The Rye Man Read Online Free PDF

inventory of furniture to be completed. When he resumed his tour Miss McCreavey’s class were in the middle of a music lesson and the air vibrated with the tinkle of chimes and finger cymbals. Some pupils played recorders, and through the glass in the door he could see Miss McCreavey beating time on a yellow-skinned tambourine, but whatever tune it was seemed to have got lost, and he passed on by.
    As he walked it was the skipping song of the girls he heard again, the swish and slap of the rope, the laughter in their voices. He stored it safely in his memory. Ahead, light angled through a high window and splashed against the walls, illuminating the smear of small fingerprints. He paused for a second and touched the wall, pressing the tips of his own fingers into it. Perhaps if he could hold tightly to their song it might drown out the other sounds which had returned to seep through his dreams. But then the light faded and he was conscious again only of the recorders’ high-pitched whine, the tinkle and thud of the tambourine.
    There was a boy standing outside Mrs Haslett’s room and it was obvious from his sheepish stance that he had been ejected. When the boy saw him coming, he leaned off the wall and tried to appear as if his presence there had some legitimate purpose.
    â€˜Are you waiting for a bus?’ There was no reply. ‘What’s your name?’
    â€˜Mark.’
    â€˜I don’t think there’s a bus on this route, Mark.’
    â€˜I’ve been put out of class.’
    â€˜What for, Mark?’
    The boy shuffled his feet and patted the wall behind him with the palms of his hands, then stared vacantly into space.
    â€˜I can ask Mrs Haslett if you like.’
    â€˜Calling Simon Porter names.’
    â€˜And what did you call Simon Porter?’
    â€˜Don’t want to say, Sir.’
    â€˜Well then, it must’ve been something pretty bad.’
    â€˜He called me names first. He’s always calling me names but he never gets into trouble.’ Tears were beginning to well up in the boy’s eyes and he was pushing himself back against the wall in a kind of rhythm.
    â€˜What did Simon Porter call you, Mark?’
    â€˜He said I had AIDS and he told the other boys not to go near me.’
    â€˜And do you have AIDS, Mark?’
    â€˜No.’ A fat globular tear leaked down his cheek.
    â€˜And what did you call Simon Porter?’
    â€˜It’s rude, Sir.’
    â€˜Whisper it to me . . . a bit louder. I can’t hear you.’
    â€˜A willie watcher.’
    â€˜And is Simon Porter a willie watcher, Mark?’
    â€˜No, Sir.’
    â€˜Well, then, it all sounds a bit stupid to me and it’s ended up in a bit of a mess, hasn’t it?’ He handed the boy his handkerchief. ‘Go down to the boys’ toilets and splash your face and when you feel OK come back up and we’ll get you back into class.’
    He nodded and handed back the crumpled handkerchief, then set off quickly down the corridor.
    When he entered Muriel Haslett’s room she was haranguing her class and she stopped in mid-flow and stared at him, her initial embarrassment changing to irritation at his interruption. For a second he thought she was going to ask him what he wanted, but she regained her composure and assumed the patronising tone he had come to associate with her.
    Although he knew her already by reputation, in the short time they had worked together he had developed a dislike for her. Her contribution on the Baker day had been negligible and negative, and it was perfectly clear without words being used that she resented his arrival in the school. Perhaps she had envisaged herself as the new vice-principal in the event of Kenneth Vance, the internal candidate, proving successful. It was obvious that she was going to be difficult, a source of obstruction. He knew that she saw herself as the first lady of the school, enlisting some and intimidating others