“What incident?” I said.
For a moment he did not meet my eye. “The meeting ended just after six,” he said.
“That’s right,” I told him. “Miss Dare gave me a lift home.”
“I know,” said Pat. “Everyone left at about the same time, except for Miss Teague and Mr. Pearman, who stayed for about another twenty minutes.”
I shrugged. I wondered where he was going with this, and why he was being so formal about it. I looked at Pearman, but there was nothing in his expression to enlighten me.
“Miss Dare says you saw Jimmy Watt on the Lower Corridor as you went out,” said Pat. “He was polishing the floor, waiting to lock up.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Why? What’s happened?”
That might explain Pat’s manner, I thought. Jimmy, like Fallow, was one of Pat’s appointments, and he’d had to put up with a certain amount of criticism about it at the time. Still, Jimmy had always done a reasonable job. No great intellect, to be sure; but he was loyal, and that’s what really counts at St. Oswald’s.
“Jimmy Watt has been dismissed, following the incident last night.”
I didn’t believe it. “What incident?”
Miss Dare looked at me. “Apparently he didn’t check all the classrooms before locking up. Isabelle got shut in somehow, panicked, slipped down the stairs, and broke her ankle. She didn’t get out till six o’clock this morning.”
“Is she all right?”
“Is she ever?”
I had to laugh. It was typical St. Oswald’s farce, and the Second Master’s mournful expression made it even more ridiculous. “Oh, you can laugh,” said Pat in a sharp voice, “but there’s been an official complaint. Health and Safety have got involved.” That meant Devine. “Apparently someone spilt something—oil, she says—on the steps.”
“Oh.” Not so amusing, then. “Surely you can have a word with her?”
“Believe me, I have.” Pat sighed. “Miss Tapi seems to think there was more to it than just a mistake on Jimmy’s part. She seems to think there was deliberate mischief involved. And believe me, she knows her rights.”
Of course she did. Her type always do. Dr. Devine was her Union rep; I guessed that he would already have briefed her on precisely the kind of compensation she could expect. There would be an injury claim; a disability claim (surely no one could expect her to go to work with a broken ankle); plus the negligence claim and the claim for mental distress. You name it, she’d claim it: trauma, backache, chronic fatigue, whatever. I would be covering for her for the next twelve months.
As for the publicity—the Examiner would have a field day with this. Forget Knight. Tapi, with her long legs and expression of martyred bravery, was in another league.
“As if we hadn’t enough to deal with, just before an inspection,” said Pat bitterly. “Tell me, Roy, are there any other little scandals brewing that I should know about?”
8
Friday, 29th October
Dear old Bishop. Funny he should ask. As a matter of fact I know of at least two: one which has already begun to break with the slow inevitability of a tidal wave, and the second coming along nicely.
Literature, I’ve noticed, is filled with comforting drivel about the dying. Their patience; their understanding. My experience is that, if anything, the dying can be as vicious and unforgiving as those they leave so reluctantly behind. Sally Pearman is one of these. On the strength of that single letter (one of my best efforts, I have to say) she has set all the usual clichés into motion; locks changed; solicitor called; kids off to Granny; husband’s clothes discarded on the lawn. Pearman, of course, cannot lie. It’s almost as if he wanted to be found out. That look of misery and relief. Very Catholic. But it comforts him.
Kitty Teague is another matter. There is no one to comfort her now. Pearman, half crushed beneath his masochistic guilt, barely speaks to her; never catches her eye. Secretly, he holds her responsible—she is a woman, after all—and as Sally recedes, sweetened by remorse, into a mist of nostalgia, Kitty knows she will never be able to compete.
She was away from school today. Stress, apparently. Pearman took his classes, but he looks abstracted, and without Kitty to help him, he is dreadfully disorganized. As a result he makes numerous mistakes; fails to turn up to Easy’s appraisal; forgets a lunchtime duty; spends all break looking for a pile of sixth-form literature papers that he has mislaid (they are actually in Kitty’s locker in the Quiet Room; I know because I put them there).
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing in particular against the man. But I do have to keep moving on. And it’s more efficient to work in departments—in blocks, if you like—than to diffuse my efforts all over the school.
As for my other projects . . . Tapi’s escapade has missed today’s papers. A good sign; it means the Examiner is saving it for the weekend, but the grapevine tells me that she is very distressed, blames the school in general for her ordeal (and Pat Bishop in particular—seems he wasn’t quite sympathetic enough at the crucial time), and expects full Union support and a generous settlement, in or out of court.
Grachvogel was away again. I hear the poor chap’s prone to migraines, but I believe it may be more to do with the disturbing phone calls he has been receiving. Since his evening out with Light and the boys, he’s been looking less than perky. Of course, this is the age of equality—there can be no discrimination on the grounds of race, religion, or gender (ha!)—all the same he knows that to be a homosexual in a boys’ school is to be very vulnerable indeed, and he wonders how he could have given himself away, and to whom.
In normal circumstances he might have approached Pearman for help, but Pearman has troubles of his own, and Dr. Devine, technically his boss and head of department, would never understand. It’s his own fault, really. He should have known better than to hang around with Jeff Light. What was he thinking? Light is far less at risk. He oozes testosterone. Tapi sensed it; although I wonder what she will say when the full story eventually breaks. So far, he has been very supportive of Tapi’s plight; a keen Union man, he enjoys any situation that involves a challenge to the system. Good. But who knows, maybe that too will backfire. With a little help, of course.
And Jimmy Watt? Jimmy has gone for good, to be replaced by a fresh crew of contract cleaners from town. No one really cares about this except the Bursar (the contract cleaners are more expensive, plus they work to rule and know their rights) and possibly Bishop, who has a soft spot for hopeless cases (my father, for example) and would have liked to give Jimmy a second chance. Not so the Head, who managed to get the half-wit off the premises with astonishing (and not-quite-legal) speed (that should make an interesting piece for the Mole, when Tapi fizzles out), and who has remained shut in his office for most of the past two days, communicating only through his intercom and through Bob Strange, the one member of the upper management who remains completely indifferent to these petty disturbances.
As for Roy Straitley, don’t think I have forgotten him. He, most of all, is never far from my thoughts. But his extra duties keep him busy, which is what I need while I enter the next phase of my demolition plan. He is simmering nicely, though; I happened to be in the IT lab after school when I heard his voice in the corridor, and so was able to overhear an interesting conversation between Straitley and Beard regarding (a) Colin Knight and (b) Adrian Meek, the new IT teacher.