annoyed. “I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr. Straitley. Could I have a quick word, please?”
We went out into the corridor while I kept watch on the boys through the panel in the door. McNair was already beginning to write something on his desk, and I gave the glass a warning tap.
Sourgrape eyed me disapprovingly. “I was really hoping to reorganize the departmental workroom this morning,” he said. “Your filing cabinets—”
“Oh, I’ll deal with those,” I replied. “Just leave it all to me.”
“Then there’s the desk—and the books—not to mention all those enormous plants —”
“Just make yourself at home,” I said in an airy tone. “Don’t mind my stuff at all.” There was thirty years of assorted paperwork in that desk. “Perhaps you’d like to transfer some of the files to the Archives, if you’re free,” I suggested helpfully.
“I would not,” snapped Sourgrape. “And while we’re at it, perhaps you can tell me who has removed the new number fifty-nine from the door of the departmental workroom and replaced it by this?” He handed me a piece of card, upon which someone had written: Room formerly known as 75 in an exuberant (and rather familiar) young scrawl.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Devine. I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Well, it’s nothing more than theft. Those door plaques cost four pounds each. That comes to a hundred and thirteen pounds in all for twenty-eight rooms, and six of them are gone already. I don’t know what you’re grinning at, Straitley, but—”
“Grinning, did you say? Not at all. Tampering with room numbers? Deplorable.” This time I managed to keep a straight face, though Sourgrape seemed unconvinced.
“Well, I shall be making enquiries, and I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye out for the culprit. We can’t have this kind of thing happening. It’s disgraceful. This school’s security has been a shambles for years.”
Dr. Devine wants surveillance cameras on the Middle Corridor—ostensibly for security, but actually because he wants to be able to watch what everyone gets up to: who lets the boys watch test cricket instead of doing exam revision; who does the crossword during reading comprehensions; who is always twenty minutes late; who nips out for a cup of coffee; who allows indiscipline; who prepares his work materials in advance, who makes it up as he goes along.
Oh, he’d love to have all those things on camera; to possess hard evidence of our little failures, our little incompetencies. To be able to demonstrate (during a school inspection, for instance) that Isabelle is often late to lessons; that Pearman sometimes forgets to arrive at all. That Eric Scoones loses his temper and occasionally cuffs a boy across the head, that I rarely use visual aids, and that Grachvogel, in spite of his modern methods, has difficulty controlling his class. I know all those things, of course. Devine merely suspects.
I also know that Eric’s mother has Alzheimer’s disease, and that he is fighting to keep her at home; that Pearman’s wife has cancer; and that Grachvogel is homosexual, and afraid. Sourgrape has no idea of these things, closeted as he is in his ivory tower in the old Classics office. Furthermore, he does not care. Information, not understanding, is the name of his game.
After the lesson I discreetly used the master key to get into Allen-Jones’s locker. Sure enough, the six door plaques were there, along with a set of small screwdrivers and the discarded screws, all of which I removed. I would ask Jimmy to replace the plaques at lunchtime. Fallow would have asked questions and might even have reported back to Dr. Devine.
There seemed no point in taking further action. If Allen-Jones had any sense, he wouldn’t mention the matter either. As I closed the locker I caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and a lighter concealed behind a copy of Julius Caesar but decided not to notice them.
I was free for most of the afternoon.
We went out into the corridor while I kept watch on the boys through the panel in the door. McNair was already beginning to write something on his desk, and I gave the glass a warning tap.
Sourgrape eyed me disapprovingly. “I was really hoping to reorganize the departmental workroom this morning,” he said. “Your filing cabinets—”
“Oh, I’ll deal with those,” I replied. “Just leave it all to me.”
“Then there’s the desk—and the books—not to mention all those enormous plants —”
“Just make yourself at home,” I said in an airy tone. “Don’t mind my stuff at all.” There was thirty years of assorted paperwork in that desk. “Perhaps you’d like to transfer some of the files to the Archives, if you’re free,” I suggested helpfully.
“I would not,” snapped Sourgrape. “And while we’re at it, perhaps you can tell me who has removed the new number fifty-nine from the door of the departmental workroom and replaced it by this?” He handed me a piece of card, upon which someone had written: Room formerly known as 75 in an exuberant (and rather familiar) young scrawl.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Devine. I don’t have the slightest idea.”
“Well, it’s nothing more than theft. Those door plaques cost four pounds each. That comes to a hundred and thirteen pounds in all for twenty-eight rooms, and six of them are gone already. I don’t know what you’re grinning at, Straitley, but—”
“Grinning, did you say? Not at all. Tampering with room numbers? Deplorable.” This time I managed to keep a straight face, though Sourgrape seemed unconvinced.
“Well, I shall be making enquiries, and I’d be grateful if you could keep an eye out for the culprit. We can’t have this kind of thing happening. It’s disgraceful. This school’s security has been a shambles for years.”
Dr. Devine wants surveillance cameras on the Middle Corridor—ostensibly for security, but actually because he wants to be able to watch what everyone gets up to: who lets the boys watch test cricket instead of doing exam revision; who does the crossword during reading comprehensions; who is always twenty minutes late; who nips out for a cup of coffee; who allows indiscipline; who prepares his work materials in advance, who makes it up as he goes along.
Oh, he’d love to have all those things on camera; to possess hard evidence of our little failures, our little incompetencies. To be able to demonstrate (during a school inspection, for instance) that Isabelle is often late to lessons; that Pearman sometimes forgets to arrive at all. That Eric Scoones loses his temper and occasionally cuffs a boy across the head, that I rarely use visual aids, and that Grachvogel, in spite of his modern methods, has difficulty controlling his class. I know all those things, of course. Devine merely suspects.
I also know that Eric’s mother has Alzheimer’s disease, and that he is fighting to keep her at home; that Pearman’s wife has cancer; and that Grachvogel is homosexual, and afraid. Sourgrape has no idea of these things, closeted as he is in his ivory tower in the old Classics office. Furthermore, he does not care. Information, not understanding, is the name of his game.
After the lesson I discreetly used the master key to get into Allen-Jones’s locker. Sure enough, the six door plaques were there, along with a set of small screwdrivers and the discarded screws, all of which I removed. I would ask Jimmy to replace the plaques at lunchtime. Fallow would have asked questions and might even have reported back to Dr. Devine.
There seemed no point in taking further action. If Allen-Jones had any sense, he wouldn’t mention the matter either. As I closed the locker I caught sight of a packet of cigarettes and a lighter concealed behind a copy of Julius Caesar but decided not to notice them.
I was free for most of the afternoon.
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