Allen-Jones, who has been known to do his Latin homework at Break, during Assembly, or sometimes on the morning bus, gave me a look of reproach. “Wouldn’t that be punitive, sir? Dr. Blakely says that we’re at a very sensitive age. I could be suffering trauma right now.”

I pretended to cuff his ear. Allen-Jones pretended to dodge. It struck me then, that if Harrington—or any of his Crisis Team—had happened to walk past my room at that moment, they would have witnessed a member of staff appearing to assault a boy. I must tread more carefully. Like the Honours Boards, I am from another time, and I am certain Harrington wants nothing more than to see me retire. I must not give him the satisfaction of finding a reason to do so.

“I’ve heard they’re selling the School fields.”

That was Sutcliff, whose father, a local property developer, can usually be counted upon to know such things.

“They try that every year,” said McNair. “It never works. It’s the old St. Oswald’s burial ground that always puts them off in the end.”

“The bones of generations past,” intoned Allen-Jones lugubriously. “Boys who failed their Latin exams, doomed to lie under the sod.”

“You’d know all about that,” said McNair.

Allen-Jones pretended to hit him with a copy of Vergil. I wished my own unease could be dispelled as easily. The School fields—a buffer of land that separates the main grounds of St. Oswald’s from the encroaching land beyond—have been part of the School since the first, and many Headmasters have tried and failed to sell them off for development. But remembering the Bursar’s comment about the sale of School assets, my heart sank. The School doesn’t have many assets to sell. A strip of wasteland, bordered by hedges, more or less worthless at present; but if designated as building land, it could be worth millions.

That’s what Johnny Harrington sees. Development potential. He does not see the open fields where generations of Ozzies have played. He does not see the bird’s nests hidden in the hawthorn hedge, or value the horse-chestnut trees with their autumn load of conkers. Instead, he sees a new housing estate; perhaps a supermarket; investment in the future, not nostalgia for the past.

And yet, those fields are part of something that he cannot understand. Fifty years ago, Eric and I played at pirates under those trees. Fifty years from now, those trees will still be standing sentinel. The Captain of our old ship is bound for dangerous new territory, and only the gods—or a mutiny—can save us from his ambition.