And the most dangerous thing about Harrington is that he does have a measure of charm; unlike the last Headmaster—who had a tendency to lurk in his office, avoiding boys and members of staff in favor of mountains of paperwork—he likes to be seen around the School, greeting boys by name and flashing that heliographic smile. As a result, 4S have awarded him their highest accolade, declaring him to be “all right,” with admiring looks at that silver car.

Yes, I’m afraid that where status symbols are concerned, my boys are as shallow as Jimmy Watt, or Danielle, the School Secretary, who views all Headmasters as legitimate prey, and whose failure to captivate a Head over the past twenty years or so has forced her to lower her sights as far as the current Third Master (though Bob Strange, a bachelor, is far too canny to fall for the charms of a member of the ancillary staff).

Not that Johnny Harrington would be eligible in any case. The grapevine tells me that the man is safely, respectably married. The couple have no children, I am told—which is, I suppose, a mercy. No one wants the responsibility of having to teach the Headmaster’s son; after all, some of us barely survived teaching the Headmaster.

Damn him. Why does he haunt me so? At my age, I don’t sleep well, even at the best of times, and all this week my nights have been troubled by unquiet dreams of Harrington. It’s strange, how a distant event can be so much more immediate than something that happened this morning: a set of house keys absently placed in a Tupperware box of sliced ham on the middle shelf of the refrigerator; slippers left outside in the rain; a volume of Ovid’s poetry down the back of the sofa.

No, dammit, it isn’t old age. It’s just that the past has a habit of creeping up on a person, like a child in a game of Grandmother’s Footsteps, before delivering the cry of Gotcha! You’re it!—then slyly, cruelly, running away. I’ve tried to relax by the usual means—by going through my class records, copying out form lists, listening to the radio—but nothing seems to relieve that sense of something just behind me, moving with inexorable stealth toward the spot, just between my shoulder blades, where the knife is likely to fall.

Meanwhile, the occasional Gauloise or licorice allsort sustains me, as Jimmy puts up the last of those glossy new promotional boards along the Middle Corridor. Surprisingly, the Bell Tower has been granted a reprieve from the Great Rebranding—perhaps because parents don’t go that far. As a result we have retained the last half dozen Honours Boards—shabby, faded, and marvelous in every way—and I have made it clear to Ms. Buckfast that I will defend them with my life.