Raising Arcadia

by Simon Chesterman

  “As the sweet is not under the red or blue cube, we can deduce that it must be under the yellow cube.” She left the yellow cube untouched, however, in the centre of Headmaster’s desk.

  The bark of laughter was so unexpected that it startled her. Headmaster’s white hair shivered with mirth to the point that he wiped his eyes with a pocket handkerchief. “Oh, you will do well here, my girl,” he said, continuing to chuckle. “Report to school at 8am on the first Wednesday of September. That is all.”

  It was clear that the interview was over. She stood up and urged Mother and Father to do the same. Headmaster shook her parents’ hands warmly and wished them well, ushering them towards the door. They were confused, but as the outcome was positive did not see a reason to protest at the speed of the interview.

  At the entrance to his office, Headmaster was about to close the door but called out to her. “Miss Greentree, if your mother makes an exception, you may enjoy this — it’s blackcurrant, I believe. You’ve earned it.”

  She caught the purple sweet and nodded to Headmaster. Up his sleeve, most likely. “Thank you, sir.”

  On the desk, the yellow cube remained in its place.

  Once they reach the gymnasium, the students go to the boys and girls lockers to change for physical education. The school’s facilities in this area are extensive, including a cricket ground, rugby field, swimming pool, and a nine-hole golf course. Over the years she has developed an interest in the sport of fencing, and is beginning to learn boxing — thus far confined to practice with a punching bag. During class, however, the focus tends to be on team sports and today they will be starting with a round of mixed Eton Fives.

  The Priory School is one of few that have regulation courts for this uniquely public school game. Though played by hand, the court and rules are similar to squash. The aim is to prevent the ball bouncing twice before it is hit up against a wall. This can be done using any combination of the side walls or a small ledge that runs around the court.

  The court is modelled on a chapel at Eton College, where the game was first played almost 150 years ago. Among the oddities of the court are a step in the middle that divides the front half from the back and a projection from the left wall known as a buttress. These obstacles complicate movement around the court and routinely interrupt the flight of the ball. The point at which the buttress meets the step is known as the “dead-man’s hole”. In the original chapel, this was some kind of drainage point, but in modern courts it has become a small niche from which it is almost impossible to return the ball.

  Fives is now played as a doubles game, with the team that gets to twelve points first winning. The ten boys and six girls in her class have been divided into pairs, mostly mixed. She is partnered with Henry, and a glance at the chalkboard shows that their first — and probably last — match is against Sebastian and a thuggish girl by the name of Joan Hardy who, it appears, made it into the school based more on her ability to row than to think.

  Points in Fives can only be won after a team has served the ball. In many other ballgames serving provides an advantage, but Fives allows the receiver, known as the “cutter”, to reject serves that are too hard to hit.

  As she and Henry put on their white gloves, she regards their opposition. Both Sebastian and Joan are at least a stone heavier each, with correspondingly greater strength. They will rely on power; she and Henry must rely on agility. A whispered discussion leads to a basic strategy of hitting the ball towards the buttress that juts out from the wall. If it connects, the ball will bounce back towards the front wall and be very hard to hit. If it misses, the ball will still be on the left hand side of their right-handed opponents.

  Predictably, Sebastian and Joan hit the ball as hard as they can. But the cork and rubber ball — about the size of a snooker ball, though only slightly harder than a squash ball — loses speed with every rebound or bounce. Henry and she are able to return most of the shots and soon their larger opponents’ grunts of effort become oaths of frustration. The winning shot is the first to land in the dead man’s hole; in a desperate attempt to reach the ball Sebastian dives towards it but only succeeds in tripping over the step.

  Sebastian glares at her as another pair enters the court. Clearly he is considering some kind of retaliation that will take place outside the game, though he is not the kind of person to wait for revenge to be served cold.

  Sure enough, it is after showering that she hears Sebastian calling out to her from the boys’ changing rooms: “Oh Arsey, oh Arsey! Are you looking for something?” Joan has just left the girls’ lockers and her own bag has been moved. She finishes buttoning her blouse and walks straight into the boys’, where Sebastian is standing next to a toilet. The toilet seat is up and a small group of boys have gathered around to watch. She hears Joan sidle in behind her.

  “Hello, Arsey,” Sebastian smirks. “I have a dilemma for you. In my left hand I hold your wallet, which I’m guessing has a very small amount of money and your precious library card. In my right hand, I hold Henry’s school diary. Below them is a recently used toilet, which — ” he sniffs ” — has not yet been flushed.”

  She rebukes herself for not predicting this course of events. Of course Sebastian and Joan would go straight for the most obvious target: theft and damage to property. The notes in the wallet are paper but can be cleaned; the various cards are plastic. The wallet itself has some modest sentimental value as a gift from Mother, but it could also be salvaged. The diary, if dropped, will be ruined. She moves to stand next to the toilet, opposite Sebastian, sizing him up. She is faster than the overweight boy, but snatching either item back will still be difficult. Probably one, perhaps both, would fall into the toilet. Unfortunate.

