Of course, schoolboy crushes are a fact of teaching, with which we learn to deal as best we can. We’ve all been on the receiving end at some time or another—even people like Hillary Monument and myself, who, let’s face it, are about as unsightly a pair as you’re likely to find out of captivity. We all have our ways of dealing with it, though I believe Isabelle Tapi actually encourages the boys—certainly, she has any number of Special Little Friends, as do Robbie Roach and Penny Nation. As for myself, I find that a brisk manner and a policy of benevolent neglect usually discourage overfamiliarity in the Anderton-Pullitts of this world.
Still, all in all, not a bad lot, 3S. They have grown over the holidays; some look almost adult. That ought to make me feel old, but it does not; instead I feel a kind of reluctant pride. I like to think that I treat all the boys equally, but I have developed an especial fondness for this form, which has been with me for the past two years. I like to think we understand each other.
“Oh, sü-üür!” There were moans as I handed out Latin tests to everyone.
“It’s the first day, sir!”
“Can’t we have a quiz, sir?”
“Can we do hangman in Latin?”
“When I have taught you everything I know, Mr. Allen-Jones, then perhaps we may find time to indulge in trivial pursuits.”
Allen-Jones grinned, and I saw that in the space marked FORM ROOM on the cover of his Latin book, he had written Room formerly known as 59.
There was a knock, and Dr. Devine put his head around the door.
“Mr. Straitley?”
“Quid agis, Medice?”
The class sniggered. Sourgrape, who never did Classics, looked annoyed. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Straitley. Could I have a quick word, please?”
We went out into the corridor while I kept watch on the boys through the panel in the door. McNair was already beginning to write something on his desk, and I gave the glass a warning tap.
Sourgrape eyed me disapprovingly. “I was really hoping to reorganize the departmental workroom this morning,” he said. “Your filing cabinets—”
“Oh, I’ll deal with those,” I replied. “Just leave it all to me.”
“Then there’s the desk—and the books—not to mention all those enormous plants—”
“Just make yourself at home,” I said in an airy tone. “Don’t mind my stuff at all.” There was thirty years of assorted paperwork in that desk. “Perhaps you’d like to transfer some of the files to the Archives, if you’re free,” I suggested helpfully.
“I would not,” snapped Sourgrape. “And while we’re at it, perhaps you can tell me who has removed the new number fifty-nine from the door of the departmental workroom and replaced it by this?” He handed me a piece of card, upon which someone had written: Room formerly known as 75 in an exuberant (and rather familiar) young scrawl.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Devine. I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Well, it’s nothing more than theft. Those door plaques cost four pounds each. That comes to a hundred and thirteen pounds in all for twenty-eight rooms, and six of them are gone already. I don’t know what you’re grinning at, Straitley, but—”
“Grinning, did you say? Not at all. Tampering with room numbers? Deplorable.” This time I managed to keep a straight face, though Sourgrape seemed unconvinced.
“Well, I shall be making enquiries, and I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye out for the culprit. We can’t have this kind of thing happening. It’s disgraceful. This school’s security has been a shambles for years.”
Dr. Devine wants surveillance cameras on the Middle Corridor—ostensibly for security, but actually because he wants to be able to watch what everyone gets up to: who lets the boys watch test cricket instead of doing exam revision; who does the crossword during reading comprehensions; who is always twenty minutes late; who nips out for a cup of coffee; who allows indiscipline; who prepares his work materials in advance, who makes it up as he goes along.
Oh, he’d love to have all those things on camera; to possess hard evidence of our little failures, our little incompetencies. To be able to demonstrate (during a school inspection, for instance) that Isabelle is often late to lessons; that Pearman sometimes forgets to arrive at all. That Eric Scoones loses his temper and occasionally cuffs a boy across the head, that I rarely use visual aids, and that Grachvogel, in spite of his modern methods, has difficulty controlling his class. I know all those things, of course. Devine merely suspects.
I also know that Eric’s mother has Alzheimer’s disease, and that he is fighting to keep her at home; that Pearman’s wife has cancer; and that Grachvogel is homosexual, and afraid. Sourgrape has no idea of these things, closeted as he is in his ivory tower in the old Classics office. Furthermore, he does not care. Information, not understanding, is the name of his game.
After the lesson I discreetly used the master key to get into Allen-Jones’s locker. Sure enough, the six door plaques were there, along with a set of small screwdrivers and the discarded screws, all of which I removed. I would ask Jimmy to replace the plaques at lunchtime. Fallow would have asked questions and might even have reported back to Dr. Devine.
There seemed no point in taking further action. If Allen-Jones had any sense, he wouldn’t mention the matter either. As I closed the locker I caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and a lighter concealed behind a copy of Julius Caesar but decided not to notice them.
I was free for most of the afternoon. I would have liked to stay in my room, but Meek was in there with a third-year maths class, so I retreated to the Quiet Room (sadly a no-smoking area) for a comfortable chat with any colleagues who happened to be available.
The Quiet Room is, of course, a misnomer. A kind of communal office with desks in the middle and lockers around the edges, it is here that the staff grapevine has its roots. Here, under the pretext of marking, news is disseminated, rumors spread. It has the added advantage of being precisely underneath my room, and this lucky coincidence means that if required, I can leave a class to work in silence while I have a cup of tea or read the Times in congenial surroundings. Any sound from above is distinctly audible, including individual voices, and it is the work of an instant for me to rise, apprehend, and swiftly punish any boy who creates a disturbance. In this way I have acquired a reputation for omniscience, which serves me well.
In the Quiet Room I found Chris Keane, Kitty Teague, Robbie Roach, Eric Scoones, and Paddy McDonaugh, the RE master. Keane was reading, occasionally making notes in a red-bound notebook. Kitty and Scoones were going through departmental report cards. McDonaugh was drinking tea whilst flicking through the pages of The Encyclopaedia of Demons and Demonology. Sometimes I think that man takes his job a little too seriously.
Roach was engrossed in the Mirror. “Thirty-seven to go,” he said.
There was a silence. When no one questioned his statement he elaborated. “Thirty-seven working days,” he said. “Till half-term.”
McDonaugh snorted. “Since when did you ever do any work?” he said.