And here comes old October again, like a snake with its tail in its mouth. Time speeds up as you get older, of course, and what seemed to cycle at leisurely speed now races at lethal velocity toward a dark horizon. The horse-chestnut tree in my garden is laden with fat, shiny conkers, and I pretend not to notice when the Sunnybankers jump over the wall to collect them. It’s nice to know that Health and Safety hasn’t yet reached Sunnybank Park.

At St. Oswald’s, conkers are banned, courtesy of Dr. Devine, as are many other things: throwing snowballs; running too fast; climbing the trees in the Lower Quad. Even more disturbing than this is his current obsession with name tags, which, he claims, if worn by staff and visitors to St. Oswald’s, will ensure that intruders in the School are swiftly apprehended.

“What kind of intruders?” I wanted to know. (This was in the Common Room, after the Headmaster’s Briefing.)

Devine gave me one of his looks. “Anyone could wander in,” he said. “Look what happened to President Reagan.”

“Oh, please. Johnny Harrington hardly qualifies as an assassination risk. Besides, if a shooter did wander in, how would his wearing a visitor’s badge stop him from running amok?”

“Well, according to Markowicz—”

Markowicz. I should have known.

“I’m not wearing a badge,” I said. “If thirty-four years at the dear old place hasn’t made me recognizable enough, then I doubt whether a badge will make any difference. I shall prowl the corridors in shadow, incognito. I shall strike fear in the hearts of the weak. Boys will look at me and say: Who was that man of mystery?”

Devine sniffed. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”

“No, you’re ridiculous, Devine. You always were, but this is beyond farcical. And frankly, watching you try to compete with a man half your age makes me queasy.”

He looked indignant. “Compete?” he said. “Straitley, I have nothing to prove.”

Of course, he’s deluded, poor Devine. The man has no sense of proportion. His feelings of inadequacy toward the younger Markowicz have completely addled what little common sense he had. The genocide of the Bell Tower mice; the removal of the Honours Boards; the crackdown on litter; the endless Health and Safety reports; and now, visitors’ badges for staff—

“Oh, please,” I told him. “You’re this far from matching outfits.” I held out my index finger and thumb about a millimetre apart.

Devine’s nose went slightly pink, but he maintained his dignity. “I know you’re under stress,” he said. “But there’s really no need to be puerile. Some of us have a purpose, Roy. Some of us are not stuck in the past. Some of us still have ambitions beyond the playing of silly practical jokes.”