The World Is Not Enough

Tags

arras, azure chapeau, barmkin, Blackadder, break a leg!, campaned, Commonwealth Games, crewel work, eBay, Esau, Fountainbridge, Green Room, helm affronte, heraldry, Ian Fleming, interior design, Kevin McCloud, King Over The Water, latex allergy, Moneypenny, Mrs Dalloway, nonsufficit orbis, Pierce Brosnan, policies, Polonius, poniard, Revenge Tragedy, Salmond, Samuel Johnson, Scotch Terrier, Scottish baronetcies, Sean Connery, stream-of-consciousness, Wee Eck, women bishops

Murgatroyd peered from behind the crewel worked arras, like a tetchy

Polonius.  No matter that he had found the reproduction fabric on Ebay,

it gave the desired effect and Kevin McCloud could stick that in his

chanter and play it, if he possessed such an instrument.  He only hoped

that the presenter would not appear at the concert with a camera crew,

and the verbal equivalent of a poniard, in the shape of a character in a

Revenge Tragedy, avenging  the contravention of ‘Good Taste‘ in interior

design.  But, unless Kev had been in the area and read one of the local

flyers, it seemed unlikely.

All the seats had been laid out in the erstwhile barmkin by a team as

efficient as those in The Commonwealth Games, minus the daft

choreography and the neon costumes.

Time was getting on and no one had turned up, except for Sonia and

Diana.  Only five tickets had been sold to date.

Och, dinna fash yersel’, soothed his cleaner.  They’ll a’ troop in at the

last meenit.  It’s jist their way.  They dinna want tae spend ony money

in case they shuffle off their mortal coil afore the night.  They’ll buy their

tickets on the door.

I do so hope you’re right, replied the Master of Ceremonies.

Away and sit doon, man.  Yer makin’ me nervous.  I’ll lead them in.

Ah dinna need ony o’ they wee Scottie dugs either.  Ah’ll dae the

job masel’.  Hey, did ye see the Manx team?  They should ha’ got

wan o’ the three-legged dugs fur them!

Yes, Mrs Dalloway, I mean Connolly.  You carry on.  Murgatroyd

interrupted her stream-of-consciousness.

Actually, things had gone rather well in the afternoon.  He had insisted

on collecting Sonia and Diana from The Tibetan Centre and he and

Diana had had their ‘little chat‘, without acrimony, during a tour of his

policies.

With a re-adjustment of the sleeping arrangements, space had been

found to accommodate them.  Nigel and Dru and Snod and Virginia

had not been sharing anyway, so Diana and Sonia were to join Dru, who

kindly agreed to couch herself on a borrowed futon and Nigel moved into

the master bedroom with Murgatroyd and graciously said that he did not

mind kipping on the semi-perished Li-lo that the cleaner said had

belonged to her grandson, who was now fifty.  He didn’t think it would

set off his latex allergy.

This left Snod in splendid isolation, which was his preferred option;

Virginia was also ‘toute seule.’  She did not intend to imitate The Grey Lady

and wander around at night.  There were far too many creaky floorboards.

She commented that Nigel looked amazing in his kilt.  He wasn’t quite sure

if this was a compliment, but decided to accept it as such.

A snifter to settle those nerves? Murgatroyd offered Nigel.

No, thank you, replied our songster.  It can wreak havoc with the vocal

chords.  He gabbled from jittery nerves.

Sir, when I was browsing in your library this afternoon, I came across a

fascinating tome on heraldry.  It mentioned all sorts of names, such as

Moneypenny and Blackadder…

Ah, yes.  That was the kind of source Ian Fleming used to come up with

mottoes such as ‘Nonsufficit Orbis’ for James Bond.

Virginia’s eyes misted over.  There was only one James Bond for me..

Sean Connery, agreed Sonia.  Born not too far from here, in

Fountainbridge..

No, Pierce Brosnan, corrected Virginia.  It was the naval

commander’s uniform. Classic.

Nigel continued, unabashed: It confirmed what we discussed about

Scottish baronetcies and the female line.  It also said that The Lord

Lyon only governs on matters heraldic and could not enforce any

objection to you- here he nodded towards Snod, respectfully–

wearing the azure chapeau for formal occasions connected with the

baronetcy.  Like for this concert, he finished proudly.

