“I see. Well, pack up your things, boys, quick as you can. Don’t want any of you to miss the bus.”
“I don’t catch the bus, sir.” It was Knight again. “My mother picks me up. Too many perverts around nowadays.”
Now I try to be fair. I really do. I pride myself upon it, in fact; my fairness; my sound judgment. I may be rough, but I am always fair; I never make a threat that I would not carry out, or a promise I do not mean to keep. The boys know it, and most of them respect that; you know where you stand with old Quaz, and he doesn’t let sentiment interfere with the job. At least I hope so; I’m getting increasingly sentimental with my advancing years, but I don’t think that has ever got in the way of my duty.
However, in any teacher’s career there are times where objectivity fails. Looking at Knight, his head still lowered but his eyes darting nervously back and forth, I was reminded once more of that failure. I don’t trust Knight; the truth is there’s something about him that I’ve always detested. I know I shouldn’t, but even teachers are human beings. We have our preferences. Of course we do; it is simply unfairness that we must avoid. And I do try; but I am aware that of my little group, Knight is the misfit, the Judas, the Jonah, the one who inevitably takes it too far, mistakes humor for insolence, mischief for spite. A sullen, cosseted, whey-faced little cuss who blames everyone for his inadequacies but himself. All the same, I treat him exactly as I do the rest; I even tend to leniency toward him because I know my weakness.
But today there was something in his manner that made me uneasy. As if he knew something, some unhealthy secret that both delighted him and made him ill. He certainly looks ill, in spite of his smugness; there is a new flare of acne across his pallid features, a greasy sheen to his flat brown hair. Testosterone, most likely. All the same I cannot help thinking the boy knows something. With Sutcliff or Allen-Jones, the information (whatever it was) would have been mine for the asking. But with Knight. . .
“Did something happen in Mr. Grachvogel’s class today?”
“Sir?” Knight’s face was a cautious blank.
“I heard shouting,” I said.
“Not me, sir,” said Knight.
“No. Of course not.”
It was useless. Knight would never tell. Shrugging, I left the Bell Tower, heading for the Languages office and our first departmental meeting of the new half-term. Grachvogel would be there; maybe I could talk to him before he left. Knight—I told myself—could wait. At least until tomorrow.
There was no sign of Gerry at the meeting. Everyone else was there, which made me more certain than ever that my colleague was ill. Gerry never misses a meeting; loves in-service training; sings energetically in assemblies; and always does his prep. Today he wasn’t there; and when I mentioned his absence to Dr. Devine, the response was so chilly that I wished I hadn’t. Still miffy about the old office, I suppose; all the same, there was more in his manner than the usual disapproval; and I was rather subdued during the course of the meeting, going over all the things that I might unwittingly have done to provoke the old idiot. You wouldn’t know it, but I’m quite fond of him really, suits and all; he’s one of the few constants in a changing world, and there are already too few of those to go round.
And so the meeting wore on, with Pearman and Scoones arguing over the merits of various exam boards, Dr. Devine icy and dignified; Kitty unusually lackluster; Isabelle filing her nails; Geoff and Penny Nation sitting to attention like the Bobbsey Twins, and Dianne Dare watching everything as if departmental meetings were the most fascinating spectacle in the world.
It was dark when the meeting finished, and the school was deserted. Even the cleaners had gone. Only Jimmy remained, walking the polishing machine slowly and conscientiously over the parquet floor of the Lower Corridor. “Night, boss,” he told me as I passed. “ ’Nother one done, eh?”
“You’ve got your work cut out,” I said. Since Fallow’s suspension, Jimmy has carried out all the Porter’s duties, and it has been a heavy task. “When’s the new man starting?”
“Fortnight,” said Jimmy, grinning all over his moon face. “Shuttleworth, he’s called. Supports Everton. Reckon we’ll get on all right though.”
I smiled. “You didn’t fancy the job yourself, then?”
“Nah, boss.” Jimmy shook his head. “Too much hassle.”
When I reached the school car park, it was raining heavily. The Nations’ car was already pulling out of their allocated space. Eric doesn’t have a car—his eyesight is too bad, and besides, he lives practically next door to the school. Pearman and Kitty were still in the office, going over papers—since his wife’s illness, Pearman has been increasingly reliant on Kitty. Isabelle Tapi was redoing her makeup—Gods knew how long that might take—and I knew I could not expect a lift from Dr. Devine.
“Miss Dare, I wonder if—”
“Of course. Hop in.”
I thanked her and settled into the passenger seat of the little Corsa. I have noticed that a car, like a desk, frequently reflects the owner’s mind. Pearman’s is exceptionally messy. The Nations have a bumper sticker that reads: DON’T FOLLOW ME, FOLLOW JESUS. Isabelle’s has a Care Bear dashboard toy.
By contrast, Dianne’s car is neat, clean, functional. Not a cuddly toy or amusing slogan in sight. I like that; it’s the sign of an ordered mind. If I had a car, it would probably be like room fifty-nine; all oak paneling and dusty spider plants.
I said as much to Miss Dare, and she laughed. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said, turning onto the main road. “Like dog owners and their pets.”
“Or teachers and their coffee mugs.”
“Really?” Apparently Miss Dare has never noticed. She herself uses a school mug (plain white, with blue trim) as supplied by the kitchens. She seems remarkably free of whimsy for such a young woman (admittedly, my basis for comparison is not extensive); but this, I think, is a part of her charm. It struck me that she might get on well with young Keane—who is also very cool for a fresher—but when I asked her how she was getting along with the other new staff she simply shrugged.
“Too busy?” I ventured.
“Not my type. Drink-driving with boys in the car. How stupid.”
Well, amen to that: the idiot Light had certainly blotted his copybook with his ridiculous antics in town. Easy’s just another disposable Suit; Meek a resignation waiting to happen. “What about Keane?”
“I haven’t really spoken to him.”
“You should. Local boy. I’ve a feeling he might be your type.”
I told you I was getting sentimental. I’m hardly built for it, after all, but there’s something about Miss Dare that brings it out, somehow. A trainee Dragon, if ever I saw one (though better-looking than most Dragons I have known), I find that I have no difficulty in imagining her in thirty or forty years’ time, looking something like Margaret Rutherford in The Happiest Days of Your Lives, if rather slimmer, but with the same humorous twist.
It’s all too easy to get drawn in, you know; at St. Oswald’s, different laws apply than those of the world outside. One of these is Time, which passes much faster here than anywhere else. Look at me: approaching my Century, and yet when I look in the mirror I see the same boy I always was—now a gray-haired boy with too much luggage under his eyes and the unmistakeable, faintly dissipated air of an old class clown.
I tried—and failed—to communicate some part of this to Dianne Dare. But we were nearing my house; the rain had stopped; I asked her to drop me off at the end of Dog Lane and explained that I wanted a chance to check the fence; to make sure the graffiti incident had not been repeated.