Then 3M (Monument’s form) did the same.
Thirty more boys standing in unison, like soldiers, looking straight ahead without a word. Then 3P (Pearman’s form) stood up. Then, 3KT (Teague). Then, finally, 3R (Roach).
Now every boy in the Middle School was standing. Not a word was spoken. No one moved. All eyes were on the little man on the platform.
For a moment he stood.
Then he turned and left without a word.
After that there wasn’t much point in teaching anything. The boys needed to talk, so I let them; popping out occasionally to calm down Grachvogel’s class next door, where a supply teacher called Mrs. Cant was having a hard time keeping order. Of course, Bishop dominated the conversation. There was no polarization here; no doubt at all of Pat’s innocence. All agreed that the charge was absurd; that it wouldn’t even make it past the magistrate; that everything had been a terrible mistake. That cheered me; I wished some of my colleagues could have been as certain of it as these boys.
Through lunchtime I stayed in my room with a sandwich and some marking, avoiding the crowded Common Room and the usual comforts of tea and the Times. It’s a fact that all the papers have been full of the St. Oswald’s scandal this week, and anyone entering the main gates must now pass between a shooting gallery of press and photographers.
Most of us do not stoop to comment, though I think perhaps Eric Scoones spoke to the Mirror on Wednesday. Certainly, their short piece had a ring of Scoones about it, with its depictions of an uncaring management and its veiled accusations of nepotism in the higher echelons. However, I find it impossible to believe that my old friend might be the egregious Mole, whose mixture of comedy, gossip, and slander has captivated the readers of the Examiner for the past few weeks. And yet his words gave me a distinct sense of déjà vu; as if the author were someone whose style I knew, whose subversive humor I understood—and shared.
Once again, my thoughts returned to young Keane. A keen observer, in any case; and, I believe, a writer of some talent. Could he be Mole? I would hate to think so. Damn it, I liked the man; and I thought his remarks in the Common Room the other day showed both intelligence and courage. No, not Keane, I told myself. But if not Keane, then who?
It was a thought that nagged me all through the afternoon. I taught poorly; lost my temper with a group of fourth-formers who seemed incapable of concentration; gave detention to a sixth-former whose only crime, I admitted later to myself, had been to point out an error in my use of the subjunctive in prose translation. By period eight I had made up my mind. I would simply ask the man, openly and honestly. I like to think I’m a fair judge of character; if he were Mole, then, surely I would know.
When I found him, however, he was in the Common Room, talking with Miss Dare. She smiled as I came in, and Keane grinned. “I hear it’s your birthday, Mr. Straitley,” he said. “We got you a cake.”
It was a chocolate muffin on a saucer, both raided from the school canteen. Someone had put a yellow candle on top and a cheery frill of tinsel around the outside. A Post-it note attached to the saucer read HAPPY BIRTHDAY MR. STRAITLEY—65 TODAY!
I knew then that Mole would have to wait.
Miss Dare lit the candle. The few members of the Common Room who still lingered at this late hour—Monument, McDonaugh, and a couple of freshers—clapped. It was a measure of my distraction that I almost burst into tears.
“Dammit,” I growled. “I was keeping it quiet.”
“Whatever for?” said Miss Dare. “Listen, Chris and I are going out for a drink this evening. Would you like to come? We’re going to see the bonfire in the park—eat toffee apples—light sparklers.” She laughed, and I thought for a moment how very pretty she really was, with her black hair and pink Dutch-doll face. Notwithstanding my early suspicions regarding the Mole—which possibility seemed quite out of the question to me at that moment—I was glad she and Keane were getting on. I know only too well the pull of St. Oswald’s; how you think there’s all the time in the world to meet a girl, get hitched, have children, maybe, if she wants them; and then suddenly you find that all of it has passed you by, not by a year but by a decade or two, and you realize that you are no longer a Young Gun but a Tweed Jacket, irrevocably wedded to St. Oswald’s, the dusty old battleship that has somehow swallowed your heart.
“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But I think I’ll stay at home.”
“Then make a wish,” said Miss Dare, lighting the candle.
“That I can do,” I said.
2
Dear old Straitley. I’ve come so close to loving him these past few weeks, with his incurable optimism and his idiotic old ways. It’s funny how catching that optimism can be; the feeling that perhaps the past can be forgotten (as Bishop has forgotten it); that bitterness can be put aside, and that duty (to the school, of course) can be as much of a motivating force as (for instance) love; hate; revenge.
I sent my last few e-mails this evening, after school. Roach to Grachvogel, incriminating them both. Bishop to Devine. Light to Devine, in tones of escalating panic. Knight to all, threatening, weeping. And finally the coup de grâce; to Bishop’s mobile and to his PC (I’m sure the police will be monitoring that by now); a last, tearful, imploring text message from Colin Knight, sent from his own mobile phone, which should in due time confirm the worst.
All in all, a job well done, with no need for further action on my part. Five staff members destroyed in one elegant strike. Bishop, of course, could crack at any time. A stroke, perhaps; or a massive heart attack, brought on by stress and the certainty that whatever the outcome of the police investigation, his time at St. Oswald’s is finished.
The question is, have I done enough? Mud sticks, they say; and all the more so in this profession. In a sense, the police are superfluous. The merest hint of sexual impropriety is enough to sink a career. The rest I can confidently leave to a public weaned on suspicion, envy, and the Examiner. Already I’ve started the ball rolling; I wouldn’t be at all surprised if someone else took over during the next few weeks. Sunnybankers, perhaps; stout-minded folk from the Abbey Road Estate. There will be fires; attacks, perhaps, on lone colleagues; rumors heated to scandalous certainty in the pubs and clubs of the town center. The beauty of it is that from a certain point I no longer have to take any direct action. One little push, and the dominoes begin to fall all by themselves.
I’ll stay, of course, as long as I can. Half the fun is being here to see it happen—though I am prepared for every eventuality. In any case, the damage must surely be irreversible by now. A whole department in ruins; many more staff implicated; a Second Master hopelessly tarred. Pupils leaving—twelve this week—a trickle that will soon become a flood. Teaching neglected; Health and Safety poor; plus an imminent inspection, which cannot fail to close them down.
The Governors, I hear, have been holding emergency meetings every night for the past week. The Head, no negotiator, fears for his job; Dr. Tidy is concerned about the potential impact on school finances; and Bob Strange covertly manages to turn everything the Head says to his own advantage whilst maintaining the appearance of complete loyalty and correctitude.