daily by a pint mug with WORLD’S BEST GRANDPA in shaky young letters. Pearman’s was bought on a school French trip to Paris and bears a photograph of the poet Jacques Prévert smoking a cigarette. Dr. Devine disdains the humble mug altogether and uses the Headmaster’s china—a privilege reserved for visitors, senior Suits, and the Head himself—Bishop, always popular with the boys, has a different cartoon character every term (this term, Yogi Bear); gifts from his form.
My own is a St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, limited edition 1990. Eric Scoones has one, as do several of the Old Guard, but mine has a chipped handle, which enables me to distinguish it from the rest. We built the new Games Pavilion with the proceeds of that mug, and I carry mine with pride. Or would, if I could find it.
“Damn it. First the damn register and now the damn mug.”
“Borrow mine,” said McDonaugh (CHARLES & DIANA, slightly chipped).
“That isn’t the point.”
And it wasn’t; to remove a Master’s coffee mug from its rightful place is almost as bad as taking his chair. The chair, the office, the classroom, and now the mug. I was beginning to feel distinctly under siege.
Keane gave me a satirical look as I poured tea into the wrong mug. “It’s good to know that I’m not the only one having a bad day,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Lost both my free periods today. Five-G. Bob Strange’s English lit class.”
Ouch. Of course everyone knows that Mr. Strange has much to do; being Third Master and in charge of the timetable, he has over the years managed to construct for himself a system of courses, duties, meetings, admin periods, and other necessaries, which leave him scarcely any time for actual pupil contact. But Keane seemed capable enough—after all, he’d survived Sunnybank Park—and I’d seen strong men reduced to jelly by those fifth-formers.
“I’ll be all right,” said Keane, when I expressed due sympathy. “Besides, it’s all good material for my book.”
Ah, yes, the book. “Whatever gets you through the day,” I said, wondering whether or not he was serious. There’s a kind of quiet facetiousness about Keane—a whiff of the upstart—that makes me want to question everything he says. Even so I prefer him infinitely to the muscular Light, or the sycophantic Easy, or the timorous Meek. “By the way, Dr. Devine was asking for you,” Keane went on. “Something about old filing cabinets?”
“Good.” It was the best news I’d had all day. Though after the fracas with 3S, even German-baiting had lost some of its flavor.
“He asked Jimmy to put them in the yard,” said Keane. “Said to get them moved as soon as possible.”
“What?”
“Obstructing a thoroughfare, I think he said. Something to do with Health and Safety.”
I cursed. Sourgrape must really have wanted that office. The Health and Safety Maneuver is one to which only a few dare to sink. I finished my tea and strode purposefully toward the ex-Classics office, only to find Jimmy, screwdriver in hand, fixing some kind of an electronic attachment to the door.
“It’s a buzzer, boss,” explained Jimmy, seeing my surprise. “So Dr. Devine knows if there’s someone at the door.”
“I see.” In my day, we just knocked.
Jimmy, however, was delighted. “When you see the red light, he’s with someone,” he said. “If it’s green, he buzzes you in.”
“And the yellow light?”
Jimmy frowned. “If it’s yellow,” he said at last, “then Dr. Devine buzzes through to see who it is”—he paused, wrinkling his brow—“and if it’s someone important, then he lets them in!”
“Very Teutonic.” I stepped past him into my office.
Inside, a conspicuous and displeasing order reigned. New cabinets—color-coded; a handsome watercooler; a large mahogany desk with computer, pristine blotter, and a framed photograph of Mrs. Sourgrape. The carpet had been cleaned; my spider plants—those scarred and dusty veterans of drought
My own is a St. Oswald’s Jubilee mug, limited edition 1990. Eric Scoones has one, as do several of the Old Guard, but mine has a chipped handle, which enables me to distinguish it from the rest. We built the new Games Pavilion with the proceeds of that mug, and I carry mine with pride. Or would, if I could find it.
“Damn it. First the damn register and now the damn mug.”
“Borrow mine,” said McDonaugh (CHARLES & DIANA, slightly chipped).
“That isn’t the point.”
And it wasn’t; to remove a Master’s coffee mug from its rightful place is almost as bad as taking his chair. The chair, the office, the classroom, and now the mug. I was beginning to feel distinctly under siege.
Keane gave me a satirical look as I poured tea into the wrong mug. “It’s good to know that I’m not the only one having a bad day,” he said.
“Oh?”
“Lost both my free periods today. Five-G. Bob Strange’s English lit class.”
Ouch. Of course everyone knows that Mr. Strange has much to do; being Third Master and in charge of the timetable, he has over the years managed to construct for himself a system of courses, duties, meetings, admin periods, and other necessaries, which leave him scarcely any time for actual pupil contact. But Keane seemed capable enough—after all, he’d survived Sunnybank Park—and I’d seen strong men reduced to jelly by those fifth-formers.
“I’ll be all right,” said Keane, when I expressed due sympathy. “Besides, it’s all good material for my book.”
Ah, yes, the book. “Whatever gets you through the day,” I said, wondering whether or not he was serious. There’s a kind of quiet facetiousness about Keane—a whiff of the upstart—that makes me want to question everything he says. Even so I prefer him infinitely to the muscular Light, or the sycophantic Easy, or the timorous Meek. “By the way, Dr. Devine was asking for you,” Keane went on. “Something about old filing cabinets?”
“Good.” It was the best news I’d had all day. Though after the fracas with 3S, even German-baiting had lost some of its flavor.
“He asked Jimmy to put them in the yard,” said Keane. “Said to get them moved as soon as possible.”
“What?”
“Obstructing a thoroughfare, I think he said. Something to do with Health and Safety.”
I cursed. Sourgrape must really have wanted that office. The Health and Safety Maneuver is one to which only a few dare to sink. I finished my tea and strode purposefully toward the ex-Classics office, only to find Jimmy, screwdriver in hand, fixing some kind of an electronic attachment to the door.
“It’s a buzzer, boss,” explained Jimmy, seeing my surprise. “So Dr. Devine knows if there’s someone at the door.”
“I see.” In my day, we just knocked.
Jimmy, however, was delighted. “When you see the red light, he’s with someone,” he said. “If it’s green, he buzzes you in.”
“And the yellow light?”
Jimmy frowned. “If it’s yellow,” he said at last, “then Dr. Devine buzzes through to see who it is”—he paused, wrinkling his brow—“and if it’s someone important, then he lets them in!”
“Very Teutonic.” I stepped past him into my office.
Inside, a conspicuous and displeasing order reigned. New cabinets—color-coded; a handsome watercooler; a large mahogany desk with computer, pristine blotter, and a framed photograph of Mrs. Sourgrape. The carpet had been cleaned; my spider plants—those scarred and dusty veterans of drought
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