Different Class Read Online Free PDF Page A

and everything. He’s way cooler than Straitley.’
    Mr Clarke is Poodle’s English master. He has a fifth-form, and his room is just above Mr Straitley’s. Mr Straitley’s classroom is a lot like Mr Straitley; messy and covered in chalk dust. There are wooden desks with inkwells, and a squeaky old blackboard. But Mr Clarke’s room is a little glass room built a bit like a greenhouse, with plastic desks, big windows, and posters on the ceiling and walls.
    Mr Clarke isn’t my teacher, worse luck. He teaches the other group. Mr Fabricant teaches ours, and although I haven’t been here long, I can already tell that he’s no fun at all. Mr Fabricant is a goat, all grey-haired and straggly. But Mr Clarke is actually cool. He has a record player in his room, and a bubblegum machine. He doesn’t mind if boys come in, even boys from another class.
    ‘Come on,’ said Poodle. ‘Check it out.’
    We followed him up to Mr Clarke’s room. It was almost empty. Later I found that the fifth-form had their own Common Room downstairs. Mr Clarke was at his desk, going through a box of LPs, but he looked up as we came in.
    ‘Ah, you’re just in time,’ he said, pulling an album out of the box. The name of the album was Animals . It was by a band called Pink Floyd.
    I don’t know much about music, you know, except for the kind my parents like. Elgar and Mozart and stuff like that. I’m not allowed to watch Top of the Pops , or listen to music on Radio 1. I sometimes do, though, when Dad’s not there, so I know at least some of the hits. But I couldn’t tell you what was so special about this music of Mr Clarke’s, except that it was – special, I mean – like fingers playing on my spine. I didn’t even recognize any of the instrumental sounds. I thought perhaps there was something in there that might have been a guitar, or a voice, or a synth, or some kind of animal in pain.
    And all the song titles were named after animals; ‘Pigs’; ‘Sheep’; ‘Dogs’. That one was my favourite. ‘Dogs’. I felt like someone had opened up a dirty window in my mind.
    ‘Wow,’ I said, when it finished.
    Mr Clarke looked up and smiled. His eyes are like yours, Mousey.
    ‘Come on up. Feel free to browse.’
    There are two full boxes by his desk, one of singles, one albums. Boys are allowed to look at them, as long as Mr Clarke’s in the room, which seems to be pretty much all the time. Some of the artists I recognized; The Carpenters; Roberta Flack; Elton John; The Beatles. But there were lots of others I’d never even heard of.
    ‘I want to hear them all, sir!’
    He laughed. ‘That’s what I like to hear. But not so much of the Sir , all right?’ He laughed again at the look on my face. ‘You can call me Harry,’ he said. ‘At least when we’re both off-duty.’
    Well, that came as a surprise, you can guess. I’ve never called a teacher by their Christian name before. Not even Miss McDonald. It’s something that you just don’t do. But then, Mr Clarke – no, Harry – isn’t a regular teacher. He sees things differently. He’s smart. And I can tell he likes me.
    Pigs. Dogs. Animals.
    It’s funny, you know. I always thought I was the only one who saw other people as animals. Turns out someone else does, too. Mr Clarke gets it. What kind of animal is Mr Clarke? A mythical beast of some kind; a unicorn, or a dragon. I mean, I know he’s kind of old, but there’s something in his eyes. Something different, Mousey.
    After school, my dad asked if I’d made any friends yet. I told him yes. He asked me their names.
    I said: ‘Harry.’
    ‘And what does Harry’s dad do?’
    I told him I didn’t know. (It was true.)
    He said: ‘You’ve got to know these things. A man’s friends say as much about him as his clothes, his job, his class.’ (Dad’s very big on class.)
    ‘I’ll ask him,’ I said.
    ‘You do that,’ said Dad.

3

    September 7th, 2005
    Now I try to be fair. Really I do. I treat all my boys the