Gentlemen And Players Part 8

'They've ripped out some panels in the Porter's Lodge,' said Sutcliff. 'They took out a whole bunch of stuff.'

'Such as?'

Allen-Jones shrugged. 'Who knows?'

'Cigarettes, maybe?'

The boys looked at each other. Sutcliff flushed slightly. Allen-Jones gave a little smile. 'Maybe.'

Later, the story came out; Fallow had been using his cheap day-trips to France to bring back illicit, tax-free cigarettes, which he had been selling -- via the ice-cream man, who was a friend of his - to the boys.

The profits were excellent - a single cigarette costing up to a pound, depending on the age of the boy - but St Oswald's boys have plenty of money, and besides, the thrill of breaking the rules right under the nose of the Second Master was almost irresistible. The scheme had been going on for months, possibly years; the police had found about four dozen cartons hidden behind a secret panel in the Lodge, and many hundreds more in Fallow's garage, stacked floor to ceiling behind a set of disused bookcases.

Both Fallow and the ice-cream man confirmed the cigarette story. Of the other items found in the Lodge, Fallow denied all knowledge, although he was at a loss to explain their presence. Knight identified his bar mitzvah pen; later, and with some reluctance, I claimed my old green Parker. I was relieved in one sense that no boy in my form had taken them; on the other hand I knew that this was yet another small nail in the coffin of John Fallow, who had at one blow lost his home, his job, and quite possibly, his freedom.

I never did find out who had tipped off the authorities. An anonymous letter, or so I heard; in any case, no one came forward. It must have been someone on the inside, says Robbie Roach (a smoker, and erstwhile good friend of Fallow); some little snitch keen to make trouble. He's probably right; though I hate the thought of a colleague being responsible.

A boy, then? Somehow that seems even worse; the thought that one of our boys could single-handedly do so much damage.

A boy like Knight, perhaps? It was only a thought; but there is a new smugness in Knight, a look of awareness, that I like even less than his natural sullenness. Knight? There was no reason to think so. All the same I did think so; deep down, where it matters. Call it prejudice; call it instinct. The boy knew something.

Meanwhile, the little scandal runs its course. There will be an investigation by Customs and Excise; and although it is very unlikely that the School will press charges - any suggestion of bad publicity sends the Head into spasms Mrs Knight has so far refused to withdraw her own complaint. The Governors will have to be informed; there will be questions asked concerning the role of the Porter, his appointment (Dr Tidy is already on the defensive, and is demanding police reports on all ancillary staff), and his probable replacement. In short, the Fallow incident has created ripples all over the school, from the Bursar's office to the Quiet Room.

The boys feel it and have been unusually disruptive, testing the boundaries of our discipline. A member of the School has been disgraced - albeit only a Porter - and a breath of revolt stirs; on Tuesday Meek emerged from his fifth-form Computer Studies cla.s.ses looking pale and shaken; McDonaugh gave out a series of vicious detentions; Robbie Roach fell mysteriously ill, incensing the whole department, who had to cover for him. Bob Strange set cover for all his cla.s.ses on the grounds that he was too busy with Other Things, and today the Head took a disastrous a.s.sembly in which he announced (to general, if unvoiced amus.e.m.e.nt) that there was no truth whatever in the malicious rumours concerning Mr Fallow, and that any boy perpetrating such rumours would be Dealt With Most Severely.

But it is Pat Bishop, the Second Master, who has been most affected by Fallowgate, as Allen-Jones has named the unfortunate affair. Partly, I think, because such a thing is completely outside his comprehension; Pat's loyalty to St Oswald's reaches back for more than thirty years, and whatever his other faults, he is scrupulously honest. His whole philosophy (such as it is; for our Pat is no philosopher) is based on the a.s.sumption that people are fundamentally good and wish, at heart, to do good, even when they are led astray. This ability to see good in everyone is at the core of his dealings with boys, and it works very well; weaklings and villains are shamed by his kind, stern manner, and even staff are in awe of him.

