Gentlemen And Players Part 7

In the department, there is good and bad. Dianne Dare seems to be shaping up nicely, which is just as well, as Pearman is at his least efficient. It isn't altogether his fault I have a soft spot for Pearman, in spite of his lack of organization; the man has a brain, after all - but in the wake of the new appointment, Sc.o.o.nes is becoming a thorough nuisance, baiting and backbiting to such an extent that the quiet Pearman is perpetually on the verge of losing his temper, and even Kitty has lost some of her sparkle. Only Tapi seems unaffected; perhaps as a result of her burgeoning intimacy with the obnoxious Light, with whom she has been seen on numerous occasions in the Thirsty Scholar, as well as sharing a tell-tale sandwich in the Refectory.

The Germans, on the other hand, are enjoying their spell of supremacy. Much good may it do them. The mice may have gone - victims of Dr Devine's Health and Safety regulations -- but Straitley's ghost endures, rattling his chains at the inmates and causing occasional mayhem.

For the price of a drink in the Scholar I have acquired a key to the new German office, into which I now retire every time Devine has a House Meeting. It's only ten minutes, I know, but in that time I usually find that I can cause enough inadvertent disorder - coffee cups on the desk, phone out of alignment, crosswords completed in Sour grape's personal copy of The Times - to remind them of my continued presence.

My filing cabinets have been annexed to the nearby Book Room - this also troubles Dr Devine, who was until recently unaware of the existence of the door which divides the two rooms, and which I have now reinstated. He can smell my cigarette smoke from his desk, he says, and invokes Health and Safety with an expression of pious self-satisfaction; so many books must surely present a fire hazard, he protests, and speaks of installing a smoke detector.

Fortunately, Bob Strange - who in his capacity as Third Master, oversees all departmental spending -- has made it clear that until the Inspection is over there must be no more unnecessary expenditure, and Sourgrape is forced to endure my presence for the moment, whilst no doubt planning his next move.

Meanwhile, the Head continues his offensive on socks. Monday's a.s.sembly was entirely constructed around the subject, with the result that since then, virtually all the boys in my form have taken to wearing their most controversial socks to school - with, in some cases, the additional extravagance of a pair of brightly coloured sock suspenders.

So far I have counted: one Bugs Bunny, three Bart Simpsons, a South Park, four Beavis and b.u.t.theads and, from Allen-Jones, a shocking-pink pair with the Powerpuff Girls embroidered on them in sequins. It's fortunate, then, that my eyes aren't as good as they once were, and that I never notice that kind of thing.

Of course, no one is fooled by the New Head's sudden interest in anklewear. The date of the School Inspection is approaching steadily, and after the disappointing exam results of last summer (thanks to an overburdening of coursework and the latest governmental scheme), he knows that he cannot afford a lackl.u.s.tre report.

As a result, socks, s.h.i.+rts, ties and such will be prime targets this term, as will graffiti, Health and Safety, mice, computer literacy and walking on the left-hand side of the corridor at all times. There will be in-school a.s.sessment for all staff in preparation; a new brochure is already being printed; a subcommittee has been formed to discuss possibilities for improving the image of the school; and an additional row of disabled parking-s.p.a.ces has been introduced in the visitors' car-park.

In the wake of this unusual activity, the Porter, Fallow, is at his most officious. Blessed with the ability to seem very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind, he has taken to lurking in corners and outside form-rooms, clipboard in hand, overseeing Jimmy's repairs and renovations. In this way he gets to overhear a great deal of staff conversation, most of which, I suspect, he pa.s.ses on to Dr Devine. Certainly, Sourgrape, though he outwardly scorns the gossip of the Common Room, seems remarkably well informed.

Miss Dare was in my form-room this afternoon, covering for Meek, who is ill. Stomach flu, or so Bob Strange tells me, though I have my suspicions. Some people were born to teach, others not, and though Meek won't beat the all-time record -- that belongs to a Maths teacher called Jerome Fentimann, who vanished at Break on his first day, never to be seen again - I wouldn't be surprised if he left us midterm, as a result of some nebulous affliction.

