I thought of getting in touch again, once I was free to do so. I’m still not sure why I didn’t; except that, after what happened last year, I didn’t want St. Oswald’s to suffer further embarrassment. An old friend is caring for me now, and will be with me at the end. So instead of writing, which tires me, I have made my Will, of which, as you’ll see, I have asked Dr. Burke to be the executor.

There isn’t much to execute. I don’t have much, although I have left you and Eric a couple of keepsakes, which I hope you’ll accept in memory of our friendship. I’ve left the rest to the School, of course. My funeral is paid for. I’ve always despised those who left the arrangements to others. I’ve asked Dr. Burke if he can hold the service in the Chapel. As for my ashes, just scatter them somewhere in the School grounds.

Ubi bene, ibi patria. (I think that’s what you used to say.) And thank you for staying in touch, Roy, when so many others slipped away.

Ad astra per aspera,

Harry

I read the letter twice. How very like him it sounded. I could almost hear his voice; warm and somehow woody, like a good old piano. Gods, how I’ve missed Harry Clarke; his humor, his friendship, his decency. Ad astra. To the stars. If only I believed it.

I turned to the Chaplain. “When did he die?”

“Last month. In an old people’s home. They’ve already had the cremation.”

Of course. A man of seventy, childless, unmarried, living off the state—of course. Why waste time with ceremony? Why even bother telling his friends?

“But what about the service?” I said. “The service in the School Chapel?”

The Chaplain looked slightly uncomfortable. “Not a good idea, Roy.”

“Who says?” I demanded.

“Who do you think?”

The Head, of course.

“And maybe he’s right,” the Chaplain went on. “No one remembers Harry Clarke, and maybe that’s the way it should stay. Water under the bridge, and all that. Forward, not back.”

“Progress Through Tradition?” I said, so angry now that I could see little flecks of brilliance dancing between us, like fireflies. The invisible finger that still sometimes jabs its warning into the caesura between my third and fourth waistcoat button applied a note of pressure.

“Don’t be like that, Roy,” the Chaplain said. “You know it wouldn’t make sense. Don’t want the papers all over us, not after the year we’ve had. Not when things are looking up.”

“And—are they looking up?” I said.

“Nowhere left to look down at, Roy,” he said, turning back to his orchids. “Face it, we’re in crisis. That’s why we’ve got a Crisis Head. This Head fails, the School goes down. We’re all in it together.”

Chapter 11

11

September 14, 2005