Different Class (27 page)

I nodded. ‘You heard correctly.’

For a moment Devine peered at me through narrowed eyes. ‘The Chaplain also tells me you’ve been talking about a memorial.’

Once more I nodded.

He gave a sigh. ‘That isn’t going to happen,’ he said. ‘You, of all people, should understand why.’

I said: ‘He should be remembered.’

‘He
is
remembered,’ said Devine. ‘Isn’t that the problem?’ He handed me the garden gnome. ‘Let the past be the past,’ he said, in a rather gentler tone. ‘I know how you felt about Harry Clarke.’

‘No, I don’t think you do,’ I said. ‘And I know you weren’t exactly friends. But Harry was part of St Oswald’s, just as much as you or I. Whatever else you thought of him, he still deserves a memorial.’

Devine shrugged. ‘It can’t be done. Not under the current Head. Or indeed, under
any
Head—’

I looked at him. ‘It isn’t
right
. You know that as well as I do.’

‘I
don’t
! And even if I did—’ He stopped. That legendary self-control was on the verge of breaking. I am not fooled by his chilly façade. I know Dr Devine as well as anybody knows him. He is driven by ambition, not love. The gods of progress have claimed him, of course, but his heart is as sound as the Bell Tower. When that business erupted last year, I saw his confidence falter. I know how close he came that term to breaking down completely. We all have our comforts, our touchstones. Mine is tradition – the Honours Boards, the photographs, the scent of books and chalk dust. His are somewhat different: Health & Safety; e-mail; Information Technology. He thinks that if he stays abreast of all the current developments, then he will never have to grow old, retire or claim his pension.

Though it annoys me, I understand. Both of us share the unspoken fear of a life beyond St Oswald’s; a life without the discipline of lesson bells or timetables; no Quiet Room; no marking; no Prep; no weekends or holidays. St Oswald’s Masters do not live long past retirement. Captivity sustains us; too much freedom eats us alive. Devine has no more love for Johnny Harrington than I, and yet he will follow him to the grave, not from loyalty, but fear.

I said: ‘I think you’ll change your mind once you’ve given the matter some thought. And beware the Ides of Markowicz. I’ve heard the omens are terrible.’

And, tucking the garden gnome under my arm, I went back into room 59, to my little empire, my Brodie Boys and the comfortable scent of chalk, old books, damp socks, wood polish and mice.

I kept the gnome in my briefcase. Devine hasn’t heard the last of this. Harry left that gnome to me with the instruction to
use it well
. Though, short of bludgeoning him to death with it, just
how
I can bring down Harrington with nothing but ire and a garden gnome, I have no idea for the present. Maybe time will tell. But I will see it done – for my friend; for St Oswald’s; for myself. Even perhaps for Devine – and for Eric, who has tried his best to forget what happened all those years ago.

Poor Eric. I’m fond of him, and yet I sometimes wish he were stronger. Loyalty was never his strong suit, neither to me nor to Harry. And when we were boys at St Oswald’s, always getting into scrapes, it was always Scoones who broke under interrogation; who gave up his friends to save himself; who claimed not to have been there.

He’s still avoiding me, by the way. He greets me, but he won’t meet my eye. As if that old story could hurt him now, or do any damage to his career. I considered hiding the garden gnome in his classroom, under the desk. That would bring the message home. But, as it happened, there was no chance today to deploy my secret weapon. There are other games in play; games that I do not control.

This morning’s Assembly, led by the Head, was on the subject of bullying. Not an unwelcome topic, of course; although I thought he looked at me rather too often for comfort. Dr Blakely was at his right hand, Ms Buckfast at his left. Together, they formed an unholy triptych that made my very entrails writhe.

‘Bullying, like so many other kinds of antisocial behaviour,’ he said, ‘basically comes from a lack of faith. Faith in God, faith in oneself, faith in other people. That lack of faith creates a void, which we try to fill in all kinds of ways, including addictive behaviour. And bullying
is
an addiction,’ he said, earnestly addressing the boys. ‘It makes you feel good in the short term by giving you a sense of control, but actually,
it
controls
you
. It changes who you are inside.’

