Of course, no one is fooled by the New Head’s sudden interest in anklewear. The date of the school inspection is approaching steadily, and after the disappointing exam results of last summer (thanks to an overburdening of course work and the latest governmental scheme), he knows that he cannot afford a lackluster report.
As a result socks, shirts, ties, and the such will be prime targets this term, as will graffiti, Health and Safety, mice, computer literacy, and walking on the left-hand side of the corridor at all times. There will be in-school assessment for all staff in preparation; a new brochure is already being printed; a subcommittee has been formed to discuss possibilities for improving the image of the school; and an additional row of disabled parking spaces has been introduced in the visitors’ car park.
In the wake of this unusual activity, the porter, Fallow, is at his most officious. Blessed with the ability to seem very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind, he has taken to lurking in corners and outside form rooms, clipboard in hand, overseeing Jimmy’s repairs and renovations. In this way he gets to overhear a great deal of staff conversation, most of which, I suspect, he passes on to Dr. Devine. Certainly, Sourgrape, though he outwardly scorns the gossip of the Common Room, seems remarkably well informed.
Miss Dare was in my form room this afternoon, covering for Meek, who is ill. Stomach ’flu, or so Bob Strange tells me, though I have my suspicions. Some people were born to teach, others not, and though Meek won’t beat the all-time record—that belongs to a maths teacher called Jerome Fentimann, who vanished at break time on his first day, never to be seen again—I wouldn’t be surprised if he left us midterm, as a result of some nebulous affliction.
Fortunately, Miss Dare is made of stronger stuff. I can hear her from the Quiet Room, talking to Meek’s computer scientists. That calm manner of hers is deceptive; underneath it, she is intelligent and capable. Her aloofness has nothing to do with being shy, I realize. She simply enjoys her own company and has little to do with the other newcomers. I see her quite often—after all, we share a room—and I have been struck by the speed with which she has adapted to the messy topography of St. Oswald’s; to the multitude of rooms; to the traditions and taboos; to the infrastructure. She is friendly with the boys without falling into the trap of intimacy; knows how to punish without provoking resentment; knows her subject.
Today before school I found her marking books in my form room and was able to observe her for a few seconds before she became conscious of my presence. Slim; businesslike in a crisp white blouse and neat gray trousers; dark hair short and discreetly well cut. I took a step forward; she saw me and stood up at once, vacating my chair.
“Good morning, sir. I wasn’t expecting you so early.”
It was seven forty-five. Light, true to type, arrives at five to nine every morning; Bishop gets in early, but only to run his interminable laps, and even Gerry Grachvogel is never in his room before eight. And that “sir”—I hoped the woman wasn’t going to be a crawler. On the other hand, I don’t like freshers to make free of my first name, as if I were the plumber, or someone they’d met down the pub. “What’s wrong with the Quiet Room?” I said.
“Mr. Pearman and Mr. Scoones were discussing recent appointments. I thought it might be more tactful to retire.”
“I see.” I sat down and lit an early Gauloise.
“I’m sorry, sir. I should have asked your permission.” Her tone was polite, but her eyes gleamed. I decided that she was an upstart and liked her the better for it.
“Cigarette?”
“No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“No vices, eh?” Please Gods, not another Sourgrape.
“Believe me, I have plenty.”
“Hm.”
“One of your boys was telling me you’d been in this room for over twenty years.”
“Longer, if you count the years as an inmate.” In those days there had been a whole Classics empire; French was a single Tweed Jacket weaned on the méthode assimil; German was unpatriotic.
O tempora! O mores! I gave a deep sigh. Horatius at the bridge, single-handedly holding back the barbarian hordes.
Miss Dare was grinning. “Well, it makes a change from plastic desks and whiteboards. I think you’re right to hold out. Besides, I like your Latinists. I don’t have to teach them grammar. And they can spell.”
Clearly, I thought, an intelligent girl. I wondered what she wanted with me. There are far quicker ways up the greasy pole than via the Bell Tower, and if that was her ambition, then her flattery would have worked better on Bob Strange, or Pearman, or Devine. “You want to be careful, hanging around this place,” I told her. “Before you know it, you’re sixty-five, overweight, and covered with chalk.”
Miss Dare smiled and picked up her marking. “I’m sure you have work to do,” she said, making for the door. Then she stopped. “Excuse me for asking, sir,” she said. “But you’re not planning retirement this year, are you?”
“Retirement? You must be joking. I’m holding out for a Century.” I looked at her closely. “Why? Has someone said anything?”
Miss Dare looked awkward. “It’s just that—” She hesitated. “As a junior member of the school, Mr. Strange has asked me to edit the school magazine. And as I was going over the staff and departmental lists I happened to notice—”
“Notice what?” Now her politeness was beginning to get on my nerves. “Out with it, for gods’ sakes!”
“It’s just that—you don’t seem to have an entry this year,” said Miss Dare. “It makes it look as if the Classics department has been—” She paused again, searching for the word, and I found myself reaching the limits of my patience.
“What? What? Marginalized? Amalgamated? Damn the terminology and tell me what you think! What’s happened to the bloody Classics department?”
“Good question, sir,” said Miss Dare, unruffled. “As far as the school’s literature is concerned—publicity brochures, department listings, school magazine—it just isn’t there.” She paused again. “And, sir . . . According to the staff listings, neither are you.”
6
Monday, 20th September
It was all over the school by the end of the week. Given the circumstances, you might have expected old Straitley to keep quiet for a while, to review his options and maintain a low profile, but it isn’t in his nature to do that, even when it’s the only wise thing to do. But being Straitley, he marched straight down to Strange’s office as soon as he had confirmed the facts and forced a confrontation.
Strange, of course, denied having done anything underhand. The new department, he said, would simply be known as Foreign Languages, which included Classical and Modern Languages, as well as two new subjects, Language Awareness and Language Design, which were to take place in the computer labs once a week as soon as the relevant software arrived (it would, he was assured, be in place for the school inspection on December 6th).
Classics had neither been demoted nor marginalized, said Strange; instead the entire profile of Foreign Languages had been upgraded to meet curriculum guidelines. St. Henry’s, he understood, had already done so four years before, and in a competitive market—
What Roy Straitley thought of that is not on record. Thankfully, from what I heard, most of the abuse was in Latin, but even so, there remains a polite and meticulous coldness between them.