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 classes 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 classes on the grounds that he was too busy with Other Things, and today the Head took a disastrous Assembly in which he announced (to general, if unvoiced amusement) that there was no truth whatever in the malicious rumors concerning Mr. Fallow, and that any boy perpetrating such rumors 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 assumption 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 I have noticed that he smiles less than usual, keeps to his office during the day, runs even more laps than usual 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 bluster of the Head. Gerry Grachvogel’s classes 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 Scoones 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 annex 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 that 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 pornography with Kitty Teague; Isabelle Tapi checking her lipstick; the League of Nations sharing a chaste banana. Old friends; comfortable collaborators.