...and Good In Everything

…and Good In Everything

by Guy B Rogers

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Guy B Rogers

Published by Strict Publishing International

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Sweet are the uses of adversity,

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

I would not change it.

As You Like It, Act 2, Scene I

William Shakespeare

Chapter One: The Interview

The narrow, asphalt driveway meandered gently uphill through manicured lawns and majestic specimen trees towards the large mansion crowning the summit. The sign over the wrought iron gateway that straddled the drive near the top proudly proclaimed the institute’s name and heritage by daring to crown itself with a shield worthy of Sir Lancelot. Beyond the arch, the drive curled to the left flanked on both sides by immaculately clipped yew hedging which in turn gave way to a wide, oval car park.

Undoubtedly Norman Shaw, I decided as I eased my old Land Rover into a vacant parking slot close to an awe-inspiring Wellingtonian. Vast Elizabethan chimneys, double-storey stained glass windows and gracefully carved parapets surmounting the gable ends of the building. The architect’s later period, I mused to myself. Probably around 1875/1880. What ostentatious surroundings those Victorian grandees gave themselves, and how sad that in the twentieth century only wealthy institutions can afford to maintain such prestigious properties. I imagined myself responsible for preserving Shaw’s work. What a privilege to be able to ensure its survival for another hundred and twenty-five years.

The opulence of the surroundings were in stark contrast to those of the minor public school in Liverpool where I performed the duties of Bursar. I shook myself – was I really being made to feel inadequate by a building? Could I really win the bursary at such a nationally renowned seat of learning, or was I being over-ambitious, arrogant and assuming, even to have applied for the post. To suppose that an inglorious military career extending over 25 years, and two years in a small bursary well north of Watford, equipped me for the challenges of a showpiece educational establishment with a budget of millions and staffing to match, was fanciful to say the least. The old military adage that ‘one is always promoted to one rank above one’s level of competence’ came to mind. Would I substantiate the adage, and would winning the appointment prove to be my nemesis?

Full of misgivings, doubts about my competency, and fear of the interview ahead, I restarted the Land Rover, then switched it off again and felt for the mobile phone in my pocket. Call them; make an excuse. Sorry, my car let me down and… No, far better, ‘in view of the miserly remuneration (actually twice my current salary), I will not be attending… Neither had that essential ring of truth about them. Get a grip! I ordered myself. Think of it as a challenge, an experience, training for the next interview."

It was ten minutes to ten – too late to back out, and I had probably been spotted anyway. Give it your best shot!

Out of the car, smart new double-breasted suit buttoned against the squally wind, I headed down across the tarmac aiming at the pillared, wisteria clad, porch. Sweeping downwind on a collision course was a scruffy figure in jeans and a well-oiled Barbour. I eased back to allow her to enter first. A particularly vicious gust of wind swept her long hair into a golden mane billowing in front of her. Instinctively, she clutched at her parachuting tresses and the wind snatched away the bundle of papers she was carrying, hurling them towards me. Grabbing, groping, grovelling and quietly cursing, I recovered most and handed them over. I received a charming smile and a not too refined, Thank you. Sodding weather, isn’t it? but by the time I had recover my abandoned briefcase she had disappeared into the building.

The doorbell was answered by a smartly dressed young lady, probably one of the secretaries," I pondered.

I was ushered into the oak-panelled reception area adjoining the Great Hall, and within minutes coffee and biscuits arrived on a silver tray. From the sunken and almost springless leather settee I was able to study the superbly vaulted ceiling, the stained glass windows and a marble fireplace large enough for a family to live in. The constant buzzing activity as people crisscross the hall afforded me ample opportunity to study the workforce. I decided that they looked friendly and, perhaps, manageable.

I consulted my wristwatch. A quarter past ten – they were running late with the interviews! Apprehensively, I tried to imagine the selection committee and to practise my answers to the questions they might fire at me. In my thoughts, they were stern, businesslike people, steeped in the educational ethos and, most probably, looking to fill the post with an accountant or, God forbid, a bank manager. No doubt they would have a set of carefully prepared questions to put to each candidate, even a well prepared score sheet to determine the winner. I was confident that I had the requisite leadership qualities and that I could handle the practical aspects of the appointment, but the accounting requirements in the job description were a worry! Accounting has never been my forte, and inwardly I resolved that my first action, if hired, would be to employ an assistant well versed in the dark arts of accountancy.

Twenty-five past now! They were waiting for someone else, I reassured myself. Counting the oak panels and the panes of glass in the windows was getting boring; the coffee had gone cold and I had eaten all the biscuits, and then suddenly it struck me – I was alone! Where were the other candidates? I had been offered an interview either yesterday or today. Surely there must have been loads of other applicants, but none were sitting waiting with me.

It was half past ten. Cummon, I hissed between clenched teeth. Cummon, you lot… let’s get this over…

Beg your pardon? intoned a soft male voice from behind the settee. Bursar’s job is it? Good. I’m Harry Helmswell, Principal here, you know. His voice purred, the ‘r’s rounded by an Oxbridge accent. He extends his hand over my shoulder, making it impossible to shake hands while I remained seated.

