The Shivering Turn, page 6
When people feel obliged to say that, what they actually mean is that – damn right – they’re questioning your integrity.
‘No, of course not,’ I say, to make things easier for her.
‘… but, given the confidential nature of whatever I might impart to you in this room, I’d feel much happier if the parents could confirm that you’re acting as their agent.’
‘Fine with me,’ I tell her. ‘Why don’t you give the mother a ring?’
‘I’d … err … prefer to talk to the father,’ Mrs Conner says.
Ho-hum, nobody trusts Mary – and nobody wants to deal with her, unless they absolutely have to.
‘Inspector Corbet may be difficult to contact,’ I say.
‘And why is that? Is he involved in a major policing operation at the moment?’
‘No, he’s up to his knees in manure.’
‘I beg your pardon!’
‘He’s out on his allotment – doing a bit of digging.’
‘He has an allotment!’ Mrs Conner asks, incredulously.
‘Yes.’
‘What an extraordinary thing for a fairly senior police officer to be interested in,’ Mrs Conner says. She pauses for a moment, as she weighs up her options, then – no doubt recalling other conversations with the over-dramatic Mary Corbet – she continues, ‘Well, perhaps we can just assume that you have the parents’ authorization. What, exactly, would you like to know, Miss Redhead?’
‘We could start with you sketching out Linda’s academic background,’ I suggest.
‘Linda has a good brain – but not a first-class one,’ Mrs Conner tells me. ‘She’d never make a research scientist, but fortunately she appears to have no desire to become one, and there’s no reason at all she couldn’t become a perfectly acceptable medic.’
‘Do you think that studying to become a doctor is what she really wants for herself?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, she does seem to have a very real passion for world literature, doesn’t she?’
‘Does she?’
I think that I’ve got Mrs Conner’s number now. What she likes about her job is the title (and possibly the money). It’s the actual tutoring – getting to know the kids you’re dealing with – which is a bit of a drag.
‘She’s got a whole bookcase full of serious books in her bedroom,’ I explain. ‘And they’re not just any old serious books – you can tell they’ve been selected to encompass a wide literary panorama.’
Mrs Conner wrinkles her nose, as if I’ve just broken wind.
Then she laughs. ‘Well, I’m afraid the world needs competent doctors much more than it needs wild poets,’ she says in a patronizing manner which really gets right up my nose.
Biting back the obvious comment, I content myself with saying, ‘I’m sorry, I seem to have got us off the point. You were telling me that she should make a perfectly acceptable medic.’
‘And so she will – but not if she continues on as she is. Even without this disappearing stunt she’s apparently decided to pull, the standard of her work this year has fallen far short of what I’ve come to expect of her.’
‘Are we talking about the standard over the whole year?’ I ask.
‘No, it was shortly before the start of the Christmas holidays that the rot seemed to set in. It wasn’t that the work she started turning in was bad – it was just well below the standard I knew she was capable of. Then, sometime in March, she showed signs of really going off the rails – and it’s not just her work I’m talking about now.’
So Tom Corbet was right, and Mary Corbet was wrong, rather than the other way round, I think. I can’t say I’m surprised.
‘Would you like to explain to me what you mean by the term “going off the rails”, Mrs Conner?’ I ask.
‘We have a strict school uniform policy here, and – unlike in many other schools – this is not relaxed when our girls enter the sixth form. This code is quite clearly spelled out to parents when they apply to have their children admitted, and it is rigorously enforced.’
Memories of my own school days drift back uninvited – me, a twelve-year-old, standing in front of Miss Chapman’s desk, and thinking that the way she perches her glasses on the end of her pointed nose makes her look just like an owl; Miss Chapman, glaring up at me as the fingers of her right hand beat out a declaration of war on the desktop.
‘How would you describe the knot in your tie, Jennifer Redhead?’
‘I don’t know, Miss.’
‘Did someone teach you to do up your tie in that flamboyant manner?’
‘Pardon, Miss?’
‘You look like what we used to call a spiv. Do you know what a spiv was, Jennifer Redhead?’
‘No, Miss.’
‘They sprang up just after the war – although “crawled out of the woodwork” might be a better way to describe them. They sold goods – usually stolen goods – that it was impossible to get on the ration card. They had pencil-thin moustaches and wore loud suits and ties with ridiculous knots like the one you’ve tied. You wouldn’t like to be mistaken for a spiv, would you?’
It had seemed to me that since I was a girl – and had neither a flashy suit nor a pencil-thin moustache – it was unlikely that I ever would be mistaken for one, but I understood the rules which governed Miss Chapman’s narrow little universe, and so I replied, dutifully –
‘No, Miss, I wouldn’t like that at all.’
‘So who did show you how to tie that knot?’
‘Nobody showed me. I made it up myself.’
‘Well, we do not “make up” things in this school, Jennifer Redhead. We use a half-Windsor knot when we fasten our ties. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
And here I am, nearly two decades later, talking to a woman who doesn’t look – or dress – like Miss Chapman, but who, I suspect, has the same ice-cold contempt for children’s creativity pumping through her veins.