But Fallow has caused a kind of crisis. First, because Pat was fooled - he blames himself for not noticing what was going on -- and second, because of the contempt implicit in the deception. That Fallow - whom Pat had always treated with politeness and respect - should repay him in such spiteful coin dismays and shames him. He remembers the John Snyde business, and wonders whether he is somehow at fault in this case. He does not say these things, but 1 have noticed that he smiles less than usual, keeps to his office during the day, runs even more laps in the mornings, and often works late.

As for the Languages department, it has suffered less than most. This is partly thanks to Pearman, whose natural cynicism serves as a welcome foil for the aloofness of Strange or the anxious bl.u.s.ter of the Head. Gerry Grachvogel's cla.s.ses are somewhat noisier than usual, though not enough to require my intervention. Geoff and Penny Nation are saddened, but unsurprised, shaking their heads at the beastliness of human nature. Dr Devine uses the Fallow affair to terrorize poor Jimmy. Eric Sc.o.o.nes is bad-tempered, though not much more than usual. Dianne Dare, like the creative Keane, follows the whole thing with fascination.

'This place runs like a complicated soap opera,' she told me this morning in the Common Room. 'You never know what's going to happen next.'

I admitted that there was occasionally some entertainment value to be had from the dear old place.

'Is that why you stayed on? I mean--' She broke off, aware, perhaps, of the unflattering implication.

'I stayed on, as you so kindly put it, because I am old fashioned enough to believe that our boys may derive some small benefit from my lessons, and most importantly, because it annoys Mr Strange.'

'I'm sorry,' she said.

'Don't be. It doesn't suit you.'

It's hard to explain St Oswald's; harder still from across a gulf of more than forty years. She is young, attractive, bright; one day she will fall in love, maybe have children. She will have a house, which will be a home rather than a secondary annexe of the Book Room; she will take holidays in far-flung locations. At least, I hope so; the alternative is to join the rest of the galley slaves and stay chained to the ship until someone pitches you overboard.

'I didn't mean to offend you, sir,' said Miss Dare.

'You didn't.' Perhaps I'm going soft in my old age, or perhaps the business with Fallow has troubled me more than I knew. 'It's just that I'm feeling rather Kafkaesque this morning. I blame Dr Devine.'

She laughed at that, as I thought she might. And yet there remained something in her expression. She has adapted rather well to life at St Oswald's; I see her going to lessons with her briefcase and an armful of books; I hear her talking to the boys in the crisp, cheerful tones of a staff nurse. Like Keane, she has a self-possession that serves her well in a place like this, where everyone must fight his corner and to ask for help is a sign of weakness. She can feign anger or hide it when she needs to, knowing that a teacher must be above all a performer, always master of his audience and always in command of the stage. It's unusual to see that quality in such a young teacher; I suspect that both Miss Dare and Mr Keane are naturals, just as I know poor Meek is not.

'You've certainly come in interesting times,' I said. 'Inspections, restructurings, treason and plot. The bricks and mortar of St Oswald's. If you can survive this--'

'My parents were teachers. I know what to expect.'

That explained it. You can always tell. I picked up a mug (not mine; still missing) from the rack by the side of the sink. 'Tea?'

She smiled. 'The teacher's cocaine.'

I inspected the contents of the tea urn and poured for both of us. Over the years I have become accustomed to drinking tea in its most elementary form. Even so, the brown sludge which settled in my cup looked distinctly toxic. I shrugged and added milk and sugar. That which does not kill me makes me stronger. An appropriate motto, perhaps, for a place like St Oswald's, perpetually on the brink of tragedy or farce.

I looked around at my colleagues, sitting in groups around the old Common Room, and felt a deep and unexpected stab of affection. There was McDonaugh, reading the Mirror in his corner; Monument, by his side, reading the Telegraph; Pearman, discussing nineteenth-century French p.o.r.nography with Kitty Teague; Isabelle Tapi checking her lipstick; the League of Nations sharing a chaste banana. Old friends; comfortable collaborators.

