Ms. Buckfast seems unimpressed with this. Apparently Ms. Buckfast—Rebecca, as she prefers to be known—has been inspecting the School since the end of July, noting its many deficiencies. Paintwork; water damage; asbestos; draughty windows; worn steps. Woodworm is the official explanation of the removal of the Honours Boards, which, she assures me, are being kept in storage until such time as the School can afford to have some of them restored.

“Some of them?”

That PR smile. “Well, yes. Though tradition is important, we feel that a more approachable image will help raise the profile of the School and make it more competitive.”

“Competitive! What are we, a lacrosse team?”

She raised an immaculate eyebrow. “King Henry’s School came in ninth in the Independent Schools League Tables this year.”

“Ah. That.” I rarely pay attention to league tables at the best of times, but no one would have expected St. Oswald’s to top the charts after the kind of year we’ve had. As for King Henry’s—our rival school—they have been looking down on us since the end of the Hundred Years War. They had a rebranding of their own ten or fifteen years ago, and now they have mixed classes, a new theatre, an Olympic-sized swimming pool, and something called Academy Status, as well as a full-time Promotion Team to sell their services to the world. We call their staff Henriettas. There isn’t a Tweed Jacket among them.

“Well, much as we aspire to compete,” I said, “I also happen to believe that certain things are worth keeping. Augustus found a city of bricks and left a city of marble. It doesn’t work the other way around.”

Sadly, my opinion seems not to be shared by the majority. Dr. Devine, who, as Health and Safety Officer, has been complaining about the state of the School since he was offered the post last year, scents a potential ally. I suspect that the Buckfast combination of shiny efficiency and a pretty face may have turned his head a little. In any case, I have found him smug and unsympathetic. He makes much of the five-year age gap between us (in spite of the fact that he was appointed almost at the same time), and likes to convey the impression that he has a youthful flexibility of mind, whereas I am set irrevocably in ways that have long since been obsolete.

“Face it, things are going to change,” he told me today in the Common Room. “And those who refuse to change with the times are doomed to fall by the wayside.”

“That’s rather poetic, Devine,” I said, helping myself to tea. “They’ll be asking you to write their slogans next. Progress Through Tradition. Or is it the other way around?”