Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  I said: ‘I think you’ll change your mind once you’ve given the matter some thought. And beware the Ides of Markowicz. I’ve heard the omens are terrible.’

  And, tucking the garden gnome under my arm, I went back into room 59, to my little empire, my Brodie Boys and the comfortable scent of chalk, old books, damp socks, wood polish and mice.

  I kept the gnome in my briefcase. Devine hasn’t heard the last of this. Harry left that gnome to me with the instruction to use it well. Though, short of bludgeoning him to death with it, just how I can bring down Harrington with nothing but ire and a garden gnome, I have no idea for the present. Maybe time will tell. But I will see it done – for my friend; for St Oswald’s; for myself. Even perhaps for Devine – and for Eric, who has tried his best to forget what happened all those years ago.

  Poor Eric. I’m fond of him, and yet I sometimes wish he were stronger. Loyalty was never his strong suit, neither to me nor to Harry. And when we were boys at St Oswald’s, always getting into scrapes, it was always Scoones who broke under interrogation; who gave up his friends to save himself; who claimed not to have been there.

  He’s still avoiding me, by the way. He greets me, but he won’t meet my eye. As if that old story could hurt him now, or do any damage to his career. I considered hiding the garden gnome in his classroom, under the desk. That would bring the message home. But, as it happened, there was no chance today to deploy my secret weapon. There are other games in play; games that I do not control.

  This morning’s Assembly, led by the Head, was on the subject of bullying. Not an unwelcome topic, of course; although I thought he looked at me rather too often for comfort. Dr Blakely was at his right hand, Ms Buckfast at his left. Together, they formed an unholy triptych that made my very entrails writhe.

  ‘Bullying, like so many other kinds of antisocial behaviour,’ he said, ‘basically comes from a lack of faith. Faith in God, faith in oneself, faith in other people. That lack of faith creates a void, which we try to fill in all kinds of ways, including addictive behaviour. And bullying is an addiction,’ he said, earnestly addressing the boys. ‘It makes you feel good in the short term by giving you a sense of control, but actually, it controls you. It changes who you are inside.’

  There was more of this in the same vein (I told you he was an orator), and the boys all listened attentively. Young Harrington is not just a Suit. He is becoming a Snake-Charmer – open, articulate, plausible – projecting, if not actual warmth, then at least the illusion of caring. Don’t the boys realize this is an act?

  I looked at the faces of my form. Anderton-Pullitt, nodding his head as if his salvation depended on it; Brasenose (often the victim of bullying himself) looked almost in tears. In the row opposite, I saw Rupert Gunderson, watching with the rapt attention of a recent convert. Only my Brodie Boys seemed immune to his oratory: Sutcliff jiggling his foot; McNair staring blankly into space; Allen-Jones with his arms crossed, mouth set in a wry quirk that was not quite a smile.

  The Chaplain took over after that, with a droning passage from St Luke. The charm was broken; the usual chorus of furtive coughs and rustling ensued. Devine snapped at two of his boys, who had started whispering. Normality had been resumed.

  After Assembly, Allen-Jones came to see me, looking grim.

  ‘Sir, it’s Rupert Gunderson. He’s made a counter-complaint to the Head. He says he’s sorry he hit me, but that I made him uncomfortable, which he says is a kind of bullying. And now the Headmaster’s saying that I’m the evil influence, and that challenging Gunderson about his homophobia counts as victimization. He’s asking me to go for counselling. I’m seeing Dr Blakely today.’

  That explains the Assembly, I thought. ‘Ye gods. He can’t be serious.’

  Allen-Jones gave me a look that was both knowing and world-weary.

  ‘That Assembly was all about me,’ he said. ‘All that stuff about lack of faith and antisocial behaviour. He’s making this all about me, sir. He said I was going through a rebellious phase. He said I needed to show tolerance to the beliefs of others.’

  I gave an inward sigh. ‘All right. Let me deal with this,’ I said.

  I could see the boy was upset, but on the other hand, Allen-Jones has always had a tendency to over-dramatize. I went to see the Headmaster as soon as my timetable allowed; I found him in his office, with Dr Blakely and the Chaplain.

