Saturday, 12 December 1964
Someone reached down to fling back the seat and its lid. Crafton released his hold and with both hands grasped Stephen’s neck. He was forced to his knees.
The humiliation had already far outstripped his pain, but the impact of his skull on the lavatory bowl was so sickening that his hatred of his persecutors and the whole school flared into loathing for the whole world, and he wished then, perhaps truly for the first time, that he had never been born.
For an instant, in the semi-darkness made by his own head, he was able to inhale more freely, the air damp, smelling somewhat of disinfectant or bleach, but also of something else, the invisible residue of generations of careless ejection, by juveniles, of their excrement, day after day, year after year, all of which was now merging with and irreversibly polluting, in these last few moments, whatever shreds remained to him of his soul.
Distorted by the acoustics of the cubicle and of the porcelain itself, he heard Nesbitt’s triumphant shout of ‘I hereby baptise the Creep!’ It was instantly followed by the clank of iron. Stephen clamped his eyes shut; the thundering cataract forced itself up his nostrils, into his sinuses and ears. All sounds were deadened. His head felt as if it had been filled with concrete.
The torrent ceased, as did the pressure on his neck. He understood then that he had inadvertently spread his hands on the cold and clammy floor on either side of the bowl. That he had done this to himself seemed almost as bad as everything else. To the dull and distant refilling of the cistern, he raised first his head and then himself.
They had gone.
As he bathed his palsied hands at the basin, Stephen was careful to avoid whatever image the steel mirror above it might be trying to offer him. His whole being was trembling, retracting further and further into itself, seeking some inmost sanctuary where Nesbitt and the others did not exist; where none of this could have happened.
There were no paper towels in the dispenser and, as usual, the roller towel hung limp and filthy. Trembling ever more violently, he bent double in an effort to clear his ears. Drops from his hair puddled on the floor, and when he stood upright again he felt another trickling down his chest and belly. His collar and tie had been soaked through, together with much of his shirt-front, his lapels and the upper parts of his blazer.
He decided to delay leaving in case his enemies were lying in wait.
The time was almost a quarter past twelve. Hiding here as the minutes passed, he saw that he had been wrong. He had supposed that his loneliness could not have grown worse. Why did they hate him so? What had he done to them? Nothing, except be himself. It followed that there must be some fault within him. At primary school, too, he had felt apart, usually the last to be chosen for any team or the first casualty in a game of musical chairs, whether real or metaphorical.
Just after half-past twelve he left the lavatory block, hoping to get away unobserved. Despite the bitter cold, he had decided to walk home rather than endure the scrutiny of the conductor and passengers on the bus.
He had resigned himself to the loss of his raincoat and had even devised a story for his mother, but there it was, lying in a heap in the cloisters: they had grabbed him in the cloakroom before he’d had a chance to put it on.
Nine boys had been in for detention this Saturday morning. Three had been released after an hour and another two after the second hour, leaving only himself, Nesbitt, Crafton and Preece-Owen. In that final hour his gathering terror had reached completion. They had been gifted a perfect opportunity.
And now, as he was heading for the school gates, he was dismayed to see a master emerging from the door in the corner between the main building and the boiler house. He was about thirty, his longish brown hair combed back, wearing a tweed jacket and grey flannels, by no means new. His open-featured face was familiar. Stephen had seen him often enough at assembly, but could not quite recall the name.
‘You, boy!’
Stephen halted; the master came up. A long tube of rolled paper, like a map or chart, was in his hand. With this he had pointed at Stephen while shouting.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I had detention, sir. Three hours.’
‘But that would have ended at twelve.’
Stephen said nothing.
‘Why is your hair wet?’ Then he said, much less harshly, ‘Who did that to you?’
‘No one, sir.’
Stephen was avoiding his eye. He remembered then that the master was Mr McKechnie, who taught Latin – though not to him.
The protracted silence made Stephen look up. The expression he saw in Mr McKechnie’s eyes almost brought to the surface the tears he had been suppressing till now.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Grove, sir.’
‘You can’t swan about like that. You’ll catch your death of cold. Go inside and wait.’ He indicated the doorway he had just left. ‘I’ll be back in a minute. There’s no one in the staffroom. You can dry off there.’
‘I can’t, sir,’ Stephen said. ‘I’m late already and I’ve got to get home.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to visit my granny in hospital. She’s in Welhampton, we don’t have a car and visiting hours finish at four. I’ve held things up enough already by getting detention.’
Mr McKechnie seemed to be deciding whether all that was believable. He said, ‘Who’s your form master?’
‘Mr Edmonds.’
‘All right, off you go. Get home and change as quick as you can.’
Stephen’s navy blue gaberdine raincoat was fitted with a detachable lining, but it was inadequate. The raincoat itself provided little warmth, he had neither gloves nor scarf with him today, and so he was feeling especially cold. The only alternative to the raincoat was his anorak, but he was not allowed to wear that to school. As he made his way through the town he was trying to ignore the easterly wind and the way it was hurting his ears; he was trying to ignore also whatever odd looks he was getting from passers-by.
