Or so it was until today. This morning, on my way into School, halfway down the Lower Corridor, I found Jimmy Watt with a stepladder, taking down the Honours Boards, scars, stories and all.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he told me. ‘Orders from the New Head. We’re going to have display boards instead. You know, for the parents.’
I was too stunned to say anything. The spaces where the boards had hung were framed with dust, revealing the paintwork of decades past: powdery patches of sky-blue; iron-grey; or that curious hospital-green. Nowadays, the plasterwork is usually painted magnolia, with the wooden panels painted in brown to hide the scars; but no one paints under the Honours Boards, and the result looked unspeakably sad; a row of trompe-l’oeil windows, looking on to a blind wall.
‘The parents?’ I said at last. ‘What the hell have the parents got to do with it? The Honours Boards belong to St Oswald’s, they’re not something you can just move because some bloody interior decorator tells you they’re out of style!’
Jimmy looked mournful. ‘Sorry, boss.’
I took a breath. There was no point in berating Jimmy – nicknamed ‘Forty-Watt’ by some of my less tolerant colleagues, he’s paid to do what he is told, and would never argue with a superior.
‘What kind of display boards?’ I said.
Jimmy seemed to brighten a little. ‘Nice ones. Like in the lobby,’ he said.
For a moment I imagined it. Progress through Tradition. The Lower Corridor stripped of its past and converted into a glossy brochure. Yes, the parents would like it. The parents like anything that makes them believe that their money is buying them something more than just teachers, classrooms, chalk and dust. St Oswald’s parents are paying fees that seem to them extortionate; and value for money, in their eyes, means more than traditions going back to the sixteenth century.
It means computers; science labs; impressive new facilities. As if a good schoolmaster wasn’t worth a hundred new computers. I may have said something of the sort – I may even have raised my voice – because as I was expressing myself, Thing Two, aka Ms Buckfast, came out of the office that had once belonged to Pat Bishop and fixed me with the kind of smile a nurse might give to a lunatic.
‘Is there a problem?’ she said.
‘Yes, I think there is,’ I said. ‘Much as I appreciate the quaint reasoning that led to the appointment of a Rebranding Guru, if that’s what you are, St Oswald’s has been standing for a lot longer than either of us. I don’t think its demolition counts as progress of any kind.’
That might have been a little too blunt, I told myself, a little too late.
Ms Buckfast blinked at me. ‘You must be Mr Straitley,’ she said.
I gave her the Straitley 3D-stare, the one that works so well on boys who overstep the mark in class.
Ms Buckfast stared back, with a little smile that totally failed to reach her eyes. A rather attractive woman – well built, and with that striking red hair – but I can’t help thinking there’s something far too polished about that exterior, like a Christmas bauble, shiny on the outside, but hollow and easily broken. I wondered just how easily.
I said: ‘In which case, you’ll know my motto: Verveces tui similes pro ientaculo mihi appositi sunt.’
The smile did not waver for a second.
So, she doesn’t know Latin, I thought. Her eyes were exactly the same shade of green as the paint beneath the Honours Boards from 1913 to 1915, and their expression was just as flat.
‘I’m Rebecca Buckfast,’ she said. ‘The Head’s told me all about you.’
‘Has he now?’
‘Oh, yes, he has. He’s one of your biggest fans, you know.’
I grimaced. Somehow I doubted that.
‘He says he always expected to hear that you’d been given a senior post. Second Master, Head of Year – maybe even the Headship.’
I had to laugh. ‘A Headship?’ You don’t ask the barnacles on the hull which direction to steer in. Not that there’ll be any barnacles once Johnny Harrington has finished with us.
‘I was never Caesar,’ I said. ‘At best, a reluctant Cassius.’
She smiled. Once more, her eyes stayed cold. ‘In which case, I think our motto should be Victurus te saluto.’ And at that she went back to her office, leaving me with two conclusions.
One: Rebecca Buckfast may not be as brittle as I first thought.
Two: she does know Latin, after all.