  “Here’s the dilemma,” Sebastian is giggling. “If you do nothing, Henry’s diary is on a track going straight into the toilet. But if you say a word, any word, then you’ll save Henry’s diary — though it will then be your wallet that goes in the loo. So what’s it going to be? I’ll count down from five, and if you say nothing then I know you want the diary to go in the loo. Ready? Five.”

  How quick are his reactions? Misdirection could work — suggesting that Sebastian’s trousers are not properly done up, for example. Or reference to the pornography that he keeps in his locker. But he may drop the wallet before registering the meaning.

  “Four.”

  The other boys are getting excited. There is no time to call for help. Henry is now standing next to her. There are no cameras in the bathrooms.

  “Three.”

  Is Sebastian bluffing? Probably not. The grin on his face shows his enjoyment of the situation and he will not let the audience go without some kind of denouement.

  “Two.”

  Action required then. There is sufficient space, but she must be quick or both items will be dropped.

  “On — ” The syllable is only being formed when her fist connects with the larger boy’s face. Sebastian staggers back, diary and wallet still in his hands — but as a precaution she has already kicked the lid of the toilet down. The room falls silent, uncertain as to Sebastian’s reaction. His eyes are watering and blood begins to drip from his nose, which she has hit hard enough to bloody but not to break.

  Taking the advantage of a few seconds of shock, she takes the wallet and returns the diary to Henry, who accepts it without a word. Sebastian’s hands go to his nose, staunching the bleeding and feeling to check that it is still in the centre of his face.

  Shock is followed by pain; pain by anger. She has walked past Joan to the door of the change rooms but hears the roar behind her as Sebastian recovers. She turns to face the larger boy as he runs, blood now streaming down his face, towards her. What skill he lacks in Fives he makes up for in the brawn he brings to rugby. She braces herself for the coming tackle, but at the last moment he pulls up short, stopping less than three feet away.

  “Go to Headmaster, Arcadia,” Mr. Ormiston is standing behind her and has seen enough. “Now.”


  5

  DETAINED

  “Come in, Miss Greentree.”

  She has not been back in this office in more than three years. As on the previous occasion, Headmaster does not look up from the file he is reading but gestures vaguely towards the single chair opposite his desk.

  “Why are you here?”

  The oak desk is unchanged, though no colourful boxes are on the agenda for this morning. The bookshelves lining the left side of the room have a few new volumes and the carpet at the base of one end is scuffed. Otherwise the room looks the same as it did during her unusual interview. Headmaster himself is ageless: having embraced white hair some years ago, it masks the toll that time now takes. The slight mussing of the hair over his right ear indicates a recent conversation on the telephone.

  “As Mr. Ormiston has just told you on the telephone, I struck Sebastian Harker. Would you care to know the context?”

  “Not particularly. I’m sure he deserved it.”

  Unexpected. The school’s approach to discipline is typically limited either to deterrence through fear of punishment or rehabilitation through moral suasion. Mr. Pratt tends towards the former, Mr. Ormiston towards the latter. But this is something new.

  “Miss Greentree, let me rephrase the question. Why are you at school?” He continues to pretend to be absorbed in the papers before him, but a slight inclination of the head shows that his attention is on her. Another test?

  The law requires her to be in full-time education until the age of eighteen, although home education is an option. A boring answer. To learn? Boring as well as incorrect: her accumulation of knowledge would be far greater if she were simply given the run of a decent library, a laboratory, and high-speed Internet access. A curriculum designed to shepherd a group of boys and girls whose natural abilities varies so greatly is an inefficient way of learning. Is Headmaster fishing for something else? A candle. A spark.

  “Because you saw potential in me?”

  A stiffening of Headmaster’s shoulders shows that this is not what he wanted to hear. He takes the golden letter opener on his desk and slices open an envelope with a practised sweep, delicately removing the letter inside. “You are pandering to me, Miss Greentree. I would appreciate it if we could be honest with one another in our discussions.”

  Interesting. As before, he does not condescend when speaking to her. So, honesty then.

  “Socialisation.”

  The stiffening of his shoulders relaxes. “Go on.”

  “School offers, of course, an education in the narrow sense of the word. But most of the curriculum could be completed by a motivated student with basic resources.” The books on the shelf range from works of fiction to educational theory; the more recent additions include works on evolutionary psychology and genetic engineering. “Ideally, school develops the capacity to learn independently also — but once a baseline ability with language and certain technical skills have been achieved then most of human knowledge is attainable. I suppose one could more pretentiously say that the aim is to inculcate a lifelong love of learning, though for some of my peers that looks to be an uphill battle. In my own case, the curriculum is of course occasionally of interest and access to the laboratory and other facilities is superior to what I would have at home. But none of these really seem to apply.” She returns her attention to Headmaster. “So I fall back on the idea that a primary purpose of my being here is not so much to learn how to think as how to live in a society of diverse people with diverse abilities and interests.”

  He still has not looked up at her. The scuffing of the carpet near the bookshelf marks out an arc from a circle.

