Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  ‘I don’t mean to leave at all,’ I said. ‘I mean to die at my post, and be mortared into the brickwork, along with the other gargoyles.’

  She sighed. ‘That isn’t an option, Roy. Health & Safety would never allow it.’

  She has a sense of humour, I thought. What a pity her eyes are so cold.

  ‘We rather thought we might not need to have this talk,’ said La Buckfast. ‘But since you’re being so stubborn—’

  ‘Who’s this we?’ I interrupted. ‘Have you and Johnny Harrington merged as one, like Hermaphroditus and Salmacis? Or is it the pronoun of the New Order? Let me tell you, Ms Buckfast, we can have as many of these little talks as you like. You can sit in on as many of my lessons as you like, and observe as many dictations and silent prose translations as you can stomach, but you will not force me to retire; nor will you convince me that principle should ever give in to progress.’

  That smile again. It occurred to me once more how much she reminds me of the intrepid Miss Dare.

  ‘Principle?’ she repeated. ‘Roy, this is all about principles. Listen, we’ve discussed this. We think that you may be getting too close to a group of boys in your form. Especially young Allen-Jones. We think he’s a toxic influence.’

  I made the Old Head’s favourite sound. ‘There are several of those around,’ I said. ‘But Allen-Jones isn’t one of them. I mean, what is he supposed to have done?’

  That smile again. ‘Oh, Roy,’ she said. ‘You’re so protective of your boys. I do respect that, really I do. But after the Rupert Gunderson thing—’

  I said, in a few choice Latin words, what I thought of Gunderson.

  The smile did not waver. La Buckfast said: ‘Yes, well. The fact of the matter is, Allen-Jones may be facing expulsion.’

  I sprang to my feet. My lower back creaked alarmingly.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That isn’t fair.’

  It occurred to me that my choice of words made me sound more like a schoolboy than an Old Centurion of St Oswald’s, but the events of the past few weeks have made me feel like a schoolboy in my own department. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, and for once I can’t blame Dr Devine.

  ‘It isn’t about fairness,’ she said. ‘It’s about avoiding disruption. Your boy Allen-Jones doesn’t fit in here. He’s a disruptive influence. Just look at Benedicta Wild. We’re trying to rebuild St Oswald’s, Roy, and that means getting rid of those things that stand in the way of progress. It may have been all right once for St Oswald’s to be eccentric, old-fashioned and full of character. But now, it needs to run properly, and it won’t if the machinery is full of old parts that just don’t fit.’

  ‘Old farts, you mean.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have put it that way myself.’

  ‘But that’s what you mean,’ I told her. ‘That’s why you’ve been shadowing me, studying my methods. I’m an old part that doesn’t fit. And I’m a bad influence on the boys.’

  If I’d thought to disarm her with my candour, I was wrong. She simply smiled again and said: ‘Oh, Roy. You’re so funny. And I’ve genuinely enjoyed our little classroom sessions. But it’s time to bring this to an end before it gets ugly – for you, and for your pupils. Don’t you agree?’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Are you asking me to leave?’

  ‘Not to leave, Roy, but to retire,’ said La Buckfast gently. ‘You’ve given such loyal service. But now you’re a thorn in the Headmaster’s side – no, don’t deny it. You know it’s true. Everything he’s tried to do, you’ve tried to undermine it. The Mulberry girls; Benedicta Wild; that silly garden gnome; plus banging on to all and sundry about Harry Clarke – and then, of course, there’s the Honours Boards—’

  I looked at her. ‘You know about that?’

  ‘Of course,’ said La Buckfast. ‘We’ve known all along. Do you think anyone’s on your side? Do you believe any secret can be kept for long in a place like St Oswald’s?’

  It must have been Winter, I realized. Only he knew about the Honours Boards. Winter, whose intervention had seemed so wonderfully well timed; whose knowledge of the internet had seemed so providential. Could this have been a set-up? A trap? Was I their target from the first?

  I felt the old, familiar stab of the invisible finger, and sat down heavily on my chair. What a fool I’d been, I thought. What else did La Buckfast know? What had she told Johnny Harrington?

  La Buckfast patted my shoulder. ‘I think you’ve been overdoing it, Roy,’ she said. ‘You’re looking tired and not very well. Why don’t I get you a coffee from the Headmaster’s office?’

