Gentlemen And Players Part 25

'It's Quaz!'

'it'saUvei'

'You're back, sir!'

'Does that mean we still don't get a proper teacher this term?'

I looked at my fob watch. Snapped it shut. On the lid, the School motto: Audere, agere, auferre.

To dare, to strive, to conquer.

Of course I have no way of knowing for sure if it was Miss Dare who sent it to me, but I am sure it was. I wonder where she is -- who she is -- now. In any case, something tells me that we may not have heard the last of her. The thought does not trouble me as once it might. We have met challenges before, and overcome them. Wars; deaths; scandals. Boys and staff may come and go; but St Oswald's stands for ever. Our little slice of eternity.

Is that why she did it? I can almost believe it was. She has cut a place for herself in the heart of St Oswald's; in three months she has become a legend. What now? Will she return to invisibility - a small life, a simple job, perhaps even a family? Is that what monsters do when the heroes grow old?

For a second I let the noise increase. The din was tremendous; as if not thirty but three hundred boys were running riot in the little room. The Bell Tower shook; Meek looked concerned; even the pigeons on the balcony flew off in a clap of feathers. It was a moment that will stay with me for a long time. The winter sunlight slanting through the windows; the tumbled chairs, the scarred desks, the schoolbags strewn across the faded floorboards; the smell of chalk and dust, wood and leather, mice and men. And the boys, of course. Floppy-haired boys, wild-eyed and grinning, shiny foreheads gleaming in the sun; exuberant leapers; inky-fingered reprobates; foot-stampers and cap-flingers and belly-roarers with shirts untucked and subversive socks at the ready.

There are times when a percussive whisper does the trick.

At other times, however, on the rare occasion that a statement really needs to be made, one may sometimes resort to a shout.

I opened my mouth, and nothing came out.

Nothing. Not a peep.

Out in the corridor the lesson bell rang, a distant buzz that I sensed rather than heard beneath the cla.s.sroom roar. For a moment I was sure that this was the end; that I had lost my touch as well as my voice; that the boys, instead of jumping to attention, would simply rise up and stampede at the sound of the bell, leaving me like poor Meek, feeble and protesting in their anarchic wake. For a moment I almost believed it as I stood at the door with my coffee mug in my hand and the boys like Jack-in-the-boxes jumping with glee.

Then I took two steps on to my quarterdeck, laid both hands on the desk-top, and tested my lungs.

'Gentlemen. Silence!'

Just as I thought.

Sound as ever.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

Once again I owe a profound debt of grat.i.tude to the many people -- agents, editors, proof-readers, marketing experts, typesetters, booksellers and reps - who have worked so hard to bring this book on to the shelves. A special place on the Honours Board goes to Hockey Captain Serafina Clarke; honourable mention also to Netball Captain Brie Burkeman; to Jennifer Luithlen for away matches; to Francesca Liversidge for her editorial contribution to the School Magazine, and to Louise Page for promoting the School in the world outside. House points are granted to School Secretary Anne Reeve and to Head of IT Mark Richards. The Art medal goes once more to Stuart Haygarth; the French prize (albeit in a disappointing year) to Patrick Janson-Smith. Prefects' badges are awarded to Kevin and Anouchka Harris, and the 'mrs joyful prize for rafia work' goes (for the third consecutive year) to Christopher Fowler. Last of all, sincere and affectionate thanks to my own Brodie Boys (I said you'd go far), to my erstwhile form 3H, to the members of the Roleplay Club and to all my colleagues at LGS, too numerous to mention. And for any of you who may fear to meet yourselves in the pages of this book, rest a.s.sured: you're not there.

A full programme of events for this term may be found on the School website at joanneharris.co.uk.

end.