It was the loss of this last item that really annoyed me; partly because I only stepped out of my room for a half hour or so, and more importantly, because it happened at lunchtime, which suggested to me that the thief was a member of the form. My very own 3S—good lads, or so I thought, and loyal to me. Jeff Light was on corridor duty at the time, and so, by chance, was Isabelle Tapi, but (unsurprisingly) neither of them noticed any unusual visitors to room fifty-nine during that lunch hour.
I mentioned the loss to 3S in the afternoon, hoping that someone might have borrowed the pen and forgotten to return it; only to be met with blank stares from the boys.
“What, no one saw anything? Tayler? Jackson?”
“Nothing, sir. No, sir.”
“Pryce? Pink? Sutcliff?”
“No, sir.”
“Knight?”
Knight looked away, smirking.
Knight?
I took the register on a piece of paper and sent the boys away, now feeling distinctly uneasy. It hurt me to have to do it, but there was only one way to discover the culprit, and that was to search the boys’ lockers. As it happened I was free that afternoon, and so I took my passkey and list of locker numbers, left Meek in charge of room fifty-nine and a small group of lower-sixths unlikely to cause any disruption, and made my way to the Middle Corridor and the third-form locker room.
I searched in alphabetical order, taking my time and with especial attention to the contents of pencil cases, finding nothing but half a carton of cigarettes in Allen-Jones’s locker and a girlie magazine in Jackson’s.
Then came Knight’s; almost overflowing with papers, books, and assorted junk. A silver pencil box shaped like a calculator slid out from between two files; I opened it, but there was no pen. The next locker was Lemon’s; then Niu’s; Pink’s; Anderton-Pullitt’s—piled high with books on his all-consuming passion, First World War aircraft. I searched them all; found a stash of forbidden playing cards and a pinup or two, but no Parker pen.
I spent over an hour in the locker rooms, long enough for the class-change bell to go and the corridor to fill up, though fortunately, no pupil decided to visit his locker between lessons.
Left feeling more annoyed than before; not so much for the loss of the pen—which could, after all, be replaced—but for the fact that some of my pleasure in the boys had been spoiled by the incident, and the fact that until the thief was identified, I would not be able to trust any of them again.
The following day I was on after-school duty, watching the bus queue; Meek was in the main Quad, barely visible in the mass of departing boys, and Monument was at the Chapel steps, supervising the proceedings from on high.
“Bye, sir! Have a good weekend!” That was McNair, racing by with his tie at half-mast and his shirt hanging out of his trousers. Allen-Jones was with him, running, as always, as if his life were in peril. “Slow down,” I called. “You’ll break your necks.”
“Sorry, sir,” yelled Allen-Jones, without checking his pace.
I had to smile. I remember running like that—surely not so long ago, when weekends seemed as long as playing fields. Nowadays they’re gone in a blink: weeks, months, years—all gone into the same conjuror’s hat. All the same, it makes me wonder. Why do boys always run? And when did I stop running?
“Mr. Straitley.”
There was so much noise that I had not heard the New Head walk up behind me. Even on a Friday afternoon he was immaculate; white shirt, gray suit; tie knotted and positioned at precisely the correct angle.
“Headmaster.”
It annoys him to be called Headmaster. It reminds him that in the history of St. Oswald’s he is neither unique nor irreplaceable. “Was that a member of your form,” he said, “dashing past us with his shirt untucked?”
“I’m sure it wasn’t,” I lied. The New Head has an administrator’s fixation on shirts, socks, and other uniform trivia. He looked skeptical at my reply. “I have noticed a certain disregard for the uniform regulations this week. I hope you’ll be able to impress upon the boys the importance of making a good impression outside the school gates.”
“Of course, Headmaster.”
In view of the impending school inspection, Making a Good Impression has become one of the New Head’s main priorities. King Henry’s Grammar School boasts a stringent dress code—including straw boaters in summer and top hats for members of the Chapel choir—which he feels contributes to their superior position in the league tables. My own ink-stained reprobates have a less flattering view of their rivals—or Henriettas, as St. Oswald’s tradition names them—with which I must admit to having some sympathy. Sartorial rebellion is a rite of passage, and members of the school—and of 3S in particular—express their revolt by means of untucked shirts, scissored ties, and subversive socks.
I tried to say as much to the New Head but was met with a look of such abhorrence that I wished I hadn’t. “Socks, Mr. Straitley?” he said, as if I had introduced him to some new and hitherto undreamed-of perversion.
“Well, yes,” I said. “You know, Homer Simpson, South Park, Scooby-Doo.”
“But we have regulation socks,” said the Head. “Gray wool, calf length, yellow-and-black stripe. Eight ninety-nine a pair from the school outfitters.”
I shrugged helplessly. Fifteen years as Head of St. Oswald’s, and he still hasn’t realized that no one—no one!—ever wears the uniform socks.
“Well, I expect you to put a stop to it,” said the Head, still looking rattled. “Every boy should be in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I shall have to send a memo.”
I wondered if the Head, as a boy, had been in uniform, full uniform, at all times. I tried to imagine it and found that I could. I gave a sigh. “Fac ut vivas, Headmaster.”
“What?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“And speaking of memos . . . My secretary e-mailed you three times today asking you to see me in my office.”
“Really, Headmaster?”
“Yes, Mr. Straitley.” His tone was glacial. “We’ve had a complaint.”
It was Knight, of course. Or rather, Knight’s mother, a bottle blonde of indeterminate age and volatile temperament, blessed with a large alimony settlement and subsequent leisure time to lodge complaints on a termly basis. This time it was my victimization of her son on the grounds of his Jewishness.
“Anti-Semitism is a very serious complaint,” announced the Head. “Twenty-five percent of our customers—parents, that is—belong to the Jewish community, and I don’t have to remind you—”
“No you don’t, Headmaster.” That was going too far. To take a boy’s side against a Master—and in a public place, where anyone might be listening—was beyond disloyal. I could feel my temper rising. “This is a matter of personalities, that’s all, and I expect you to back me fully in the face of this completely unfounded accusation. And while we’re at it, may I remind you that there is a pyramid structure of discipline, beginning with the form tutor, and that I don’t relish having my duties taken over by someone else without being consulted.”
“Mr. Straitley!” The Head was looking rather shaken.
“Yes, Headmaster.”
“There’s more.” I waited for it, still seething. “Mrs. Knight says that a valuable pen, a bar mitzvah present to her son, vanished from his locker some time yesterday afternoon. And you, Mr. Straitley, were seen opening third-form lockers at just about exactly the same time.”