‘Yes, Sir. I think it is saying that.’
‘I think it’s time for a little Beethoven. How about the Violin Romances? They’re two short pieces he wrote as a practise for his Violin Concerto. I’ve remembered how much you enjoyed that last term, Ben.’
I close my eyes to listen when it starts, just like Mr. England does. The music goes right inside me and warms my chest, and I hope that the feeling will stay in me forever and not seep out again after it’s finished.
When I open my eyes, Mr. England is smiling at me. ‘Do you think your mother’s like you, Ben?’
‘Yes, I think she is, really.’
‘Then I think she must be a very sweet person.’
When he says that, I blush a bit and wonder if we’re going to talk about Mummy and all the things that happened yesterday. But he doesn’t say anything more about her after that. I think that if he knew her, he would in fact like her quite a lot, and they might even be good friends during the times when she’s not drinking too much sherry.
Then there’s a knock at the door. Mr. England leaps out of his chair and quickly turns the music right down. I don’t think he’s used to anyone coming up those funny stairs. He opens the door very carefully.
‘Is Ben Teasdale with you, England?’ It’s Mr. Burston.
.z‘Yes, but it’s nearly ten o’clock.’
I can’t see Mr. Burston, because he’s hidden behind the door, but I can tell by his voice that he’s trying not to be angry. ‘I really think he ought to be in bed by now, don’t you?’
‘Gosh, is it really that late? I think we rather forgot about the time, didn’t we, Ben?’ Even though it’s quite dark, I can see that Mr. England’s face is turning red, and so is mine, because I’m listening to a master who’s being told off. It’s very embarrassing, and I think it’s my fault.
‘Come on young man, bed! Now! Immediately!’ says Mr. Burston from behind the door.
I get off Mr. England’s bed and put the empty cocoa mug on the little side table.
‘Thank you for the lovely music, Sir,’ I say to Mr. England who’s got his back to me and is putting the record away in its sleeve. He doesn’t say anything as I go out of the door. Mr. Burston’s in the dark and all doubled up because of the low ceiling on the stairs; he pushes himself up against the wall to let me pass by. I can’t see him properly except for his glasses that are catching the light from the inside of the room, and I feel scared by the look of him. He puts his hand on my back and pushes me a little so that just for a bit I think I’m going to fall down the deep dark stairs.
‘Now straight back to sickbay, Teasdale,’ he says, ‘and I’ll be down in a minute to check on you.’
As he’s turning off the light after following me down, I say, ‘Thank you for letting me listen to the music with Mr. England, Sir.’ The room goes black. ‘It was ever so nice…’ I’m not sure if Mr. Burston hears me though, because he says nothing as the door is closing. I hope that it makes him less cross though, because I don’t want Mr. England to be in trouble because of me when he was just being kind.
Q
Mr. England’s late again like he was the day of his accident, but we know he’s here because he was in Assembly just now. He did a secret wink at me when he came into the hall with the other masters, so now I’m not worried about him being in trouble about me being up so late in his room last night.
It’s Saturday, and it’s my first lesson since I went to sickbay on Thursday afternoon. I had breakfast downstairs, and everyone’s been asking what I was ill with. I’m saying that I had a tiny bit of a tummy ache and sickness and diarrhea, so I was in quarantine.
Saturday classes are different. They don’t feel so strict because it’s very nearly the weekend, and there are lessons only till lunchtime. I think the teachers feel that they’re already on a bit of a weekend holiday and can’t be bothered with us so much. I always look forward to Mr. England’s classes anyway, but especially today because it’s Scripture, and last week he said he was going to set up the tape recorder and tell us about gospel singing and Negro spirituals. We’re going to hear a man with a very deep singing voice whose name is Paul Robeson. I’ve remembered that from last week.
