I don’t suppose I shall sleep tonight. Harry’s box has been calling me. I’ve already spent an hour or two sorting out his photographs, the newspaper clippings he’d kept, the old copies of the School Magazine – including a review of Antigone, showing Ms Buckfast as a young girl, leggy in sandals and a sheet, smiling at the camera—
I think I’d been expecting some kind of epiphany. A fifth-act dénouement that would simultaneously unravel the mystery, expose the villain, reveal the plot and vindicate the hero, all in one neat manoeuvre. Instead, there’s nothing but fragments; memories of times gone by; snapshots; clippings; notebooks; scraps; the litter of a human life. Oh, Harry. I’d always assumed that you left me the box for a purpose. I’d expected the contents to lead me to some kind of revelation. But now, picking through those forgotten things – a button; a ring; a notebook filled with class notes from another school – I realize that you left them to me, not because they were important, but because you didn’t have anyone else.
I wonder, when my time comes, to whom will I leave my possessions? The clock I had from my parents’ house that sits upon my mantelpiece; my modest library of books; my wireless; my photographs? Will someone take them in, or will my house be cleared by a dealer, to be sold off at a series of flea markets and jumble sales, or worse: to be dumped in some desolate spot like the old clay pits of yesteryear, the photographs washed white in the rain, the books gnawed by rats; my School gown falling into rags by the dark and lonely water.
I know. I’m getting maudlin. But sometimes, the futility of everything falls in on me. What have I really achieved in life? Who would really remember me if I died tomorrow? I have no family, no friends. Only my pupils and colleagues. Outside of St Oswald’s, I am nothing but an old house awaiting clearance. Whether I fight back or not, tomorrow, or next week, or next month, Harrington will make his move to sweep me from the chessboard. I cannot stand against him for long. He has all the artillery. He has youth on his side; youth and influence and guile. Who am I? Just an old man, so far behind the times that even a cleaner knows more about the rules of this strange and scornful new world.
Another glass of claret, I think. And maybe a slice of fruit cake, with a piece of Wensleydale. My doctor wouldn’t like it, but if I’m going to stay up all night, I’ll need the extra energy. From the mantelpiece, Harry’s gnome watches me with a knowing eye. Beside him, the Bowie record in its paper envelope. I’m not really a fan, of course. But tonight, that cheery little tune seems to be the only link to a fast-disappearing reality. I put it on the turntable, heard the hiss and scratch of years. Then the helium voices, suspended in music like insects in tar. It’s a ridiculous little tune. And yet, somehow, it comforts me. When I play it, Harry Clarke seems somehow less forgotten, less dead. I close my eyes for a moment, not feeling anywhere near to sleep. And the next thing I know, it’s morning, and I’m sitting stiffly in my chair beside the record player, with a dead fire in the grate and the dead sound of the needle jumping on the turntable – tick, tick, tick – like a clock counting down the seconds . . .
PART SEVEN
Alea iacta est.
(CAESAR)
1
November 1st, 2005
Headmaster, and Chairman of the Governors,
It is with the greatest regret that I find myself obliged to hand in my notice as Classics Master of St Oswald’s. Ill-health—
No. Not ill-health. Doctor’s orders. Not my old GP, of course, but a far more dangerous quack. Dr Harrington, MBE, whose toxic form of medicine might once have suited a Plague Doctor mask.
On the advice of the doctor, I have come to believe that it is no longer possible for me to discharge my duties adequately. As a result—
That sounds very stiff. On the other hand, I feel very stiff; compressed into a jacket of words, when I want to run and shout.
As a result—
As a result, I took a small nip of brandy to warm my chilled bones this morning, which made the Bursar look at me in an odd way in the Common Room. I wondered why he didn’t make some kind of hilarious comment – the Bursar loves his comments – then, when I went to the bathroom and saw myself in the mirror, I realized why he’d kept silent.
I looked terrible. Not in my usual unkempt way, with chalk dust on my suit lapels and my hair in scarecrow spikes. Today I am almost colourless, and old – as old as damnation. Usually, when I look at myself in the mirror, I see a boy of about fourteen, with eyes that crackle with mischief in a face that has suffered some kind of a collapse – but a boy of fourteen nevertheless, wearing a very convincing mask.
