Different Class (22 page)

He poured me a cup of coffee in the Head’s own china. ‘I’d be lost without my espressos,’ he said. ‘Beats the staffroom brew any day.’

He waited for me to take it. Finally, I did. It would have been foolish not to; but the thought that he had manipulated me, even in such a small way as to accept an unsolicited cup of coffee, was enough to make my heart notch up, and the invisible finger prodded me admonishingly.

I sat in the chair in front of the desk. ‘You should call me Roy,’ I said. ‘Don’t tell me I intimidate you, after all these years.’

He smiled. ‘Is anyone ever
really
at ease calling an old schoolmaster by his Christian name? But I was never shy of you. I always respected you very much.’

Really. How utterly warming
, I thought.

‘That’s why I wanted to see you today, even though I know what you want, and
you
know why I can’t give it to you.’

I sipped my espresso. It was too strong, and would have me running to the bathroom all morning. At my age, these things matter; besides my legs are not as spry as they were twenty-four years ago. A bathroom visit takes planning and time.

I wondered who had warned him. The Chaplain? Devine? Ms Buckfast? Or maybe even Eric, still trying to curry favour with a management that has long since ceased to think of him as management material?

‘I had no idea I was so predictable,’ I said. ‘Or indeed, so prescient.’

He smiled again. ‘Oh, Roy,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how sorry I am. But at this stage, to hold any kind of memorial for Harry Clarke, or even to mention that business in connection with the School, would mean the worst kind of publicity. All schools have their scandals, of course, but the nature of the Clarke affair makes it all the more urgent for us to keep the story away from the press. It’s not a personal grievance, you know. It’s for the good of St Oswald’s.’

For the good of St Oswald’s
. I suppose he thought that would move me. After all, St Oswald’s has been my life. I am as firmly attached to the place as the gargoyles on the Chapel roof, and, like the gargoyles, I am trained to divert the foul water of scandal away from our saints and effigies.

‘There was no
proof
,’ I told him. ‘The boy was obviously disturbed.’

Harrington looked at me closely and with unsettling sympathy. ‘Roy, I’m getting the sense that somehow you hold yourself to blame.’

‘I don’t blame myself,’ I said, rather more sharply than I’d intended. The invisible finger prodded and sought the soft spot under my breastbone. ‘I don’t blame anyone but—’

You
. I almost said it aloud.
You. You’re the one I’ve always blamed. You, with your little attaché case, and your pair of sycophants. As if God cares who a man loves, just as long as he
can
love—

Harrington was still looking at me. ‘It was a very difficult time,’ he said, with that look of compassion. ‘What happened that year marked us all. Did you ever have any counselling? I did, and it helped me. I know you’re not a man of faith, but Survivors helped me enormously.’

I said: ‘I don’t need counselling.’

‘But you
are
concerned about closure.’

Closure
. What a loathsome word, with its transatlantic affectation of sympathy and psychobabble. No, I am not concerned about closure, you hypocrite, but about
justice
. What happened to Harry was
unjust
: and as we grow old, and our memories blur and shift and recede with time,
injustice
is the one that stays most poignant, most persistent. Injustice outlives a broken limb; the death of a parent; a heart attack. Injustice is the tiny shard of something broken in the soul that can never be mended.

‘Well, if it helps,’ said Harrington, ‘the Chaplain gave me this for you.’

And from under his desk, he brought out a cardboard box – one of those boxes that used to contain half a dozen reams of paper – before the days of the paper-free office and the ubiquitous e-mail. It was sealed with parcel tape, and felt surprisingly light in my hands. I’d expected something heavier.

‘You know what it is?’ said Harrington.

I nodded. ‘Yes. I think I know.’

‘Well, it’s all yours,’ said Harrington. ‘I hope it gives you peace of mind. And – speaking of which – Rupert Gunderson.’