Glad to have you around for interview. Impressive CV, ex-military eh? Disciplined, a leader, someone who has served his country, different from the others we’ve seen. They’ve mainly been ‘bean counters’.

I was completely nonplussed by his out-flanking manoeuvre. How long had he been behind me? However, I manage a Pleased to meet you, Headmaster, as I struggle to my feet with my right arm outstretched searching for his hand, which was now scratching his sculptured goatee beard and examining me minutely. Harry Helmswell was typical of headmasters: fiftyish, tall, thinning hair, and casually dressed in slacks and a ‘patched at the elbows’ jacket. His deep blue eyes flitted around, noting everyone and everything. His casual demeanour and scruffy clothing did little to disguise his air of intelligence, confidence and native cunning. Having done my homework before the interview, I already knew that Doctor Harry Helmswell studied at Cambridge for his BA and MA – before writing a thesis for his PhD on little known Victorian architects at the same seat of learning.

I was just remarking how the architect’s work had come on over his lifetime; such marvellous Victorian panelling, I lied somewhat unconvincingly.

Right, right, he agreed without giving the impression that he believed me. Norman Shaw, of course. Tolerable example of his earlier work.

Late period, actually, I rather foolishly correct him.

Harry ignored my correction, but, pointing to the upper floor, continued, Have you seen the alcove seating up there? Carved from solid oak, wonderful craftsmanship. And just look at those stained glass windows – they don’t build like that nowadays!

Knew it was Shaw, as soon as I saw the chimney pots and gable ends.

Built in the 1870s, being destroyed by my Philistine staff in the 1990s. They see the place as a fire hazard, a notice board for their horrendous egos, and advertising space for NUT circulars encouraging strike action.

So Harry knew jolly well that it was a late Norman Shaw. He had been testing me!

Blutack or nails, Headmaster?

Principal, actually! But call me Harry. The hired hands prefer to use Christian names around here, democracy personified.

Right, yes, of course Princip… I mean Mr… er… sorry… Harry, I stuttered.

He stroked his goatee beard thoughtfully, put his finger to his lips and hissed, Drawing pins. Bloody drawing pins!

Need a good whipping for their sacrilege.

Man after my own heart. I can see we’ll get along just fine, he said encouragingly. Seen the Minstrel’s gallery? he enquired, leading me towards the oak staircase by placing a hand in the small of my back and urging me on ahead of him.

Several minutes later, after a lengthy discussion of the architect’s skills during which Harry’s enthusiasm for our heritage became obvious, he suddenly clasped his hand to his mouth and exclaimed, Gracious me! The Chairman’ll wonder where we’ve got to. Just remembered I’m supposed to be fetching you to face the selection committee.

Grabbing my arm, he pulled me down the stairs and dragged me along a panelled corridor until we reached a door that pronounced itself as the ‘Principal’s Parlour’.

In you go, my boy, he commanded as the heavy oak door opened effortlessly, and he thrust me unceremoniously into the room.

Seated before me in a series of old sofas and easy chairs were the four members of the selection committee. At first sight they appeared to match my imagination of them – stern, unsmiling, organised.

Apologise for that, Chairman, muttered Harry penitentially as he closed the door behind us. We got chatting about the building, you know, Norman Shaw and all that. So nice to find someone well versed in old buildings.

A tall, general-like figure arose from one of the settees. Regret keeping you waiting, Wing Commander. We lost some papers outside the house this morning; your CV was amongst them. Not to worry, though. I’m sure you can fill in any gaps in our memories. Shaking my hand vigorously, he continues, I’m Daniel Cohen, Chair of Governors. Let me introduce you to the other members of our appointments committee.

Daniel Cohen had a strong right hand and a commanding bearing. His handsome visage was only slightly marred by an extraordinarily prominent nose and a monocle obscuring his right eye. I marked him down as a successful businessman nearing retirement.

I had already recognised ‘Mrs Jeans and Barbour’ sitting with her designer clad legs akimbo on a leather pouffé as if riding her hunter. Mr Cohen indicated her with a polite waft of his hand and a slight bow. Our Vice Chairman, Lady Davina Smythe-Morrison. Lady Davina’s husband works at the Foreign Office, don’t you know.

Indeed I did know! As I recalled, The Right Honourable Sir Edward Smythe-Morrison, MP, PC, actually ran the Foreign Office. I extended my hand to her and we shook hands, the Foreign Secretary’s wife using just a tiny bit too much pressure, a hint of approval arising from our earlier encounter, perchance?

Then I’d like to introduce the Chairman of our Finance Committee, he continued, indicating a heavyset, grumpy looking man leaning back in a copious armchair. Fred Hetherington is something big in the city.

"Actually, Daniel, since you never seem to remember, I am Sir Frederick Hetherington. I am the chairman of two banks and a non-executive director of three others, he pronounced testily while sheathing through what appeared to be a set of annual accounts, and ignoring my advanced hand. Not that my experience in higher finance is taken any notice of here, he continued. This school spends money faster than the Bank of England can print it."

