All my rats have abandoned ship—apart from the boys, that is. I still teach a full timetable, to the bafflement of Mr. Strange—the Third Master, who considers Latin irrelevant—and to the covert embarrassment of the New Head. Still, the boys continue to opt for my irrelevant subject, and their results remain on the whole rather good. I like to think it’s my personal charisma that does it.
Not that I’m not very fond of my colleagues in Modern Languages, though I do have more in common with the subversive Gauls than with the humorless Teutons. There’s Pearman, the Head of French—round, cheery, occasionally brilliant, but hopelessly disorganized—and Kitty Teague, who sometimes shares her lunchtime biscuits with me over a cup of tea, and Eric Scoones, a sprightly half-Centurion (also an Old Boy) of sixty-two who, when the mood takes him, has an uncanny recollection for some of the more extreme exploits of my distant youth.
Then there’s Isabelle Tapi, decorative but rather useless in a leggy, Gallic sort of way, the subject of a good deal of admiring graffiti from the locker-room fantasy set. All in all a rather jolly department, whose members tolerate my eccentricities with commendable patience and good humor, and who seldom interfere with my unconventional methods.
The Germans are less congenial on the whole; Geoff and Penny (“League of”) Nations, a mixed double-act with designs on my form room; Gerry Grachvogel, a well-meaning ass with a predilection for flash cards, and finally, Dr. “Sourgrape” Devine, Head of the Department and a staunch believer in the further expansion of the Great Empire, who sees me as a subversive and a pupil poacher, has no interest in Classics, and who doubtless thinks carpe diem means “fish of the day.”
He has a habit of passing my room with feigned briskness whilst peering suspiciously through the glass, as if to check for signs of immoral conduct, and I know that today of all days it will only be a matter of time before I behold his joyless countenance looking in on me.
Ah. What did I tell you?
Right on cue.
“Morning, Devine!”
I suppressed the urge to salute, whilst concealing my half-smoked Gauloise under the desk, and gave him my broadest smile through the glass door. I noticed he was carrying a large cardboard box piled high with books and papers. He looked at me with what I later knew to be ill-concealed smugness, then moved on down the corridor with the air of one who has important matters to attend to.
Curiously, I got up and looked down the corridor after him, just in time to see Gerry Grachvogel and the League of Nations disappearing furtively in his wake, all carrying similar cartons.
Puzzled, I sat down at my old desk and surveyed my modest empire.
Room fifty-nine, my territory for the last thirty years. Oft disputed but never surrendered. Now only the Germans continue to try. It’s a large room, nice in its way, I suppose, though its elevated position in the Bell Tower gives me more stairs to climb than I would have chosen, and it lies about half a mile as the crow flies from my small office on the Upper Corridor.
You’ll have noticed that as over time dogs and their owners come to resemble each other, so it is with teachers and classrooms. Mine fits me like my old tweed jacket, and smells almost the same—a comforting compound of books, chalk, and illicit cigarettes. A large and venerable blackboard dominates the room—Dr. Devine’s endeavors to introduce the term “chalkboard” having, I’m happy to report, met with no success whatever. The desks are ancient and battle scarred, and I have resisted all attempts to have them replaced by the ubiquitous plastic tables.
If I get bored, I can always read the graffiti. A flattering amount of it concerns me. My current favorite is Hic magister podex est, written—by some boy or other—oh, more years ago than I like to remember. When I was a boy no one would have dared to refer to a Master as a podex. Disgraceful. And yet for some reason it never fails to make me smile.
My own desk is no less disgraceful; a huge time-blackened affair with fathomless drawers and multiple inscriptions. It sits on an elevated podium—originally built to allow a shorter Classics Master access to the blackboard—and from this quarterdeck I can look down benevolently upon my minions and work on the Times crossword without being noticed.
There are mice living behind the lockers. I know this because on Friday afternoons they troop out and sniff around under the radiator pipes while the boys do their weekly vocabulary test. I don’t complain; I rather like the mice. The Old Head once tried poison, but only once; the stench of dead mouse is far more noxious than anything living could ever hope to generate, and it endured for weeks until finally John Snyde, who was Head Porter at the time, had to be called in to tear out the skirting boards and remove the pungent dead.
