Gentlemen And Players Part 5

'Mum says I need to experience learning beyond the confines of the patriarchal Judaeo-Christian system. She doesn't really approve of St Oz -- but Dad's the one who foots the bill. He was at Eton. Thinks day-schoolers are proles.'

'Right.' I tried to think of something honest to say about my own parents, but could not; in less than an hour's acquaintance I already sensed that this boy held more of a place in my heart than John or Sharon Snyde ever had.

Ruthlessly, then, I reinvented them. My mo ther was dead; my father was a police inspector (the most important sounding job I could think of at the time). I lived with my father for part of the year, and for the rest of the time with my uncle in town. 'I had to come to St Oswald's midterm,' I explained. 'I've not been here long.'

Leon nodded. 'That right? I thought you might be a newbie. What happened with the other place? D'you get expelled?'

The suggestion rather pleased me. 'It was a dump. My dad pulled me out.'

'I got thrown out of my last school,' said Leon. 'Dad was livid. Three grand a year, they were getting, and they chucked me out on a first offence. Talk about ba.n.a.l. You'd think they'd make more of an effort, wouldn't you? Anyway, we could do worse than St Oz. Specially now Shakeshafte's leaving, the old b.u.g.g.e.r--'

I saw my chance. 'Why's he going, anyhow?'

Leon's eyes widened humorously. 'You really are a newbie, aren't you?' He lowered his voice. 'Let me put it this way; I heard he was doing a bit more than just shaking his shaft...'

Things have changed since then, even at St Oswald's. In those days you could throw money at a scandal and it would go away. All that's changed now. We are no longer overawed by the burnished spires: we can see the corruption beneath the shine. And it is fragile; a well-placed stone might bring it down. A stone, or something else.

I can identify with a boy like Knight. Small, lank, inarticulate, an obvious outsider. Shunned by his cla.s.smates, not for any question of religion, but for a more basic reason. It isn't anything he can alter; it's in the contours of his face, the no-colour of his limp hair, the length of his bones. His family may have money now, but generations of poverty lie bone-deep in him. I know. St Oswald's accepts his kind with reluctance in a time of financial crisis, but a boy like Knight will never fit in. His name will never appear on the Honours Boards. Masters will persistently forget his name. He will never be chosen for teams. His attempts to gain acceptance will always end in disaster. There is a look in his eyes that I recognize too well; the wary, resentful look of a boy who has long since stopped trying for acceptance. All he can do is hate.

Of course I heard about the scene with Straitley almost at once. The St Oswald's grapevine runs fast; any incident is reported within the day. Today had been a particularly bad one for Colin Knight. At registration, the spat with Straitley; at break, an incident with Robbie Roach over missing homework; at lunch-time, a flare-up with Jackson also of 3S - which resulted in Jackson being sent home with a broken nose and Knight suspended for the week.

1 was on duty in the grounds when it happened. I could see Knight in his protective overalls, gloomily picking up litter from the rosebeds. A clever, cruel punishment; far more humiliating than lines or detention. As far as I know, only Roy Straitley uses it. It's the same kind of overall my father used to wear and which the half-wit Jimmy wears now: large, bright orange and visible from right across the playing-fields. Anyone who wears it is fair game.

Knight had tried unsuccessfully to hide behind an angle of the building. A knot of smaller boys had gathered there and they were making fun of him, pointing out sc.r.a.ps of litter he had missed. Jackson, a small, aggressive boy who knows that only the presence of a loser like Knight prevents him from being bullied, was hanging around close by with a couple of other third-years. Pat Bishop was on duty, but out of earshot, surrounded by boys, on the other side of the cricket pitch. Roach, the history master, was on duty too, but seemed more interested in talking to a group of fifthformers than sorting out discipline.

I went up to Knight. 'That can't be much fun.'

Knight shook his head sullenly. His face was pale and sallow, except for a red spot on each cheekbone. Jackson, who had been observing me, broke away from the little group and edged warily closer. I could see him measuring me with his eyes, as if to determine the threat I represented. Jackals do much the same thing when circling a dying animal.

'Want to join him?' I said sharply, and Jackson scuttled back to his group.

Knight gave me a look of furtive grat.i.tude. 'It's not fair,' he said in a low voice. 'They're always picking on me.'

I nodded sympathetically. 'I know.'

'You know?'

'Oh yes,' I said quietly. 'I've been watching.'

Knight looked at me. His eyes were hot and dark and absurdly hopeful.

'Listen to me, Colin. Isn't that your name?'

He nodded.

'You have to learn to fight back, Colin,' I said. 'Don't be a victim. Make them pay.'

'Pay?' Knight looked startled.

'Why not?'

'I'd get into trouble.'

'Aren't you already?'

He looked at me.

'Then what's to lose?'

