Orph entered the main gate (forbidden to pupils) and dodged across the car park (also forbidden). He caught the eye of a young woman teacher balancing exercise books on her knee in a yellow Mini; she looked away quickly, unwilling to confront him. As he gained the safety of the doorway a deep bellow penetrated the noise of voices and engines around him.

  “Boy! BOY!!” The voice was impossibly loud. There was abrupt silence. “You—bo-oy.” Orph took a step backwards and looked up. A scarlet face was staring down from a first-floor window. “What d’you think you’re doing?” it shrieked furiously.

  Orph shrugged.

  “Answer when you’re asked a question, you ill-mannered lout.”

  “Coming to school.”

  “Coming to school, sir. Coming to school how?”

  Orph hesitated. “Walking sir.”

  “Walking? I’ll give you walking. You came through the car park, didn’t you?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Are you supposed to come through the car park?”

  “No sir.”

  “Why not? Eh? Why not?”

  Pause. “Dunno.”

  The voice exploded into an even higher pitch of fury. “ ‘Dunno’—you ‘dunno’, eh? And how long have you been in this school? Four years? Five years? D’you think we make up rules for our own amusement? There’s a reason for it, lad, and it’s to protect you—to stop you getting run over. Pupils are not allowed to walk across the car park. D’you understand? For their own safety. D’you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” mumbled Orph.

  “Well don’t do it again. Idiot!” screamed the voice, and the window slammed. Adam Fowles breathed deeply and felt the red draining from his face. Would a performance like that have any more effect on the boy than any other kind of treatment? Unlikely. He was impervious. Adam felt depressed. He consulted the register on his desk. Orph had been absent so far that week; it was a pity he’d come back. Various complaints about him would have to be followed up now he was here.

  Orph stepped through the doorway as an electric bell rang shrilly. Gangs who had been leaning against the corridor walls began to shuffle into classrooms. He joined the mob on the stairs, they were packed tightly, pushing each other closer and closer together. A girl in front of him looked round. “Yeuch!” she whispered to her friend, and they giggled, pressing themselves away from him. The glass doors at the top of the stairs were locked. More and more children joined the crowd.

  A demented shriek sounded behind Orph. “Come down! Come down, all of you, NOW!” Only a few children heard. They half turned, uneasily, unsure whether they could ignore the voice. The woman began to haul on the collars of the children at the back of the crowd, pulling her way through them. “Go down. Make a line along the corridor and wait. Go down. You can see the door’s locked.” Her progress up the packed stairway was slow. Gradually they made way for her, pushing each other aside—a few retreated to the bottom of the staircase. When she reached the top step she turned and flourished her keys. “You’re a lot of silly sheep. Sheep. You’ve all got eyes—you can see the door’s locked.” Her voice rose higher, over the giggles and whispers of some of the children. “Go down all of you. Make a line. Go on.” There was a lot of muttering. She stood glaring at them. Very, very slowly they began to move into a line. Various insults came to her ears. “Stupid cow. Who does she think she is?”

  She stood, red-faced, lips pursed, willing them to get into some sort of line. They were taking ages. She would be late for the sixth form. “Come on. Wake up! A line, I said.” It would have to do. “No pushing,” she commanded in her high thin voice, unlocked the door, and slipped through smartly herself in order not to have to see the pushing that would undoubtedly follow.

  Orph made his way to his classroom, and slumped in a desk near the front. The teacher was apparently absorbed in the register.

  A gang of boys lounging on their desks at the back of the room began a low chant. “ORPH-orph-orph-orph-ORPH-orph-orph-orph—”.

  The teacher looked up. “That’s enough.”

  They stopped.

  “Where’s your note?” he said to Orph.

  “Haven’t got one.”

  “Why were you absent?”

  “I was ill.” Someone guffawed loudly.

  “Then you should bring a note.”

  “Bring it tomorrow sir,” said Orph automatically.