Since then the mice and I have enjoyed a comfortable live-and-let-live approach. If only the Germans could do the same.
I looked up from my reverie to see Dr. Devine passing the room again, with his entourage. He tapped his wrist insistently, as if to indicate the time. Ten-thirty. Ah. Of course. Staff meeting. Reluctantly I conceded the point, flicked my cigarette stub into the wastepaper basket, and ambled off to the Common Room, pausing only to collect the battered gown hanging on a hook by the stock-cupboard door.
The Old Head always insisted on gowns for formal occasions. Nowadays I’m virtually the only one who still wears them to meetings, though most of us do on Speech Day. The parents like it. Gives them a sense of tradition. I like it because it provides good camouflage and saves on suits.
Gerry Grachvogel was locking his door as I came out. “Oh. Hello, Roy.” He gave me a more than usually nervous smile. He is a lanky young man, with good intentions and poor classroom control. As the door closed I saw a pile of flat-packed cardboard boxes propped up against the wall.
“Busy day today?” I asked him, indicating the boxes. “What is it? Invading Poland?”
Gerry twitched. “No, ah—just moving a few things around. Ah—to the new departmental office.”
I regarded him closely. There was an ominous ring to that phrase. “What new departmental office?”
“Ah—sorry. Must get along. Headmaster’s briefing. Can’t be late.”
That’s a joke. Gerry’s late to everything. “What new office? Has someone died?”
“Ah—sorry, Roy. Catch you later.” And he was off like a homing pigeon for the Common Room. I pulled on my gown and followed him at a more dignified pace, perplexed and heavy with foreboding.
I reached the Common Room just in time. The New Head was arriving, with Pat Bishop, the Second Master, and Bishop’s secretary, Marlene, an ex-parent who joined us when her son died. The New Head is brittle, elegant, and slightly sinister, like Christopher Lee in Dracula. The Old Head was foul-tempered, overbearing, rude, and opinionated; exactly what I enjoy most in a Headmaster. Fifteen years after his departure, I still miss him.
On my way to my seat I stopped to pour myself a mug of tea from the urn. I noticed with approval that although the Common Room was crowded and that some of the younger members of staff were standing, my own seat had not been taken. Third from the window, just under the clock. I balanced the mug on my knees as I sank into the cushions, noticing as I did that my chair seemed rather a tight fit.
I think I may have put on a few pounds during the holidays.
“Hem-hem.” A dry little cough from the New Head, which most of us ignored. Marlene—fiftyish, divorced, ice blond hair and Wagnerian presence—caught my eye and frowned. Sensing her disapproval, the Common Room settled down. It’s no secret, of course, that Marlene runs the place. The New Head is the only one who hasn’t noticed.
“Welcome back, all of you.” That was Pat Bishop, generally acknowledged to be the human face of the school. Big, cheery, still absurdly youthful at fifty-five, he retains the broken-nosed and ruddy charm of an oversized schoolboy. He’s a good man, though. Kind, hardworking, fiercely loyal to the school where he too was once a pupil—but not overly bright, in spite of his Oxford education. A man of action, our Pat, of compassion, not of intellect; bet
ter suited to classroom and rugby pitch than to management committee and governors’ meeting. We don’t hold that against him, however. There is more than enough intelligence in St. Oswald’s; what we really need is more of Bishop’s type of humanity.
“Hem-hem.” The Head again. It comes as no surprise that there is tension between them. Bishop, being Bishop, tries hard to ensure that this does not show. However, his popularity with both boys and staff has always been irksome to the New Head, whose social graces are less than obvious. “Hem-hem!”
Bishop’s color, always high, deepened a little. Marlene, who has been devoted to Pat (secretly, she thinks) for the past fifteen years, looked annoyed.
