Gentlemen & Players Read Free Page B

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