8
September 12th, 2005
But that was only the start, I fear, of the New Head’s expansion plan. The pigeon-holes in the Quiet Room have also been removed, in preparation for the new workstations, which will be delivered some time during the week. There are rumours of staff assessments, to be carried out throughout the term by various senior colleagues. Even more disturbing, I hear that the boys are being asked to contribute – rating facilities, even staff, with a view to making improvements.
My Brodie Boys make much of this. ‘Three out of ten for punctuality, sir,’ said Sutcliff, as I came in late for this morning’s Registration.
‘And only five for deportment,’ said Allen-Jones, with a grin.
I looked at him over my spectacles. ‘Aut disce aut discede,’ I said. ‘Which, roughly translated, means, if you don’t have your Latin homework ready for me by lunchtime, I shall be forced to reassess your after-school activities.’
Allen-Jones, who has been known to do his Latin homework at Break, during Assembly, or sometimes on the morning bus, gave me a look of reproach. ‘Wouldn’t that be punitive, sir? Dr Blakely says that we’re at a very sensitive age. I could be suffering trauma right now.’
I pretended to cuff his ear. Allen-Jones pretended to dodge. It struck me then, that if Harrington – or any of his Crisis Team – had happened to walk past my room at that moment, they would have witnessed a member of staff appearing to assault a boy. I must tread more carefully. Like the Honours Boards, I am from another time, and I am certain Harrington wants nothing more than to see me retire. I must not give him the satisfaction of finding a reason to do so.
‘I’ve heard they’re selling the School fields.’
That was Sutcliff, whose father, a local property developer, can usually be counted upon to know such things.
‘They try that every year,’ said McNair. ‘It never works. It’s the old St Oswald’s burial ground that always puts them off in the end.’
‘The bones of generations past,’ intoned Allen-Jones lugubriously. ‘Boys who failed their Latin exams, doomed to lie under the sod.’
‘You’d know all about that,’ said McNair.
Allen-Jones pretended to hit him with a copy of Vergil. I wished my own unease could be dispelled as easily. The School fields – a buffer of land that separates the main grounds of St Oswald’s from the encroaching estate beyond – have been part of the School since the first, and many Headmasters have tried and failed to sell them off for development. But remembering the Bursar’s comment about the sale of School assets, my heart sank. The School doesn’t have many assets to sell. A strip of waste land, bordered by hedges, more or less worthless at present; but if designated as building land, it could be worth millions.
That’s what Johnny Harrington sees. Development potential. He does not see the open fields where generations of Ozzies have played. He does not see the birds’ nests hidden in the hawthorn hedge, or value the horse-chestnut trees with their autumn load of conkers. Instead, he sees a new housing estate; perhaps a supermarket; investment in the future, not nostalgia for the past.
And yet, those fields are part of something that he cannot understand. Fifty years ago, Eric and I played at pirates under those trees. Fifty years from now, those trees will still be standing sentinel. The Captain of our old ship is bound for dangerous new territory, and only the gods – or a mutiny – can save us from his ambition.
And the most dangerous thing about Harrington is that he does have a measure of charm; unlike the last Headmaster – who had a tendenc
y to lurk in his office, avoiding boys and members of staff in favour of mountains of paperwork – he likes to be seen around the School, greeting boys by name and flashing that heliographic smile. As a result, 4S have awarded him their highest accolade, declaring him to be ‘all right’, with admiring looks at that silver car.
Yes, I’m afraid that where status symbols are concerned, my boys are as shallow as Jimmy Watt, or Danielle, the School Secretary, who views all Headmasters as legitimate prey, and whose failure to captivate a Head over the past twenty years or so has forced her to lower her sights as far as the current Third Master (though Bob Strange, a bachelor, is far too canny to fall for the charms of a member of the ancillary staff).
Not that Johnny Harrington would be eligible in any case. The grapevine tells me that the man is safely, respectably married. The couple have no children, I am told – which is, I suppose, a mercy. No one wants the responsibility of having to teach the Headmaster’s son; after all, some of us barely survived teaching the Headmaster.
