Different Class by Joanne Harris Page A

her boys and sometimes brought me slices of cake, home-made and heavy as concrete, which she left, wrapped in a napkin, in the bottom drawer of my desk, for me to find in the mornings. But better than a member of a contract crew from Sheffield or Leeds, working for the minimum wage and for half the time spent by the old team.
    I finished my tea and put down the mug. ‘Liquorice Allsort?’
    I held up the bag. Winter chose a blue one. I selected a sandwich; pink and yellow over black. The sharing of food has always provided an elementary connection. It works with everyone – colleagues, boys; even Devine enjoys the odd austere morning cup of coffee. Of course, the likes of Dr Devine would never be seen hobnobbing with a man in a boiler suit. But in thirty-four years I have learnt that the ancillary staff – the Porter, the cleaners, the secretaries – actually run St Oswald’s. This is an open secret that folk such as he and Mr Strange do not understand, being mostly obsessed with status, money, the National Curriculum and other completely irrelevant things.
    ‘Careful, Mr Winter,’ I said. ‘Don’t be too harsh on the dust, if you please. The dust and I are old friends. We understand each other.’
    He smiled. ‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
    By now he had finished the door-frame and moved on to the top of the bookshelves. I doubted anyone had cleaned up there since Mary’s predecessor – Gloria, with the Spanish eyes. Well, at least he’s thorough, I thought. But efficiency isn’t everything. There ought to be room for more than that. There ought to be room for loyalty.
    I gave a rather mournful sigh. Things are changing too fast aboard the dear old frigate. Johnny Harrington at the helm. Mulberry girls in the Sixth Form. Male cleaners, for gods’ sakes. I settled into my chair and took out the register for this year. At least my form remains the same. That counts for something, I suppose. Though members of staff may come and go, the boys remain a constant; vibrant and unquenchable; a reminder that Life goes on.
    Today has been a long day. I got home late, well after dark. The central heating hadn’t come on. I must have forgotten to set the timer. I lit the living-room gas fire and made myself some cocoa. In such familiar surroundings, it seems hard to believe that anything could be amiss. But that’s the danger of being in this job. That’s how St Oswald’s draws us in. It makes us feel safe, cocooning us with the illusion of permanence. That’s why the Harry Clarke affair came as such a surprise to us all. Even Dr Devine was rocked. Even Shitter Shakeshafte. It was as if something had died, slyly and unobtrusively, and the stench of it still lingers now, like the stench of poisoned mice behind a classroom skirting-board.
    Oh, but I’m getting ahead of my tale. That’s what happens when you get old. You start to ramble. You lose track of time. Things that happened a long time ago suddenly seem so much closer than the things that happened yesterday. And things you thought you’d forgotten about suddenly pop into your mind, just as you’re about to drop off, making sleep impossible.
    Today it’s a Public Information Film of the kind you saw in the old days, a film I haven’t seen in years, but which I remember clearly. A sinister, hooded figure watches a group of children playing beside a flooded gravel pit, waiting for the moment when the bank gives way, or the tree-branch breaks, or the submerged, abandoned car inhales its youthful victim. A DANGER! NO SWIMMING! sign comes into view, but the children do not notice it. And now comes the voiceover; sinister, rasping out its challenge: I am the spirit of dark and lonely water—
    Why remember that? Why now? What message from my subconscious is trying to rise to the surface? A pebble dropped into the dark and lonely water is still making ripples, twenty-four years on. And now, from the archives of memory, comes the voice of the hooded man . .