Oblivious, the Head stepped forward. “Item one: fund-raising for the new Games Pavilion. It has been decided to create a second administrative post to deal with the issue of fund-raising. The successful candidate will be chosen from a short list of six applicants and will be awarded the title of Executive Public Relations Officer in Charge of…”
I managed to tune out most of what followed, leaving the comforting drone of the New Head’s voice sermonizing in the background. The usual litany, I expect; lack of funds, the ritual postmortem of last summer’s results, the inevitable New Scheme for pupil recruitment, another attempt to impose computer literacy on all teaching staff, an optimistic-sounding proposal from the girls’ school for a joint venture, a proposed (and much-dreaded) school inspection in December, a brief indictment of government policy, a little moan about classroom discipline and personal appearance (at this point Sourgrape Devine gave me a sharp look), and the ongoing litigations (three to date, not bad for September).
I passed the time looking around for new faces. I was expecting to see some this term; a few old lags finally threw in the towel last summer and I suppose they’ll have to be replaced. Kitty Teague gave me a wink as I caught her eye.
“Item eleven. Re-allocation of form rooms and offices. Due to the renumbering of rooms following the completion of the new Computer Science Suite…”
Ah-ha. A fresher. You can usually spot them, you know, by the way they stand. Rigidly to attention, like army cadets. And the suits of course, always newly pressed and virgin of chalk dust. Not that that lasts long; chalk dust is a perfidious substance, which persists even in those politically correct areas of the school where the blackboard—and his smug cousin, the chalkboard—have both been abolished.
The fresher was standing by the computer scientists. A bad sign. At St. Oswald’s all computer scientists are bearded; it’s the rule. Except for the Head of Section, Mr. Beard, who, in halfhearted defiance of convention, has only a small mustache.
“…As a result, rooms twenty-four to thirty-six will be renumbered as rooms one hundred fourteen to one hundred twenty-six inclusive, room fifty-nine will be known as room seventy-five, and room seventy-five, the defunct Classics office, will be re-allocated as the German Departmental Workroom.”
“What?” Another advantage of wearing gowns to staff meetings; the contents of a mug of tea, intemperately jerked across the lap, barely leave a mark. “Headmaster, I believe you may have misread that last item. The Classics office is still in use. It is most certainly not defunct. And neither am I,” I added sotto voce, with a glare at the Germans.
The New Head gave me his chilly glance. “Mr. Straitley,” he said, “all these administrative matters have already been discussed at last term’s staff meeting, and any points you wanted to make should have been raised then.”
I could see the Germans watching me. Gerry—a poor liar—had the grace to look sheepish.
I addressed Dr. Devine. “You know perfectly well I wasn’t at that meeting. I was supervising exams.”
Sourgrape smirked. “I e-mailed the minutes to you myself.”
“You know damn well I don’t do e-mail!”
The Head looked chillier than ever. He himself likes technology (or so he purports); prides himself on being up-to-date. I blame Bob Strange, the Third Master, who has made it clear that there is no room in today’s educational system for the computer illiterate, and Mr. Beard, who has helped him to create a system of internal communication of such intricacy and elegance that it has completely overridden the spoken word. Thus, anyone in any office may contact anyone else in any other office without all that unfortunate business of standing up, opening the door, walking down the corridor, and actually talking to somebody (such a perverse notion, with all the nasty human contact that implies).
Computer refuseniks like myself are a dying breed, and as far as the administration is concerned, deaf, dumb, and blind.
“Gentlemen!” snapped the Head. “This is not the appropriate moment to debate this. Mr. Straitley, I suggest you put any objections you may have in writing and e-mail them to Mr. Bishop. Now shall we continue?”
I sat down. “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.”
“What was that, Mr. Straitley?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the gentle crumbling of civilization’s last outpost that you heard, Headmaster.”
Not an auspicious start to the term. A reprimand from the New Head I could bear, but the thought that Sourgrape Devine had managed to steal my office right from under my nose was intolerable. In any case, I told myself, I would not go gently. I intended to make Occupation very, very difficult for the Germans.
“And now to welcome our new colleagues.” The Head allowed a fractional warmth to color his voice. “I hope that you will make them at home, and that they will prove to be as committed to St. Oswald’s as the rest of you.”