Fortunately, Miss Dare is made of stronger stuff. I can hear her from the Quiet Room, talking to Meek's computer scientists. That calm manner of hers is deceptive; underneath it, she is intelligent and capable. Her aloofness has nothing to do with being shy, I realize. She simply enjoys her own company, and has little to do with the other newcomers. I see her quite often - after all, we share a room - and I have been struck by the speed with which she has adapted to the messy topography of St Oswald's; to the mult.i.tude of rooms; to the traditions and taboos; to the infrastructure. She is friendly with the boys without falling into the trap of intimacy; knows how to punish without provoking resentment; knows her subject.

Today before school 1 found her marking books in my form-room, and was able to observe her for a few seconds before she became conscious of my presence. Slim; businesslike in a crisp white blouse and neat grey trousers; dark hair short and discreetly well cut. I took a step forwards; she saw me and stood up at once, vacating my chair.

'Good morning, sir. I wasn't expecting you so early.'

It was seven forty-five. Light, true to type, arrives at five to nine every morning; Bishop gets in early, but only to run his interminable laps, and even Gerry Grachvogel is never in his room before eight. And that sir - I hoped the woman wasn't going to be a crawler. On the other hand, I don't like freshers to make free of my first name, as if I were the plumber, or someone they'd met down the pub. 'What's wrong with the Quiet Room?' I said.

'Mr Pearman and Mr Sc.o.o.nes were discussing recent appointments. I thought it might be more tactful to retire.'

'I see.' I sat down and lit an early Gauloise.

'I'm sorry, sir. I should have asked your permission.' Her tone was polite, but her eyes gleamed. I decided that she was an upstart, and liked her the better for it.

'Cigarette?'

'No, thanks, I don't smoke.'

'No vices, eh?' Please G.o.ds, not another Sourgrape.

'Believe me, I have plenty.'

'Hm.'

'One of your boys was telling me you'd been in this room for over twenty years.'

'Longer, if you count the years as an inmate.' In those days there had been a whole Cla.s.sics empire; French was a single Tweed Jacket weaned on the metkode a.s.simil; German was unpatriotic.

O temporal O mores! I gave a deep sigh. Horatius at the bridge, single-handedly holding back the barbarian hordes.

Miss Dare was grinning. 'Well, it makes a change from plastic desks and whiteboards. I think you're right to hold out. Besides, I like your Latinists. I don't have to teach them grammar. And they can spell.'

Clearly, I thought, an intelligent girl. I wondered what she wanted with me. There are far quicker ways up the greasy pole than via the Bell Tower, and if that was her ambition, then her flattery would have worked better on Bob Strange, or Pearman, or Devine. 'You want to be careful, hanging around this place,' I told her. 'Before you know it, you're sixty-five, overweight and covered with chalk.'

Miss Dare smiled and picked up her marking. 'I'm sure you have work to do,' she said, making for the door. Then she stopped. 'Excuse me for asking, sir,' she said. 'But you're not planning retirement this year, are you?'

'Retirement? You must be joking. I'm holding out for a Century.' I looked at her closely. 'Why? Has someone said anything?'

Miss Dare looked awkward. 'It's just that--' She hesitated. 'As a junior member of the School, Mr Strange has asked me to edit the school magazine. And as I was going over the staff and departmental lists I happened to notice--'

'Notice what?' Now her politeness was beginning to get on my nerves. 'Out with it, for G.o.ds' sakes!'

'It's just that - you don't seem to have an entry this year,' said Miss Dare. 'It makes it look as if the Cla.s.sics department has been--' She paused again, searching for the word, and I found myself reaching the limits of my patience.

'What? What? Marginalized? Amalgamated? d.a.m.n the terminology and tell me what you think! What's happened to the b.l.o.o.d.y Cla.s.sics department?'

'Good question, sir,' said Miss Dare, unruffled. 'As far as the School's literature is concerned - publicity brochures, department listings, school magazine - it just isn't there.' She paused again. 'And, sir ... According to the staff listings, neither are you.'

