Know thine enemy. But how? It occurred to me that, with the right skills, one might hack into his computer; find incriminating notes—love letters to his secretary, falsified accounts, pamphlets preaching hatred—that would lead to his disgrace and removal. But the computer is not my friend. I spent twenty minutes after School at my new workstation, and barely managed to turn it on. No, I needed a younger man. Someone technologically adept.

And so, after School, I went to find Winter, my erstwhile partner-in-crime. I found him outside, by the bins, and by the time I’d explained my difficulties, he was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

“The computer doesn’t think for itself,” he said at last. “It’s only as smart as you are. Unless you know just how to look, you’re like a parakeet with a mirror, bashing your head against the glass.”

Not a complimentary assessment of my technical know-how, but all the same, quite an accurate one. I’m beginning to wonder how Gloria’s boy ended up being a cleaner at all.

“Do you know about computers?” I said.

He smiled. “What do you need to know?”

I told him. “Of course, I’ll pay for your time. Consider it research,” I said.

“Research?” said Winter. “I’ll do it for free. Consider it a favor.”

I wonder what I have begun. Roy Straitley, the subversive. You’d as soon expect the gargoyles on the Chapel roof to rebel, as to think that I would do anything that might harm St. Oswald’s. But the New Head is a parasite. The Honours Boards; the old ways; our relationship with the boys; everything is being siphoned away, to be replaced by mixed classes; Suits; computer stations; e-mail; paper-free offices; Abuse Gurus—things that may look good on paper, but that never touch the heart of the place, because St. Oswald’s has always run, not on paper, but on blood, sweat, chalk dust, work, and most of all on loyalty—­loyalty to the boys, the School, and most of all, to each other—

I may be playing the role of Canute, trying vainly to hold back the tide. But nevertheless, I have to believe that I can save St. Oswald’s. Any weapon is fair game—a garden gnome; a computer. For years I have resisted change in the hope that it may pass me by. Now I must be the agent of change, uncomfortable as that may be. I find myself thinking back to that old joke of Harrington’s: How many St. Oswald’s Masters does it take to change a lightbulb? Perhaps the question should really be: How many lightbulbs will it take to expose Johnny Harrington’s infamy?