I’d been looking forward to a foreseeable future, among the sort of people I knew, where my school background would give me — over and above my own achievements — a definite and accepted standing, the main object of the expensive education I’d received being to bestow on the recipient an inalienable reputation that would be his for life. Now all this was to be sacrificed to the whim of an eccentric, who, in the eyes of my associates, was a traitor as well. I might have been more tolerant had my father written affectionately; but the letter was quite impersonal, ending by telling me that, since I could do nothing to expedite our departure, I might as well stay where I was for the present.
I was still half stunned by the news when the small boy lately assigned to me as a fag in my new glory came in with another letter, which had come by a later post. The sight of this youngster inflamed my resentment still further. The coming year was to have been my reward for all that had been difficult in the past. During this last year of my school life, I should have enjoyed most of the privileges of an adult without the responsibilities; members of the sixth were near-fabulous beings to the junior school, respected, almost worshipped; from henceforth I had only to speak and people would fight to fulfil my wishes, my words would be listened to like those of an oracle, for my will was law. Whenever things had been hard during the long years, I’d comforted myself with the prospect of this idyllic period now opening before me. To have it snatched away at the very moment of attainment was bitter indeed.
I was in as black a mood as I’d ever known when I opened my mother’s letter. She seemed almost panic-stricken at the idea of leaving home — why, I couldn’t imagine; she had nothing to lose by the change. Her agitation annoyed me, for it seemed so pointless. And when she went on to say that my career would be ruined, bringing up all my own arguments, I felt she was only pretending to be concerned because she wanted my backing, being so disturbed on her own account. The one sensible suggestion the letter contained was that I should appeal to the Headmaster and get him to write to my father on my behalf. Of course, I couldn’t possibly go to the Head; but, all the same, it wasn’t a bad idea to get somebody to write.
Long before this, I’d heard all about the famous speech in which the whole school had been warned against me, and I still felt the hostility of the speaker; indeed, he made no secret of it and always took care to avoid any contact with me. Not once had he spoken to me personally in all the time I’d been here or displayed the least interest in anything I did.
My housemaster was the obvious person for me to consult; a good-natured, plodding, conscientious man, in no way remarkable, whose name I’ve even forgotten, though he was known as Jaggers among us. The events of the past had faded out of my memory, so that it was not till I was facing him at the interview I had requested that I recalled he was the very man who had witnessed my first encounter with the Head all those years ago. Now the details of the scene came back to me, but, humiliating as it had been for him, I was forced to refer to it when explaining how my father had gone away and left me in the lurch — I could only hope time had removed the sting from the insults he had received.
But clearly they’d been rankling ever since, and, though I tried to placate him by attributing Mr Spector’s arrogant behaviour on that occasion to the effects of strain and the exhaustion of the long hours he had spent at the wheel, neglecting his work in the city to bring me here, taking over the duties my father had abandoned, he stopped me, exclaiming, ‘Stop! I won’t hear any more of this’, starting to pace the room in considerable agitation.
He seemed to me quite absurdly upset; but what most dismayed me was his unmistakable antagonism, for which I could see no reason but the inevitable one, so that I blurted out reproachfully, ‘You always sympathize with other people’s troubles. But when I ask you to help me you get angry — you’re against me like everyone else. And this is so important to me — it means my whole future. I did think that for once …’ Ashamed of becoming emotional, I relapsed into silence. He seemed affected, even slightly embarrassed, by my outburst, for he stopped walking about and said in a more moderate tone, ‘I would gladly help you, if I could be sure of not ruining myself in the process.’
I had expected him to contradict my statement that everyone was against me; but, though it surprised me that he let it pass, I was much more struck by his use of the word ‘ruin’, which sounded wildly extravagant in this context, almost suggestive of persecution mania. I’d often heard it said that old Jaggers had a screw loose. But when I thought of the Head’s vindictiveness towards me, a private vendetta carried on over the years by an elderly scholar against a defenceless boy under his protection, Jaggers’s fears seemed more justifiable, and I said impulsively, ‘Is the Head really such a tyrant? Would he really take it out on you for helping me? Why has he always hated me so much?’ I couldn’t have asked these questions of anyone else, and I regretted my impetuousness in asking them now, though their effect was far from any I could have foreseen.
‘The Head …?’ Jaggers stared at me with a bewildered expression, which changed quickly to one of incredulous excitement as he seized my arm, dragging me over to the light, and tilted my face up to scrutinize it minutely, muttering under his breath, ‘Can it be true? Is it possible?’ and similar expressions of wondering disbelief.
I never could stand being handled by people in this way, and Jaggers’s mystification and his whole conduct were so peculiar that I was growing convinced I’d made a mistake in confiding in him. So I said nothing but disengaged myself as unobtrusively as I could, not wanting to offend him.
‘And what about the authorities that sent you here?’
I was quite unprepared for the question, rapped out in his stern classroom voice, and it startled me, by recalling the Head’s words, reviving suddenly my feeling of being exposed and somehow in need of special protection — a need which, since I’d reached the security of the sixth form, I’d almost forgotten.
However, I answered coolly enough, I believe, that I’d always assumed the Head’s talk of authorities was meant to frighten ignorant little boys and that he might just as well have referred to the bogey-man. I smiled at the fantastic idea of important, powerful persons concerning themselves with my insignificant affairs; which left Jaggers no choice but to smile back. Pretending to believe I’d convinced him I was sincere, I began to thank him effusively, saying I was sure my father would be guided by his advice and experience both as a scholar and as a man of the world; flattery to which he succumbed, agreeing to write the letter, though he evidently had difficulty still in getting over his amazement, constantly interrupting himself with incredulous exclamations. ‘All these years … how could I not have known?’
I was much relieved when the letter was finally finished. But, as I was leaving, he detained me at the door, giving me some very strange looks which I couldn’t interpret and seeming to want to say something more; though he thought better of it in the end, and we parted without any further talk.
My father’s reply came a few days later, a coldly worded note, stating briefly that he’d cancelled the reservations previously made and would wait for my return to discuss things more fully. I gathered that he was going ahead with the business of getting our passports and other necessary documents, so that the project was only postponed in his mind. On the other hand, he hadn’t told the Head he would be taking me away at the end of the term; and I derived what comfort I could from this fact.