This isn’t to say that I forgot about Charlie Nutter, or Harry Clarke; but they were not my only concerns, and besides, I only had Harrington’s word (and Harry’s, of course) that anything was wrong at all. Given his son’s lackluster results, I expected to see Stephen Nutter, MP, at one of our end-of-term Parents’ Evenings, at which point I thought perhaps I might broach the subject of Charlie’s unease—no, not his sexuality, which I’d decided was none of my business unless it affected his Latin verbs, but maybe his general state of mind. In any case, I wasn’t looking forward to it. Meanwhile, Harrington’s parents were due to see me about their son’s progress, and after the poor start to the term, I was eager to make as good an impression as possible.

They came on a Wednesday evening—the first of three devoted to meetings. In those days, we held these in our form rooms, at intervals of ten minutes each. Some had allocated times between the hours of six and nine, others just turned up on the night. A row of chairs outside the door enabled the parents to wait their turn. An almost foolproof system, made near impossible to predict by the fact that St. Oswald’s parents, like their sons, are often late for meetings; often rude and badly organized; and anyway are quite incapable of keeping to their allocated ten-minute slot. As a result, these evenings rarely finished before ten thirty, after which we were all exhausted and in no condition to teach the next day.

I’d taken a break in the Common Room rather than go home for dinner. The kitchens always sent a tray of refreshments for those who preferred to stay in School, and many of the staff availed themselves of the opportunity. On this occasion, I’d barely started my first sandwich when Dr. Devine came into the room, looking pressed and efficient. He gave me a look that seemed to take in every detail of my person, from the crumbs on my tie to the chalk marks on my gown—his own, of course, was immaculate; I suspected he’d actually ironed it—and said: “When you’ve finished, Straitley, there are parents waiting to see you.”

When you’ve finished, Straitley. As if a ham-and-cheese sandwich—and maybe a scone, followed by coffee and a leisurely Gauloise—were some kind of orgiastic feast, which maybe, to Devine, it was.

“They’re two hours early,” I pointed out.