‘
Gunderson?
’ I’d been so lost in the past that I’d almost forgotten him. ‘Listen, the boy’s a bully. I dealt with the situation. And it’s hardly my fault if the parents think—’

Harrington looked pained. ‘Roy, please. There’s more to this than meets the eye. Gunderson has some serious emotional problems. In fact, Marcus Blakely’s been looking into his case.’

I made the Old Head’s favourite sound.
Oof
. From what I’d seen so far of Dr Blakely, the boys would run circles around him.

‘I’ll thank Dr Blakely to leave it to me where any of
my
boys are concerned.’

He sighed. ‘I appreciate your feelings, Roy, but it looks as if in this case, young Allen-Jones may be mostly to blame.’

‘What, for being bullied?’

He shook his head. ‘I think we should both leave this to Marcus. It’s what he’s best at, and besides, you and I both know how easy it is to let a personal preference get in the way of the facts of a case. Marcus is new. He doesn’t have any – preconceptions.’

Preconceptions? Personal preference?
Was he accusing me of favouritism?

Ira furor brevis est
. If I’d had the chance to reply, I might have ended my career. And maybe Harrington knew that, because when Danielle came in with the news that the Chairman of Governors was on the phone and needed a word, I saw a look come over his face – just for a second, but it was there: the look of a cat disturbed with its prey – and I wondered if he’d been trying to make me rise to the bait, to push me into an argument that could only end in my resignation—

Then the look was gone; in its place, a wry smile and a shrug.

‘Sorry, Roy. Have to go. We’ll talk about this another time.’ He indicated the cardboard box. ‘Don’t forget your legacy.’

I left the office, box in hand. Danielle was back at the front desk. I like Danielle; in spite of her big hair and hoop earrings and unquenchable enthusiasm for television reality shows, her instincts are generally good. I was certain that, at another time, she would have fielded the call from the Chairman of Governors and left the Head and Yours Truly to finish their conversation. I owed her something, I told myself.

She shot me a sympathetic smile. ‘Everything all right?’

I shrugged. ‘All the better for seeing you. You must have come in very early.’

I thought she coloured a little. ‘Well, the Head starts early,’ she said. ‘And, of course, I work flexible hours.’

‘He doesn’t deserve you,’ I told her, making it sound like a joke.

She laughed. ‘
None
of you deserve me,’ she said. ‘Now how about a cup of tea?’

It was a long, long day today. Domestic matters; marking books; an altercation between two boys. I was on duty all lunchtime, opposite Devine in the yard, and then I was teaching all afternoon. I didn’t have the chance to open Harry’s box until I got home; at which point I was almost reluctant to look inside.

I left it on the hall table as I went to make myself a snack: I hadn’t had time for lunch, and so had been forced to compensate by eating biscuits between lessons – against my doctor’s advice, but how does he expect me to plan sensible meals when there’s always so much to be done?

I poured myself a glass of wine and made myself a Welsh rarebit. Wholegrain mustard and cheddar cheese on a fat brown doorstep of granary bread. Here again, the upstart who calls himself my doctor would have had more than a few things to say, but how can you take the advice of a boy who, only a few years ago, was incapable of distinguishing a present from a past participle?

I poured myself another glass. A man has to unwind somehow. I finished the rarebit and opened the box, still feeling vaguely apprehensive.

Is this all it comes to? Is
this
a man’s life? A ceramic urn of the plainest kind, the lid secured with masking tape. Some photographs in an envelope; some newspaper clippings; a vinyl record. Some letters, bound with a rubber band. Old St Oswald’s diaries – over a dozen of them, the kind in which Harry used to write his classroom notes. An assortment of smaller objects that must have meant something to him once – a watch; a ring; a paperweight; a medal; cufflinks; a penknife. The flotsam and jetsam of a life – and then, a parcel, tied with string, and carefully labelled with the words:

To Roy Straitley:

Use it well
.

I took the parcel out of the box. Narrow at one end, thicker at the other, it seemed about the same shape as a wine bottle, though weighing rather less. I poured myself another drink. I tore off the wrapping paper. And then I took out the object and put it on the mantelpiece next to my clock and the plastic urn and the photographs of my parents. It looks a little strange there – perhaps a little sinister. Still, no one is likely to see it – at least, not until I put it to use.

