Part 7 (1/2)

In the department, there is good and bad. Dianne Dare seems to be shaping up nicely, which is just as well, as Pearman is at his least efficient. It isn't altogether his fault I have a soft spot for Pearman, in spite of his lack of organization; the man has a brain, after all - but in the wake of the new appointment, Sc.o.o.nes is becoming a thorough nuisance, baiting and backbiting to such an extent that the quiet Pearman is perpetually on the verge of losing his temper, and even Kitty has lost some of her sparkle. Only Tapi seems unaffected; perhaps as a result of her burgeoning intimacy with the obnoxious Light, with whom she has been seen on numerous occasions in the Thirsty Scholar, as well as sharing a tell-tale sandwich in the Refectory.

The Germans, on the other hand, are enjoying their spell of supremacy. Much good may it do them. The mice may have gone - victims of Dr Devine's Health and Safety regulations -- but Straitley's ghost endures, rattling his chains at the inmates and causing occasional mayhem.

For the price of a drink in the Scholar I have acquired a key to the new German office, into which I now retire every time Devine has a House Meeting. It's only ten minutes, I know, but in that time I usually find that I can cause enough inadvertent disorder - coffee cups on the desk, phone out of alignment, crosswords completed in Sour grape's personal copy of The Times - to remind them of my continued presence.

My filing cabinets have been annexed to the nearby Book Room - this also troubles Dr Devine, who was until recently unaware of the existence of the door which divides the two rooms, and which I have now reinstated. He can smell my cigarette smoke from his desk, he says, and invokes Health and Safety with an expression of pious self-satisfaction; so many books must surely present a fire hazard, he protests, and speaks of installing a smoke detector.

Fortunately, Bob Strange - who in his capacity as Third Master, oversees all departmental spending -- has made it clear that until the Inspection is over there must be no more unnecessary expenditure, and Sourgrape is forced to endure my presence for the moment, whilst no doubt planning his next move.

Meanwhile, the Head continues his offensive on socks. Monday's a.s.sembly was entirely constructed around the subject, with the result that since then, virtually all the boys in my form have taken to wearing their most controversial socks to school - with, in some cases, the additional extravagance of a pair of brightly coloured sock suspenders.

So far I have counted: one Bugs Bunny, three Bart Simpsons, a South Park, four Beavis and b.u.t.theads and, from Allen-Jones, a shocking-pink pair with the Powerpuff Girls embroidered on them in sequins. It's fortunate, then, that my eyes aren't as good as they once were, and that I never notice that kind of thing.

Of course, no one is fooled by the New Head's sudden interest in anklewear. The date of the School Inspection is approaching steadily, and after the disappointing exam results of last summer (thanks to an overburdening of coursework and the latest governmental scheme), he knows that he cannot afford a lackl.u.s.tre report.

As a result, socks, s.h.i.+rts, ties and such will be prime targets this term, as will graffiti, Health and Safety, mice, computer literacy and walking on the left-hand side of the corridor at all times. There will be in-school a.s.sessment for all staff in preparation; a new brochure is already being printed; a subcommittee has been formed to discuss possibilities for improving the image of the school; and an additional row of disabled parking-s.p.a.ces has been introduced in the visitors' car-park.

In the wake of this unusual activity, the Porter, Fallow, is at his most officious. Blessed with the ability to seem very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind, he has taken to lurking in corners and outside form-rooms, clipboard in hand, overseeing Jimmy's repairs and renovations. In this way he gets to overhear a great deal of staff conversation, most of which, I suspect, he pa.s.ses on to Dr Devine. Certainly, Sourgrape, though he outwardly scorns the gossip of the Common Room, seems remarkably well informed.

Miss Dare was in my form-room this afternoon, covering for Meek, who is ill. Stomach flu, or so Bob Strange tells me, though I have my suspicions. Some people were born to teach, others not, and though Meek won't beat the all-time record -- that belongs to a Maths teacher called Jerome Fentimann, who vanished at Break on his first day, never to be seen again - I wouldn't be surprised if he left us midterm, as a result of some nebulous affliction.

Fortunately, Miss Dare is made of stronger stuff. I can hear her from the Quiet Room, talking to Meek's computer scientists. That calm manner of hers is deceptive; underneath it, she is intelligent and capable. Her aloofness has nothing to do with being shy, I realize. She simply enjoys her own company, and has little to do with the other newcomers. I see her quite often - after all, we share a room - and I have been struck by the speed with which she has adapted to the messy topography of St Oswald's; to the mult.i.tude of rooms; to the traditions and taboos; to the infrastructure. She is friendly with the boys without falling into the trap of intimacy; knows how to punish without provoking resentment; knows her subject.