  I shook my head. ‘The hemlock bowl.’

  ‘Nothing so dramatic, Roy. Retirement. By the end of this term. You could claim ill-health, perhaps; no mention of anything untoward; no scandal, no unpleasantness. You’ll have a nice pension, a holiday, even a leaving party. And maybe Allen-Jones and those other disciples of yours will get another chance to settle down properly at St Oswald’s, instead of following you over the cliff. Are you sure you won’t have a coffee? It’s good. It’s the Headmaster’s personal blend.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t think I like the Headmaster’s blend. Dishonesty with cowardice always turns the stomach.’

  She gave me a look of reproach. ‘Oh, Roy. All men make mistakes, but a good man yields when he knows his course is wrong, and repairs the evil. The only crime is pride.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Antigone?’

  ‘I was always good at remembering lines.’

  I walked home through the park again. Bonfire Night is approaching fast. Stacks of wooden pallets, boxes of papers, old clothes and loosely bundled firewood are already piling up in the allocated spot. Soon, there will be children, making effigies of teachers, dancing around the pyre and singing old songs and nursery rhymes, and playing games that the likes of Devine and Bob Strange consider offensive and obsolete – and yet, how these things endure. Bonfires lit against the dark; the yearly sacrifice to the gods.

  There were three boys by the bonfire. Sunnybankers, by their clothes. I remembered those boys from the other night, smoking by the swing-set. How those boys had looked at me. How easily and confidently they had called me pervert. How easily these things slip away – regard, respect, authority – in the face of that talismanic word.

  These were not the same boys. I could see their faces now; rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed. One of them raised a hand and waved as he saw me hurry past. This time, however, I did not respond.

  7

  October 28th, 2005

  Arriving home, I poured a drink and started to make a shepherd’s pie. I often eat when I am upset, and Ms Buckfast’s words had upset me. Not least because of Winter, in whom, I now realize, I have placed an unreasonable amount of trust.

  Why should he have wanted to help? Why had I been so sure of him? Because he’d once reminded me of one of my pupils from long ago? Looking back at my actions, I see that I should have known he was hiding something. His secretive manner, his awkwardness; his inability to meet my eye. All signs of the man’s guilt – signs that I had failed to see. Now La Buckfast and Harrington have me over a barrel; their ultimatum is very clear. Leave, or face the consequences. Consequences which will affect both me and, more importantly, my boys. What a fool I’ve been, I thought. What a sentimental fool.

  I turned on the radio, found the news. The broadcaster was talking about the death of Ronnie Barker. Another light blown out, I thought. Another dead Centurion. A bottle of stout stood close to hand, from which I added a generous splash to the mincemeat and onions in the pan. The rest served to sustain the cook. I opened another bottle. I was about to dispose of the evidence when the phone rang. It was Kitty Teague.

  I should have known. La Buckfast must have suggested that she give me a call – I’ve always had rather a soft spot for Kitty, and I suppose she knew it. Anyway, I could tell from her voice that I was in for a lecture; I’ve known Kitty for long enough to know when she wants to placate me. There’s a particular cadence
to her voice on such occasions, I imagine not unlike that of a snake-charmer, or a veterinarian as he prepares to administer the fatal dose to a sick dog. It works quite well with the boys, too; certainly I rarely hear the sound of raised voices from Kitty’s room.

  ‘Roy. It’s Kitty. Are you all right? I thought I’d just check how you were doing.’

  ‘That’s very thoughtful of you,’ I said. ‘But I’ve had enough of that kind of thing from Harrington and his minions. Do you know La Buckfast sat through every one of my classes today? And all that because Our Gracious Leader’s afraid of upsetting the customers.’

  Kitty made a soothing sound. ‘I know. But there’s been a complaint, Roy. We can’t just ignore a complaint.’

  ‘Why not? It only encourages them.’

  She laughed, but without much warmth. ‘Listen, Roy. I know it must be hard to see a boy you once taught sitting in the big chair. But really, you ought to give John a chance.’

  John? She calls him John now?

  ‘You don’t understand,’ I told her.

