I said: “While we may not see eye to eye on matters of English Literature, I hope you believe that whatever you say will be treated in confidence. I don’t go running to the Head when one of my boys comes to me for help. Now, what seems to be the problem?”

For once, I thought he struggled to find the right words to express himself. “Sir,” he began. “I don’t— I mean—”

“It’s all right,” I said. “Take your time.”

For a moment he looked away, keeping his hands very still in his lap. Then he raised his eyes to mine. “Do you believe in possession, sir?”

Part Two

PART TWO

O mihi praeteritos referat si Iuppiter annos!

—VERGIL

Chapter 1

1

September 8, 2005

Officially, the first day of term, when boys invade the premises. How much more efficient things would be if they did not; and yet, how dull.

“Morning, sir!” That was Allen-Jones, who always manages, even on the first morning of a new term, to look as if he has slept in his clothes. There was ink on his collar, and his tie was at half-mast. But that grin of his was unchanged; brash and curiously sweet.

“Good morning, Mr. Allen-Jones. From your studious demeanor, I take it you spent the summer holidays in useful toil, meditation, and contemplation of the ablative absolute.”

“Absolutely, sir,” he said, flinging his school bag onto his desk. Last year’s Hello Kitty item has been replaced by one equally unsuitable; this year’s offering featuring the comic-book character Wonder Woman. This is, of course, against the rules, which clearly state that school bags should be plain, marked only with the School crest. In the case of Allen-Jones, the School crest, in the form of a sticker, has been placed provocatively in Wonder Woman’s ample cleavage. These small transgressions, I knew from experience, were entirely for effect, and, as always, I disappointingly failed to rise to the bait, but turned my attention instead to my new class register, delivered from the School office in a pristine paper folder.

I have kept last year’s 3S. Now they are 4S—a move designed to reassure, to provide continuity in these changing times. I find myself slightly unsettled—of course, one knows that boys can change, but after all these years I am still surprised to see how much they grow over the summer holidays. Last term they were still boys; this term, they have thickened and grown like young trees, pushing and jockeying for space.

Here are my jokers, my Brodie Boys: Allen-Jones, Sutcliff, and McNair. Here’s Anderton-Pullitt, the odd little boy now showing the signs of the odd little man he will one day become. Here’s Jackson, the school-yard scrapper, and Pink, the class philosopher. There’s Brasenose, a fat boy whose mother overfeeds him, and Niu, the Japanese boy, who defies every cultural stereotype by loving English Literature and hating Maths and Science.