Different Class Read Free Page A

has its own diaries, distributed to boys and staff. The boys use theirs for class notes and Prep; the staff, for planning lessons. Or rather, they did , until three years ago, when the Bursar decreed that the expense was too much of a burden. One more of our traditions gone, although I have kept a small supply of diaries, for personal use, in my stockroom. It’s not the expense I begrudge, but the fact that, on my shelf at home, I have a neatly matched set of thirty-odd School diaries, with our crest in blue and gold, and the School’s motto beneath it. It seems somehow immoral now, at the end of my career, to adopt a new design. The boys may choose what they like, of course, but I’m old-fashioned enough to believe that Prep belongs in a Prep diary, not in a Filofax, or (in the case of my boy Allen-Jones) a shocking-pink notebook with Hello Kitty on the cover.
    Tomorrow, the boys return to School. It’s the moment for which I’ve been waiting all summer. Unlike Devine, who has been known to say, without a trace of irony, that the School would be far more efficient without a single boy in the place, I’m very fond of my boys, which is why I have always refused to take on extra administrative tasks, preferring to teach in room 59 rather than push papers in an office. This year, however, the first day of term will mostly serve as a vehicle for various Briefings, plus as a time to digest (and dispute) aspects of the timetable; including cover, free periods and extracurricular duties.
    My new timetable is unusually sparse, I notice with disapproval; only twenty-one periods a week compared with the usual thirty-five. Of course everyone knows that Bob Strange (a physicist) views Latin with suspicion, and would like nothing better than to see it vanish from the timetable. So far, however, I have managed to keep control of my one-man department, and in defiance of probability, the results have remained consistently good. Still, this year I see that (no doubt with the help of the New Head), Bob has finally managed (using the National Curriculum as his low excuse) to relegate Latin to an optional subject, and moreover, has placed it in direct competition with German, which means that the serious linguists – those who want to read Languages at A-level and beyond – will have no choice but to opt for German as their second language, and either delay their study of Classics until the Sixth Form (absurd), or (worse still) choose to study Latin at lunchtimes, as an extracurricular activity.
    Extracurricular! There was a time in St Oswald’s history when everything was conducted in Latin, including Break, and boys were caned for getting their cases wrong. Rather before my time, I’ll admit. Nevertheless, how dare they?
    I spent the next few minutes cursing both the New Head and Bob Strange in Latin, Greek and Anglo-Saxon. Then I cursed Dr Devine, who doubtless will benefit most from the decision, and who has resented my subject since the day he arrived. Devine and I go back a long time – thirty-four years, to be exact – and during that time he has made it clear that he considers Latin obsolete and possibly subversive, interfering as it does with his Teutonic ambition. He is, if not a friend of Strange, at least a fellow-traveller; and I suspect that this relegation of my subject to the option pool is at least partly due to his influence. Still, id imperfectum manet dum confectum erit , as I think Clint Eastwood may have said. There may be one more showdown before either of us hangs up his guns.
    At twenty to eleven, I collected my gown from its brass hook at the back of the stock-cupboard door. Twenty years ago, all members of staff wore gowns in School. Now I am more or less alone in continuing the tradition. Still, an academic gown conceals a multitude of sins – chalk dust, tea stains, a copy of Vergil’s poetry set aside for the more tedious meetings. Not that this one would be dull, I thought as I slung on my battered