Stuff and nonsense! replied Snod gruffly, thus earning two sharpish

kicks: one from Virginia’s stiletto and another from his daughter’s heel.

Sir, Nigel turned to a sceptical Snod, as heir to an ancient baronial family

who is no longer the owner of the estate, one is still permitted these

privileges.  You could settle for a pennon..

Pennon?  Murgatroyd was becoming confused with poniards.

…a small swallow-tailed flag.  Or  a feudal steel tilting helm, garnished in

gold, shown affronte..

Pull the other one, Milford-Haven.  It is campaned.

Campaned?

In heraldic terms, it has bells on it! But now I am becoming affronted,

snorted Gus.  As Samuel Johnson said, and I paraphrase, ‘Just because

someone can do something, it doesn’t follow that they should.’

Murgatroyd chipped in:  Oh yes.  I like the good doctor’s quote about

female preachers and dogs walking on hind legs.  Most apposite.

And now we have women bishops, groaned Snod.  What is the world

coming to?  Tell you what, old boy- here he addressed Murgatroyd-

fill me up with some of that nectar and I will forget this inane

conversation.  Like Esau, I’m prepared to sell my inheritance for a mess

of porridge at breakfast tomorrow morning.

Be a good boy now, added Virginia, and I will buy you a spurtle.  And,

by the way, it was pottage.  A quite different thing.  Lentils, I believe.

It was Dru’s turn to be outraged, but she hid it well.  Diana was simply

amused.

Stop stirring, children, reprimanded Sonia.

Yes, conciliated mein host.  Let’s drink a time-honoured

toast to The King Over the Water- and I don’t mean Wee Eck.

Oh yes, said Dru.  I read that Salmond has lost two stones and

a bystander told him that women would be hitting onto him.

Not in a flattering way, surely? sniped Sonia.

Come away doon, all o’ youse!  The hall’s fillin’ up!

Mrs Connolly, the cleaner had been right.  The canny audience had

bought their tickets on the door.

Break a leg, said Sonia before descending the staircase.  Hopefully,

she wouldn’t.

Nigel and Dru exchanged glances and did their deep breathing in

unison.

They would be summoned from The (makeshift) Green Room.

 

 

 

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Murgatroyd’s Will

Tags

Bastille, bastle, Bonnie Prince Charlie, buchts, cheesemaking, Drambuie, eanlings, ewes' milk cheese, fanks, idiolect, Lanark Blue, lintel, National Archives, reiving, sasines, Scottish baronetcies, transitive verb

No, it’s not a bastle, pontificated Murgatroyd.  Pele towers are bigger,

en generale.  He always attempted to flavour his pronouncements

with a Gallic soupcon whenever he could.

Riveting, said Virginia, crossing one slim ankle over an equally

attractive silk-enhanced foot.  And is this mot ‘bastle’ from the meme

root as ‘Bastille’?

Vous avez – tu as- raison, mon ange.  Murgatroyd flicked an anxious

glance towards Snod, in order to check that his use of the familiar

was ‘juste‘

And the ‘buchts’ you mentioned- qu’est que c’est?  Virginia was having

fun.

Snod blew his nose into his handkerchief to mask his amusement.

Virginia noted that she would have to teach him about the paper

variety.

Ah, mon tresor, those were U-shaped open-ended pens, made of turf,

where they milked the sheep.  They differed from the later multi-purpose

fanks.

Nigel gasped. His natural history was somewhat lacking in depth and

‘fanks‘ sounded like a lazy phonetic approximation of an expression of

gratitude which he was wont to attempt to eradicate in the idiolect of

eanlings such as Boothroyd-Smythe.

Murgatroyd continued,  Yes, I too have a cunning plan to produce

a version of ewes’ cheese, similar to ‘Lanark Blue.’  I intend to go on

a course in The Netherlands which should teach me all there is to

know concernant le sujet de fromage.  But, that is a post-Restoration

project.

Forgive me, but I have un dernier question, s’il vous……

S’il te, corrected Murgatroyd.  We are chez amis.  Continue..

Snod spluttered heavily and had to leave the room.  Thank

goodness the privies were now indoors.

The declivity downstairs?

Ah, it was a drain for the cattle effluent.  They were brought

indoors during the reiving raids.

