‘I won’t have any trouble,’ I said.
His look was politely incredulous. I suppose, in his world, a woman teacher – especially such a young one – was inevitably going to have trouble with boys.
‘Well, if you do, talk to Scoones,’ he said, and left in a swirl of scarlet-tipped robes.
I rearranged the crumpled sheets with hands that trembled a little.
I don’t belong here, I told myself. What on earth possessed me to think that I could ever teach here?
I thought of the School curriculum, nestled in the black file. Sinclair and his doctoral robe. The Banda machine, with its snarling grille. Scoones saying: These are your masters. And, on that memory, there came another, more distant memory: Conrad’s voice across the years; black smoke carried on the wind.
‘My French master’s name is Dr Sinclair.’ Conrad’s voice was very close. ‘He’s super-strict, but he’s OK. My Classics teacher’s the Chaplain. Mr Farrelly, Rugby. Then there’s Miss Macleod, Drama. Looks a bit like Diana Rigg.’
At four years old, I had no idea of what Diana Rigg had looked like. But I did remember my brother’s voice; its not-quite-pleasant undertone. So, Conrad must have known Sinclair? How strange. I thought I’d forgotten. What other things might I recall over the course of the next two weeks? What buried thoughts, what memories?
It’s only for three months, I thought. Three months, and you can breathe again. Three months, and you’ll have the whole of the summer holidays to –
To do what? Prepare?
Escape?
My thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the school bell, announcing the start of lessons, bringing with it memories of myself at five years old, waiting in the strip of light at the foot of Conrad’s locker. I picked up my briefcase and worksheets, and headed into the corridor, where the bell was louder still. A simple clapper-and-bell design, triggered electronically. The noise of it was relentless. Boys were already lining up outside their respective classrooms. Some of them had their hands on their ears. Finally, it stopped, and I made my way to my first lesson; a Four Upper French class in L14, on the Middle Corridor.
I missed it the first time, because the boys lined up outside the door seemed too young. I checked my black file again and discovered that, at King Henry’s, ‘Four Upper’ is what they call the Third Form. Another eccentricity, like the wearing of academic robes, designed to make outsiders feel conspicuous.
The boys were lined up quietly on the left-hand side of the door. A little too quietly, I thought: the quietness of teenagers is usually linked with uncertainty. As soon as they felt secure again, the disruption would begin. The trick has always been to identify the troublemakers and defuse any misbehaviour before it becomes disruptive.
I followed the boys into the class. I counted thirty-one of them; the black folder gave me their names. The class was a smallish, L-shaped room, with a bank of windows facing east. Golden sunlight filtered through, picking motes out of the air. The teacher’s desk was on a kind of stage overlooking the classroom. Over the door hung the classroom bell, and an old-fashioned box calendar. The desks were in rows of six, except for the back row, which extended further into the corner. I noticed a blond boy wearing a Prefect’s badge choose a desk on the far end of the back row, and marked him for attention. The back row is traditionally the troublemaker’s domain, and this boy had an impudent look – a slightly clownish walk, a grin that suggested some inner hilarity – that told me he might be the one to lead the class into mayhem.
The boys stayed standing as I came in. Another King Henry’s tradition. I said: ‘Please, sit down. My name is Miss Price. I’ll be taking over your class.’
The blond boy in the back row said: ‘Asda Price.’
A murmur spread among the boys. I knew it. That blond boy was trouble. His hair, in the morning sunlight, was almost dazzlingly bright. I tried to see his face, but the sun had bleached his features of detail; he looked like the shadow of a boy reflected in a sheet of foil.
‘Are you new, Miss?’ one boy said. ‘Or are you just another Supply?’
Another said: ‘What car do you drive?’
‘A Mini,’ said a third, and grinned.
I said: ‘I’ll need to learn your names. Please write yours on a sheet, and put it on the front of your desk.’ I handed out sheets of paper. The boys took the opportunity to start talking among themselves. I felt my cheeks begin to burn: even at such an early time, the classroom was already warm.
‘No talking, please,’ I said. The noise subsided a little. Only the blond boy at the back seemed not to have heard me. Instead, he grinned and started to fold his sheet of paper into the shape of an aeroplane.
‘We’ll have none of that,’ I said.
The boy’s grin widened still further. Around him, the other boys had begun to talk among themselves again. Several were drawing on their name sheets. In a moment, they would be riotous.
‘You at the back. What’s your name?’ I said in a crisp tone, addressing the blond boy.
The boy in front of him looked up. ‘Persimmon, Miss.’
‘Not you,’ I said.
Persimmon feigned confusion. He had a broad, comic face and a habit of sprawling across his desk, like a lazy seal on a flat rock. Behind him, the blond boy met my gaze, unabashed; grinning triumphantly.
‘All right. We’ll try this again,’ I said, trying to sound confident. ‘Everyone stand. In silence.’ The boys stood up, rather noisily, grinning at one another.
‘We’ll wait until you’re quiet,’ I said. This was a technique that had worked pretty well at Sunnybank Park – but then again, at Sunnybank Park I’d always felt like a teacher. Here, I was something different. Someone who drove a Mini instead of an Audi or a Jag. Someone who didn’t even know that academic gowns must be worn in Assemblies, and that ladies wore a skirt suit, or a frock.
‘Asda Price,’ repeated Persimmon, tapping his trouser pocket like the woman in the advert.
‘What did you say?’
‘Yes, Miss Price,’ said Persimmon innocently, tapping his back pocket again. The boys on either side of him grinned. The boy on the back row capered and danced like the conductor of a mad orchestra.
‘Yes, Miss Price,’ said the rest of the class, all tapping their pockets in unison. A ripple of laughter went through the group, a ripple that soon became a wave.
At the back, the blond-haired boy was in paroxysms of laughter, lolling half in, half out of his chair. There was something strangely familiar in the way he moved, I thought. The sun was too bright for me to see his features properly, and yet, there was something in his smile that I found deeply unsettling.
‘You at the back – stop that – sit down!’ My voice was sharper than I’d thought; I sounded almost close to tears.
The class fell suddenly silent, but not at my words. The glazed classroom door had opened and I saw Eric Scoones in the doorway.
‘What in hell’s name is going on?’ trumpeted Scoones in his locker room voice.
The boys had stood up at his entrance, and now remained in silence, wooden as toy soldiers.
Scoones went on: ‘I could hear you all the way to my office!’
The boys stood there in silence, heads bent as if it made them invisible. I said to Scoones; ‘I’ll handle this, thanks.’