The end-of-break bell went then, and I had no time to say anything else, but in any case I didn't have to; the seeds were sown. Knight's hopeful gaze followed me across the schoolyard, and by lunch-time, the deed was done; Jackson was on the ground with Knight on top of him and Roach running towards them with his whistle bouncing against his chest and the others standing by in slack-jawed amazement at the victim who finally decided to fight back.

I need allies, you see. Not among my colleagues, but further down in the substrata of St Oswald's. Strike at the base, and the head will finally topple. I felt a fleeting stab of pity for the unsuspecting Knight, who will be my sacrifice, but I have to remind myself that in any war there must be casualties, and that if things go according to plan there will have to be many more before St Oswald's founders in a crash of broken idols and shattered dreams.

KNIGHT St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Thursday, 9th September THE CLa.s.s WAS UNUSUALLY SUBDUED THIS MORNING AS I took the register (still missing) on a piece of paper: Jackson absent, Knight suspended and three others implicated in what was rapidly growing into a very messy incident.

Jackson's father had complained, of course. So had Knight's: according to their son, all he had done was to respond to intolerable provocation from the others, abetted - so claimed the boy - by their form-tutor.

The Head - still rattled by the numerous complaints about fees - had responded weakly, promising to investigate the incident, with the result that Sutcliff, McNair and Allen-Jones spent most of my Latin lesson standing outside Pat Bishop's office, having been named amongst Knight's chief tormentors, and I had received a summons via Dr Devine, inviting me to explain the situation to the Head at my earliest convenience.

Of course, I ignored it. Some of us have lessons to teach; duties to perform; papers to read -- not to mention clearing the filing cabinets from the new German office, as I pointed out to Dr Devine when he delivered the message.

Still, I was annoyed at the Head's unwarranted interference. This was a domestic matter - something which could and should be resolved by a form-tutor. G.o.ds preserve us from an administrator with too much time on his hands; when a Head starts getting involved in matters of discipline, the results can be catastrophic.

Allen-Jones said as much to me at lunch-time. 'We were only winding him up,' he told me, looking awkward. 'We just went a bit far. You know what it's like.'

I did. Bishop did. I also knew that the Head did not. Ten to one he suspects some kind of conspiracy. I can see weeks of phone calls, letters home, multiple detentions, suspensions and other administrative nuisances before the matter can be laid to rest. It annoys me. Sutcliff is on a scholarship, which can be withdrawn in a case of serious misbehaviour; McNair's father is quarrelsome and will not submit meekly to a suspension; and Allen-Jones senior is an Army man whose exasperation with his bright, rebellious son too often tends to violence.

Left to my own devices, I would have dealt with the culprits rapidly and efficiently, without the need for parental intrusion - for although listening to boys is bad enough, to listen to their parents is fatal -- but it's too late for that now. I was in a dark mood as I descended the stairs towards the Common Room, and when the idiot Meek b.u.mped into me on the way in, almost knocking me over, I sent him on his way with a choice epithet.

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, who rattled your cage?' said Jeff Light, the Games teacher, sprawling from beneath his copy of the Mirror.

I looked at where he was sitting. Third from the window, under the clock. It's stupid, I know, but the Tweed Jacket is a territorial creature, and I had been goaded almost beyond endurance already. Of course I didn't expect the freshers to know, but Pearman and Roach were there, drinking coffee, Kitty Teague was marking books nearby, and McDonaugh was in his usual place, reading. All four of them glanced at Light as if he were a spillage someone had forgotten to clean up.

Roach coughed helpfully. 'I think you're in Roy's chair,' he said.

Light shrugged, but did not move. Next to him, Easy, the sandy-faced geographer, was eating cold rice pudding out of a Tupperware box. Keane, the would-be novelist, was looking out of the window, from which I could just see the lonesome figure of Pat Bishop, running laps.

'No, really, mate,' said Roach. 'He always sits there. He's practically a fixture.'

Light stretched his interminable legs, earning himself a smouldering glance from Isabelle Tapi in the yoghurt corner. 'Latin, isn't it?' he said. 'Queers in togas. Give me a good cross-country any day.'

'Ecce, stercus pro cerebro habes,' I told him, causing McDonaugh to frown and Peartnan to nod in a remote fashion, as if it were a quotation he vaguely recognized. Penny Nation gave me one of her pitying smiles and patted the seat next to her.

'It's all right,' I said. 'I'm not staying.' G.o.ds help me, I wasn't that desperate. Instead, I put the kettle on and opened the sink cupboard to find my mug.

You can tell a lot about a teacher's personality from his coffee mug. Geoff and Penny Nation have twin mugs with CAPITAINE and SOUS-FIFRE written across them. Roach has Homer Simpson; Grachvogel has the X-Files. Hillary Monument's gruff image is belied daily by a pint mug with WORLD'S BEST GRANDPA in shaky young letters. Pearman's was bought on a school French trip to Paris and bears a photograph of the poet Jacques PreVert smoking a cigarette. Dr Devine disdains the humble mug altogether and uses the Headmaster's china -- a privilege reserved for visitors, senior Suits and the Head himself - Bishop, always popular with the boys, has a different cartoon character every term (this term, Yogi Bear); gifts from his form.