And the people went upstairs?  Nigel asked.

Eh bien, there weren’t any stairs originally.  The last man to

secure the entrance shinned up some kind of rope ladder to join

his family.  The stair we have is a later modification.  He couldn’t

think of an idiomatic equivalent for the verb ‘to shin‘. ‘Sin‘-maybe.

‘Peccare‘– no that was Latin, he thought.

I noticed initials over the door, Nigel added.

Authentique, n’est-ce-pas?  Patrimonial.  I managed to persuade a

local farmer to let me have the masonry back, in exchange for a

big dram. It was only propping up a cattle trough.  The lintel stone,

not the bottle!

‘ET?’ mused Nigel.

Enoch Tindall, explained Murgatroyd.  I looked him up on-line-

you know- The National Archives at Kew and Edinburgh.  Sasines

and all that.  Tindall was quite a common name around these

airts and pairts.

What language is he speaking now?  Nigel was confused.

Tindall! Drusilla’s jaw dropped.  That was my great-grandmother’s

maiden name.  She came from a family who had sold off a ruined

pele tower.

Gus came in at this juncture- a habit which he had perfected over

years: entering a classroom at the most significant moment.

‘Sold off’ is the vital transitive verb, he commented.  I am sure that if

this is the property, Murgatroyd is now the legal owner.  The irony is that

Drusilla would have inherited it through me.  Scottish baronetcies could be

handed down through the female lines, irrespective of gender.  Aurelia, my

mother, was the link and not Lord Wivern.

Attendez, mes enfants!  Murgatroyd leapt up, spilling some whisky onto

his Nicholas Fairbairn-inspired trews.  He extracted some vellum tied in

faded tartan ribbon from his court cupboard and placed them in Drusilla’s

lap.  Witness that this day I bequeath everything to my daughter in spirit,

if not in biology.  The lineage shall be respected.  Soyez sans crainte!

Crainte?  Nigel’s GCSE did not enable him to follow.

‘Peur’ for the likes of you, Snod rebuffed him, addressing the Junior Master

as if he was going to be de-moted to the ‘B’ stream.

Virginia kicked his shin quite sharply.  Dru kicked the other, with equivalent

force.

Let’s drink to it!  Murgatroyd opened the glass pane over the wall niche

and took out the chalice which had belonged to Bonnie Prince Charlie.

He filled it from a bottle of Drambuie, swallowed the contents in

one and shouted:

Risk, Rebellion, Passion and Mystery!  The Spirit Lives On!

And then, glancing at the upturned and somewhat astonished faces of his

guests, he realised that he had omitted to ‘top up‘- to use another transitive

verb- their glasses.

 

Wherwell

Tags

Aethelred the Unready, Black Death, Blessed Euphemia, cockatrice, corpse lights, Eadgyth, Edgar the Peaceable, Edward the Martyr, Elfrida, gloworms, Green's Acres, Matilda, Queen Emma, River Test, Romsey, Wherwell, William of Ypres

Hi!  Candia here.  You might have been wondering where I

have been.  That Augustus Snodbury guy and his friends

have taken over my blog.  What a silly old buffer he is.

Strange, but he has quite a following.

Well, it’s sunny and I have been out of doors, visiting a few

choice locations.

One Saturday I simply HAD to go to Wherwell, to walk in

peace and to go into the church.  The River Test is beautifully

clear and the black and white cottages are stunning.

The history of the location is enthralling too.

I bought a booklet in the church and brooded on its contents

for a few weeks until I felt ready to hatch out my impressions,

in the discipline of iambic pentameter.

Here is the evocation of my mood and crystallised thoughts:

 

WHERWELL ABBEY- HAMPSHIRE.

 

 

Once in the abbey crypt, a duck-laid egg,

hatched by a toad, emerged a cockatrice,

which gorged on locals, till one man

took polished steel and dazzled this same beast.

Fighting its own reflection, it grew tired,

enabling Green to dispatch it forthwith.

 

Green’s Acres was the spot and there, at night,

an evening curfew tolled for many a year,

reminding all to seek those higher things;

show loyalty to their king, by offering up

archers and billmen for his war with France.

 

Queens Emma, Eadgyth sought their refuge here.

