they know how it goes in boarding school stories. Isabelle would not have been discovered. Isabelle. She turns around. Isabelle’s face against the cold window. Through the trees, the school’s drive encircles a composed lawn. A grid of tidy cars. Give me a desert because it is clean. Isabelle had never taken the cold seat, Isabelle was a girl she once saw opening a door. A voice cried out
Isabelle
that was all the Isabelle she had or knew. Check the tale. Sinking down against the wall. The boys had come for her. Headmaster, leaning back on his swivel chair, coughing into a handkerchief like some victim of tuberculosis, swiping under his eyepatch and reflecting on Nature. Bursar crosses the lawn to her car. Boys will be boys, or bad apples. And Gilbert, hips against lab bench, leaning over, a sidelong appraisal Your Teeth Your Hair You’re Disgusting. Bursar shakes a key from its clutch, a breeze picks up, shivering her hem. Bursar shouts You are yourself a bad apple You are yourself wanting knees and forehead sweat mingling hair tangled hands all over. Bursar pulls in her feet and slams the car door shut. Holding his innocent triangle Father will hurry to the phone. Eight two oh three four one? The toast will grow cold as will his fingers where they grip the receiver. Father will say I don’t understand, I have just bought a new house and arranged for the piano to sit in the drawing room. No one plays it, no one ever did or maybe the mother did, I can’t recall at this moment as you’ve caught me eating toast on the way out the door, but I will tell you that I wanted the girl to unpack our paintings and roll out the rugs. And you suggesting she’s a delinquent of some kind takes me by surprise. Bursar’s car disappears through the gate. Father sighs Well, Stokesy, I don’t know what to tell you, we only ever had still lifes at our house.
18
Sophie’s pulling her down the Avenue after school to show her letters she’s been writing to a Dane. As they get to School House, a mattress sails out of a fifth-floor window on the girls’ side. Landing in the courtyard, a blue ticking lump.
19
Who can say exactly when Owen Wharton replaces their Thursday-night Preptaker the girl who takes ill or goes missing but there’s a fine penmanship out of keeping with his leather jacket. Imagine him as a shadow in the louvered doors to a saloon. Only the saloon is Follyfield number four and it’s a cold Thursday night and outside the set, instead of a dusty mainstreet, there’s wet green bushes, an iron gate and a distressing lack of tumbleweed.
Owen Wharton, he says setting down a perfect stack of books and that undefinable accent. Welsh? Half a jigger of Scotch? A splash of the States? No questions until half past and I mean none. Therefore no one politely inquires, You a Mick?
When the clock approaches eight Owen puts down his book and blows on his wrist . . . I’m stage-managing the Aristophanes for Percival. Percy’s alright outside Latin, when he’s not pressing for ablatives, so let’s have some volunteers . . . the boy stands, ambles over to the wooden lockers. He wears motorcycle buskins, begins a monologue . . . A play entitled The Birds.
It’s black out, the glass reflects an indistinct face.
After all, there seem to be more than a few theatrical types in this classroom . . . Owen raps on the lockers . . . Actors among you.
She turns from the window.
Pay attention. Wouldn’t you all like to wear wings? As close to angels as you’ll ever get. It’s a play where men become birds. A search for a utopia. Doesn’t that sound compelling. Mortals, gods, yes it’s Greek don’t interrupt. About the disaffected, those left out. The birds win you see. If I were Patrick Betts I could point out the resonances I could point out how this is relevant to you brats in your lines of little desks filling your ink pens on the hour tripping to the toilet as many times as possible to avoid learning your history. On the
Isabelle
that was all the Isabelle she had or knew. Check the tale. Sinking down against the wall. The boys had come for her. Headmaster, leaning back on his swivel chair, coughing into a handkerchief like some victim of tuberculosis, swiping under his eyepatch and reflecting on Nature. Bursar crosses the lawn to her car. Boys will be boys, or bad apples. And Gilbert, hips against lab bench, leaning over, a sidelong appraisal Your Teeth Your Hair You’re Disgusting. Bursar shakes a key from its clutch, a breeze picks up, shivering her hem. Bursar shouts You are yourself a bad apple You are yourself wanting knees and forehead sweat mingling hair tangled hands all over. Bursar pulls in her feet and slams the car door shut. Holding his innocent triangle Father will hurry to the phone. Eight two oh three four one? The toast will grow cold as will his fingers where they grip the receiver. Father will say I don’t understand, I have just bought a new house and arranged for the piano to sit in the drawing room. No one plays it, no one ever did or maybe the mother did, I can’t recall at this moment as you’ve caught me eating toast on the way out the door, but I will tell you that I wanted the girl to unpack our paintings and roll out the rugs. And you suggesting she’s a delinquent of some kind takes me by surprise. Bursar’s car disappears through the gate. Father sighs Well, Stokesy, I don’t know what to tell you, we only ever had still lifes at our house.
18
Sophie’s pulling her down the Avenue after school to show her letters she’s been writing to a Dane. As they get to School House, a mattress sails out of a fifth-floor window on the girls’ side. Landing in the courtyard, a blue ticking lump.
19
Who can say exactly when Owen Wharton replaces their Thursday-night Preptaker the girl who takes ill or goes missing but there’s a fine penmanship out of keeping with his leather jacket. Imagine him as a shadow in the louvered doors to a saloon. Only the saloon is Follyfield number four and it’s a cold Thursday night and outside the set, instead of a dusty mainstreet, there’s wet green bushes, an iron gate and a distressing lack of tumbleweed.
Owen Wharton, he says setting down a perfect stack of books and that undefinable accent. Welsh? Half a jigger of Scotch? A splash of the States? No questions until half past and I mean none. Therefore no one politely inquires, You a Mick?
When the clock approaches eight Owen puts down his book and blows on his wrist . . . I’m stage-managing the Aristophanes for Percival. Percy’s alright outside Latin, when he’s not pressing for ablatives, so let’s have some volunteers . . . the boy stands, ambles over to the wooden lockers. He wears motorcycle buskins, begins a monologue . . . A play entitled The Birds.
It’s black out, the glass reflects an indistinct face.
After all, there seem to be more than a few theatrical types in this classroom . . . Owen raps on the lockers . . . Actors among you.
She turns from the window.
Pay attention. Wouldn’t you all like to wear wings? As close to angels as you’ll ever get. It’s a play where men become birds. A search for a utopia. Doesn’t that sound compelling. Mortals, gods, yes it’s Greek don’t interrupt. About the disaffected, those left out. The birds win you see. If I were Patrick Betts I could point out the resonances I could point out how this is relevant to you brats in your lines of little desks filling your ink pens on the hour tripping to the toilet as many times as possible to avoid learning your history. On the
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