Different Class (11 page)

However, his English Literature grade reflects his disappointing lack of commitment to the reading list. I hope that in the new term he will apply himself more diligently and raise his performance to the fine standard he has already achieved in other subjects.

Dammit, it made me nervous. It wasn’t natural at all. It wasn’t that I favoured troublemakers, precisely; but at least I could
understand
them. I myself was no paragon when I was a boy of fourteen; it’s what has made me the Master I am, alert to all possibilities. And although there was nothing I could find to incriminate Harrington, Nutter or Spikely in any kind of misbehaviour, there was something in their aloofness that I found disquieting.

Of course, I
would
say that, wouldn’t I? But even without the benefit of hindsight, that flawless rear window through which we observe the aftermath of the car crash, I’ll swear there was something not quite right about the Harrington threesome. Call it intuition, perhaps. In any case,
something
was wrong. I could feel it approaching.

The latter half of the Michaelmas term brought Bonfire Night, my birthday, and, a fortnight later, the dubious gift of an early snow, which the boys received with uncontrolled glee, and the staff with less enthusiasm, knowing how disruptive snow can be to the efficient running of things.

The Old Head held an Assembly in which he delivered all kinds of threats – most of them unenforceable – to boys who indulged in snowball fights, or failed to wipe their feet on the mat when entering the School buildings. All the boys ignored him, of course. They came into Latin with wet shirts and wet feet, and left their shoes on the radiators to dry, with the result that for three days the whole of the Middle Corridor smelt of damp boys and their footwear.

Three evenings in early December were reserved for meetings with parents – to discuss form reports, exam results or any other matters for concern – but I wasn’t expecting Harrington to bring up anything serious. In fact, since our talk in the locker rooms he hadn’t said a word to me, except to answer questions in class, which he did with a cool condescension, as if conferring a favour.

Besides, there were other demands on my time. One boy had failed his Latin exam and needed extra tuition; another’s parents were divorcing and he was taking it badly; and the girls of Mulberry House were putting on a production of
Antigone
, in which four of my fifth-form boys were also participating. Result: two of them had already fallen in love with the girl who was playing the lead, a rather attractive redhead apparently destined for greatness, which ill-timed attack of puppy love would probably cost them at least a grade.

And so you see, when Harrington came to me with alarming news, it took me entirely by surprise. First, that he should have noticed the problem before I did myself; second, that a boy of fourteen should have such unusual insight. It made me reassess the boy – and question my own instincts.

It was during Assembly on Friday, the last week in November. The boys had gone to Chapel, but I’d stayed in room 59 to go over some fourth-form papers. At eight forty-five, the sky was still dark, with a sick orange glow that boded no good.

Harrington came in, alone; fresh-pressed and looking like springtime. ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you, sir.’

I put down my pen. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘Anything the matter?’

He seemed to consider the question. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Sit down. Take your time.’

I’ll admit my heart had sunk a bit. After the whole
mensa-merda
débâcle and the raft of complaints that had followed it, I was more than half expecting another account of profanity in
The Canterbury Tales
, or immoral conduct in Geography, even though, since the talk in the locker rooms, Harrington Senior’s complaints had ceased as abruptly as they had begun.

The boy took a seat at a desk at the front. I’ve always thought room 59 had a vaguely nautical character; two double rows of wooden desks facing an elevated deck, on which I stand like a captain on the deck of his pirate ship, surveying the galley slaves below. This time I felt like a High Court judge listening to a plaintiff. Harrington’s voice was as colourless as it had always been, but I thought that this time there was a tremor there – perhaps of some concealed emotion.

‘It’s a friend of mine,’ he said. ‘Sir, I think he’s in trouble.’

A friend of mine
. That usually means a problem of a delicate nature. I wondered why Harrington, of all people, should have chosen to come to me with such a problem, instead of to the Chaplain, the School’s official counsellor in matters of the heart and soul.

‘It isn’t
me
,’ said Harrington. ‘It really
is
a friend of mine.’

Well, the boy didn’t have many friends. If he wasn’t talking about himself, it could only be Nutter or Spikely, the other two-thirds of the threesome. David Spikely, an average boy from an average family. Rather slow in French, perhaps; but there was nothing to suggest the boy might have a problem. And Charlie Nutter; pale, uninteresting; with patches of eczema on his hands. Never spoke a word in class. Never drew attention.

But his father was Stephen Nutter, one of our local MPs; a rubber bulldog of a man, known for his outspoken views. I’d always guessed that Nutter, MP, might have been disappointed in his rather ordinary son – some men feel the need to affirm themselves through their offspring, and I’d imagined Nutter Senior to have had something very different in mind when he became a father. Mrs Nutter was pale and bland – rather like her son, in fact – a thin, sharp-faced woman, active in local charities, who often appeared in the
Malbry Examiner
, promoting some good cause or other. Between them, I doubted that Charlie Nutter had much of a chance to get into trouble of any kind.

‘Does – your
friend
– know you’re talking to me?’

Johnny Harrington shook his head. From my vantage point I could see the pencil-straight parting in his hair.

‘Then what makes you think he’s in trouble?’ I said. ‘Has he told you so?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then what?’

