As he switched on his headlights the name plate on the low wall opposite was illuminated: litton vale nursing home. He stuck the car in gear and swung it around in the street, intent on heading home.
He didn’t know how long it would take him.
He didn’t care.
Nineteen
‘They knew they were going to die,’ said Frank Reed, pressing his fingertips together. ‘Most of them wanted to.’
‘Why, sir?’ a voice from the back of the class called.
‘Because they were stupid,’ another answered.
There was a ripple of laughter.
‘Because they were French,’ another added.
‘Same thing’ the second voice echoed.
The whole classroom erupted into a chorus of loud and raucous laughter.
Even Reed smiled as he got to his feet and crossed to the map pinned to one side of the blackboard, leaving the rest free for him to write on.
He stood beside it, scanning the faces of his pupils. Girls and boys: girls and boys aged eleven to twelve. He glanced at the row of faces: thirty-eight in his class.
It was too many. He knew it, his colleagues who were dealing with similar size classes knew it. Everyone knew it except the Government, it appeared to Reed.
He walked across to the window of the classroom and looked out. From his position he could see the Employment Exchange and, beyond that, the Adult Education centre. St Michael’s Secondary School had been built close by them, and Reed wondered if he was the only one who saw the irony. Most of the kids he taught faced a life without work and, for many, a little further down the way in Old Street was Hackney Police Station and Magistrates Court. For most of his temporary charges, Reed felt that at some time in their lives they would encounter either one or the other.
Life didn’t hold too much promise for the young or old in this part of Hackney.
He waited until the laughter had died down, then returned to the map.
It showed the battlefield of Waterloo.
‘Napoleon’s Old Guard were elite troops,’ Reed continued. ‘They were the Emperor’s personal bodyguard and they felt it their duty and an honour to die for him. They were also the final rearguard for the defeated French army. They stood and fought long enough for the rest of the army to run away and for Napoleon to escape.’
Eyes followed him expectantly as he paced back and forth.
‘Does anyone know what the Old Guard’s officer shouted back when asked to surrender?’ The teacher looked around expectantly. ‘Come on, you should have read it last night.’
A hand went up close by.
A young boy with a very short haircut and frayed sleeves on his blazer.
Reed nodded.
‘He shouted back “The Guard never dies”, sir,’ said the boy.
‘That’s very good. He actually said “The Guard dies but never surrenders”.
Historians have interpreted his answer this way. He actually shouted “Merde.”’
There was a chuckle from the front of the class.
Reed suppressed a smile. ‘And what do you want to share with us, David?’ he asked.
David Morris coloured slightly.
‘Well, my sister does French, and when I asked her what that word meant she said it meant-‘
Reed interrupted him. ‘I’m sure she told you what it meant, but that wouldn’t look too good in the history books, would it?’ he said, smiling.
‘What does it mean, sir?’ an excited voice called.
‘It means shit,’ Morris whispered. ‘Sorry, sir,’ he added, rapidly, looking warily at Reed.
The teacher was no longer able to suppress his grin, and the rest of the class erupted into a chorus of laughter.
‘Right,’ Reed said over the din. ‘So you all know that the commander of the Old Guard used to swear.’
‘I d swear if I was about to get shot,’ a voice added.
‘My mum and dad swear all the time and no one’s ever tried to shoot them’ another offered.
More laughter.
Reed looked around at the faces. Happy faces.
Except one.
A boy sat alone at the back of the classroom, his head slumped on his arms, his eyes gazing blankly at the top of his desk as if he were tracing the pattern of the wood. He ran one chewed fingernail gently over the back of his hand, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of merriment around him.
Reed knew the boy as Paul O’Brian. Twelve years old. A tall lad with thin lips and fine black hair.
He was about to call to the boy when the strident ringing of the bell cut through the air.
It was the signal for frenzied activity. Books were snatched up and shoved into bags, pencils were pushed back into pockets, exercise books gratefully stowed.
‘Read chapter twelve tonight’ Reed called out. ‘You can find out if Napoleon used to swear, too.’ He smiled to himself, returning to his desk as the children filed out quickly.
Paul O’Brian followed, alone. Shuffling as fast as he could, head down.
As he passed in front of Reed’s desk, the teacher saw that the boy was shivering. ‘Paul, can I have a word with you?’ Reed said. ‘It won’t take a minute.’
O’Brian stopped, his gaze still lowered.
‘If I’ve done anything wrong …’ he murmured almost inaudibly.
‘You haven’t done anything wrong,’ Reed assured him, noticing how the boy never met his gaze. He merely stood motionless before him, arms at his sides.
‘I just wondered if you were feeling OK,’ Reed said. ‘You were very quiet today. Usually I can’t shut you up.’ He smiled reassuringly.
O’Brian clasped his hands in front of him.
Reed frowned.
Around both the boy’s wrists there were vivid red marks.
As if aware of Reed’s gaze, O’Brian pulled down the sleeves of his jacket to hide the abrasions.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Reed persisted.
O’Brian nodded.
Reed saw another mark on his neck, close to the open top button of his shirt.
It was bluish-black. Like a bruise, the extremities yellowing and mottled.
‘Can I go now please, sir?’ O’Brian asked, head still lowered.
Reed sighed. ‘Yes, go on. You’ll be late for lunch.’
O’Brian was gone as hastily as his spindly legs would carry him.
Reed sat down at his desk, his brow furrowed.
He could understand the boy’s silence. His baby sister, Carla, had died just a week earlier. The atmosphere at his home must be distressing. That could account for the boy’s withdrawn state.
And the marks on his wrists and neck?
Reed administered a mental rebuke. Perhaps he was overreacting.
But those abrasions on the wrists had looked bad. Raw in places.
The teacher shook his head.
There would be a perfectly logical answer.
There had to be.
He picked up his bag and left the classroom.
Twenty
