Today, Dr Andrew Collins was chairing the annual gathering of the governors which was always a test of his mental stamina and navigational skills as he steered the good ship Sweetheart through the choppy, if not stormy waters of internal politics and petty grievances.
He was the consummate diplomat but the school’s head was certainly no pushover. In fact most people who encountered him knew within seconds not to take him for granted. Head for twenty years, he was a tall, imposing man who instilled fear into every pupil and their parents. He was neither loud nor aggressive, quite the reverse, and that’s what made those around him slightly wary, because for two decades he had remained an unknown quantity.
His academic standing was beyond question, having read Classics and French at Pembroke College, Cambridge, graduating with a Double First. It was his unnervingly peaceful nature that gave rise to wild speculation from pupils, who nicknamed him ‘The Doc’, speculations that he had trained as an MI6 spy in interrogation techniques and had some sort of inbuilt lie detector.
As the governors, drawn from all walks of life and spheres of influence sat down with school heads, deputies and other academic representatives Collins wondered how the meeting would progress. Inwardly, he dreaded it as this gathering had the potential to turn in to a very combative arena where all sorts of agendas would come into play from the registrar’s office to the bursars, competing for funds from the other welfare and trust departments involved in the running of the school.
There was much excitement as Dr Collins announced that Svetlana Volkova had donated quarter of a million pounds and as various heads of departments poised to swoop and make a bid for a slice of the money, they were visibly crestfallen at the news every penny would go towards regenerating the school choir.
Dr Geraint Jones sat at his place around the oval table looking like the cat who’d got not only the cream but a lifetime’s supply as well. Grinning from cheek to cheek while trying to keep a straight face as the announcement was made proved extremely difficult. To say he was self-satisfied was an understatement. Not daring to catch anyone’s eyes or envious glances, he kept his own firmly fixed on his papers in front of him.
Ironically, the contents of the school curriculum were rarely challenged with the exception of one area and that was usually the Scottish History department – a euphemistic reference for Mr Petrie. His particular focus on all matters Scottish frequently gave rise to questions from governors via concerned parents who felt Mr Petrie’s views were distinctly anti-English.
Surprisingly, this time the subject was absent from the agenda. Furthermore, once it was established, there would be only one department to benefit from Mrs Volkova’s cheque, the remainder of the meeting seemed to move quickly towards a peaceful conclusion.
However, there was just one more hurdle – any other business. The dreaded AOB always provided one of those moments reminiscent of the wedding service where the priest asks: “If anyone can show just cause why this couple cannot lawfully be joined together in matrimony, let them speak now or forever hold their peace.” After a few seconds’ silence, Dr Collins surveyed the room with the same angst as a guilty bridegroom in an episode of a TV soap drama.
As he looked around for any potentially disruptive participants planning to unload an unexploded ‘bomb’ to the headmaster’s utter dismay, Retired Royal Navy Rear Admiral Sir George Beauchamp began to stir and clear his throat as the question was asked: “Any other business?” Sir George raised his right hand in an abrupt and forthright manner as if to illustrate the gravitas of his concerns.
“I want to raise the issue of the Scottish history classes,” he bellowed.
“Oh, not this old chestnut again,” sighed Collins under his breath, as he sank despondently into his chair. Beauchamp continued: "It’s that chap of yours Putti, Petrey, erm…well, whatever. It’s just not good enough. He’s filling the boys’ heads with a stuff of nonsense and claptrap that’s frankly dangerous as well as anti-English. Anti-English, I tell you.
"Some of the parents have approached me over his latest interpretation of the Battle of Otterburn claiming the English army was forced to surrender to a gooseberry bush. It’s outrageous, outrageous I tell you, making a mockery out of our own heroic history; and this is just one example of his subversive, anti-English rhetoric.
“Another cause for concern is his view on Culloden. Everyone knows it was a great English victory. Look, we are already in danger of losing the union and if those young minds are bombarded with this sort of piffle, God alone knows where it’s all going to end.”
Collins sat perfectly still for a minute considering this typically ill-timed outburst from Sir George. Instinctively, he wanted to ignore it and move to close the meeting saying the issue would be itemised for discussion on the next agenda, but even he knew this would be frowned upon. He also knew that Sir George’s pronouncements were sometimes wide of the mark and on this occasion about the Battle of Culloden, he was indeed short on fact and detail.