  ‘Ah, Roy. Just the man,’ he said. ‘We were discussing policy.’

  ‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ I said. ‘But could I have a quick word?’

  Harrington beamed. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m very glad you’re here. This concerns you, after all. Please, take a seat.’

  I remained standing. The Chaplain gave me a suspicious look. Dr Blakely gave the kind of smile a doctor gives a patient just before announcing that he has only months to live.

  ‘I didn’t come for a meeting,’ I said. ‘I’d like a word with you alone.’

  Harrington smiled. ‘Of course you do. But let’s just put that on hold for a while. I’ve been talking to Marcus here’ – at this, Dr Blakely gave a canine nod – ‘about our Bullying Policy. We think it’s important for boys and staff to be aware of bullying. In fact, we’ve drawn up a document outlining the School’s aims.’

  How typical of him, I thought, to assume we needed a document. In the old days, common sense was all a Master needed – that, and the guts to tackle the boys directly, in the classroom, and not from behind a document drawn up in an office.

  ‘The thing is, Roy,’ went on the Head, ‘bullying can take many forms. Many bullies are not even aware that their behaviour is affecting others. It isn’t always physical. It can be psychological, which in many ways is even more damaging. We feel that anything that makes a boy feel uncomfortable – be it hitting, name-calling or just imposing one’s beliefs on others – counts as a form of bullying, and we need to combat this at all levels, including members of staff.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.

  Harrington gave his PR smile. ‘What I mean, Roy, is that if we want to eliminate bullying among the boys, we have to examine our own methods. To be shouted at and humiliated – in public or in private – can be a traumatic experience for a young adolescent. These methods may have been valid – once. But things have moved on. Our customers expect us to be sensitive to all needs.’

  Damn the man, I thought. Was he accusing me, now?

  ‘I don’t think we always appreciate the impact we have on these young minds.’ That was Dr Blakely, finally finding the courage to speak. With his lashless, fishy eyes, he looked like a trout in the headlights. ‘The psychological scarring caused by public shaming can be immense. As a survivor myself, I feel we have a long way to go here. We’re instigating a programme to discover the extent of the problem, after which we can start to address it.’

  For a moment I was confused. A survivor? Had Dr Blakely been involved in some kind of terrible childhood accident? Or did he mean a survivor of Life?

  ‘We’re all survivors here,’ I said. ‘So are my boys. I insist on it. In fact, a great deal of my teaching methodology is based on the assumption that, however much they may long for death, I expect them to survive the term, and preferably score well in Latin, although—’

  ‘Colin Knight didn’t survive,’ said Blakely in his colourless voice.

  I stopped mid-sentence. Damn the man. Carried away by my oratory, I’d forgotten Colin Knight. ‘That was different,’ I said at last. ‘Damn it, the boy was murdered.’

  ‘There’s no proof of that,’ he said. ‘All we know is that the boy was unhappy, that he was bullied, that he disappeared from School and was never seen again. All we know is that the School failed to spot the signs of abuse. All we know is that a boy – a lonely, desperate, vulnerable boy – felt that there was so little support for him here at St Oswald’s that he had to run away. It happens, Mr Straitley. Even here, it happens. And I know this isn’t the first time—’

 
Charlie Nutter. Damn his eyes. The man knows my vulnerabilities.

  Harrington gave a tiny smile. ‘I know you’re fond of Allen-Jones—’

  ‘That has nothing to do with it. The boy came to me with a complaint. I did what any form-master would do.’ I was starting to feel under siege.

  Harrington sighed. ‘I’m sure you did what you thought was best.’ Patronizing little stercus. ‘But Marcus’s role in Survivors means that he sees this kind of thing every day. He’s had experience in many schools, and spoken to many survivors.’

  That word again. As if School were like a plane crash, with certificates at the end saying: I survived St Oswald’s! Come to think of it, Dr Blakely would probably approve of that. He strikes me as the kind of man who likes to put stars on wall-charts and hands out lollipops after class. Not that he does any teaching; no. He’s far too busy having experiences.

  ‘I hope we can count on you,’ he said. ‘I really think a different approach would help resolve the conflict here.’

