“Nothing.”

  She looked him up and down again. He wasn’t obviously hurt. And everyone else had gone. They must learn to survive on their own—anyway, he was a big lad, it was time he learned to fight his own battles. She asked kindly, “What’s your next lesson?”

  “Maths.”

  “Who’s your teacher?”

  “Mr Davis.”

  “Well you go and wash your face, and I’ll tell Mr Davis you’ll be a little bit late.”

  He said nothing.

  When he arrived at maths, fifteen minutes late, he was greeted by jeers. Mr Davis wasn’t there yet. The woman, embarrassed, had given the class the message to give to Davis: “Anthony Childs has permission to be ten minutes late.”

  “Tell ’er all about it, did yer?” “She bin dryin’ yer tears?” “Yer on to a good un there, Orph,” and an obscene gesture to indicate the size of breasts. Their faces were creased with mirthless laughter, like the raised muzzles of dogs when the lips are drawn back in a snarl.

  Orph was rescued by the arrival of Davis. Silence came clean as a cut when he opened the door. He stood in the doorway staring at them, then went quickly to his desk. The room was quiet, the snarling faces transformed to humble eagerness, looking up at him. “Where’s Elizabeth Banks?” People looked around hopefully, as if she might be hidden in a desk.

  A girl put up her hand and he nodded at her. “Please, sir, she’s got a doctor’s appointment.” This information was received in silence. He continued to glare around the room. Then with an economical gesture he placed a pile of exercise books on a front desk. He pointed with one finger to a girl at the back of the room, who scuttled forward to give out the books. When she had finished he did the same routine with a sheaf of blank paper and another child. When all were equipped, he remained still as a coiled snake watching them. Under his gaze they shifted in their seats, pulled back their shoulders, tried to sit up straighter and look alert. Nervously they adjusted the position of book and paper on their desks. Gradually his gaze came to rest on a boy sitting near the window. The boy was staring out at a game of football on the far playing field. Moving in complete silence, Davis approached the boy. Every head in the class turned to follow his movements, with the pure pleasure with which they would watch any perfect hunter. Thirty-one breaths were indrawn simultaneously as the hand was raised above the unsuspecting head—the force of the blow caused the boy to shout out in terror. He covered his head with his hands and sat perfectly still. Davis returned to the front of the room, and stared at him. Quickly the boy put his hands in his lap and looked back at Davis.

  “Thank you,” said Davis quietly. “Page 38. Multiplication revision. Start on page 38 and work through 39 and 40.” As if worked by clockwork, the thirty-two pupils opened their books and lifted their pens. Complete silence reigned for the following thirty minutes.

  After maths Orph went to English, where they were asked to read quietly a library book selected from the reading box. The teacher was interviewing fifth formers who wanted to take A-level English; a steady stream of them came throughout the lesson. Orph’s class talked quietly and inscribed their names and obscenities on the desks and in the library books.

  Stanton kept Orph waiting for fifteen minutes before bringing him into the office. “Having a good day, aren’t you?” he snapped.

  Orph stared blankly.

  “Fighting.” There was a silence. “What was it about then?”

  Orph shrugged.

  Red flickered before Stanton’s eyes. He had had enough. He continued to stare at the lout, who looked at the ground and mumbled inaudibly. “What?”

  “Someone spat at me, sir.”

  “Why?” It was a stupid question. It was what they did. Animals. They spat at one another. “What were you doing in Miss Smart’s lesson this morning?”

  “Nothing sir.”

  “Why not? Didn’t you have some work to do?”

  “Yes sir. The bell went.”

  “So?”

  “For the end of the lesson.”

