After a while, our games began to get a bit more ambitious. We’d catch a dozen mice at a time, and float them away, like Noah’s Ark. Sometimes the mice used to pray to God to save them from the rising flood. God never answered. But that was OK. After all, we were God.
Sometimes Piggy came along. He was meant to look after Mousey when his mother was asleep. He was a bit older than Mousey, but he wasn’t anything like him. He was fat and stupid, and he was afraid of everything. He used to cry like a little girl when Mousey made him watch what we did. Sometimes he cried so hard that he could barely breathe, and his heart beat so fast that we thought it might burst. It was lots of fun, actually. Even better than the mice. It was like we’d taken all my fear and made it go into someone else. There’s a story like that in the Bible, you know. Jesus and the Gadarene. Jesus came across a man possessed by a whole load of demons. And he made the demons leave the man and go into a herd of swine. Then, Jesus made the herd of swine jump off a cliff into the sea, where they all drowned, and the man was saved. It’s a pretty cool story, actually. And it’s in the Bible, so it must be true.
And then, something awful happened. It was after the Christmas holidays. Bunny had been dead for a year. And Miss McDonald came into school with a ring on her finger, and said that from now on, we had to call her Mrs Lumb. She’d got married over Christmas, to another teacher at Netherton Green. She showed us the pictures and everything. We all got a bit of wedding cake. Everyone was excited. Except for me and Mousey, that is. Mousey because he rarely got excited about anything, except for the games in the clay pits. Me, because something important had changed, and I didn’t even know what it was.
It took me a while to figure it out. My mum and dad weren’t what you’d call super-big on the facts of life. I mean, I knew the important stuff, like touching yourself makes you go blind, and even kissing can send you to Hell, but stuff that married people do – that was still a mystery. I knew it must be disgusting, though. All the words for it were swears. Even thinking about it was a sin, and learning about it at school was wrong, which was why I wasn’t allowed to be in sex education classes. No, sex was like toxic waste, only to be handled by specialists. So the thought of Miss McDonald (I refused to call her Mrs Lumb) actually having sex with Mr Lumb, the Games teacher – who everyone called Lumbo because of his big muscles and tiny little elephant eyes – was just too revolting to imagine. And yet I kept imagining it. There were all kinds of things at the clay pits; all sorts of rubbish that people had dumped; piles of newspapers and magazines. Some of them were called Knave, and Penthouse, and Playboy, and Razzle. Those were sex magazines, I knew. I wasn’t supposed to look at them. But I couldn’t help it sometimes. I wanted to know. And Mousey, of course, knew everything. His brothers had already told him the lot.
Frankly, it was disgusting. I knew people had to make sacrifices, but honestly, this was too much. Between Mousey and those magazines, I soon knew more than I wanted to. And the worst of it was that, once those pictures were in my head, I just couldn’t stop seeing them – except that instead of the women in the magazines, I kept seeing Miss McDonald, and instead of the men, all I saw was Mr Lumb.
I had to do something about it. But I was a kid, not nine years old. What could I do? I waited. I talked about it with Mousey. Mousey didn’t seem to care as much. But then, Mousey didn’t go to Church. He didn’t know about demons and stuff. He didn’t even know about the sin of self-abuse. And so I watched Miss McDonald and her horrible husband coming to work together. I saw them talking in the yard when she was on supervision duty. When she was still Miss McDonald, I used to go and talk with her as she drank her coffee. Now, she talked with Mr Lumb instead, and laughed, and sometimes slapped his arm, and I was no longer her special friend.
It wasn’t fair. I still helped out; I still cleaned the blackboard and watered the plants. But Miss McDonald wasn’t the same. She didn’t talk to me as much as she had before she was married; she went home straight away after school, in Mr Lumb’s horrible car. She even stopped wearing those Indian cotton dresses. And once, when I called her Miss McDonald in class, she actually snapped at me and said: ‘You know that’s not my name any more!’ It wasn’t like her. Not like her at all. And now I knew what it was at last; that horrible man had got into her, infecting her with the demon of sex.