Then I raised my glass again, and I made a promise to Harry. It wasn’t the kind of promise you break, even though no one was listening. Then I reached back inside the box and took out the record he’d left me, and put it on my turntable and played David Bowie’s ‘The Laughing Gnome’.

And then, all alone, in my empty house at eight o’clock in the evening, I finally began to laugh. I’m not the kind of man who tends to laugh aloud much nowadays, but tonight I did, and heartily; and I drank a toast to Harry Clarke, that joker, that innocent, that friend, who, in spite of everything, had never lost heart, or given up hope, or ever stopped looking at the stars.

5

Michaelmas Term, 1981

Dear Mousey,

Those rabbits were a mistake. They attracted too much attention. But what can I say? I was having fun. Besides, catching rats takes time. We needed something meatier.

At first I thought Ratty had done the trick. But Goldie and I could both see that Poodle still wasn’t cured. In fact, he seemed to be getting worse. The magazines. The nightmares. The scars. We needed a better solution. Besides, I had my own problems. The rabbits helped with that, too. Poodle cried, but Goldie – well, he’s almost as good as you, Mousey, when it comes to the dirty.
And
he’s good at saying the words, just like his dad and Mr Speight.

Of course, he believes in all that stuff. Angels and demons and Heaven and Hell. Plus, like his dad and Mr Speight, he thinks being queer is a mortal sin.
I
think they make too big a deal. I mean, it’s hardly life and death. But that’s what he’s like, Mousey. Shiny and clean on the outside, but crawling inside with nasty thoughts. Well, can’t blame him for
that
, I guess. Sometimes I look at myself in the mirror and I wonder why they don’t see what I am. Most people are pretty stupid, though. I guess you just have to expect that.

Poodle was sick again afterwards. We made him wash his mouth out, before he took the rabbits back. Then we waited and hoped for the best. But even though he was sick for days, we could tell he wasn’t cured. He’s staying away from school now. I think it’s because he’s avoiding me. Well, that won’t work. We can’t stop now. We’ll finish what we started.

I know. You’re wondering why I’m doing this. Poodle’s my friend (well, almost). And you and I know that I don’t have a particular problem with being queer. The thing is, I can’t help myself. I think it must be the drama. Poking the wasps’ nest with a stick until they fly out like lottery balls. Who will they sting? Not me, for sure. No one knows about me at Church. No one knows about me at school. Except for Poodle and Goldie, of course, and they’re not going to talk. Not now. Both of them are in this too deep. There’s no way they’re telling anyone.

Meanwhile, back in school, Harry’s directing the School Play.
Antigone
, by Sophocles. (Last year was
The Frogs
. I guess that’s what happens when the Head of School is also the Head of Classics.) Anyway, what it means is that Harry’s busy most lunchtimes; supervising rehearsals and helping with the production. Not that it matters. Thanks to horrible Mr Scoones, I’m spending my lunchtimes practising French essay techniques. Mr Scoones sits by, eating his lunch, listening to old French songs on his portable cassette player. People like Edith Piaf and Jacques Brel. Sometimes he puts on a French film. He seems to think it’s a great treat for me, which makes it all even worse. Mr Scoones is the kind of teacher who gives out detentions when he’s in a rage, and doesn’t dare go back on them. So now, he’s being really friendly, as if I’d
chosen
to be with him, instead of being with Harry.

Harry’s lent me some more books, though; a book of poems called
Crow
, and a big book of prints by Escher. There are notes in both of them. It’s nice. It keeps me in touch with him. And of course, there’s
Diamond Dogs
, hidden behind my bookcase. I have to keep it hidden, because if my parents found it, they might guess about Harry and me. But I hardly see him now, except sometimes in the mornings, or when he’s on duty in the yard, or on the Upper Corridor. He always smiles when he sees me. I think perhaps he misses me, too.