But Harry wasn’t laughing. He said: “Life is a gift from the universe. We’re all of us free to do what we want. We can all be who we want to be. We can all change, if we want to change. All it takes is courage.”

“Courage,” I said.

“That’s right.” That smile. His eyes go Chinese when he smiles. “A little courage is all it takes. After that, you can be free.”

“Do you really believe that, sir?”

“Of course I do,” he said. “Don’t you?”

Chapter 8

8

September 7, 2005

Word in the Common Room so far is that the New Head is sound. Dr. Devine is too dignified to share his views with the hoi polloi. Eric is also lying low. His shameful, toadying applause in the wake of the Headmaster’s speech means that he is avoiding me. But everyone else is already sure that Harrington will be good for us. Dr. Burke, the Chaplain; Bob Strange; Robbie Roach, the hopeful historian, who still hasn’t quite recovered from the exhilarating prospect of Mulberry girls in the School. Of course, Roach is an idiot; Strange, a management toady; and the Chaplain lives in a world of his own where reality seldom penetrates—but I’d thought that Eric, at least, would show a little loyalty.

I poured a final cup of tea and prepared to return to the Bell Tower. Suddenly the bright new term seemed rather less promising. Passing Bob Strange’s office, I heard the sound of raised voices and glanced through the half-open door, to see Devine at Strange’s desk.

He was standing half turned to the door, and his nose was pink with emotion. His voice too registered an unusual degree of animation as he said:

“Roy Straitley knows—”

Then he saw me and stopped. For a moment our eyes met. I saw the nose twitch once, and then he closed the office door in my face, leaving me outside in the hall, trying to make sense of what I’d heard.

Roy Straitley knows. Knows what? That Latin is under threat from the National Curriculum? That he shouldn’t eat licorice allsorts? That his days are numbered?

Arriving in room 59, I found a young man in overalls, standing on a school desk, dusting the top of the doorframe. Thirties; slight; sharp-featured; blue hooded top; blue overalls. One of the new cleaners, no doubt: all part of the Bursar’s new money-saving initiative. Hence Mary, our elderly cleaner, whose work ethic, though sound, was based on rules that only she understood, has finally been replaced by someone of the Bursar’s choosing—that is to say, someone cheaper.

I extended a hand. “Good morning,” I said. “I am Mr. Straitley, the current inmate of room 59. And you?”