Yes, I know. I was naïve. But all I really knew about sex was what I’d seen in those magazines, and what I’d heard from sermons in Church. And I thought about the possessed man, whom Jesus cured by sending his demons into the swine, then herding them off a cliff. And I thought about those games with the mice. And then I thought about Piggy, and how he used to wheeze and cry when we drowned the mice. And the more I thought about it, the more sense it seemed to make. I needed to get Miss McDonald’s demons to leave, and go into something else, and then all I had to do was drown them, just like Jesus did.
And so I tried to think of a plan. Failing Miss McDonald herself, I needed something that belonged to her. I decided on her silk scarf, which used to hang on the clothes peg at the back of our classroom. One day, after school, I stole the scarf and took it away and hid it by the clay pits. It still smelt of her perfume, a mixture of incense and coconut. Now, all I needed was the swine.
Mousey was in on the plan from the start. Because he didn’t go to Church, he never really understood how the thing was supposed to work. But that was OK. He went along. As long as he was drowning things, I don’t think he minded.
We started with mice, as usual. I’d collected about a dozen of them. How many swine make up a herd? I hoped a dozen was enough. Anyway, we took out the scarf. It still smelt of Miss McDonald. I wrapped it around my shoulders, and then I performed the exorcism. Obviously I didn’t know the right words for an exorcism, but I thought if you said thee and thou, like the preacher does in Church, the demons would get the picture. Then we herded the mice off the cliff (it was only a small cliff, only a clay embankment into one of the pits, but it must have looked bigger to the mice) and waited for the charm to work.
It was great. It should have worked. But the next day, the Headmaster, whose name was Mr Rushworth, called me to his office. Miss McDonald was there, too, looking very serious.
‘I’ve received a very serious report,’ Mr Rushworth told me. ‘Do you know what that might be?’
I shook my head.
Miss McDonald gave me a sad look. ‘If only you tell the truth,’ she said, ‘then everything will be all right. Now listen. This is important. Did you take my scarf last night?’
Once more, I shook my head. I know it was lying, and lying was wrong, but I could hardly admit that I’d stolen her scarf for a mouse exorcism. Besides, I figured that demons were a much bigger sin than lying, or even stealing; so God would be bound to forgive me as long as next time, I got it right.
Mr Rushworth stood up. ‘I think you’re lying, boy,’ he said. His face was always very red, and now it was nearly purple. ‘You were seen taking Mrs Lumb’s scarf from the peg in the form-room. Now, for the last time, tell the truth. Why did you steal it?’
Once again, I shook my head. It felt like a betrayal, but Miss McDonald couldn’t know what I’d sacrificed for her. Turns out the scarf was a Hermès – which meant it was something expensive and rare, and not just an ordinary scarf like Mum used to wear over her curlers.
And so I got the cane: three strokes on the back of my hand for the theft; three more for the lying. It hurt, but not half as much as the look on Miss McDonald’s face when she took off my special helper’s badge and pinned it on Mousey’s jumper instead.
You see, Mousey had told on me. Mr Lumb had seen him walking with me to the clay pits, and he had told him everything: the scarf; the mice; the ritual. Not the reason, thankfully – I don’t think he understood it himself – but he’d told them enough to condemn me. Apart from the cane, which was bad enough, I lost all my form privileges: the badge, the plants, the board-rubber. I also had to pay for the scarf out of my own pocket mone
y. And Miss McDonald’s demons stayed in Miss McDonald; I could see them in her eyes whenever she happened to look at me.
After that, Mousey was class monitor, and I didn’t talk to him any more. He’d let me down; they’d both let me down – and instead of going to the clay pits on Sunday mornings, I had to go to Sunday School with my dad, who was horrified at what Mr Rushworth had told him. Not so much about the mice, or even about Miss McDonald’s scarf, but the fact that I’d been playing out in such a notorious spot, and with boys of a Different Class.
I tried to explain about the demons, but Dad was too angry to listen. And so the horrid school term wore on, and people started to call me names like poncey and spazzer and poofter. I didn’t know what those things meant. But I knew who was responsible; and during the weeks that followed, I racked my brains to think of a plan that would help me get back at Mousey.
