Time Spent in Reconnaissance

Tags

Forge men, Garibaldi biscuit, General Custer, Ha-ha, moniker, Monte Cassino, Montgomery, Napoleon, National Trust, Royal Fusiliers, Royal School of Church Music, stirrup cup, time spent in reconnaissance, Vickers machine gun

Sonia brought in a box of Kleenex which she had foreseen they would

need.

Dru unfolded the obituary and passed it over to her mother.

Diana looked over the top of her bifocals:

It’s very comprehensive, she said.  It covers his detective work in the

discovery of The Honourable Peregrine Wivern who was trapped in that

awful priest hole and his war-disrupted degree from Durham University,

not to mention his service with The Royal Fusiliers at Monte Cassino.  He

was sent back to Blighty with some wound from a Vickers machine gun,

but it can’t have been too disabling, given his subsequent fertility.  So young

to have experienced all that by the time he took up tutoring at Wyvern

Mote.

Bet it beat Teacher Training!

How did he pass away? asked Sonia, munching a Garibaldi biscuit a shade

too heartlessly.

It seems to have been linked to a fall which he had a couple of years ago,

which literally precipitated his admission to Snodland Nursing Home for the

Debased Gentry.  He stepped backwards, indicating some special

architectural feature on the roof to some visitors and fell down the ha-ha.

Not funny, sympathised Sonia and then wondered why Diana stifled a

giggle.

I think it was all downhill from then on, stated Dru and then smiled

broadly, before checking herself. I mean, once the connection with

Wyvern was severed, he seemed to lose his marbles.

Did it say where he was from originally? Sonia enquired.

Northumberland, I believe.  Dru was trying to recall the details.  It

mentioned his favourite saying which was: ‘Time spent in reconnaissance

is never wasted.’ His nickname was ‘Iron Sides’, which even his charges

adopted, but it must have come from his military background.

Oh, that’s an old saying, supplied Sonia.  People have attributed it to

everyone from Napoleon to General Custer and Montgomery.

Diana wasn’t listening:  It mentions that his family were forge men,

some of whom went to Virginia.

Ties in with his moniker very neatly, Sonia commented.

Monica? Dru looked puzzled.

Sonia didn’t elaborate.

He has left large bequests to The Royal School of Church Music, whose

patron in HM, the Queen..

Why? Sonia was curious.  She should have known.

Dru broke in to the conversation:  Because he had a very fine baritone voice

and he was a church warden.  He’s left the rest to St Birinus Middle School to

endow a music scholarship and his entire collection of antique silver stirrup

cups will be placed in Wyvern Museum.

Yes, clarified Diana, but it says here that if anyone thinks they have a claim,

then they are to contact Bunbury, Quincunx and Quatrefoil, Solicitors

in Rochester, who are administering the estate…  Oh, within six months.

I don’t see the point, said Dru.  The apartment would have been grace-and-

favour for life only.  It will revert to The National Trust.

Sonia took a second Garibaldi and came up with a revolutionary thought:

Suppose there are some papers which should be retained in the family?

Gus had better ring them up.

Dru replied, We can talk business after we have broken the news to him.

It’s all so cataclysmic.  I mean, Dad would have to have a DNA test,

probably.

There’s no point in upsetting Aunt Augusta, as she did not remember him

as being connected to Wyvern in any way.  She just enclosed the cutting

because we had been told of his nocturnal escapade in the home. 

Berenice is dead and Anthony was nothing to do with Hugo de Sousa.

 So, let’s be discreet and break it to Father over a meal, if he can get away

from school for a couple of hours.

You can ring from here, Sonia suggested.  It’s more private than speaking

from the boarding house, or on your mobile.

Thanks, Sonia.  I’ll try him now while I’m feeling brave.

Diana squeezed her hand.

A Pet What?

Tags

Arms and the Man, Bourbon biscuit, Britten, BUPA, Ceremony of Carols, Discovery Centre, electric bell, flu jab, Garibaldi biscuit, George Bernard Shaw, Ken Livingstone, nocturnal emission, Petkoff, proleptic allusion, prostate, Strictly, Tupperware, Type 2 diabetes, urologist, Viennese Whirls, Vince Cable, Well Man Clinic

Two weeks for half term this year!