Collins, briefly raising his eyes to the ceiling as if to summon the help of some unseen force, turned to face the Rear Admiral. "You know, Sir George, one can say many things about our Scottish history master, but promoting historical inaccuracies, I am glad to say, is not one of them.
“Where would Sweetheart be if I accepted teaching methods like that? Now, Mr Petrie may have strong views on certain subjects and embrace rather eccentric teaching methods, but I have never had cause to fault him on the breadth, depth and accuracy of his knowledge. Indeed, I know he has inspired and informed not only the boys, but some of the other teaching staff over the years.”
The Rear Admiral looked wounded. He wasn’t used to being challenged in such a public arena. In fact he wasn’t used to being challenged at all. After an uncomfortable silence, the meeting was concluded to almost everyone’s relief with the more social gathering to follow.
They were gently ushered in to The Caledonian suite, a grand reception room where the portraits of various Sweetheart luminaries hung. Liveried staff moved effortlessly around the room serving wines and offering appetisers before the formal dinner.
However, if the head thought the subject of the Scottish history classes would have been left in the committee room, he was to be disappointed. Sir George was a tenacious character and as Mr Collins walked by he said: “Well, you have your views, Headmaster, as have I, but I won’t have a man in such an important and influential position spinning tales… I won’t have it, I tell you, I…”
The headmaster gently, but firmly raised his hand to object and, turning on his heels, he looked his adversary directly in the eye and said: "Sir George, let’s settle this through the basic examination of the particulars of the Battle of Culloden. In short order, it was a dynastic struggle, the last gasp of the struggle between the exiled Stuarts and the Hanoverians sitting on the throne in London.
“Yes, much of the troops fighting for Prince Charles Edward Stuart were Scots, but they were Highland clans and in the main Catholic, reviled in much of the rest of Scotland and indeed Britain. Many clans fought on the Hanoverian side and Lowland Scots regiments lined up to face the Jacobites across Culloden Moor. An English battle against the Scots it certainly was not.”
Sir George, red-faced and angry, blurted out: “Yes, well, they were all bloody traitors as far as I am concerned, bloody traitors, I tell you,” boomed his loud and petulant voice. The quiet murmur of conversation in the room ceased and all eyes turned towards Collins and the Admiral who by now was rather flushed; a distinct ruddy colour had crept from his collar line to his already weatherworn cheeks while the veins which threaded across his face and congregated around his red, bulbous nose were almost deep purple.
“That’s as maybe, Sir George, the facts speak for themselves,” said the unruffled Collins, maintaining his trademark calm and soothing tones. “There was great cheer amongst the lowland protestant Scots at the defeat and in northern English Catholics a great sorrow. Come now, these events did take place some time ago. I’m sure we can agree the events form part of Scotland’s rich and varied history,” he added giving Sir George’s huge arms a reassuring, friendly squeeze.
The bluff and bluster of the retired seaman seemed to run out of traction as he said in a slightly crestfallen tone: "It’s the thin end of the wedge, the thin end of the wedge, I tell you. When I went to school, I was told we had an empire and the sun never set on it, so vast and powerful it was.
“Every part of the map under our command was painted pink, pink I tell you, and the world map was dominated by pink. But if it was up to your man Putri, Petrie whatever, why then they’d think all sorts of dangerous notions. It’s one thing celebrating Burns Night and Hogmanay, but should we be celebrating the defeat of the English army? No, I say. No, we should not. Where will it all end? Are we going to rewrite World War II to appease any German students who enrol here?”
By now, the small group which had gathered around Sir George and the headmaster had dispersed, leaving only the rather deflated Rear Admiral with his long time RAF chum Dr Godfrey Rogers, affectionately known, by his closest friends, as Wing Nut. Sir George looked exasperated, but just then his attention was diverted as a silver platter of tasty seafood headed in his direction.
He only had time to pop one crab pastry into his mouth, and to his annoyance, the tray of delicacies had gone. He looked around and, catching the eye of another waitress, beckoned her over, although when she put her platter in front of him, he frowned, becoming rather irritated and perplexed by the gourmet Asian salad served on a delicate china soupspoon.
This trendy twist on classic food fare did not impress. “If you can’t jab the bloody thing on a stick, what’s the point, Wing Nut?” he asked. Fellow Governor Dr Rogers was equally unimpressed by this culinary innovation and shrugged his shoulders in dismay. And so, as the merits of finger foods and falling British culinary standards consumed Sir George, the subject of Sweetheart’s Scottish history lessons were momentarily forgotten.