Elfrida, its first abbess, fell and drowned

in that same River Test.-she who deceived

her king and wed his servant, Aethelwold,

causing Edgar the Peaceable to kill

his rival, David-like.  And then himself,

hoist by his own petard, by his own son,

Edward the Martyr, bloodily usurped

by Aethelred, known as ‘The Unready:’

a ten year old, whose conniving mother

found the gates of Salisbury shut her out.

She turned around and, to atone her sins,

founded the sacred abbey of Wherwell.,

where the Blessed Euphemia re-built

dorters to benefit the claustration

of nuns who possessed their vessels, holy,

in sanctification, in conditions

sanitary, to repel the Black Death.

Later Matilda would meet her defeat

by Stephen, as she tried to cross the Test-

cousins at war.  She’d besieged the Bishop

at Winchester.  No sanctuary was found

for her guards, as they took abbey refuge.

William of Ypres showed no mercy when

refusal to surrender guests was tried.

Flushing them out with fire was his response.

Corpse light glow worms pinpoint water meadows

where chaste ones once cultivated snowdrops

to cure the sick, or light the way

ambulant dead should trace through the mizmaze,

to leave behind corporeality-

a transformation more elevated

than Romsey sisters fleeing from the Danes;

losing their way in unfamiliar woods;

reproaching the Almighty and finding

their voices turn to those of feral cats.

 

Be still at dusk and sense those shifting eyes;

listen and one can hear the meowing cats.

 

 

MH17

Tags

Abandon hope!, aspic, belfry, bog cotton, Calvaries, church bells, Edwardian tennis, forced rhubarb, magnesium ribbon, MH17, Pandemonium, sandbags, shepherd's delight, sky burial, Somme, sunflower fields

Dusk in the balmy garden and church bells

ring changes from a mellow brick belfry,

clappers half-muffled by tumbling mill-race foam,

pealing the death toll we have heard tonight:

curious calm before the lightning strikes.

 

 

A century ago, lazy summer

solarised racquet-wielding Edwardians

in tolled moments, before magnesium fizzed,

immortalising ghosts on negatives,

preserving transient smiles, like forced rhubarb,

cloched; stiff attitudes in aspic.

 

 

Within a month, or so, haunted faces

would grin among stacked sandbags, before shells

shattered poppy fields and the bloom of youth.

This sky is roseate- shepherd’s delight.

Heat radiates from my garden wall and

the old house sighs.  Swifts swoop, prelude to bats.

 

 

I go indoors to watch the latest news.

It shows some ravaged sunflower fields- a toy,

torn pages which a child has coloured in;

pixellated shapes amid fuselage.

Scavengers in balaclavas rifle

through a Pandemonium of small fires,

like unshocked devils, not so sick of sin.

 

Markers, like clouds of bog cotton, white flags,

or stars in a galaxy of hatred,

parody a kind of sky burial.

 

‘Abandon hope‘, I think, until I note

telegraph poles, like crosses standing firm

amid Man’s carnage, still Somme Calvaries.

 

A century, and yet we have not learned.

Midge Repellent

Tags

Abbotsford Sketchbook, Alex Salmond, booze cruise, Borthwick Castle, clarsach, David Dickinson, Eriskay Love Lilt, G&S, Jacobite, James II, Jamie Come Try me, Joseph Mallord Turner, Maggie MacInnes, midge repellent, Pele Tower, Ruddigore, Samye Ling, Skye Boat Song, Tate, The Real Deal, Tibetan Centre

Murgatroyd? Hi, it’s Dru.

Lovely to hear from you.  Still coming on the 18th?

Yes, Nigel too.  Emm, you know you said Mum..

I thought you said she was going on a cruise?

She was.  They were.  I’ll explain later.  She and

Sonia..

Bring her-eh, them.  They’re welcome.  I’ve had

confirmation from Gus and Virginia too.

Listen, mum and Sonia are going to stay at The

Tibetan Centre and will come over for the concert.  Is

that okay?

At Samye Ling?  Brilliant.  I’ve printed the tickets and

wanted to make some flyers and posters.  Let me know

when you have finalised the programme.  After all, I know

nothing about the musical side of things, in spite of sharing

a name with the eight ghosts in ‘Ruddigore’, or ‘Ruddy Bore’ as

we always called it.

Don’t be unfair to G&S, Murgatroyd.

