Different Class

by Joanne Harris

  She looked at me serenely. ‘Johnny keeps his enemies close,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’m very good at my job – which is, of course, to make Johnny look good.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I’ll continue to do so,’ she said. ‘Johnny will get invalidity pay, and probably a settlement, too – and then, who knows? An advisor’s job in London, perhaps. Something not too stressful.’

  ‘You don’t think he’ll come back, then?’

  She shrugged. ‘We’ll manage without him. Besides, it’ll give him more time with Liz. You know they couldn’t have children? Liz was devastated at first. Tried all kinds of treatments. But nothing worked. So now she’s a family counsellor, helping childless couples come to terms with their situation.’

  She smiled again and sipped her tea. Her mug, I noticed, was one of those you can have made at the print shop: a photograph of a smiling infant, with the caption WORLD’S BEST GRANDMA.

  She saw me looking. ‘My grandson,’ she said. ‘Amos. He turned three in July.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had children,’ I said. ‘You must have had them very young.’

  ‘My daughter was born when I was sixteen. Her father was even younger.’

  She continued to drink her tea, looking serene and beautiful. I’ve always said you can tell a great deal from a person’s coffee mug. In this case, a whole life.

  ‘Did you stay in touch?’

  She smiled. ‘When I told him I was pregnant,’ she said, ‘he pleaded with me to abort it. Told me no one would have to know; even said he’d pay for it all. But I wouldn’t. In spite of everything – the church; my parents; the scandal – I kept my baby. I didn’t tell. His family moved away, but we kept in touch. Not that I wanted to be with him – he’d shown me his true colours by then – but because I thought that maybe one day, he’d have the chance to be grateful.’ She looked at the orchid on her desk. The flowers were white, veined with green. ‘And yes, he’s kept me close,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he thought I’d tell his wife. Perhaps he felt that if she knew that we’d had a child, when she never would—’ She paused and took a sip of her tea. ‘Johnny should have known better.’

  I nodded. ‘You’re too subtle for that.’

  ‘How nice of you to say so, Roy.’

  Besides, a Head, like Caesar’s wife, must be above suspicion. This business with Spikely, whether or not the real truth ever comes to light, has already done its damage. Harrington has been muddied by this; his gloss will never be the same again. La Buckfast, however, remains untarnished; doing the absent Harrington’s job with such efficiency that, should he decide to return after all, he will find St Oswald’s running much better than when he left.

  Of course, there’s still Dr Blakely, that over-qualified imbecile. If ever it comes to replacing little Johnny Harrington, I would have thought that Blakely would be first in line for the top job. And yet, there is no mistaking the ease with which La Buckfast has made the Headmaster’s office her own, adding bright cushions to the old leather chairs; quietly shelving the ugly prints; replacing the brown rug on the floor with a scarlet sheepskin. Well, of course, she came to us as a Rebranding Guru – and the best job she has done so far is in rebranding herself.

  ‘I like what you’ve done with the office,’ I said.

  ‘Really? I thought you didn’t like change.’

  ‘It depends on what kind of change,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘Oh, Roy. I hope you don’t think that this little change of personnel affects your impending retirement. I’m grateful for your help, of course, but from a purely financial perspective, Classics is a drain on resources. In today’s world of technology, Latin has become obsolete. Only a handful of schools offer it – and besides, where does it lead? Where are the job opportunities? Where are the vital skills?’

  It’s an argument I’ve heard before from the likes of Bob Strange. We live in a world in which vocational teaching matters far more than the pursuit of wisdom, or the study of civilizations past. And yet, where would our world be without Horace, or Pliny, or Ptolemy? Those men straddled the world like gods. Their voices ring through the ages. We owe it to new generations to keep their words alive. These men taught us to look at the stars – how else could we reach for them?

  I was about to answer when there came a peremptory knock at the door. It opened to reveal the girl Benedicta, looking slightly nervous. She was carrying an object that I first took to be a small radio, and which looked rather familiar, and which emitted a crackling sound.

  A few seconds later, Danielle appeared. ‘I told her you were in a meeting, miss,’ she said, addressing La Buckfast. ‘She must have snuck in while I was making tea.’