Monday, 20th September IT WAS ALL OVER THE SCHOOL BY THE END OF THE WEEK.

Given the circ.u.mstances, you might have expected old Straitley to keep quiet for a while, to review his options and maintain a low profile, but it isn't in his nature to do that, even when it's the only wise thing to do. But being Straitley, he marched straight down to Strange's office as soon as he had confirmed the facts, and forced a confrontation.

Strange, of course, denied having done anything underhand. The new department, he said, would simply be known as Foreign Languages, which included Cla.s.sical and Modern Languages, as well as two new subjects, Language Awareness and Language Design, which were to take place in the computer labs once a week as soon as the relevant software arrived (it would, he was a.s.sured, be in place for the School Inspection on 6 December).

Cla.s.sics had neither been demoted nor marginalized, said Strange; instead the entire profile of Foreign Languages had been upgraded to meet curriculum guidelines. St Henry's, he understood, had already done so four years before, and in a compet.i.tive market-- What Roy Straitley thought of that is not on record. Thankfully, from what I heard, most of the abuse was in Latin, but even so, there remains a polite and meticulous coldness between them.

'Bob' has become 'Mr Strange'. For the first time in his career, Straitley has adopted a work-to-rule att.i.tude to his duties; insists on being informed no later than eight-thirty the same morning if he is to lose a free period, which, though correct according to regulations, forces Strange to arrive at work more than twenty minutes earlier than he would in normal circ.u.mstances. As a result, Straitley gets more than his fair share of rainy-day Break duties and Friday-afternoon cover sessions, which does nothing to ease the tension between them.

Still, amusing though it may be, this remains a small diversion. St Oswald's has withstood a thousand petty dramas of the same ilk. My second week has pa.s.sed; I am more than comfortable in my role; and although I am tempted to enjoy my new-found situation for a little longer, I know that there will be no better time to strike. But where?

Not Bishop; not the Head. Straitley? It's tempting, and he'll have to go sooner or later; but I'm enjoying the game too much to lose him so soon. No. There's really only one place to start. The Porter.

That had been a bad summer for John Snyde. He had been drinking more than ever before, and at last it was beginning to show. Always a big man, he had thickened gradually and almost imperceptibly over the years, and now, quite suddenly, it seemed, he was fat.

For the first time I was conscious of it; conscious of the St Oswald's boys pa.s.sing the gates; conscious of my father's slowness, of his bloodshot eyes, of his bearish, sullen temper. Though it rarely came out in work hours, I knew it was there, like an underground wasps' nest waiting for something to disturb it.

Dr Tidy, the Bursar, had commented on it, although so far my father had avoided an official reprimand. The boys knew it too, especially the little ones; over that summer they baited him mercilessly, shouting; John! Hey, John! in their girlish voices, following him in groups as he attended to his duties, running after the ride-on lawn-mower as he drove it methodically around the cricket fields and football pitches, his big bear's rump hanging off either side of the narrow seat.

He had a mult.i.tude of nicknames: Johnny Fatso; Baldy John (he had become sensitive about the thinning patch on top of his head, which he tried to camouflage by greasing a long strip of hair to his crown); Doughball Joe; Big John the Chip-Fat Don. The ride-on lawn-mower was a perpetual source of merriment ; the boys called it the Mean Machine or John's Jalopy; it was continually breaking down; rumour had it that it ran off the chip-fat which John used to grease his hair; that he drove it because it was faster than his own car. A few times, boys had noticed a beery, stale smell on my father's breath in the mornings, and since then there had been numerous halitosis jokes; boys pretending to become inebriated on the fumes from the caretaker's breath; boys asking how far over the limit he was, and whether he was legal to drive the Mean Machine.

Needless to say I usually kept my distance from these boys during my forays into School; for although I was certain my father never even saw beyond the St Oswald's uniform to the individuals beneath, his proximity made me uneasy and ashamed. It seemed at these times that 1 had never really seen my father before; and when, goaded finally into undignified response, he lashed out - first with his voice, and then with his fists -- I writhed with embarra.s.sment, shame and self-loathing.