As 1 said, it's hard to explain St Oswald's; the sound of the place in the mornings; the flat echo of boys' feet against the stone steps; the smell of burning toast from the Refectory; the peculiar sliding sound of overfilled sports bags being dragged along the newly polished floor. The Honours Boards, with gold-painted names dating back from before my great-great-grandfather; the war memorial; the team photographs; the brash young faces, tinted sepia with the pa.s.sing of time. A metaphor for eternity.

G.o.ds, I'm getting sentimental. Age does that; a moment ago I was bemoaning my lot and now here I am getting all misty-eyed. It must be the weather. And yet, Camus says, we must imagine Sisyphus happy. Am I unhappy? All I know is that something has shaken us; shaken us to the foundations. It's in the air, a breath of revolt, and somehow I know that it goes deeper than the Fallow affair. Whatever it may be, it is not over. And it's still only September.

EN Pa.s.sANT.

Monday, 27th September IN SPITE OF THE HEAD'S BEST EFFORTS, FALLOW MADE THE papers. Not the News of the World - that would have been too much to expect - but our own Examiner, which is almost as good. The traditional rift between School and Town is such that bad news from St Oswald's travels fast, and is received for the most part with a fierce and unholy glee. The ensuing piece was both triumphant and vitriolic, simultaneously portraying Fallow as a long-term employee of the School, dismissed (summarily and without Union representation) for a crime as yet unproved and, at the same time, as a likeable rogue who for years had been getting his own back on a system comprising Hooray Henrys, faceless bureaucrats and out-of-touch academics.

It has become a David and Goliath situation, with Fallow as a symbol of the working cla.s.ses, fighting the monstrous machines of wealth and privilege. The writer of the piece, who signs his name simply as 'Mole', also manages to convey the impression that St Oswald's is filled with similar scams and small corruptions, that the teaching is hopelessly out of date, that smoking (and possibly drug abuse) is rife and that the buildings themselves are so badly in need of repair that a serious accident is almost inevitable. An editorial, ent.i.tled: 'Private Schools - Should They be Sc.r.a.pped?' - flanks the piece, and readers are invited to send in their own thoughts and grievances against St Oswald's and the Old Boy network which protects it.

I'm rather pleased with it. They printed it almost unedited, and I have promised to keep them informed of any further developments. In my e-mail I hinted that I was a source close to the School -- an Old Boy, a pupil, a Governor, perhaps even a member of staff - keeping the details fluid (I may have to change them later).

I used one of my secondary e-mail addresses - - to foil any attempt to discover my ident.i.ty. Not that anyone at the Examiner is likely to try - they're more accustomed to dog shows and local politics than investigative journalism - but you never know where a story like this is going to end. I don't entirely know myself; which is, I suppose, what makes it fun.

It was raining when I arrived in school this morning. Traffic was slower than usual, and I had to make an effort to control my annoyance as I inched through town. One of the things which makes the locals resent St Oswald's is the traffic it generates at rush hour; the hundreds of clean, shiny Jags and sensible Volvos and four-wheel drives and people carriers which line the roads every morning with their cargo of clean, shiny boys in blazers and caps.

Some take the car even when their home is less than a mile away. G.o.d forbid that the clean, shiny boy should have to jump puddles or breathe pollutants or (worse still) experience contamination by the dull, grubby pupils of the nearby Sunnybank Park; the loud-mouthed, looselimbed boys with their nylon jackets and scuffed trainers; the yawping girls in their short skirts and dyed hair. When I was their age I walked to school; I wore those cheap shoes and grubby socks; and sometimes as I drive to work in my rented car I can still feel the rage mounting in me, the terrible rage against who I was and who I longed to be.

I remember a time, late that summer. Leon was bored; school was out, and we were hanging around the public playground (I remember the roundabout, its paint worn clean through to the metal by generations of young hands), smoking Camels (Leon smoked, so I did too) and watching the Sunnybankers go by.