  Ms Buckfast smiled. ‘That’s fine, Danielle.’ Then, addressing the girl, she said: ‘Won’t you come in, Benedicta? Mr Straitley was leaving.’

  Benedicta shook her head. ‘Not until you’ve heard this.’

  She held out the object in her hand. At the press of a switch, the sound of amplified voices reached us. It took me a moment to identify those of Dr Blakely and Allen-Jones. Then I recognized the thing that was not quite a radio. It was that walkie-talkie, the one whereby, according to Allen-Jones’s somewhat over-elaborate scheme, Rupert Gunderson was to be revealed as a menacer of boys.

  Through the speaker, Allen-Jones’s voice was very clear now. ‘. . . think your stance on bullying encourages victimization,’ we heard. ‘I’ve been bullied because I’m gay, and I’d like to know where your policy of protecting people from challenging perspectives stands when it comes to protecting me from bullying and bigotry.’

  Well, I thought, my Brodie Boys always did have a certain panache. Dr Blakely was fainter, but his voice was still clearly audible. He is not quite as articulate as Allen-Jones, who has, on occasion, managed to persuade me to overlook homework infractions that would, in normal circumstances, have earned him at least a detention. In fact, for a moment, Thing One was able to give vent only to a series of inarticulate oof-ing sounds, like someone blowing up a balloon, which finally resolved into speech.

  ‘Their bigotry?’ he said. ‘Young man, St Oswald’s is a Christian school. We have no obligation to protect or promote the so-called perspectives you’re talking about.’

  ‘I think you have,’ said Allen-Jones. ‘Your homophobic policies are directly responsible for the fact that I’m being victimized in the first place. Basically, sir, you’re promoting hatred, which is a crime, according to the 1994 Criminal Justice and Public Order Act.’

  Dr Blakely oof-ed in outrage. ‘Promoting what?’

  ‘Hatred, sir. Right here, in this pamphlet, sir.’

  For a moment I wondered which pamphlet he meant. Then I remembered the pink pamphlet that Mr Winter had shown me, written by Johnny Harrington; published and distributed by the Church of the Omega Rose, and latterly by Survivors.

  ‘HOMOSEXUAL, HELLBOUND,’ Allen-Jones read the title aloud. ‘Are you telling me your organization didn’t produce this? Because here’s the Survivors logo, right here, and—’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Dr Blakely, inflated to capacity, almost exploded with outrage. I imagined him standing there, looking down at Allen-Jones (vaguely unkempt, with his shirt untucked, and the remnants of that Sexy Cerise glittering on his bitten nails). ‘Who do you think you are, eh, to tell me how I should run my school? Nothing but a little queer who thinks he can get attention by stirring up trouble and making threats. Well, you might get away with that elsewhere, but St Oswald’s has a moral code. We don’t tolerate perversion. Do you understand?’

  There came no reply from Allen-Jones.

  ‘Now get out of my office,’ said Dr Blakely hoarsely.

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  For a moment there was silence. Then came Allen-Jones’s voice. ‘Did you get all that, Ben?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ said the girl Ben. She turned to Ms Buckfast, who had followed the proceedings with her usual serenity, and said in a rather gruff voice: ‘I thought
you should know, we recorded all this. I think the Malbry Examiner would be happy to get an early scoop, after which I’m thinking the News of the World, or maybe the Daily Mail. Or both.’

  Ms Buckfast gave a little smile. ‘I don’t think that will be necessary. Do you?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ben. ‘It depends on how much support you’re prepared to give to me and Allen-Jones.’ She shot me a sideways look. ‘Mr Straitley’s been very supportive. In fact, you might say indispensable.’ She faced Ms Buckfast defiantly. ‘I heard he was under pressure to leave. That can’t be true, can it, miss? I mean, that would be scandalous.’

  La Buckfast’s Madonna-like gaze did not falter for a moment. ‘Benedicta—’

  ‘Ben,’ said the girl.

  ‘Ben. Of course,’ said La Buckfast. ‘Mr Straitley’s retirement remains his choice entirely. I certainly wouldn’t put pressure on him to leave. As one of the few remaining independent schools to still offer Classics to students, I think it would be very short-sighted of us to lose one of our unique selling-points. And as for Allen-Jones, I feel sure that Mr Straitley will manage to resolve any misunderstandings – with my full support, of course.’

