Part 14 (1/2)

Marlene looked concerned. 'It never rains but it pours,' she said wearily. 'Sometimes I wonder why I bother with this place, you know. What with Pat running himself into the ground, everyone on hot bricks over the School Inspection and now this--'

For a moment she looked so hara.s.sed that I felt guilty at having asked her.

'No, it's all right,' said Marlene, seeing my expression.

'You leave it to me. I think your department's got enough to be dealing with as it is.'

She was right about that. The department was down to myself, Miss Dare and the League of Nations for most of the day. Dr Devine was off timetable for administrative purposes; Grachvogel was away (again) and during my free periods this morning I took Tapi's first-year French cla.s.s and Pearman's third-year, plus a routine a.s.sessment of one of the freshers - this time, the irreproachable Easy.

Knight was absent, and so I was unable to challenge him about the graffiti on my fence, or about the pen I had discovered at the scene. Instead I wrote a complete account of the incident and delivered one copy to Pat Bishop and a second to Mr Beard, who as well as being Head of Computer Science also happens to be Head of the Third Form. I can wait; I have proof of Knight's activities now, and I look forward to dealing with him in my own time. A pleasure deferred, so to speak.

At Break I took Pearman's corridor duty, and after lunch I supervised his group, Tapi's, Grachvogel's and mine in the a.s.sembly Hall, while outside the rain poured down incessantly and, across the corridor, a steady stream of people filed in and out of the Head's office throughout the long afternoon.

Then, five minutes before the end of school, Marlene delivered a summons from Pat. I found him in his office, with Pearman, looking stressed. Miss Dare was sitting by the desk; she gave me a sympathetic look as I came in, and I knew we were in for trouble.

'I take it this is about the Knight boy?' In fact I had been lurprised not to see him waiting outside Pat's office; perhaps Pat had already spoken to him, I thought; although by rights no boy should have been questioned before I had had the opportunity to speak to the Second Master.

For a second, Pat's face was blank. Then he shook his head. 'Oh, no. Tony Beard can deal with that. He's the Head of Year, isn't he? No, this is about an incident that happened last night. After the meeting.' Pat looked at his hands, always a sign that he was out of his depth. His nails, I saw, were very bad; bitten down almost to the cuticles.

'What incident?' I said.

For a moment he did not meet my eye. 'The meeting ended just after six,' he said.

That's right,' I told him. 'Miss Dare gave me a lift home.'

'I know,' said Pat. 'Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.'

I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.

'Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,' said Pat. 'He was polis.h.i.+ng the floor, waiting to lock up.'

'That's right,' I said. 'Why? What's happened?'

That might explain Pat's manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat's appointments, and he'd had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that's what really counts at St Oswald's.

'Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.'

I didn't believe it. 'What incident?'

Miss Dare looked at me. 'Apparently he didn't check all the cla.s.srooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs and broke her ankle. She didn't get out till six o'clock this morning.'

'Is she all right?'

'Is she ever?'

I had to laugh. It was typical St Oswald's farce, and the Second Master's mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. 'Oh, you can laugh,' said Pat in a sharp voice, 'but there's been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.' That meant Devine. 'Apparently someone spilt something - oil, she says - on the steps.'

'Oh.' Not so amusing, then. 'Surely you can have a word with her?'

'Believe me, I have.' Pat sighed. 'Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy's part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.'

Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress.

You name it, she'd claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.

As for the publicity - the Examiner would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.

'As if we hadn't enough to deal with, just before an inspection,' said Pat bitterly. 'Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?'

Friday, 29th October DEAR OLD BISHOP. FUNNY HE SHOULD ASK. AS A MATTER OF fact I know of at least two; one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.

Literature, I've noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual cliches into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband's clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It's almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.

Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half-crushed beneath his m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible - she is a woman, after all - and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.

She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his cla.s.ses, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy's appraisal; forgets a lunch-time duty; spends all Break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty's locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).

Don't get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it's more efficient to work in departments - in blocks, if you like -- than to diffuse my efforts all over the School.

As for my other projects . . . Tapi's escapade has missed today's papers. A good sign; it means the Examiner is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the School in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular -- seems he wasn't quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time) and expects full Union support and generous settlement, in or out of court.

Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap's p.r.o.ne to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he's been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality - there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion or gender (ha!) - all the same he knows that to be a h.o.m.os.e.xual in a boys' school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.

In normal circ.u.mstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr Devine, technically his boss and Head of Department, would never understand. It's his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What was he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi's plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.

And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to have given Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonis.h.i.+ng (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.

As for Roy Straitley, don't think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the Computer Science Suite after lunch when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new computer science teacher.

'But I didn't write him a rotten report,' Straitley was protesting. 'I sat through his lesson, filled out the form and took a balanced view. That was it.'

'Poor cla.s.s control,' said Beard, reading from the appraisal form. 'Poor lesson management. Lack of personal appeal? What kind of a balanced view is that?'

There was a pause as Straitley looked at the form. 'I didn't write this,' he said at last.

'Well, it certainly looks like your writing.'

There was another, longer pause. I considered coming out of the computer room then, so that I could see the expression on Straitley's face, but decided against it. I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself, especially not at what was soon to be the scene of a crime.

'I didn't write this,' repeated Straitley.

'Well, who did?'

'I don't know. Some practical joker.'

'Roy--' Now Beard was beginning to sound uncomfortable. I've heard that tone before, the edgy, half-conciliatory tone of one dealing with a possibly dangerous lunatic. 'Look, Roy, fair criticism and all that. I know young Meek isn't the brightest we've ever had--'

'No,' said Straitley. 'He isn't. But I didn't write him a stinker. You can't file that a.s.sessment if I didn't write it.'

'Of course not, Roy, but--'