Bucket List

Tags

Angel Falls, Babelfish, Bolivares, boy racer, bucket list, Caracas, Father Gabriel, Guarani, Mendoza, Orpheus, Robert de Niro, Spanglish, Teach-it, The Mission

Querido amigo,

Apologies, Hugo, for not having written for a while.  It is the end of term

and I have had to compose my speech and report for Prize-

giving.

I will send you a transcript and maybe you can subject it to Babelfish.

So sorry that I had to disillusion you as to our kinship, but am glad

that you understand.  Your mother, Berenice, was a great old girl and

such a ‘goer‘! Her sister, Augusta, is very much of a similar cast.  In fact,

you could say that they broke the mould once those two came on the

scene.

The news from Caracas is fairly dire, so we hope that you are safe amid

all the violence and mayhem.  Having cheap petrol is no substitute for a

peaceful existence and, unless one is a boy racer, it can’t

be much fun.

How I would have liked to have invited you over here to meet Aunt Augusta

and to have taken a trip to Wyvern Mote with you.  Alas, it is not possible

at this juncture, but perhaps one day, when your political situation has

thawed, calmed and resolved itself into a dew, your dreams can be realised.

I expect that I will not be able to visit The Angel Falls with you any time soon,

though in retirement, it was on my -ghastly phrase!- ‘bucket list’.  I always

empathised and identified with Father Gabriel in The Mission, who could calm

the Guarani by playing his oboe, like a latter day Orpheus.  Sadly, in school,

discipline is very much more difficult and madness is not so easily subdued by

creating recorder groups.  Believe me.  The natives are very much revolting

and I don’t need to tell you what that is like! We need Robert de Niro types

to come and work some Mendoza magic.  I suppose Teach-it won’t

necessarily attract such heroes, not even for shedloads of golden

Bolivares.

Maybe the power of the closing words from the film could be applied

universally, to our present global woes: The light shines in the darkness

and the darkness does not overcome it.  (I prefer ‘comprehendeth it not’,

but nowadays no one comprehendeth that.  I blame their education.)

Se muy valiente my amigo!  Forgive my Spanglish. Whatever the language,

the sentiment is the same.

Sinceramente,

Gus.

 

Chautauquas

Tags

Benjamin Britten rose, Boudicca, chautauquas, David Austin rose, goat stew, kasbah, Moto Guzzi, Motorcycle Maintenance, San Sister, satellite phone, Spotted Dick, suet pudding, Tetnus, Turkish silk leather jacket, Zen

What to buy for a PA when she has kindly typed up your oration’s

transcript for Speech Day?

Augustus Snodbury was somewhat lost in the aisles of Suttonford Garden

Centre when he suddenly bumped into The Previous Headmaster’s Wife.

He couldn’t remember her name and couldn’t very well call her ‘darling’.

Oh, what are you doing here? she asked, giving him a suspicious look,

which being interpreted read: Shouldn’t you be at your post of duty?

I’m- ah- looking for a present, he appealed to her.  Something floral.

Well, you’re in the right place.  I always say a rose goes down well.  There

are some lovely David Austin ones on offer.  And she pointed to the

signature green tubs.

Ah. Yes.  Benjamin Britten.  A climber? he asked.

No, he was a composer.  She looked at him as if he was stupid.

Nice colour.  Yes, I’ll take it.  No point in explaining.

And how is your dear husband? He attempted some small talk, which

didn’t come easily to him.  He had forgotten the name of his

predecessor in the unexpectedness of the encounter.

His Moto Guzzi broke down.  Sand in the engine when he was on the last

leg, or wheel, to Erfoud.  Luckily he had a satellite phone, so he and his

side-kick contacted a mechanic near some kasbahs and had some goat

stew while the chap took three days to fix it.  I blame that Ewan

McGregor for encouraging all those oldies to mobilise themselves.  And,

everyone knows that you should never let an engine run rich.

Quite.  Ah- see you at Prize-giving.

As he put the rose on the back seat of his trusty vehicle, Boudicca,

he punctured his forefinger with a thorn.  Ouch!

He nearly swooned at the sight of his own blood.  Where was

San Sister when you needed her?  When had he last had a Tetnus jab?

