“What’s your name, son?”
“Pinchbeck, sir.”
“Pinchbeck, eh?”
I could tell he was thinking what to do. Whether to question me further, as instinct dictated, or simply to let it go and deal with his own pupil. He studied me for a few seconds more—his eyes were the faded yellow-blue of dirty denim—and then I felt the weight of his scrutiny drop. I was not important enough, he’d decided. A Lower School boy, out of lessons without permission; no threat; somebody else’s problem. For a second my anger eclipsed my natural caution. No threat, was I? Not worth the effort? Or had I, in all these years of hiding and skulking, at last become completely and irrevocably invisible?
“All right, son. Don’t let me see you here again. Now scat.”
And I did, shaking now with relief. As I ran I distinctly heard Leon’s voice behind me, whispering: “Hey, Pinchbeck! After school. Okay?”
I turned, and saw him wink at me.
7
St. Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys
Wednesday, 8th September
Drama belowdecks; the great blundering frigate which is St. Oswald’s has hit the reef early this year. Firstly, the date of the imminent school inspection has been announced for December 6th. This always causes disruption on a massive scale, especially among the higher echelons of the administrative staff. Secondly—and from my point of view, much more disruptive—next term’s unusual fee increases were announced this morning by second-class post, causing consternation at breakfast tables throughout the county.
Our captain continues to maintain that this is perfectly normal and all in keeping with the rate of inflation, though he remains at present unavailable for comment. Some reprobates have been heard to mumble that if we, the staff, had been informed of the prospective increase, then perhaps we would not have been taken so much by surprise by this morning’s influx of angry phone calls.
Bishop, when questioned, supports the Head. He is a poor liar, however. Rather than face the Common Room this morning, he ran laps around the athletics track until assembly, claiming that he felt unfit and needed the exercise. No one believed this, but as I walked up the steps to room fifty-nine I saw him through the Bell Tower window, still running and dwarfed to forlorn proportions by the elevated perspective.
My form received the news of the fee increase with the usual healthy cynicism. “Sir, does this mean we get a proper teacher this year?” Allen-Jones appeared unmoved by either the room-numbering incident or my own dire threats of the previous day.
“No, it just means a better-stocked drinks cabinet in the Head’s secret study.”
Sniggers from the form. Only Knight looked sullen. Following yesterday’s unpleasantness, this would be his second day of punishment duty, and he had already been the object of ridicule as he paced the grounds in a bright orange jumpsuit, picking up discarded papers and stuffing them into an enormous plastic sack. Twenty years ago it would have been the cane and the respect of his peers; it goes to show that not all innovations are bad.
“My mum says it’s a disgrace,” said Sutcliff. “There’s other schools out there, you know.”
“Yes, but any zoo would be happy to take you,” I said vaguely, searching in my desk for the register. “Dammit, where’s the register? I know it was here.”
I always keep the register in my top drawer. I may look disorganized, but I usually know where everything is.
“When will your salary go up, sir?” That was Jackson.
Sutcliff: “He’s a millionaire already!”
Allen-Jones: “That’s because he never wastes money on clothes.”
Knight, in a low voice: “Or soap.”
I straightened up and looked at Knight. Somehow his expression managed to be insolent and cringing at the same time. “How did you enjoy your litter round yesterday?” I said. “Would you like to volunteer for another week?”
“You didn’t say that to the others,” muttered Knight.
“That’s because the others know the line between humor and insolence.”
“You pick on me.” Knight’s voice was lower than ever. His eyes did not meet mine.
“What?” I was genuinely amazed.
“You pick on me, sir. You pick on me because—”
“Because what?” I snapped.
“Because I’m Jewish, sir.”
“What?” I was annoyed with myself. I’d been so preoccupied with the missing register that I’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, and allowed a pupil to draw me into a public confrontation.
The rest of the class was silent, watching us both expectantly.
I regained my composure. “Rubbish. I don’t pick on you because you’re Jewish. I pick on you because you can never keep your trap shut and you’ve got stercus for brains.”
McNair, Sutcliff, or Allen-Jones would have laughed at that, and things would have been all right. Even Tayler would have laughed, and he wears a yarmulke in class.
But Knight’s expression did not change. Instead I saw something there that I had never noticed before; a new kind of stubbornness. For the first time, Knight held my gaze. For a second I thought he was going to say something more, then he dropped his eyes in the old familiar way and muttered something inaudible under his breath.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Good.”
I turned back to my desk. The register might have gone astray, but I know all my boys; I would have known the moment I entered the room if one of them were missing. I intoned the list anyway—the schoolmaster’s mantra—it never fails to calm them down.
Afterward I glanced at Knight, but his face was lowered, and there was nothing about his sullen expression that suggested revolt. Normality had been resumed, I decided. The small crisis was over.
8
I debated for a long time before keeping Leon’s appointment. I wanted to meet him—more than anything, I wanted to be his friend—though this was a line I had never crossed before, and on this occasion, there was more at stake than ever. But I liked Leon—had liked him from the first—and that made me reckless. At my own school, anyone who spoke to me risked persecution from my school yard tormentors. Leon was from another world. Despite his long hair and mutilated tie, he was an insider.
I did not rejoin the cross-country group. The next day, I would forge a letter from my father, saying that I’d had an asthma attack during the run, and forbidding me to take part again.
I had no regrets. I hated Games. I especially hated Mr. Bray with his fake tan and his gold neck-chain, flaunting his Neanderthal humor to that little circle of sycophants at the expense of the weak; the clumsy; the inarticulate; the losers like me. And so I hid behind the Games Pavilion, still dressed in my St. Oswald’s clothes, and waited, with some apprehension, for the end-of-school bell.
No one spared me a look; no one questioned my right to be there. All around me, boys—some in blazers or shirt sleeves, some still in their sports’ kit—jumped into cars; tripped over cricket bats; exchanged jokes, books, prep notes. A bulky, boisterous-looking man took charge of the bus queue—it was Mr. Bishop, the Second Master—while an older man in a black and red gown stood at the Chapel gates.