made out of glass and looked out over the playing fields. Beyond them, the rolling hills folded their way gently up through New Hampshire to Canada. My pew was right beside the huge window and I spent half an hour three mornings a week gazing out of it. The distant hills were only visible on clear days; they were dark and wooded and I liked to imagine them stretching northwards in an unbroken line to the empty expanses of snow and ice.
The main door to the chapel was usually locked but the vestry door never was. That was so that boys on punishment duty could report to the old verger in the afternoons and clean the floor or polish the brass fittings for an hour or two. I’d been on punishment duty there once because I told Nick Fisher, the head of our dorm, that Herpes was the messenger of the Gods. I later found out that Mr Rowland-Smith had made him a laughing stock because of that. But because of the hour I’d had to spend polishing brass I knew that the verger usually left without locking the door so that boys could let themselves out.
We hugged the side of the building and slinked round to the vestry door. It opened soundlessly when I pushed it and we snuck in. On either side of us hung the red and white cassocks worn by the choir. The white ruffs were visible even in the darkness, so weused them to navigate to the other end of the vestry where another door led into the main chapel. I opened the door; it creaked. I lit Mikey’s lighter then tiptoed over to the carpeted area in front of the altar. I remember the gold thread in the green altar cloth reflected the light of the flame. The huge wall of glass that loomed above us was an expanse of darkness. There was a faint whistling noise which I had never noticed before, presumably made by the wind high up on the roof. I sat down on the carpet and Mikey did the same. Then he began to empty the pockets of his bathrobe.
‘Fire-water, check. Wisdom weed, check. Personal effect of the departed, check. Leather-bound volume of mysterious provenance, check.’ After a pause he added, ‘Hypothermia, check.’ Then he said, ‘Right, find the chapter before the bit about eating sea turtle.’
I started to leaf through the book. It was hard to read the spidery hand by the flickering light of the flame. I remember deciphering the sentence,
Mock not the turtle; he is a master of the deep,
when I became aware of a faint metallic buzzing, like a winged insect caught in a cage. In the next instant light flooded the chapel and a hoarse voice intoned, ‘In flagrante delicto…’
We looked up to see the old verger standing beside the vestry door. He repeated the words again – they are etched in my memory – savouring each syllable, rolling the ‘flagrante’ around the tip of his tongue like soft toffee, squeezing the ‘delicto’ against the roof of his mouth like a ripe grape.
The old verger’s role was mainly ceremonial; nothing he did had any real bearing on the running of the school and consequently he had become a figure of fun in the eyes of generations of schoolboys. He did his best to impress his importance upon us whenever hecould, which is why he enjoyed having boys on punishment duty to order around. But unfortunately we had presented him with a perfect opportunity for revenge and he made full use of it. We never found out why he had been in the dark chapel late at night – among the many questions which had to be answered over the next forty-eight hours, that one fell by the wayside. I don’t want to go into the details of the sorry episode. It still pains me, not because of its naivety or because I had to move schools as a result. No, what pains me still is the fact that, despite my protesting that it was all my idea, Mikey Katzounnis was also kicked out for possession of cannabis. I could hardly begin to imagine the consternation which this would have caused in his wholesome Greek home. When his father arrived on Monday morning to collect him, he wouldn’t
The main door to the chapel was usually locked but the vestry door never was. That was so that boys on punishment duty could report to the old verger in the afternoons and clean the floor or polish the brass fittings for an hour or two. I’d been on punishment duty there once because I told Nick Fisher, the head of our dorm, that Herpes was the messenger of the Gods. I later found out that Mr Rowland-Smith had made him a laughing stock because of that. But because of the hour I’d had to spend polishing brass I knew that the verger usually left without locking the door so that boys could let themselves out.
We hugged the side of the building and slinked round to the vestry door. It opened soundlessly when I pushed it and we snuck in. On either side of us hung the red and white cassocks worn by the choir. The white ruffs were visible even in the darkness, so weused them to navigate to the other end of the vestry where another door led into the main chapel. I opened the door; it creaked. I lit Mikey’s lighter then tiptoed over to the carpeted area in front of the altar. I remember the gold thread in the green altar cloth reflected the light of the flame. The huge wall of glass that loomed above us was an expanse of darkness. There was a faint whistling noise which I had never noticed before, presumably made by the wind high up on the roof. I sat down on the carpet and Mikey did the same. Then he began to empty the pockets of his bathrobe.
‘Fire-water, check. Wisdom weed, check. Personal effect of the departed, check. Leather-bound volume of mysterious provenance, check.’ After a pause he added, ‘Hypothermia, check.’ Then he said, ‘Right, find the chapter before the bit about eating sea turtle.’
I started to leaf through the book. It was hard to read the spidery hand by the flickering light of the flame. I remember deciphering the sentence,
Mock not the turtle; he is a master of the deep,
when I became aware of a faint metallic buzzing, like a winged insect caught in a cage. In the next instant light flooded the chapel and a hoarse voice intoned, ‘In flagrante delicto…’
We looked up to see the old verger standing beside the vestry door. He repeated the words again – they are etched in my memory – savouring each syllable, rolling the ‘flagrante’ around the tip of his tongue like soft toffee, squeezing the ‘delicto’ against the roof of his mouth like a ripe grape.
The old verger’s role was mainly ceremonial; nothing he did had any real bearing on the running of the school and consequently he had become a figure of fun in the eyes of generations of schoolboys. He did his best to impress his importance upon us whenever hecould, which is why he enjoyed having boys on punishment duty to order around. But unfortunately we had presented him with a perfect opportunity for revenge and he made full use of it. We never found out why he had been in the dark chapel late at night – among the many questions which had to be answered over the next forty-eight hours, that one fell by the wayside. I don’t want to go into the details of the sorry episode. It still pains me, not because of its naivety or because I had to move schools as a result. No, what pains me still is the fact that, despite my protesting that it was all my idea, Mikey Katzounnis was also kicked out for possession of cannabis. I could hardly begin to imagine the consternation which this would have caused in his wholesome Greek home. When his father arrived on Monday morning to collect him, he wouldn’t
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