Augustus Snodbury, Senior Master at St Birinus Middle School, could hardly

believe his good fortune.  He had actually managed to stagger on and had

avoided becoming a stretcher case, even though he had received his flu

jab mid-session, which left him somewhat debilitated for a couple of days.

The Parents’ Open Evening had almost finished him off.  He had been

stationed in the Library, now designated The Discovery Centre,

but had hoped that no one would ferret him out from his hiding place.

He was supposed to showcase its latest technology to prospective

‘clients’, but such a role reminded him of the Major in Arms and the

Man, who kept boasting to all and sundry of his latest piece of technical

kit for the reading room, namely an electric bell.

A divorced father wandered in, but he made a very hasty departure,

as he thought that Snod had given him his marching orders. In fact, the

prematurely-aged one had just been introducing the ostentatious Shavian

character’s name- Petkoff!- in order to make ironic reference to

furnishing accessories for educational spaces.  However, Snod was

discovering out that fewer and fewer people shared his cultural references

and, consequently, his jokes were misconstrued, as we shall see later

in this post.

(That’s a proleptic allusion, by the way.  But I digress.)

Snod may have lost the school some ‘business’, I fear.

While the elusive Master hid behind the bookshelves, he consulted

a Medical Dictionary.

At The Well Man Clinic, which Diana had urged him to attend, he had

been surprised to learn that he was close to the margin for being

diagnosed with Type 2 Diabetes.  However, he had been advised that

he could hold back the waves, unlike Canute, if he reduced his sugar

intake.  Worth a try.

Geoffrey Poskett, Head of Music, had been stunned earlier in the

day, by Gus having eschewed, rather than chewed, the last biscuit at

break.  He had held out the Tupperware box to Poskett and waved the

Bourbon, usually his favourite mid-morning nibble, under the puzzled

choirmaster’s nose.

You have it, he had said, graciously.

Geoffrey sat down and dunked the dark brown chocolaty finger into his

coffee while he waved his left hand in time to a beat that only he could hear.

Gus screwed up his nose.  Dunking! This was a practice which he considered

to be anaethema– yea, beyond the pale.  If he could have predicted the

biscuit’s fate, then he would have offered it to Nigel Milford-Haven, whose

eyes had followed its trajectory and milky disintegration.

Nigel had not bothered to open the cupboard in the staff kitchen, as he had

known that by now, there would only be packets of Garibaldis remaining, and

he would never ingest these, as they had far too revolutionary a name.  One

could call them Flies’ Cemeteries, but a sweetmeat by any other name would

taste just the same, and revolution stuck in his craw.  Leave it to characters

such as Red Ken Livingstone, who, no doubt, had sucked on the curranted

Italian perforated strips since boyhood.  As for Viennese Whirls, they were

more Vince Cable, he had thought, ever since seeing the politician strutting

his stuff on Strictly.

And Nigel was not a Lib Dem. He wasn’t sure what he was.  And that was why

he had been overlooked for promotion.

Gus, skulking behind the Human Biology section was looking up information on

nocturnal emissions.  When the hymn  All Hail The Power of Jesus’ Name had

been announced in assembly that morning, Snod had been reminded of

another medical problem that he should have discussed at the clinic.

Let angels prostate fall, in line two, had leapt out at him, even though he knew

that there was a difference of one consonant. For, yes, he was getting up

several times in the night to take a leak, in prep school parlance and, so he

really must phone Bupa to see if he could choose a urologist who might be

in the country over half term.  Vain hope!

He had glared at some of the older boys during the Junior Choir’s rendition of

Faire is The Heaven.  It may have been a trial run for a future performance,

but he was too long in the tooth not to anticipate the sniggers at the phrase:

in full enjoyment of felicity.

Actually, Poskett was doing a good job.  He had elevated himself in Snod’s

opinion by planning the Britten Christmas concert.  It was ambitious, but,

apart from the difficulty of finding a harpist for The Ceremony of Carols, he

was managing the rehearsals sensibly and hadn’t requested anyone’s

absence- as yet- from a Snodbury lesson.  Hence the biscuit offer.

…………………………………………………………

It was the morning after the Open Evening and staff were all rather

exhausted. Snod had leapt up two minutes before the bell at break.

There was only time for a coffee, or for visiting the little boys’ room.

Avoiding chatty colleagues was a necessity for the implementation of

good time management at the interval.