I wouldn’t dream of it.

Nigel wasn’t confident about pronouncing Gaelic, so we

concentrated on boat songs in the first half.  A lot of them seem

to have a Jacobite flavour.-the Skye Boat Song, the Arran one

and a Loch Tay version about unrequited love for a red-haired girl.

There’s even a Seedboat one which tells of a young man who sails

to Co. Down to buy whiskey for his wedding in the Hebrides.

Ha!  A kind of booze cruise!

Then we though about ‘It was a’ for our rightfu’ king’ as a finale.

It might attract the Salmond groupies.

I’m not sure we want those, faltered Murgatroyd.  What about ‘Ye

Banks and Braes?’

Maybe. ‘The Eriskay Love Lilt’ is a good one and ‘Jamie Come Try Me’

is popular too.

Isn’t that a girl’s song?

No.  It’s about loyalty and a commitment to take up arms on behalf of

James II.  We have drawn shamelessly on Maggie MacInnes’ albums for

ideas.

Hmm…Well, I’ll leave it to your discretion.

You might raise enough to fix the roof!

Good news.  I might be well on the way already.

Really?  How?

I’ve just taken in a little sketch of the pele tower, which everyone thought

was of Borthwick Castle.  It bears a striking resemblance to the one in The

Abbotsford Sketchbook in the Tate.  Bendor Grosvenor said he’d get one

of his contacts to take a look.  It could be by Joseph..

Mallard Turner, shrieked Dru.  How exciting.  I hope it is The Real Deal.

Murgatroyd winced.  He hated that programme.  And he wasn’t a big fan

of David Dickinson either.  Don’t forget the William.  And it is Mallord.  He

wasn’t a duck, or, indeed a drake.  The point is, we’ll just have to wait and

see, he replied.  Anyway, great that you are all coming.  Remember to

bring some..

..midge repellent, concluded Dru.  Yeah, I heard they were bad this year.

Every year, sighed Murgatroyd.  Anyway, ciao!

‘No’ to Norovirus

Tags

barmkin, Bodhisattva, dengue, Eliza Doolittle, enhanced cleaning, Eskdale Hotel, Euston, horse leech's daughter, insurance compensation, Kagyu Samye Ling, lama, Langholm, Lockerbie, midge repellent, Mindfulness, Norovirus, Pan Am disaster, Pele Tower, salmonella, Shedra Studies, Tibetan Centre

So we just took a taxi back here from Southampton, explained Sonia. 

I had a premonition that we would catch something nasty.  We didn’t

fancy cruising round The Med in the company of heavers afflicted with

salmonella or suchlike.

Diana chipped in: They claimed the ship had been undergoing enhanced

cleaning, but we didn’t want to take the risk.

Oh, said Dru.  But will you get insurance compensation?

Not b ***-likely, as Eliza Doolittle would have said. If you opt out

because of fear of illness, it’s not the same thing as contracting an

actual malaise, admitted Sonia.  You might be offered a re-scheduled

voyage, but I doubt it would be one we’d be interested in.

So, what are your plans for the rest of the summer?

Dru queried.  Have you got your luggage, or was it

loaded?

It’s in the sitting room, supplied Sonia.  But we

haven’t thought that far ahead.  What are you up to?

Nigel and I are driving the hired van with the harp up

to Murgatroyd’s at the weekend.  The poor soul insisted

in going to Cornwall and placating his mother by painting

her skirting boards.  She’s never happy, though.  She’s like

the horse leech’s daughter, the Biblical one that continually

cried, ‘Give, give.’

How did he manage to escape? asked Diana.

By telling a white lie about having to help in the

transportation of some school equipment. 

Changing the subject, you do know that Gus is

coming up for a week or so with a friend, to support

the concert?  Dru looked directly at her mother.

Murgatroyd generously invited him.  He’s so laid back,

Mum.  You’d hardly recognise him.

Gus?

No, Murgatroyd.  I think he found the renovation

project isolating and has an idea of the pele tower

developing into some kind of spiritual sanctuary. 

He envisages it becoming a retreat from..

..cattle thieves, laughed Diana.

More like the pressures of modern life, corrected Dru.

He has an aura about him now- a kind of new-found peace.

He has been going to Kagyu Samye Ling rather a lot.

