‘What did Sinclair say about me?’
‘Really, nothing much,’ said Jerome. ‘Just that you were very young, and not quite up to –’
‘Standards?’ I said. My former unease had rapidly been replaced by a kind of swooning rage that I was struggling to control.
‘I was going to say, not entirely used to the way things are done at King Henry’s.’
I forced myself to stay calm. I’ve become very good at hiding things. Conrad’s death and what followed it has taught me that, if nothing else.
‘Well, I’m sorry you wasted your time,’ I said. ‘There isn’t a vacancy at all. I’ll be staying on until the end of my contract. After that, I mean to apply for a permanent post here.’
I found myself almost surprised at the fierceness of my reaction. I realized how badly I wanted to stay, in spite of all I’d encountered. Even in spite of Dominic’s increasingly sullen objections. I wanted to prove myself to those men who had already written me off, who had ogled me, and bullied me, and made me feel unworthy. I wanted to prove to them what I could do, that I could kill the monster –
The memory caught me unawares. It came, as before, in fragments of light; flashes from a corrupted archive. I remembered the green door, and the dappled, forest light from above, and the sound of something hitting the ground, and the taste of tinfoil and chocolate –
Jerome was looking uncomfortable. ‘I completely understand,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have approached Sinclair. But I happened to be between jobs, and this one seemed like such a good fit. I was a pupil here once, you know. Happiest days of my life.’
‘Really?’ I said. How different we are. How different our experiences.
‘I know. Right?’ He smiled at me. ‘I liked school. I really did. I know I’m a walking cliché, but I like to think it makes me a better schoolmaster.’ He tapped the Prefect’s badge in his lapel. ‘That’s why I wear this badge, I suppose. To remember the friends. The Masters. The games. The feeling of belonging to a long and proud tradition.’
I looked at him again. Mid-thirties, maybe. Old enough to have known him, I thought. ‘You’re lucky. Some kids have a rough time at school.’ I paused. ‘Remember that boy who disappeared?’
He looked at me rather blankly. ‘You know about that story?’ he said. ‘You must have been very young when it happened.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s kind of famous.’
‘Yes, I suppose it must be,’ he said. ‘That all seems very long ago.’
‘Did you know him at all?’ I said. The metallic taste was back in my mouth, and I wondered if he could see from my face how much I needed to know the truth. Then he slowly shook his head.
‘I may have seen him once or twice,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know him.’ He looked at me rather closely, and said: ‘Price, his name was. Colin Price.’
I forced myself not to correct him.
‘Price,’ he repeated slowly. ‘That’s your name, isn’t it?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s a common name around here.’
‘Well, I didn’t know him. I think he might have been in a different year. Or maybe a different House. In any case, I don’t remember much about it.’
Well, Roy, I knew that was a lie. Conrad’s disappearance was the single biggest event in King Henry’s history. Books have been written about the case. There was even a TV documentary. Of course he would have remembered, I thought. Add to that the look on his face when I asked him if he’d known Conrad –
What did he know? Why would he lie? Could it be something important?
Once more I schooled my expression. I glanced at my watch. ‘Well, look at the time. I have to get home. But maybe we could meet somewhere?’ I smiled at him. ‘I have to admit, I could use a chat with someone who knows King Henry’s. People like your college friend Higgs haven’t been making it easy for me.’
I know. Having a pretty face can also have advantages. It means I’m taken less seriously. But when it comes to directing men towards what I want, it seldom fails. I reached up to unpin my hair from its bun, and shook it loose over my shoulders. ‘That feels so much better,’ I said. A cheap shot, but it drew him in. I could feel his eyes like hot fingers on my cheekbones.
‘We could meet tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s a pub in Malbry that I like. It’s called The Thirsty Scholar.’
I nodded. I knew where it was. Down the road from St Oswald’s.
‘Meet me there at four o’clock. We’ll have a chat.’
I smiled. ‘It’s a date.’
3
July 7th, 1989
It was late when I got back to April Street. Emily, in pyjamas, with her slippers shaped like tiger feet, was watching cartoons on the sofa. There was a rich scent of cooking – garlic, chillies, tomato, rice – I supposed that Dominic must have already made dinner.
I came in and put down my briefcase. The clock in the kitchen said 6.45. For a moment, I felt a stab of unease. Had I really been with Jerome for over two hours? And if not, where had the time gone?
Dominic was washing up, his back to me as I came in. He did not turn round, but spoke to me in a deceptively neutral voice.
‘Saved you some jambalaya,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know when you were coming home.’
‘I’m sorry. Something came up,’ I said. ‘Thanks for feeding Emily.’
‘Kid has to eat,’ said Dominic.
‘I’m sorry,’ I repeated, putting my arms around him. He felt as stiff as a block of wood. ‘I’ll make it up to you later.’
Dominic shrugged. ‘Whatever. Sure.’
I said nothing more, but went to investigate the covered dishes on the hob. He would come around, I thought. He would learn to be proud of me.
I spooned jambalaya into a bowl. It looked good, though it was no longer hot. I sat down to eat it in silence. There was chicken, and sausage, and rice, cooked with chillies and garlic. Dominic was an excellent cook. Far, far better than I was.
I poured myself a glass of wine, realizing how hungry I’d been. Sinclair and Scoones and the others always went to the school refectory at lunchtime, but in between marking, and setting up my lessons, and moving from one room to another, and supervising the boys, I hadn’t joined them even once.
‘Don’t bother,’ Carrie had said. ‘You’re not missing anything. I don’t think I’ve used the refectory more than twice in thirty years. Besides which, the place is full of men, ready to comment on what you’re eating. Chips, Carrie? You’ll get fat! And all the time they’re stuffing their faces with steak and kidney pie, the pigs, and jam roly-poly, and custard.’
I had to laugh. I knew what she meant. To be a woman, I have learnt, is to be the constant recipient of unwanted pieces of male advice. Cheer up, love, it might never happen! You shouldn’t eat that! You need to eat more! Ladies don’t wear trousers! Once more I thought back to that trouser suit. I thought I’d earned the right to wear it. But all the time, Sinclair had been on the lookout for my replacement. I’ll show that bastard, I told myself. I’ll show him who’s up to his standards.