Committed? They should be locked up.
“Did you say something, Mr. Straitley?”
“An inarticulate sound of approval, Headmaster.”
“Hm.”
“Precisely.”
There were five freshers in all: one a computer scientist, as I had feared. I didn’t catch his name, but Beards are interchangeable, like Suits. Anyway, it’s a department into which, for obvious reasons, I seldom venture. A young woman to Modern Languages (dark hair, good teeth, quite promising so far); a Suit to Geography, who seem to have started a collection; a games teacher in a pair of loud and disquieting Lycra running shorts; plus a neat-looking young man for English who, for the moment, I have yet to categorize.
When you’ve seen as many Common Rooms as I have you begin to recognize the fauna that collect in such places. Each school has its own ecosystem and social mix, but the same species tend to predominate everywhere. Suits, of course (more and more of these since the arrival of the New Head—they hunt in packs), and their natural enemy, the Tweed Jacket. A solitary and territorial animal, the Tweed Jacket, though enjoying the occasional bout of revelry, tends not to pair up very often, which accounts for our dwindling numbers. Then there’s the Eager Beaver, of which my German colleagues Geoff and Penny Nation are typical specimens; the Jobsworth, who reads the Mirror during staff meetings, is rarely seen without a cup of coffee, and is always late to lessons; the Low-Fat Yogurt (invariably female, this beast, and much preoccupied with gossip and dieting); the Jackrabbit of either gender (who bolts down a hole at the first sign of trouble); plus any number of Dragons, Sweeties, Strange Birds, Old Boys, Young Guns, and eccentrics of all kinds.
I can usually fit any fresher into the appropriate category within a few minutes’ acquaintance. The geographer, Mr. Easy, is a typical Suit: smart, clean-cut, and built for paperwork. The Games man, Gods help us, is a classic Jobsworth. Mr. Meek, the computer man, is rabbity beneath his fluffy beard. The linguist, Miss Dare, might be a trainee Dragon if not for the humorous twist to her mouth; I must remember to try her out, see what she’s made of. The new English teacher—Mr. Keane—might not be as straightforward—not actually a Suit, not quite a Beaver, but far too young for the tweedy set.
The New Head makes much of this pursuit of young blood; the future of the profession, he says, lies with the influx of new ideas. Old lags like myself, of course, are not fooled. Young blood is cheaper.
&nbs
p; I said as much to Pat Bishop later, after the meeting.
“Give them a chance,” he said. “At least let them settle in before you have a go.”
Pat likes young folk, of course; it’s part of his charm. The boys can sense it; it makes him accessible. It also makes him immensely gullible, however; and his inability to see the bad side of anyone has often caused annoyance in the past. “Jeff Light’s a good, straight sportsman,” he said. I thought of the Lycra-shorted Games teacher (a Jobsworth, if ever I saw one) and winced inwardly. “Chris Keane comes highly recommended.” That, I could more readily believe. “And the French teacher seems to have a lot of sense.”
Of course, I thought, Bishop would have interviewed everyone. “Well, let’s hope so,” I said, heading for the Bell Tower. Following that full-frontal attack by Dr. Devine, I didn’t want any more trouble than I had already.
2
You see; it was almost too simple. As soon as they saw my credentials they were hooked. It’s funny, how much trust some people lay in pieces of paper: certificates, diplomas, degrees, references. And at St. Oswald’s it’s worse than anywhere. After all, the whole machine runs on paperwork. Runs rather badly too, from what I gather, now that the essential lubricant is in such short supply. It’s money that greases the wheels, my father used to say; and he was right.
It hasn’t altered much since that first day. The playing fields are less open, now that the new housing developments have begun to spread; and there’s a high fence—wire on concrete posts—to reinforce the NO TRESPASSERS signs. But the essential St. Oswald’s is quite unchanged.
The right way to approach is from the front, of course. The facade, with its imposing driveway and wrought iron gates, is built to impress. And it does—to the tune of six thousand per pupil per year—that blend of old-style arrogance and conspicuous consumption never fails to bring in the punters.