Then, as he tried to suck out the thorn, as if it was venom, he had an

epiphany, right there in the car park.

He was going to abandon that contrived speech which he had struggled to

produce.  Ideas were streaming into his mind and he drove back to school as

quickly as he could, without making the earth move in the plastic tub.

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance!  He still had the book somewhere

and he was sure that it would yield a series of chautauquas which would

illuminate, yea irradiate his audience.  The boys would think his field of

reference cool and, while delivering his peroration, he could wear the silk

leather jacket that he had bought in Turkey, if it would stretch over his

burgeoning tum after a winter of too many Spotted Dicks and suet puddings.

Virginia might not like it if he asked her to type a new transcript, but he

would phone Drusilla; she would help him.

Stumped for Something to Say

Tags

Christingle, cow shot, Devil's Number, dibbly dobbly, dinks, Educating Essex, glovemanship, Harley-Davidson, innings, mankad, Morality play, Nightwatchman, Ofstead Inspection, pantomime dame, psychobabble, red cherry, Sahara, snickometer, Speech Day, St Birinus, sticky wicket, stodger, stonewaller, tautology, Test Match, the crease, the Yips, World Cup, Zen, Zoota Flipper

Augustus Snodbury was trying to compose his Acting Head’s Report

for Speech Day.  He was endeavouring, in vain, to find a string of lexical

chains to give rhetorical cohesion to his oration.

When I first came to the crease, I felt a bit of a Nightwatchman, but I

determined that I would never be a mankad who left before the bowler

released the red cherry.

But would everyone latch onto his cricketing references?  They were

probably anticipating him making allusions to standing on the shoulders

of previous giants, acknowledging colleagues who would be off to

pastures new and so on.  Nevertheless, he decided to be true to his own

field of interest and continued to unearth parables from the sphere of the

Test Match.

When I was invited to assume Captaincy, I was hoping that I wouldn’t

be on to a sticky wicket.  Speaking as a ferret, I feel that I have played a

cameo of an innings and, if I have been a bit of a stodger, at least no one

could accuse me of having been a stonewaller.

Hmmm, maybe too much damning of himself with faint praise…

We- ah, the first person plural always lends a bit of authority!-have never

been a school which encourages cow shots.  We have dealt firmly with pie

chuckers. (Here he found his thoughts straying to Boothroyd-Smythe)

We have survived sledging, marilliers, dibbly dobblies, dinks and

haven’t got off our duck yet.

I may hear the death rattle and realise that I am bowled, but I- eh,

we haven’t reached the Devil’s Number yet and refuse to offer tea towel

explanations of policy to those who are little better than Zoota flippers,

or who have the Yips.  Trundlers need to be faced down and what we

need in this day and age- a cliche or two could be allowed to slip in- is

all-rounders and future generations who do not expect a featherbed.

He was beginning to enjoy himself.

We can offer our incoming Batsman a belter of a pitch.  He is, we know,

no hack and has a proven glovemanship in other series, so we wish him

a good knock.

We are happy to demote to match referee, so long as we are able to

uphold the spirit of the game.  We gladly bequeath him the snickometer

of a 2015 Ofstead Inspection.  May power hit his sweet spot every time.

Oh!  He’d better mention his predecessor.

The educational de-toxification of our previous Head Teacher has already

commenced.  Even now, he is indulging in a catharsis of his delayed mid-life

crisis and is kicking up a sandstorm with his Harley-Davidson, somewhere in

the Sahara, a trip which his wife understands has little to do with Zen.

He is clearly in touch with the Zeitgeist as other Heads have recently

been in the news for absconding- granted on unpaid leave- to follow

their dreams, or delusions regarding national success in the World Cup.

But here we award trophies to more achievable victories gained by our

future global citizens- attaboy, Snod!-to young people of distinction. 

Now he  was sounding like that Educating Essex chap.

Oh, maybe the whole thing was too dense.  He’d better start again.

Every school is unique and St Birinus is unique in its own way.

Useless!  Complete tautology.

