Part 4 (2/2)

Knight, in a low voice: 'Or soap.'

I straightened up and looked at Knight. Somehow his expression managed to be insolent and cringing at the same time. 'How did you enjoy your litter round yesterday?' I said. 'Would you like to volunteer for another week?'

'You didn't say that to the others,' muttered Knight.

'That's because the others know the line between humour and rudeness.'

'You pick on me.' Knight's voice was lower than ever. His eyes did not meet mine.

'What?' I was genuinely amazed.

'You pick on me, sir. You pick on me because--'

'Because what?' I snapped.

'Because I'm Jewish, sir.'

'What?' I was annoyed with myself. I'd been so preoccupied with the missing register that I'd fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and allowed a pupil to draw me into a public confrontation.

The rest of the cla.s.s was silent, watching us both expectantly.

I regained my composure. 'Rubbish. I don't pick on you because you're Jewish. I pick on you because you can never keep your trap shut and you've got stercus for brains.'

McNair, Sutcliff or Allen-Jones would have laughed at that, and things would have been all right. Even Tayler would have laughed, and he wears a yarmulke in cla.s.s.

But Knight's expression did not change. Instead I saw something there that I had never noticed before; a new kind of stubbornness. For the first time, Knight held my gaze. For a second I thought he was going to say something more, then he dropped his eyes in the old familiar way and muttered something inaudible under his breath.

'What was that?'

'Nothing, sir.'

'Are you sure?'

'Quite sure, sir.'

'Good.'

I turned back to my desk. The register might have gone astray, but I know all my boys; I would have known the moment I entered the room if one of them were missing. I intoned the list anyway - the schoolmaster's mantra - it never fails to calm them down.

Afterwards I glanced at Knight, but his face was lowered, and there was nothing about his sullen expression that suggested revolt. Normality had been resumed, I decided. The small crisis was over.

I DEBATED FOR A LONG TIME BEFORE KEEPING LEON'S appointment. I wanted to meet him - more than anything, I wanted to be his friend - though this was a line I had never crossed before, and on this occasion, there was more at stake than ever. But I liked Leon - had liked him from the first and that made me reckless. At my own school, anyone who spoke to me risked persecution from my schoolyard tormentors. Leon was from another world. Despite his long hair and mutilated tie, he was an insider.

I did not rejoin the cross-country group. The next day, I would forge a letter from my father, saying that I'd had an asthma attack during the run, and forbidding me to take part again.

I had no regrets. I hated Games. I especially hated Mr Bray, my teacher, with his fake tan and his gold neck-chain, flaunting his Neanderthal humour to that little circle of sycophants at the expense of the weak; the clumsy; the inarticulate: the losers like me. And so I hid behind the pavilion, still dressed in my St Oswald's clothes, and waited, with some apprehension, for the end-of-school bell.

No one spared me a look; no one questioned my right to be there. All around me, boys - some in blazers or s.h.i.+rtsleeves, some still in their sports kit - jumped into cars; tripped over cricket bats; exchanged jokes, books, prep notes. A bulky, boisterous-looking man took charge of the bus queue - it was Mr Bishop, the Physics master - while an older man in a black and red gown stood at the Chapel gates.

This, I knew, was Dr Shakeshafte, the Head. My father spoke of him with respect and some awe - after all, he had given him his job. One of the old school, my father would say with approval: Tough but fair. Let's hope the new man's half as good.

Officially, of course, I knew nothing of the events that had led to the New Head's appointment. My father could be oddly puritanical about some things, and I suppose he felt it was disloyal to St Oswald's to discuss the matter with me. Already, however, some of the local papers had caught the scent, and I had learned the rest from overheard remarks between my father and Pepsi: to avoid adverse publicity, the Old Head was to remain until the end of term - ostensibly to induct the new man and to help him settle in - after which he would leave on a comfortable pension provided by the Trust. St Oswald's looks after its own: and there would be a generous out-of-court settlement for the injured parties - on the understanding, of course, that no mention was made of the circ.u.mstances.

As a result, I observed Dr Shakeshafte with some curiosity from my position at the School gates. A craggy-faced man of about sixty, not as bulky as Bishop, but with the same ex-rugbyman's build, he loomed over the boys like a gargoyle. A cane evangelist, I gathered from my father Good thing, too, teach these boys some discipline. At my own school, the cane had already been outlawed for years. Instead, such people as Miss Potts and Miss McCauleigh favoured the empathic approach, whereby bullies and thugs were invited to discuss their feelings before being let off with a caution.

Mr Bray, himself a veteran bully, preferred the direct approach, so like my father's, in which the complainant was advised to Stop whingeing to me and fight your own battles, for Christ's sake. I pondered the exact nature of the battle that had resulted in the Head's involuntary retirement, and wondered how it had been fought. I was still wondering when, ten minutes later, Leon arrived.

'Hey, Pinchbeck.' He was carrying his blazer over one shoulder, and his s.h.i.+rt was hanging out. The scissored tie poked impudently from his collar like a tongue. 'What're you doing?'

I swallowed, trying to look casual. 'Nothing much. How did it go with Quaz?'

'Pactum factum,' said Leon, grinning. 'DT on Friday, as predicted.'

'Bad luck,' I shook my head. 'So what did you do?'

He made a dismissive gesture. 'Ah, nothing,' he said. 'Bit of basic self-expression on my desk lid. Want to go into town?'

I made a quick mental calculation. I could afford to be an hour late; my father had his rounds to do - doors to lock, keys to collect - and would not be home before five. Pepsi, if she was there at all, would be watching TV, or maybe cooking dinner. She had long since stopped trying to befriend me; I was free.

Try to imagine that hour, if you can. Leon had some money, and we had coffee and doughnuts in the little tea-shop by the railway station, then we went around the record shops, where Leon dismissed my musical tastes as 'ba.n.a.l', and expressed a preference for such bands as the Stranglers and Squeeze. I had a bad moment when we pa.s.sed a group of girls from my own school, and a worse one when Mr Bray's white Capri stopped at some lights as we were crossing the road, but I soon realized that in my St Oswald's uniform, I might as well really have been invisible.

For a few seconds Mr Bray and I were close enough to touch. I wondered what would happen if I tapped at the window and said, 'You are a complete and utter podex, sir.'

The thought made me laugh so much and so suddenly that I could hardly breathe.

'Who's that?' said Leon, noticing me noticing.

'No one,' I said hastily. 'Some bloke.'

'The girl, you prat.'

'Oh.' She was sitting in the pa.s.senger seat, turned slightly towards him. I recognized her: Tracey Delacey, a couple of years older than I was, the current fourth-form pin-up. She was wearing a tennis skirt, and sat with her legs crossed very high.

'Ba.n.a.l,' I said, using Leon's word.

'I'd give her one,' said Leon.

'You would?'

'Wouldn't you?'

I thought of Tracey, with her teased hair and lingering smell of Juicy Fruit gum. 'Uh. Maybe,' I said, without enthusiasm.

Leon grinned as the little car pulled away.

My new friend was in Amadeus House. His parents - a university PA and a civil servant -- were divorced ('but that's OK, I get double the pocket money'). He had a younger sister, Charlotte; a dog called Captain Sensible; a personal therapist; an electric guitar; and, it seemed to me, limitless freedom.

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