Yes, yes, indeed, as I said, a banking type, responded Daniel, turning his attention towards the chez-lounge occupied by an overweight, black suited gentleman who studied me through his spectacles. Then there’s our legal adviser, Mr Justice Hugo Percival-Pryce, he continued, steering me towards the blonde haired figure sitting upright surrounded by piles of paper, which looked suspiciously like briefing papers or law reports. For a split second I imagined that he was wearing his QC’s wig. Hugo makes sure that the Governing Body keeps on the right side of the law, and at the same time takes every advantage it can from being a registered charity.

Hugo Percival-Pryce nodded his agreement towards the chairman, while looking at me from over the top of his half spectacles and offing a limp hand. Gather you were in the Services, Wing Commander – which one?

Don’t be silly, Percy, squawked Lady Davina. Wing Commander! Battle of Britain! Guy Gibson! Brylcreem! RAF! Remember?

I was confused! I thought his name was Hugo. Perhaps ‘Percy’ is a pet name?

Anyway, Percy, or Hugo, looked mildly nonplussed at her outburst, perhaps military things were not his forte – he probably preferred judicial reviews and majority verdicts. Ugh! He was not lacking in the quick thinking department, though.

"Quite so, dear Davina, quite so. However, I well remember prosecuting a naval officer who had great difficulty keeping his hands off the Wrens, and he was a ‘Wing Commander’. He commanded a naval air wing on an aircraft carrier, you see."

Touché!

Anyway, interjected the Chairman as Davina opens her mouth in riposte, Do take a seat and make yourself comfortable, he suggested, guiding me towards one end of a vast settee before sitting alongside me at the opposite end.

So, Wing Commander, continued Davina, unperturbed by her slight putdown, As I recall, your CV told us that you’re 45 and a regular at the gym. Must say you certainly appear to be in peak condition… but how’s your general health?

I brushed aside my rather too long dark hair and flashed her my best, clean-shaven smile. Regular workouts, watch the weight, control the booze…

You really can’t ask questions like that, interjected Percy wagging his right index finger in admonishment. It’s about the same as asking a female if she’s going to get pregnant. Discrimination laws and all that. Let’s stick to the facts, concentrate on character, delve into the fellow’s innermost feelings. He paused, in case there was a contrary view – there wasn’t. He continued, changing the subject utterly: No doubt you’d wish to be addressed by your rank if you worked here?

Well, actually, I…

Objection! called out Harry, raising his hand as if asking permission to speak. We try always to use Christian names around the school. Everyone calls me ‘Harry’ and I know most of the staff by their Christian names. We all get along together brilliantly without resorting to titles, surnames or positions.

Do you mean ‘first names’? asked the Chairman spiffily. Not everyone here is of that persuasion, you know.

Point taken, point taken, but it’s still not an appropriate question. Can’t see my staff room taking kindly to introducing rank. They even insist that the heads of department being called ‘subject leaders’. Mind you, the last but one bursar was a colonel – everyone referred to him as ‘The Colonel’- can’t actually remember his real name!

Respect for the man in charge, quite right too, agreed Sir Frederick.

"I’m in charge here! parried Harry. The Principal runs the school."

True, to an extent, replied Sir Frederick, looking directly at Harry and speaking with a serious tone in his voice. We, the governors, appoint the Principal, Deputy Principal and the Bursar, and they in turn appoint all the other staff on behalf of the governors. It is the Governing Body, which is comprised of the trustees of the charity, which has the ultimate responsibility for running the school – and keeping its finances on track!

Harry Helmswell looks a bit sheepish and did not argue with that.

The Chairman shuffled the papers on his lap, found the one he was looking for and asked, Moving on, I see you’re a bursar already, in a small and rather non-descript little school up north. How will you handle the demands of our busy bursary?

I swallowed loudly. Tricky question! Checking for over or under confidence…. I’m ready for the big challenge of being your…

He’s not applying to be ‘our bursar’, chipped in the banker sparing me the problem of deciding how to continue. The job description calls for a ‘Business Manager’. We all agreed to drop the anachronistic title of Bursar."

But the job title in this paper says Business Manager – open brackets – Bursar – close brackets, the Chairman retaliated, waving the advertising page from a recent Daily Telegraph.

Where’s he going to be working then? In the business managery or the bursary? enquired Percy.

Exactly. He’s going to be both a business manager, open brackets bursar close brackets, and working in the bursary.

Well I’m glad that’s settled, always nice to know what position we’re interviewing for, asserted Davina. She continued, reading from a palm-hidden prompt card. Tell me, Commander, what are your views on modular ‘A’ levels as against a skill based NVQ programme?

I froze, reddened and gulped as I searched to understand the question and find the expected answer. I’m the buildings and staff manager – not an educationalist. Naturally, of course, I…

Ridiculous question! puffed Fred the banker. "We can never decide ourselves. Personally, I favour the European Baccalaureate; much more demanding and meaningful. Anyway, the question is out of order and irrelevant for the post of bean counter and drain cleaner. Be more sensible to ask him whether he favours a close-coupled