Authors: Stephen Sweeney
“And as well as being under a
great deal of pressure to reassure parents of the safety of the
school, we are also fighting a daily battle to keep St Christopher’s
open
. We are receiving calls from all quarters to close until
the matter can be laid to rest, and it is putting every member of
staff under a great deal of pressure. I’m bending over backwards to
keep everyone happy, and it’s the hardest I have ever worked in my
life. You probably have little idea of how stressed many of us are
these days.
“Ofsted inspectors are here at
least once a week to get updates from the headmaster, the police are
advising us not to allow any boys to stay on the grounds overnight,
as they are still interviewing suspects, and the local council is
suggesting that we close the school after the end of this year, in
case this is the work of someone targeting us exclusively.
“I won’t lie to you, Joe –
it’s possible that we very well might have to do so, as there is no
guarantee that enough boys will return at the start of the next
school year to allow us to stay open. We’re doing everything we can
to keep the school running, as no one wants to see five hundred boys
turfed out midway through a school year and forced into limbo. It
could be disastrous to their continued educations. We’re doing this
all for the sake of the boys and doing our utmost to keep them safe
at the same time. There are risks, we know, but we’re doing
everything we can. The continuation of their schooling is very
important. And you should know – it’s why you’re staying here to
complete your GCSEs before leaving us, isn’t it? Now, does that
tell you everything you wanted to know?”
My jaw had become slack. I had no
idea that things were this bad. “Shit,” I said, unable to help
myself.
“Shit, indeed,” my housemaster
responded, before I could offer an apology. “The school lost one of
its prefects over the weekend, too – Damien Sanderson, leaving
Martin House with a role that now needs filling.”
“How come we weren’t told?” I
wanted to know.
“Because, Joe, as I already said,
this is really none of your business. It doesn’t matter to you or
your studies, and only concerns those directly affected,” my
housemaster said matter-of-factly. “None of this, as you can
imagine, is good for the school’s reputation, and it only gets
worse when the newspapers start running stories. We are forging on as
best we can, but things are getting more and more complicated, and,
frankly, there are some things that people don’t need to know. The
headmaster wants to avoid a second mass exodus, as it wouldn’t be
good for anyone.”
“Have my parents said anything?”
I found myself asking.
“I received a call from them
shortly after everyone returned, seeking to put their minds at rest,
as well as one just last week. I trust you will keep this to
yourself, Joe?”
“Yes,” I said. “Of course.”
“Good. Please could you prop the
door back open on your way out,” he indicated with his pen.
I did so, leaving the office in an
almost zombie-like state, my mind swimming. He had a point – this
wasn’t
any of my business. Still, it was nice to know, and
it sounded as though Mr Somers also needed to get a load off his own
chest.
I returned to the third year dorm to see that Sam was just
about done. He was looking under his bed and behind his bedside
locker. This was it. He was really going.
“Got everything?” I mumbled.
“I think so,” Sam said. “I
think Rory has still got my
MC Hammer
album, and I don’t
have time to go and look for him and get it.”
“I’ll get it for you and give it
back to you on Saturday,” I said. “Oh, and give me your address
in Texas. I’ll post you anything important that you might have
forgotten.”
“Good point,” Sam said, writing
his address and phone number down on a piece of paper I retrieved
from my desk. He took down the phone number for the house as well,
and then the two of us walked down to the front of Butcher House,
where his parents were waiting in the car. It was bulging with all
Sam’s belongings. Being a foreign student, he had stored many of
his possessions at the school during holiday time. Where those of us
who lived in England could ship bits and pieces home with us at
weekends and the end of term, reducing the clutter, Sam had hoarded a
huge amount during his two and a half years.
Sam spoke to his parents to confirm
that he had all that he could find, and we then stood there awkwardly
for a time, not really knowing what to do. We then hugged one
another. I didn’t know why. Maybe it was just in case.
“See you later, Joe,” Sam said.
“You’ll have to come over to Texas to visit some time.”
“I will do,” I said.
With that,
Sam got into the car and it drove off. I knew I shouldn’t feel sad;
I was going to see him again in a few days.
But Saturday came and went, and Sam
never returned.
Summer Term
April 1992 – June 1992
Chapter Twenty-One
“
Y
our
grades are excellent,” my mother exclaimed.
I smiled. She had clearly expected a
lot less, even though my grades throughout my entire education at St
Christopher’s had been anything but. I was sure that I had only
ever seen one C grade during my time, and that had been at the end of
my first year of senior school, for French. I wasn’t expecting
anything higher than a B in that for my final GCSEs.
“Maybe they’ve taken the murders
into account, and how it might have affected your grades,” my
father suggested.
“They do that for boys who suffer
a death in the family,” I said. “But they didn’t take the
murders into account this time, not for the mocks. One of the biology
teachers told me.”
“So, your final grades could be
higher when you take the actual exams?” my mother asked.
“Yes.”
My parents continued to look through
the grades, reading the comments alongside them. I had seen them
already, having opened the envelope when it had arrived that morning,
eager to see how I had done. The very next minute, I had made my way
down to the sixth form college and presented them to the
receptionist. A very brief meeting with the admissions officer had
followed (as it was unscheduled and I should have made a proper
appointment) and I had been given what I considered a verbal
acceptance.
“Do they always send the projected
grades out?” my mother asked, looking from me to my father, who
only shrugged.
“Only if you ask for them,” I
said.
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
My father chuckled. “Because he
wants a car as a reward.”
“That, and I want to do my
A-Levels at BSFC.” I pronounced it
bas-fic
.
My mother and father said nothing,
and just looked at me.
“Don’t worry. I don’t want an
expensive car,” I smiled.
“Still have your heart set on
going to school down the road, do you?” my mother asked, clearly
suppressing a sigh.