However, another governor, the tenacious Dame Sylvie Cole, raised the issue again with Collins. A major lawyer in London’s financial Square Mile, Dame Sylvie had her own agenda having been fully briefed by legal colleague George Henry Sparrow to push the issue of Mr Petrie’s lessons within the curriculum.
She was pleasantly surprised and pleased that bumbling Sir George had conveniently served up the subject for discussion and now she would attempt to move it along further. Sparrow, she imagined, would be impressed at her initiative, and who knows where that might lead as he was extremely influential in city’s legal circles?
However, unknown to Dame Sylvie, the Mayfair lawyer was using her as a useful idiot in a long-standing grievance against Mr Petrie going back to the 1970s when he was a Sweetheart pupil. On discovering through his son Crispin that Mr Petrie was still teaching, it ripped open old wounds and a determination to seek revenge.
A chance conversation with Dame Sylvie enabled him to capitalise on her new status as school governor and he persuaded her to raise the issue of Sweetheart’s Scottish history in the curriculum.
Sparrow was a petty, vengeful man who bore grudges and found it virtually impossible to forgive or forget anyone who crossed his path. He certainly never forgave Mr Petrie for caning him and every time the master’s name was mentioned, his buttocks automatically adopted a clenched position.
“So how was your first governor’s meeting, Dame Sylvie?” enquired the headmaster. She smiled, nodding approvingly and then said: “Gosh, that was quite an eruption from the Rear Admiral. I must admit I was a little disconcerted when he expressed his concern that the Scottish History master was dangerous and a subversive…erm, has he been here long?”
The headmaster was annoyed that the subject was being raised again but he didn’t show his displeasure. Instead he smiled, raised his eyebrows and tilted his head towards the new governor, stating clearly for everyone in earshot: "Mr Petrie is many things but a dangerous, subversive…well, I think not. You may not be aware, Dame Sylvie, but his status at Sweetheart is unique as he’s not on the teaching staff as such. The position he holds was created back in 1585 when King James VI bestowed a grant and special status on the abbey.
“In it was a protected bursary set aside purely for the teaching of Scottish history, over the centuries the role has continued to be protected and while masters come and go, the role of Scottish History Master will remain.”
“So there will be plans to replace him in the future, then?” she enquired. “I understand he must be reaching retirement soon. I imagine he’ll be looking forward to hanging up his cap and gown and it would certainly give you the opportunity to recruit someone with perhaps a more progressive attitude,” added Dame Sylvie.
Collins smiled and nodded in the affirmative, assuring her the matter would be looked in to. What he didn’t reveal was the matter had been looked in to some years back by the Human Resources Department but discovered the teaching records of all staff prior to 1980 had been destroyed by floodwater.
Getting hold of Mr Petrie’s original paper contract was proving difficult, if not impossible, and the old master had prevaricated and obfuscated successfully ever since. Furthermore, Collins liked Mr Petrie and admired his teaching methods and loyalty to the school and, out of all the staff members, he seemed to cause the least amount of disruption and never quibbled over his budget, housing or modest allowance.
Since most of the senior teaching staff was expected to join the social gathering, there was a heightened interest when Mr Petrie made his entrance. Rather predictably the effect on the Rear Admiral was like a red rag to a bull; striding over purposely to the short, portly master, he rushed straight in to the conversation: “Look here, Putri. Petrie, what’s this nonsense about the English being forced to surrender to a gooseberry bush at Otterburn? I’m not having it, man. I tell you, I’m not having it.”
Mr Petrie looked up at the red-faced Sir George and said: "Why sir, I don’t blame you. What an outrageous thing to say! Fascinating battle though as the Scots were outnumbered three to one by the English army.
“It was the first time ever warfare was conducted during the night, you know?” Sir George seemed to relax a little as the masterful Mr Petrie drew him in with the skill and stealth of an experienced fly fisherman stalking a giant salmon.
“Really? How fascinating! I never knew that.” The old master nodded sagely, adding: "The battle in August 1388 was conducted by moonlight and the Scottish leader, the 2nd Earl of Douglas, was mortally wounded. He was worried that his death would encourage the enemy, and so he told his men to hide his body beneath a bush so nobody could see it.