We’re not in our usual classroom. We’re in the first formers’ classroom on account of their not being here because they’re too small for school on Saturdays. When Mr. England uses the tape recorder we’re either in the entrance hall or up here away from all the other classrooms, so that the noise doesn’t disturb the rest of the school. It used to be a dormitory, and it’s right underneath Northumberland where I was last term. If ever we’re in here I try to be the first in so that I can sit by one of the two big windows and look out up the hill to the village.
Everyone is chattering like mad because we’re quite far away from the other classes, and there’s no one to tell us to be quiet. Macer-Wright keeps shouting, ‘Keep it down, keep it down,’ but no one’s taking any notice. If it goes on much longer, I think that Miss Carson will come in because surgery’s not so far away, and the noise will start disturbing her.
They’re having a go at Bradshaw, one of the day boys. There are only three in the school, and they’re always being teased. Bradshaw’s got an accent like the people in the village, and so they pick on him and call him a peasant. His clothes are different from ours, too. His shirts are far too big for him, and his grey trousers are made of a different material from everybody else’s. I don’t think his parents bought all his clothes from the school shop. He loses his temper when people go on about it and then gets into fights, but he’s no good at that so everybody tries to get him going so they can laugh at him.
I don’t join in though. I just look out of the window. I don’t want to have anyone asking me questions about going to lunch with Mummy and coming back ill. But actually, it doesn’t seem that anyone is interested. No one from school saw me in the park except for Mr. Burston, and then only the matrons when we got back. All the masters must know, though. They’ll have been talking about it in the common room for sure and feeling sorry for me.
Theo’s got hold of Bradshaw’s tie now and is dragging him round so that his face is going all red. Everybody’s shouting, especially Macer-Wright who’s telling everyone to ‘Flipping shut up.’ It gets noisier and noisier. I can’t believe that no one has come in to tell us off.
I stare out of the window daydreaming about the man that I saw last night walking along far away on the other side of the river. Even though the window’s open at the top, it’s hot in here, and it’s making me feel quite sleepy. My eyes are stuck on looking at some geraniums in a window box opposite the front door of the school, and I try to keep them open.
And then I see the car, right beside the geraniums. Just its roof at first, all lopsided, because the wheels must be up on the pavement. I’m wide awake in a second, and my heart is beating so hard and fast I think it’s going to come out of my mouth. I push my face up against the window so I can see down into the street better.
It’s a police car.
I know it, even though I can only see a bit of it. There’s a light on the top, though it’s not flashing. There’s no one inside. It’s just parked there, waiting.
It must be here because of me. Perhaps it’s the very same car as Thursday with the very same policemen. They’ve come to ask me some questions, but I won’t speak to them about Mummy, however much they want me to. I won’t answer, just the same as I wouldn’t answer the doctor.
I slip along the bench away from the window to the farthest end of the desk so that I can’t see out anymore. Perhaps the car will go away in a minute. Perhaps the police have come to speak to the lady who has the geraniums. She’s probably got a son who’s a bit troublesome and has been smashing window panes. They’re not coming into the school. They’re not here about me and Mummy. It can’t be about her because she’s back at the hospital safe and sound
like my dad said she was.
I can’t stay not looking out though, and I slide back along the desk to the window again, and I tell myself that there’ll be no sign of the car now. I only saw it for a tiny moment, and I think that my eyes made it up because I was a bit sleepy for a while.
But when I look down again, it’s still there, waiting.
My chest goes funny, like it did when I came back from the park, and I can hear myself breathing. It’s a bit like I’m living under water, and the noise all around me sounds like bubbles. My hands are shaking, and suddenly I want to have a pee so badly that I can’t stop myself. I can feel the warmth beginning to spread in my trousers and run down my leg. And then I’m by the door and open it. I pray with all my might that no one will notice that my pants are wet. I can hear Macer-Wright telling me in a surprised voice to come back and sit down, but I don’t take any notice.
