6 of the Best Discipline at Work Stories (3 page)

And then the second page: on formal letter-headed notepaper, an impressive looking coat of arms emblazoned across the top of the page.
"From the Royal Institute of Management S
tudies
".
I read on.

"Dear Miss Jones,

I am writing to you following the examinations that you took recently when seeking to qualify for membership of the Royal Institute.

I am sorry to have to inform you that, due to apparent serious irregularities with one of the papers that you submitted, we are minded to reject your application. We would, however, wish to give you the opportunity to try to set our minds at rest with regard to these issues, and would therefore invite you to attend an appeal hearing at the Institute's Birmingham offices at the above address on Friday, 20th May at 1430.

Please ask for the Examinations Officer on your arrival. You may, if you wish, bring a friend or colleague with you to the meeting, although formal legal representation will not be necessary on this occasion.

You might like to note that we have not yet informed your employer of the problems, and will not do so until after the appeal hearing has been conducted.

I look forward to seeing you next week. Please note that this is the only available date for the meeting, and so it will not be possible to rearrange it: should you be unable to attend, we will have no option but to take appropriate further steps.

Yours sincerely,

Chief Examinations Officer."

I breathed in deeply. No wonder she was worried. Isabel had been working for ages to gain her professional status: at 27, she would be relatively young to qualify, and it would give her career as a Management Consultant a real boost. But now this... "
apparent
serious irregularities" - what on earth........?

I picked up the phone, and dialled her number. A rather frosty, formal lady answered: "
Rosehill's
. To whom do you wish to speak?"

"Isabel Jones, please."

"And may I ask who is calling?"

"Robert Sherwood."

"From?"

"She's expecting my call."

"I'm sure. But I have to keep a note of incoming calls: the firm's partners like to have a record."

Quick thinking.
What did I say?
A close friend?
Her former schoolmaster?
A personal call?
"
Er
... it's in connection with her application for membership of the Royal Institute of Management S
tudies
."

"Thank you, Mr. Sherwood.
Putting you through."

Phew. I knew Isabel moaned about how formal and serious the firm was - if the receptionist was like that, goodness only knows what the partners were like!

"Good morning.
Isabel Jones speaking."

"Isabel. It's Robert."

"Hi. Thanks for calling back. Do you see why I was worried?"

"What's it all about, Isabel?"

"I don't know. I've been racking my brains. I really don't."

"Is there anything that you could have done wrong in the exams?"

"No. No - I can't think of anything. Maybe I wrote something that they took exception to? But I don't know - I don't know what it can be. Look, could you - please - could you come with me to this hearing in Birmingham?"

"But it's in term-time, I
sobel
. I can't leave the school."

"PLEASE. I mean - I trust you, you can talk people round. And you must know how to deal with examiners!"

This was difficult. As Headmaster, I tried never to have days off during term, particularly not at two days' notice. After all, if I didn't let my staff take time off when they were supposed to be teaching, what sort of example would that set? And the older generation of the teachers - the
ones
who had been against me since I was appointed Head a couple of years ago, in my mid-thirties, would never let me get away with it. But - Isabel: a truly close friend. I couldn't let her down.

"OK. I'll be there. Meet you outside the building at twenty past two. And don't worry, Isabel, I'm sure it will be OK."

"Do you think so?"

No.
But...
"I'm sure it will be fine, Isabel."

"Thanks, Robert. I appreciate it."

"Bye."

"Bye. Thanks."

I put the phone down. She'd sounded so worried. It reminded me - I'd heard that panic in her voice once before, ten years back, when she was my "star pupil", and I'd had to punish her.
The one and only time in my career that I'd ever had to use the cane.
And the experience, I guess, that had first formed this bond between us, so that here we were, years later, still in touch even though time had moved on, both married, both successful in our careers.

I looked at my diary for Friday. No teaching commitments - that was good.
A couple of meetings.
My deputy could handle those. I picked the phone up to my secretary. "Hi, it's Robert."

"What can I do for you, Headmaster?"

"This Friday.
I have to go to a meeting in Birmingham. With the people who are writing our new school prospectus. Can you get Simon to chair my two meetings?"

"Certainly.
And would you like me to book you train tickets?"

"No, no, I'll sort those out. Thanks!"

As I put down the phone, the school bell rang. I had to go - a class to teach, one of the few I still did now life seemed to be dominated by meetings and paperwork. And now this damn trip to Birmingham. I shook my head. Life was never meant to be easy.

* * *

Friday.
Three hours in the train. Birmingham. Grey, overcast weather: miserable.

I crossed the road towards the Institute's offices.

She was standing there already, waiting. And didn't she look smart - black suit, sharply cut, white blouse.
Shortish
skirt.
Dressed to impress!

"Hi, Isabel."

"Hi. Look. Thanks for coming. I'm really sorry about this."

"Don't worry. Have you had to take the day off work as well? I feel like I'm playing truant!"

"I set up a meeting with one of my clients, who's about 20 miles away. A big project I'm running. The
office think
I'm there all day."

