I wondered who had made the complaint. A neighbor; a passerby; a member of staff. A parent, perhaps, wanting his money’s worth. There were certainly plenty of things to complain about. The school itself has always attracted attention. It must be beyond reproach at all times. Its servants too must be beyond reproach; there is enough resentment between St. Oswald’s and the rest of the town without giving extra grist to the rumor mill. A Porter knows this; that is why St. Oswald’s has Porters.
I turned to my father. He would not look at me but kept his eyes on Bishop, who was already halfway to the door. “It wasn’t my fault,” he said. “I—we’ve been going through a bit of a rough patch, me and the kid. You tell them, sir. They’ll listen to you.”
Bishop’s smile—quite humorless now—could have spanned an acre. “I don’t know, John. You’re on a final warning. After that other business—hitting a lad, John—”
My father tried to stand. It took an effort; I saw his face, soft with distress, and felt my insides crawl with shame. “Please, sir—”
Bishop saw it too. His big frame filled the doorway. For a second his eyes rested on me and I saw pity in them, but not a glimmer of recognition, though he must have seen me at St. Oswald’s more than a dozen times. Somehow, that—his failure to see—was worse than anything else. I wanted to speak up, to say: Sir, don’t your ecognize me? It’s me, Pinchbeck. You gave me two House points once, remember, and told me to report for the cross-country team!
But it was impossible. I had fooled him too well. I had thought them so superior, the St. Oswald’s Masters; but here was Bishop looking flushed and sheepish, just as Mr. Bray had looked, the day I brought him down. What help could he give us? We were alone; and only I knew it.
“Sit tight, John. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you, sir.” He was shaking now. “You’re a friend.”
Bishop put a large hand on my father’s shoulder. He was good; his voice was warm and hearty, and he was still smiling. “Chin up, man. You can do it. With a bit of luck you’ll have it all in order by September, and no one need know any better. But no more messing about, eh? And John”—he swatted my father, in friendly fashion, on the arm, as if he were patting an overweight Labrador—“stay off the juice, won’t you? One more strike, and even I won’t be able to help you.”
To some extent, Bishop kept his word. The complaint was dropped—or at least shelved for the present. Bishop dropped by every few days to ask him how he was, and my father seemed to rally a little in response. More importantly, the Bursar had hired a handyman of sorts; a problem case called Jimmy Watt, who was supposed to take over some of the more irksome of the Porter’s duties, leaving John Snyde free to cope with the real work.
It was our last hope. Without his Porter’s job, I knew he had no chance against Sharon and Xavier. But he had to want to keep me, I thought; and for that, I had to be what he wanted me to be. And so, in my turn, I worked on my father. I watched football on television; ate fish-and-chips from newspaper; jettisoned my books; volunteered for every household chore. At first he watched me with suspicion, then bemusement, and finally, a sullen kind of approval. The fatalism that had first afflicted him when he learned of my mother’s situation seemed to erode a little; he spoke with bitter sarcasm of her Paris lifestyle, her fancy college-boy husband, her assumption that she could re-enter his life on whatever terms she damn well pleased.
Emboldened, I fed him the notion of thwarting her plans; of showing her who was boss; of playing along with her pathetic ambitions only to frustrate her with his final, decisive master stroke. It appealed to his nature; it gave him direction; he had always been a man’s man, with a sour distrust of the machinations of women.
“They’re all at it,” he told me one time, forgetting who I was as he launched into one of his frequent rants. “The bitches. All smiles one minute, and the next they’re reaching for the kitchen knife to stab you in the back. Get away with it too—it’s in the papers every day. I mean, what can you do? Big strong man—poor little girlie—I mean it stands to reason he must’ve done something to her, right? Spousal abuse or whatever the fuck—and the next thing you know there she is, in court, fluttering her eyelashes, getting custody of kids and cash and God knows what else—”
“Not this kid,” I said.
“Ah, come on,” said John Snyde. “You can’t mean it. Paris, a good school, a new life—”
“I told you,” I said. “I want to stay here.”
“But why?” He stared at me befuddled, like a dog denied a walk. “You could have anything you wanted. Clothes, records—”
I shook my head. “I don’t want them,” I said. “She can’t just come back here after five bloody years and try to buy me with that French bloke’s money.” He was watching me now, a crease between his blue eyes. “I mean, you’ve been there all the time,” I said. “Looking out for me. Doing your best.” He nodded then, a tiny movement, and I could tell he was paying attention. “We’ve been all right, haven’t we, Dad? What do we need them for anyway?”
There was a silence. I could tell that my words had struck a chord. “You’ve been all right,” he said. I wasn’t sure whether or not he meant it as a question.
“We’ll manage,” I said. “We always have. Hit first and hit fast. Never give up, eh, Dad? Never let the bastards grind you down?”
Another pause, long enough to drown in. Then he laughed, a startling, sunny, young laugh that took me by surprise. “All right, kid,” he said. “We’ll give it a try.”
And so, in hope, we entered August. My birthday was in three weeks’ time; term started in four. Ample time for my father to restore the grounds to their original perfection, to complete the maintenance work, to set traps for the mice, and to repaint the Games Pavilion in time for September. My optimism returned. There was some justification; my father had not forgotten our conversation in the lounge, and this time he really seemed to be making an effort.
It made me hopeful, even a little ashamed at how I’d treated him in the past. I’d had my problems with John Snyde, I thought; but at least he was honest. He’d done his best. He hadn’t abandoned me, then tried to bribe me back to his side. In the light of my mother’s actions, even the football matches and the karate lessons seemed less ridiculous to me now, and more like clumsy but sincere overtures of friendship.
And so I helped him as best I could; I cleaned the house; I washed his clothes; I even forced him to shave. I was obedient, almost affectionate. I needed him to keep this job; it was my only weapon against Sharon; my ticket to St. Oswald’s, and to Leon.
Leon. Strange, isn’t it, how one obsession grows from another? At first it was St. Oswald’s; the challenge; joy of subterfuge; the need to belong; to be someone more than the child of John and Sharon Snyde. Now it was just Leon; to be with Leon; to know him, possess him in ways I could not yet understand. There was no single reason for my choice. Yes, he was attractive. He had been kind too in his careless way; he had included me; he had given me the means of revenge against Bray, my tormentor. And I had been lonely; vulnerable; desperate; weak.