The headmistress surprises me by speaking in the gravelly tones of a long-time jazz club aficionado. In a school like this, I expected more of a cut glass accent. She wears a navy trouser suit, an elaborate enamel brooch on her lapel, pearl earrings, and reading glasses attached to a slim, gold chain.
Her office is large, and in spite of a pretentious label on the door saying HEADMISTRESS’S STUDY it’s modestly decorated. A shaft of sunlight cuts through a leaded windowpane and warms a spot on an armchair. We sit around a table where school brochures have been artfully displayed. Her assistant brings us coffee.
We’ve been told that the school is yet to have been informed about Noah’s terminal prognosis. The Sadler family wanted to wait until they’d worked out how to handle his last few months.
“What can you tell us about the boys?” I ask. It’s a general question, but I’m interested to see what springs to her mind.
“They’re both very good boys and very clever boys, much valued by the school.”
“We understand that they’re friends?”
“They’re very good friends. They give all appearance of being inseparable when Noah’s at school. You’ll know that he’s had a rough time of it, of course?”
“Indeed.”
“It’s led to a great deal of absence, but in spite of that, he’s very diligent and his schoolwork remains excellent. His courage is nothing short of extraordinary.”
“When did the boys start here?”
“Both boys came to us in Year 7, though Noah was a few weeks late because of a course of treatment. He was homeschooled the year before he came to us, but he’d been in the school system previously, I believe. Abdi Mahad won a place on our Barker Scholarship program, which is a scheme we run in conjunction with primary schools in some of Bristol’s more deprived areas. He has really risen to the challenge. We’re immensely proud of what he’s been able to achieve.”
“Barker Scholarship, did you say?” Woodley’s making notes.
“Yes! It’s named after an old boy, Jolyon Barker. By coincidence he was a contemporary of Eddie Sadler, Noah’s father. I believe they’re still friends. The scholarship covers uniform and travel expenses as well as fees. It’s very generous.”
“Do you know whether Abdi might have been doing any kind of project or piece of work either on refugee camps or Somalia or any similar topic?” Sofia Mahad suggested this when she telephoned to tell me about the recording she found on Abdi’s iPad.
The headmistress shakes her head. “No. Both boys have qualifying exams this summer. They’ll be entirely focused on the syllabus. Project work would be qualification-related only.” She consults a piece of paper that’s on her lap. “I can confirm that Abdi isn’t taking Geography, which is probably the only subject I can immediately think of where that kind of study might be relevant.”
“Can I ask whether you would describe the boys’ friendship as healthy?”
“Absolutely! Very healthy. It’s a lovely friendship for both of them. It can be very beneficial for our high achievers to bond.”
A tight smile; optimism applied to her features like another layer of makeup.
“Are we able to speak to anybody who might have had closer contact with the boys on a day-to-day basis?”
I’m not buying into the headmistress’s positive spiel entirely. In a school like this, I know her role is mostly to be a figurehead, to sell the place to prospective parents, and to protect it from negative press. I’d also bet money that she doesn’t know either boy very well personally.
She picks up her desk phone, hits a button.
“Could you look at the schedule and see what Mr. Jacobson is doing currently, please?” she asks. “He’s the boys’ form tutor,” she explains to us, her hand over the receiver. There’s a pause as she listens to the response from the other end of the line, and she hangs up. “I’m afraid he’s busy in the gym.”
“How about we go to him?” I suggest. “We only need a few words.”
She takes us to the gym, heels clip-clopping smartly as we cross the campus. The grounds are manicured and attractive.
We find Mr. Jacobson overseeing some boys on the squash courts.
“Thank you,” I say to the headmistress when she introduced us. “I don’t think we need to take up any more of your time.”
There’s a moment where she hesitates, but she takes the hint and leaves us.
We sit on a bench. Boys charge around the courts in front of us, visible through glass walls at the back of each court, and our conversation has to compete with squeaking trainers and the rhythmic thwack of the squash balls hitting rackets and walls.
I take a punt with my first question.
“The headmistress suggested that there might have been some friction between Abdi and Noah on occasion, and I wonder if you can tell us a bit more about that?”
I wait for a furrow to appear between his eyes, but it doesn’t. Instead, with a sigh, he takes my bait.
“It was a bit of silliness,” he says. “Came down to jealousy, I think. Noah was away from school for a couple of months last year, and on his return he didn’t cope very well with the fact that Abdi had made a new friend while he was away.”
“How did it come to your attention? Did something happen?”
“It was drawn to my attention because the school nurse reported that Noah was unusually tearful. They worked it out, though.”
“How?”
“I had a chat with all three of the boys involved separately, and then all together. It settled down. It was a good outcome. If I’m honest, we weren’t sure if Noah would have the emotional maturity to make it work. With his history it’s been hard for him to develop alongside the others, but Abdi’s a generous boy and the new friend, Imran, is a good kid, too, so they worked it out.”
Something happening on the squash court catches his eye and he gets to his feet and yells: “Use the corners! Don’t just hit it back into the middle. Boys! You have two minutes left. Use it!”
“Is it possible to have a word with Imran?”
“You’d have to ask the head’s office about that, but I don’t see why not. Won’t happen today, though. He’s not in.”
“Did Noah or Abdi fraternize with anybody else?”
“What you’ve got to understand about those two is that they’re nerdy boys, you know. Abdi could have been a very good badminton player, but he spent most of his time playing chess or in the IT suite with Noah. They shared a sense of humor, they were both into graphic novels, things like that.”
“Did the other kids accept that? Were either of them bullied?”
“Not that I was made aware of. We have a very strict anti-bullying policy here.”
I wonder how well Mr. Jacobson actually knows these boys. He talks about them as if they’re a slightly different species, and I wonder if he’s one of those teachers who prefer the sporty kids. He has cauliflower ears and a rugby forward’s physique. He’s an alpha, like Ed Sadler. It wouldn’t surprise me if this school specializes in turning them out.
A buzzer sounds, and within seconds we’re standing in the middle of a flow of teenagers, boys and girls.
“Sorry!” Mr. Jacobson shouts. “Is that all?”
On the way back to the car Woodley says, “Almost every kid in that school is white.”
“I noticed.”