“I’m sure he doesn’t mean any harm,” I said. “It’s a stressful job for a man of his age, and everyone can make the occasional error of judgment from time to time.”
Bishop looked at me. “What do you mean? Have you heard anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you sure?” That was Devine, almost falling over in his eagerness.
“Absolutely, sir. I simply meant—” I hesitated.
“What? Out with it!”
“I’m sure it’s nothing, sir. For his age, I think he’s remarkably alert. It’s just that recently I’ve been noticing—” And with becoming reluctance I mentioned the missing register, the missed e-mails, the ridiculous fuss he’d made over the loss of that old green pen, not forgetting those few vital, register-less moments, when he had failed to notice the unconscious boy gasping out his life on the classroom floor.
Emphatic denial is by far the best tactic when seeking to incriminate an enemy. And so I managed to convey my utmost respect and admiration of Roy Straitley whilst innocently implying the rest. Thus I am shown to be a loyal member of the school—if a trifle naive—and second, I ensure that doubt remains like a splinter in the minds of Bishop and Devine, preparing them for the next headline, which, as it happened, was to feature in the Examiner this very week. NUTS TO YOU, SIR! Colin Knight is a studious, shy young man who has found the social and academic pressures of St. Oswald’s increasingly difficult to deal with. “There’s a lot of bullying,” he told the Examiner, “but most of us don’t dare report it. Some boys can do anything they like at St. Oswald’s, because some of the teachers are on their side, and anyone who makes a complaint is bound to get into trouble.” Certainly, Colin Knight does not look like a troublemaker. And yet, if we are to believe the complaints leveled against him this term by his form master (Roy Straitley, 65), he has, in three short weeks, been guilty of numerous instances of theft, lying, and bullying, culminating in his suspension from school following a bizarre accusation of assault, when a fellow student (James Anderton-Pullitt, 13) choked on a peanut. We spoke to John Fallow, dismissed from St. Oswald’s two weeks ago after fifteen years’ loyal service. “I’m glad to see young Knight standing up for himself,” Fallow told the Examiner. “But the Anderton-Pullitts are school governors, and the Knights are just an ordinary family.” Pat Bishop (54), Second Master and spokesman for St. Oswald’s, told us: “This is an internal disciplinary matter which will be thoroughly investigated before any further decision is taken.” In the meantime, Colin Knight will continue his education from his bedroom, forfeiting his right to attend the classes for which his family pays seven thousand pounds a year. And although for the average St. Oswald’s pupil this may not count for much, for ordinary people like the Knights, it’s very far from peanuts.
I’m rather proud of that little piece: a medley of fact, conjecture, and low humor that should rankle suitably in the arrogant heart of St. Oswald’s. My one regret was that I could not sign my name to it—not even my assumed name, although Mole was certainly instrumental in its construction.
Instead I used a female reporter as my cover and e-mailed my copy to her as before, adding a few details to facilitate her enquiry. The piece ran, flanked by a photograph of young Knight—clean and wholesome in his school uniform—and a grainy class portrait from 1997, showing Straitley looking blotchy and dissipated, surrounded by boys.
Of course, any criticism of St. Oswald’s is balm to the Examiner. By the weekend it had resurfaced twice in the national press: once as a cheery blip on page ten of the News of the World, and once as part of a more contemplative editorial piece in the Guardian, entitled “Rough Justice in Our Independent Schools.”
All in all, a good day’s work. I’d made sure that any mention of anti-Semitism was withheld for the present and instead worked on my touching depiction of the Knights as honest folk, but poor. That’s what the readers really want—a story of people like themselves (they think), scrimping and saving to send their kids to the best possible school—although I’d like to see any of them actually blowing seven grand in beer money on fees, for God’s sake, when the government’s giving out education for free.
My father read the News of the World too, and he was filled with the same ponderous clichés about School’s your best investment and Learning is for life, though as far as I could see, it never went further than that, and if he saw the irony in his words, he never gave any sign of it.
7
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Wednesday, 13th October
Knight was back on Monday morning. Wearing an expression of martyred bravery, like an assault victim, and the tiniest of smirks. The other boys treated him with caution but were not unkind; in fact I noticed that Brasenose, who usually avoids him, went out of his way to be friendly, sitting next to him at lunchtime and even offering him half of his chocolate bar. It was as if Brasenose, the perpetual victim, had spotted a potential defender in the newly vindicated Knight and was making an effort to cultivate his friendship.
Anderton-Pullitt was back too; looking none the worse for his near-death experience, and with a new book on First World War aircraft with which to plague us. As for myself, I’ve been worse. I said as much to Dianne Dare when she questioned the wisdom of my swift return to work, and later, to Pat Bishop who accused me of looking tired.
I have to say he isn’t looking too well himself at the moment. First the Fallow case, then the scene with Anderton-Pullitt, and finally this business with Knight . . . I’d heard from Marlene that Pat had slept more than one night in his office; and now I saw that his face was redder than usual, and his eyes bloodshot. From the way he approached me I guessed the New Head had sent him to sound me out, and I could tell Bishop wasn’t pleased about this, but as Second Master, his duty is to the head, whatever his own feelings on the matter.
“You look exhausted, Roy. Are you sure you ought to be here?”
“Nothing wrong with me that a good strict nurse can’t cure.”
He did not smile. “After what happened, I thought you might at least take a week or two.”
I could see where this was leading. “Nothing happened,” I said shortly.
“That’s not true. You had an attack—”
“Nerves. Nothing more.”
He sighed. “Roy, be reasonable—”
“Don’t lecture me, Pat. I’m not one of your boys.”
“Don’t be like that,” said Pat. “We just thought—”
“You, the Head, and Strange—”
“We just thought you could do with a rest.”
I looked at him, but he would not quite meet my eye. “A rest?” I said. I was beginning to feel annoyed. “Yes, I see that it might be very convenient if I did take a few weeks off. Give things time to settle down? Give you a chance to smooth a few ruffled feathers? Maybe pave the way for some of Mr. Strange’s new developments?”
I was right, which made him angry. He didn’t say anything, though I could tell he wanted to, and his face, already flushed, took on a deeper shade. “You’re slowing down, Roy,” he said. “Face it, you’re forgetting things. And you’re not as young as you were.”
“Is anyone?”