What concerned him now was not so much the bullying itself as the effect that an inquiry would have, for Mr McKechnie was bound to suggest to Mr Edmonds that a boy in his form was being singled out, and they would know who else had been given the full three hours. Stephen rued the fact that he had not had the presence of mind to give false names. Nesbitt would be convinced that he had sneaked.
As ever, there were four solutions. He could fight back, which was impossible against the whole lot of them; he could play truant, perhaps indefinitely; he could run away from home, though he had no idea how he might survive alone or even evade recapture; and fourth, much more realistically, he could do away with himself.
With greater seriousness he revisited, yet again, that plan now. He had already perfected the details: get some stout rope or electrical cable, then take a Moleshill bus and alight at or near ‘Chalkpit Cottages’. A footpath from there was marked on the Ordnance Survey map he had studied in the school library. At first it led westwards and uphill but soon trended to the north and became very steep. Half a mile on it entered some extensive woods – woods likely to be little frequented at this time of year and well away from Chilham. There he would choose a secluded spot far from any paths, preferably made difficult of access by dense undergrowth. He would find a suitable tree, make a noose, climb up …
Not just yet. There were only four more schooldays to get through, after which the Christmas break would begin: three whole weeks of respite. He would allow himself one last holiday, and then, after dinner on Sunday, 10 January, the eve of the new term, take that bus north.
When at last he got home he was relieved to find no one else there. His mother had left a hasty note on the kitchen table. She had gone out – with ‘auntie’ Rita, no doubt. He was supposed to ‘get’ himself ‘something to eat’, which meant tinned beans or spaghetti on toast.
He was badly chilled, but before thinking about food he decided to go upstairs and trespass on the forbidden territory of Natalie’s room, even though she was at work and would not be back till long after he had finished with her hair-dryer. Being scrupulously careful to note how it had been laid in her dressing table drawer, Stephen took it, retreated to his own little domain, and there began to conceal all trace of what had happened to his clothes.
* * *
Already the afternoon was waning. In midwinter Campbell liked to get out, when he was free, before dawn, but today he had needed to finalise his contribution to the timetable for the Spring Term. The Head had already complained twice about his tardiness in this matter, yet another black mark against him. Derek did not regard him as a team player and he was beginning to fear, perhaps irrationally, that they might not renew his contract when the time came. This flat belonged to the County. If Campbell lost his job he and Pauline would be homeless.
He took another sip and said, ‘Something’s troubling me and I’m not sure what to do about it.’ To counter her expression he quickly added, ‘A school matter. Just before I left today I encountered a junior boy on his way out who – well, his hair and the upper parts of his clothing were soaked and he himself was shivering and in distress. I’m pretty sure someone had put his head down the lavatory. He effectively denied it, of course. His name is Stephen Grove; I looked him up. That’s why I was late back. He’s in 4A. George Edmonds’s form. It seems he had three hours this morning—’
‘Detention, you mean?’
‘Yes. Presumably the culprit or culprits got three hours too, though one can’t be sure of that. If I tell George about this … you can see the spot that could put the boy in.’
‘With a man like him especially.’
‘And Derek would be no better. Worse, in fact, especially if it came from me. “Campbell, there is no bullying in {my} school.” This Grove didn’t perform too well at his interview. They measured his IQ at only 117 so they started him in 3C2, but last year his progress was so spectacular he got promoted. First in maths and English, streets ahead, in fact, and second or at best third in everything else. The IQ test must have been faulty in some way, or he was ill or otherwise compromised when he took it. From his marks I’d guess he’s 150 or even more. This term all that has gone to pot. I’d also guess he’s being bullied. At a further guess, the bullies might be former classmates.’
‘Jealous of his promotion?’
‘It’s a theory.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Slightly built, fair haired. Shy, I should think. Young for his age.’
‘Which is?’
‘Twelve. February birthday. I told him he could go into the staffroom to dry off but he said he was late already and handed me some story about his family having to make a hospital visit this afternoon.’
‘I can’t see any way of bypassing Edmonds or Derek that wouldn’t get you into hot water.’
‘Nor me.’
‘At least we’ve got the rest of the weekend to ponder it.’ She smiled. ‘What would Epictetus say?’
He returned her smile. ‘I have some agency in this matter and so I must act. Indeed, the school has a legal duty of care towards him. Towards all of them. Besides which, young Grove struck me as a nice little lad. An honourable schoolboy, observing the code. Somebody’s son. Their pride and joy, no doubt.’
This morning Pauline had put on the willow green mohair sweater he liked best. In returning his cup to its saucer, he issued her a sly glance. She raised her eyebrows in a way that indicated her mind had joined his in its groove. She was already twenty-eight; they were desperate to start a family. On such a dull, beastly cold Saturday afternoon as this, the washing up and all the rest of that sort of nonsense could wait.
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