I made the mistake of saying so to Dominic one Sunday night. I’d finally finished the marking; Emily had gone to bed and we were watching late-night TV and sharing a bottle of red wine. ‘What does it matter what they think?’ he said. ‘It’s not like you’re staying on.’
‘I haven’t made that decision yet.’
He looked at me sharply. ‘Becks,’ he said, ‘you’ve spent the whole weekend shut away, listening to those fucking tapes. You barely talk to Emily. And you’re run ragged. I know you are. What time did you go to bed last night? One? Two?’
‘The hard bit’s done. Now I can afford to relax.’
He pulled a face. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of. Don’t get too comfortable there, Becks. Next thing you know, we’re all playing bridge with someone who went to Eton.’
I had to smile. ‘It’s nothing like that. There are some people you’d really like. Good people, like Carrie Macleod –’
‘The hippie Drama teacher you keep going on about?’ He laughed. It was not an entirely pleasant laugh, and I felt a touch of annoyance. I’d only mentioned Carrie to him a couple of times, at the start of term, and certainly not often enough to qualify as ‘going on’.
‘I don’t think I called her a hippie,’ I said. ‘She’s great, and not at all snobbish. Maybe we could invite her over for dinner or drinks one weekend. You’ll love her, she’s hilarious –’
‘No.’ His tone was suddenly harsh.
‘What?’
‘You’re not inviting her here,’ he said in the same cold and angry voice. ‘I think I’ve made it clear I’m not interested in socializing with anyone from that place. Ever.’
‘Oh.’ I suddenly felt like a child, helpless in the face of some incomprehensible adult rage. It was the same kind of feeling I’d had when Scoones had lashed out at me on my first day. I felt my features taking on that look of frozen politeness; that strangely apologetic look that women assume when they have been hurt. Men are allowed their reactions, but good girls never make a fuss, even when they have every right to do so.
Dom saw my face, and softened. ‘Look, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ he said. ‘It’s just that we’ve been going to invite my family over since Easter, but you always say you’re exhausted, and I’m running out of excuses –’
‘A couple of drinks with a friend from work is hardly a dinner party for twelve,’ I said. ‘And you’re right. I am exhausted. I’m going to get some sleep.’
He did not stop me from leaving. But when I crept down, some time later, still upset and unable to sleep, I heard him speaking on the phone; too low for me to make out the words.
PART 4
Phlegethon
(River of Burning)
1
King Henry’s Grammar School for Boys, July 7th, 1989
The last days of the summer term are never easy on supply staff. No comforting routine, no plans; no punishments; no homework. Boys can already see the summer holidays unfolding before them like a stretch of unbroken beach, all sunshine to the horizon. Upper School boys are long gone, having finished their exams, and the Middle and Lower Schools are kept as calm as possible by a series of trips, sports, and other diversions.
Not having a form of my own, I was exempt from writing reports, and end-of-term administration. As a result I was given the task of helping with the school Sports Day, to be held on the penultimate Friday of term. I’d always rather enjoyed sports. I felt that my contribution might help me in my improved relationship with the boys. Thus I was looking forward to Sports Day, and to the rare informality of a day spent outside.
But on Thursday night, it rained. Six inches of rain fell on Malbry, and the school fields were waterlogged. Instead of spending the day outdoors, I was obliged to supervise a group of assorted misfits and malcontents while the PE staff organized indoor games with the sporting elite of the School. The result was not what I’d hoped for. Forty frustrated Grammar School boys – including most of 4 Upper S – crammed into one classroom for the whole of an afternoon was already bad enough. But add to that the end of term, the cancelled treat; the pouring rain; the smell of wet socks and the way the condensation ran down the walls and fogged the small, high windows, and my charges were getting restless. I had no work to give them – except for Scoones’s lesson plans – and my attempts to get them to read in French were doomed before I started. I had to do something quickly, or risk an intervention by Scoones – who was always on the alert for an excuse to wield his authority.
And then I had an idea. ‘All right. That’s quite enough of that,’ I said. ‘Follow me to the theatre, boys. I think we could all use a change of scene.’
I hadn’t looked in the theatre since the day of that first Assembly. King Henry’s was a traditional school and mingling between Departments was definitely frowned upon. But Scoones was with Sinclair that day, unlikely to notice my absence, and Carrie was the only person in the School I could count upon to co-operate.
She was there with a trio of fifth-formers, sorting out props by the side of the stage. I filled her in on my Sports Day predicament, and found her sympathetic.
‘I thought we might be able to use the theatre this afternoon, instead of being stuck in a classroom,’ I said. ‘I thought perhaps some foreign-language role-plays might be more fun than Sinclair’s lesson plans.’
She raised a cynical eyebrow. ‘Role-plays? Sweetheart, we can do better than that.’
And with Carrie’s help, we did. First, I sorted the boys into groups, and asked them to each write a short piece in French. ‘It can be a poem, a role-play, a song, a sketch. Anything you like,’ I said. ‘In forty-five minutes, we’ll see you perform. The audience will judge the work and the winners will get a prize.’
‘You mean, like a performance?’ said Persimmon.
‘More like a concert party,’ said Spode, his eyes shining behind his taped glasses.
I smiled. ‘As long as it’s in French.’
‘Excellent!’
‘All right. Off you go.’
The others, a little doubtful at first, soon flung themselves into the work. Carrie and I oversaw the groups; and Carrie opened the prop store for the boys to take props where required. Orange – a shy boy, whose stammer made it difficult for him to speak any lines – was designated le costumier, bringing out clothes from the back room. Birdman was le directeur, and Akindele l’ingénieur. Fenelly checked the French for mistakes, and Andrews added invective where necessary.
Persimmon and Spode already formed their own comedy double act, and with the help of the rest of the team, managed to create a kind of satirical playlet, featuring Persimmon as Monsieur Oeufmann and Spode as Madame Asda-Prix. (These characters were clearly versions of myself and Scoones.) There was also L’Ours, played by Sato in a bear costume left over from a production of The Tempest; Le Mouton Anglo-Français and (perhaps inevitably) Le Pétomane. There was even l’Orchestre, consisting of two boys called Winstone and Potts, perched up in the band loft, playing the drums and the keyboards. The result was absurd, profane, surreal, but nevertheless, oddly endearing, and I found myself once again feeling touched by the energy and humour of these boys, and the underlying seriousness which they brought to the whole ridiculous affair. I suppose, Straitley, that you must feel much the same for your Brodie Boys.