"Shall we go in?"

"We better had. Thanks, Robert."

Sitting in a small, scruffy waiting room.
Why do people always keep you waiting? Isabel was staring straight ahead of her, still, obviously worried.

The door opened, and a small man in a tweed jacket walked in. I recognised him immediately.
"Laurence!"

"Robert! Good to see you.
how
are you?"

"Fine.
And you look well yourself." This was bizarre: Laurence Peters had been one of the academics when I'd been at Cambridge - an expert in microeconomics. I'd known him quite well - he'd been quite helpful to me with my thesis. I know he'd retired- but hadn't
know
where he'd gone to afterwards.

"Thank you, thank you. Still teaching?"

"Yes.
A Headmaster now - St. John's, down in Devon."

"Good grief. You've done well for yourself!" "Thanks."

"And what brings you here?"

"I'm with Isabel Green." We'd almost forgotten Isabel, who stood up. "I'm her 'moral support'. Sorry, Isabel, I should have introduced you - Laurence Peters was one of my tutors at University."

He shook Isabel's hand, looking grave.
"Right.
Well, you'd better both come in. Amazing... Robert Sherwood! Fancy that. Have a seat."

He shut the door behind him, and pointed us to a sofa in the corner of the room, and sat down on the armchair opposite, picking up a cardboard folder. A typical academic's office: slightly disorganised, papers piled up everywhere!

"Well, Robert, it's good to see you again, but it's still, a shame to meet up in these circumstances. I guess we'd better get down to the matter at hand. Miss Jones...."

He looked at Isabel.

"Yes."

"Do you know why we have asked you here today?"

"No. You mentioned some irregularities - but I don't know what they could be."

"No?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Honesty is the best course..."

"No.
Really.
I have no idea."

He pulled out a bound document, and opened it at a page he had marked. He passed it to us.
Neatly typed.
I glanced down it: it seemed to be something about project planning. A few words and phrases were circled.

"Do you recognise that?"

"Yes. It's my dissertation. About the project I did." (I could remember Isabel having to write this - 10,000 words, sent in before the two exams she'd taken).

"I see. Quite a few errors in there aren't there?"

"Yes But... a few spelling mistakes. That's not serious."

"Not in itself, no.
Now, could you have a look at
this.
" Laurence passed over a second document for us to look at. I scanned it,
then
looked back at Isabel's paper. They looked the same: even the same spelling mistakes had been highlighted.

"Recognise anything, Miss Jones?"

She didn't answer.

"Would you like to explain to me how your dissertation contains exactly the same text, with exactly the same mistakes, as the one that Roger Cecil from your company submitted to us two years ago?"

Isabel looked shocked. This was unbelievable - she couldn't have cheated, surely? "Well... we have a standard project planning approach in the firm. So I guess... I guess when we wrote about it, it was bound to be similar."

"Similar, yes.
But this is identical."

She paused.

Laurence looked at her. "Identical. Right down to the typing mistakes."

Silence.

And then she started to cry, quietly. I put my arm round her.

"I'm so sorry. I borrowed Roger's disk and copied it onto my computer. He didn't know anything about it."

"Thank you for your honesty, Miss Jones. Now, I have to tell you that cheating in one of the Institute's professional exams is a very grave offence. You are leaving me with no choice here other than to tell you that you have failed the papers, and to expel you from your student membership of the Institute. And I will, of course, have to write to the senior partner of your
Rosehill's
, who will I am sure take appropriate action on the firm's behalf."

Isabel was sobbing openly now. I had to try to do something - I couldn't let this happen to her. "Would you mind if Isabel left us, so you and I could have a minute alone, Laurence?"

"No.
Could you wait outside, Miss Jones?"

She stood up, and went out.

Laurence spoke first.
"A bad business, Robert.
Such a bright girl - the rest of her papers were outstanding.
But now....
Rosehill's
will sack her, you know.
Gross misconduct.
And she'll struggle to get another management consultancy job after that. What a waste."

"There must be something we can do."

"Nothing.
Rules are rules. I mean, when I was at school, in the fifties, it used to be a dozen of the best in front of the rest of the school during assembly for cheats. Those were the days - when discipline meant discipline. Not like today. We've got too soft, Robert: we let these young people off too easily. But for the Royal Institute... no, expelling her is the only thing we can do."

I paused. I was listening to what he had said.
A dozen of the best.
My mind raced.
Instead of the sack, the shame of being exposed as a cheat.
What if.....
No.

"What if.....
would
a dozen of the best not do the trick, then?" I couldn't believe I was saying this.

"You mean..."

"Well.... I am a schoolmaster, after all.
What if....
I
were
to punish her for you."

He looked at me, a smile flickering across his face.

"Punish her?"

"You know... your 'dozen of the best'. Instead of being expelled. I could.... beat her, and you could then decide that she hadn't cheated after all, and let her pass."

"Intriguing.... But how would I know you'd actually done it? Would you send me photos, or something?"

Good grief.
Photos.
"Would that be necessary?"