Today before school 1 found her marking books in my form-room, and was able to observe her for a few seconds before she became conscious of my presence. Slim; businesslike in a crisp white blouse and neat grey trousers; dark hair short and discreetly well cut. I took a step forwards; she saw me and stood up at once, vacating my chair.

'Good morning, sir. I wasn't expecting you so early.'

It was seven forty-five. Light, true to type, arrives at five to nine every morning; Bishop gets in early, but only to run his interminable laps, and even Gerry Grachvogel is never in his room before eight. And that sir - I hoped the woman wasn't going to be a crawler. On the other hand, I don't like freshers to make free of my first name, as if I were the plumber, or someone they'd met down the pub. 'What's wrong with the Quiet Room?' I said.

'Mr Pearman and Mr Sc.o.o.nes were discussing recent appointments. I thought it might be more tactful to retire.'

'I see.' I sat down and lit an early Gauloise.

'I'm sorry, sir. I should have asked your permission.' Her tone was polite, but her eyes gleamed. I decided that she was an upstart, and liked her the better for it.

'Cigarette?'

'No, thanks, I don't smoke.'

'No vices, eh?' Please G.o.ds, not another Sourgrape.

'Believe me, I have plenty.'

'Hm.'

'One of your boys was telling me you'd been in this room for over twenty years.'

'Longer, if you count the years as an inmate.' In those days there had been a whole Cla.s.sics empire; French was a single Tweed Jacket weaned on the metkode a.s.simil; German was unpatriotic.

O temporal O mores! I gave a deep sigh. Horatius at the bridge, single-handedly holding back the barbarian hordes.

Miss Dare was grinning. 'Well, it makes a change from plastic desks and whiteboards. I think you're right to hold out. Besides, I like your Latinists. I don't have to teach them grammar. And they can spell.'

Clearly, I thought, an intelligent girl. I wondered what she wanted with me. There are far quicker ways up the greasy pole than via the Bell Tower, and if that was her ambition, then her flattery would have worked better on Bob Strange, or Pearman, or Devine. 'You want to be careful, hanging around this place,' I told her. 'Before you know it, you're sixty-five, overweight and covered with chalk.'

Miss Dare smiled and picked up her marking. 'I'm sure you have work to do,' she said, making for the door. Then she stopped. 'Excuse me for asking, sir,' she said. 'But you're not planning retirement this year, are you?'

'Retirement? You must be joking. I'm holding out for a Century.' I looked at her closely. 'Why? Has someone said anything?'

Miss Dare looked awkward. 'It's just that--' She hesitated. 'As a junior member of the School, Mr Strange has asked me to edit the school magazine. And as I was going over the staff and departmental lists I happened to notice--'

'Notice what?' Now her politeness was beginning to get on my nerves. 'Out with it, for G.o.ds' sakes!'

'It's just that - you don't seem to have an entry this year,' said Miss Dare. 'It makes it look as if the Cla.s.sics department has been--' She paused again, searching for the word, and I found myself reaching the limits of my patience.

'What? What? Marginalized? Amalgamated? d.a.m.n the terminology and tell me what you think! What's happened to the b.l.o.o.d.y Cla.s.sics department?'

'Good question, sir,' said Miss Dare, unruffled. 'As far as the School's literature is concerned - publicity brochures, department listings, school magazine - it just isn't there.' She paused again. 'And, sir ... According to the staff listings, neither are you.'

Monday, 20th September IT WAS ALL OVER THE SCHOOL BY THE END OF THE WEEK.

Given the circ.u.mstances, you might have expected old Straitley to keep quiet for a while, to review his options and maintain a low profile, but it isn't in his nature to do that, even when it's the only wise thing to do. But being Straitley, he marched straight down to Strange's office as soon as he had confirmed the facts, and forced a confrontation.

Strange, of course, denied having done anything underhand. The new department, he said, would simply be known as Foreign Languages, which included Cla.s.sical and Modern Languages, as well as two new subjects, Language Awareness and Language Design, which were to take place in the computer labs once a week as soon as the relevant software arrived (it would, he was a.s.sured, be in place for the School Inspection on 6 December).

Cla.s.sics had neither been demoted nor marginalized, said Strange; instead the entire profile of Foreign Languages had been upgraded to meet curriculum guidelines. St Henry's, he understood, had already done so four years before, and in a compet.i.tive market-- What Roy Straitley thought of that is not on record. Thankfully, from what I heard, most of the abuse was in Latin, but even so, there remains a polite and meticulous coldness between them.

