3
St Oswald’s Grammar School for Boys Academy
Michaelmas Term, September 4th, 2006
Over the summer holidays, the site of the Gunderson Building has gone from merely unsightly to something akin to a Circle of Hell. Litter and other detritus form a kind of berg at the flooded end, and the water is crazed and foxed with an oily residue. I followed the boys through the broken fence – with rather less ease of movement. With something of an effort, I squatted by the side of the pit where the excavated earth had slid. My knees protested violently.
‘There, Sir!’
It could have been anything. And yet, it could have been nothing else. A sense of inevitability, like something in a troubling dream, started to take hold of me. I leant to inspect a large wad of fabric, and what might have been a piece of wood, there on the mound of broken earth at the edge of the Gunderson Building.
But it was not a piece of wood. And there, against the fabric, I saw the gleam of something familiar.
Once more, my knees protested. I have reached the age at which a man thinks twice about bending down. One of my shoelaces was untied. I took the opportunity to tie it with a double knot. Then I lurched to my feet with a grunt and turned once more to my Brodie Boys.
‘Well, Sir?’
I felt an overwhelming urge to tell them that all was well, that they had made a mistake; that they should go back home and enjoy the final day of the holidays. I could see they wanted that. They might even have believed it. But they were my boys, and I could not lie. To others, perhaps, but not to them.
Instead, I said: ‘You may be right. I’ll have to inform the Head of this.’
‘Will we have to make a statement?’ said Ben.
I shook my head. ‘I doubt it,’ I said. ‘But thank you for coming to me with this. I’ll deal with it now. You leave this with me. But don’t tell anyone else what you saw. You don’t want to jeopardize a potential investigation.’
Allen-Jones looked hopeful. ‘You really think it’s a body, Sir?’
I suppose to a boy like Allen-Jones, such a discovery on School grounds was like a dog in the playground; a welcome distraction from dull routine; an exciting mystery. To a Master, it appears otherwise. The past two years have been hard for us all. Multiple scandals; a murdered boy; revenge, abuse and public disgrace have dragged the school’s reputation down and brought us to near bankruptcy. The last thing we need this year, of all years, is any more excitement. I summoned my natural gravitas. ‘I shall look into it, Allen-Jones. You need not pursue this further.’ And with that, I squeezed back through the fence so forcefully that it gouged the tender roll of flesh around my stomach and my hip, leaving an angry spot of blood on my first-day-of-school shirt.
Another bad sign. That makes three today. But this one was by far the worst; a sign, not just of storm clouds, but of an impending hurricane. Because I’d recognized something in the knot of rags by the Gunderson Building; something my Brodie Boys would not have seen as significant. But I had seen, and I knew what it meant. Another postcard from the past. One that, if uncovered now, would jeopardize the School just as it was starting to recover – both financially and emotionally – from the disastrous events of last year, and those of the year before. One that might finally topple us, in spite of the efforts of our new Head and the rescue package from Mulberry House.
But nothing stays buried forever, I thought. The past is a gift that keeps giving, pulling names from a big black hat. David Spikely, Becky Price – now returned as Ms. Buckfast – Eric Scoones and Harry Clarke. One day, maybe my own name. I put my hand in my pocket. The object I’d found by the edge of the pool was cold between my fingers. It occurred to me that even now, I could just drop it somewhere on the fields, to be trodden into the mud. No one would know. No one would care about such ancient history. And the law must sleep in time of war. Inter arma enim silent leges.
Are we at war? Perhaps we are. Those desks are only the start of it. Whiteboards; gymslips; computers; e-mail; slogans. Progress Through Tradition. From my place by the chain-link fence, I watched my Brodie Boys cross the muddy field, Allen-Jones’s pink T-shirt shining like a beacon. Sutcliff turned and waved at me.
I took my hand out of my pocket and waved back. I realized I had no choice. The School publicity brochure may read Progress Through Tradition, replacing the more traditional Audere, agere, auferre, but my personal motto remains; Ad astra per aspera. Even from the gutter, we are always striving for the stars.
I turned. The sound of youthful laughter rang exuberantly across the fields. Then, and with a heavy heart, I made my way across the fields towards the Headmaster’s office.
4
St Oswald’s, September 4th, 2006
Becky was an only child, and yet she had a brother. It sounds like a riddle, doesn’t it? And yes, perhaps it was, in a way. Because my brother disappeared when he was just fourteen years old, leaving nothing in his wake but grief and a boy-shaped space I could never fill, that grew while I diminished.
It was not the first time that my parents had lost a child. A sister, who died before Conrad was born; of whom my parents seldom spoke. There were no photographs of her; no portrait in the living room. I understood that she had died shortly after she was born; that there had been something wrong with her. Whatever grief my parents had felt was tempered by that knowledge. Not so with Conrad. He had been altogether perfect.
I was just five when he disappeared. Too young to understand what it meant. Too young to know how my world had changed. Too young to know that whatever I did, however much I tried, I would never inhabit that space, never once stop feeling the cold draught of Conrad’s absence, like an open door into the night. And it was there in my parents’ eyes; the absence that endured throughout my childhood and adolescence; the absence of Conrad, more powerful than any mere presence could be, eclipsing me completely. Through marriage and widowhood it endured: through motherhood into menopause. Even now, as I take my place as Head of St Oswald’s, I can still hear that familiar voice, saying: Are you here? Are you really here?
I pour another cup of coffee. Johnny left me his coffee machine – not that he really had much choice – and it is an expensive one; gleaming chrome that reflects my face, once more affirming my presence. At last, I am here. At last, I am real. Not just a reflection. Not just a name. Not just a ghost in the coffee machine.
I told you before that I was whole. That wholeness has been fought for. For all those years I was aware that part of me was missing. No one actually said as much. But children are aware of these things. I knew that there were days when I disappeared into a silent world of my own; days that seemed to vanish into a series of sink holes. And I could see it in their eyes; their longing; their disappointment. As if they wished that I, not he, had been the one to disappear. Perhaps that was why, as I reached my teens, I used sex as a means of control. I learnt I was desirable; I learnt how to make boys see me – at least, for as long as it suited them. I can’t think of another reason for encouraging Johnny Harrington; I certainly never cared for him, although I enjoyed my new-found control. But still, to my parents, I was a ghost; a knocking in the water pipes; an everyday reminder of the day my brother disappeared.