“I’ve already done my share,” said Roach, turning a page. “Don’t forget I’ve been at camp since August.” Summer camp is Robbie’s contribution to the school’s extracurricular program: for three weeks a year he goes to Wales with a minibus of boys to lead walking expeditions, canoeing, paintballing, and go-karting. It’s what he enjoys; he gets to wear jeans every day and have the boys call him by his first name, but still he maintains that it is a great sacrifice, and claims his right to take it easy for the rest of the year.
“Camp,” scoffed McDonaugh.
Scoones eyed them with disapproval. “I thought this was supposed to be the Quiet Room,” he pointed out in chilling tones, before returning to his report cards.
There was silence for a moment. Eric’s a good chap, but moody; on another day he might be full of gossip himself; today he looked glum. It was probably the new addition to the French department, I thought to myself. Miss Dare is young, ambitious, and bright—one more person to beware of. Plus, she’s a woman, and an old-timer like Scoones doesn’t like working alongside a woman thirty years younger than he is. He has been expecting promotion at any time these past fifteen years, but he won’t get it now. He’s too old—and not half conciliatory enough. Everybody knows it but Scoones himself, and any change to the departmental lineup only serves to remind him that he isn’t getting any younger.
Kitty gave me a humorous look, which confirmed my suspicions. “Lots of admin to catch up on,” she whispered. “There was a bit of a mix-up last term, and for some reason, these records got overlooked.”
What she means is that Pearman overlooked them. I’ve seen his office—overflowing with neglected paperwork, important files drowning in a sea of unread memos, lost course work, exercise books, old coffee cups, exam papers, photocopied notes, and the intricate little doodles he makes when he’s on the phone. My own office may look the same, but at least I know where everything is. Pearman would be completely at sea if Kitty wasn’t there to cover up for him.
“How’s the new girl?” I asked provocatively.
Scoones huffed. “Too smart for her own bloody good.”
Kitty gave an apologetic smile. “New ideas,” she explained. “I’m sure she’ll settle down.”
“Pearman thinks the world of her,” said Scoones with a sneer.
“He would.”
Pearman has a lively appreciation of feminine beauty. Rumor has it that Isabelle Tapi would never have been employed at St. Oswald’s but for the minidress she wore at interview.
Kitty shook her head. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. She’s full of ideas.”
“I could tell you what she’s full of,” muttered Scoones. “But she’s cheap, isn’t she? Before we know it, they’ll be replacing all of us with spotty-faced upstarts with ten-a-penny degrees. Save a bloody fortune.”
I could see that Keane was listening to this; he was grinning as he made his notes. More material for the Great British Novel, I supposed. McDonaugh studied his demons. Robbie Roach nodded with sour approval.
Kitty was conciliating, as ever. “Well, we’re all having to cut back,” she said. “Even the textbook budget—”
“Tell me about it!” interrupted Roach. “History’s lost forty percent, my form room’s a disgrace, there’s water coming in through the ceiling, I’m working all hours, and what do they do? Blow thirty grand on computers no one wants. What about fixing the roof? What about a paint job on the Middle Corridor? What about that DVD player I’ve been asking for since God knows when?”
McDonaugh grunted. “Chapel needs work too,” he reminded us. “Have to put school fees up again, that’s all. No getting round it this time.”
“The fees won’t go up,” said Scoones, forgetting his need for peace and quiet. “We’d lose half the pupils if we did that. There’s other grammar schools, you know. Better than this one, if truth be told.”
“There is a world elsewhere,” I quoted softly.
“I heard there’s been some pressure to sell off some of the school’s land,” said Roach, draining his coffee cup.
“What, the playing fields?” Scoones, a staunch rugby man, was shocked.
“Not the rugby pitch,” explained Roach soothingly. “Just the fields behind the tennis courts. No one uses them anymore, except when boys want to sneak off for a fag. They’re useless for sports anyway—always waterlogged. We’d be just as well selling them off for development, or something.”
Development. That sounded ominous. A Tesco, perhaps, or a Superbowl where the Sunnybankers could go after school for their daily dose of beer and skittles.
“H.M. won’t like that idea,” said McDonaugh drily. “He doesn’t want to go down in history as the man who sold St. Oswald’s.”
“Perhaps we’ll go coed,” suggested Roach wistfully. “Think of it . . . all those girls in uniform.”
Scoones shuddered. “Ugh! I’d rather not.”
In the lull that followed, I suddenly became aware of a noise above my head; a stamping of feet, scraping of chairs, and raised voices. I looked up.
“That your form?”
I shook my head. “That’s the new beard from Computer Studies. Meek, his name is.”
“Sounds like it,” said Scoones.
The banging and stamping continued, rising to a sudden crescendo, within which I thought I could just make out the dim bleating of Their Master’s Voice.
“Perhaps I’d better have a look.”
It’s always a bit embarrassing to have to discipline another Master’s class. I wouldn’t do it normally—we tend to mind our own business at St. Oswald’s—but it was my room, and I felt obscurely responsible. I charged up the stairs to the Bell Tower—not, I suspected, for the last time.
Halfway up, I met Dr. Devine. “Is that your class in there, making that frightful racket?”
I was offended. “Of course not,” I huffed. “That’s the rabbit Meek. This is what happens when you try to bring Computer Studies to the masses. Anorak frenzy.”
“Well, I hope you’re going to deal with it,” said Sourgrape. “I could hear the noise all the way from the Middle Corridor.”
The nerve of the man. “Just getting my breath back,” I said with dignity. Those stairs get steeper every year.
Devine sneered. “If you didn’t smoke so much, you’d be able to handle a few stairs.” Then he was off, brisk as ever.
My encounter with Sourgrape didn’t do anything to improve my temper. I started on the class at once, ignoring the poor rabbit at the Master’s desk, and was enraged to find some of my own pupils among their number. The floor was littered with paper airplanes. A desk had been toppled. Knight was standing by the window, apparently enacting some farce, because the rest of the class were in paroxysms of laughter.
As I entered silence fell almost instantly—I caught a hiss—Quaz!—and Knight attempted—too late—to pull off the gown he had been wearing.
Knight faced me and straightened up at once, looking frightened. As well he might. Caught wearing my gown, in my room, impersonating me—for there was no doubt as to whom that simian expression and hobbling walk was supposed to represent—he must have been praying for the Underworld to swallow him up.
I have to say I was surprised at Knight—a sly, underconfident boy, he was usually happy to let others take the lead while he enjoyed the show. The fact that even he had dared to misbehave said little for Meek’s discipline.