Today, I look like my father in the days before he died. I know I shaved, but half my face seems to have escaped the blitz. There was a brown stain – tea, I think – on the collar of my shirt. I pulled on my gown to conceal the fact that my suit was less than spotless, but now I looked like an assemblage of black litter-bags, held together with frayed string.
‘Penny for the guy, sir?’ chirped Allen-Jones as I entered my room. Then he saw my face, and I saw the same expression I had seen on the face of the Bursar.
‘What was that, Allen-Jones?’
‘We’re collecting money for Bonfire Night, sir.’
Good try, Allen-Jones. That was a dig at my crumpled gown. Still, the boy recovered well, and to do the other boys justice, no one laughed at the little joke. That made me feel uncomfortable. When my boys stop laughing, it means that something serious is afoot.
I skipped Assembly. I wanted to finish my resignation letter. I put down my old green Parker pen and waited for the ink to dry. I suppose the Head would have preferred an e-mail. But a letter, written in midnight ink, seems much more appropriate. I will hand it in personally, at the end of the day. I want to see his face when I do. I want to see the bastard’s eyes.
At least that’s what I was thinking as I sealed the letter and filed it away. But today, as it happens, Harrington is out of School on some kind of a course. Ms Buckfast said as much when she came to watch my third-year class; but I will not give her the letter. To do her justice, she did not ask, nor did she ask if I had made my decision. She is far too clever to do that; besides, she knows the answer. She is so sure of her victory that she vanished halfway through my morning’s lessons and did not return for the rest of the day, leaving me with my Brodie Boys, and a grammar lesson that I might have enjoyed if not for the sword of banishment suspended above me. As it was, I was mostly silent, and the boys were silent, too, while outside, the fog pressed down like a lid, and the crows on the roof of the Bell Tower gathered like judges, with murder in mind.
At lunchtime, Allen-Jones came in with Sutcliff, McNair and the girl Ben. They often spend lunchtimes together, but this time the girl Benedicta came straight to my desk, at which I was moodily contemplating a passage from Catullus.
‘Sir, we’ve heard a rumour. We’ve heard you might be retiring.’
‘Who says?’
She gave me an impatient look. ‘Does it matter? Is it true?’
Of course. Call-me-Jo is very close to Harrington and his minions. And she already shares so much with her girls – I imagine that’s where the leak has sprung. I attempted to prevaricate.
‘Retiring? I like to think of myself as a rather outgoing person.’
‘So it is true,’ said Ben. ‘Why? Because of Rupert Gunderson?’
I’ll admit, I hadn’t expected her to jump to the truth so easily. ‘Listen, Benedicta—’
‘Don’t,’ she interrupted. ‘You’re the only one we can trust. If you go, sir, there’ll be no one left on our side. You can’t leave. You just can’t.’
I struggled with the impulse to tell her the truth. ‘It’s difficult. There are many factors here to which you may not be privy.’
I sounded unconvincing. The girl Benedicta was not convinced. ‘I wish you’d answer the question, sir.’
I sighed. ‘There are things I can’t tell you. But, being the intelligent young person you are, I’m sure you can hazard a gu
ess.’
Behind her, I could see Allen-Jones listening to every word. He and the rest of my Brodie Boys are far too sharp to be taken in. A partial truth, then – after that, they must make of it what they will.
‘Suffice it to say, it’s not my choice. Obesa cantavit, and all that.’
‘Sir?’
‘That’s enough. I have marking to do.’
2
November 3rd, 2005
Headmaster, and Chairman of the Governors,
It is with the greatest regret that I find myself obliged to hand in my notice as Classics Master of St Oswald’s. I thought, having survived so many changes throughout my thirty-odd years in the place, that I could withstand another assault from the twenty-first century. It would appear that I was wrong.
I belong to a time when loyalty was paramount. Loyalty to the boys, to the staff – but most of all, to the Headmaster, the Captain of St Oswald’s – was what kept our creaky old frigate afloat. And now I find myself in a place where I cannot bring myself to feel or pretend loyalty to a man I believe to be the enemy of everything I once held dear. I must therefore, et cetera—
At the end of the afternoon, I went to my room to clear my desk, and found a washed-out blonde woman listlessly vacuuming the floor. She gave her name as Cynthia, and announced that she was the new cleaner.