Much of this was the direct result of my friends.h.i.+p with Leon. A rebel he might have been, with his long hair and his shoplifting forays, but in spite of all that, Leon remained very much a product of his background, speaking with contempt of what he called 'the proles' and 'the mundanes', mocking my Sunnybank Park contemporaries with vicious and relentless accuracy.

For my own part, I joined in the mockery without reserve. I had always loathed Sunnybank Park; I felt no loyalty to the pupils there, and embraced the cause of St Oswald's without hesitation. That was where 1 belonged, and I made certain that everything about me - hair, voice, manners -- reflected that allegiance. At that time I wished more than ever for my fiction to be true, longed for the police-inspector father of my imagination and hated more than words could say the fat caretaker with his foul mouth and thick, beery gut. With me he had grown increasingly irritable; the failure of the karate lessons had compounded his disappointment, and on several occasions I found him watching me with frank and open dislike.

Still, once or twice, he made a feeble, half-hearted effort. Asked me to a football match; gave me money for the pictures. Most of the time, however, he did not. I watched him sink deeper every day into his routine of television, beer, takeaways, and fumbling, noisy (and increasingly unsuccessful) s.e.x. After a while even that stopped, and Pepsi's visits grew less and less frequent. I saw her in town a couple of times, and once in the park with a young man. He was wearing a leather jacket and had one of his hands up Pepsi's pink angora sweater. After that she hardly came to see us at all.

It was ironic that the one thing that saved my father during those weeks was the thing he was growing to hate. St Oswald's had been his life, his hope, his pride; now it seemed to taunt him with his own inadequacy. Even so, he endured it; performed his duties faithfully, if without love; squared his stubborn back to the boys who taunted him and sang rude little chants about him in the playground. For me, he endured it; for me, he held out almost to the last. 1 know that, now that it's too late; but at twelve so many things are hidden; so many things still to be discovered.

'Hey, Pinchbeck!' We were sitting in the Quad under the beech trees. The sun was hot, and John Snyde was mowing the lawn. I remember that smell, the smell of schooldays; of mown gra.s.s, dust and of things growing too fast and out of control. 'Looks like Big John's having a spot of bother.'

I looked. So he was; at the limit of the cricket lawn the Mean Machine had broken down again, and my father was trying to restart it, swearing and sweating, as he pulled at the sagging waistband of his jeans. The little boys had already begun to close in; a cordon of them, like pigmies around a wounded rhino.

John.1 Heji, John! I could hear them across the cricket lawn, budgie voices in the hazy heat. Darting in, darting out, daring each other to get a little closer every time.

'Geddout of it!' He waved his arms at them like a man scaring crows. His beery shout reached us a second later; high-pitched laughter followed. Squealing, they scattered; seconds later they were already creeping back, giggling like girls.

Leon grinned. 'Come on,' he said. 'We'll have a laugh.'

I followed him reluctantly, keeping back, removing the gla.s.ses that might have marked me. I needn't have bothered; my father was drunk. Drunk and furious, goaded by the heat and the juniors who wouldn't leave him alone.

'Excuse me, Mr Snyde, sir,' said Leon, behind him.

He turned, gaping - taken by surprise by that 'sir*.

Leon faced him, polite and smiling. 'Dr Tidy would like to see you in the Bursar's office,' he said. 'He says it's important.'

My father hated the Bursar - a clever man with a satiric tongue, who ran the School's finances from a spotless little office near the Porter's Lodge. It would have been hard to miss the hostility between them. Tidy was neat, obsessive, meticulous. He attended Chapel every morning; drank camomile tea to soothe his nerves; bred prizewinning orchids in the School conservatory. Everything about John Snyde seemed calculated to upset him; his slouch; his boorishness; the way his trousers came down well over the waistband of his yellowing underpants.

'Dr Tidy?' said my father, eyes narrowed.

'Yes, sir,' said Leon.

's.h.i.+t.' He slouched off, towards the office.

Leon grinned at me. 'I wonder what Tidy'll say when he smells that breath?' he said, running his fingers over the Mean Machine's battered flank. Then he turned, his eyes bright with malice. 'Hey, Pinchbeck. Want a ride?'

