He frowned. “There’s been talk of having you suspended.”
“Really?” That would be Strange, or maybe Devine, with his eye to room fifty-nine and the last outpost of my little empire. “I’m sure you told them what would happen if they tried. Suspension, without a formal warning?” I’m not a Union man, but Sourgrape is, and so is the Head. “He who lives by the book dies by the book. And they know it.”
Once more, Pat did not meet my eye. “I hoped I wouldn’t have to tell you this,” he said. “But you haven’t left me any choice.”
“Tell me what?” I said, knowing the answer.
“A warning’s been drafted,” he said.
“Drafted? By whom?” As if I didn’t know. Strange, of course; the man who had already devalued my department, downsized my timetable, and who now hoped to put me to rest while the Suits and Beards took over the world.
Bishop sighed. “Listen, Roy, you’re not the only one with problems.”
“I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Some of us, however—”
Some of us, however, are paid more than others to deal with them. It’s true, though, that we rarely think of our colleagues’ private lives. Children, lovers, homes. The boys are always astonished to see us in a context outside of St. Oswald’s—buying groceries in a supermarket; at the barber’s; in a pub. Astonished, and mildly delighted, like spotting a famous person in the street. I saw you in town on Saturday, sir! As if they imagined us hanging up behind our form room doors, like discarded gowns, between Friday night and Monday morning.
To tell the truth, I am somewhat guilty of this myself. But seeing Bishop today—I mean, really seeing him; his rugbyman’s bulk gone half to fat in spite of that daily run and his face drawn, drawn, the face of a man who has never quite understood how easily fourteen slipped away and fifty settled in—I felt an unexpected pang of sympathy.
“Listen, Pat. I know you’re—”
But Bishop had already turned to go, slouching off down the Upper Corridor, hands in pockets, broad shoulders slightly bowed. It was a pose I’d seen him adopt many times when the school rugby team lost against St. Henry’s, but I knew Bishop too well to believe that the grief implicit in his posture was anything other than a pose. No, he was angry. At himself, perhaps—he’s a good man, even if he is the Head’s man—but most of all, at my lack of cooperation, school spirit, and understanding for his own difficult position.
Oh, I felt for him—but you don’t get to be Second Master in a place like St. Oswald’s without encountering the occasional problem or two. He knows that the Head would be only too pleased to make a scapegoat of me—I don’t have much of a career ahead of me, after all, plus I’m expensive and nearing retirement. My replacement would come as a relief to many—my replacement a young chap, a corporate Suit; trained in IT; veteran of many courses; streamlined for rapid promotion. My little malaise must have given them hope. At last, an excuse to be rid of old Straitley without causing too much fuss. A dignified retirement on grounds of ill health; silver plaque; sealed envelope; flattering address to the Common Room.
As for the business of Knight and the rest—well! What could be easier than to lay the blame—ever so quietly—on a former colleague? Before your time; one of the old school, you know, awfully good chap, but set in his ways; not a team player. Not one of us.
Well, you were wrong, Headmaster. I have no intention of going gently into retirement. And as for your written warning, pone ubi sol non lucet. I’ll score my Century, or die in the attempt. One for the Honors Board.
I was still in a martial frame of mind when I got home this evening, and the invisible finger was back, poking gently but persistently at my wishbone. I took two of the pills Bevans prescribed and washed them down with a small medicinal sherry before settling down to some fifth-form marking. It was dark by the time I had finished. At seven I stood up to draw the curtains, when a movement from the garden caught my eye. I leaned closer to the window.
Mine is a long, narrow garden, a seeming throwback to the days of strip farming, with a hedge on one side, a wall on the other, and a variety of shrubs and vegetables growing more or less at random in between. At the far end there is a big old horse chestnut tree, overhanging Dog Lane, which is separated from the back garden by a fence. Under the tree is a patch of mossy grass on which I like to sit in summer (or did, before the process of getting up again became so cumbersome) and a small and decrepit shed in which I keep a few things.
I have never actually been burgled. I don’t suppose I have anything really worth stealing, unless you count books, which are generally held to be worthless by the criminal fraternity. But Dog Lane has a reputation; there is a pub at the corner, which generates noise; a fish-and-chips shop at the far end, which generates litter; and of course, Sunnybank Park Comprehensive close nearby, which generates almost anything you can think of, including noise, litter, and a twice-daily stampede past my house that would put even the most unruly Ozzies to shame. I tend to be generally tolerant of this. I even turn a blind eye to the occasional intruder hopping over the fence during the conker season. A horse chestnut tree in October belongs to everyone, Sunnybankers included.
But this was different. For a start, school was long past. It was dark and rather cold, and there was something unpleasantly furtive about the movement I had glimpsed.
Pressing my face to the window, I saw three or four shapes at the far end of the garden, not large enough to be fully adult. Boys, then; now I could hear their voices, very dimly, through the glass.
That surprised me. Usually conker hunters are quick and unobtrusive. Most people on the lane know my profession, and respect it; and the Sunnybankers to whom I have spoken about their littering habits have rarely, if ever, re-offended.
I rapped sharply on the glass. Now they would run, I thought; but instead the figures fell still, and a few seconds later I heard—unmistakeably—jeering from under the horse chestnut tree.
“That does it.” In four strides I was at the door. “Oy!” I yelled in my best magisterial voice. “What the hell do you boys think you’re doing!”
More laughter from the bottom of the garden. Two ran, I think—I saw their brief outline, etched in neon, as they climbed the fence. The other two remained, secure in the darkness and reassured by the length of the narrow path.
“I said what are you doing?” It was the first time in years that a boy—even a Sunnybanker—had defied me. I felt a surge of adrenaline and the invisible finger poked at me again. “Come here at once!”
“Or what?” The voice was brash and youthful. “Think you can take me, you fat bastard?”
“Like fuck he can, he’s too old!”
Rage gave me speed; I set off down the path like a buffalo, but it was dark, the path was greasy, my foot in its leather-soled slipper shot to the side, taking me off balance.
I did not fall, but it was close. I wrenched my knee, and when I looked back the two remaining boys were climbing over the fence, in a clap and flutter of laughter, like ugly birds taking wing.
8
St Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Thursday, 14th October
It was a small incident. A minor irritant, that’s all. No damage was done. And yet—There was a time when I would have caught those boys, whatever it took, and dragged them back by the ears. Not now, of course. Sunnybankers know their rights. Even so, it’s the first time in many years that my authority has been so deliberately challenged. They scent weakness. All boys do. And it was a mistake to run like that, in the dark, after what Bevans told me. It looked rushed, undignified. A student teacher’s mistake. I should have crept out into Dog Lane and caught them as they climbed over the fence. They were only boys—thirteen or fourteen, judging by their voices. Since when did Roy Straitley allow a few boys to defy him?