In the family community which is St Birinus, we try to support each other

with tolerance and humility…

He could hear inner heckling and felt as though he was a character in a

Medieval Morality play, or a pantomime dame subjected to shouts of Oh

no, we don’t!   He heard the piping voice of John Boothroyd-Smythe shouting,

It’s behind you!, presumably referring to his career.

Okay, this was enough for tonight.

Mr Poskett’s marvellous Christingle concert illustrated the benefits of PTA

involvement and co-operation with staff, and pupils from our-hah! sister

establishment, as well as funding from our beloved stakeholders.

Oh, what was the use?  He couldn’t sound enthused.  He would just

have to purloin some cribbed sycophantic drivel and motivational psycho-

babble from the internet and hope for the best.  No one would be listening,

anyway.

He had drawn stumps and so he could only hope that he’d be remembered

as the tail that briefly wagged the dog.  The best bit would be when the twelfth

man- that Milford-Haven twit brought the drinks to the pavilion.

 

 

And Straightway Loved an Ass

Tags

A Midsummer Night's Dream, Bowdlerise, Brobdingnagian, chaos theory, chipolatas, Egeus, etymology, foie gras, Gender Studies, Hippolyta, hypoglaecemia, Midsomer Murders, Oberon, Recorder Group, Richard Dawkins, rude mechanicalls, rugby prop, sizeism, Starveling, Titania, Worthington

There had been such a fuss about the joint outdoor dramatic performance

to be produced by St Birinus Middle and St Vitus’ School for the Academically-

Gifted Girl, in the ruins of Suttonford Abbey.

Several parents had made complaints about Mr Poskett’s choice of A

Midsummer Night’s Dream.  One misguided harridan had given the Music

Master such a hard time that he commented after the event that it had

been tempting to commit a Midsomer Murder.

Brobdingnagia Worthington’s mother was furious that her daughter, who

should never have been put on any stage, had not been selected for the

role of Titania. Brob, as she was known by her peers, had a ‘hissy fit’

apparently.

Another mother, who was in her final MA year of a Gender Studies degree,

complained that ‘every Jack shall have his Jill‘ was an offensive line.  She

wanted it re-written as : every Jill shall have their Jack, or Jill.

Mrs Whelks threatened to contact the Board of Governors of both

establishments over the perceived bestiality content.  I mean, someone

bonks a donkey!

Drugs- Lysander’s pupils are said to dilate; accusations of sizeism:

inappropriate references to human maypoles and dwarves.  It was

considered potentially injurious to the psyche of St Birinus‘ most solid

rugby prop to be selected for the part of Snout, or ‘Wall’.

Criticisms by those who had lost funds in the Credit Crunch included-so

sorrow’s heaviness doth heavier grow/ For debt that bankrout sleep doth

sorrow owe– this line and expression was deemed politically incorrect,

particularly by those who were now struggling to pay the raised school

fees.

The colour police pounced on Lysander’s reference to a ‘tawny tyrant’ and

would- be nutritionists disliked Demetrius’ admission: like a sickness, did I

loathe this food’, claiming that it might make anorexia and eating disorders

attractive.

Moonshine, they insisted, should be cut as the name Starveling was immoral.

The anti-hunting lobby were outraged by Theseus’ references to his hounds

and those opposed to arranged marriages were disgusted by Egeus.  Titania

and Oberon were supposedly engaged in child slavery and pimping; Helena in

stalking, provoking Demetrius to exclaim: Do not haunt me thus.  Oberon

hacked into other people’s conversations.

So-called sociologists felt that Helena was colluding in domestic violence by

saying: The more you beat me, I will fawn on you.  As for rude mechanicalls,

this term was only protected by Mr Snodbury pointing out the etymological

ignorance of those who did not know that rude referred to their ruddy

complexions and had nothing whatsoever to do with the working class’

sense of decorum, or lack thereof. (He said ‘ruddy’ rather vehemently, so

that the force of his opinion won the day and the argument, as most

cowards tend to retreat in the face of expletive force.

So, pejorative title, or not, the rustic thespians remained in the cast.

Those fixated on disability discrimination thought parts of Act 5 needed

to be removed- namely:

Never mole, harelip, nor scar,

Nor mark prodigious such as are

Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be..