  I took a deep breath of the pine-freshened air. I could see what was happening. Rupert Gunderson; the Honours Boards; the refusal to host Harry Clarke’s memorial; and now Allen-Jones and Survivors – all had been part of the same campaign. I felt as Socrates must have felt when his colleagues conspired against him. Next, it would be the hemlock bowl – or as men of Harrington’s ilk prefer to call it, voluntary retirement.

  ‘Well?’ said the Headmaster.

  For a moment, I considered it. To simply let go, like Socrates – to drink the hemlock and be damned. Apparently it’s an easy death; a creeping numbness, then sleep. No more conflict; no more pain; a legacy unblemished. They had all of the twenty-first century on their side: computers; committees; paperwork. And as for political correctness, they ran the asylum.

  What did I have to fight them with? A school cleaner and a garden gnome. If it hadn’t been so sad, it would have been hilarious. Better perhaps to accept defeat than death by a thousand paper-cuts—

  Then there came a knock at the door. Danielle came in with a tea-tray. Once more, I was saved by Danielle, with her gold earrings as big as satellite dishes; her hair dyed in improbable stripes; her smile as sweet as springtime. Her entrance broke the tension that had built up without my realizing it; the snake-charmer’s spell was broken and I suddenly knew what I had to do.

  No, I won’t drink the hemlock, I thought. If they want me out, then they can fight me all the way to the gates. This is my School, not theirs, and I will not go willingly. Progress through Tradition may be Harrington’s new slogan, but St Oswald’s motto remains Audere, augere, auferre. To dare, to strive, to conquer. And that is what I shall strive to do, in defiance of all opposition.

  I smiled at the Head. ‘Headmaster,’ I said. ‘St Oswald’s has all of my loyalty. Whatever I can do, I will, in service of St Oswald’s.’

  And on that I summoned my dignity and went back to my room in the Bell Tower, that last survivor of the fleet, while all around, the cannons roared and the rising tide of iron-grey Suits lashed at the beleaguered decks.

  5

  December 1981

  Mousey was my bestest friend. (Mousey, you were my only friend.) We were both in Miss McDonald’s form at Netherton Green, and we did most things together. Mousey had a Condition, too – not like mine. It had a special name. I don’t remember it now, though. He was in the Slow Readers at school, but actually he could read just fine.

  I liked Miss McDonald. I liked her a lot. She went to our Church, and sometimes, if we were good, she would play the guitar during Storytime. She used to wear a blue Indian-print dress with little bells stitched on the hem, and though she was old – twenty-five, at least – she was totally gorgeous. I was the classroom monitor. I wore a badge and everything. I used to bring the chalks from out of the stock cupboard every day, and sometimes I used to stand on a chair and wipe the board clean with the board-rubber. I also watered the plants, collected books, stuck gold stars on the star chart and looked after the class hamster.

  Miss McDonald called me her ‘special little helper’. Mousey helped too, but only because I let him. Mousey was from the White City estate. He had two brothers, but no dad. My dad didn’t like him, because his mum didn’t go to Church, and because she was a cleaner. But Mousey was OK. We used to go to the graveyard down by old St Mary’s Church, and lie down on gravestones and play dead.

  In the days before God took my brother, I’d never thought about death. Perhaps I was too young to get my head around that kind of thing. Or perhaps I was in that state of grace that Mr Speight keeps talking about. Of course my parents had mentioned it. They told me that you went to sleep, and then you woke up in Heaven. And for a while, I believed them. The way I believed in Santa Claus, and babies coming from cabbages. Grown-ups lie to kids all the time. The Tooth Fairy; the Virgin Birth; how the red stuff doesn’t sting and how the ice-cream van only plays music when they’ve run out of ice-cream. Kids are pretty stupid like that. They’ll believe almost anything.

