[Milliways]: Truth

[smallgayjew]

There's a sense of urgency to their studies. A mad race. Never enough time. Too much to cover. The only breathing room they ever get is in Hector's classes, and so it is only in Hector's classes that they ever expect to be taken outside.

They're a bit surprised, then, when Irwin has them pack up their things before class even starts. He takes them out on the lawn, near the football pitch, and they gather around him in a loose circle, making themselves comfortable.

They're good students, perhaps the best Cutlers has ever seen, so it isn't surprising, really, that they don't take this as an opportunity to lose focus. The sunshine is tempting, but there's still that sense of urgency, still that mad race.

It helps, of course, that Irwin's lessons always make them think.

“So, let's summarize,” he says, as the opening lecture is winding down. “The first World War, what points do we make?”

“Trench warfare,” Crowther opens.

“Mountains of dead,” Lockwood adds, and Posner jumps in with, “On both sides.”

“Generals stupid,” Dakin offers, which is very like him.

And it's very like Posner to add again, “On both sides.”

“Armistice,” Akthar goes on. “Germany humiliated.”

“Keep it coming,” Irwin encourages them.

“Mass unemployment,” Crowther says.

“Inflation,” adds Akthar.

“Collapse of the Weimar Republic,” Timms contributes. “Internal disorder, and the rise of Hitler.”

“So our overall conclusion is that the origins of the second war lie in the unsatisfactory outcome of the first,” Irwin summarizes, sounding, as usual, a bit bored.

There's a moment of silence, and Timms is the first to be brave enough to say what they're all thinking. “Yes.” Repeating it a moment later, more confidently. “Yes!”

“First class,” Irwin says, shaking his head. Timms smiles until Irwin goes on. “Bristol welcomes you with open arms. Manchester longs to have you. You can walk into Leeds! But I'm a fellow at Magdalen College Oxford. I've just read seventy papers, they're all saying the same thing, and I'm asleep.”

“But it's all true,” Scripps argues, his hand in the air the only concession to Irwin's authority.

“What's truth got to do with it?” Irwin asks, and Scripps' only response is a disbelieving huff that may or may not be laughter. “What's truth got to do with anything?”

His classes are always like this: shaking them upside down, testing not their knowledge but their perspective. Posner can never tell if he's playing the devil's advocate or if he's really that radical in his thinking.

He has them get up a few minutes later, leading them on a short trip, down the street to the war memorial.

“The truth was,” he says as they walk, “in 1914, Germany doesn't want war. Yeah, there's an arms race, but it's Britain who's leading it. So...why does no one admit this?”

They've reached the memorial now, a wreath of poppies adorning one side, a list of the dead on another. “That's why,” Irwin says, nodding to the stone edifice. “The dead.” There's a brief pause as they all look up at the figure of a soldier sitting atop the pedestal. “The body count. We still don't like to admit the war was even partly our fault because so many of our people died. And all the mournings veil the truth,” he adds, coming to a stop in front of the plaque on the front. “It's not, 'Lest we forget.' It's, 'Lest we remember.' See that's what all this is about.” As he speaks, the boys step closer to the monument, Scripps frowning as he peruses the names on the side. Posner wonders for a moment if he's looking for a relative. “The memorials, the Cenotaph, the two-minute silence. Because there is no better way of forgetting something than by commemorating it. And as for the truth, Scripps, which you're worrying about, forget it. In an examination, truth's not an issue.”

That's what they're here for, after all, Posner supposes. The exam. Hector's stuff is for life; Irwin's is for Oxford.

“Do you really believe this, sir?” Dakin asks, smirking, clearly amused. “Or are you just trying to make us think?”

Before Irwin can answer, Scripps says, “You can't explain away the poetry, sir.”

“No, sir,” Lockwood agrees. “Art wins in the end.”

“What about this one, sir?” Scripps asks before launching a recitation. “'Those long, uneven lines, standing as patiently as if they were stretched outside the Oval or Villa Park. The crowns of hats. The sun on mustached, archaic faces, grinning as if it were all an August bank holiday lark.'”