6
September 26th, 2005
A blustery day at St Oswald’s today, tearing the paper leaves from the trees. Wind, almost as much as snow, is the schoolmaster’s enemy, making boys excitable; tugging at blazers; pulling off caps; sending papers flying. Perhaps it’s the ozone in the air, but boys are disruptive on windy days, and today St Oswald’s was riddled with little pockets of turbulence. The Foghorn’s mournful cry rang out for most of the morning, and even Devine – still irked, perhaps, by his experience with the gnome – sent a boy out to stand in the corridor, sheepishly, awaiting the dreaded one-to-one. Kitty Teague was looking harassed, following a series of incidents. At present, the Head of Department’s job consists of cover and administrative work – not a great use of Kitty’s time, as I’m sure she is aware. But between Miss Malone’s spiritual malaise, and Dr Markowicz’s frequent incursions into the world of Visual Aids, someone has to hold the fort. Thus: Kitty’s classes have been left in the hands of the wispy Miss Smiley, with predictable results.
Only Bob Strange seems happy. His smile, rarely seen in happier days, illuminates the Lower Corridor, where he has taken to lurking, clipboard in hand, outside Ms Buckfast’s office. Doubtless he feels that proximity to the seat of power will give him a better chance when it comes to taking back his fiefdom when the Crisis Deputies leave.
However, it was my own Brodie Boys who caused the most disruption today – or rather, they were the catalyst for what happened afterwards. You wouldn’t think a bit of paint – even in such enticing shades as Sexy Cerise, Victoria Plum and Spangly Watermelon Surprise – could affect the discipline of an entire year-group, but according to Markowicz, it represents the thin end of a dangerous wedge that could culminate in anarchy.
I refer, of course, to the nail varnish still adorning the finger-ends of Tayler, McNair and Allen-Jones. My personal policy is to ignore such trivia as untucked shirts, subversive socks and similar accoutrements, designed to draw attention away from the really important things, like Latin translation, irregular verbs and keeping the classroom litter-free. Indeed, I’ve always found that where teenage rebellion fails to shock, it quickly loses its appeal – but the idiot Markowicz, in spite of having attended more courses than a normal human being can stand, is apparently unaware of the most elementary rules of teenage psychology.
As ill-luck would have it, this lunchtime my boys were in the Middle School Common Room with the girl Benedicta while Markowicz was on duty there. If I hadn’t already judged the man, his method of dealing out discipline would have already marked him in my mind as one of life’s hopeless cases – a Jackass, according to my Rough Guide to the Common Room – a man who believes that anything can be achieved simply by braying loudly enough, and who invariably comes down hardest on the most harmless of miscreants, in the hope that the real toughs will be fooled into obedience.
This was why my Brodie Boys, conversing with their usual level of exuberance, were immediately singled out by Markowicz, who took offence, first to their high spirits and then to the nail polish, and who, after a slight altercation of the kind no member of staff should ever allow in a public forum, found themselves summoned into the presence of Dr Blakely, aka Thing One. The girl Benedicta tried to object, and was duly sent to Ms Buckfast, who seems to have had the common sense not to make a fuss. However, as a result of this, Sutcliff and McNair were late to afternoon classes, and Allen-Jones never reappeared. When I made enquiries (via Bob Strange) I was told that the boy had been suspended, following a ‘serious breach of discipline’, details of which could be found in an e-mail sent by Dr Blakely and copied to the Head of Year.
As soon as I was free, I went to Dr Blakely’s office to complain. I found him with Markowicz and the Head, which did nothing to allay my disquiet.
‘Ah, Mr Straitley,’ said Dr Blakely. ‘I’m glad you popped in. Your boy Allen-Jones—’
I sat down in his armchair. Pat Bishop’s armchair, to be exact; moulded to his proportions. The new man will never enjoy it: he is too straight, too angular. He has an ergonomic chair to match his shiny new workstation, and a series of abstract prints on his wall replace Pat Bishop’s photographs of rugby players and sporting heroes throughout St Oswald’s history.
‘My boy, Allen-Jones,’ I repeated. ‘Rumour has it you’ve sent him home. How considerate of you to step in on my behalf, without taking the time to consult me.’
Dr Blakely recoiled a little. ‘I sent you an e-mail,’ he began.
Briefly but pungently, I expressed what I thought of his e-mail. ‘We have a pastoral system,’ I said. ‘The form-master is the first port of call. And if one of my boys misbehaves – which, in this case, I question – then I expect to be informed in person, not by a programme on a machine.’