My own is a St Oswald's Jubilee mug, limited edition 1990. Eric Sc.o.o.nes has one, as do several of the Old Guard, but mine has a chipped handle which enables me to distinguish it from the rest. We built the new Games Pavilion with the proceeds of that mug, and I carry mine with pride. Or would, if I could find it.

'd.a.m.n it. First the d.a.m.n register and now the d.a.m.n mug.'

'Borrow mine,' said McDonaugh (Charles and Diana, slightly chipped).

'That isn't the point.'

And it wasn't; to remove a master's coffee mug from its rightful place is almost as bad as taking his chair. The chair, the office, the cla.s.sroom and now the mug. I was beginning to feel distinctly under siege.

Keane gave me a satirical look as I poured tea into the wrong mug. 'It's good to know that I'm not the only one having a bad day,' he said.

'Oh?'

'Lost both my free periods today. 5G. Bob Strange's English lit. cla.s.s.'

Ouch. Of course everyone knows that Mr Strange has much to do; being Third Master and in charge of the timetable, he has over the years managed to construct for himself a system of courses, duties, meetings, admin periods and other necessaries, which leave him scarcely any time for actual pupil contact. But Keane seemed capable enough after all, he'd survived Sunnybank Park - and I'd seen strong men reduced to jelly by those fifthformers.

'I'll be all right,' said Keane, when I expressed due sympathy. 'Besides, it's all good material for my book.'

Ah, yes, the book. 'Whatever gets you through the day,' I said, wondering whether or not he was serious. There's a kind of quiet facetiousness about Keane - a whiff of the upstart - that makes me want to question everything he says. Even so I prefer him infinitely to the muscular Light, or the sycophantic Easy, or the timorous Meek.

'By the way, Dr Devine was asking for you,' Keane went on. 'Something about old filing cabinets?'

'Good.' It was the best news I'd had all day. Though after the fracas with 3S, even German-baiting had lost some of its flavour.

'He asked Jimmy to put them in the yard,' said Keane. 'Said to get them moved as soon as possible.'

'What?'

'Obstructing a thoroughfare, I think he said. Something to do with Health and Safety.'

I cursed. Sourgrape must really have wanted that office. The Health and Safety Manoeuvre is one to which only a few dare to sink. I finished my tea and strode purposefully towards the ex-Cla.s.sics office, only to find Jimmy, screwdriver in hand, fixing some kind of an electronic attachment to the door.

'It's a buzzer, boss,' explained Jimmy, seeing my surprise. 'So Dr Devine knows if there's someone at the door.'

'I see.' In my day, we just knocked.

Jimmy, however, was delighted. 'When you see the red light, he's with someone,' he said. 'If it's green, he buzzes you in.'

'And the yellow light?'

Jimmy frowned. 'If it's yellow,' he said at last, 'then Dr Devine buzzes through to see who it is - ' he paused, wrinkling his brow - 'and if it's someone important, then he lets them in!'

'Very Teutonic' I stepped past him into my office.

Inside, a conspicuous and displeasing order reigned. New cabinets - colour-coded; a handsome water-cooler; a large mahogany desk with computer, pristine blotter and a framed photograph of Mrs Sourgrape. The carpet had been cleaned; my spider-plants - those scarred and dusty veterans of drought and neglect - tidily disposed of; a smug NO SMOKING sign and a laminated timetable showing departmental meetings, duties, clubs and workgroups, hung on the wall.

For a time, there was nothing to say.

'I've got your stuff, boss,' said Jimmy. 'Shall I bring it up for you?'

Why bother? I knew when I was beaten. I slouched off back to the Common Room to drown my sorrows in tea.

OVER THE NEXT FEW WEEKS, LEON AND I BECAME FRIENDS. IT was not as risky as it sounds, partly because we were in different Houses - he in Amadeus, whilst I claimed to be in Birkby - and in different years. I met him in the mornings -- wearing my own clothes under my St Oswald's uniform -- and arrived to my own cla.s.ses late, with a series of ingenious excuses.

I missed Games - the asthma ploy had worked very well and spent my breaks and lunches in St Oswald's grounds. I began to think of myself almost as a genuine Ozzie; through Leon I knew the masters on duty, the gossip, the slang. With him I went to the library, played chess, lounged on the benches in the Quad like any of the others. With him, I belonged.

