But this year, there is more. Ninety-nine terms; thirty-three autumns; half of my life. This year those terms weigh unexpectedly heavy, and I wonder whether young Bevans may not after all be right. Retirement need not be a death sentence. One more term and I will have scored my Century; to withdraw on such a note can carry no shame. Besides, things are changing, and so they should. Only I am too old to change.
On my way home on Monday night I looked into the Porter’s Lodge. Fallow’s replacement has not yet been found, and in the meantime, Jimmy Watt has taken over as many as he can manage of the Porter’s duties. One of these is answering the phone in the lodge, but his telephone manner is not good, and he has a tendency to hang up by mistake when transferring calls. As a result, calls had been missed throughout the day, and frustrations were running high.
It was the Bursar’s fault; Jimmy does what he’s told but has no concept of working independently. He can change a fuse or replace a lock; he can sweep up fallen leaves; he can even climb up a telegraph pole to retrieve a pair of shoes, tied together by their laces and flung across the wires by a school bully. Light calls him Jimmy Forty-Watt and jeers at his moon face and his slow way of talking. Of course, Light was a bully himself a few years ago; you can still see it in his red face and aggressive, oddly careful walk—steroids or hemorrhoids, I’m not sure which. In any case, Jimmy should never have been left in charge of the lodge, and Dr. Tidy knew it; it was simply that it was easier (and cheaper, of course) to use him as a stopgap until a new appointment was made. Besides, Fallow had been with the school for over fifteen years, and you can’t turn a man out of his home overnight, whatever the reason. I found myself thinking about this as I passed the lodge; it wasn’t that I’d especially liked Fallow; but he had been a part of the school—a small but necessary part—and his absence was felt.
There was a woman in the lodge as I went past. I never questioned her presence, assuming she was a secretary drafted in through the school’s agency to take calls and to cover for Jimmy when he was called upon to perform one of his many other duties. A graying woman in a suit, rather older than the standard agency temp, whose face seemed dimly familiar. I should have asked who she was. Dr. Devine is always talking about intruders, about shootings in American schools and how easy it would be for some crazed person to enter the buildings and go on the rampage—but that’s just Devine. He’s the Health and Safety man, after all, and he has to justify his salary.
But I was in a hurry, and I did not speak to the graying woman. It was only when I saw her byline and her photo in the Examiner that I recognized her; and by then it was too late. The mystery informant had struck again, and this time, I was his target.
6
Monday, 11th October
Well, Mrs. Knight, as you might expect, did not take kindly to the suspension of her only son. You know the type: expensive, arrogant, slightly neurotic, and afflicted with that curious blindness that only the mothers of teenage sons seem to possess. She marched down to St. Oswald’s the morning after the Head’s decision, demanding to see the Head. He was out, of course; instead, an emergency meeting was convened, including Bishop (nervous and unwell), Dr. Devine (Health and Safety), and, in the absence of Roy Straitley, myself.
Mrs. Knight looked murderous in Chanel. In Bishop’s office, sitting very straight on a hard chair, she glared at the three of us with eyes like zircons.
“Mrs. Knight,” said Devine. “The boy could have died.”
Mrs. Knight was not impressed. “I can understand your concern,” she said. “Given that there seems to have been no supervision at all at the time of the incident. However, regarding the matter of my son’s involvement—”
Bishop interrupted. “Well, that isn’t entirely true,” he began. “Several members of staff were present at different times throughout break, although—”
“And did anyone see my son put a peanut in the other boy’s drink?”
“Mrs. Knight, it isn’t—”
“Well? Did they?”
Bishop looked uncomfortable. It had been the Head’s decision to suspend Knight, after all; and I had a feeling that he himself might have handled the matter differently. “The evidence suggests that he did it, Mrs. Knight. I’m not saying he did it with malice—”
Flatly: “My son doesn’t tell lies.”
“All boys tell lies.” That was Devine—true enough, as it happened, but hardly calculated to appease Mrs. Knight. She leveled her gaze upon him. “Really?” she said. “In that case, maybe you should re-examine Anderton-Pullitt’s account of the supposed fight between Jackson and my son.”
Devine was taken aback. “Mrs. Knight, I really don’t see what relevance—”
“Don’t you? I do.” She turned to Bishop. “What I see is a concerted campaign of victimization against my son. It’s common knowledge that Mr. Straitley has his little favorites—his Brodie Boys, I understand he calls them—but I didn’t expect you to take his side in this. My son has been bullied, accused, humiliated, and now suspended from school—something that will go on his class record and perhaps even affect his university prospects—without even being given a chance to clear his name. And do you know why, Mr. Bishop? Do you have any idea why?”
Bishop was completely lost in the face of this attack. His charm—real as it is—is his only weapon, and Mrs. Knight was armored against it. The smile that had tamed my father failed to melt her ice; in fact, it seemed to infuriate her still more.
“I’ll tell you, shall I?” she said. “My son has been accused of theft, of assault, and now—as far as I can understand—of attempted murder—” At this point Bishop tried to interrupt, but she waved his protest aside. “And do you know why he has been singled out like this? Have you asked Mr. Straitley? Have you asked the other boys?” She paused for effect, and as she met my eyes I gave her an encouraging nod, and she bugled, just as her son had in Straitley’s class:
“Because he is Jewish! My son is a victim of discrimination! I want a proper investigation of all this”—she glared at Bishop—“and if I don’t get one, then you can expect a letter from my solicitor first thing in the morning!”
There was a resounding silence. Then Mrs. Knight swept out in a fusillade of heels; Dr. Devine looked shaken; Pat Bishop sat down with his hand over his eyes; and I allowed myself the tiniest of smiles.
Of course, it was understood that the matter would not be discussed outside the meetings room. Devine made that clear from the start, and I agreed, with becoming earnestness and respect. I should not have been there in the first place, said Devine; I had only been asked to attend as a witness, failing the presence of the boy’s form master. Not that anyone regretted Straitley’s absence; both Bishop and Devine were adamant that the old man, engaging as he was, would only have made a foul situation even worse.
“Of course there’s no truth in it,” said Bishop, recovering over a cup of tea. “There’s never been any question of anti-Semitism at St. Oswald’s. Never.”
Devine looked less convinced. “I’m as fond of Roy Straitley as anyone,” he said. “But there’s no denying he can be rather odd. Just because he’s been here longer than anyone, he tends to think he runs the place.”