‘What about Mr Winter?’ I asked.
The blonde woman shrugged. ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘All I know’s I’m supposed to do this room.’
‘But what about Mr Winter?’ I said. ‘Are you going to be here permanently?’
The woman pulled a face. ‘I dunno. All I know’s I got this job. Till I can find summat better.’
‘So – Winter’s gone for good?’ I said.
Cynthia shrugged. ‘I guess so.’
‘Do you happen to know why?’
Her bovine expression seemed to reflect the level of her indifference. ‘Dunno,’ she said. ‘But he’s gone all right. Now if you don’t mind, I got jobs to do.’
The new cleaner returned to her jobs, which seemed to consist of little more than emptying bins and spraying polish into the air. I gathered up my books and prepared to leave; but the thought of going home was more than I could face straight away.
The Scholar, perhaps? Too crowded, I thought. And Bethan, with the stars up her arms, has taken to looking at me in a way not far removed from compassion; as if my age and loneliness have become a sound that only she can hear, but that announces me from afar. Much as I appreciate the larger portions she serves me, that look of compassion is troubling, and I do not welcome it.
Equally troubling was the fact that Winter has left St Oswald’s. Why would he leave so suddenly? Surely, he cannot have been dismissed. His betrayal of me to Ms Buckfast should ensure some level of appreciation. Unless, of course, my assumption was wrong, and the man had been sacked for my crime. But who else could have known about the Honours Boards? It was puzzling. So very puzzling, in fact, that instead of going straight home, as I’d planned, I went out in search of Winter.
I left Malbry Park from the east side, on the far side of Millionaires’ Row, and headed across the Parkside estate and into the little warren of streets that marked the boundary between Malbry Village and White City. Winter’s house was on one of those streets, just off the Abbey Road estate. I didn’t remember the house number, but at least I knew his car.
I found the little blue Peugeot outside a modest, pebble-dashed house. A neat little house, with a square of lawn and a well-clipped privet hedge. There was a light on upstairs – Winter’s bedroom, I assumed. Downstairs, the curtains were open, and I could see a row of china ornaments – dogs, I think – on the window ledge. That surprised me a little – I didn’t imagine Winter as the kind of man to like china dogs. Perhaps they’d belonged to his mother, I thought, and he hadn’t had the courage to give them away. I remembered what he’d said to me. You think they’ll live for ever. I’ll admit, it had touched me a little: had given us some common ground.
I rang the doorbell. I heard it chime faintly somewhere inside the house. Then I heard the click of high heels and thought – a little late, perhaps – that I might be interrupting something. That light upstairs in the bedroom. And now the sound of a woman’s tread—
I’ll admit it. I panicked. It had never occurred to me that Winter might have a lady companion, and the thought of having to explain my visit to some woman in a négligée (my mind gave me the image of Mrs Nutter, in her silk kaftan with the psychedelic print) filled me with embarrassment. I sprang away from the door and hid on the far side of the hedge, making sure to close the gate. It was a trick Eric and I had played many times during our boyhood, and I felt myself trying to suppress an inappropriate grin as the door swung open, and a light came on, allowing me a glimpse through the hedge of a small, wiry woman about my own age; dyed black hair; pink housedress; fluffy high-heeled mules and hands that were gnarled with knuckle-duster rings—
For a moment I wondered if I’d knocked at the door of the wrong house. Then she spoke, quite sharply, and I recognized her voice.
‘Who’s there?’
It was Gloria. Even through the hedge I knew – something about the way she stood, staring out into the night with a mixture of doubt and suspicion. I could – I should – have spoken up. But Winter had told me she was dead, yet here she was, not quite unchanged (I told you, Gloria Winter had been quite the pin-up, back in the day), but there was no mistaking that voice, and those eyes, that seemed to cut through the darkness—
She lingered a moment longer. Behind the hedge, I did not stir. That’s a novice’s mistake – to lose one’s nerve and break cover – but I am a veteran of the game, and even though my back ached, and my right leg was cramping, I stayed completely immobile in the shadow of the hedge, a privet of generous leafiness, hoping that a car wouldn’t choose that precise moment to drive by and illuminate me from behind . . .