It would not have worked if Leon had been a more outgoing, more popular pupil; but I had soon learned that he too was a misfit - though unlike me, he remained aloof by choice rather than necessity. Sunnybank Park would have killed him in a week; but St Oswald's values intelligence above everything else, and he was clever enough to use his to good advantage. To masters he was polite and respectful - at least, in their presence - and I found that this gave him an immense advantage in times of trouble -- of which there were many. For Leon seemed actively to court trouble wherever he went: he specialized in practical jokes, small neat revenges, covert acts of defiance. He was rarely caught. If I was Knight, then he was Allen-Jones: the charmer, the trickster, the elusive rebel. And yet he liked me. And yet we were friends.

I invented tales of my previous school for his amus.e.m.e.nt, giving myself the role I sensed he expected of me. From time to time I introduced characters from my other life: Miss Potts, Miss McCauleigh, Mr Bray. I spoke of Bray with real hatred, remembering his taunts and his posturing, and Leon listened with an attentive look that was not quite sympathy.

'Pity you couldn't get your own back on this guy,' he commented on one occasion. 'Pay him back in kind.'

'What do you suggest?' I said. 'Voodoo?'

'No,' said Leon thoughtfully. 'Not quite.'

By then I had known Leon for over a month. We could smell the end of the summer term, its scent of cut gra.s.s and freedom; in another month all schools would break up (eight and a half weeks; limitless, unimaginable time) and there would be no need for changes of uniform or perilous truancies, forged notes or excuses.

We had already made plans, Leon and I; for trips to the cinema; walks in the woods; excursions into town. At Sunnybank Park exams - such as they were -- were already over. Lessons were ramshackle, discipline, lax. Some teachers dispensed with their subjects altogether and showed Wimbledon on television, while others devoted their time to games and private study. Escape to Oz had never been easier. It was the happiest time of my life.

Then, disaster struck. It should never have happened; a stupid coincidence, that was all. But it brought my world crashing down, threatened everything I had ever hoped for - and its cause was the Games teacher, Mr Bray.

In the excitement of everything else, I had almost forgotten Mr Bray. I no longer went to Games - had never shown apt.i.tude in any case - and I had a.s.sumed that I was not missed. Even without him, Games had been a weekly torment: my clothes tossed into the shower, my sports kit hidden or stolen; my gla.s.ses broken; my lukewarm efforts to partic.i.p.ate greeted with laughter and contempt.

Bray himself had been the princ.i.p.al instigator of these jeering sessions, repeatedly singling me out for 'demonstrations' in which my every physical shortcoming was pointed out with relentless precision.

My legs were skinny, with prominent knees; and when I had to borrow games kit from school (mine had 'disappeared' once too often and my father refused to buy a new set), Bray provided me with a giant pair of flannel shorts, which flapped ludicrously as I ran, earning me the nickname 'Thunderpants'.

His admirers found this exquisitely amusing, and Thunderpants I remained. This had led to a general understanding among the other pupils that I had a flatulence problem; Speccy Snyde became Smelly Snyde; I was bombarded on a daily basis with jokes about baked beans, and in form matches (during which I was always last to be picked) Bray would cry to the other players, Watch out, team! Snyde's been on the beans again!

As I said, I was no loss to the subject, or, I thought, to the teacher. But I had failed to take into account the man's essential malice. It was not enough for him to hold court to his little clique of admirers and sycophants. It was not even enough to ogle the girls (and, on occasion, to dare a quick fumble under cover of a 'demonstration'), or to humiliate the boys with his trollish humour. Every performer needs an audience; but Bray needed more. Bray needed a victim.

I had already missed four Games lessons. I imagined the comments: Where's Thunderpants, then, kids?

Dunno, sir. In the library, sir. Down t he toilet, sir. Excused Games, sir. Asthma, sir.

a.s.shole, more like.

It would have been forgotten eventually. Bray would have found himself another target - there were plenty of them around. Fat Peggy Johnsen, or spotty Harold Mann, or m.u.f.fin-faced Lucy Robbins, or Jeffrey Stuarts, who ran like a girl. In the end he would have turned his gaze on one of them - and they knew it, watching me with increasing hostility in cla.s.s and a.s.sembly, hating me for having escaped.

It was they, the losers, who would not let it go; who perpetuated the Thunderpants jokes; who harped incessantly on beans and asthma until every lesson without me seemed like a freakshow without the freak, and at last Mr Bray began to feel suspicious.

I'm not sure where he spotted me. Maybe he had me watched as I slipped away from the library. I had grown reckless; already Leon filled my life and Bray and his ilk were nothing but shadows in comparison. In any case he was waiting for me the next morning; I found out later that he had swapped supervision duties with another teacher to make sure he caught me.

'Well, well, you're looking very full of beans for someone with such terrible asthma,' he said as I ran in through the late entrance.

I stared at him, half-paralysed with fear. He was smiling viciously, like the bronzed totem of a sacrificial cult.

'Well? Cat got your tongue?'