I’ll admit that the fact that he’d come to
me
made me feel strangely paternal. Perhaps I’d judged the boy too fast; after all, he was new to the School – in fact, new to most schools – and he might have had trouble settling in. For the first time, I considered the possibility that my robust approach to pastoral care might not have been the best in his case.

I said: ‘While we may not see eye to eye on matters of English Literature, I hope you believe that whatever you say will be treated in confidence. I don’t go running to the Head when one of my boys comes to me for help. Now, what seems to be the problem?’

For once, I thought he struggled to find the right words to express himself. ‘Sir,’ he began. ‘I don’t – I mean—’

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Take your time.’

For a moment he looked away, keeping his hands very still in his lap. Then he raised his eyes to mine. ‘Do you believe in possession, sir?’

P
ART
T
WO

O mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter annos!

(V
ERGIL
)

1

September 8th, 2005

Officially, the first day of term, when boys invade the premises. How much more efficient things would be if they did not; and yet, how dull.

‘Morning, sir!’ That was Allen-Jones, who always manages, even on the first morning of a new term, to look as if he has slept in his clothes. There was ink on his collar, and his tie was at half-mast. But that grin of his was unchanged; brash and curiously sweet.

‘Good morning, Mr Allen-Jones. From your studious demeanour, I take it you spent the summer holidays in useful toil, meditation and contemplation of the ablative absolute.’

‘Absolutely, sir,’ he said, flinging his schoolbag on to his desk. Last year’s
Hello Kitty
item has been replaced by one equally unsuitable; this year’s offering featuring the comic-book character Wonder Woman. This is, of course, against the rules, which clearly state that schoolbags should be plain, marked only with the School crest. In the case of Allen-Jones, the School crest, in the form of a sticker, has been placed provocatively in Wonder Woman’s ample cleavage. These small transgressions, I knew from experience, were entirely for effect, and, as always, I disappointingly failed to rise to the bait, but turned my attention instead to my new class register, delivered from the School office in a pristine paper folder.

I have kept last year’s 3S. Now they are 4S – a move designed to reassure, to provide continuity in these changing times. I find myself slightly unsettled – of course, one knows that boys can change, but after all these years I am still surprised to see how much they
grow
over the summer holidays. Last term they were still boys; this term, they have thickened and grown like young trees, pushing and jockeying for space.

Here are my jokers, my Brodie Boys: Allen-Jones, Sutcliff and McNair. Here’s Anderton-Pullitt, the odd little boy now showing the signs of the odd little man he will one day become. Here’s Jackson, the schoolyard scrapper, and Pink, the class philosopher. There’s Brasenose, a fat boy whose mother overfeeds him, and Niu, the Japanese boy, who defies every cultural stereotype by loving English Literature and hating Maths and Science.

There is one notable absence, of course. Colin Knight, whose name I crossed off the register in November of last year, but whose silent presence still endures, sullen as the boy himself. He alone has not thickened or grown: his face is still hairless, his voice unbroken. Not that he ever speaks to me; except sometimes in my darkest dreams. Some of the boys have had counselling following their schoolfriend’s death – not that Knight had many friends, but death is always upsetting to those who consider themselves immortal.

Even now, no one sits in Knight’s place – the left-hand corner desk at the back – though no one is really conscious of this, except for this old warhorse, of course, who remembers far more than is good for him.

I have a new class register now; neatly printed; unblemished. Even so, I find myself leaving a slight pause after
Jerome, B –
before going on to
Knockton, J
– a tiny, barely perceptible pause, just long enough, perhaps, for a Master to clear his throat, or for a sullen boy at the back to say –
Sir!
– in that cold, bland voice.

It occurs to me now that Johnny Harrington was the boy Colin Knight would have wanted to be; cool and self-possessed and bold; unafraid of authority. Was
that
why I disliked Colin Knight? Because somehow he reminded me of little Johnny Harrington?

‘I’ve heard we’re getting girls this year,’ said Tayler, whose parents are both Governors, and who hears all the news before I do.

‘Is that true?’ said Allen-Jones.

‘It’s a merger with Mulberry House,’ said McNair.

‘Well, technically, not a merger,’ said Anderton-Pullitt in his ponderous tone. ‘Dr Harrington says it’s all about consolidation of resources.’

It seems that Harrington’s Crisis Team have taken a special interest in Anderton-Pullitt. Maybe because of what happened last year, when he was so nearly a casualty of the tragic events that claimed the life of Colin Knight. Or perhaps it is because this year, Anderton-Pullitt has been diagnosed as having ‘special needs’, which, his mother assures me, explains his eccentricities.

I’d always assumed that this was true of
all
my boys, but nowadays some are more special than others, it seems. I have already informed Mrs Anderton-Pullitt that, as long as her son continues to fulfil all
my
special requirements – such as prompt delivery of homework and full attention given in class – then I shall attempt to cater to his.

I have no great expectation of this, however. Anderton-Pullitt has been indulged far more than is good for him, and now that he has a Syndrome, I fully expect him to use it. I anticipate many meetings with Mrs Anderton-Pullitt, in which she attempts to persuade me that her son needs extra time in exams, exemption from Games (which he dislikes) and permission to ignore any homework that gets in the way of his interests. I sense a confrontation. And if the New Head has taken his side—