10. Constant Access to Nuts #2
Whatever. Fuck Westby. Briar leaves him there, jogging up the stairs all the way to the attic, where they can finally peel off their damp clothes and ease into bed, contacts carelessly abandoned in an empty water glass, stomach swimming uneasily with vodka, bitterness and a few stray olives.
The next morning, Briar wakes up very late by their standards; on the farm, anything after 5 a.m. feels like an enormous luxury. The weather continues to be dismal.
They read through the texts that came while they were fetching Hadley, but just find them frustrating: conversations about plans they’re not part of, inside jokes they’ve missed, and with no way to reply until they leave campus again.
The texts from their mum are increasingly shrill in tone, despite attempts at nonchalance.
She can never resist checking in on Briar, and yet she also never seems satisfied with what she finds.
Sometimes she treats Briar like at any minute they might collapse, or explode.
Breakfast is already over in the refectory, but the kettle Briar stole to make noodles is still sitting on the dresser, and the small downstairs kitchen - ripped white linoleum and harsh strip lighting as far as the eye can see - is empty of scholars but well stocked with little sachets of grey instant porridge.
Briar takes a long shower and then sits cross-legged on their bed to eat, watching out of the window as scholars make their way across the lawn from chapel to their first lessons, with heads bowed and umbrellas seizing, their loud swearing audible over the wind.
Briar spots Tate wearing a long, glossy black raincoat over his uniform, and then realises that he’s striding to meet Westby and Hadley. The joy of recognition sours instantly. I don’t need any more friends.
They form a huddle together under the stone balustrade that surrounds Hawthorn house, heads together.
Westby is gaunt and insubstantial today, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
There’s something so natural about the way they move around each other, reacting instinctively; a hydra bound by seven years of history.
Hadley’s hair is in a bun, her face make-up free, and it makes her look much younger and a little pink.
She’s saying something with her usual pinched expression, glancing around to make sure that nobody’s eavesdropping.
The temptation to pull on shoes, grab their keys and just happen to be crossing the lawn in the next few minutes is strong, but to what end?
Briar is staff above everything else. Functional.
Useful when needed and redundant when not.
Westby has made that perfectly clear. As Briar watches them the bell rings again, and the trio walk off towards the main school building, disappearing into a sea of black uniforms.
The attic is hard work all morning, made worse by Briar’s mood.
The book pile turns into stacks, and then the stacks have to be pushed against the wall for structural stability, but keep collapsing because none of the texts are the same size.
Briar needs a dust mask, is annoyed at Eugenia for not providing one, even though they could just ask.
They find what looks like an engagement ring, tarnished deco, wedged in the broken drawer of a sideboard.
They imagine pocketing it, and don’t. They spend too long jimmying open a wrinkled leather briefcase, only to find that it’s just full of mundane personal possessions and hand written notes that are entirely illegible.
Briar sees a lump in the striped lining, digs their fingers into the musty interior pockets and finds something hard and narrow: a key, small and bronze, with a symbol etched into it like the others. This, Briar does pocket.
Eugenia pops her head in late morning and seems pleased with the progress, or as pleased as she ever is.
She nods, at least, and leaves a San-Marzano-and-mozzarella focaccia sandwich wrapped in oily chequered paper on one of the broken chairs for Briar to eat later.
Briar eats it immediately even though it’s only half eleven, eyes shut in religious ecstasy after the first bite, and makes a mental note to ask Eugenia where she bought it.
With a car, all sandwiches are possible.
After lunch, a quietly polite man in his fifties who introduces himself as Ben, the caretaker, comes and asks for Briar’s help shifting some incoming deliveries.
He’s got heavily calloused hands, uniform stubble at his crown and on his cheeks, and a brown packet of tobacco sticking out of his back pocket.
He whistles snatches of a familiar TV theme tune as they walk.
Everything that enters Temple comes through what’s referred to as the ‘back yard’, an ugly square of empty grey gravel and an adjoining staff car park surrounded by outbuildings that’s hidden from view of the scholars.