‘I take it from what you’re saying that Linda did infringe the uniform regulations in some way,’ I say – and it is only with great effort that I avoid adding ‘Miss’ to the end of the sentence.
‘She did indeed infringe the regulations,’ Mrs Conner says gravely. ‘She started wearing badges.’
Oh dear, dear, dear! I’d feared it might be something truly horrendous, like coming to school topless, with her nipples dyed bright green, but it’s even worse than that – she started wearing badges!
‘A prefect’s badge or a house captain’s badge would have been permissible,’ Mrs Conner continues. ‘In fact, having taken on the responsibility of the office, she was almost obliged to wear them at all times on school premises, but these new badges she started wearing were clearly unauthorized.’
‘What were they like?’
‘Most of them were cheap quotations, taken, I would imagine, from the half-intelligible utterances of greasy-haired pop singers. I really can’t recall what most of them said, but one did stick in my mind.’
‘Oh?’
‘It said, “Nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.” Now what kind of degenerate would ever come up with a thought like that?’
‘Oscar Wilde,’ I say.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s a quote from Oscar Wilde.’
‘Well, there you are then. He was a degenerate, wasn’t he?’
‘Perhaps he was,’ I agree, ‘but he still managed to write some bloody witty plays.’
She gives me a vinegary stare. If I had been one of her pupils, she’d probably have had me running around the hockey pitch a dozen times for daring to use such language in her esteemed presence.
‘However, I did manage to counter that quotation with a rather telling one of my own,’ Mrs Conner says complacently.
She sits back and waits for me to ask what it was – typical teacher’s trick – but, given the context, I don’t think there’s any need to.
‘“Genius is one per cent inspiration, and ninety-nine per cent perspiration.” Thomas Edison,’ I say.
‘Exactly,’ she says – but she looks rather miffed that her opportunity to enlighten me has been snatched away from her. ‘And Linda’s problem of late,’ she ploughs on, because having worked a pretty good line, it’s a pity to waste it, ‘has been that she’s been starting to think it’s one per cent perspiration and ninety-nine per cent inspiration.’
‘Were you surprised when she ran away?’ I ask.
‘I think it’s fair to say that I was more disappointed than surprised,’ Mrs Conner tells me.
‘Do you have any idea what brought about her change in attitude round about Christmas time?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t.’
I am not amazed by the total unhelpfulness of her answer – but I think I know someone who will be able to help me.
It’s nearly four o’clock, and I’m standing outside St Margaret’s.
The school is one of those Victorian buildings which, with fewer windows, might easily have been one of the dark satanic cotton mills of my Lancashire heritage – and with a few more could just about pass itself off as the ‘little palace’ that the cotton magnate who owned that mill would have built for himself.
St Margaret’s is surrounded by high railings, each one topped with a wicked spike, which is pretty much guaranteed to keep the innocents inside protected from the lecherous and lascivious world which exists outside. Ah, but when the bell rings, the gates are thrown open, the teachers go home, and the innocents not met by their parents are left to fend for themselves!
As the girls stream out, I remember what Mrs Conner said about the dress code, and find myself conducting a critical examination of the school uniform. The blazers are purple – a revolting purple, I quickly decide – and just looking at the thick grey woollen stockings is enough to make my knees start to itch.
It is certainly not the sort of outfit I would take with me if I were running away to London – but then I’ve never been a great one for uniforms of any sort, and one of the happiest days of my life was when I ditched my WPC uniform for plain clothes.
The younger girls are allowed out first – probably to avoid them being trampled in the rush – but gradually the escapees get taller and taller, and when they reach the right height, I put my hand into my pocket and bring out a photograph that Linda’s mother has given me.
I soon spot the girl I’ve been waiting for. As her picture forewarned me, I couldn’t call her exactly ugly, but it would be quite a stretch for me to describe her as attractive.
But what the photograph hasn’t prepared me for is the way she walks. Her gait does not reflect her looks at all, being neither overly diffident nor blatantly aggressive. Rather, she moves with a confidence which is not designed to impress anybody watching, but is simply an expression of her. She is, as my American friends would say, comfortable in her own skin.
When she draws level with me, I step in front of her and tell her who I am, and what I am doing there.
‘Would it be possible for us to have a little talk – maybe over a cup of tea?’ I ask.
‘Yes, I don’t see why not,’ she says easily, without any sign of suspicion or guile.
The tea room is called the Mad Hatter’s, a reminder (as if anyone living in Oxford really needed one) that this is the city in which Lewis Carroll – a man who, under his real name, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, was supposedly no mean mathematician – wrote his famous fantasy adventures.
Once we step inside the tea room, it becomes apparent that, apart from the name over the door, there is little connection with Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland – and I look in vain for dormice peacefully asleep, March Hares going completely crazy as only March Hares can, or Red Queens who employ decapitation as a way of expressing their displeasure.
There are only two tables occupied. At one sits a group of four blue-haired old ladies, talking about a fifth absent old lady called Marjorie, who, it appears from their conversation, is such a nasty piece of work that she would make Attila the Hun seem like Mother Teresa. At the other of the occupied tables are two star-crossed adolescents, whose love blinds them to the pimples of youth which sadly heavily afflict them both.