When I get to the lavatory I see the pee’s all down my leg, but there’s not so much coming through my trousers on account of them being shorts. For once I’m glad that my dad hasn’t bought me long trousers yet. I unzip them and wipe my legs dry with loo paper. I feel a bit better as though I’m not in the water anymore although there’s a ringing sound in my ears. When I look in the mirror my face is white and wet and I splash it with cold water from the tap. Then I splash my trousers and shirt, too, so that I can say that I got all faint and had to wash my face, and the water spilt all over my clothes.
I walk slowly back along the corridor wishing that I was never going to arrive at the classroom. I’m so worried about the questions that will be asked about the wetness, and it’s just about possible that Theo might tell the whole of 3b about the bedwetting secret.
There’s shouting and banging of desk lids coming from inside as I put my hand on the doorknob, but then, just as I’m opening it, I hear Cartwright shout ‘Look!’ and he’s right by the window and pointing outside. Just for a second there’s complete stillness and silence, followed by the noise of everyone rushing over to get a good view. The whole class is climbing on the desks and clambering over each other pushing and shoving; meanwhile no one says anything at all.
‘It’s Mr. England!’ Theo says in a great loud whisper after a bit. I walk over to the window behind the first overcrowded one because I can see there’s a little space to see out at the very bottom.
I’m just in time to see Mr. England is by the open door of the car and a tall policeman is holding his elbow just like the one the other day was holding Mummy’s. The policeman lets him go, and Mr. England puts his hand on the roof above the door and bends his head to get in. But just before he does that, he runs his fingers through his hair like he always does and then looks behind himself and glances up at us for a tiny second. There’s not the slightest expression on his face. Everybody ducks away from the window as though there might be a shot about to be fired. And then he disappears into the car.
When we look out again, it’s just possible to hear the engine starting up. The police car drives away without being in a hurry and without the blue light going on. Then we’re all left still staring at the empty space where the car was. Slowly by slowly we get down and go to our seats in silence because no one knows what to say.
‘He’s been arrested,’ says Theo after quite a long time, ‘Mr. England’s been arrested!’
Q
At lunch everyone talks about the arrest, of course. All of us boys, that is. It’s a funny sort of talking that everyone’s doing—fast and sort of whispery. No one wants the teachers to realise that we know about it, because they’re not saying anything at all, and we just know not to ask them.
Mr. Burston eventually came into the classroom this morning and told us to be quiet, although by that time you could have heard a pin drop. He looked very, very worried. He never said a thing about Mr. England being indisposed or anything like that and straightaway told Macer-Wright to keep control, and then he set us an essay. The subject was ‘The walk in the forest’ which is the same as last week after Mr. England’s accident. He’s forgotten that, though. Mrs. Marston was going to take us for French after that, but she just never came in, so we continued to pretend writing the essay and began to whisper about what had happened.
Miss Carson is sitting at the top of my table. She’s very quiet, but that’s not so strange because sometimes she can be chatty and sometimes not. Today, she’s not. Mr. Tulley’s on the next table reading his Daily Telegraph with his seat tilted back and the paper mostly hiding his face. He reads it in class sometimes when he’s fed up with us but never ever at lunch. Mrs. Marston’s on the seniors’ table. It’s a rule on Saturday lunchtimes that whichever table she sits at has to speak French, so that means it’s mostly a silent lunch on that table, and I don’t think the subject of Mr. England is going to come up.
When we were coming along the corridor to lunch just now, I was at the end of the queue, and when it stopped for a bit by the Headmaster’s study, I saw in because the door was open. Mr. Burston was standing beside his desk with the phone in his hand. Mrs. Burston was sitting in a chair leaning right forward rocking backwards and forwards with her elbows on her knees and her hands under her chin. When she saw us she quickly got up to close the door. They haven’t come into lunch; that’s very unusual.
Q
We’re having a game of cricket. My position is deeply fine leg which is miles away from where the batting is, so I’m lying in the long grass, which is just about my favourite place. I’m in Henry Pugh’s team, but he’s lenient about me not being interested, and they’ve forgotten about me. I think that’s especially true today after what happened this morning.