  The trembling in Stanton’s legs resolved itself into movement. He took a quick step towards the boy, flexing the cane between his hands. “The teacher decides when the lesson ends. Not you. The teacher.” The insufferable blank insolent face stared at him, the pathetic sub-human face of a creature who had no place here—no place at all. “Bend over.” And Stanton hit him, impelled by a burning futile rage. The school was full of them. They understood nothing. They destroyed the place. They destroyed the people. Alice Smart had been a good teacher once. He knew how bad she was now. She’d given up. Worn down. By louts like this. Creatures that would never contribute anything to the world. Creatures that could not and should not be educated. Creatures with no future but pain and destruction, for themselves and others. Creatures that should not have been born and should be stopped from breeding. The glitter in Stanton’s eyes was scalding. The skin on his face was taut, stretched too tight over the bones. The school was a shambles, worse day by day. Creatures like this. He hit Orph with the passionate hatred that, even a year ago, he would have turned on anyone who voiced such thoughts as his own now.

  The boy was white-faced and expressionless when he finished. Stanton’s vision was blurred with heat. He turned away in disgust. The boy still stood there. “Go away.” Orph walked awkwardly to the doorway. He made his way to the toilets and locked himself in a cubicle. Then he took down his trousers and touched his bare bottom. There was blood. He leaned against the wall, trousers round his ankles. After a while he stooped and lit a cigarette from the pocket, then stood smoking.

  The outside door banged open. “Who’s in there?” shouted Adam Fowles. Orph stared at the grey toilet door. “You’re smoking,” shouted Fowles. “I can smell it. Come out immediately.”

  Orph threw the cigarette end in the toilet and slowly pulled up his trousers. He flushed the toilet and opened the door.

  “You. Again.” Fowles was really angry. “Very clever. You’ve thrown it away. Why do you come to school? Why d’you bother?”

  Orph shrugged and finally said, “Get told off.”

  “For not coming? And for coming too, when you behave like this. For heaven’s sake, make life a bit easier for all of us. Stick to the rules, boy—it’s not for much longer.” Fowles turned abruptly.

  Orph watched him go, then shuffled along the corridors to the P E department, through the now empty changing rooms and out to the playing fields. Keeping close to the hedge, he walked away from the school. In the centre of the field a group of boys in royal blue shouted and ran together around a ball, united in the game.

  Chapter 16

  When Emma went back it was as if she hadn’t been away. Her identity was blurred; with Mrs G. she was stiff and averted, holding herself away from the woman’s cosy friendliness with a deliberate dislike. With the children she was at times a great awkward child herself, trying to join in, not understanding. And at other times, a falsely sweet and enthusiastic adult, trying to honey them into good behaviour or what she wanted, knowing all the time that Mrs G.’s directness was more effective.

  Susan wanted to know about where she’d been and what her home was like. When Emma had described the house and garden, and the village it was in, she added brightly, “You’ll have to come and stay with me one day, Susan.”

  “Can I? Oooh—can I?” Susan was overwhelmed with delight. “When?”

  Emma was very angry with herself. How? When? What about the other children? Who would pay their train fares? It was an idiotic suggestion, it would come to nothing, except to prove to Susan yet again that she should not believe or trust adults, and that nothing nice could ever happen to her. “It’ll have to be when you’re grown up, Susan,” she lied, knowing she did not deserve that Susan should not tell the others. Of course she did; and Emma solemnly promised Rose and Delia and Leroy that they could come too, when they were grown up. They argued about it, because Susan said she didn’t want them to come while she was there. And Emma despised herself thoroughly.

  All their reactions to her were wrong and arbitrary, they didn’t know how to treat her because she didn’t know how to treat them. And when they took liberties, she was angry then guilty for blaming them, and everyone was unhappy. Chaos reigned when Mrs G. went out, they stayed up half the night, giggling and screaming from their bedrooms, worked up into such a state of nervous excitement that it could only be ended by slaps and tears.

  There was only one who was outside this frenzy. Orph. He took absolutely no notice of her. Whether she addressed him as adult or child, he ignored her. His behaviour under her care did not vary a jot from his behaviour under Mrs G.’s eye. He did not speak to her, just as he did not speak to Mrs G. or to any of the kids. He didn’t speak to anyone. He was indifferent. The other kids bellowed and clung and demanded; they liked and hated her until there was not an inch of her life that was not baumed with their sticky fingerprints. Orph was outside it. She came to admire him more and more, as he became more and more defined by his contrast to the others. In the evening watching telly they squirmed around and over her, wriggling across her lap and fighting to sit next to her or to not sit next to her. Orph sat on the floor, still as a corpse, staring with fixed eyes at the screen. If Mrs G. went out and the house became a haunted house of shrill giggles, thuds and loud whispers, Orph was unchanged—in front of the TV or lying on his bunk, silent and motionless in either case. She had to beg and cajole the others into doing their chores.