Markowicz gave me a look. Close up, his resemblance to Devine is not as marked as I’d previously thought. Devine, for all his faults, remains a Suit, not a Jackass.
‘The boys were wearing nail varnish,’ he said. ‘I asked them to take it off. They refused. After that I had no choice but to refer them to Dr Blakely.’
I shook my head, pained by his ignorance. ‘And what did you expect?’ I said. ‘You allowed a group of fourth-form boys to draw you into a ridiculous – and public – confrontation. It’s the classic beginner’s mistake. Trainees do it all the time.’
The Head gave an admonishing cough. ‘I think there’s more to it than that,’ he said. ‘I’m looking into the incident. Besides, as you already know, I believe there’s something unwholesome about Allen-Jones’s influence over the boys in your form. Perhaps this needs a different approach. After what happened with Gunderson—’
‘Gunderson’s a bully,’ I said.
‘That’s not what the Chaplain says.’ He smiled, and once again I saw a glimpse of that troubling, dangerous charm. ‘Listen, Roy, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shall be looking into this myself, and I promise I’ll keep you informed throughout. In person, not by e-mail.’
Oh yes, he sounded reasonable. But all my instincts told me that I was being sidelined, manoeuvred, cajoled into acquiescence. Little Johnny Harrington was always used to getting his way, and he still knows how to manipulate people into doing exactly what he wants. I can understand his trying to get back at me – a Master he’d never liked as a boy, and who will never accept him. But what does he want with Allen-Jones, a bright, articulate student – perhaps a little impertinent, but certainly no troublemaker? What does Harrington think to achieve by targeting my Brodie Boys?
It annoyed me – perhaps more than it should. Or perhaps I was still feeling nervous about the theft of those Honours Boards. At the end of afternoon school I marked some books, had my tea in the Common Room, then went in search of Winter, my partner-in-crime of the other night, hoping for reassurance.
But Winter was talking to Jimmy Watt outside the School boiler house, where Jimmy spent most of his time in cold weather. I wondered what they were talking about. Jimmy must have noticed the theft of the Honours Boards by now. Did he suspect my accomplice? Or did he suspect me?
Jimmy is no detective, but I feared that the d
isappearance of the Honours Boards on the same day I’d asked him to the pub might have given him pause for thought. After all, I am not in the habit of fraternizing much with the ancillary staff. The idea that Jimmy might already be questioning Winter about me doubled my anxiety.
I decided to play it cool, and left by the rear of the building.
Jimmy saw me and lifted a hand. ‘Good day, boss?’
‘Nothing that a pint won’t cure. How about the Scholar again?’
Jimmy honked laughter. ‘Sounds good, boss. But I got my jobs to do.’
I shook my head with feigned regret. ‘Then I must drink alone,’ I said, and left him, feeling reassured. Jimmy is a simple soul, not given to pretence. If he’d been suspicious, I would have seen it in his face. For the present, at least, my crime has gone unnoticed. And yet I can feel them closing in; the army of Suits and their General. I may not have much time left. Was I wrong to refuse the hemlock bowl? Perhaps. But it’s not in my nature. I will fight them to the death, and if I fail, so be it. Better to fall by the wayside than never to start the journey.
Perhaps I’ll have that drink after all. After the day I’ve had, I think a nice, relaxing pint might be just what the doctor ordered. (Well, not my doctor, naturally – who in spite of a C in Latin and a less-than-promising boyhood has grown up to embody all the more sickening virtues, as well as managing to maintain a happy marriage: moderation in drink, regular exercise and, most sickening of all, a strict vegetarian diet.) But, having survived today (so far), a couple of pints and a ploughman’s are hardly likely to kill me. Once more unto the Scholar, then, to drown my sorrows in light ale. And who knows, maybe a crafty Gauloise to seal my deal with the Devil . . .
7
December 1981
There’s something about a betrayal of trust. Something that really preys on you. What Mousey did to me – what you did to me, Mousey – changed my view of the world for good, just as Poodle did that day – the day I saw him kiss Mr Clarke. Of course I was only a kid back then. I had no idea what was happening. I only knew that my best friend had ratted me out to Mr Rushworth, that now everyone hated me, even Miss McDonald, who now thought I was a liar.
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