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; better 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).