Part 3 (1/2)

What she means is that Pearman overlooked them. I've seen his office - overflowing with neglected paperwork, important files drowning in a sea of unread memos, lost coursework, exercise books, old coffee cups, exam papers, photocopied notes and the intricate little doodles he makes when he's on the phone. My own office may look the same, but at least I know where everything is. Pearman would be completely at sea if Kitty wasn't there to cover up for him.

'How's the new girl?' I asked provocatively.

Sc.o.o.nes huffed. 'Too smart for her own b.l.o.o.d.y good.'

Kitty gave an apologetic smile. 'New ideas,' she explained. 'I'm sure she'll settle down.'

'Pearman thinks the world of her,' said Sc.o.o.nes with a sneer.

'He would.'

Pearman has a lively appreciation of feminine beauty. Rumour has it that Isabelle Tapi would never have been employed at St Oswald's but for the minidress she wore at interview.

Kitty shook her head. 'I'm sure she'll be fine. She's full of ideas.'

'I could tell you what she's full of,' muttered Sc.o.o.nes. 'But she's cheap, isn't she? Before we know it, they'll be replacing all of us with spotty-faced upstarts with ten-a penny degrees. Save a b.l.o.o.d.y fortune.'

I could see that Keane was listening to this; he was grinning as he made his notes. More material for the Great British Novel, I supposed. McDonaugh studied his demons. Robbie Roach nodded with sour approval.

Kitty was conciliatory, as ever. 'Well, we're all having to cut back,' she said. 'Even the textbook budget--'

'Tell me about it!' interrupted Roach. 'History's lost forty per cent, my form-room's a disgrace, there's water coming in through the ceiling, I'm working all hours and what do they do? Blow thirty grand on computers no one wants. What about fixing the roof? What about a paint job on the Middle Corridor? What about that DVD player I've been asking for since G.o.d knows when?'

McDonaugh grunted. 'Chapel needs work too,' he reminded us. 'Have to put school fees up again, that's all. No getting round it this time.'

'The fees won't go up,' said Sc.o.o.nes, forgetting his need for peace and quiet. 'We' d lose half the pupils if we did that. There's other grammar schools, you know. Better than this one, if truth be told.'

'There is a world elsewhere,' I quoted softly.

'I heard there's been some pressure to sell off some of the School's land,' said Roach, draining his coffee cup.

'What, the playing-fields?' Sc.o.o.nes, a staunch rugby man, was shocked.

'Not the rugby pitch,' explained Roach soothingly. 'Just the fields behind the tennis courts. No one uses them any more, except when boys want to sneak off for a f.a.g. They're useless for sports anyway -- always waterlogged. We'd be just as well selling them off for development, or something.'

Development. That sounded ominous. A Tesco's, perhaps, or a Superbowl where the Sunnybankers could go after school for their daily dose of beer and skittles.

'HM won't like that idea,' said McDonaugh drily. 'He doesn't want to go down in history as the man who sold St Oswald's.'

'Perhaps we'll go co-ed,' suggested Roach wistfully. 'Think of it... all those girls in uniform.'

Sc.o.o.nes shuddered. 'Ugh! I'd rather not.'

In the lull that followed, I suddenly became aware of a noise above my head; a stamping of feet, sc.r.a.ping of chairs and raised voices. I looked up.

That your form?'

I shook my head. 'That's the new Beard from Computer Studies. Meek, his name is.'

'Sounds like it,' said Sc.o.o.nes.

The banging and stamping continued, rising to a sudden crescendo, within which I thought I could just make out the dim bleating of Their Master's Voice.

'Perhaps I'd better have a look.'

It's always a bit embarra.s.sing to have to discipline another master's cla.s.s. I wouldn't do it normally - we tend to mind our own business at St Oswald's - but it was my room, and I felt obscurely responsible. I charged up the stairs to the Bell Tower -- not, I suspected, for the last time. Halfway up, I met Dr Devine. 'Is that your cla.s.s in there, making that frightful racket?'

I was offended. 'Of course not,' I huffed. 'That's the rabbit Meek. This is what happens when you try to bring Computer Studies to the ma.s.ses. Anorak frenzy.'

'Well, I hope you're going to deal with it,' said Sourgrape. 'I could hear the noise all the way from the Middle Corridor.'

The nerve of the man. 'Just getting my breath back,' I said with dignity. Those stairs get steeper every year.

Devine sneered. 'If you didn't smoke as much, you'd be able to handle a few stairs.' Then he was off, brisk as ever.

My encounter with Sourgrape didn't do anything to improve my temper. I started on the cla.s.s at once, ignoring the poor rabbit at the master's desk, and was enraged to find some of my own pupils among their number. The floor was littered with paper aeroplanes. A desk had been toppled. Knight was standing by the window, apparently enacting some farce, because the rest of the cla.s.s was in paroxysms of laughter.

As I entered silence fell almost instantly -- I caught a hiss - Quaz! - and Knight attempted - too late - to pull off the gown he had been wearing.

Knight faced me and straightened up at once, looking frightened. As well he might. Caught wearing my gown, in my room, impersonating me -- for there was no doubt as to whom that simian expression and hobbling walk was supposed to represent - he must have been praying for the Underworld to swallow him up.

I have to say I was surprised at Knight - a sly, under confident boy, he was usually happy to let others take the lead while he enjoyed the show. The fact that even he had dared to misbehave said little for Meek's discipline.

'You. Out.' A percussive whisper in these cases is far more effective than a raised voice.

Knight hesitated briefly. 'Sir, it wasn't--'

'Out.'1 Knight fled. I turned on the rest of the group. For a moment I let the silence reverberate between us. No one caught my eye. 'As for the rest of you, if I ever have to come in like this again, if I hear as much as a raised voice coming from this room, I will put you all in after-school detention, culprits, a.s.sociates and tacit supporters alike. Is that clear?'

Heads nodded. Among the faces I saw Allen-Jones and McNair, Sutcliff, Jackson and Anderton-Pullitt. Half my form. I shook my head in disgust. 'I had thought better of you, 3S. I thought you were gentlemen.'

'Sorry, sir,' muttered Allen-Jones, looking fixedly at his desk lid.

'I think it is Mr Meek who should be receiving the apology,' I said.

'Sorry, sir.'

'Sir.'

'Sir.'

Meek was standing very straight on the podium. My over-large desk made him seem even smaller and less significant. His doleful face looked to be all eyes and beard, not so much rabbit as capuchin monkey.

'I - hm - thank you, Mr Straitley. I - think I c-can - hm - m-manage from here now. Boys - ah, hm--'

As I left the room I turned to close the gla.s.s-panelled door behind me. For a second I caught Meek watching me from his perch. He turned away almost instantly, but not soon enough for me to have missed the look on his face.