So I carved my initials alongside those of generations of Old Oswaldians on the oak panels in the Refectory. I watched weekend sports fixtures from a hiding place at the back of the Games Pavilion. I struggled to the top of the sycamore tree in the center of the Quad and made faces at the gargoyles at the edge of the roof. After school I ran back as fast as I could to St. Oswald’s and watched the boys as they left; heard their laughter and their complaints, spied on their fights, breathed the exhaust fumes of their parents’ expensive cars as if it were incense. Our own school book-room was poorly stocked, mostly with paperbacks and comics, but in St. Oswald’s huge cloistered library I read avidly—Ivanhoe and Great Expectations and Tom Brown’s Schooldays and Gormenghast and The Arabian Nights and King Solomon’s Mines. Often I smuggled books home—some of them hadn’t been taken out of the library since the 1940s. My favorite was The Invisible Man. Walking along the corridors of St. Oswald’s at night, smelling the day’s chalk and the bland lingerings of the kitchen, hearing the dead echoes of happy voices and watching the shadows of the trees fall onto the newly polished floors, I knew exactly, and with a deep ache of longing, how he had felt.
All I wanted, you see, was to belong. Abbey Road Juniors had been shabby and run-down, a failing tribute to 1960s liberalism. But Sunnybank Park was infinitely worse. I took regular beatings for my leather briefcase (everyone that year was carrying Adidas bags); for my contempt of sports; for my smart mouth; for my love of books; for my clothes; and for the fact that my father worked at That Posh School (it didn’t seem to matter that he was only the caretaker). I learned to run fast and to keep my head down. I imagined myself an exile, set apart from the others, who would one day be called back to where I belonged. Deep down I thought that if I proved myself, somehow, if I could withstand the bullying and the petty humiliations, then St. Oswald’s would one day welcome me.
When I was eleven and the doctor decided I needed glasses, my father blamed my reading. But secretly I knew that I had reached another milestone on the way to St. Oswald’s, and although “Snobby Snyde” quickly became “Speccy Snyde,” still I was obscurely pleased. I scrutinized myself in the bathroom mirror and decided that I almost looked the part.
I still do; though the glasses have been replaced by contact lenses (just in case). My hair is a little darker than it was then, and better cut. My clothes too are well cut, but not too formal—I don’t want to look as if I’m trying too hard. I’m especially pleased with the voice; no trace of my father’s accent remains, but the fake refinement, which made Snobby Snyde such a dreadful little upstart, has vanished. My new persona is likeable without being intrusive; a good listener; precisely the qualities needed in a murderer and a spy.
All in all, I was pleased with my performance today. Perhaps some part of me still expects to be recognized, for the thrill of danger was vivid in me all day as I tried not to seem too familiar with the buildings, the rules, the people.
The teaching part, surprisingly, is the easiest. I have my subject’s lower sets throughout, thanks to Strange’s unique timetabling methods (senior staff invariably get the better classes, leaving the new appointees with the rabble), and this means that, although my timetable is full, it is not especially taxing. I know enough about my subject to fool the boys, at least; when in doubt I use the teachers’ books to help me.
It is enough for my purpose. No one suspects. I have no top sets or sixth-formers to challenge my superior knowledge. Nor do I anticipate any discipline problems. These boys are very different from the pupils of Sunnybank Park, and I have the whole disciplinary infrastructure of St. Oswald’s to reinforce my position, should I need it.
I sense that I will not, however. These boys are paying customers. They are used to obeying their teachers; their misbehavior is limited to the occasional missed prep, or whispering in the classroom. The cane is no longer used—it is no longer necessary in the face of the greater, unspecified threat. It’s rather comic, really. Comic and ridiculously simple. It’s a game, of course; a battle of wills between myself and the rabble. We all know that there is nothing I could do if they all decided to leave the room at once. We all know, but no one dares to call my bluff.
All the same, I must not be complacent. My cover is good, but even a small misstep at this stage might prove disastrous. That secretary, for instance. Not that her presence changes anything, but it just goes to show that you can’t anticipate every move.
I am wary too of Roy Straitley. Neither the Head, nor Bishop, nor Strange has spared me a second glance. But Straitley is different. His eyes are still as keen as they were fifteen years ago—and his brain too. The boys always respected him, even if his colleagues didn’t. Much of the gossip I overheard during those years at St. Oswald’s was in some way to do with him, and though his role in what happened was small, it was nevertheless significant.
He has aged, of course. He must be close to retirement now. But he hasn’t changed; still the same affectations, the gown, the tweed jacket, the Latin phrases. I felt almost fond of him today, as if he were an old uncle I hadn’t seen for years. But I can see him behind his disguise, even if he does not see me. I know my enemy.
I’d almost expected to hear of his retirement. In a way it would have made things easier. But after today, I’m glad he’s still here. It adds excitement to the situation. Besides, the day I bring St. Oswald’s down, I want Roy Straitley to be there.
5
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Tuesday, 7th September
There’s always a special kind of chaos on the first day. Boys late, boys lost, books to be collected, stationery to be distributed. The classroom changes didn’t help; the new timetable had failed to take into account the renumbering of the rooms, and had to be followed by a memo that no one read. Several times I intercepted columns of boys marching toward the new German departmental office instead of toward the Bell Tower, and had to redirect them.
Dr. Devine was looking stressed. I had still not cleared out my old office, of course; all the filing cabinets were locked, and only I had the key. Then there were registers, holiday work to collect, fee checks to be sent to the Bursar’s office, locker keys to distribute, seating arrangements to be made, law to be enforced.
Luckily, I don’t have a new form this year. My boys—thirty-one of them in all—are old lags, and they know what to expect. They have got used to me, and I to them. There’s Pink, a quiet, quirky lad with a strangely adult sense of humor, and his friend Tayler; then there are my Brodie Boys, Allen-Jones and McNair, two extravagant jokers who earn themselves fewer detentions than they deserve because they make me laugh; then redheaded Sutcliff; then Niu, a Japanese boy, very active in the school orchestra; then Knight, whom I do not trust; little Jackson, who has to prove himself on a daily basis by picking fights; large Brasenose, who is easily bullied; and Anderton-Pullitt, a clever, solitary, ponderous boy who has many allergies including, if we are to believe him, a very special form of asthma which means that he should be excused from all kinds of sports, as well as maths, French, Religious Education, homework on Mondays, House Meetings, Assemblies, and Chapel. He also has a habit of following me around—which has caused Kitty Teague to make jokes at the expense of my Special Little Friend—and bending my ear about his various enthusiasms (First World War aircraft, computer games, the music of Gilbert and Sullivan). As a rule I don’t mind too much—he’s an odd boy, excluded by his peers, and I think he may be lonely—but on the other hand, I have work to do and no desire to spend what free time I have in socializing with Anderton-Pullitt.