could be excused to go to the lavatory. The usual taunts and teases echoed around me, but I did not care. Mr. Ormerod nodded his head, and I ran down the corridor and out to the music room. I crouched under the windows, gently easing myself up to peek inside. It was just as I had hoped. The boys were behaving badly. Some were throwing crumpled balls of paper at one another. Others were passing notes and sniggering. One boy had his feet up on thedesk. At the front of the room, sitting at the desk with his head in his hands, was my father.
I dashed back to the school, quickly making sure nobody had spotted me. I ran into the loos, found a cubicle and locked the door. I slammed the lid of the toilet shut, sat on it and took out the piece of blank paper from my pocket, together with my pen and six-inch ruler. Using the ruler, I wrote out the letters in block form:TROUBLE IN MUSIC ROOM—NOW. I folded the paper in half, put it in my pocket just in case I was spotted, and then walked toward the headmaster’s office. Luckily, the door was closed. I slipped the paper underneath the door and ran back to my classroom.
5 November 1959
Dad was not home, so Mum and me sat and ate our bangers and mash by ourselves. She put some of the food for Dad on a plate that he could heat up and have later. She was angry, but she tried not to let it show. At seven o’clock, with still no sign of him, she turned to me while doing the washing up and told me to get my coat and scarf on. We were going to the fire anyway. We were not going to wait around any longer for him, she said.
I stepped outside and breathed in the cold air. It smelt of smoke. As we walked from our house down the lane toward the school, I noticed that the sky looked orange. From a distance I could just make out the fire in the darkness. A crowd of boys and masters clustered around the bonfire. As we approached, Mum spotted one of her friends, Elaine Shaw, a neighbor’s wife, and she stopped to chat.
I could feel the heat of the fire from where I wasstanding, but I wanted to get closer. I walked nearer, conscious of the flames burning my face. Sparks spat and flew around me. Mum told me not to get so close to it, but I ignored her. I looked through the flames and saw Levenson. Next to him stood Jameson.
I told Mum that I had just spotted a couple of friends. She seemed pleased. It was probably the first time she had heard me use the word since I had started at the school. She told me to take my time and she turned back to talk to Mrs. Shaw, who has not been well.
I walked around the edge of the fire, as close to the flames as possible. If Levenson and Jameson did have a plan, I wanted it to be as far out of my mother’s sight as possible. Behind me I heard a voice. “Watch it there.” It was Dobbs, the caretaker. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Make way for the guy,” he shouted. The crowd of boys parted to let him through.
Slung over Dobbs’s shoulders was a horrid figure
made from sacking and old pillowcases, stuffed with hay and sawdust, and wearing an old tweed jacket. The crowd began to cheer, and the flames of the fire seemed to leap higher into the sky. As Dobbs stretched out his arms, the guy’s head flopped sideways, the glow of the fire lighting up its face. There was something strangely familiar about the way it looked. Dobbs flung it onto the top of the fire, the action greeted by cheers. Through the holes in the guy’s skin, I could just make out that the figure had been stuffed with some kind of paper, what looked like dozens of screwed-up music scores. A moment later the whole thing burst into flames.
I had to get Mum away in case she saw. I told her Iwas not feeling well. I wanted to go home. As we turned to go, some of the boys started to set off firecrackers. Then in the distance, I heard another, much louder noise. A gunshot. It came from the forest.
[Pages torn out here]
1 January 1960
Beginning of the new year. People say you are supposed to look forward to it. I’m not.
Mum is pleased because the school said she would not have to find the fees for my place. It’s all been taken care of by Dr. Hart. Everyone is saying that it was a hunting accident, but I know the truth. I know what really happened.
I don’t want to write any more.
I read through the diary quickly, almost eating the words as I went along, scanning the pages for any mention of Crace. As I did so, my heart raced, my breathing shortened, and I felt anger and panic begin to rise inside me.
Shaw had promised me an insight into why Chris had committed suicide, suggesting that Crace had had something to do with it. Apart from the entry about how Crace had come across the inspiration for The Debating Society, the diary gave me little extra information about the novelist. I threw down the diary, got up from my bed, opened the window and stared into the darkness outside. A murmur of voices came from below, locals enjoying a drink and warming themselves by the fire. Someone coughed, a loud rasping that reminded me of Shaw. I couldn’t believe how stupid I had been to trust that weasel of a man. And I’d paid him a thousand pounds. At the sound of a woman’s high-pitched laughter from the bar, I brought my fist down hard on the wooden windowsill. The pain, exploding from my hand and running up my arm, came as a relief.
The Lying Tongue Page 15