There was more of this in the same vein (I told you he was an orator), and the boys all listened attentively. Young Harrington is not just a Suit. He is becoming a Snake-Charmer – open, articulate, plausible – projecting, if not actual warmth, then at least the illusion of caring. Don’t the boys realize this is an act?

I looked at the faces of my form. Anderton-Pullitt, nodding his head as if his salvation depended on it; Brasenose (often the victim of bullying himself) looked almost in tears. In the row opposite, I saw Rupert Gunderson, watching with the rapt attention of a recent convert. Only my Brodie Boys seemed immune to his oratory: Sutcliff jiggling his foot; McNair staring blankly into space; Allen-Jones with his arms crossed, mouth set in a wry quirk that was not quite a smile.

The Chaplain took over after that, with a droning passage from St Luke. The charm was broken; the usual chorus of furtive coughs and rustling ensued. Devine snapped at two of his boys, who had started whispering. Normality had been resumed.

After Assembly, Allen-Jones came to see me, looking grim.

‘Sir, it’s Rupert Gunderson. He’s made a counter-complaint to the Head. He says he’s sorry he hit me, but that I made him uncomfortable, which
he
says is a kind of bullying. And now the Headmaster’s saying that
I’m
the evil influence, and that challenging Gunderson about his homophobia counts as victimization. He’s asking
me
to go for counselling. I’m seeing Dr Blakely today.’

That explains the Assembly
, I thought. ‘Ye gods. He can’t be serious.’

Allen-Jones gave me a look that was both knowing and world-weary.

‘That Assembly was all about me,’ he said. ‘All that stuff about lack of faith and antisocial behaviour. He’s making this all about me, sir. He said I was going through a
rebellious phase
. He said I needed to show tolerance to the beliefs of others.’

I gave an inward sigh. ‘All right. Let me deal with this,’ I said.

I could see the boy was upset, but on the other hand, Allen-Jones has always had a tendency to over-dramatize. I went to see the Headmaster as soon as my timetable allowed; I found him in his office, with Dr Blakely and the Chaplain.

‘Ah, Roy. Just the man,’ he said. ‘We were discussing policy.’

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ I said. ‘But could I have a quick word?’

Harrington beamed. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’m very glad you’re here. This concerns you, after all. Please, take a seat.’

I remained standing. The Chaplain gave me a suspicious look. Dr Blakely gave the kind of smile a doctor gives a patient just before announcing that he has only months to live.

‘I didn’t come for a meeting,’ I said. ‘I’d like a word with you alone.’

Harrington smiled. ‘Of course you do. But let’s just put that on hold for a while. I’ve been talking to Marcus here’ – at this, Dr Blakely gave a canine nod – ‘about our Bullying Policy. We think it’s important for boys and staff to be aware of bullying. In fact, we’ve drawn up a document outlining the School’s aims.’

How typical of him, I thought, to assume we needed a document. In the old days, common sense was all a Master needed – that, and the guts to tackle the boys directly, in the classroom, and not from behind a document drawn up in an office.

‘The thing is, Roy,’ went on the Head, ‘bullying can take many forms. Many bullies are not even aware that their behaviour is affecting others. It isn’t always physical. It can be psychological, which in many ways is even more damaging. We feel that
anything
that makes a boy feel uncomfortable – be it hitting, name-calling or just imposing one’s beliefs on others – counts as a form of bullying, and we need to combat this at all levels, including members of staff.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.

Harrington gave his PR smile. ‘What I mean, Roy, is that if we want to eliminate bullying among the boys, we have to examine our own methods. To be shouted at and humiliated – in public or in private – can be a traumatic experience for a young adolescent. These methods
may
have been valid – once. But things have moved on. Our customers expect us to be sensitive to all needs.’

Damn the man, I thought. Was he accusing
me
, now?

‘I don’t think we always appreciate the impact we have on these young minds.’ That was Dr Blakely, finally finding the courage to speak. With his lashless, fishy eyes, he looked like a trout in the headlights. ‘The psychological scarring caused by public shaming can be immense. As a survivor myself, I feel we have a long way to go here. We’re instigating a programme to discover the extent of the problem, after which we can start to address it.’