I lead Janet to the table which is as far as possible from both the bitching circle and the lovers, and order a pot of tea from a waitress who is dressed like a maid in a period drama.
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ Janet asks.
As a matter of fact, I have. I don’t smoke myself (overly competitive hockey players shouldn’t), but I carry a packet of Benson & Hedges Special Filter around for just such occasions as this one.
I take out the cigarettes, offer one to Janet, and light it for her. She sucks the smoke down into her lungs, showing no sign of discomfort that I am not joining her in her habit.
‘You gave Linda Corbet an alibi for the night she went missing, didn’t you?’ I say.
Janet shakes her head.
I’ve been expecting this response, because now that it’s obvious something has gone seriously wrong, it’s only human nature (and especially teenage human nature) that she should do everything she can – tell whatever lies are necessary – in order to keep herself out of trouble.
‘Are you quite sure that you didn’t offer to alibi her?’ I ask, in a tone in which I intend to suggest that whilst I will insist on the truth come what may, I will not be too condemnatory when she finally feels herself compelled to confess it.
The look on her face tells me she thinks I’m talking down to her – and I have to admit that she’s right.
‘I’d have been no good as an alibi, because I wasn’t at home that night,’ she says.
‘I’m not quite following your logic,’ I confess.
‘You mean that you can’t see why the ability to provide an alibi is dependent on me being at home?’
‘Exactly.’
Janet grins. ‘I thought private eyes were supposed to be really smart,’ she says. ‘They certainly are in all the movies I’ve seen.’
‘What have I missed?’ I ask, with a touch of humility which might just compensate for my earlier misjudgement.
‘Say Linda’s parents had decided to ring up, and I’d been out,’ Janet says. ‘They’d have asked my parents if Linda was there, and my parents would have said that no, she wasn’t.’
‘But if you’d been there …?’
‘If I’d been there, I’d have made damn sure I got to the phone ahead of my parents.’ She mimes picking up a telephone. ‘I’d say something like, “Oh, hello Mrs Corbet, it’s Janet speaking. Linda’s on the loo at the moment. Shall I ask her to call you back?” Then I’d ring the number of the place where Linda really was, and tell her to call home.’
‘Has that ever actually happened?’
‘No, it hasn’t.’
‘Is that because you refused to do it?’
‘No, it’s because she never asked me to.’
‘What if she had asked you for an alibi? Would you have provided her with one?’
‘I might have done,’ Janet says. ‘But before I did, I’d have needed to know exactly where she was going.’
‘Why would you need to know that?’
‘Because I couldn’t stop her doing something stupid or dangerous, but I certainly wouldn’t be prepared to make it any easier for her.’
‘So you really have no idea where she went last Friday night?’
‘None at all.’
‘Has she contacted you since she went missing?’
‘No.’
‘Do you think she ran away to London?’
‘I couldn’t say – one way or the other.’
I don’t get the feeling that her lack of responsiveness is because she’s either stone-walling me or sulking. In fact, I’m almost certain that the reason she is not saying much is because she doesn’t have much to say – and I find that really rather strange.
‘I always thought that best friends knew everything there was to know about each other,’ I prod.
‘Who says we’re best friends?’ Janet counters.
‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not any more.’
‘So what happened?’
‘She drifted away from me.’
‘You mean that you drifted apart?’
‘No, I mean she did the drifting, while I stayed anchored and hoped she’d decide to drift back.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Just before Christmas.’
Just before Christmas!
About the time that Mrs Conner – she of the tinted glasses and trendy suede waistcoat – says that Linda’s school work started to take a dip!
‘And what caused her to drift away?’ I ask.
‘I was probably too honest with her.’
‘Would you like to explain that?’
‘She asked me, shortly before the end of term, if I thought she had a good chance of getting into Oxford, and I said she had no chance at all. I really tried to say it as gently as I could, but …’
She stops talking, and waves her arms helplessly in the air, thereby creating a swirling pattern of cigarette smoke.
‘Even if you were very, very gentle when you said it, it was still a bit mean of you, wasn’t it?’ I ask.
‘No, as I said, it was honest.’ Janet stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray, grinding it perhaps a little more than is strictly necessary. ‘Look, Linda’s a smart girl,’ she continues, ‘but Oxford is one of the world’s three or four top educational establishments – and it simply doesn’t operate like most universities do.’
She’s not wrong. Oxford is a collegiate university. Its structure is more feudal than federal – which is to say that, while each college pays homage to the university (much as feudal barons paid homage to the king), it is virtually independent. You don’t apply for admission to the university – you apply to the individual college, which is where, if you are accepted, you will receive most – if not all – of your instruction. Furthermore, the person who interviews you – and who alone has the power to accept or reject you – is probably the man or woman who will be your tutor for your entire college life.
But what really matters here is the size of the colleges. Walk along the High or Broad Street and look at the splendid buildings in which the colleges are housed, and it is easy to fall into the trap of thinking that each college must have thousands of students.