A philosopher-father who had read one of Richard Dawkins’ books berated

the underlying mythology and downright superstition of The Fairy Queen’s

idea that the catalyst of the whole train of sorry events was her tawdry

quarrel with her spouse over a little Indian boy. Shakespeare seemed to

be totally unaware of Chaos Theory.  One flap of a fairy’s wing might have

caused global chaos, the Biology teacher responded vigorously.

And so it was a much Bowdlerised version that emerged.  Mr Snodbury,

echoing Hippolyta, pronounced it the silliest stuff that ever I heard.

No one paid much attention to the histrionics anyway.  The parents who

had insisted on the Junior Recorder Group being retained, even though

there was a derogatory comment in the play about inept playing of reed

instruments by juveniles, were proud when the moment came for their

ensemble, conducted by a slightly inebriated Mr Poskett.  However,

everyone else was scrutinising the labels on the contents of the picnic

baskets and calculating the cost of various outfits.

Dru managed a furtive five minute conversation with Nigel in the interval,

during which she arranged their trip to the Borders.

My mother will have an apopleptic fit, sighed Nigel.  She’s already cleared the

kitchen and sugar soaped the skirting boards in preparation for its  re-

decoration.  She depends on me.

But we agreed that you need a holiday, didn’t we? encouraged Dru.

She saw, out of the corner of an experienced eye, two Juniors crossing

wands.

Excuse me, she said.  I’ve got a Health and Safety issue.

Nigel watched her consummate skill in separating the duellists and then

applying an ice cube to an adult’s throbbing digit which had been trapped

in a folding chair.

Nigel watched Mr Poskett receiving parental plaudits and then found himself

being addressed in a hiss by the drama technician.

Can you come to Wardrobe?  We can’t get Bottom’s head off.  Maybe you can help.

Nigel’s confidence was at a low ebb.  What if Dru was to waken to his

inadequacies? What if the wretched boy asphyxiated?  What if Dru woke and

found that straightway she had loved an ass?

He hadn’t even had anything to eat.  Mr Snodbury had wolfed

all the mustard-coated Hippolytas, or was it chipolatas?  Nigel was

beginning to suffer from confusion.  Probably hypoglaecemia. And, no, the

papier mache head was well and truly wedged, in spite of the boy’s neck

being greased by somebody’s foie gras.  They’d have to put on the

understudy and he, Nigel, would have to spend the evening in Casualty.

Typical!

 

Appearance versus Reality

Tags

BIrnam Wood, Dunsinane, Gieves and Hawkes, Humpty Dumpty, Macduff, seamed nylons, Spotted Dick, Visitor's Pass

There’s always something! grouched Augustus Snodbury, as his trouser

button ricocheted across the study.  He had just finished lunch and knew

that his reflux would be problematic after a rather large portion of Spotted

Dick and custard, or ‘cow’s turd’ as the boys always called it.

Usually he would just have thrown the trousers away.  How a grown man

with a respectable degree could claim to be unable to sew on a button had

been beyond Diana, his erstwhile lover.

Now he was skulking in his personal loo while his PA, Virginia Fisher-Giles,

took out her emergency repair kit  to achieve closure.  She had already

repulsed several anxious members of staff, who had thought there was a

window of opportunity for them to bend the Acting Head’s proverbial before

afternoon lessons commenced.  She referred them to a important meeting

that would be taking place with the new Head and used all the duplicitous

skills and terminal inexactitudes that she had practised over the years.

The coast is clear! she hissed and draped the mended garment over the

back of his desk chair.  However, just at that moment, an enthusiastic Nigel

Milford-Haven, having checked the timing on the appointments sheet Sello-

taped to the study door, barged in with a proposition.  He had knocked on

the PA’s door, but she hadn’t answered.

Nigel was treated to a vision of Mr Snodbury, in his Gieves and Hawkes boxer

shorts, trying to insert a pale and rather hairy limb into a trouser leg, looking

for all the world like a heron. Gus almost lost his balance, along with his temper.

Nigel was also observant enough to note a slim ankle encased in a seamed

stocking as it disappeared round the door, into the adjoining office.

Sorry! the Junior master stammered and scarpered.