I shook my head, appalled - but excited, too.

'Come on, Pinchbeck. It's too good an opportunity to miss.' And with one light step he was on the machine, pressing the starter b.u.t.ton, revving her up-- 'Last chance, Pinchbeck.'

I could not refuse the challenge. I jumped up on to the wheel rim, balancing as the Mean Machine lurched into motion. The juniors scattered, squealing. Leon was laughing wildly; gra.s.s sprayed out from behind the wheels in a triumphant green spume and across the lawn John Snyde came running, too slow for it to matter but furious, feather spitting crazy with rage: 'You boys, there! You f.u.c.king boysl'

Leon looked at me. We were nearing the far end of the lawn now; the Mean Machine was making the most terrible noise; behind us we could see John Snyde, helplessly outdistanced, and behind him, Dr Tidy, his face a blur of outrage.

For a second joy transfixed me. We were magical; we were Butch and Sundance, leaping from the cliffs edge, leaping from the mower in a haze of gra.s.s and glory and running for it, running like h.e.l.l as the Mean Machine kept going in majestic, unstoppable slo-mo towards the trees.

We were never caught. The juniors never identified us, and the Bursar was so irate at my father's behaviour - at his foul language on School premises, even more than at his drunkenness or his dereliction of duty - that he omitted to follow up whatever leads he might have had. Mr Roach, who had been on duty, was given a ticking-off by the Head, and my father received an official warning and a bill for repairs.

None of this had any effect on me, however. Another line had been crossed, and I was elated. Even sticking it to that b.a.s.t.a.r.d Bray had never felt as good as this, and for days I walked on a rosy cloud, through which nothing but Leon could be seen, felt or heard.

I was in love.

At the time I dared not think so in as many words. Leon was my friend. That was all he ever could be. And yet that's what it was: blazing, purblind, triple-infatuated, sleepless, self-sacrificing love. Everything in my life was filtered through its hopeful lens; he was my first thought in the morning; my last at night. I was not quite besotted enough to believe that my feelings were in any way reciprocated; to him, I was just a first-year; amusing enough, but by far his inferior. Some days he would spend his lunch-break with me; at other times he might keep me waiting for the entire hour, completely unaware of the risks I ran daily for the chance of being with him.

Nevertheless, I was happy. I did not need Leon's constant presence for my happiness to flourish; for the time it was enough simply to know he was close by. I had to be clever, I told myself; I had to be patient. Above all I sensed that I must not become tiresome, and hid my feelings behind a barrier of facetiousness whilst evolving ever more ingenious ways to wors.h.i.+p him in secret.

I exchanged school sweaters with him and for a week I wore his around my neck. In the evenings I opened his locker with my father's master key and went through Leon's things, reading his cla.s.s notes, his books, looking at the cartoon doodles he drew when he was bored, practising his signature. Outside of my role as a St Oswald's pupil I watched him from afar, sometimes pa.s.sing by his house in the hope of catching a glimpse of him - or even his sister, whom I wors.h.i.+pped by a.s.sociation. I memorized the number plate on his mother's car. I fed his dog in secret. I combed my lank brown hair so that I fancied it looked like his, cultivated his expressions and his tastes. I had known him for just over six weeks.

I antic.i.p.ated the approaching summer holidays at the same time as a relief and a further source of anxiety. Relief, because the effort of attending two schools - albeit erratically - was beginning to take its toll. Miss McCauleigh had complained about missing homework and frequent absences, and although I had become skilled at forging my father's signature, there was always the danger that someone might meet him b y chance and blow my cover. Anxiety, because although I would soon be free to meet Leon as often as I wished, it meant running even more risks, as I continued my imposture as a civilian.

Fortunately, I had already completed the spadework within the School itself. The rest was a question of timing, location and a few well-chosen props, mainly costumes, which would establish me as the well-off, middle-cla.s.s individual I pretended to be.