What is that? Sonia’s interest was aroused.

Oh, it’s a Tibetan centre in the Esk valley.  You can do all

sorts of courses there, such as Mindfulness,or Shedra Studies.

Now Sonia was really interested.

Murgatroyd says their principle is to be everyone’s friend.  They

encourage you to attempt the impossible, which is what he was

trying to do in his building scheme.  They talk  about bringing benefit

to others and say you should experience freedom within yourself.

If you learn to take time you can become non-judgemental.

Sounds basic life skills, Diana commented. You don’t need to be a

lama with one or two ‘l’ s to agree with those principles. It would be

interesting to see if he has implemented any of them.

Don’t be cynical, mum.  He did actually say that you would be welcome

to come and stay.  He has plenty of room and I know he wants a full

barmkin for the concert.

Barmkin? I’ll explain later.  Look, he obviously needs to have a confab

with you in a spirit of compassionate understanding about what happened

at the start of your marriage.  He’s entitled to that, I think. But he is

accepting of the whole situation and still regards me as his daughter,

if not his biological one.

I suppose one’s enemy can be one’s best teacher, conceded Diana.

Mum, he is not antagonistic, I assure you.  Sonia would be welcome too.

I’ve got a better idea, reflected Sonia.  Why don’t we stay at this Samye

Ling place?  They’re bound to have a guest- house.  Then we could take a

taxi over for the concert, since it’s not far from the pele tower.

Dru was already Googling away. Yes!  There’s a women only house. 

You book 24 hours in advance.  Vegetarian meals..  Take midge repellent. 

Sounds off-putting, but they don’t have dengue up there.

Do they offer any courses? asked Diana.

Thirty Seven Practices of a Bodhisattva is one.  Oh, you can fly to

Edinburgh from Southampton and take a train to Lockerbie..

..isn’t that where the dreadful Pan Am disaster took place? Sonia’s

expression darkened.

Yes, but that was a long time ago.  Or you could take the train

to Lockerbie from Euston. If the monastery’s full, there’s always

The Eskdale Hotel in Langholm.

Sorted, agreed Diana.

What’s a Bodhisattva again? asked Sonia.

I think we’re about to find out, replied Diana.

Resume

Tags

Bonnie Prince Charlie, Bosphorous, clarsach, communion chalice, Head Teachers' Conference, hypogonadism, Inklings, lacrosse, Land Girl, lost Faberge egg, model railway club, National Trust, Pele Tower, seamed stockings, Simon Bolivar, Snodland, St Birinus, St Vitus

Candia: You think it would be useful?

Brassica: Well, a lot of people have come in on the action

mid-plot, so-yes- why not offer them a synopsis?

Candia:  Okay- they can skip it if they have been following

since Snod’s story took off.

Here it is, folks:

SYNOPSIS: Snod’s Law

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master and Acting Head of St Birinus’ Middle School

is ripe for retirement. He loves comfort food, the Model Railway Club and Latin.

He is a role model for Junior Masters, but a bête noire for other staff.

For his entire life, he has taken for granted that he was the product of a liaison

of socialite and erstwhile Land Girl, Berenice Snodbury and A N Other.

Berenice’s sister, Augusta, took on responsibility for the child when her sister

ran off to Venezuela, following romantic dreams inspired by her hero, Simon

Bolivar.

The original Augusta, the girls’ mother. had not set them a terribly orthodox

example, as she herself had run around the Bosphorous with an itinerant rug

seller.

Snod’s lonely, institutionalised existence is interrupted by a climactic revelation

that an affair which he conducted with the ‘lax’ (lacrosse) mistress of a

sister establishment many moons ago engendered a child. That ‘child’ is now

a Housemistress at St Vitus’ School for the Academically-Gifted Girl, the school

in which her mother originally taught. (In fact, Gus has unwittingly met his

daughter on a number of occasions, at joint educational functions.)

The reason that his relationship broke down was owing to a Hardyean

twist of fate. A missing communication which contained his marriage

proposal now re-surfaces during re-furbishment for a school let. Diana,

the retired lax mistress, is exposed as having been deceitful.

She married ‘on the re-bound’, foisting her child on Murgatroyd-Syylk,

picture dealer and restorer. The pair subsequently divorced and now

Syylk is completing a restoration project of a Pele Tower in the Borders.