  “Leroy. It’s your turn to wash up, isn’t it?”

  “No.”

  Emma knew full well it was. “Are you sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “It is his turn. He’s a liar.” From Susan.

  “Shut up snidey pants, none of your business.”

  “All right, all right. Come on, Leroy, get them done.”

  “Not my turn.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Because it’s Tuesday, it’s your turn. Now get a move on.” False jollity ringing in her voice. No move from Leroy. “Leroy—come on—then we’ll have time for a game afterwards.”

  “What game?”

  “I don’t know. What would you like?”

  “I don’t want to play a stupid game. I wanna watch telly.”

  “Well, get a move on then.” No move. “Leroy, get those dishes shifted now, or there’ll be trouble.”

  “What trouble?” . . . and so on.

  But on Orph’s night, no matter whether Mrs G. was there or not, he automatically cleared the table and washed up with no prompting at all.

  When Mrs G. found blood on Orph’s underpants she showed it to Emma in exasperation. “Foul, that boy. Disgusting. Always in trouble.”

  Emma stared. “But it’s blood.”

  “Yes. They have to cane him—only way to make him do anything.”

  “But blood—”

  “He’s got no feelings,” said Mrs G. simply.

  Emma plucked up courage to ask, one day, “Why do they cane you at school, Orph?”

  He shrugged.

  “Don’t you care?”

  He shrugged again.

  “But it must hurt.” She was embarrassed by her questions.

  “Yes,” he said, not looking at her, and turned on the TV.

  Eight days after she came back there was a phone call from Orph’s school. Emma answered the phone. They wanted to know where he was.

  “Isn’t he there? Oh no—well what—he must have had an accident—we haven’t heard any—”

  The dry voice at the other end calmly put her in her place. “I doubt he’s had an accident, Mrs—er, Miss—he’s only honoured us with his presence for two days of last week. He’s up to his old tricks again, I’m afraid. Could I have a word with Mrs Garter?”

  Mrs G. took the news grimly. “I thought I’d taught him a lesson last time. It’s a waste of time dealing with that boy.” When Orph came home, at the same time as the others from school, Mrs G. summoned him into the dining-room and shut the door. Emma sat in the kitchen absently answering various demands from Rose and Susan, her attention focused on Mrs G.’s voice. She could not distinguish any words, but the rise and fall of the voice was hypnotic. As she listened the voice grew louder and angrier, and there was a series of questions to which the answers were inaudible. It seemed as if Mrs G. was arguing with herself or on the telephone. After five minutes there was a shouted question which catapulted Orph from the room. He blundered through the kitchen leaving Emma standing inanely there as if she had been caught listening at the keyhole.

  Mrs G. came out slowly. Her face was purple. “Little sod.” She sat down heavily. “Not a word—I couldn’t get a word out of him.” She scowled at the floor for several minutes, then sighed and folded her arms. “Well, if he won’t talk he won’t—it’s his own funeral—he’ll find himself somewhere where they make damned sure he’s at school because there’s nowhere else to go! He won’t be staying here.”

  Emma watched Mrs G., waiting for her to go on. Despite her philosophical words, her face was red and unhappy.

  She shook her head. “He’s beyond help—hard as nails—he was when I got him—he’s beyond help. Not a chink anywhere—stares at you as if you were a piece of furniture.”

  “Delia’s like that,” Emma contributed.

  Mrs G. looked vague. “Oh—Delia—she’ll be all right—but him—no, he’s evil, evil—I’ve got his mark, one day he’ll do something and I’ll be the only one that isn’t shocked. The only one—” She twisted her plump hands unhappily in her lap. “I hope they do put him in a centre—it’s no good me having him here, I don’t want him now.” She looked challengingly at Emma. “And I’ve never said that before about a child—never.”