  “Make sure you do,” replied Adam equally automatically. He knew the boy hadn’t been ill. Well, what could he do? There was no point in him coming to school anyway. He checked the register rapidly. “Right. Assembly. Go down quietly please.”

  There was a chorus of protest. “Oh no. Why?” “D’we have to?” “Oh sir—can’t we stay here?”

  “I wish we could. The answer’s no. Go on—quickly.” He watched them shamble-push out of the door. The boys were like a different species, with their big bony heads and pasty colouring, skinny ankles showing between tight trousers and clumsy boots. Orph walked apart from them. They teased him. But who could blame them? There was something infuriating about the blankness of his face. As if he was always laughing at you, secretly.

  A small man in a black gown stood on the stage facing the fifth year. They shuffled and fell silent under his gaze. “Take off your raincoats,” he said. Parkas were unzipped and slowly removed. Form teachers darted in and out of the rows making sure people obeyed. “Well don’t stand holding them!” he snapped. “Put them down. Stand up straight!” A few murmurs of complaint were heard, about coats getting dirty. They subsided quickly. “Now. I have something extremely important to say this morning. So listen very carefully.”

  “Sir?” A pasty-faced girl whispered to Adam.

  “What?”

  “Can I sit down? I feel funny.” He rose abruptly and gave her his chair. She was always doing this. He stared at her. Did she ever have any breakfast, he wondered. She looked awful. Maybe he would stop her coming into assembly. He shifted his weight wearily and hoped it would be short.

  “In a place like a school, lots of people from different homes and different backgrounds are brought together. We don’t all agree. Maybe we don’t all even like one another. But we try to get on. It’s in all our interests to get on, because we all use the same buildings, every day, we have to get on with each other, we have to take a pride in our buildings. We have to pull together, to keep our school nice, to make sure it’s a happy place to be, don’t we?” He paused rhetorically. The fifth years stared at him, or at the floor, or at the backs of each others’ heads.

  “This is a lovely building. We’re very lucky in this school, we have a lovely new building, with all sorts of luxuries that weren’t dreamt of when I or your parents were young. And we must all pull together to keep it nice, we must all take a pride in our building. But—BUT—” the voice sank lower, hoarser, more intimate—“there are some people—not many, they know who they are—some people who don’t care about this school. There are some people who are so ignorant and selfish that they don’t stop to consider how lucky they are—they don’t consider the building, they don’t consider the rest of us who use it, they don’t consider the taxpayers who pay for it—completely INCONSIDERATE people—who are trying to ruin this school. Inconsiderate, small-minded, disgusting vandals—you know who you are—spoiling things for everyone.” He paused for effect, glaring over the heads of the fifth years, who took the opportunity to sniff and cough and shuffle their feet.

  “You may have noticed,” he began again, “that a certain boys’ toilet on the second floor has been closed. You may have noticed that toilet has been locked. And that toilet will remain locked. It will be highly inconvenient for boys using that end of the school. They will not be able to use that toilet; they will have to go downstairs and across the school to the toilets near the gym. Everybody will suffer; there will be more congestion in the corridors. That toilet has been locked because of vandals. Because some people don’t care about the rest of us; they don’t care about making our school a good place to be. They are stupid, selfish people, who can’t think of anything constructive to do with their time and spend it destroying things. They are the kind of people who will end up in prison, very soon. Society has no place for people like that. That toilet will remain locked—LOCKED I say—until those responsible for the graffiti on the walls there own up to it. Then they will clean it off. And they’d better not leave it too long—I’ve got a very good idea who they are, and if they haven’t owned up by four o’clock today, I shall make it my business to HELP them own up.”

  He stared at them a moment. He’s forgotten what he’s going to say, thought Adam. But the Head changed his tone abruptly and issued a list of notices and sports results. The bell sounded. “Now, you may go WHEN your form teacher dismisses you—and not before. That boy—you! Go to my office.” There was a disorderly stampede towards the exit doors.

  Orph pushed and was pushed on his way to the doors. He went into the toilets and had a cigarette. Various people were lounging about there. No one spoke to him. Another bell sounded. He went up the stairs to the second floor.

