Pat Barker - Border Crossing

‘We were gobsmacked,’ Mrs Greene said, coming back in with the tray. ‘Do you remember?’ she asked her husband.

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘We were in the waiting room when the warder came in with him. He was so small. And then when we got him back here and saw him beside all the other boys —’

‘He was the youngest by three years,’ Greene said.

‘All you could do that night was put him to bed,’ Mrs Greene said. ‘He was totally worn out. Oh, and he was terrified of wetting the bed, and he wouldn’t let himself go to sleep, he. tried to stay awake, and of course he did wet it. He used to hate doing it. I think he hated anything he couldn’t control.’

‘My wife taught him French,’ Greene said.

This was a dismissal and she took it as such. When the door closed behind her, Greene said, ‘Does he know you’re here?’

‘Yes. I wouldn’t come without his knowing, though having said that I shan’t be repeating anything you say.’

‘How is he?’

‘Pretty good. I think it’s a hopeful sign that he wants to… come to terms with what happened.’

An indulgent smile. ‘Come to terms? I wonder if that’s possible. What could it possibly mean to come to terms with the fact that you killed somebody?’

‘All right. He wants to set the record straight.’

‘You mean find somebody else to blame? It’s best left. You know the first thing I do with any boy * coming to this school? I say to him: this is the first day of the rest of your life. I don’t care what you’ve done. I don’t even want to know what you’ve done. All I’m interested in is the way you behave now. The moment you walk through that gate you start living forwards.’

Greene positively glittered with conviction. For the first time Tom saw that this man might be charismatic, particularly if you were young and troubled and you wanted to forget.

‘So nobody ever spoke to Danny about the murder?’

‘No.’

‘And he didn’t attempt to raise it?’

‘No. You’ve got to remember he was still saying he hadn’t done it. In Danny’s mind there was nothing to talk about.’

‘He’s mentioned an English teacher.’

‘What did he say?’

A surprisingly sharp question. ‘Nothing much. Just that he was very good. Angus…?’

‘MacDonald. Yes, he was good. And very well meaning.’

Tom smiled. ‘That’s generally said about people who create havoc’

‘No, I didn’t mean that. He was… totally committed. Good degree, good references, but no experience, no… sense of danger, I was going to say, but that’s not the right word.’ Greene groped. ‘He ended up poddling about in things he wasn’t qualified to deal with.’

‘He got Danny writing about the murder?’

‘As I understood it, he asked him to write about his childhood. I don’t think even Angus would’ve —’

‘And you disapproved?’

‘I didn’t know. If I had, I’d certainly have warned Angus to steer clear.’

‘So how did you find out?’

‘Danny. He came to see me. Though I knew something was wrong before that, because his behaviour had deteriorated.’

‘In what way?’

‘He attacked another boy.’

‘Badly?’

Greene shrugged. ‘Depends on your standards. He tried to stab him with a screwdriver, but the boy wasn’t injured. As I’m sure you realize, assaults here are fairly frequent. But, of course, after that it all came out. By “all” I mean the sort of probing Angus had been doing.’

Greene sat back, bright-eyed, nursing his teacup, waiting for the next question, giving nothing.

‘Was Danny a good swimmer?’

Surprise. ‘Excellent. He used to swim for the school.’

‘Against?’

‘Other young offenders’ institutions.’

‘Was he allowed out?’

‘Under strict supervision, yes. As were the other two boys who were serving life sentences. There was never any preferential treatment.’

Tom was left wondering why Greene supposed he thought it possible that there might have been. ‘But you’d have to make some sort of — I wouldn’t say preferential — special arrangements for his education, surely? I mean he was doing three A levels. What proportion of the boys here do that?’

Greene smiled, ‘0.001 per cent. Yes, of course we made special arrangements, just as we would’ve done if a boy had been profoundly deaf, or blind, or… Fairness doesn’t mean you treat boys in exactly the same way. It means you devote equal attention to their needs.’

Greene had been on the defensive ever since Tom had mentioned Angus MacDonald. ‘Was he rewarding to teach?’

Greene’s expression… softened? No, not softened — kindled. ‘He was one of the brightest boys I’ve ever taught. I used to teach at Manchester Grammar School, and of course we got some very bright lads there. When I came here I told myself I didn’t miss it. Seeing these boys come on… it’s another sort of satisfaction. But for a teacher there’s nothing quite like feeding a mind that can take everything you give it, and come up asking for more. So yes, he was rewarding.’

‘Did all the staff like him?’

The enthusiasm faded. ‘Of course not. We’re a small community. There are always going to be tensions in a place like this.’

‘Would you say the school succeeded with him?’

‘Yes, I would. I don’t know to what extent the experience of prison was destructive, but when he left here he was… Yes, well, I will say it. In many ways a fine young man.’ He glanced at the clock. ‘And now I’m afraid…’ His hands closed over the arms of his chair. ‘Oh, you haven’t finished your tea. No, don’t rush. My wife’ll see you out.’

Tom shook hands, thanked him again, then walked across to the window and watched him go. A curious bustling, tripping walk, as if the movement came from the knee rather than the hip. He became aware that Mrs Greene had come into the room behind him, and was watching him watch her husband. He turned, and picked up the tray. ‘Shall I carry this?’

‘That’s very kind of you. Would you like another cup?’

She was being jolly hockey sticks again, but the eyes were dark and shrewd.

‘Yes, I think I could manage another.’

He followed her into the kitchen. It had a good feel to it, this room: dressers rather than fitted units, a minimum of modern gadgets, old, well-cared-for utensils lying around, a scarred chopping block, rows of sharp knives. A bunch of Michaelmas daisies in a square green-and-white vase stood on the central table. Tom sat down while she moved around filling the kettle and setting out clean mugs. ‘Can’t be doing with cups, can you? If it’s worth having at all, I always want a lot.’

A pot simmered on the cooker. ‘I wish I could offer you a more appetizing smell, but I’m afraid it’s still at the scraping-off-scum stage.’

She sat down, wrapped her pound-of-sausages fingers round the mug and blinked at him. ‘Well,’ she said, when he still didn’t speak. ‘Danny.’

‘You taught him French. Was he good?’

She tubed her mouth. ‘Yeah. He was bright, good memory, good mimic. There’s not a lot else to learning a language at the early stages.’

‘How old was he when you. first started teaching him?’

‘Eleven. The same age he would have been if he’d’ — an unreadable flicker of expression — ‘followed a more normal path.’

‘Did you like him?’

An abrasive laugh. ‘Oh, that’s a dangerous question to ask round here. I didn’t ask myself if I liked him. That wasn’t the point.’

‘No, but you could ask yourself now.’

‘And come up with a straight yes or no?’

He smiled. ‘Whatever you come up with I’d like to hear. ’