Different Class Read Online Free

forebore from comment. Male Languages graduates are like hens’ teeth in the teaching profession, and I’m sure Kitty’s judgement is perfectly sound. Still, I’m afraid the appointment of two women to our department is likely to result in a spate of ribaldry from certain of our colleagues – and I don’t expect the Bursar (who considers himself a wit) to refrain from comment.
    ‘What about the Germans?’ I said.
    ‘Haven’t seen the new man yet. Apparently, he’s on a course. Won’t be here for another week.’ Eric’s voice was listless. His opinion of members of staff who choose to go on courses, rather than stay in the classroom, is both salty and well documented.
    ‘What about the New Head?’
    Eric shrugged. ‘Not seen him yet. No one has, except the Inner Circle.’
    ‘What about Devine?’ I said, thinking back to the morning’s brief, uneasy encounter.
    ‘Oh, he’s over the moon, of course. He thinks the Crisis Team walks on water.’
    I shook my head. ‘I saw him today. He seemed a bit – preoccupied.’
    ‘You mean, he was nosing around again. Sucking up to the Crisis Team in the name of Health & Safety.’ Devine and Eric have never been friends. Eric holds Devine responsible for his own lack of promotion, and Devine considers Eric to be moody and inefficient.
    ‘Not this time,’ I told him. ‘I got the feeling that somehow Devine wasn’t too impressed with the New Head.’
    Eric looked sceptical. ‘Oxbridge man; education guru; charity worker; Superman. What else does he want?’
    What else, indeed?
    ‘Of course,’ said Eric mournfully, ‘ some might think that a Head should have spent at least a few years in the classroom. Some might question the wisdom of letting a state-school Yes-man into a place like St Oswald’s.’
    I could see his point, of course. A Head starts out at the chalk-face; not in some PR hothouse. And yes, St Oswald’s traditions are not those of the state sector. But crisis measures (and their Heads) are usually short-term investments. St Oswald’s has stood for five hundred years. State-school man or not, I thought; how much damage could he do?
    By now it was time for the meeting to start, and yet the famous Super-Head still hadn’t made his appearance. What was the fellow waiting for? I suspected a showman, and, pouring myself another cup of tea, I settled into my armchair and prepared to watch the show.
    Five minutes later it began. The door opened; silence fell; a phalanx of Suits entered the room in arrow formation. Bob Strange was among them, his face oddly expressionless, flanked by Devine and the Bursar; but no one paid them much attention. Instead, all eyes were on the newcomers. Two men and one woman – all three smart and so well pressed you could have cut yourself on the creases. The New Head was at the tip of the arrow (I assumed the two Suits were his Crisis Team), and I had time to take in the cut of his suit, the shine on his shoes and a smile that would have made a piano keyboard look narrow before recognition surprised me into a muffled oath and the contents of my teacup soaked my trouser leg and began to trickle inexorably towards my shoes.
    A Master never forgets a face, though boys’ names often come and go. I’d put down the name to coincidence – in over forty years of teaching, one tends to encounter most names more than once. But as soon as I saw his face, I knew that my instinct had been right.
    Because I knew the man, you see. Dr Harrington, MBE – Johnny Harrington of 3S – returned after twenty years’ absence to inflict fresh misery. There was no chance he wouldn’t recognize me; as he scanned the little crowd our eyes met and his smile broadened still further. He gave me a nod, as if greeting an old friend, and my heart sank like a doomed frigate.
    Johnny Harrington, ye gods. My nemesis; my bête noire ; the boy who almost cost me my job and cost the School a whole lot more. And now he’s a Headmaster, forsooth – not