  Mrs G.’s anger with Orph had the same effect on Emma as on the children. They all crept about being exaggeratedly good and helpful. Orph was the only one who seemed unaffected. He returned in time for tea, apparently oblivious to everyone’s attention focused on him. He chewed mechanically through one cheese and one jam sandwich and a lump of cake, staring at his plate as he ate. Not that he ever looked at anyone anyway. Emma had never seen him looking directly at her. She stared at him surreptitiously, just as the others were doing, feeling as if she had never seen him before and even now was not seeing properly—as if he were behind glass. She could not decide what he looked like. His sandy hair was short and stood on end. His skin was pale, eyes also pale, a glassy blue. His lower jaw was heavy and wide, his mouth absolutely straight, with no hint of an upward or downward curve. But his face—it was strange. It was the normal collection of features, two eyes, a nose, a mouth. But instead of them together forming a knowable face, they remained individual features because of the lack of any expression which might pull them together. So you could look at his face and, the instant you looked away, not know what he looked like. Because he didn’t really look like anything.

  They all ate in silence that night, Mrs G. expressing her displeasure by eating with vicious rapidity and leaving the table before any of them. Marcus and Leroy cleared the table and washed up. The others all trooped in to watch TV. Emma went and sat with them. Orph slumped in his usual position, on the floor leaning his back against the middle of the sofa. She noticed that, though the girls sat on the sofa, their knees level with his head on either side, they respected a distance around him, and squashed themselves together rather than risk touching him. Once he had arranged himself, he sat without moving, eyes never flickering from the TV, no expression ever forming on his face. Blank-faced he sat through news, adverts, a comedy serial and a western. Emma considered what she knew about him. He watched TV every night, from 4.30 to tea-time and from tea-time till he went to bed at 10. He never went out. His life consisted of waking up, going to school, watching TV and going to bed. She tried to remember what he did at weekends. He was always there in the evening, watching TV. Sometimes he was out during the day on Saturdays. She had no idea where. But then, he didn’t always go to school. Where did he go? Staring at his bony profile, it was unimaginable. Did he go off with friends? She was sure he had none. The children here feared him and rarely spoke to him. He would be no different at school. He had no money, so pubs and cinemas were out, or even amusement arcades. Mrs G. said he would end up behind bars. Maybe he spent the day in criminal activities. A pickpocket? A mugger? Not very plausible.

  Over the following days Emma became more and more interested in Orph. The children were all inconsistent, and made her so, but it didn’t really matter because their very inconsistency made what she did irrelevant. She wasn’t affecting anyone. Her little plots for improving the quality of life in the home, her pet ideas for outings and activities and variety seemed quite arbitrary. Her energy was sapped, she could not face a repetition of the morning she had taken the girls shopping. And anyway, what good did it do? It was a matter finally of getting through the day without too many crises. And her great ideas caused nothing but crises. She felt as if huge waves were constantly crashing down on her and it was as much as she could do to keep her head above water and splutter for breath. The routine events in the day took on a different light—the fixed meal-times and rotas and tasks to be done. They no longer seemed to imprison the household and deny spontaneity. On the contrary, they were nice firm stepping stones over the uncharted depths and whirlpools of the day. She found herself groping through the time from 4.30 till tea-time, afraid that the children might want to do something, hoping for a mindless trouble-free occupation until the safety of tea-time could be reached.

  And it dawned on her that the children felt exactly as she did. The security of the definite times and tasks was vital to them. Little enough mattered in their lives, and so it was important that they should each make their bed extremely neatly before breakfast. It was important that they should exchange their slippers at the back door for their own pair in the row of outdoor shoes, and replace the slippers tidily in line. What else mattered? Who cared? Mrs G. was right. Gradually Emma felt that Mrs G. was more and more right. Mrs G. created the children’s lives. She had taken from chaos something which was shapeless and like a painstaking insect she had woven a form around it. She had spun the strands that could hold them together, a time for this, a time for that, lines that should not be transgressed. The children’s lives had shape and therefore, for the first time, they had lives.

 

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