'Barbarians. Rabble. Proles.' His fingers were long and slender, deeply stained with ink and nicotine. On the path, a little knot of Sunnybankers approaching, dragging their schoolbags, shouting, dusty-footed in the hot afternoon. No threat to us, though there were times when we'd had to run, pursued by a gang of Sunnybankers.

Once, when I wasn't there, they'd cornered Leon, down by the bins at the back of the school, and given him a kicking. I hated them all the more for that; even more than Leon did - they were my people, after all. But these were just girls - four of them together and a straggler from my own year - raucous, gum-chewing girls, skirts hiked up blotchy legs, giggling and screaming as they ran down the path.

The straggler, I saw, was Peggy Johnsen, the fat girl from Mr Bray's Games cla.s.s, and I turned away instinctively, but not before Leon had caught my eye, and winked.

'Well?'

I knew that look. I recognized it from our forays into town; our record-shop thefts; our small acts of rebellion. Leon's gaze brimmed with mischief; his bright eyes pinned Peggy as she half-ran to keep up.

'Well, what?'

The other four were far ahead. Peggy, with her sweaty face and anxious look, was suddenly alone. 'Oh no,' I said. The truth was I had nothing against Peggy; a slow, harmless girl only a step removed from mental deficiency. I even pitied her a little.

Leon gave me a scornful look. 'What is she, Pinchbeck, your girlfriend?' he said. 'Come onV And he was off at a run, arcing across the playground with an exuberant whoop. I followed him; 1 told myself there was nothing else I could have done.

We s.n.a.t.c.hed her bags - Leon took her Games kit in its Woolworth's carrier, I grabbed her canvas satchel with the little hearts drawn on in Tipp-Ex. Then we ran, far too fast for Peggy to follow, leaving her squalling in our dust. I'd simply wanted to get away before she recognized me; but my momentum had sent me crashing against her, knocking her to the ground.

Leon had laughed at that, and I did too, viciously, knowing that in another life it could have been me sitting there on the path, it could have been me yelling, 'Ah, come on, you b.u.g.g.e.rs, you lousy b.a.s.t.a.r.ds,' through my tears as my gym shoes, tied by the laces, were flung into the highest branches of an old tree and my books fluttered their pages like confetti on the warm summer air.

I'm sorry, Peggy. I nearly meant it, too. She wasn't the worst of them, not by a long way. But she was there, and she was disgusting - with her greasy hair and red angry face, she could almost have been my father's child. And so I stomped her books; emptied her bags; scattered her PE kit (I can still see those navy-blue knickers, baggy as my fabled hunderpants) into the yellow dust.

'Ozzie b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!'

Survival of the fittest, I replied silently, feeling angry for her, angry for myself, but fiercely elated, as if I'd pa.s.sed a test; as if by so doing 1 had narrowed the gap still more between myself and St Oswald's, between who I was and who I meant to be.

'b.a.s.t.a.r.ds.'

The lights were at green, but the queue ahead was too long to allow me to pa.s.s. A couple of boys saw the opportunity to cross - I recognized McNair, one of Straitley's favourites, Jackson, the diminutive bully from the same form, and the sidling, crablike gait of Anderton-Pullitt and just at that moment the traffic ahead of me began to move.

Jackson crossed at a run. So did McNair. There was a s.p.a.ce of fifty yards ahead of me, into which, if I was quick, I could pa.s.s. Otherwise the lights would change again and I would have to stand at the junction for another five minutes as the interminable traffic crawled by. But Anderton-Pullitt did not run. A heavy boy, already middle-aged at thirteen, he crossed in leisurely fashion, not looking at me even when I honked my horn, as if by ignoring me he might will me out of existence. Briefcase in one hand, lunchbox in the other, walking fastidiously around the puddle in the middle of the road so that by the time he was out of my way, the lights had changed and I was forced to wait.

