Gentlemen And Players Part 14

Marlene looked concerned. 'It never rains but it pours,' she said wearily. 'Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this place, you know. What with Pat running himself into the ground, everyone on hot bricks over the School Inspection and now this--'

For a moment she looked so hara.s.sed that I felt guilty at having asked her.

'No, it's all right,' said Marlene, seeing my expression.

'You leave it to me. I think your department's got enough to be dealing with as it is.'

She was right about that. The department was down to myself, Miss Dare and the League of Nations for most of the day. Dr Devine was off timetable for administrative purposes; Grachvogel was away (again) and during my free periods this morning I took Tapi's first-year French cla.s.s and Pearman's third-year, plus a routine a.s.sessment of one of the freshers - this time, the irreproachable Easy.

Knight was absent, and so I was unable to challenge him about the graffiti on my fence, or about the pen I had discovered at the scene. Instead I wrote a complete account of the incident and delivered one copy to Pat Bishop and a second to Mr Beard, who as well as being Head of Computer Science also happens to be Head of the Third Form. I can wait; I have proof of Knight's activities now, and I look forward to dealing with him in my own time. A pleasure deferred, so to speak.

At Break I took Pearman's corridor duty, and after lunch I supervised his group, Tapi's, Grachvogel's and mine in the a.s.sembly Hall, while outside the rain poured down incessantly and, across the corridor, a steady stream of people filed in and out of the Head's office throughout the long afternoon.

Then, five minutes before the end of school, Marlene delivered a summons from Pat. I found him in his office, with Pearman, looking stressed. Miss Dare was sitting by the desk; she gave me a sympathetic look as I came in, and I knew we were in for trouble.

'I take it this is about the Knight boy?' In fact I had been lurprised not to see him waiting outside Pat's office; perhaps Pat had already spoken to him, I thought; although by rights no boy should have been questioned before I had had the opportunity to speak to the Second Master.

For a second, Pat's face was blank. Then he shook his head. 'Oh, no. Tony Beard can deal with that. He's the Head of Year, isn't he? No, this is about an incident that happened last night. After the meeting.' Pat looked at his hands, always a sign that he was out of his depth. His nails, I saw, were very bad; bitten down almost to the cuticles.

'What incident?' I said.

For a moment he did not meet my eye. 'The meeting ended just after six,' he said.

That's right,' I told him. 'Miss Dare gave me a lift home.'

'I know,' said Pat. 'Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.'

I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.

'Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,' said Pat. 'He was polis.h.i.+ng the floor, waiting to lock up.'

'That's right,' I said. 'Why? What's happened?'

That might explain Pat's manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat's appointments, and he'd had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that's what really counts at St Oswald's.

'Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.'

I didn't believe it. 'What incident?'

Miss Dare looked at me. 'Apparently he didn't check all the cla.s.srooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs and broke her ankle. She didn't get out till six o'clock this morning.'

'Is she all right?'

'Is she ever?'

I had to laugh. It was typical St Oswald's farce, and the Second Master's mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. 'Oh, you can laugh,' said Pat in a sharp voice, 'but there's been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.' That meant Devine. 'Apparently someone spilt something - oil, she says - on the steps.'

'Oh.' Not so amusing, then. 'Surely you can have a word with her?'

'Believe me, I have.' Pat sighed. 'Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy's part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.'

Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress.

You name it, she'd claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.

As for the publicity - the Examiner would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.

'As if we hadn't enough to deal with, just before an inspection,' said Pat bitterly. 'Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?'

Friday, 29th October DEAR OLD BISHOP. FUNNY HE SHOULD ASK. AS A MATTER OF fact I know of at least two; one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.

Literature, I've noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual cliches into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband's clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It's almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.

Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half-crushed beneath his m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible - she is a woman, after all - and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.

She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his cla.s.ses, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy's appraisal; forgets a lunch-time duty; spends all Break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty's locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it's more efficient to work in departments - in blocks, if you like -- than to diffuse my efforts all over the School.