Drusilla, the Housemistress, attempts to encourage her parents to meet.

Will their romance re-ignite? Initially, it is a damp squib.

On Berenice’s death, a mysterious package arrives at school. It contains

a signet ring which Augustus’ apparent half-brother was asked to send

over to England. It bears an insignia associated with Wyvern Mote, now a

National Trust property.

Drusilla and Gus visit Great-Aunt Augusta and take her out of Snodland

Nursing Home for the Debased Gentry for the day, partly to introduce her

to her great-niece, and partly to investigate Wyvern Mote. There they see

a photograph in the schoolroom of two of the original heirs, with their tutor,

Anthony Revelly. The facial resemblance is clear: Gus is his offspring; Revelly

his father, rather than Lord Wyvern.

Lady Wyvern had had the child by her sons’ tutor on the death of her

husband. The tutor was permitted to live in a grace-and-favour apartment

in the stable block, for life, when the property was handed over to The

National Trust.

Berenice, who had been a Land Girl in the vicinity, had been paid an

undisclosed sum to acknowledge the child as being her own. A good time

girl, Berenice had tired of the responsibility, eventually absconding and

leaving her sister to arrange his schooling at St Birinus. Augusta had

once been Head Girl of St Vitus’, so knew of the boys’ prep school

establishment and its reputation.

Now Hugo, in Venezuela, has to be disabused of his belief in his

relationship to Gus.  They decide to leave Aunt Augusta in the dark.

The latter gave her ‘great-niece’ a present of what resembles one

of the famous missing Faberge eggs.  It turns out to be a fake and

yet, Dru’s visit to her step-father in the Pele Tower makes up for her

disappointment, as she is promised a communion chalice which Bonnie

Prince Charlie used before his fateful final ride south, on Syylk’s decease.

(The Pele Tower turns out to have been in Lady Wyvern’s family in the

past, so there is a neat circularity about Drusilla’s future inheritance of

the restored property, as Murgatroyd’s sole heiress.

The Head Teacher of St Birinus’ had an unfortunate ‘turn’ at the Christmas

Eve Midnight Service and was diagnosed with hypogonadism. His mid-life

crisis leads to him taking time off in order to make a motorcycle trip across

The Sahara, much to his wife’s relief. Unfortunately, Gus has to ‘stand in’,

but when his previous boss decides to abdicate, he does not apply for the

permanent post. Nevertheless, a position of Deputy Head is created for him,

in order to boost his pension. Poskett, Milford-Haven and Drusilla Fotheringay-

Syylk apply for the Headship, but are unsuccessful. Will the latter two decide

to throw over their careers and try to make a musical success of their lives

together?

Drusilla has shone in various musical concerts, by playing her harp for both

schools. She has been the focus of attention from Nigel Milford-Haven, the

rather wimpish Junior Master who is beginning to sing solo tenor in some

school productions and Geoffrey Poskett, Choirmaster. She seems to favour

Nigel, since she has asked him to come to the Borders with her in the school

holidays, to stage a concert for clarsach and voice.

She hopes to raise money for Murgatroyd’s roof repairs. Nigel is nervous, as

his mother usually draws on his decorating expertise in the school holidays

and she is not going to be too pleased at his bid for independence.

Meanwhile ‘Snod’ has settled into a friendly relationship with Diana, the mother

of his child, who has sold her cottage and moved back to the Suttonford area,

in which both schools are situated. However, his attention has been attracted

to Virginia Fisher-Giles, the widowed seamed-stocking-wearing PA. An invitation

for coffee chez elle after she has run him to a Head Teachers’ Conference

turns out to be more intimate than either anticipated.

Will he succumb to a projection of future domesticity with Virginia? Will he

resurrect the corpse of his relationship with Diana, or will he continue his

‘Inkling’ existence of bachelor bliss?

The lure of retirement is like an ever-receding pot of gold. He has a year

or two to serve as Deputy Head under the new regime. Will he be able to

preserve the old ways, or will the introduction of a new system create a

tsunami of bureaucracy that will threaten to engulf him?

What is best?