  “You’re late,” said the teacher.

  “Assembly,” he said, and sat down.

  There were eleven others in the room; it was European studies. The bottom stream did it instead of a language. “Right,” said the teacher. “Give these out, please.” She handed Orph a pile of dog-eared textbooks and went round the room slapping each person’s exercise book on their desk.

  “Not that one—I want a new one,” said a thin-faced girl as Orph handed her a book. “That one.” She grabbed at a book, causing him to drop the others. She burst out giggling shrilly. Orph went to his place and sat down.

  “Oy—we want some. What about us?” shouted two boys at the back who hadn’t been given books yet.

  “What are you playing at?” demanded the woman wearily.

  “He’s chucked ’em on the floor!” shrilled the girl.

  The woman spoke with a tired, patient voice. “Pick them up please Anthony and give them out properly.” Orph stared at his desk top. “Come on now.”

  “She made me drop them.”

  “Well she can help you pick them up.”

  “I’m not helping him. He’s thick.” The others were talking and jeering among themselves.

  “Anthony, pick up those books and give them out now.” He sat still. She raised her voice. “If you’re not going to do that you can go down to Mr Stanton’s office. I’m not going to waste my time with you.”

  The others whispered and called. “Go on Orph!” “Go and see Stanny—he’ll flay yer!” “Chuck ’em at ’er.” Orph got up sullenly, flinging his chair back so that it banged against the desk behind. He slammed a book on to each desk.

  The boys at the back leered at him. “Thank you, Anthony. Too kind, old chap.”

  The teacher sighed and smiled unconvincingly. “Thank you, Anthony. What a fuss over nothing. Now turn to page 62.” This took some time. One boy insisted that his book didn’t have a 62, others wanted to look at things on other pages or dropped their books, seeking a new diversion now that Orph had been put in his place. The teacher stared at them, face glazed, waiting until they were bored enough to do as she had asked. “Right. Capitals. On page 62 there’s a list of capitals and important cities in European countries. I want you to copy the list very carefully into your exercise books, so that you can learn it. Look at the page—see, the top one is France. There’s a little map showing you where France is. Then there’s a list of important towns, Paris, Marseilles, Lyons. Write down the name of the country, comma, then the important towns.”

  A slight hubbub of noise broke out. Removing her spectacles, she sat down at the desk and started marking some papers. Slowly people opened their books. Two hadn’t got pens. She looked up as if she had forgotten them already. “No pens? You are nuisances. Here, I’ve only got one. Use a pencil.”

  “Haven’t got one.” Sighing, she gave him a pencil. “It’ll look a mess,” he objected.

  “It’ll look a mess anyway, Wayne, if you write it.” The weary voice was suddenly alive with bitterness.

  “Cow,” whispered the boy loudly.

  Orph stared at the page for a while, then started reading the graffiti on his desk top. “Arsenal forever”, “Grace and John”, “I was here”, “Kilroy woz ere”, “fuck school”, “Jez is a cunt”. The others were talking loudly; some were writing, some weren’t. The little maps in the book located each European country in relation to the rest by shading it in in a blank outline of the continent.

  “Where’s England on this?” asked a girl suddenly.

  “What?” said the teacher.

  “Where’s England?”

  The woman pulled the book to her. “Here,” pointing with a chalky finger. “Don’t you even know that?”

  “New York isn’t on here,” complained someone else. “That’s a big city.”

  Slowly Orph began to copy. He copied vertically, making a list of all the countries.

  France

  Germany

  Switzerland

  Belgium

  The desks and wooden chairs were small. He sat with his knees hunched up between himself and the desk, they wouldn’t fit underneath. Wayne hit him on the neck with a paper pellet. He turned and stared with his blank face.

  “Got ya, her-her.”

  “Stop it and get on,” said the teacher half-heartedly. Orph laid down his pen, and rested his head on the desk, hands across his neck in case of more pellets. For the remaining twenty minutes of the lesson he semi-dozed, kept awake by the restless mutterings and movements of the others around him. When the bell rang he rose immediately and made for the door.