  I felt an odd sensation in the region of my third waistcoat button. Not the invisible finger this time, but a softening, like melted ice cream. As if, after forty years of dealing with pupils in ways that, according to my Brodie Boys, ranged from benevolent neglect to callous and cruel indifference, I had suddenly acquired that most perilous of organs – a heart.

  I assumed a stern demeanour. ‘I have to say, Miss Wild,’ I said, ‘that you and young Master Allen-Jones seem to share the same deplorable love of drama. If only you had come to see me, instead of indulging in what I can only refer to as shenanigans, Ms Buckfast and I could have dealt with your problem without all this unpleasantness.’

  Ben assumed a meek expression. ‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.’

  ‘Now you and Allen-Jones are going to give me that recording,’ I said. ‘And we won’t hear any more about talking to the newspapers, or anything like that. What happens in St Oswald’s gets dealt with in St Oswald’s. That’s the way we work here. We’ve been doing it for a long time.’

  I smiled at La Buckfast. I noted that she, too, was smiling. Of course, this new development may not be a bad thing for her. Allen-Jones’s little stunt has conveniently, and at a single stroke, removed Dr Blakely from the list of candidates for the Headship. For a moment I wondered if maybe she had anticipated, even somehow encouraged the plan. But that was a deduction too far. La Buckfast may be Machiavellian, but from that to suspecting that she might have orchestrated the whole thing—

  No. That would be ludicrous. Wouldn’t it? Of course it would.

  I left with the girl Benedicta. ‘I’m not leaving, Ben,’ I said.

  ‘Is that an official statement, sir? Interested parties need to know.’

  I said: ‘It’s a promise. Will that do?’

  That seemed to satisfy her. She smiled. ‘I had to look up what you said, sir. Obesa cantavit. The fat lady sang.’

  ‘Did I say that?’ I prevaricated.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Ben.

  I shrugged. ‘I say all kinds of things. I don’t expect pupils to listen.’

  Arriving in my form-room, I found that Sutcliff had taken the register; McNair had filled in the absence slips; Niu was in the process of watering my spider plants. It struck me that my boys are often at their most productive in my absence. My policy of benevolent neglect gives them the chance to think for themselves, rather than rely on me. In short, my (few) deficiencies are all for the benefit of the boys.

  I opened my desk drawer to look for my packet of Liquorice Allsorts. Harry’s gnome was lying there, next to the bottle of claret, a slightly debauched grin on its face. Devine must have returned it, I thought. The man is full of surprises.

  I took it out and stood it on the desk.

  ‘New supply teacher, sir?’ said Allen-Jones.

  ‘No. Just a reminder,’ I said. ‘A gnome is where the heart is.’

  EPILOGUE

  St Oswald’s Grammar School

  Michaelmas Term, November 12th, 2005

  The Chapel of St Oswald’s dates back to the sixteenth century. It is a listed building, much to the dismay of the Bursar, a Protestant, who sees its maintenance and repair as an unnecessary extravagance in these times of renewed austerity. I rather like it, however; its small, stained-glass windows; its buttery stone; its old oak pews, pitted and scarred by generations of scholars carving their names in secret, in the shadows.

  That reminds me. I must see to reinstating those Honours Boards. Maybe somewhere less public than the Middle Corridor, but they belong to St Oswald’s just as surely as I do. Maybe here in the Chapel itself, next to the war memorial, with the names of our dead boys painted in gold down the panels. Perhaps I’ll talk to the Chaplain, when all of this has settled down.

  Tonight, however, the Chaplain has one last duty to perform. Not as publicly as I’d hoped, but I know Harry would understand. Jimmy Watt was my partner-in-crime; he has access to ladders as well as a full set of School keys, and Jimmy has always been helpful to those who treat him kindly. It’s easy enough to open the Chapel after dark on a Saturday night; tomorrow I shall take him for a thank-you drink and a bite to eat at the Scholar. Even Bob Strange’s cameras have been turned off for the evening – I told you the ancillary staff was secretly in charge of the place.