He had been going to invite Snod to a House barbecue which was supposed to

show staff gratitude for the old boy’s having stood in the gap, taken the helm,

or having put his thumb in the dyke.  Nigel’s fatal mistake had been

improvisation; Snod’s had been that he hadn’t pulled out a plum.

It had suddenly occurred to Nigel that he could include the New Head, creating

an opportunity to kill two birds with one invitation, as it were.  It would be an

informal chance for everyone to get to know each other.

Nigel should have realised that initiative was one of the features that was

definitely contraindicated at any level in a school.  It might have been one of

the reasons that his application had been rejected.  Loose cannons not

appreciated, he could hear the panel agree, but still he did not learn: a

worrying trait in any teacher.

Now a bucketful of tact and mature reflection was needed to help him deal

with the overwhelming moral confusion which threatened to de-stabilise his

afternoon lessons and, indeed, the rest of his life.

Mr Snodbury had toppled from his pedestal and, like Humpty Dumpty, had had a

great fall. At least in Nigel’s estimation.  He might never be re-constructed and

so Nigel tiptoed down the corridor, as if walking on eggshells, his world

shattered.

Shell-shocked, he gazed at a framed 1978 whole school photo, with a relatively

youthful and considerably lighter Mr Snodbury sitting on the front row, legs

splayed.  How have the Mighty fallen! Nigel said to himself.  Or is it ‘has’?

Suddenly he felt a hand being slapped on his shoulder and he turned round,

jolted him from his reverie.

So, you’re the favourite to win the end of term Teacher Talent Competition, I

hear?

Crivvens! as the comic book characters of Nigel’s youth used to exclaim.  It

was the new Head, who had arrived slightly early for the meeting.

Take me to your leader! he quipped, revealing his future management style.

Yes, sir! Nigel buckled, feeling like one of the pupils.  He hadn’t the heart to

challenge He Who Must Henceforth Be Obeyed for his lack of a visible Visitor’s

Pass. The owner of the voice didn’t look very like the public perception of a

mass murderer.  And surely anyone intent on entry would just shoot out

the locks and would laugh to scorn any man of woman born?  Wearing a

plastic card on a string for defence purposes was a bit like hoping Birnam

Wood would never come to Dunsinane, or that a condom was foolproof.

But it had been agreed at the last Friday meeting that one could never be

too careful and any member of staff could, and should, ask for ID.  He

thought about calling in at the office to collect a laminated ‘approved

stranger‘ pass, but then thought better of it.

If there was any sign of danger Nigel would sacrifice himself to save his

students- at least most of them.  But maybe not John Boothroyd-Smythe.

No, maybe not him.  He had that look of having been untimely ripped from

his mother’s womb.

He was just the sort of child who would be behind a moving grove.

Lay on, Macduff! the newly-appointed quasi-jovial Head encouraged.  And

so, Nigel re-traced his steps up the corridor and knocked on Virginia’s door,

which was very ostensibly ajar.

 

 

Gardy Loo!

Tags

affrontee gules, Alex Salmond, Auchentoshan, Bannockburn House, bauchle, beeswax, Bohemia, Bonnie Prince Charlie, chamber candlestick, chatelaine, Clementina Walkinshaw, dexter and sinister, Faberge egg, Game of Thrones, Gardy Loo!, King of Cumbria, lion sejant, Lost Middlelands, manflu, mizmaze, Nemo Me Impune Lacessit, Pele Tower, reivers, Rory Stewart, The National Trust, The Proclaimers, The Young Pretender, Tindall, Tyndale, Walter Scott, Wyvern Mote

Drusilla and Murgatroyd sipped their Auchentoshans simultaneously

and gazed at the faux Faberge egg sitting on the coffee table.

Sorry to have disappointed you, said Murgatroyd.  It isn’t one of the missing

ones.  Bless Aunt Augusta.  She was trying to bestow something on you,

but it is practically worthless.

The Tindall Jewell, on the other hand is priceless. I wonder if it had any

connection to either of the Tyndales who turned down the throne of

Bohemia?  I must do some research.  But I suppose it is earlier than

that.  Looks medieval.

