You can tell a lot about a teacher’s personality from his coffee mug. Geoff and Penny Nation have twin mugs with CAPITAINE and SOUS-FIFRE written across them. Roach has Homer Simpson; Grachvogel has The X-Files. Hillary Monument’s gruff image is belied daily by a pint mug with WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA in shaky young letters. Pearman’s was bought on a school French trip to Paris and bears a photograph of the poet Jacques Prévert smoking a cigarette. Dr. Devine disdains the humble mug altogether and uses the Headmaster’s china—a privilege reserved for visitors, senior Suits, and the Head himself—Bishop, always popular with the boys, has a different cartoon character every term (this term, Yogi Bear); gifts from his form.
My own is a St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, limited edition 1990. Eric Scoones has one, as do several of the Old Guard, but mine has a chipped handle, which enables me to distinguish it from the rest. We built the new Games Pavilion with the proceeds of that mug, and I carry mine with pride. Or would, if I could find it.
“Damn it. First the damn register and now the damn mug.”
“Borrow mine,” said McDonaugh (CHARLES & DIANA, slightly chipped).
“That isn’t the point.”
And it wasn’t; to remove a Master’s coffee mug from its rightful place is almost as bad as taking his chair. The chair, the office, the classroom, and now the mug. I was beginning to feel distinctly under siege.
Keane gave me a satirical look as I poured tea into the wrong mug. “It’s good to know that I’m not the only one having a bad day,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Lost both my free periods today. Five-G. Bob Strange’s English lit class.”
Ouch. Of course everyone knows that Mr. Strange has much to do; being Third Master and in charge of the timetable, he has over the years managed to construct for himself a system of courses, duties, meetings, admin periods, and other necessaries, which leave him scarcely any time for actual pupil contact. But Keane seemed capable enough—after all, he’d survived Sunnybank Park—and I’d seen strong men reduced to jelly by those fifth-formers.
“I’ll be all right,” said Keane, when I expressed due sympathy. “Besides, it’s all good material for my book.”
Ah, yes, the book. “Whatever gets you through the day,” I said, wondering whether or not he was serious. There’s a kind of quiet facetiousness about Keane—a whiff of the upstart—that makes me want to question everything he says. Even so I prefer him infinitely to the muscular Light, or the sycophantic Easy, or the timorous Meek. “By the way, Dr. Devine was asking for you,” Keane went on. “Something about old filing cabinets?”
“Good.” It was the best news I’d had all day. Though after the fracas with 3S, even German-baiting had lost some of its flavor.
“He asked Jimmy to put them in the yard,” said Keane. “Said to get them moved as soon as possible.”
“What?”
“Obstructing a thoroughfare, I think he said. Something to do with Health and Safety.”
I cursed. Sourgrape must really have wanted that office. The Health and Safety Maneuver is one to which only a few dare to sink. I finished my tea and strode purposefully toward the ex-Classics office, only to find Jimmy, screwdriver in hand, fixing some kind of an electronic attachment to the door.
“It’s a buzzer, boss,” explained Jimmy, seeing my surprise. “So Dr. Devine knows if there’s someone at the door.”
“I see.” In my day, we just knocked.
Jimmy, however, was delighted. “When you see the red light, he’s with someone,” he said. “If it’s green, he buzzes you in.”
“And the yellow light?”
Jimmy frowned. “If it’s yellow,” he said at last, “then Dr. Devine buzzes through to see who it is”—he paused, wrinkling his brow—“and if it’s someone important, then he lets them in!”
“Very Teutonic.” I stepped past him into my office.
Inside, a conspicuous and displeasing order reigned. New cabinets—color-coded; a handsome watercooler; a large mahogany desk with computer, pristine blotter, and a framed photograph of Mrs. Sourgrape. The carpet had been cleaned; my spider plants—those scarred and dusty veterans of drought and neglect—tidily disposed of; a smug NO SMOKING sign and a laminated timetable showing departmental meetings, duties, clubs, and work groups, hung on the wall.
For a time, there was nothing to say.
“I’ve got your stuff, boss,” said Jimmy. “Shall I bring it up for you?”
Why bother? I knew when I was beaten. I slouched off back to the Common Room to drown my sorrows in tea.
2
Over the next few weeks, Leon and I became friends. It was not as risky as it sounds, partly because we were in different Houses—he in Amadeus, whilst I claimed to be in Birkby—and in different years. I met him in the mornings—wearing my own clothes under my St. Oswald’s uniform—and arrived to my own classes late, with a series of ingenious excuses.
I missed Games—the asthma ploy had worked very well—and spent my breaks and lunches in St. Oswald’s grounds. I began to think of myself almost as a genuine Ozzie; through Leon I knew the Masters on duty, the gossip, the slang. With him I went to the library, played chess, lounged on the benches in the Quad like any of the others. With him, I belonged.
It would not have worked if Leon had been a more outgoing, more popular pupil; but I had soon learned that he too was a misfit—though unlike me, he remained aloof by choice rather than necessity. Sunnybank Park would have killed him in a week; but St. Oswald’s values intelligence above everything else, and he was clever enough to use his to good advantage. To Masters he was polite and respectful—at least, in their presence—and I found that this gave him an immense advantage in times of trouble—of which there were many. For Leon seemed to actively court trouble wherever he went: he specialized in practical jokes, small neat revenges, covert acts of defiance. He was rarely caught. If I was Knight, then he was Allen-Jones: the charmer, the trickster, the elusive rebel. And yet he liked me. And yet we were friends.
I invented tales of my previous school for his amusement, giving myself the role I sensed he expected of me. From time to time I introduced characters from my other life: Miss Potts, Miss McAuleigh, Mr. Bray. I spoke of Bray with real hatred, remembering his taunts and his posturing, and Leon listened with an attentive look that was not quite sympathy.
“Pity you couldn’t get your own back on this guy,” he commented on one occasion. “Pay him back in kind.”
“What do you suggest?” I said. “Voodoo?”
“No,” said Leon thoughtfully. “Not quite.”
By then I had known Leon for over a month. We could smell the end of the summer term, its scent of cut grass and freedom; in another month all schools would break up (eight and a half weeks; limitless, unimaginable time) and there would be no need for changes of uniform or perilous truancies, forged notes or excuses.
We had already made plans, Leon and I; for trips to the cinema; walks in the woods; excursions into town. At Sunnybank Park exams—such as they were—were already over. Lessons were ramshackle; discipline, lax. Some teachers dispensed with their subjects altogether and showed Wimbledon on television, while others devoted their time to games and private study. Escape to Oz had never been easier. It was the happiest time of my life.
Then, disaster struck. It should never have happened; a stupid coincidence, that was all. But it brought my world crashing down, threatened everything I had ever hoped for—and its cause was the Games teacher, Mr. Bray.