Trivial, I know. But there's an arrogance to it, a lazy contempt which is pure St Oswald's. I wondered what he would have done if I had simply driven at him - or over him, in fact. Would he have run? Or would he have stayed put, confident, stupid, mouthing to the last; You wouldn't -- you couldn't-- Unfortunately, there was no question of my running down Anderton-Pullitt. For a start, I need the car, and the rental company might get suspicious if I brought it back with a ruined front end. Still, there are plenty of other means, I thought, and I owed myself a little celebration. I smiled as I waited at the frozen lights, and turned the radio on.

I sat in room 59 for the first half-hour of lunchtime. Thanks to Bob Strange, Straitley was out, either lurking in that Book Room of his, or patrolling the corridors on duty. The room was filled with boys. Some did their homework; some played chess or talked, occasionally chugging from cans of fizzy drink or eating crisps.

All teachers hate rainy days; there is nowhere for the pupils to go but indoors, and they have to be supervised; it is muddy and accidents happen; it is crowded and noisy; squabbles turn into fights. I intervened in one myself, between Jackson and Brasenose (a soft, fat boy who has not yet learned the trick of making his size work for him), supervised the tidying of the room, pointed out a spelling mistake in Tayler's homework, accepted a Polo mint from Pink and a peanut from Knight, chatted for a few minutes to the boys eating their packed lunches on the back row, then, my task accomplished, I made once again for the Quiet Room, to await developments over a cup of murky tea.

I do not, of course, have a form. None of the new staff has. It gives us free time and a broader perspective; I can watch from behind the lines and I know the moments of weakness; the dangerous times; the unsupervised sections of the School; the vital minutes - the seconds -- during which, if disaster were to strike, the giant's underbelly would be at its most exposed.

The after-lunch bell is one of these. Afternoon registration has not yet begun, although at this point, lunchtime is officially over. In theory, it is a five-minute warning, a changeover time during which staff still sitting in the Common Room make a move towards their cla.s.srooms, and staff members on lunch-time duties have a few minutes to collect their belongings (and maybe glance at a newspaper) before registration.

In effect, however, it is a five-minute window of vulnerability in an otherwise smooth-running operation. No one is on duty, many staff -- and sometimes pupils -- are still moving from one place to another. Little surprise, then, that most mishaps occur at such a time; scuffles; thefts; petty vandalism; random pieces of misbehaviour perpetrated in transit and under cover of the surge of activity which precedes the return to afternoon lessons. This is why it was five minutes before anyone really noticed that AndertonPullitt had collapsed.

It might have been less if he had been popular. But he was not: sitting slightly away from the others, eating his sandwiches (Marmite and cream cheese on wheat-free bread, always the same) with slow, laborious bites, he looked more like a tortoise than a thirteen-year-old boy. There is one of his kind in every year; precocious, bespectacled, hypochondriac, shunned even beyond bullying, he seems impervious to insults or rejection; cultivates an old man's pedantic speech, which gives him a reputation for cleverness; is polite to teachers, which makes him a favourite.

Straitley finds him amusing - but then he would; as a boy, he was probably just the same. I find him annoying; in Straitley's absence he follows me around when I'm on duty In the yard and subjects me to ponderous lectures on his various enthusiasms (science fiction, computers, First World War aircraft) and his ailments real and imagined (asthma, food intolerances, agoraphobia, allergies, anxiety, warts).

As I sat now in the Quiet Room, I amused myself in trying to determine from the sounds that came from above my head, whether or not Anderton-Pullitt had a genuine ailment.

No one else noticed; no one else was listening. Robbie Roach, who was free next period and has no form either (too many extra curricular commitments), was rootling through his locker. I noticed a pack of French cigarettes in there (a present from Fallow), which he quickly hid behind a pile of books. Isabelle Tapi, who teaches part-time and therefore has no form either, was drinking from a bottle of Evian water and reading a paperback.