The strange coincidence is, as we discussed earlier, that a branch of the

Tindalls owned this pele tower at one time.  So, in a sense, you might be

coming home.  I’ll dig out the charters tomorrow.  I was going to frame one

or two for the Great Hall.

I’m not going to drag Gus through a lengthy process of establishing rights.

The insurance on the jewel would be a liability and a nightmare.  It should

remain with The National Trust at Wyvern Mote, Dru stated firmly.

I think you are right, Murgatroyd nodded sagely.  I get in a tizzy over the

security of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s communion chalice.  I hated getting it

marked by ultraviolet, but it is alarmed in that niche by the fireplace.  One

day it will be yours, my girl.  Come to think of it, you do resemble

Clementina Walkinshaw a tad.

Well, thanks for that.  I have no intention of escaping to a convent just

yet.  Do you think it came from Bannockburn House when Clementina was

nursing The Young Pretender from a nasty bout of Manflu?  He probably was

demanding the Last Rites histrionically- you know- the way all you guys do

when you catch a cold!

So the story goes, but Walter Scott and his ilk tended to embellish things

as you can imagine.  It does come from the Rebellion period and has a very

good maker.  I won’t take it out now, but it bears the motto: Nemo Me

Impune Lacessit and the lion sejant affrontee gules, crowned, holding in

dexter paw a sword and an erect sceptre, proper..

Whae dare meddle wi’ me?  A motto I would gladly adopt as my own ,

smiled Dru.  Well, I must go up the spiral stair to bed.  My head is

spinning with all this history, the Auchentoshan, or losing myself in the

mizmaze this afternoon. 

I’m sure it is a combination of all three, speculated Murgatroyd, handing

her a beeswax taper in a pewter chamber candlestick.  The hive has

been busy to light you on your way.  I’ve only been stung twice.  You can

taste the honey at breakfast, my sweet. 

She felt a renewal of filial affection which wasn’t diluted by being shared

with her biological pater.

The embers were dying, so Murgatroyd placed the fire-guard in front of the

glow and rolled back the rug, lest a spark should catch.  He was turning into

a fussy old chatelaine.  Dru left the egg on the table.  If there should be a

raid by the reivers, they were welcome to it.  The egg, not the table!

She dreamt of Border tussles: mafia bosses fuelled by proxy wars, with

visages remarkably like Rory Stewart.  She briefly counted sheep in Cumbric,

that language, Stewart claimed, of The Lost Middlelands.  She thought she

saw the face of the last independent King of Cumbria who vanished in the

11th century and screamed as it morphed into the heavy-browed, jowly

phizzog of Alex Salmond.  Clearly she had watched too many Game of Thrones

episodes.  Or he had.

Thank goodness the tower was fortified!  Any snatch of The Proclaimers

which might herald the approach of The First Minister and penetrate the foot

thick walls and she would be tipping the contents of her chamber pot out of

the window.  If Alex was stationed below with his troops and that wee

bauchle, the standard bearer, who shall remain nameless, Dru would not even

give them the warning:  Gardy Loo!

Grand Delusions

Tags

barmkin, bawbee, clarsach, deipnosophist, Forth Bridge, Grand Designs, Hazlitt, insomniacs, Kelso, Kevin McCloud, Luther Table Talk, Mindfulness, Pele Tower, reiver, shards, spurtle, Tischgesprache, tokenism

Gus doesn’t think much of him, I’m afraid, confided Drusilla, fingering

the gold harp on a chain which the maligned one had given her.

Her step-father, Murgatroyd Syylk, tried to look dispassionate.

They were sitting on a tartan sofa in his barmkin, sipping whisky

and soda.  Murgatroyd was very precise, nay pedantic and precious,

about the distinction between the converted cattle enclosure and

the pele tower proper.  He had watched too many Grand Designs

programmes for his own good and felt that Kevin McCloud should have

shown more interest in his renovation and restoration project.  In fact,

he was lucky that someone hadn’t made a feature based on his own

architectural endeavours, which would probably have been aptly

entitled: Grand Delusions.