Posner smiles at the familiar verse, back on even footing again. Poetry, inscrutable as it is, is still familiar.

“'Never such innocence,'” Lockwood picks up, “'never before or since, as changed itself to past without a word.'”

“'The men,'” Akhtar goes on, “'leaving the gardens tidy.'”

“'The thousands of marriages lasting a little while longer,'” Posner adds in turn.

“'Never such innocence again,'” Timms finishes for them.

“How come you know all this by heart?” Irwin asks, as if he's truly interested for once, though at the circle of smug, amused smirks around him, he continues, with, “Not that it answers the question.”

He heads back to the school then, and the boys slowly trickle after, only Scripps, Dakin, and Posner left.

“So much for our glorious dead,” Scripps says cynically.

“Quite,” Dakin agrees. He waits an appropriate beat before saying, “Actually, Fiona's my Western Front.”

Posner looks at him curiously, and Scripps huffs what is definitely a laugh this time.

“Take last night, for instance,” Dakin goes on. “I thought it might be the Big Push.”

Posner glances briefly at Scripps in shock. There's a bit of jealousy there as well, and as ever, he's not sure if he's jealous of Dakin or of Fiona.

The two of them trail after Dakin as he continues his story. “So encountering only token resistance, I reconnoitered the ground as far as the actual play.”

“Shit,” Scripps says, smiling as Posner's brow furrows in an attempt to catch up with Dakin's metaphor.

“No, I mean, not onto it,” Dakin clarifies. “Certainly not into it. Up to it.”

“Fuck,” Posner breathes. It's the only appropriate reaction he can manage.

“And the metaphor really fits,” Dakin adds as they make their way after their classmates. “I mean, moving up to the front, troops presumably had to pass the sites of previous battles. So it is with me. Quite particularly her tits, which only surrendered about three weeks ago. And which were indeed the start line of a determined thrust southward.” There's a dramatic pause, meant to indicate his defeat on this matter. “Still,” he says, “at least I'm doing better than Felix.”

“Felix?” Posner exclaims, shocked and a bit disgusted at the thought of their headmaster doing anything at all with Fiona.

“No!” is Scripps' disbelieving cry.

“Tries to,” Dakin affirms. “Chases her round the desk.”

Both boys comply with the appropriate noises of dismay, and then Posner can't keep his thoughts to himself any longer. He has to correct the story. “Actually,” he says, “the metaphor isn't exact, because what Fiona is presumably carrying out is a planned withdrawal. You're not forcing her. She's not being overwhelmed by superior forces. Does she like you?”

“Of course she likes me,” Dakin says, clearly offended that Posner could possibly think otherwise.

“Then you're not disputing the territory. You're simply negotiating over the pace of the occupation.”

“Just let us know when you get to Berlin,” Scripps says.

“I'm beginning to like him more,” Dakin says, his notebook hugged to his chest, and Posner's heart goes soaring at the possibility.

“Who, me?”

Dakin makes a face. “Irwin,” he answers before turning back to look at the teacher. “Though he hates me.”

And with that, he goes off, crossing the street to join the others, leaving Posner to stare longingly after him as Scripps tries to make him feel better.

“Cheer up. At least he speaks to you. Most guys wouldn't even speak to you.” It's the first blatant proof Posner has had that Scripps knows. Dakin knows, of course. Sometimes Posner wonders if Dakin didn't know before he knew himself. “Love can be very irritating,” Scripps continues.

“How do you know?” asks Posner, who knows perfectly well Scripps has never had a girlfriend.

“It's what I always think about God. Must get so pissed off, everybody adoring him all the time.”

It's another metaphor that doesn't quite fit, and Posner has to point out the discrepancy there as well. “Yes, only you don't catch God poncing about in his underpants.”


[ooc: All dialogue is from the Fox Searchlights film The History Boys.]