Now, instead of seeing Mummy’s face, I’m seeing Mr. England’s when he was getting in the car. There’s a picture in The National Geographic in the library of a cheetah holding a gazelle in its teeth, halfway through suffocating it, but there’s no expression on the poor thing’s face. You can’t see if it’s frightened, or in pain, or anything else—just staring eyes, waiting to be dead. That’s what Mr. England looked like.
On the walk down here to the playing field I heard Walby and Jones from the sixth form talking about it all; I was just in front of them. They saw that I was listening and told me to scarper, but I managed to hear some of it. Apparently, there were two police cars. The second one came a bit later and was parked farther down the street by the kitchen door so it wasn’t so noticeable. There was a detective that went up to Mr. England’s room. Walby saw him by accident when he was just coming out of Matron’s Surgery in the middle of the morning. He wasn’t in class with everyone else because he’s got a poisoned toe and had to have it cleaned out by Miss Carson.
There’s all sorts of ideas going round about why Mr. England’s been arrested. Theo says it’s because he hated his mother, and he’s murdered her and buried her in a wood in Kent. Now they’ve dug her up and discovered all about it. I think that’s completely ridiculous. He’s not anything like a murderer, and I’ve even heard him talking about his mother. It seems to me he liked her very much. Chirl says he’s probably been committing embezzling because he needed some money to help his father buy his house in Monmouth. But most people in senior are saying it’s because actually the car crash last week was really his fault, and he’s not been telling the truth about it.
But I think it’s because of the blue folder.
Q
It’s Sunday afternoon, and we’re getting ready for the finals of the school tennis tournament. All the benches that are usually kept under the veranda have been brought right to the edge of the tennis court, and there are lots of chairs from inside the classrooms. It’s really hot again, and so we’ve all been given permission to unbutton our shirtsleeves and roll them up.
The school tennis finals are really important. There’s something that’s always exciting about this day, just like a sort of mini Sports Day in fact. That doesn’t happen till the very last day of term
, but the tennis match usually means we’re about halfway through the term, and sometimes everyone goes away straight after. That’s not happening this time though because half term starts next week. But it still feels like a special day. We have tea outside to make it like a picnic, and it’s all set out on the trestle tables under the veranda. The Tennis Gala Cup is in the middle of all the sandwiches, shining away ready to be presented by Mrs. Marston who was a junior champion player herself once. Henry Pugh’s parents have come from Cardiff to watch him play, and they’ve brought his sister Isabelle, who’s very beautiful. All the seniors are looking at her. Tom Whickham’s parents aren’t here, of course, because they live abroad in Hong Kong.
The Headmaster and Mrs. Burston are up on the veranda outside their sitting room with Miss Carson, and Miss Newman’s there too, with baby Mark on her lap. Mr. Short, who takes us for geography, is sitting at the end of the row of benches with his wife who we haven’t seen for a very long time because she’s not been so well. She’s in a wheelchair now, poor thing. The silly old cook’s here in a big red frock with her husband who hasn’t got any teeth at the front. Probably her horrid cooking has rotted them away. Mr. Benson the odd job man’s looking very pleased because the Headmaster’s just called down to congratulate him on getting the grass and fences nice and ready for today after the big storm. We did three cheers for him, and he blushed bright red. His wife from the laundry, who’s got a hat on instead of her curlers, smiled and waved at everybody when she got here. I know it’s a bit of an occasion, but who the blooming heck does she think she is—the Queen Mother?
Only Mr. England is missing. But I think he might be coming back tomorrow because on the way out of church this morning I heard Mr. Burston telling Ford that he was going to be reading the lesson in Morning Assembly, and Mr. England would give him the chapter straight after breakfast. So that must mean that the Headmaster knows he’s coming back. It’s the first time we’ve heard any of the staff talk about him; that’s a very good thing. Probably the police have just told him off about something to do with his car, and it’s nothing to do at all with the blue folder like I thought.
The House Martin Page 20