  We held Harry’s memorial by candlelight in the Chapel. It wasn’t a large gathering. Eric Scoones; the Chaplain; myself, and, surprisingly, Dr Devine, his nose twitching with heightened emotion. I spoke a few words. We sang a hymn. And then we played the record that Harry had asked the Chaplain to play – Devine gave an audible sigh as he recognized ‘The Laughing Gnome’, but there was an odd look on his face, which might have been a tiny smile.

  We scattered Harry’s ashes on the rose bed by the Quad; a place with a view of St Oswald’s and plenty of sunshine in winter. Then we shared the claret that Eric had brought for my birthday, and drank a toast to absent friends – more and more of them nowadays – using the Chaplain’s silverware.

  ‘Well, this was nice,’ said Dr Devine in a slightly mocking tone. ‘But really, Roy, we have to move on. We can’t keep living in the past.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I told him. ‘The past feels very comfortable. It’s a favourite armchair, moulded to fit my dimensions. I’m getting too old and fat for ergonomic furniture.’

  ‘I hear you’ve decided against retirement?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Hm. Probably wise. And Eric?’ he said in a quiet voice, while Eric went to hang up his coat.

  I shook my head. I knew what he meant. But I have not yet spoken to Eric about Friday night. Perhaps I never will – after all, he means to leave at Christmas. What good would it do to confront him now?

  We finished our wine in a silence of flickering lights and resonances. It was a comforting silence, like that of an old married couple. Once more I thought of my parents, sitting side by side on the beach, wrapped in their tartan blankets. After a while, when the wine was gone, the Chaplain blew out the candles (in deference to Health & Safety) leaving only a single red light burning in the sanctuary.

  ‘Time to head off, Straits,’ said Eric.

  Devine gave a nod. ‘It’s on my way.’

  And so the three of us headed for home, leaving the Chapel in darkness, except for the single dull red light that shone through the mullioned windows. Above us, in the rafters, in a little stone niche too high to reach, or even to see very clearly (at least without one of those ladders), Harry’s gnome watched us go; half hidden in the shadows, but laughing quietly to itself at the absurdity of it all – the tragedy and farce of it; the friendships and betrayals; the secrets and the scandals on which our little world of St Oswald’s survives – minus a few Honours Boards, perhaps, but with our honour still (mostly) intact, dragging our heels like schoolboys
along the rocky road that leads to the stars.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It takes a department to build a book, but sometimes even the greatest heroes fail to make the Honours Boards.

  Heartfelt thanks, therefore, to my tireless agent, Peter Robinson, and his PA, Federica; to my editor, Marianne Velmans, and desk editor Kate Samano; to copy-editor Deborah Adams and proofreaders Dan Balado and Clare Hubbard. Thanks also to Sarah Whittaker for the stunning cover design, and to everyone at Transworld for their continuing faith in Straitley, St Oswald’s and me.

  Thanks, too, to Kyte Photography for the author photo, to my lovely PA, Anne Riley; and, as always, to Kevin and Anouchka for acting as my sounding board and for keeping me grounded in the real world. Thanks to all my ex-teachers, ex-colleagues and ex-pupils, who, consciously or otherwise, helped create St Oswald’s. Thanks to the unsung heroes: the book reps, booksellers, bloggers and festival organizers. And, of course, as always, the readers – you – whose appetite for stories keeps the pages turning.

  About the Author

  Joanne Harris is one of our best-loved and most versatile novelists. She first appeared on the scene with the bestselling Chocolat (made into an Oscar-nominated film with Juliette Binoche and Johnny Depp), which turned into the sensuous Lansquenet trilogy (with Lollipop Shoes and Peaches for Monsieur le Curé). She has since written acclaimed novels in such diverse genres as fantasy based on Norse myth (Runemarks, Runelight, The Gospel of Loki), and the Malbry cycle of dark psychological thrillers (Gentlemen & Players, Blueeyedboy, and now Different Class).

  Born in Barnsley, of an English father and a French mother, she spent fifteen years as a teacher before (somewhat reluctantly) becoming a full-time writer. In 2013, she was awarded an MBE. She lives in Yorkshire, plays bass in a band first formed when she was sixteen, works in a shed in her garden, spends far too much time online and occasionally dreams of faking her own death and going to live in Hawaii.