“Of course,” I said. “I might
not actually be able to stay at St Christopher’s much longer, not
with everything that’s going on there. I’ve been told that it
could close for good at the start of the summer.”
“Regardless of what’s happening
there, Joe, you can’t go to BSFC.”
“Because?” I asked.
“Because you can’t,” my father
said.
“I can’t?” I said
incredulously.
“No.”
“Why not?” Because ‘you can’t’
was hardly a legitimate reason.
“Why do you want to go to BSFC?”
my father asked. “Other than leaving St Christopher’s because of
the problems there?”
“Because he wants to meet girls,”
my mother supplied before I had a chance to explain. “Joe, if you
want to meet girls, we can send you to a mixed boarding school once
you finish your GCSEs. As you’ve said, it’s likely you’ll have
to move to another school once you’ve done your exams, anyway.”
“Okay, Mum, look,” I said. “I
don’t
want
to go to another boarding school. I want to go
somewhere completely different. I want to learn to drive a car and
have more freedom. I want to live as a normal teenager and do all the
stuff that normal teenagers do. I don’t want to be made to get up
at a certain time, eat at a certain time, be in my room at a certain
time, be asleep at a certain time ...”
“If you were living here, you’d
have to be,” my father pointed out.
“And as I keep saying, you can’t
stay here,” my mother said just as firmly. “The reason we sent
you to boarding school in the first place was because of our jobs. We
wouldn’t be here to look after you, since we have to travel a lot.”
“We were going to send you to live
with Grandma and Granddad, but you didn’t want that,” my father
added. “Remember?”
I vaguely recalled it. I was eight
when my parents had suggested that I go to boarding school. Older and
somewhat wiser now, I realised that this was more for their benefit
than my own. They had had to put the brakes on their careers ever
since I had come into the world, and had been keen to get back to
them.
“I don’t see what the big deal
is,” I said. “When I was here for three weeks the last time I
coped fine on my own.” Other than the baked beans incident, which I
had managed to cover up successfully. “I’m not a little boy any
more. It wouldn’t matter that you might not be here, I could look
after myself. I know how to get to the college and get back; it’s
just down the road. I can also keep the house tidy, wash my clothes,
cook ...”
“You are
not
doing that.
You’d burn the bloody house down,” my father said.
“The point is that I don’t need
looking after,” I said.
“Yes, you do,” my mother said.
“Mum, I’m sixteen!” I
answered.
“Exactly,
you’re only
sixteen
!”
“But, Mum, at that age I’m
legally allowed to leave school, get married, get a job, have
children ... The only thing that I can’t do yet is drive a car, but
I can apply for my license next year, in February. I’m an adult.”
“You’re not an adult until
you’re eighteen,” my father answered, keeping his cool a lot
better than my mother. “And how do you know that that school down
the road is any good?”
I didn’t. I just assumed it would
be based on them only accepting ‘the best’. “I took my
projected grades down there, and they said that they would accept
me.”
“They did?”
“Yes, they did. Look, I’ll give
you the prospectus I’ve got. You can have a look for yourself and
tell me what you think,” I offered.
My mother shook her head. “It’s
only two more years, I’m sure you’ll survive. Once you’re done
with your A-Levels, you can go off to university and have all the
freedom you like.”
See? They don’t want you here.
Told you that you were a mistake
, the voice of Craig
Priest crept into my head.
They never wanted you and
only sent you to St Christopher’s so that they wouldn’t have to
look at your ugly face every morning.
Fuck off, Priest
,
I responded.
“But you’re not actually both
away all that often,” I continued to argue with my mother and
father. “The last time you were both away for any significant
amount of time was January, and that was for two weeks. And let’s
be honest, you didn’t actually need to be here as much as you were
when I came home from school in March. The only thing you need to
teach me how to do is cook and use the washing machine ...” I
ignored the look of horror returning to my father’s face. “I
could walk or bike it to college, so that would save money on bus
fares and petrol. And you’d be able to get another cat, too, Mum,”
I added, pointedly.
That stopped my mother a bit short.
Her wishes for a new feline companion were strong, but her career had
always come first. I sort of felt sorry for her. I didn’t actually
know if my parents had many interests outside of work.
“Being here would also help me get
over the culture shock of going to university, where you can pretty
much do as you please,” I said to my father. “I know of people
who have found it difficult to cope with the freedom, and so this
would be a good transitional step.”
My mother and father said nothing
for a time, each contemplating silently. “What are you going to
study?” my father then asked.
“Economics, maths and English,”
I said immediately. My father eyed my grades once more, before
passing them to my mother.
“I don’t know,” she then said,
sounding completely defeated. “Ask your father.” She turned and
walked off into the kitchen, though not with the stomp that I had
anticipated, more the steps of reluctant acceptance.
My father didn’t look as though he
was going to come to a decision any time soon. I decided to bargain,
instead. “Okay, how about this?” I said. “If I don’t get good
grades, then I go where you want me to.”
“And what would you call ‘good
grades’?”
“Those or better,” I said,
nodding to the sheet of paper that my father still clutched. “If I
get grades lower than those, then you can make all the decisions. But
if I equal or better them, I go to BSFC.”
My father didn’t answer
immediately, and continued to look at the grades on the paper. “I’ll
think about it,” he said. That basically meant ‘yes’. He just
needed to convince my mother of it. “Do you have the prospectus for
that college?”
“In my room,” I said. “Unless
Mum threw it out.”
“Get it for me. I’ll look at it
tonight.”
The phone in the hall began ringing,
my father answering it.
“Joe,” my father called. “It’s
for you.”
I made my way to the phone, seeing
as I passed the kitchen that my mother was at the table, reading the
Daily Mail
. At the other end of the phone was Rob.