Why should you take any notice of what Gus thinks? Murgatroyd,

never abbreviated to Mug, challenged. By now he had been

informed of the truth of Dru’s parentage and he had taken it

very well, considering.  He decided that he still felt a strong

paternal interest in Dru and, in spite of her DNA, she had been

nurtured by him in her formative years.  Whatever the biological,

ramifications and their personal impacts, he still thought Snod a bit

of an old fool.  Clinking the ice in his crystal tumbler, he waved his

tumbler to emphasise the point.  Diana and he would have to have

an adult exchange in the near future.

I don’t know.  I’d just prefer Gus to respect Nigel.  I wish he

wouldn’t refer to him as no deipnosophist.

What on earth is that?

Someone who is not a conversationalist.. Table talk and all that.

Hazlitt, Martin Luther, Hitler’s Tischgesprache, Oscar Wilde- you

know.. Gus has perfected the learned insult over many years in

the classroom.

Surely that is politically incorrect? commented Murgatroyd.  But a

partner should be your own choice.  You’re a grown woman now,

Dru.  Gus hasn’t exactly been Mr Successful in the love stakes.

Not that I’m one to talk. Judge not etc…  Anyway, would he have

wanted you to get hitched to any of that line up?

He probably thinks that since Nigel hasn’t been made Head

Teacher, he isn’t good enough for me.

But you weren’t offered the post either..

Here Dru flushed with embarrassment.

Don’t get me wrong-I think it is the best news ever.  Tokenism

is so muddle-headed.  Of course you were both worthy in your

own ways, but why be ground down by all that responsibility?

Your father saw through it all and didn’t apply for the job.

No, but they’ve created a new post for him as Deputy Headmaster.

He doesn’t have to do much, but it will boost his pension and it is

their way of thanking him for all he has done over the years.

Not exactly a golden handshake! And where’s the watch?

You should both enjoy your lives.  You could develop your artistic

abilities.  There’s no reason why you and Nigel couldn’t put together

a programme of music for harp and voice.  You could have a recital

here.  They’d flock over from Kelso in droves, especially if you

included the clarsach in the performance.

Well, it would be a lot more portable, but it tends to lull people to sleep.

Murgatroyd started to get carried away with another fantasy:

We could advertise it as a concert for insomniacs!  Put a twist on the

conventional and make shedloads of bawbees out of therapy seekers.

Music and Mindfulness!

Murgatroyd began to visualise a scheme for raising enough money to

finish the pointing on the tower and maybe even to raise the roof.

I expect the acoustic is very good, admitted Dru.  I suppose we could

practise in the school holidays.

Why don’t you all come up here?  Gus as well.  I expect he needs a rest

after last term.  Your mother could come too.  We’re all older and

wiser now and can behave like grown ups.  Presumably.

That’s very charitable, Dru said, but I think she is going on a cruise

with Sonia. It might be the House Party from Hell!  Nigel would probably

be keen, though.  From what he tells me, if he goes to see his mother

in Cornwall, he ends up for ever decorating, like the interminable

painting of The Forth Bridge.  Can’t remember if I mean Road or Rail.

Rail. Both.

So, now that your mother has sold her cottage, is she going to buy

something in Suttonford?  Murgatroyd struggled to appear

emotionally detached again.

No, she and Sonia have a mutually convenient thing going on.  Mum

helps her out with a few chores and keeps her company and she stays

at Royalist House rent-free for the foreseeable future.

What about Gus?

He’s being rather enigmatic at the moment.  I don’t know what he’s

up to, but he doesn’t do subterfuge very effectively.

Probably a woman involved then!  Murgatroyd knew the ropes.

I very much doubt it.  Though, come to mention it, I suddenly

saw moisturiser in his bathroom.

Changing the subject, we could hire a van and bring the harp here.

As you wish, said Murgatroyd with one of his characteristic flourishes,

which meant that he spilled some whisky.  You could bring your easel

and canvasses and Nigel could help me with some dry stone walling.

He’d probably prefer to help you to catalogue the pottery shards you

found in the excavations.  He’s not exactly a physical type.

Oh, we’ll get him to take his porridge like a man and we’ll soon make

a reiver out of him.

If you manage that, I’ll award you the Order of the Golden Spurtle!

laughed Dru.

She was beginning to see that she had mis-judged Murgatroyd.