Computer refuseniks like myself are a dying breed, and as far as the administration is concerned, deaf, dumb, and blind.
“Gentlemen!” snapped the Head. “This is not the appropriate moment to debate this. Mr. Straitley, I suggest you put any objections you may have in writing and e-mail them to Mr. Bishop. Now shall we continue?”
I sat down. “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutant.”
“What was that, Mr. Straitley?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it was the gentle crumbling of civilization’s last outpost that you heard, Headmaster.”
Not an auspicious start to the term. A reprimand from the New Head I could bear, but the thought that Sourgrape Devine had managed to steal my office right from under my nose was intolerable. In any case, I told myself, I would not go gently. I intended to make Occupation very, very difficult for the Germans.
“And now to welcome our new colleagues.” The Head allowed a fractional warmth to color his voice. “I hope that you will make them at home, and that they will prove to be as committed to St. Oswald’s as the rest of you.”
Committed? They should be locked up.
“Did you say something, Mr. Straitley?”
“An inarticulate sound of approval, Headmaster.”
“Hm.”
“Precisely.”
There were five freshers in alclass="underline" one a computer scientist, as I had feared. I didn’t catch his name, but Beards are interchangeable, like Suits. Anyway, it’s a department into which, for obvious reasons, I seldom venture. A young woman to Modern Languages (dark hair, good teeth, quite promising so far); a Suit to Geography, who seem to have started a collection; a games teacher in a pair of loud and disquieting Lycra running shorts; plus a neat-looking young man for English who, for the moment, I have yet to categorize.
When you’ve seen as many Common Rooms as I have you begin to recognize the fauna that collect in such places. Each school has its own ecosystem and social mix, but the same species tend to predominate everywhere. Suits, of course (more and more of these since the arrival of the New Head—they hunt in packs), and their natural enemy, the Tweed Jacket. A solitary and territorial animal, the Tweed Jacket, though enjoying the occasional bout of revelry, tends not to pair up very often, which accounts for our dwindling numbers. Then there’s the Eager Beaver, of which my German colleagues Geoff and Penny Nation are typical specimens; the Jobsworth, who reads the Mirror during staff meetings, is rarely seen without a cup of coffee, and is always late to lessons; the Low-Fat Yogurt (invariably female, this beast, and much preoccupied with gossip and dieting); the Jackrabbit of either gender (who bolts down a hole at the first sign of trouble); plus any number of Dragons, Sweeties, Strange Birds, Old Boys, Young Guns, and eccentrics of all kinds.
I can usually fit any fresher into the appropriate category within a few minutes’ acquaintance. The geographer, Mr. Easy, is a typical Suit: smart, clean-cut, and built for paperwork. The Games man, Gods help us, is a classic Jobsworth. Mr. Meek, the computer man, is rabbity beneath his fluffy beard. The linguist, Miss Dare, might be a trainee Dragon if not for the humorous twist to her mouth; I must remember to try her out, see what she’s made of. The new English teacher—Mr. Keane—might not be as straightforward—not actually a Suit, not quite a Beaver, but far too young for the tweedy set.
The New Head makes much of this pursuit of young blood; the future of the profession, he says, lies with the influx of new ideas. Old lags like myself, of course, are not fooled. Young blood is cheaper.
I said as much to Pat Bishop later, after the meeting.
“Give them a chance,” he said. “At least let them settle in before you have a go.”
Pat likes young folk, of course; it’s part of his charm. The boys can sense it; it makes him accessible. It also makes him immensely gullible, however; and his inability to see the bad side of anyone has often caused annoyance in the past. “Jeff Light’s a good, straight sportsman,” he said. I thought of the Lycra-shorted Games teacher (a Jobsworth, if ever I saw one) and winced inwardly. “Chris Keane comes highly recommended.” That, I could more readily believe. “And the French teacher seems to have a lot of sense.”
Of course, I thought, Bishop would have interviewed everyone. “Well, let’s hope so,” I said, heading for the Bell Tower. Following that full-frontal attack by Dr. Devine, I didn’t want any more trouble than I had already.
2
You see; it was almost too simple. As soon as they saw my credentials they were hooked. It’s funny, how much trust some people lay in pieces of paper: certificates, diplomas, degrees, references. And at St. Oswald’s it’s worse than anywhere. After all, the whole machine runs on paperwork. Runs rather badly too, from what I gather, now that the essential lubricant is in such short supply. It’s money that greases the wheels, my father used to say; and he was right.
It hasn’t altered much since that first day. The playing fields are less open, now that the new housing developments have begun to spread; and there’s a high fence—wire on concrete posts—to reinforce the NO TRESPASSERS signs. But the essential St. Oswald’s is quite unchanged.
The right way to approach is from the front, of course. The facade, with its imposing driveway and wrought iron gates, is built to impress. And it does—to the tune of six thousand per pupil per year—that blend of old-style arrogance and conspicuous consumption never fails to bring in the punters.
St. Oswald’s continues to specialize in sententious titles. Here the Deputy Head is the Second Master; the staff room is the Masters’ Common Room; even the cleaners are traditionally called bedders, although St. Oswald’s has had no boarding pupils—and therefore no beds—since 1918. But the parents love this kind of thing; in Old Oswaldian (or Ozzie, as tradition has it), homework becomes prep; registration, appel; the ancient dining hall is still referred to as the New Refectory; and the buildings themselves—dilapidated as they remain—are subdivided into a multitude of whimsically named nooks and crannies: the Rotunda, the Buttery, the Master’s Lodge, the Portcullis, the Observatory, the Porte Cochère. Nowadays, of course, hardly anyone uses the official names—but they do look very nice on the brochures.
My father, to give him credit, was extraordinarily proud of his title of Head Porter. It was a caretaker’s job, pure and simple; but that title—with its implied authority—blinded him to most of the snubs and petty insults he was to receive during his first years at the school. He’d left school at sixteen, with no academic qualifications, and to him St. Oswald’s represented a pinnacle to which he dared not even aspire.
As a result, he regarded the gilded boys of St. Oswald’s with both admiration and contempt. Admiration for their physical excellence; their sporting prowess; their superior bone structure; their display of money. Contempt for their softness; their complacency; their sheltered existence. I knew he was comparing us, and as I grew older I became more and more conscious of my inadequacy in his eyes, and of his silent—but increasingly bitter—disappointment.