I stole a pair of expensive trainers from a sports shop in town, and a new racing bike (my own would have been quite impossible) from outside a nice house a comfortable distance away. I repainted it, just to be sure, and sold my own on the Sat.u.r.day market. If my father had noticed, I would have told him I had traded in my old bike for a second-hand model because it was getting too small for me. It was a good story, and would probably have worked, but by then, with the end of term, my father was at last beginning to unravel, and he never noticed anything any more.

Fallow has his place now. Fat Fallow, with his loose lips and ancient donkey-jacket. He has my father's slouch, too, from years of driving the ride-on mower, and, like my father's, his gut spills out obscenely from over his narrow, s.h.i.+ny belt. There is a tradition that all School Porters are called John, and this is true of Fallow, too, though the boys do not call after him and bait him as they did my father. I'm glad; I might have to intervene if they did, and I do not want to make myself conspicuous at this stage.

But Fallow offends me. He has hairy ears and reads the News of the World in his little Lodge, wearing ancient slippers on his bare feet, drinking milky tea and ignoring what happens around him. Halfwit Jimmy does the real work; the building, the woodwork, the wiring, the drains. Fallow takes the phone calls. He enjoys making the callers wait -- anxious mothers asking after their sick sons, rich fathers detained at a last-minute meeting with the directors - sometimes for minutes on end, as he finishes his tea and scrawls the message on a piece of yellow paper. He likes to travel, and sometimes goes on day-trips to France, organized by his local working men's club, during which he goes to the supermarket, eats chips by the side of the tour bus and complains about the locals.

At work he is by turns rude and deferential, depending on the status of his visitor; he charges boys a pound for opening their locker with the master key; he gloats at the legs of female teachers as they walk up the stairs. With lesser staff he is pompous and opinionated; says Know what I mean? and I'll tell you this for nothing, mate.

With the higher echelons he is obsequious; with veterans, nauseatingly pally; with juniors like myself, brusque and busy, with no time to waste on chat. He goes up to the Computer Science Suite on Fridays after school, ostensibly to turn off the machines, but actually to surf internet p.o.r.n sites after hours, while outside in the corridor, Jimmy uses the floor polisher, pa.s.sing it slowly across the boards, bringing the old wood to a mellow s.h.i.+ne.

It takes less than a minute to obliterate an hour's work. By eight thirty on Monday morning the floors will be as dusty and scuffed as if Jimmy had never been there at all. Fallow knows this; and though he does not perform these cleaning duties himself, he nevertheless feels an obscure resentment, as if staff and boys were an impediment to the smooth running of things.

As a result, his life consists of small and spiteful revenges. No one really observes him -- a Porter lives below the salt, and so may take such liberties with the system that remain unnoticed. Members of staff are mostly unaware of this, but I have been watching. From my position in the Bell Tower I can see his little Lodge; I can observe the comings and goings without being seen.

There is an ice-cream van parked outside the School gates. My father would never have allowed that, but Fallow tolerates it, and there is often a queue of boys there after school or at lunch-time. Some buy ice-cream there; others return with bulging pockets and the furtive grin of one who has balked the system. Officially, junior boys are not supposed to leave the School grounds, but the van is only a few yards away, and Pat Bishop accepts it as long as no one crosses the busy road. Besides, he likes ice-cream, and I've seen him several times, munching on a cone as he supervises the boys in the yard.

Fallow, too, visits the ice-cream van. He does it in the morning, when lessons have already begun, making sure to circle the buildings clockwise and thereby avoid pa.s.sing under the Common Room window. Sometimes he has a plastic bag with him - it is not heavy, but quite bulky which he leaves under the counter. Sometimes he returns with a cone, sometimes not.

In fifteen years, many of the School's pa.s.skeys have been changed. It was to be expected - St Oswald's has always been a target, and security must be maintained - but the Porter's Lodge, among others, is one of the exceptions. After all, why would anyone want to break into a Porter's Lodge? There's nothing there except an old armchair, a gas heater, a kettle, a phone and a few girlie magazines hidden under the counter. There's another hiding-place, too, a rather more sophisticated one, behind the hollow panel which masks the ventilation system, though this is a secret pa.s.sed on jealously from one Porter to another. It is not very large, but will easily take a couple of six-packs, as my father discovered, and as he told me then, the bosses don't always have to know everything.