  And then, Bunny died, and suddenly, I was an only child again. Nothing else seemed to have changed. I still went to school; there was still TV, with Play School and Scooby Doo and Looney Tunes and Doctor Who. The sun still rose in the mornings. Bedtime was still at the same time. Everything went on as before, except that Bunny wasn’t there. His toys were still in his toy-box. His cot with its patchwork coverlet was still there, forever empty. It’s not that I cared about him much. But the thought that he could just be gone, while his toys and his cot were still around—

  And it hit me. Death is forever. A hole in the ground. A headstone. People walking around on the grass above you, while you’re down there in the earth. Kids watching TV; playing football; doing their homework; growing up. Except that Bunny would never grow up. Bunny was gone forever. And if Bunny could die, then anyone could. Mum. Dad. Miss McDonald. Me. Unless I believed in Heaven, of course. And all that, forever, unless I believed.

  And that was it, Mousey. I didn’t believe. I knew about Jesus, and Heaven, and Hell. I believed in them all, in the same way I believed in Santa and the Easter Bunny. But I believed in Death more. God was small. Death was huge. I used to lie in bed at night, trying to imagine it. All that forever, just waiting for me—

  I told myself that I had at least sixty years before I really needed to think about it, but somehow sixty didn’t seem long, compared to all that eternity. I used to lie awake at night, paralysed by the numbers. Nothing – no one – could help me. Mum and Dad were too busy with arrangements, then too busy with praying and support groups to care much about what I was doing. I remember the long, whistling silences around the table at mealtimes; the way my mother looked at me; the whispers from the people at Church.

  If I’d been the one who died, I thought, would my brother have understood? Or would I have just been a photograph in someone’s photo album, like Grandma and Grandpa, who died before I was even born, and who I always remembered in black and white, like an old film? I’d always known that people died. But the thought that I would, too – Mousey, I thought I’d go crazy. And then, you taught me to play The Game, and everything changed for both of us.

  Now I was friends with Mousey at school, but I wasn’t supposed to play with him. Dad was very strict about that. White City boys were a different class. They didn’t even go to Church. Mousey came to our house just once, when I was new at Netherton Green. We played trains in my bedroom. Mum made oatmeal biscuits. Dad looked in a couple of times, I guess to see if Mousey was ‘sound’. And then, when Mousey had gone, they explained that Mousey wasn’t Our Kind of Boy, and that I wasn’t to invite him any more. Maybe it was because he’d eaten all the biscuits. Anyway, I never did invite him back to play at my house, but Mousey liked the old churchyard, and so I’d go there to meet him, and we’d lie down on a gravestone and play at being dead, which was basically just lying there, seeing who could keep his eyes shut for longest.

  And then, one day, after Bunny died, Mousey taught me
another game. He called it Mousey, Mousey, and it’s why I gave him his nickname. But it was a top-secret game, that no one else could know about. Except maybe his fat brother, Piggy, who sometimes came to look after him, but who wouldn’t tell anyone, because he was scared of their ma finding out.

  The game was pretty simple. We played it down by the clay pits. That was where you got the mouse. You needed a mouse to play the game, and there were lots in the clay pits. You get an empty milk bottle (those little ones from school work well). You put some food in the bottom; a sweet, or maybe a broken biscuit. You stick the bottle half in the ground but at a tilt, so the mouse can climb in, but it can’t get out again. Come back a bit later, or the next day, and – boom. You can have fun with the mouse.

  We played on Saturday mornings, when Mousey’s mum often liked to lie in, and my mum and dad went to their support group. Mousey would bait the traps the night before, and by morning they were always full. We used the largest of the pits, the one we called the Long Pond, and we dropped the bottles in, one by one, and watched to see what the mice would do.

  Mostly, they died almost straight away. That was fun, but it didn’t last. So Mousey and I began to think up ways to make the game last longer. We used to make little boats from wood and float them in the Long Pond, or sometimes the shallow Crescent, or the three small pits that Mousey and I called the Little Injuns, but never the Pit Shaft, with its steep banks, which was much too dangerous.

  Anyway, we’d launch the boat, and then we’d put the mouse on board. The mouse was always the captain, and then we’d bomb the boat with stones, or set it on fire with newspaper, or make giant waves with a piece of board and watch it pitch and rock until it sank. Sometimes the mouse tried to swim back. Then we’d just catch it and start again. Sometimes the mouse just stayed there, twitching a bit, but not moving. That was never as much fun. I preferred the lively ones.