As for my other projects . . . Tapi's escapade has missed today's papers. A good sign; it means the Examiner is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the School in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular -- seems he wasn't quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time) and expects full Union support and generous settlement, in or out of court.

Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap's p.r.o.ne to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he's been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality - there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion or gender (ha!) - all the same he knows that to be a h.o.m.os.e.xual in a boys' school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.

In normal circ.u.mstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr Devine, technically his boss and Head of Department, would never understand. It's his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What was he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi's plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.

And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to have given Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonis.h.i.+ng (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.

As for Roy Straitley, don't think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the Computer Science Suite after lunch when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new computer science teacher.

'But I didn't write him a rotten report,' Straitley was protesting. 'I sat through his lesson, filled out the form and took a balanced view. That was it.'

'Poor cla.s.s control,' said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. 'Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?'

There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. 'I didn't write this,' he said at last.

'Well, it certainly looks like your writing.'

There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the computer room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley's face, but decided against it. I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.

'I didn't write this,' repeated Straitley.

'Well, who did?'

'I don't know. Some practical joker.'

'Roy--' Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I've heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. 'Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn't the brightest we've ever had--'

'No,' said Straitley. 'He isn't. But I didn't write him a stinker. You can't file that a.s.sessment if I didn't write it.'

'Of course not, Roy, but--'

'But what?' There was an edge to Straitley's voice now. He's never liked dealing with Suits, and I could tell the whole thing annoyed him.

'Well, are you sure you didn't just - forget what you'd written?'

'What do you mean, "forget"!'

He paused. 'Well, I mean, maybe you were in a hurry, or--'

Behind my hand, I laughed silently. Beard is not the first staff member to have suggested that Roy Straitley is slowing down, to use a Bishop phrase. I've planted that seed in a couple of minds already, and there have been enough instances of irrational behaviour, chronic forgetfulness and small things going astray to make the idea plausible. Straitley, of course, has never considered this for a moment.

'Mr Beard, I may be nearing my Century, but I am far from senility. Now if we could possibly move on to a matter of some importance' - (I wondered what Meek would say when I told him Straitley considered his a.s.sessment to be a matter of no importance) - 'perhaps you have managed to find time in your busy schedule to read my report on Colin Knight.'

At my terminal, I smiled.

'Ah, Knight,' said Beard weakly.

Ah, Knight.

As I said, I can identify with a boy like Knight. In fact I was nothing like him - I was infinitely tougher, more vicious and more streetwise -- but with more money and better parents I might have turned out just the same. There's a long streak of resentment in Knight that I can use; and his sullenness means that he is unlikely to confide in anyone else until the point of no return has been pa.s.sed. If wishes were horses, as we used to say when we were kids, then old Straitley would have been stampeded to death years ago. As it is, I have been tutoring Knight (on quite an extracurricular basis), and in this, if nothing else, he is an apt pupil.

It didn't take much. Nothing at first that could be traced to me; a word here; a push there. 'Imagine I'm your form tutor,' I told him, as he followed me, puppylike, on my duty rounds. 'If you have a problem, and you feel you can't talk to Mr Straitley about it, come to me.'

Knight had. Over three weeks I have been subjected to his pathetic complaints, his petty grievances. No one likes him; teachers pick on him; pupils call him 'creep' and 'loser'. He is miserable all the time, except when rejoicing at some other pupil's misfortune. In fact he has been instrumental in spreading quite a number of little rumours for me, including a few about poor Mr Grachvogel, whose absences have been noted and eagerly discussed. When he returns -- if he returns -- he is likely to find the details of his private life - with whatever embellishments the boys may have added - emblazoned on desks and toilet walls throughout the School.

Most of the time, though, Knight likes to complain. I provide a sympathetic ear; and although by now I can perfectly understand why Straitley loathes the brat, I have to say I'm delighted with my pupil's progress. In slyness, in sullenness, in sheer unspoken malice, Knight is a natural.

A pity he has to go, really; but as my old dad might have said, you can't make an omelette without killing people.