  ‘Oh but I do,’ she said earnestly. ‘I know you’ve found it hard to adjust.’ That placating voice again. I hadn’t realized how often she uses it to soothe and disarm, just as the knife is about to fall. ‘That’s really why I’m phoning, Roy. Perhaps you should seriously think about taking your retirement. Obviously, with no loss of pay, or any implication that you’ve done anything improper.’

  ‘Et tu, Kitty?’ I said.

  ‘Roy, it isn’t like that.’

  I laughed. ‘Oh, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘Remember, I’ve been here before. I know when someone’s gunning for me. The Old Head, at least, was loyal. This one just sees St Oswald’s as a stepping-stone to something better. Strip out the Honours Boards, sweep out the chaff, sell off the old playing fields, introduce some newfangled schemes to raise the profile of the School, then move on to something else. Of course, by then it will be too late to undo all the damage. Still, what’s a career at St Oswald’s worth, next to a shiny new workstation?’

  Now Kitty sounded upset. ‘Roy, I’m on your side,’ she said. ‘It’s just that I have a job to do.’

  ‘Then stop wasting time over me,’ I said. ‘I’m really not worth the investment.’

  I know – I was rather abrupt with her. I don’t suppose it’s Kitty’s fault. But being the Head of Department has changed certain things between us. She is now officially my superior in the School – Kitty Teague, whom I first met when she was still a teacher trainee. It rankles – I would be a fool not to admit it to myself – and yet, what really hurts is the fact that she believes so sincerely that Harrington is doing what’s best – for me, and for St Oswald’s.

  I was about to go back to my shepherd’s pie, when there came a knock at the door. It was Dr Devine, looking grim. I ushered him into the parlour, but he declined to take off his coat.

  ‘No, I’m not going to stay,’ he said. ‘It’s just to see how you’re doing, and—’ His eyes went to the mantelpiece, where Harry’s gnome was standing. ‘I see you found a home for your gnome,’ he said, in a chilly kind of voice.

  I wondered if he’d made a joke, and if so, whether he was all right, but I decided not to ask. I wouldn’t say Devine is my friend – but I have known him a long time, and he has one virtue: integrity. I don’t always share his beliefs, but they are sincere and deeply held, if sometimes a little unfortunate. And he is loyal, in his way. I knew he wouldn’t betray me.

  ‘I’m sorry about what happened,’ he said. ‘Funny kind of business. The Union’s behind you all the way.’ He shuffled his feet for a moment. ‘Fact is, it’s irregular,’ he went on. ‘This Gunderson thing shouldn’t have gone to the Head at all. It was, if anything, a departmental matter.’

  His eye fell on a thick stack of Honours Boards propped up against the near wall, covered in a dust-sheet but nevertheless unmistakable. Winter had taken some of them down into the cellar, but a hundred and fifty Honours Boards take up even more space than I’d thought. Besides, the cellar is rather damp, and the Honours Boards deserve better.

  ‘Taking up art?’ said Devine.

  ‘Burglary,’ I told him. ‘A hundred and fifty Honours Boards that Harrington was planning to sell – to furnish theme pubs and the like.’

  That shocked him, as I knew it would.

  ‘Don’t believe it? Report me,’ I said.

  Devine gave me a quelling look. ‘You really are trying for martyrdom, aren’t you, Straitley?’ he said in his most superior voice. ‘I’m really just here to tell you that the Union will back you if it comes to any kind of a dispute. It’s clear to me that the Gunderson boy set this thing up with his girlfriend to try and settle a score with you. The Old Head wouldn’t have given a story like this the time of day.’

  I shrugged. ‘Long live the King,’ I said. ‘He’s had me in his sights from the start. I suppose I ought to be grateful. I get to choose my final farewell. The hemlock bowl, or the razor blade. Socrates, or Seneca.’

  Devine gave an irritated kind of sigh. ‘Always so dramatic,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why I bother. Look, Straitley,’ he went on. ‘I’ve heard a rumour that Harrington’s been in touch with Survivors.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, listlessly.

  ‘Of course, he’s one of the founders, and Blakely’s one of its shining lights. But he thinks that after what happened last year, it might be a good idea to offer some of the boys trauma counselling. And now, with this ridiculous Mulberry girl thing, he thinks there might be what he calls a toxic learning environment—’

  ‘I suppose he means the mice,’ I said.

