I had no academic robes. At King Henry’s, however, they were more or less mandatory. Even Prefects wore them in Assembly, and for carrying out duties. Without them, I was likely to be mistaken for a pupil – or, worse, as one of the School Secretaries. Scoones explained all this to me in glacial tones at our first ‘buddy meeting’ that morning, in the Common Room, while the boys were in Assembly.
He made no further mention of his outburst in the cloakroom. In a way, that made it worse; he seemed to assume I’d ignore it. He simply introduced himself, in that stiff, fussy manner he always had; he shook my hand (just one dry pump), and then went on to fire at me the series of toneless bullet points that counted as my induction.
‘School begins at eight o’clock, with the Headmaster’s Briefing. Registration, eight-thirty for members of staff in charge of a form. Eight-forty till nine, Assembly. During this time, I shall be free to address any queries or concerns. The Head of Department is Dr Sinclair, but he has a form to administer, therefore you will address your concerns to me inasmuch as possible. Every Friday we shall review your progress. This’ – he handed me a sheet printed in purple ink – ‘is your timetable. Where possible, I shall observe lessons, inasmuch as my own timetable permits.’
‘Oh,’ I said, rather weakly.
He fixed me with his watery gaze. Scoones always looked as if he was peeling onions. I suspect he should have worn glasses, but didn’t want to be judged, somehow. The result was a narrow, peculiar gaze born mostly of short-sightedness.
‘I’m assuming you do have your lesson plans?’
I opened my red attaché case. I could tell it looked childish to him, in his world of masculine monochrome. My class notes were written out neatly in a new spiral-bound notebook.
‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ said Eric Scoones. (It was something he said rather often.) ‘Have you not received your copy of the Book?’
The Book, it transpired, was a series of Departmental lesson plans, designed to ensure the seamless transition from one Master to another, without enabling such dangerous things as personal style to surface. Written over ten years ago by the current Head of Department, it concentrated on grammar, spelling and precis, and had been built to dovetail with a curriculum set by the Oxford and Cambridge Board when I was still in utero.
‘If you’d arrived at the start of the year, you would have had your own copy.’ His tone implied that this, too, was my fault. ‘Still, you’ll have plenty of time during the summer holidays to get to know it properly.’
Thus were my careful lesson plans, with their role-playing games and activities, rapidly dealt with by Eric Scoones, who gave them a summary glance, then sighed and took out a ring-bound file from his black leather briefcase. The file (which was also black) was marked DEPARTMENTAL LESSON PLANS.
‘This is my personal copy,’ said Scoones. ‘You can use it for the time being.’
I opened the file, which was filled with mimeographed pages. I recognized the same purple ink as the class timetable sheet. I noticed that the course book my brother had used was still in circulation. Whitmarsh’s Simpler French Course – with its distinctive orange-and-black cover. I remembered it very well. Conrad had spent many evenings sighing over its contents.
‘Oh,’ I repeated, not knowing quite what else to say. ‘Thank you.’
At the back of the book was a messy folder of worksheets, purple-inked on duplicating paper. ‘These are your masters,’ said Eric Scoones. ‘No photocopying without permission. The Banda machine is in the Departmental Common Room. You’ll need to get there early.’
I’d heard of these duplicating machines before, but I had never actually used one. Most schools had moved on by then to less unwieldy methods. Even Sunnybank Park had a staff room photocopier. ‘I’m not sure I know how to use one,’ I said.
Scoones made a kind of huffing sound. ‘Better learn, then, hadn’t you? Go on,’ he said. ‘It’s a quarter to. Lessons start on time here.’
8
King Henry’s Grammar School for Boys, April 10th, 1989
The Departmental Common Room was on the Middle Corridor, where the Languages Department had its rooms. It was a smallish office room, with four desks, two armchairs, a phone on the wall, and in the corner, an item that I took to be the Banda machine. It was a primitive thing, comprised of a kind of metal barrel, turned by a metal handle, with a tray holding blank paper. A kind of grille served to protect the paper from the mechanism. In the sunlight, it seemed to snarl like the grille of an approaching car.
These are your masters, Scoones had said. I understood that the inky sheets were supposed to be fixed onto the barrel somehow, where the print from the master would be transferred onto the blank sheets of paper. I selected a worksheet marked Four Lower, and fixed the master sheet into place. I turned the handle experimentally. The printed sheet shot out from beneath the barrel and landed face up on the floor. The print – which was smudgy and rather faint – came out in the same bilious purple. I tried another sheet, which crumpled and jammed under the rim of the barrel. I smoothed out the master and tried again, smelling that characteristic scent of ink, and metal and solvent.
The handle turned. The barrel clanked. It sounded like a clockwork toy. Printed pages shot out one by one, landing pell-mell on the floor. I bent down to gather them and found my hands stained purple with ink.
‘Fuck !’ I said, at the moment at which the door opened, revealing a grey-haired man in a doctoral robe and wearing an expression of distinct disapproval. He made no comment at my outburst, but my face lit up like a flare.
‘You must be Miss Price,’ he said.
I made a meaningless little sound and gathered the rest of my papers.
‘I’m Dr Sinclair. Head of French. Scoones should have brought you up to date. Copy of the Book, and so forth.’ He looked down at my inky hands. ‘I see you’ve worked out the Banda machine.’
I nodded again. ‘Yes, thanks.’
‘Good.’ He eyed me coolly. ‘I’m afraid there are no bathroom facilities for ladies at King Henry’s. You’ll need to ask the School Secretary for the key to the disabled toilet.’
‘I’m sure that will be fine,’ I said.
‘One more thing.’ He looked me up and down. ‘Ladies at King Henry’s do not, as a rule, wear trousers. We have a formal dress code here: business suits for the gentlemen; a skirt suit or frock for the ladies.’
‘Oh,’ I said, rather taken aback. The trouser suit had cost rather more than I usually spent on work clothes: I’d assumed it would count as business wear. I wanted to protest, but there was something about Sinclair that was intimidating, in spite of his quiet demeanour. Perhaps it was the gown he wore, or his effortless air of authority. He had been a teacher at King Henry’s for over thirty years: he was practically part of the building. I tried to imagine how it would feel to have that kind of confidence. Instead, I could feel a lump in my throat; an alarming stinging in my eyes.
Sinclair went on without seeming to notice my expression. ‘Any trouble with the boys, just tell Scoones. He’ll sort it out. Good chap, Scoones. Knows what he’s doing. He’ll talk you through the Detention procedure, and so forth.’