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Friday, 29th October THAT a.s.s BEARD. THAT PERENNIAL a.s.s. WHOEVER THOUGHT he could make a decent Head of Year? Began by practically saying I was senile over Meek's idiotic a.s.sessment form, then had the temerity to question my judgement on the subject of Colin Knight. Wanted more evidence, if you can believe it. Wanted to know whether I had spoken to the boy.

Spoken to him? Of course I'd spoken to him, and if ever a boy was lying . . . It's in the eyes, you know; the way they skitter repeatedly to the left-hand corner of the picture, as if there were something there - toilet paper on my shoe, perhaps, or a big puddle to avoid. It's in the meek look, the exaggerated response, the succession of 'Honestly, sir's and 'I swear, sir's and behind it all, that sneak smug air of knowledge.

Of course I knew all that would end when I produced the pen. I let him talk; swear; swear on his mother's grave; then out it came, Knight's pen with Knight's initials on it, discovered at the scene of the crime.

He gaped. His face fell. We were alone in the Bell Tower. It was lunch-time. It was a crisp, sunny day; the boys were in the yard chasing autumn. I could hear their distant cries, like gulls on the wind. Knight could hear them too, and half-turned longingly towards the window.

'Well?' I tried not to be too satisfied. He was only a boy, after all. 'It is your pen, isn't it, Knight?'

Silence. Knight stood with his hands in his pockets, shrivelling before my eyes. He knew it was serious, a matter for expulsion. I could see it in his face; the blot on his record; his mother's disappointment; his father's anger; the blow to his prospects. 'Isn't it, Knight?'

Silently, he nodded.

I sent him to the Head of Year, but he never got there. Brasenose saw him at the bus stop later that afternoon, but thought nothing of it. A dentist's appointment, perhaps, or a quick, unsanctioned jaunt to the record shop or the cafe. No one else remembers seeing him; a lank-haired boy in St Oswald's uniform, carrying a black nylon rucksack and looking as if the world's troubles had just descended on to his shoulders.

'Oh, I spoke to him all right. He didn't say much. Not after I produced the pen.'

Beard looked troubled. 'I see. And what exactly did you say to the boy?'

'I impressed upon him the error of his ways.'

'Was anyone else present?'

I'd had enough of this. Of course there hadn't been; who else would have been present, on a windy lunch-time with a thousand boys playing outside? 'What's going on, Beard?' I demanded. 'Have the parents complained? Is that it? Am I victimizing the boy again? Or is it that they know full well that their son's a liar and that it's only because of St Oswald's that I haven't reported him to the police?'

Beard took a deep breath. 'I think we should discuss this somewhere else,' he said uneasily (it was eight o'clock in the morning, and we were on the Lower Corridor, as yet almost deserted). 'I wanted Pat Bishop to be here, but he isn't in his office and I can't get hold of him on his phone. Oh dear' - at this he tugged at his weak moustache - 'I really think further discussion of this should wait until the proper authorities--'

I was about to make a stinging retort about Heads of Year and proper authorities when Meek came in. He gave me a venomous look, then addressed Beard. 'Problem in the labs,' he said in his colourless voice. 'I think you should have a look.'

Beard looked openly relieved. Computer problems were his field. No unpleasant human contact; no inconsistencies; no lies; nothing but machines to programme and decode. I knew that there had been incessant computer problems this week - a virus, so I'm told - with the result that, to my delight, e-mail had been completely suspended and Computer Science relegated to the library for several days.

'Excuse me, Mr Straitley--' That look again, like a man whose last-minute reprieve has finally come. 'Duty calls.'

I found Bishop's (handwritten) note in my pigeon-hole at the end of the lunch-break. Not before, I'm afraid, though Marlene tells me she delivered it at registration. But the morning had been fraught with problems: Grachvogel absent; Kitty depressed; Pearman pretending nothing was wrong, but looking rumpled and pale, with deep shadows under his eyes. I heard from Marlene (who always knows everything) that he slept in School last night; apparently he hasn't been home since Tuesday, when the anonymous letter had exposed his long-term infidelity. Kitty blames herself, says Marlene; feels she has let Pearman down; wonders if it was her fault that the mystery informant learned the truth.