  “And how do you think you have been doing in this area?”

  Socratic reasoning? Headmaster is planning to lead her through a series of questions whereby she will teach herself the moral lesson for the morning, it seems. So, moral suasion after all.

  “Well the environment here is somewhat artificial, of course. Predominantly male, white, upper-middle to upper class. The Priory School socialises one for a particular stratum of society. It is possible to supplement this through getting to know the cleaning and kitchen staff — many of whom are quite knowledgeable about the realities of life. But most students barely see them, let alone talk to them.”

  Another signature on another file. “I asked how you were doing in this area.”

  The curve on the carpet suggests a hinge. But there would also have to be a locking mechanism, or some kind of latch.

  “I confess that the emotional responses of some of my peers — and some of your teachers — can be difficult to predict. I know that I am not the most likeable person, but I get along tolerably with many of them. I understand what is expected of me in polite society. And yes, I know that physical violence is frowned upon.”

  He at last looks up at her, with eyes that betray a surprising weariness. “Do you ever wonder why I do not teach, Arcadia?”

  Of course she has. The Priory School is not large, but Headmaster remains a distant figure. He clearly cultivates this image much as he cultivates his hair. Such distance creates more of an impact in rare intimate moments like this. But there is more than that.

  “Yes,” she answers. “You used to teach science at Radley, even when you were Sub-Warden. Why did you stop?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “It is not a lack of ability — you appear to be in reasonable physical and mental health, and the curriculum would hardly stretch either of those. Time could be a factor; your role as Headmaster must take up a significant amount of the day. But that would explain a reduced load, not failing to teach at all. I presume it isn’t that you dislike being in a school environment, or else you would consider leaving. So there is some positive reason why you choose not to teach, some benefit to maintaining this distant relationship with your students. Beyond the modest impact on discipline for them it is hard to see how this benefits them. So it must be a benefit to you, somehow.”

  “Close.” He moves another file into his drawer, leaving only a manila folder on his desk.

  A benefit to himself. There is no question of his commitment to the school and his work ethic. But what benefit comes from having so little to do with his charges? Distance reduces the opportunities to engage with students directly and understand them as individuals. But in place of that subjective relationship, maintaining distance allows a certain —

  “Objectivity.”

  Headmaster’s lip twitches upwards for the first time in this meeting. “Precisely. To be objective requires a certain detachment. In this way, I manage the school and offer an environment in which all our boys — and girls — can develop to their fullest potential. That detachment does not mean that we do not follow our students’ progress closely. On the contrary. But unlike the blunt instrument of standardised testing that now obsesses much of the educational establishment, we use more sophisticated techniques.”

  Objectivity, but for what purpose? Did Henry have a similar conversation with Headmaster on Friday? If the bookshelf swings open, the opening mechanism is probably concealed on the shelf itself. A concealed latch, perhaps.

  “In your case, for example,” he continues, “you progress well in all the academic disciplines. Mr. Ormiston can be a bit melodramatic in his assessment, as you know. But outside of books you need to learn self-control. The Priory School is a safe environment, but after you complete sixth form you will be going out into a wider world and will need to harness your intellect as well as your passions.”

  “I did not lose my temper today.”

  “That is not what I said. You are an unusual young woman, Arcadia. You have certain gifts. It would be preferable to control them effectively, lest they come to control you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Very well. I think you do. Now, as it happens I have one other item I would like to discuss with you. I gather from Mr. Ormiston that you still enjoy puzzles. As it happens, I have come across someth
ing that might pique your interest as well as being of service to the school.”

  He pats the manila folder on his desk. “We will come to this momentarily. But it is a long time since we chatted and you had such a novel approach to the three box problem. I hope you will indulge me if I offer you two, shall we say, ‘warm-up questions’?”

  It is a very curious disciplinary meeting, but she is not really in a position to decline. She nods her assent.

  “Good,” he says. “So the first question is from a grand tradition in lateral thinking: the matchstick puzzle. Sometimes they are geometrical, with one or more shapes to be manipulated by moving matchsticks. For myself, I tend to enjoy the mathematical variety and the one I have for you is in that vein.”

  Like an excited schoolboy himself, Headmaster reaches into a drawer and takes out a handful of matches. Using them, he lays them on the desk before her in the following arrangement:

  “You are familiar, of course, with Roman numerals,” Headmaster says. “So this equation XI + I = X would read ‘eleven plus one equals ten’. Eleven plus one obviously does not equal ten, so it is incorrect. Your task is to make a valid equation with the minimum movement of matchsticks. For example, one could add two more matchsticks to the ‘X’ on the right hand side and it would read ‘eleven plus one equals twelve’. But perhaps you can find a more elegant solution?”

  Deceptively simple. Moving the first vertical match — the “I” from “XI” — onto the other side would make X + I = XI. Slightly less movement would be simply to remove the vertical match from the plus sign, making XI – I = X. But that is hardly “elegant”. Unless…

  “Done.” She announces.

  Headmaster raises an eyebrow.