Eric sees my timetable, with its small class sizes and emphasis on the Upper School, as a kind of hobby; a pleasant escape from the realities of teaching Modern Languages. Thus, Eric maintains a pretence of being perpetually overworked, in spite of the fact that he has no form, and therefore claims five extra hours a week to himself, while I have to cater to the needs of my boys, their work, and their parents. Having been an indifferent form tutor for the first ten years of his career, Eric now refuses to have a form, and rather despises, I suspect, the affection in which I hold my boys—a sentiment he feels to be undignified, inappropriate, and which will one day lead to trouble. In spite of this, he has a warm heart, which he hides (rather badly) beneath a facade of gruffness.

“Spotted any newbies yet?”

This was not an idle question. We lost quite a few people last year, including our Head of Department. This has left the Languages Department sadly depleted, with only the League of Nations (a husband-and-wife team of almost unbearable smugness), plus Eric, Devine, Kitty Teague—and, of course, myself—to man the departmental cannons.

Eric huffed. I took this as an expression of general dissatisfaction. I suspect he had his eye on the Head of Department’s post—in spite of the fact that he ought to be planning his retirement. But Eric is one of the old school, and the promotion of Kitty Teague seems to him unnatural. In our day, women were secretaries, or dinner-ladies, or cleaners. For one to be his superior now goes against every principle.

“It might as well be a girls’ school,” Eric said morosely. “Two more women appointed for French. That’s what you get when you appoint one as Head of Department.”

I drank my tea and forbore from comment. Male Languages graduates are like hens’ teeth in the teaching profession, and I’m sure Kitty’s judgment 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.”