For a moment I was confused.
A survivor?
Had Dr Blakely been involved in some kind of terrible childhood accident? Or did he mean a survivor of Life?

‘We’re
all
survivors here,’ I said. ‘So are my boys. I insist on it. In fact, a great deal of my teaching methodology is based on the assumption that, however much they may long for death, I expect them to survive the term, and preferably score well in Latin, although—’

‘Colin Knight didn’t survive,’ said Blakely in his colourless voice.

I stopped mid-sentence. Damn the man. Carried away by my oratory, I’d forgotten Colin Knight. ‘That was different,’ I said at last. ‘Damn it, the boy was
murdered
.’

‘There’s no proof of that,’ he said. ‘All we know is that the boy was unhappy, that he was bullied, that he disappeared from School and was never seen again. All we know is that the School failed to spot the signs of abuse. All we know is that a boy – a lonely, desperate,
vulnerable
boy – felt that there was so little support for him here at St Oswald’s that he had to run away. It happens, Mr Straitley. Even here, it happens. And I know this isn’t the first time—’

Charlie Nutter. Damn his eyes. The man knows my vulnerabilities.

Harrington gave a tiny smile. ‘I know you’re
fond
of Allen-Jones—’

‘That has nothing to do with it. The boy came to
me
with a complaint. I did what any form-master would do.’ I was starting to feel under siege.

Harrington sighed. ‘I’m sure you did what you thought was best.’ Patronizing little
stercus.
‘But Marcus’s role in Survivors means that he sees this kind of thing every day. He’s had experience in many schools, and spoken to many survivors.’

That word again. As if School were like a plane crash, with certificates at the end saying:
I survived St Oswald’s
! Come to think of it, Dr Blakely would probably approve of that. He strikes me as the kind of man who likes to put stars on wall-charts and hands out lollipops after class. Not that he does any teaching; no. He’s far too busy
having experiences
.

‘I hope we can count on you,’ he said. ‘I really think a different approach would help resolve the conflict here.’

I took a deep breath of the pine-freshened air. I could see what was happening. Rupert Gunderson; the Honours Boards; the refusal to host Harry Clarke’s memorial; and now Allen-Jones and Survivors – all had been part of the same campaign. I felt as Socrates must have felt when his colleagues conspired against him. Next, it would be the hemlock bowl – or as men of Harrington’s ilk prefer to call it, voluntary retirement.

‘Well?’ said the Headmaster.

For a moment, I considered it. To simply let go, like Socrates – to drink the hemlock and be damned. Apparently it’s an easy death; a creeping numbness, then sleep. No more conflict; no more pain; a legacy unblemished.
They
had all of the twenty-first century on their side: computers; committees; paperwork. And as for political correctness, they ran the asylum.

What did
I
have to fight them with? A school cleaner and a garden gnome. If it hadn’t been so sad, it would have been hilarious. Better perhaps to accept defeat than death by a thousand paper-cuts—

Then there came a knock at the door. Danielle came in with a tea-tray. Once more, I was saved by Danielle, with her gold earrings as big as satellite dishes; her hair dyed in improbable stripes; her smile as sweet as springtime. Her entrance broke the tension that had built up without my realizing it; the snake-charmer’s spell was broken and I suddenly knew what I had to do.

No, I won’t drink the hemlock, I thought. If they want me out, then they can fight me all the way to the gates. This is
my
School, not theirs, and I will not go willingly.
Progress through Tradition
may be Harrington’s new slogan, but St Oswald’s motto remains
Audere, augere, auferre
. To dare, to strive, to conquer. And that is what I shall strive to do, in defiance of all opposition.

I smiled at the Head. ‘Headmaster,’ I said. ‘St Oswald’s has
all
of my loyalty. Whatever I can do, I will,
in service of St Oswald’s.
’

And on that I summoned my dignity and went back to my room in the Bell Tower, that last survivor of the fleet, while all around, the cannons roared and the rising tide of iron-grey Suits lashed at the beleaguered decks.

5