"The men continued fighting, unaware their leader had expired but they triumphed in the end and when the English offered to surrender, they were taken to where the Earl of Douglas lay. And that is why it is often said that the Battle of Otterburn was won by a dead Scot and the English surrendered to a bush.
“But you are quite correct, Sir George. It certainly wasn’t a gooseberry bush. I believe the English surrendered to a bracken bush. It seems you have been misinformed and I do wish these boys would pay more attention in class to the detail…that’s where the Devil is, in the detail. Oh, and by the way my name is Petrie, not Putri,” smiled Mr Petrie before raising his glass to an open-mouthed incredulous Sir George.
“More wine for Sir George, please,” advised Collins to a waiter. “His glass appears to be empty and we can’t have that, can we? Now Sir George, please tell me about your time in the Falklands when you engaged the Argentinians. What was your role in the Task Force?”
Collins once more gritted his teeth and smiled. He knew that the old salt liked to talk about his own triumphs at sea and this would take his mind completely away from Mr Petrie, the Battle of Otterburn and the vexatious subject of the Bracken bush. It was a self-sacrifice but the price, he reflected, was worth paying.
Dame Sylvie who had silently observed the verbal dexterity of Mr Petrie from a safe distance studied his profile in detail, trying to work out his age. She was standing just below a large oil on canvas by the late 16th century Flemish artist, Paul Van Somer, depicting King James signing documents confirming Sweetheart Abbey’s special status watched by a group of admiring courtiers.
Had she turned around and scrutinised the painting in a similar forensic manner, she may have noticed one of the courtiers portrayed by the artist looking over the king’s shoulder bore a remarkable resemblance to none other than Sweetheart’s Scottish history master.
Instead, she decided it was time to speak to Mr Petrie herself and she moved across the room towards her target just as he looked towards her and smiled, half bowing his head in acknowledgement. “Aha, the ubiquitous Mr Petrie! Allow me to introduce myself…” But instead of waiting, he picked up her hand, kissed it and remarked: "Dame Sylvie Cole. I know, your reputation in the world of finance is second to none.
“I’m sure the school board is richly enhanced by your presence. But look, your glass is empty. Let’s see if we can find someone to charge it,” he said as he looked around for one of the wine waiters. “White, isn’t it?” Dame Sylvie was quite taken aback at the charm which seemed to ooze from her intended quarry. He was certainly very disarming and this disappointed her as she had wanted a more combative response to her opening line.
They paused their conversation as a waiter arrived to fill her glass while another one came bearing red wine to replenish Mr Petrie’s. “Just half will do,” he advised. As the waiters walked away in search of other needy recipients, Dame Sylvie adopted a mildly flirtatious tone and asked: “I see your glass is only half full, Mr Petrie, or perhaps you see it as being half empty?”
He looked down at the beautifully crafted Persian carpet on which they stood and smiled before returning Dame Sylvie’s gaze, responding: "A glass can never be half empty or half full. Full and empty are absolute states which are impossible to half or modify so technically, neither is true.
“Now, had you asked me if I was a pessimist or optimist, I would have said the latter. I prefer to live in the sunlight of transparency and not lurk about in the shadows. What about you?”
“Forgive me, Mr Petrie, I had no idea you were quite the philosopher. I can see I have underestimated you.” As she finished her sentence, she raised her arm and touched his, only for a second and very lightly, but the movement raised his hackles.
If her tactile approach was meant to put him at ease, it had the reverse effect. Mr Petrie liked neither to be patronised, trifled or teased, and Dame Sylvie had deployed all of her female armoury to try and make a lasting impression. It was an error of judgement from which it would be difficult for her to recover in order to gain his respect or trust, and inwardly she admonished herself on realising the serious miscalculation. Mr Petrie, unlike most men she encountered, appeared to be completely impervious to her feminine wiles.
“Please excuse me, Dame Sylvie. I’ve a rather pressing engagement to attend before dinner. No doubt our paths will cross again.” She smiled as Mr Petrie left the room, for she had already arranged to make sure her seat was next to his for the banquet.
Once again she had underestimated him, for while she continued networking, Mr Petrie was altering the table plan ensuring that he was, in fact, sitting opposite her on the grand dining table. Not only that, he swapped his place card with Admiral Beauchamp before slipping back in to the room presenting what can only be described as a self-satisfied expression.
***