I was feeling good today as I drove home. Summer is almost at an end, and there is a yellowness and a grainy texture to the light which reminds me of the television shows of my adolescence. The nights are getting cold; in my rented flat, six miles from the city centre, I will soon have to light the gas fire. The flat is not an especially attractive place - one room, a kitchen annexe and a tiny bathroom -- but it's the cheapest I could find, and, of course, I do not mean to stay for long.

It is virtually unfurnished. I have a sofa-bed; a desk; a light; a computer and modem. I shall probably leave them all behind when I go. The computer is clean -- or will be, when I have wiped the incriminating stuff from its hard drive. The car is rented, and will also have been thoroughly cleaned by the rental firm by the time the police trace it back to me.

My elderly landlady is a gossip. She wonders why a nice, clean, professional person such as myself should choose to stay in a low-rent flatblock filled with druggies and ex convicts and people on the dole. I've told her that I am a sales coordinator for a large international software company; that my firm has agreed to provide me with a house, but that the contractors have let them down. She shakes her head at this, bemoaning the inept.i.tude of builders everywhere, and hopes I'll be in my new home by Christmas.

'Because it must be miserable, mustn't it, love, not having your own place? And especially at Christmas--' Her weak eyes mist over sentimentally. I consider telling her that most deaths among old people occur during the winter months; that three-quarters of would-be suicides will take the plunge during the festive season. But I must maintain the pretence for the moment; so I answer her questions as best I can; I listen to her reminiscences; I am beyond reproach. In grat.i.tude, my landlady has decorated my little room with chintz curtains and a vase of dusty paper flowers. 'Think of it as your little home away from home,' she tells me. 'And if you need anything, I'm always here.'

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Thursday, 23rd September THE TROUBLE BEGAN ON MONDAY, AND I KNEW SOMETHING had happened when I saw the cars. Pat Bishop's Volvo was there, as usual - always first in, he even spends the night in his office at busy times - but it was almost unheard of to see Bob Strange's car there before eight o'clock, and there was the Head's Audi, too, and the Chaplain's Jag, and half a dozen others, including a black-and-white police car, all parked in the staff car-park outside the Porter's Lodge.

For myself, I prefer the bus. In heavy traffic it's quicker, and in any case, I never need to go more than a few miles to work or to the shops. Besides, I have my bus pa.s.s now, and though I can't help thinking that there must be some mistake (sixty-four - how can I be sixty-four, by all the G.o.ds?), it does save money.

I walked up the long drive to St Oswald's. The lindens are on the turn, gilded with the approach of autumn, and there were little columns of white vapour rising from the dewy gra.s.s. I looked into the Porter's Lodge as I walked by. Fallow wasn't there.

No one in the Common Room seemed to know exactly what was going on. Strange and Bishop were in the Head's office with Dr Tidy and Sergeant Ellis, the liaison officer. Still Fallow was nowhere to be seen.

I wondered if there had been a break-in. It happens occasionally, though for the most part Fallow does a reasonable job of looking after the place. A bit of a crawler with the management, and of course he's been on the take for years. Small things - a bag of coal, a packet of biscuits from the kitchens, plus his pound-a-go racket for opening lockers - but he's loyal enough, and when you consider that he earns about a tenth of even a junior master's salary, you learn to turn a blind eye. I hoped there was nothing the matter with Fallow.

As always, the boys knew it first. Rumours had been flying wildly throughout the morning; Fallow had had a heart attack; Fallow had threatened the Head; Fallow had been suspended. But it was Sutcliff, McNair and Allen Jones who foun d me at Break and asked me, with that cheery, disingenuous air they adopt when they know someone else is in trouble, whether it was true that Fallow had been arrested.

'Who told you that?' I said with a smile of deliberate ambiguity.

'Oh, I heard someone say something.' Secrets are currency in any school, and I hadn't expected McNair to reveal his informant, but obviously, some sources are more reliable than others. From the boy's expression I gathered that this had come from somewhere near the top.