Briar spends two hours in a light mist of rain helping to load pallets onto an orange forklift, barely exchanging more than a single word with Ben, until the caretaker walks over and holds out a hand to show Briar something; when Briar leans over, blinking sweat and water out of their eyes, Ben’s chapped fingers uncurl to reveal a shard of ancient-looking pottery.
‘Reckon it’s Roman,’ Ben says, with just the hint of a smile.
‘Y’see that? Nice and fine, deep red. Samian, maybe.
’ Pleased, he tucks it into his jeans pocket with his baccy and his lighter.
Briar finishes the last load, and then is somewhat at a loss.
The work day is technically nearly over, but they can’t face a long evening alone in the attic.
On a whim, they head for the library instead, but Daniel is nowhere to be seen; there’s only a middle-aged brunette woman behind the loans counter, and she watches Briar drip with the focus of a security guard at a supermarket.
Lingering will probably only increase her ire, so Briar asks after Daniel directly, and is steered towards one of the annexes - a long, windowless corridor with a system of rolling bookcases on either side - and a small office at the end.
‘Come in,’ a voice calls when they knock.
Daniel is hunched over something on his desk, pen in his mouth, three half-drunk cups of coffee arranged in a circle around his left hand like they’re trying to resurrect it.
His face brightens when he looks up. ‘Oh! Briar! Fantastic, you’ve come to save me from myself.
Coffee? Bit late in the day, I suppose .
. . Might be about time for some stronger stuff, as it’s Friday.
’ He pulls open a drawer and fishes around inside it.
This office is almost entirely, disappointingly modern apart from the cut of the window and the thick pipes running up the wall beside it.
The desk might even be veneer. There are a few trophies lined up on a shelf emblazoned with an unfamiliar school crest, and what looks like a miniature oar from a rowing boat mounted on the wall, engraved with gold writing.
Daniel finds what he’s looking for and places a heavy, half-drunk bottle of red wine on the desk with a flourish.
Briar would rather have coffee, but it seems rude to say so now. Daniel finds one slightly dusty glass and one clean mug, pours wine into both, then hesitates briefly before handing Briar the latter.
‘You’re eighteen, I s’pose?’
‘Yep. Thirteenth of January.’
‘My condolences. Terrible birthday. Who’s going to come to a party on January thirteenth?
Although I hear people don’t party like they used to these days.
I was thrown out of the Randolph on my nineteenth birthday with the rest of the rowing club, for chundering on the rug in exactly the spot where Dexter used to write Morse.
’ He seems so refreshingly ordinary that it’s easy to forget he was a scholar here, that he can do the Work.
‘The wine is shit, but shit wine is better than no wine. Cheers! To the weekend! Do they let you have weekends here?’
‘I think so.’
‘How kind of them.’ He sits back in his chair and scrubs at his hair, which is greying at the temples. ‘How are you finding it all?’
Briar sips the wine, acid against their tongue. ‘It’s . . . different.’
‘Ha! Very diplomatic. I thought I was in hell when I started here. I grew up in Essex, state primary, nothing fancy. My dad became an MP when I was eight, so I knew a bit about how the other half lived, but coming here, it felt like falling through the looking-glass and landing in . . . well, more glass.’
A normal primary school, like Briar. An ordinary life. It won’t help to know, but still, Briar asks, ‘Were you the first person in your family? To come here?’
‘Oh, God, yeah. My mum was totally against it, I almost didn’t take up my place, there’s a whole side of her family she doesn’t talk to. Strange to think how different things might have been.’
‘Yeah.’ Briar doesn’t mean to sound bitter, but it must come across, because he winces.
‘Sorry. Not that it helps, but it’s not all roses. Members’ clubs look most fun from the outside, I think.’
Briar’s been considering this. The price of entry. Would they have paid it? Would they pay it now, given the chance, all over again? And if the answer is yes after what they’ve seen - what kind of person does that make them?
‘I heard you’ve been saddled with Crispin Westby and co, though, so you must know that already.’ It takes a moment for this to register as a slight, and Briar’s surprise must show on their face. ‘Oh, not that they’re the worst people you’ll encounter. Far from it. Just keep your wits about you.’
‘Why?’