From inside the house I heard Winter’s voice. ‘Ma? Who is it?’
‘Kids,’ she said. Her voice is the same as always; slightly husky from smoking. ‘Gone now – lucky for them.’ The threat in those words was palpable. For a moment I was nine again, crouching behind the neighbour’s fence with a pocket full of firecrackers. ‘Trick-or-treaters,’ Gloria said, raising her voice to address the night. ‘Come round again and I’ll give you a treat. Right up the arse.’
Then, she stepped inside again, closing the door. The light went out. And I stayed there, behind the hedge, for another five minutes or so, just to make sure she wasn’t still there, watching from the shadows, behind that row of china dogs that stared relentlessly into the night.
3
November 3rd, 2005
I’d already reached the end of Dog Lane when I heard a sound behind me. I turned. It was Winter; in blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, looking as guilty as I felt. He must have run from White City, I thought. At his age, I supposed he still could.
‘Mr Straitley, can we talk?’
I kept on walking. He followed me.
‘I saw you at the house just now. I watched you through the curtains. I know you saw Ma.’
‘Yes. Why did you lie to me?’ We were almost at my gate. I could hear the wind in the horse-chestnut tree at the back of my garden.
Winter gave me a sideways look. Once more I remembered Joseph Apple, that quiet, unremarkable boy who had detonated so tragically ten years after leaving St Oswald’s. The invisible finger, still active, started its stealthy walk across the open files of my ribcage.
‘Mr Straitley. Can I come in? There are some things I need to explain.’
‘You mean, how La Buckfast learnt about our escapade? Or why you left your cleaning job just as Harrington dropped the bomb? Are you even a cleaner at all, or was that just a convenient way to get me to confide in you?’
‘What? What are you talking about?’ He stared at me in confusion. ‘What bomb?’
‘You mean, you don’t know?’
&n
bsp; Winter shrugged. His look of surprise was genuine. His look of guilt had been genuine, too – but perhaps I’d jumped to conclusions. I began to wonder whether I had not misjudged him, after all.
‘Look, you’d better come in,’ I said. ‘I’m tired, and I need a drink.’
I unlocked the front door. We went in. The scent of my house wrapped me like a well-worn blanket: dusty rugs; tobacco smoke; old books, mothballs and polish. My house smells like St Oswald’s, minus the biscuity smell of boys, and it never fails to comfort me. But it was cold. I lit the fire, then found the decanter of brandy and poured us both a decent glug.
‘Thanks.’
I sat on the sofa. Winter chose a chair by the fire. ‘Was that what you were hiding?’ I said. ‘The fact that your mother was still alive?’
He nodded. ‘I’m sorry I lied to you, sir. I don’t even know why I told you that.’ He looked into his brandy glass. ‘But really, I mean, who hasn’t fantasized about the death of a loved one?’
I thought about my mother at my father’s funeral; the overcoats piled on top of each other; the pockets filled with socks. I thought about her that Christmas, stroking the rabbit, wearing her crown while my father watched her wordlessly. I thought about her saying: My little boy likes rabbit pie, and: Don’t tell him, will you? And then my mind went back to the beach at Blackpool, and the cold wind that always seemed to be blowing there, and the grey, gritty sand, and my parents, already old, under their tartan blankets.
So many children’s stories start with the death of the parents. Without our parents, we are free; free to travel; to have adventures; to develop our powers; to fall in love. The ultimate childhood hero is always an orphan: Peter Pan; Siegfried; Tom Sawyer; Superman. Do we really wish them dead? Of course not. Of course not. But boys play so many games. Cowboys and Indians. Cops and robbers. Good-guy one day, bad-guy the next, then home, for tea and sandwiches. But what did we dream, in those long-ago days, between the schoolyard and the canal? Didn’t we sometimes, like Peter Pan, wish it could last for ever? Didn’t I, sometimes, as a boy, wish myself an orphan?
Different Class Page 31