However, just as he was about to exit the staffroom, he collided with a whey-

faced loon in the shape of young John Boothroyd-Smythe who had been

knocking on the door.

Is this a query which could be addressed in lessons? barked Snod,

practically wetting himself.

Well, sir, I’m not sure.. B-S stammered.  It’s just that Dad gave me this letter

to give you.

Back to lessons! shouted Gus, hurrying down the corridor and pocketing the

envelope for future perusal.

It was only at lunchtime that he remembered to take the missive out of his

Harris tweed jacket pocket and then he read the parental complaint.

Apparently he was being accused of having told B-S’s father to ‘*** off’

the previous evening.  Snod was confused until he recalled that one of

Shaw’s characters had similarly misunderstood the Major’s name and had

uttered the immortal interrogative:

A Pet what?

(To which the immortal reply should have been: a Petkoff.)

Snod muttered the well-known aphorism: Never apologise; never explain,

to himself. 

But he knew that he would have to try.

No wonder B-S had problems when his father was so dense!  And B-S,

wasn’t that some kind of intestinal problem which had been mentioned on

the comprehensive leaflet which he had been given at the clinic?  It was

related to stress and Snod was having bucketfuls of that experience every

day.  Perhaps he should have that possibility investigated at the same time

as his prostrate, or whatever it was called.

Taking the Biscuit

Tags

Bourbon biscuit, Christian Pilgrims Progress, Custard Cream, Garibaldi biscuit, Jammie Dodger, Pastoral Care

Can you imagine the comments Shakespeare might have made on his

pupils’ chapbooks, or whatever they wrote on? Nigel was warming to his

theme, but Snod was noting something down in his staff planner.

Do you know, he said, not apropos of the current subject, I have noticed

that for every packet of Custard Creams in this staffroom, there are two

packets of Bourbons?  It is simply not good enough and I intend to note

it in the comments box regarding the kitchen staff appraisal.

He ate the biscuit in one bite and, showing that he had been listening

in the way that teachers through the ages can monitor situations while

filling in their crossword, or scanning the latest hot racing tip, he added:

The Bard may not have used red ink, but he would have dipped his quill in

vitriol, no doubt.  He was the master of the put-down, after all.

‘You scullion!  You rampallion!  You fustilarian!  I’ll tickle your catastrophe’.  That

used to be one of my favourite quotations.  It used to quieten the Lower School

rather well. Another good one was : ‘Methinks’st thou art a general offence

and every man should beat thee.’

 He took a sip of stewed tea.  Just the way he liked it.

Nigel’s smile faded.  But we are not permitted to write such comments now,

or to make threats, he reminded himself, as much as his colleague.

More’s the pity-no! said Snodbury, reaching for a Jammie Dodger, which didn’t

feature highly in his list of favourites.  The goo tended to stick in his dentures.

The heart shape in the middle was unmanly, he thought.  Nevertheless..

On a scale of 1-5, Nigel might have to rate Snod as a 1 for Pastoral Care.

He could hardly vouch for him by writing on his appraisal form:

Every wretch, pining and pale before,

Beholding him, plucks courage from his looks:

A largess universal like the sun

His liberal eye doth give to every one..

Maybe it would be more honest to pen:

a candle, the better burnt out.

But what if Snodbury were to write on his:

You botcher’s apprentice or You shallow vassal?

Maybe they could prop each other up and Snod could write

something like the following against his rugby coaching:

A sweeter and lovelier gentleman,

Framed in the prodigality of nature,

Young, valiant, wise, and no doubt right royal,

The spacious world cannot again afford.

Snod stood up first and, collecting his weary pile of paperwork, made

as if to leave the staffroom.

Next Friday, periods 2 and 3 all right for you, Milford-Haven?

Nigel couldn’t see the point in him being assessed by someone so old in

tooth and claw.  With a heavy heart he noted down his nemesis in his

planner.

As Snod opened the door, he turned on his heel and in an oracular voice

he addressed the empty (save for Nigel) staffroom:

They have tied me to a stake; I cannot fly,

But bear-like I must fight the course.

Amen, replied Nigel, deeply affected, and added, under his breath,

lest the staffroom be bugged, something which he felt was personally

applicable:

O limed soul, that struggling to be free

Art more engaged!

And taking the last Garibaldi, he took up his burden of marking, like Christian

before he had passed through the wicker gate and, through the staffroom,

he took his solitary way.

.