Pearman says not, but remains aloof. Just like a man, says Marlene; too busy with his own problems to notice that poor Kitty is completely distraught.

I know better than to comment on this. I don't take sides. I just hope that Pearman and Kitty will be able to continue to work together after this. I'd hate to lose either of them, especially this year, when so many other things have already gone bad.

There is one small consolation, however. Eric Sc.o.o.nes is a surprising pillar of strength in a world turned suddenly weak. Difficult at the best of times, he comes into his own at the worst, taking over Pearman's duties without complaint (and with a kind of relish). Of course he would have liked to have been Head of Department. Might even have been good at it - though he lacks Pearman's charm, he is meticulous in all forms of administration. But age has soured him, and it is only in these moments of crisis that I see the real Eric Sc.o.o.nes; the young man I knew thirty years ago; the conscientious, energetic young man; the demon in the cla.s.sroom; the tireless organizer; the hopeful young Turk.

St Oswald's has a way of eating those things. The energy; the ambition; the dreams. That's what I was thinking as I sat in the Common Room five minutes before the end of lunch-break, with an old brown mug in one hand and a stale digestive in the other (Common Room fund; I feel I should be getting my money's worth, somehow). It's always crowded at that time, like a railway terminal disgorging pa.s.sengers to a variety of destinations. The usual suspects in their various seats: Roach, Light (unusually subdued) and Easy, all three getting their extra five minutes with the Daily Mirror before the beginning of afternoon school. Monument asleep; Penny Nation with Kitty in the girls' corner; Miss Dare, reading a book; young Keane, popping in for a quick breather after his lunch-time duty.

'Oh, sir,' he said, seeing me there. 'Mr Bishop's been looking for you. I think he sent you a message.'

A message? Probably an e-mail. The fellow never learns.

I found Bishop in his office, squinting at the computer screen with his close-work gla.s.ses on. He removed them at once (he is self-conscious about the way he looks, and those pebble spectacles seem more suited to an elderly academic than an ex-rugby player).

'Took your b.l.o.o.d.y time, didn't you?'

'I'm sorry,' I said mildly. 'I must have missed your message.' 'b.o.l.l.o.c.ks,' said Bishop. 'You never remember to check your mail. I'm sick of it, Straitley, I'm sick of having to call you to my office like some member of the Lower Fifth who never hands in his coursework.'

I had to smile. I do like him, you know. He's not a Suit though he tries, G.o.ds help him - and there is a kind of honesty about him when he's angry that you'd never find in someone like the Head. 'Were dicis?' I said politely.

'You can cut that out for a start,' said Bishop. 'We're in real s.h.i.+t here, and it's your b.l.o.o.d.y fault.'

I looked at him. He wasn't joking. 'What's the problem? Another complaint?' I suppose I was thinking about Pooley's blazer again - though surely, Bob Strange would have wanted to deal with that himself.

'Worse than that,' said Pat. 'It's Colin Knight. He's done a bunk.'

'What?'

Pat glared at me. 'Yesterday, after his little run-in with you at lunch-time. Took his bag, went off and no one - and I mean no one, not his parents, not his friends, not a single b.l.o.o.d.y soul -- seems to have clapped eyes on him since.'

BISHOP.

Sunday, 31st October ALL HALLOWS EVE. I've ALWAYS LOVED IT. THAT NIGHT IN particular, rather than Bonfire Night and its gaudy celebrations (and anyway, I've always thought it rather tasteless for children to celebrate the gruesome death of a man guilty of little more than getting ideas above his station). It's true; I've always had a soft spot for Guy Fawkes. Perhaps because I am in much the same situation: a lone plotter with only my wits to defend me against my monstrous adversary. But Fawkes was betrayed. I have no allies, no one with whom to discuss my own explosive schemes, and if I am betrayed, then it will be by my own carelessness or stupidity rather than by someone else's. The knowledge cheers me, for my job is a lonely one and I often long for someone with whom to share the triumphs, the anxieties of my day-to-day revolt. But this week marks the end of a new phase in my campaign. The picador's role is ended; time now for the matador to take the stage.