'Bob' has become 'Mr Strange'. For the first time in his career, Straitley has adopted a work-to-rule att.i.tude to his duties; insists on being informed no later than eight-thirty the same morning if he is to lose a free period, which, though correct according to regulations, forces Strange to arrive at work more than twenty minutes earlier than he would in normal circ.u.mstances. As a result, Straitley gets more than his fair share of rainy-day Break duties and Friday-afternoon cover sessions, which does nothing to ease the tension between them.

Still, amusing though it may be, this remains a small diversion. St Oswald's has withstood a thousand petty dramas of the same ilk. My second week has pa.s.sed; I am more than comfortable in my role; and although I am tempted to enjoy my new-found situation for a little longer, I know that there will be no better time to strike. But where?

Not Bishop; not the Head. Straitley? It's tempting, and he'll have to go sooner or later; but I'm enjoying the game too much to lose him so soon. No. There's really only one place to start. The Porter.

That had been a bad summer for John Snyde. He had been drinking more than ever before, and at last it was beginning to show. Always a big man, he had thickened gradually and almost imperceptibly over the years, and now, quite suddenly, it seemed, he was fat.

For the first time I was conscious of it; conscious of the St Oswald's boys pa.s.sing the gates; conscious of my father's slowness, of his bloodshot eyes, of his bearish, sullen temper. Though it rarely came out in work hours, I knew it was there, like an underground wasps' nest waiting for something to disturb it.

Dr Tidy, the Bursar, had commented on it, although so far my father had avoided an official reprimand. The boys knew it too, especially the little ones; over that summer they baited him mercilessly, shouting; John! Hey, John! in their girlish voices, following him in groups as he attended to his duties, running after the ride-on lawn-mower as he drove it methodically around the cricket fields and football pitches, his big bear's rump hanging off either side of the narrow seat.

He had a mult.i.tude of nicknames: Johnny Fatso; Baldy John (he had become sensitive about the thinning patch on top of his head, which he tried to camouflage by greasing a long strip of hair to his crown); Doughball Joe; Big John the Chip-Fat Don. The ride-on lawn-mower was a perpetual source of merriment ; the boys called it the Mean Machine or John's Jalopy; it was continually breaking down; rumour had it that it ran off the chip-fat which John used to grease his hair; that he drove it because it was faster than his own car. A few times, boys had noticed a beery, stale smell on my father's breath in the mornings, and since then there had been numerous halitosis jokes; boys pretending to become inebriated on the fumes from the caretaker's breath; boys asking how far over the limit he was, and whether he was legal to drive the Mean Machine.

Needless to say I usually kept my distance from these boys during my forays into School; for although I was certain my father never even saw beyond the St Oswald's uniform to the individuals beneath, his proximity made me uneasy and ashamed. It seemed at these times that 1 had never really seen my father before; and when, goaded finally into undignified response, he lashed out - first with his voice, and then with his fists -- I writhed with embarra.s.sment, shame and self-loathing.

Much of this was the direct result of my friends.h.i.+p with Leon. A rebel he might have been, with his long hair and his shoplifting forays, but in spite of all that, Leon remained very much a product of his background, speaking with contempt of what he called 'the proles' and 'the mundanes', mocking my Sunnybank Park contemporaries with vicious and relentless accuracy.

For my own part, I joined in the mockery without reserve. I had always loathed Sunnybank Park; I felt no loyalty to the pupils there, and embraced the cause of St Oswald's without hesitation. That was where 1 belonged, and I made certain that everything about me - hair, voice, manners -- reflected that allegiance. At that time I wished more than ever for my fiction to be true, longed for the police-inspector father of my imagination and hated more than words could say the fat caretaker with his foul mouth and thick, beery gut. With me he had grown increasingly irritable; the failure of the karate lessons had compounded his disappointment, and on several occasions I found him watching me with frank and open dislike.

Still, once or twice, he made a feeble, half-hearted effort. Asked me to a football match; gave me money for the pictures. Most of the time, however, he did not. I watched him sink deeper every day into his routine of television, beer, takeaways, and fumbling, noisy (and increasingly unsuccessful) s.e.x. After a while even that stopped, and Pepsi's visits grew less and less frequent. I saw her in town a couple of times, and once in the park with a young man. He was wearing a leather jacket and had one of his hands up Pepsi's pink angora sweater. After that she hardly came to see us at all.

It was ironic that the one thing that saved my father during those weeks was the thing he was growing to hate. St Oswald's had been his life, his hope, his pride; now it seemed to taunt him with his own inadequacy. Even so, he endured it; performed his duties faithfully, if without love; squared his stubborn back to the boys who taunted him and sang rude little chants about him in the playground. For me, he endured it; for me, he held out almost to the last. 1 know that, now that it's too late; but at twelve so many things are hidden; so many things still to be discovered.