As for the staff—St. Oswald’s Masters tend to stay put once they have been appointed, and several of that long-ago crew are still on board the old ship today—among them, the Chaplain, Eric Scoones, and even our own Dr. Devine, younger and even less bearable at only thirty-six years old, with all the misplaced arrogance that usually comes with the territory. I had my own seat in the Common Room, its cushions unmarked by the passage of years, and a leonine share of the timetable that now seems impossibly generous.

Most of my colleagues at the School—many of them Tweed Jackets of the kind I was destined to become—seemed startlingly decrepit to my untutored eyes. I balked at St. Oswald’s tradition by not attending Assemblies, by my unorthodox methods, and by infusing my lessons, or so I thought, with something a little more colourful than mensa, mensa, mensam (personally I’ve always found that the noun merda illustrates the First Declension just as well, and for some reason stays with the boys for a whole lot longer).

In those days there were the three of us in the Classics Department: Dr. “Touchy” Feeley, an irascible Oxbridge man approaching his Century, myself, and the Headmaster, Dr. Shakeshafte, who was Head of Department in name only, and on those infrequent occasions when the timetable required a third Classics Master to be available.

Like so many Headmasters, Shakeshafte did as little teaching as possible, leaving myself and Dr. Feeley to run operations in his name, and spent the best part of his day in his inner sanctum, engaged in headmasterly activities as vital as they were unfathomable. Of course, when it came to complaints, Shakeshafte was always the first to find out, which was what happened about four weeks into the term when I was summoned (that’s the only word to describe it) to his office one rainy lunchtime.

“Enter.”

The Headmaster’s office was a large, brown room overlooking the Quad, with Gothic windows and a predominant aroma of leather and cheese. The Head was at his desk, apparently writing a letter, although I was sure that until he heard my knock he had been listening to the wireless as usual. A gold-nibbed pen the size of a torpedo between his large fingers, he did not acknowledge me as I came in, but ponderously finished his letter, signed it with a flourish, and then began another, as I waited in silence on the small Oriental rug in front of his desk.

That was the Old Head’s style, you know. A bludgeoning rudeness permeated everything he did, and his contempt for anyone incapable of matching it was legendary. I waited for precisely five minutes, watching the rain crawl down the mullioned window, then I said: “I can see you’re busy, Headmaster. I’ll try to come back at a more convenient time.”