I heard the five-minute bell followed by a hubbub; the unchained melody of unsupervised boys; the sound of something (a chair?) falling over. Then, raised voices - Jackson and Brasenose resuming their fight - another chair falling, then silence. I a.s.sumed Straitley had come in. Sure enough, there came the sound of his voice -- a subdued murmur from the boys, then the domestic cadences of registration, familiar as those of the football scores on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. --Adamczyk? Sir. --Almond? Sir.

--AlletX'Jones?

Yes, sir.

--AndertonPulhtt?

Beat.

--AndertonPullitt?

St Oswald's Grammar School for Boys Wednesday, 29 th September STILL NO NEWS FROM THE ANDERTON-PULLITTS. I TAKE THIS as a good sign - I'm told that in extreme cases the reaction can prove fatal within seconds - but even so, the thought that one of my boys might have died -- actually died -- in my room, under my supervision -- makes my heart stutter and my palms sweat. In all my years of teaching, I have known three of my boys die. Their faces look out at me every day from the cla.s.s photographs along the Middle Corridor: Hewitt, who died of meningitis in the Christmas holidays of 1972; and Constable, 1986; run over by a car in his own street as he ran to retrieve a lost football; and of course, Mitch.e.l.l, 1989 - Mitch.e.l.l, whose case has never ceased to trouble me. All outside of School hours; and yet in every instance (but especially in his) I feel to blame, as if I should have been watching out for them.

Then there are the Old Boys. Jamestone, cancer at thirty two; Deakin, brain tumour; Stanley, car crash; Poulson, killed himself, no one knows why, two years ago, leaving a wife and an eight-year-old Down's Syndrome daughter. Still my boys, all of them, and still I feel an emptiness and a grief when I think of them, mingled with that strange, aching inexplicable feeling that I should have been there.

I thought at first he was faking. Spirits were high; Jackson was fighting with someone in a corner; I was in a hurry. Perhaps he had been unconscious when I entered; precious seconds pa.s.sed as I quietened the form; found my pen. Anaphylactic shock, they call it - heaven knows I'd heard enough about it from the boy himself, though I'd always a.s.sumed his ailments were more to do with his overprotective mother than his actual physical condition.

It was all in his file, as I discovered too late; along with the many recommendations she had sent us concerning his diet, exercise, uniform requirements (man-made fabrics gave him a rash), phobias, antibiotics, religious instruction and social integration. Under 'Allergies' wheat (mild intolerance); and, in capital letters marked with an asterisk and several exclamation marks, NUTS!!

Of course, Anderton-Pullitt doesn't eat nuts. He consumes only food that has been declared risk-free by his mother and which, furthermore, corresponds to his own rather limited idea of what is acceptable. Every day the contents of his lunchbox consist of exactly the same things; two cream cheese and Marmite sandwiches on wheat-free bread, cut into four; one tomato; one banana; a packet of Maynard's Wine Gums (of which he discards all but the red and black sweets); and a can of Fanta. As it is, it takes him all lunch-time to consume this meal; he never goes to the tuck-shop; never accepts food from any other boy.

Don't ask me how I managed to carry him downstairs. It was an effort; boys milled uselessly around me in excitement or confusion; I called for help, but no one came except for Gerry Grachvogel next door, who looked close to fainting and gasped, 'Oh dear, oh dear,' wringing his little rabbity hands and glancing nervously from side to side.

'Gerry, get help,' I ordered, balancing AndertonPullitt on one shoulder. 'Call an ambulance. Modo fac.'

Grachvogel just gaped at me. It was Allen-Jones who responded, running down the stairs two at a time, almost knocking over Isabelle Tapi, who was coming up. McNair raced off in the direction of Pat Bishop's office, and Pink and Tayler helped me support the unconscious boy. By the time we reached the Lower Corridor I felt as if my lungs were filled with hot lead, and it was with real grat.i.tude that I pa.s.sed on my burden to Bishop, who seemed cheered to have something physical to do, and who picked up Anderton-Pullitt as if he were a baby.

