The Rye Man Read Free

laughter, a name called, the slower, heavier tread of an adult. In a few minutes an almost silence settled, broken only by the sound of a closing door or the high-pitched bleep of the office word processor. A sudden pang of loneliness stung him as if he had been peremptorily and irredeemably cut off from the life all around him. There was, too, a feeling of redundancy, an uncertainty as to his function or purpose. What did a headmaster actually do all day? Those headmasters he knew guarded the secret as if it were the most sacred of Masonic mysteries.
    He made a start by opening the mail. There was already a stacked pile which had accumulated over the summer months. Three circulars from the Area Education Board about the purchase of heating oil, new regulations relating to the employment of cleaning staff and changes in superannuation payment, a letter from the local Girl Guides requesting the use of the school hall for their winter display evening. A letter from a Mrs Roulston saying that owing to her husband’s employment circumstances she would be taking her son on holiday during term-time and apologising for any inconvenience caused. Another letter from the Board about purchasing procedure, a road safety competition and assorted catalogues from publish ing companies. Not the most exciting start to his first day, but he drafted replies to the two letters which required them, and when he had finished, started to think about making the office look the way he wanted, personalising it, removing what remained of his predecessor.
    Edwin Reynolds had taken early retirement and had known he was leaving for some time, but the small room looked as if he had simply dropped his burden and decamped. The calendar still displayed the thirtieth of June as if a date too sweet to give up to transience, and his desk contained a miscellany of small personal items. As well as the usual and expected things like pens and paper clips there was an Acme Thunderer whistle, a Swiss penknife, a box of teabags and a confiscated criminalia of catapults, dried-up conkers and stink bombs. He turned the drawers upside down over the bin the caretaker had supplied. It felt like he was clearing out the temple, making a clean start. Reynolds would not be back, happy to have made his home run and at that very moment was probably lifting his golf clubs into the boot of his car or dead-heading the roses. He had been Principal for over twenty years and was probably only too glad to find a bolthole as the waves of change began to break about his head. It was a common pattern, as a generation of men accustomed to being potentates, and in some cases despots, who had merely to ensure that the wheels turned smoothly, suddenly found themselves the supposed pivot of educational change with a shower of initiatives falling about their heads like confetti at a wedding. The installation of the computer terminal in his office had probably been the last straw.
    The limitations of his educational perspectives and his personality were reflected in the office he had sat in for those twenty years without having felt the need to imbue it with the slightest manifestation of individuality. A sterile, functional little box, probably unchanged in all that time apart from the recent additions of carpet, a year planner, and overlaid pages of yellowing paper – phone numbers of substitute teachers, Health and Safety Regulations – looking like the peeling skins of some putrefying onion. In the two filing cabinets were only empty manilla folders and copies of school reports.
    The telephone rang as he had just finished clearing away the final remnants from his predecessor’s desk. It made him start a little, then smile. It was his secretary telling him his wife was on the line.
    â€˜Well, how’s it going? You haven’t done anything stupid yet?’
    â€˜No, just an Elvis Presley impersonation in assembly. It went down well. It’s nice of you to ring.