chapter i: dispersal
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i
The Headmaster shook his head and smiled ruefully.
“There is nothing for it but Shakespeare,” he said.
“Dull,” suggested the Senior Science Master, grimacing, Puck-like, at the Senior English Mistress, who had played at the Old Vic.
“Quite,” the Headmaster agreed meekly, and waited for further suggestions.
“The parents won’t come,” said the Junior Music Mistress, sadly. She liked lots and lots of the parents to come. She waylaid them in corridors and places where parents get lost and, guiding them to the main hall, booked orders for their offspring to take Extra Music. The fees for Extra Music were heavy, and the Junior Music Mistress received twenty per cent of them. “I’m sure they’ll think Shakespeare too boring.”
The Senior History Master did not agree. The parents would come, whatever the Musical, Operatic and Dramatic Society produced, he thought. The parents would come to see the children act and to hear them sing. The parents did not care whether it was Shakespeare or a revue. At least, that was his opinion, and it was based on a twenty years’ experience of parents and their peculiar psychology.
At this point the Senior Mathematics Master wanted to know whether they could not produce a revue. Surely, with so much talent on the staff…?
The Headmaster replied cordially that if the staff thought they could collaborate in the production of a revue, he should be delighted to assist them by any means in his power. A brisk discussion followed, but the idea was dropped. As the Junior English Master put it: “It sounded something like work.”
“What about another comic opera?” suggested the Arithmetic Mistress. “I am sure everybody enjoyed The Gondoliers.”
“I think that was the Head’s point, wasn’t it, sir?” said the Junior English Master, blending carefully the deference due to the Headmaster with a certain amount of youthful contempt for the Arithmetic Mistress. “We can’t afford to tackle another opera this year.”
“We lost thirty pounds, one shilling and ninepence on The Gondoliers,” said the Headmaster; “and that in spite of the fact that we had a full house.”
“I would put up the money,” said the Arithmetic Mistress. She spoke breathlessly, out of nervousness. All eyes were upon her. She was shabbily dressed, heavy-faced and almost inarticulate except in the classroom. She taught the lower forms only.
The school was an expensive experiment in co-education. It was a private concern, and the Headmaster, who had spent a fortune on it, was chairman of the board of directors. None of the staff held shares, and it was against the terms of their engagement for them to do so. They were well paid, and were expected to be something more than merely efficient teachers, for the social side of school life was catered for as carefully and thoroughly as the educational.
Games for the girls and boys were of secondary importance to hobbies. Corporal punishment was never resorted to. There was no prefect system. English was the most important subject. In short, it was a freak school. The staff came to weep, and remained—wondering at themselves as they did so—to rejoice. All the senior members of the staff, both men and women, were married, although the Headmaster was a bachelor.
There were the usual friendships and enmities, but nearly everyone united in tolerating the Arithmetic Mistress, for she was the mildest and most inoffensive of persons: self-effacing, meek, quietly contented with her lot. All looked at her in surprise, and some in alarm, however, as she made the offer to finance the production of a comic opera. The Head broke the pause.
“But, really, you know, Miss Ferris—” he said. The Arithmetic Mistress interrupted him.
“I know how much it would cost,” she said. “I could afford it, Mr. Cliffordson. I should like it to be a little present to the school. I have been”—she gulped, and her dull eyes filled suddenly—“I have been so happy here.”
There was an awkward pause, then the Headmaster cleared his throat and pronounced his benediction on the scheme.
“In that case—a present to the school—very kind indeed of you. Well, now, what about parts? We ought to decide them before the holidays, I think, and then we can get on with the rehearsals next term. Any suggestions? Let me see—what are the parts?”
“Hadn’t we better settle what opera we are going to do?” inquired the Junior Music Mistress demurely. She was very young and very pretty, and happened to be the Headmaster’s niece.
“Which opera? Oh, that’s settled. We must do The Mikado, mustn’t we? ” said the Headmaster. “I’ve wanted to do it for years.”
There was applause.
“Yourself the ‘Pooh-Bah,’ sir, of course,” said the Junior English Master.
“I think I should like to attempt it,” replied the Headmaster. He patted his waistcoat affectionately, imagining a Japanese silk sash.
“Miss Cliffordson will do ‘Yum-Yum,’ I take it,” the Junior English Master continued. He was a self-assertive (and as yet unpublished) novelist, and habitually rushed in where angels feared to tread.
“I should think so. Oh, yes,” the Headmaster agreed, smiling at his niece. “And the funny little chap—the Lord High Executioner—what’s-his-name? Oh, you know—”
“ ‘Ko-Ko,’ ” said the Junior English Master. He irritated the Headmaster, but was blissfully unconscious of the fact.
“My boy, you will have to produce this opera,” said the Headmaster, the more kindly since he felt that his irritation was not altogether justifiable. “ ‘Ko-Ko,’ certainly. Mr. Poole’s part, I think.”
The Mathematics Master, a spry, black-haired, good-humoured little man, laughed and began to hum under his breath.
“Who else is there?” asked the Headmaster.
“Well, there’s the ‘Mikado’ himself, sir,” said the Art Master. “You know—the name-part. The only part I ever remember in Gilbert and Sullivan, as a matter of fact. Sings a jolly good song or something, doesn’t he?”
“Ah, your part, Smith. Your part, without a doubt,” said the Headmaster. The Art Master grinned. “And isn’t there a redoubtable lady related to him? I seem to remember— Of course, it’s years since I saw the thing done…”
“ ‘Katisha,’ ” said several voices.
“Ah!” The Headmaster looked at the large semi-circle, and came to a sudden decision.
“Do you sing, Miss Ferris?” he inquired of the Arithmetic Mistress. The Arithmetic Mistress blushed and fumbled with her handkerchief. She had never been in the limelight since she had first come before the board of governors at her interview, when she was engaged to teach arithmetic to the lower forms. She had been longing for years to be offered a part in one of the school productions. Now that she was actually being offered one, her nerve failed her.
“It isn’t a long part,” said the Junior Music Mistress, who, now that her own part was settled, was perfectly willing to help settle the other women’s parts, and had some reasons of her own for wishing to spite the Physical Training Mistress, who was the obvious choice for the part of ‘Katisha.’ “It doesn’t really start until the Second Act.”
“ ‘Katisha ’ makes an important appearance, and a very effective entrance, towards the end of the First Act, Miss Cliffordson,” contradicted the Junior Science Master, who was in love with the Physical Training Mistress, although she was four years his senior and called him to his face a precocious little boy.