  “Anthony!” shouted the woman. “No one has given you permission to go.” As she spoke, the door opened and Mr Stanton, deputy headmaster, appeared. He grabbed Orph by the ear.

  “What you doing boy?” Orph twisted and the man shook him slightly. Orph’s white face went red, and he turned sharply to face the man.

  The woman’s apologetic voice broke in: “Ah, Mr Stanton—I was just—”

  Stanton looked at the boy with glittering eyes. “Wanted a word with you, Miss Smart. But it’ll keep. I’ll have a word with this lout first, I think.” The rest of the class were frozen still, half-risen from their desks, fear and humility in their faces. Orph was marched away. They exploded into noise and laughter, and stampeded out of the room, knocking over two desks as they went. Harassed and grey the woman hurried after them, pausing only to right one of the desks.

  Stanton had forgotten that there was a parent waiting to speak to him in his office. There was nowhere he could deal with the boy. He backed him up against the wall in the corridor. Children passing gave them a wide berth, leering at Orph from behind Stanton’s back. “What were you doing?” he hissed. Orph stared at him wordlessly. “Answer when you’re spoken to, boy.”

  Orph shook his head. “Dunno sir.”

  Stanton was aware of a whisper behind him. Someone was calling, “O-rph O-rph heh-heh.” He checked himself from turning round. This was not a good place for a scene. His legs were trembling. He put his face, with its curiously bright eyes, close to Orph’s, and whispered,

  “You’d better find out. Think about what you were doing, and you can come and see me at the end of lunch-break. In my office. I don’t want to hear ‘dunno’. I want to know what you were doing when I came into the classroom.” He gave Orph one vicious prod on the shoulder with his index finger. “Go—and think about it.” He was frightened of himself as he walked on down the corridor. He hated that boy. Was that what evolution had been for?

  Orph remained at the wall, face blank. It was quite easy to believe that he hadn’t known what he was doing. A passing boy spat at him. The frothy white glob of spittle hung, self-enclosed for a second on his woollen jumper, then spilt in a long wet dribble down the front of his clothes. Orph leapt away from the wall and after the boy. Children shouted and scuttled to the walls, and the two of them raced along the corridor. The one who’d spat dodged out through a side door towards the tennis courts. Orph rushed after him. He caught him at the far end of the tennis court. The crowd who had witnessed the event were just spilling out of the door after them. Orph swung at the other as soon as he was close enough, and the boy, off balance, fell. Wildly, Orph lashed out at him, flailing with both arms and kicking. His face was contorted. The boy shrieked. Within seconds the other children were there. Five of them flung themselves on to Orph, and dragged him to the ground. The boy who had been down scrambled up. People were screaming encouragement. Orph stopped struggling—his face was blank again, though he was panting, mouth slightly open. With theatrical deliberation the boy Orph had beaten leant over him and spat full in his face. The spittle landed on his cheek and began to slide with gathering speed towards his eye. Orph twisted violently to get up, but five people were holding him.

  A boy who had pushed him down glanced at Orph’s arm, pinioned to the ground, and took a slow step nearer. Watching Orph’s face with smiling curiosity, he raised the toes of his right foot, resting the heel on the ground, and slowly lowered his shoe over Orph’s hand. Orph’s head turned sharply to the side as the boy, still smiling, transferred his full weight to the foot, crushing the hand beneath. There was a ripple of admiration, mingled with alarm about someone coming, from the back of the mob. They disappeared quickly, those who were holding Orph administering a final kick to his side before leaving. He sat up and scrubbed the spittle from his face with his sleeve. Then he started to pick out the small pieces of gravel embedded in the palm of his left hand.

  A woman was hurrying across the empty tennis court. He got up and started walking slowly towards school, his left hand hidden in his pocket. As he approached she slackened her pace, staring at him. “Are you all right?”

  He nodded.

  She looked at his crumpled filthy clothes and red face. “What happened?”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19