Damn him. Why does he haunt me so? At my age, I don’t sleep well, even at the best of times, and all this week my nights have been troubled by unquiet dreams of Harrington. It’s strange, how a distant event can be so much more immediate than something that happened this morning: a set of house keys absently placed in a Tupperware box of sliced ham on the middle shelf of the refrigerator; slippers left outside in the rain; a volume of Ovid’s poetry down the back of the sofa.
No, dammit, it isn’t old age. It’s just that the past has a habit of creeping up on a person, like a child in a game of Grandmother’s Footsteps, before delivering the cry of Gotcha! You’re it! – then slyly, cruelly, running away. I’ve tried to relax by the usual means – by going through my class records, copying out form-lists, listening to the wireless – but nothing seems to relieve that sense of something just behind me, moving with inexorable stealth towards the spot, just between my shoulder blades, where the knife is likely to fall.
Meanwhile, the occasional Gauloise or Liquorice Allsort sustains me, as Jimmy puts up the last of those glossy new promotion boards along the Middle Corridor. Surprisingly, the Bell Tower has been granted a reprieve from the Great Rebranding – perhaps because parents don’t go that far. As a result we have retained the last half-dozen Honours Boards – shabby, faded and marvellous in every way – and I have made it clear to Ms Buckfast that I will defend them with my life.
Ms Buckfast seems unimpressed with this. Apparently Ms Buckfast – Rebecca, as she prefers to be known – has been inspecting the School since the end of July, noting its many deficiencies. Paintwork; water damage; asbestos; draughty windows; worn steps. Woodworm is the official explanation of the removal of the Honours Boards, which, she assures me, are being kept in storage until such time as the School can afford to have some of them restored.
‘Some of them?’
That PR smile. ‘Well, yes. Though tradition is important, we feel that a more approachable image will help raise the profile of the School and make it more competitive.’
‘Competitive! What are we, a lacrosse team?’
She raised an immaculate eyebrow. ‘King Henry’s School came ninth in the Independent Schools League Tables this year.’
‘Ah. That.’ I rarely pay attention to league tables at the best of times, but no one would have expected St Oswald’s to top the charts after the kind of year we’ve had. As for King Henry’s – our rival school – they have been looking down on us since the end of the Hundred Years War. They had a rebranding of their own ten or fifteen years ago, and now they have mixed classes, a new theatre, an Olympic-sized swimming pool and something called Academy Status, as well as a full-time Promotion Team to sell their services to the world. We call their staff Henriettas. There isn’t a Tweed Jacket among them.
‘Well, much as we aspire to compete,’ I said, ‘I also happen to believe that certain things are worth keeping. Augustus found a city of bricks and left a city of marble. It doesn’t work the other way round.’
Sadly, my opinion seems not to be shared by the majority. Dr Devine, who, as Health & Safety Officer, has been complaining about the state of the School since he was offered the post last year, scents a potential ally. I suspect that the Buckfast combination of shiny efficiency and a pretty face may have turned his head a little. In any case, I have found him smug and unsympathetic. He makes much of the five-year age gap between us (in spite of the fact that he was appointed almost at the same time), and likes to convey the impression that he has a youthful flexibility of mind, whereas I am set irrevocably in ways that have long since been obsolete.
‘Face it, things are going to change,’ he told me today in the Common Room. ‘And those who refuse to change with the times are doomed to fall by the wayside.’
‘That’s rather poetic, Devine,’ I said, helping myself to tea. ‘They’ll be asking you to write their slogans next. Progress through Tradition. Or is it the other way round?’
Devine gave his percussive sniff. ‘I thought you’d cut up over those Honours Boards. But face it, we’ve been stuck in the past. The page has turned. And I, for one, am far from ready for the scrap heap just yet.’