  ‘He does not mean the mice,’ snapped Devine. ‘He means the School. Our department. Blakely’s been delving into our files; the Harry Clarke affair; Fabricant’s book on the Marquis de Sade; even that ridiculous thing with you illustrating the First Declension with merda instead of mensa.’

  I was impressed. ‘You knew about that?’

  ‘Of course I did. Everyone did. The thing is, it was a harmless joke. But now if they’re going to scrutinize every joke, every chance remark for signs of subliminal messages—’ He looked at the gnome on the mantelpiece. ‘It’s bad enough Markowicz badgering me every time he’s been on a course. It’s bad enough having to waste my time obsessing about mouse traps, and name tags, and writing out departmental policy documents on things that any half-decent Master would already know how to deal with—’

  He paused, and I could see he looked tense. The nose, always an indicator of high emotion, twitched alarmingly.

  ‘But Sourgrape – I mean, Dr Devine – I thought you worshipped Markowicz. I thought that angel voices sang, and bluebirds flew wherever he went. I thought he was exactly what the department needed; a new broom, a breath of fresh air.’

  Devine made a percussive noise at the back of his throat. ‘Hck! That may have been – premature.’ He glanced at the garden gnome again, then said, with irritation: ‘I have to say, Straitley, I would have thought you could at least ask me to sit down. I’ve been on my feet all day—’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to stay,’ I began, as he handed me his coat.

  ‘And a cup of tea would be nice. Earl Grey, if you have it.’

  In all my years, I’d never seen Devine looking so jumpy. I gestured him to a place by the fire and poured him a glass of brandy. He took the glass without comment, and sniffed.

  ‘I’ve been approached,’ he said at last. ‘Regarding my early retirement.’

  Ah. The point emerges. ‘Tempus fugit, non autem memoria,’ I said, lighting a Gauloise.

  ‘Tempus be damned,’ said Devine. ‘I’m only sixty. I’m in my prime!’ He took a rather fraught sip of his brandy. ‘They’ve spoken to Eric Scoones as well. Apparently, the department needs to be downsized. Downsized! With Markowicz absent half the time, and that Malone woman having hysterics everywhere—’ He drank some more brandy. ‘He’s got to go.’

  ‘Who? Markowicz?’

  ‘No, Str
aitley. The Head.’

  I looked at the man with renewed respect. I had no idea old Devine was such a revolutionary. And for the first time in thirty-four years, I found myself in total agreement with him.

  I said: ‘The thought had crossed my mind. But the man’s untouchable.’

  Devine looked morose. ‘I know. He’s perfect. Even my wife thinks so.’ He had the grace to look abashed. ‘Invited us over for drinks one day. She hasn’t stopped talking about it since.’

  ‘I see.’ I tried not to smile. Mrs Devine is a lady of firm and frank opinions, one of which is a long-held desire to see Devine take early retirement, and accompany her on a world cruise before they’re too old to enjoy it. From what I know of Devine, a world cruise is more or less the definition of L’enfer, c’est les autres. He sees retirement looming with all the unbridled joy of the captain of the Titanic first catching sight of the iceberg.

  ‘In any case, Roy,’ he said, downing the last of the brandy, ‘it goes without saying I’m on your side. What can I do?’

  I have to say, I didn’t know. But the thought that Devine could take my side – Devine, of all people—

  ‘It’s too late,’ I told him. ‘I’ve tried. And anyway, my Brodie Boys—’ I told him about Allen-Jones, and La Buckfast’s ultimatum.

  Devine’s nose went a telltale pink. ‘So you’re giving up?’ he said.

  ‘I can’t see an alternative. If I don’t, they’ll expel Allen-Jones, and maybe the other boys as well.’

  Dr Devine gave a sniff. ‘So much for your anti-establishment stance. You talk about rebellion, but the moment it comes to a fight, you fold. Typical Classics response.’

  He stood up, rather shakily, and took his coat from the peg by the door.

  ‘Thank you for the brandy,’ he said. ‘But I prefer the kind of courage that doesn’t come from a bottle.’

  He left, with something approaching a flounce. At a different time, I might have found some comedy in the situation. Devine, taking my side against the higher management. The Suit lying down with the Tweed Jacket. O tempora! O mores!