Tags

Brahms, chautauqua, I know where I'm going, John Donne, John Milton, Paradise Lost, Phaedrus, Pilate, Robert M Pirsig, Suarez, Tortoise and Hare, value rigidity, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance

Drusilla said: Fire away!  She felt like John Milton’s daughter- the one who

was his amanuensis for Paradise Lost.  Was this going to be as epic?

Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen, Governors, Stakeholders, Staff and boys,

including Old Boys…. Have I left anyone out?

Maybe just ‘girls’.  There are bound to be a few sisters in the marquee.

Okay.  In addressing you all on this auspicious day, I feel rather like Suarez-

pause for effect– who might have felt that he had bitten off more than he

could chew.

Dru raised her eyebrows, but continued to type.

Conscious of my-ah-rhetorical failings, the expression of such an

awareness being a trope I admit, I sought a framework for my

observations on The Metaphysics of Quality and, being in the

moment, recalled that excellent manual for life: ‘Zen and the

Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.’

Philosophical investigation and being confronted with bad writing can,

as Phaedrus knew, make you insane.  I should have paid more

attention to this.

I have always had complete confidence in St Birinus’ Middle as an

institution, as much as I never doubted that the sun would rise

on the morrow.

Dru interrupted: Do people still say ‘morrow?’

They would if they read John Donne.  That was supposed to be an

answer.

With the advantage of the oblique insight of the dyslexic, I declare that

I am not so much going into retiral as into a re-trial, assuming the post

and concomitant responsibilities of Deputy Head.  My mistakes will be

part of my education.  One never stops learning.

However, one mistake I have never made is to believe that schools exist

to teach children to imitate their teachers.  Our assessment systems often

caution against originality.  Value rigidity- what a pernicious trap!  Surely the

good is to re-evaluate what one can see through the perception of one’s past

commitment to certain values?

The question, my dear fellow travellers, is not ‘What is new?’ but rather

‘What is best?’

Our institutions should not exist for the perpetuation of their own ends

and for control, but for the objective search for Truth.

And, as Pilate said: What is Truth?

Dru looked up from the computer, expecting an Existential Revelation,

but Gus neatly side-stepped the nub of the matter and continued:

I am reminded of the servant who buried his talent in the ground

because he was too afraid to make it grow.

Reviewing my own career, I find that I am well-equipped to write my

own epitaph.  I was ‘ever the outsider’; ever the one attacking what

was being taught, rather than learning from it.  I have been an

educational anarchist.

In days gone by, there were others in our staffroom who may have been

deemed to have also lived in the shadow of insanity, or anarchy.  To share

a mug of builders’ tea with such as those, around a three day old crossword

and to sense minds that thought as you thought and to listen to voices

that spoke as you did was as close to an epiphany of the sacred as any

mere human could anticipate this side of eternity.

A tear rolled off the tip of Dru’s nose.

Modern Head Teachers may expound and expand on the destiny of mankind.

We, we just wanted to run a school.  The Future will judge whose approach

had most value.

Constant activity based on restlessness may drive one to conquer mountains,

but it can be exhausting and debilitating.  My mind strays to the example of

the tortoise who outstripped the hare.

Leave that out, Father.  It’s too tangential.

Should I mention the noumenal sherpas?

No.

There are many archers who seek to hit targets, but pricking the bulls’ eye

may distract one from gazing at a ray of sunlight as it touches a leaf.

Those ghostly voices of the past sing to us, conveying a sense of purpose:

I know where I’m going

And I know who’s going with me.

Dru’s made a typo as she thought: But the dear knows who he’ll marry.

What voices are you on about? she asked.

I had in mind a kind of Brahmsian ‘Ja, der Geist Spricht.’

Well, don’t blame me if the reference goes right over their heads.

I’m used to it!  Most of my lessons did the same, but there is always

one who hears the message.  They receive the chautauqua.

Blimey! How do you spell that?

Never mind. I’ll edit it later.

We may have difficulty in mapping where we are at any given moment,

but, with hindsight, we will see, as Robert M Pirsig said: ‘a pattern…

emerge.’

What does the ‘M’ stand for? Metaphysical?

Very funny.  Leave it there.  I will add to it later.

Well, you haven’t left much time for the presentation of prizes, Dru

said.  You do realise that everyone will be anxious to escape and have

their strawberries and cream and no one will listen to a word in that

humid tent?

The world was ever thus, agreed Snod.  But one cannot cease to be an

educator.