The girl assigned by La Buckfast came by to check on me this morning. Emma Wicks, her name is – a pleasant enough girl, but here out of duty rather than affection. She brought some more of La Buckfast’s tea, which would be greatly improved by a shot of brandy, but which La Buckfast clearly believes to be a universal panacea. It contains St John’s Wort – whatever that is – as well as hawthorn and liquorice, and is meant to clarify, purify and somehow rejuvenate my decrepit old self. I sincerely doubt it will. But the Wicks girl also brought a get-well card from my Brodie Boys, along with a large box of Liquorice Allsorts, and a card from Ben which read: Please get better soon! The little gesture touched me more than I might have expected, and yet, as with Devine’s chocolates, it also made me uneasy.
‘I’m ready to go back, now,’ I told La Buckfast as she called in that night at her usual time of 6.30. I welcomed her into the kitchen, and put the kettle on to boil. Yes, she and I have found a routine – and I, alarmingly, welcome it. Of course we of the Old School are all the playthings of routine. The timetable dictates where we go, whom we see, what we wear, even when we have tea. Even those times at which we are allowed to sneak a Gauloise or a bite to eat are subject to the vagaries of Bob Strange’s labyrinthine supervision timetable, which is why most St Oswald’s Masters suffer from a digestion impaired by over-hasty consumption and an over-reliance on baked goods. Perhaps this is why I currently still feel rather below par, in spite of a week’s enforced repose – although I was careful not to reveal this to La Buckfast, who seems to believe that I am about to succumb to the Reaper at any moment.
‘I’m ready to go back tomorrow,’ I repeated. ‘This has been a thoroughly pleasant sinecure, but I don’t believe I need to impose on my colleagues any further.’
This was certainly true: it has always been St Oswald’s custom that members of the Languages Department should not seek external cover until a member of staff has been ill for a week or more; which meant my lessons (and the administrative duties connected with my new form) must have fallen to one of my colleagues to cover.
‘Which brings me to the question; which of my unfortunate friends has been covering my form in my absence? Dr Devine? Kitty Teague? A newbie? Gods help us – The Foghorn?’
La Buckfast smiled. ‘You still don’t look at all well, Roy. Are you sure you’re getting enough sleep?’
I sleep as much as I normally do, which is generally as long as my overactive bladder allows. After that, I lie in bed with the wireless on until daybreak, when I get washed and shaved, make a pot of tea, mark some books and set off to work by eight o’clock.
‘I don’t feel tired, if that’s what you mean,’ I said. ‘I’m fully recovered.’
This was not entirely true, but I’d hoped that my appearance would deceive her. I had taken pains to dress and shave properly before she arrived. To be sure, my suit was crumpled, but I don’t seem to own one that isn’t. But it seemed disrespectful somehow, to receive the Head in slippers and robe, quite apart from the fact that it made me look as if I were at Death’s door. Even so, I was aware that I did not cut what you’d call a dashing figure; but I’d rather hoped that, suited and tied, I would pass the inspection.
La Buckfast looked at me critically. ‘I think you need more time,’ she said. ‘Besides, I’ve already got a Supply.’
‘What, really?’ I was surprised. This suggested that she believes I will not be fit for another week. ‘What do you mean, you’ve got a Supply? I’ve never needed Supply in my life. Where did you even get him from? Don’t say it was Sunnybank Park.’
‘It’s a her,’ said La Buckfast. ‘And no, it wasn’t Sunnybank Park.’
I hid my annoyance. La Buckfast was perverse enough to take pleasure from my discomfiture. Instead, I made a pot of tea – making sure to reach for the tasteless herbal infusion that she had provided instead of the usual Darjeeling – and poured us each a cup of the brew. It isn’t often I use my mother’s set, left to me with the rest of her things after her death in the Meadowbank Home. The cups are too small, too fiddly, the saucers decimated by time, but there’s something about La Buckfast that seems to demand something more refined. Besides, I thought, the less I drank of her tea, the better.
The cup on the saucer tinkled and I realized with annoyance that my hand was shaking. I reached across to put them down on the kitchen table, but the table was overloaded with papers, books and crockery, and the little saucer slipped and fell, to smash onto the linoleum.
‘Damn it!’ I’d managed to keep hold of the cup, which now dangled from my finger like one of Liberace’s oversized rings.
La Buckfast knelt down to pick up the broken pieces. ‘Let me do that, Roy,’ she said. ‘I hope it wasn’t valuable?’
I shrugged. ‘I seldom use them,’ I said. There was a sliver of china just beside my left foot; the gilding on the edge made it shine like a tiny crescent moon. It was my mother’s tea set, a wedding present from some aunt or other. A cheap thing, as most of them were in those days, but hoarded and stored for many years, and kept in her china cabinet. La Buckfast gathered the pieces and dropped them into the pedal bin.
‘You don’t want to rush things, Roy,’ she said. ‘Another week will do you good.’
I sighed. I was feeling quite ill by then. I sat in my kitchen armchair, and wished for a comforting Gauloise. ‘Then indulge my one remaining vice,’ I said, as she sat beside me. ‘Open my window into the past. Did Eric speak to you again? And what do you think he had to do with Conrad’s disappearance?’
10
King Henry’s Grammar School for Boys, May 24th, 2006
I have been playing for time, of course. Like Scheherazade, I have managed to make a temporary respite last for almost long enough for me to outlast my adversary. Not that he thinks of me that way. In his own eyes, he is still the White Knight leading Alice to safety. Unimaginable, that he might have been outmanoeuvred by a woman, especially one who seems to him so fundamentally damaged. But I have achieved my objective. Straitley wants to hear my tale now – no, he needs to hear it. The stress of all this uncertainty is doing his sleep patterns no good at all, and on top of everything else, I’m sure his health must be suffering.
Still, it will soon be over. On Monday, I have a meeting with the Council planners, the architect, and the head of the Residents’ Committee, during which I hope to break the log-jam that has so long impeded the completion of the Gunderson Building.
It would be good to see it complete before I move on from this Headship. I never meant to stay here long. Just long enough to wind up my affairs. After that, the School can move on, safe in the wake of my legacy. Not that I mean a swimming-pool block to be my legacy at the School, although it will look very nice on next year’s publicity brochures. No, my enduring legacy is bringing girls into the School; not as a merely financial exercise, as Johnny Harrington meant it, but as a genuine move to improve the way in which girls are formed and taught to see the world around them. Not as outsiders, facilitators, mothers, sisters, daughters, supporters, comforters, cheerleaders, but as experts and pioneers. To replace the narrow door by something that opens for everyone.