Behind me, I was vaguely aware that Sutcliff had finished taking the register. Allen-Jones was on the phone to the hospital - 'They say it'll be quicker if you drive him to Casualty yourself, sir!' - Grachvogel was trying to retrieve his form, who had followed en ma.s.se to see what was happening, and now the New Head emerged from his office, looking aghast, with Pat Bishop at his side and Marlene peering anxiously from over his shoulder.

'Mr Straitley!' Even in such an emergency as this, he retains a certain curious stiffness, as if constructed from some other medium - plaster, maybe whalebone - than flesh. 'Could you perhaps please explain to me--' But the world had become full of noises, among which my heartbeat was the most compelling; I was reminded of the old jungle epics of my childhood, in which adventurers scaled volcanoes to the sinister cacophony of native drums.

I leaned against the wall of the Lower Corridor, as my legs suddenly effected a transformation from bone, vein, sinew, to something more akin to jelly. My lungs hurt; there was a spot, somewhere in the region of my top waistcoat b.u.t.ton, which felt as if someone very large were poking it repeatedly with an outstretched forefinger, as if to emphasize some kind of point. I looked round for a chair to sit upon, but it was too late; the world tilted and I began to slide down the wall.

'Mr Straitley!' From the upside-down perspective, the Head looked more sinister than ever. A shrunken Head, I thought vaguely. Just the thing to placate the Volcano G.o.d and in spite of the pain in my chest I could not quite prevent myself from laughing. 'Mr Straitley! Mr Bishop! Can someone please tell me what is going on here?'

The invisible finger poked me again, and I sat down on the floor. Marlene, ever-efficient, reacted first; she knelt down beside me without hesitation and pulled open my jacket to feel my heart. The drums pulsed; now I could sense rather than feel the movement around me.

'Mr Straitley, hang on!' She smelt of something flowery and feminine; I felt I should make s ome witty remark, but couldn't think of anything to say. My chest hurt; my eardrums roared; I tried to get up but could not. I slumped a little further, glimpsed the Powerpuff Girls on Allen-Jones' socks, and began to laugh.

The last thing I remember was the New Head's face looming into my field of vision and myself saying; 'Bwana, the natives, they will not enter the Forbidden City,' before I pa.s.sed out.

I awoke in the hospital. I had been lucky, the doctor told me; there had been what he called a minor cardiac incident, brought on by anxiety and over-exertion. I wanted to get up immediately, but he refused to allow it, saying that I was to remain under supervision for at least three or four days.

A middle-aged nurse with pink hair and a kindergarten manner then asked me questions, the answers to which she wrote down with an expression of mild disapproval, as if I were a child who persisted in wetting the bed. 'Now, Mr Straitley, how many cigarettes do we smoke a week?'

I couldn't say, ma'am. I'm not sufficiently intimate with your smoking habits.' The nurse looked fl.u.s.tered. 'Oh, you were talking to me,' I said. 'I'm sorry, I thought perhaps you were a member of the Royal family.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'Mr Straitley, I have a job to do.'

'So do I,' I said. 'Third-form Latin, set 2, period 5.'

'I'm sure they can do without you for a little while,' said the nurse. 'No one's indispensable.'

A melancholy thought. 'I thought you were supposed to make me feel better.'

'And so I shall,' she said, 'as soon as we've finished with this little bit of paperwork.'

Well, within thirty minutes Roy Hubert Straitley (BA) was summarized in what looked very like a School register cryptic abbreviations and ticks in boxes - and the nurse was looking suitably smug. I have to say it didn't look good: age, sixty-four; sedentary job; moderate smoker; alcohol units per week, fair to sprightly; weight, somewhere between mild embonpoint and genuine avoirdupois.

The doctor read it all with an expression of grim satisfaction. It was a warning, he concluded: a sign from the G.o.ds. 'You're not twenty-one, you know,' he told me. 'There are some things you just can't do any more.'

It's an old drill, and I'd heard it before. 'I know, I know. No smoking, no drinking, no fish and chips, no hundred- yard dash, no fancy women, no--'