Rather a speech for old Devine, whose nose had gone quite pink again. I found myself feeling almost sorry for him – at sixty, he is far too old for the post of Second Master, although, with typical arrogance, he has never considered this. The Crisis Team, as well he knows, is only a temporary measure. Once Harrington has established his rule, the deputies will be sent elsewhere. Which is when old Devine believes his chance for high office will emerge – a chance that has eluded him repeatedly over the years, like a glimmer of gold at the end of a cruel, fleeting rainbow.
‘If you think the New Head will give you a sniff at any kind of promotion,’ I said, ‘then you’re just as deluded as Bob Strange. He’ll be looking for a younger man, someone he can pull from the ranks and fast-track with courses and IT. Someone like your new man – what did you say his name was again?’
‘Markowicz,’ said Dr Devine.
The topic of the new man is rather a sore spot for Devine. Appointed by the doctor himself, he comes so well recommended that he has not seen fit to appear as yet, leaving Devine to cover for him.
‘Of course, if you think that toadying will earn you a place at the Headmaster’s side, feel free to get in line,’ I said. ‘But the fact is, you, like the rest of us, come with too much baggage.’
That was putting it bluntly indeed – more bluntly, perhaps, than kindness allowed – but I was still feeling the outrage of those Honours Boards pulled from the walls, like the stripes from the faded uniforms of soldiers deserting in battle, and the prospect of our School fields being sold to pay for new IT facilities had filled me with a newly militant spirit.
Dr Devine did not reply, but the nose was pinkly eloquent. Instead he poured a cup of tea – he still uses the School’s own china, disdaining those domestic mugs that most of our staff bring from home, reflecting their personalities – rambling roses for Kitty Teague; Homer Simpson for Robbie Roach; Padre Pio for the Chaplain and Princess Diana for Eric Scoones. No, Dr Devine’s tea remains steadfastly corporate, balanced on a saucer too narrow to hold a biscuit. This time, it wobbled a little, as if his hand were not quite steady.
I said: ‘It’s Johnny Harrington. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.’
‘That was twenty-four years ago,’ said Devine, avoiding my eye.
‘No one changes that much. Look at you. Look at me.’
‘I wasn’t involved,’ he said.
‘Bella gerant alii.’
Whenever my Teutonic friend approaches the moral high ground, the judicious use of a Latin phrase can usually be relied upon to bring him back into the fray.
This time he looked up sharply and snapped: ‘For God’s sake, Straitley, if you think that because I didn’t learn Latin at school I don’t understand every single one of your little bons mots by now, then you’re living in a dream world. So
meone else can fight the war. Isn’t that right? Well, yes, they can. I’m not going to jeopardize my career for the sake of a man who, for all we know, really did—’ He quickly bit off the rest of the phrase. ‘Well. I can’t sit around here all day. I have Health & Safety reports to look through.’ And he made his dignified exit, rather more quickly than usual.
I took another biscuit.
‘Looks like you rattled his cage all right,’ said Robbie Roach from across the room. ‘What was it this time? Lebensraum?’
‘A matter of honour,’ I told him.
‘Really? How quaint,’ said Roach, and went back to his Daily Mirror.
9
September 13th, 2005
You can tell as much by a boy’s schoolbag as by the inside of his locker. Little Johnny Harrington’s was what they called an attaché case, a term that has gone out of vogue since laptop computers have replaced the need to carry such things as paper files.
Twenty-four years later, Dr Harrington, MBE, still carries the same kind of case; sleek black leather; expensive and with a combination lock to keep the contents secure. An old style for the young Harrington, whose contemporaries of ’81 mostly had sports bags, or battered canvas satchels bought from the School Supplies shop, and one that set him apart from the rest in yet another intangible way.
Now, of course, most of our boys carry messenger bags or backpacks emblazoned with various rock bands, comic-book characters and computer games. These are against School regulations, but like the rule on School socks, I make no attempt to enforce this. The outside appearance of bags and boys are of far less interest to me than their contents, which is why, when young Allen-Jones came to find me today just as the bell rang for Lunch Break, I ignored the Wonder Woman satchel and went straight for the crux of the problem.
‘Anything wrong, Allen-Jones? You’re usually first in the lunch queue.’
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