Crescendo (11 page)

Tuesday morning passed off extremely well. The six candidates
spent it all at Holmelea Grammar School with the present headmaster, who was leaving because he had obtained an admirable post at a much larger school. Richard liked him and liked what he was doing with the school; he also liked immensely the school buildings, new and old. There was a delightful headmaster's house attached, a plain compact not-too-large affair of early nineteenth-century date, with a superb view over rolling Pennines. Could it really be possible that he and Dorothea should inhabit this agreeable house together, gaze out side by side on that harsh but exciting panorama? He subdued the thought sternly, but it recurred with increasing frequency, encouraged not only by his opinion of the other applicants, who though in their different ways all suitable enough were not outstanding, but by the headmaster's attitude to him, which was undoubtedly very favourable. As the man showed them round the school and gave the necessary explanations, he seemed more and more to address himself to Richard.

The candidates parted for lunch and returned in ample time for their interviews, which had all been set for three o'clock. They were shown into the school library, where they were joined by the seventh applicant, the present second master of the Holmelea school. Richard studied Mr. Piers searchingly, fearing to find a more formidable opponent than those of the morning. He saw a tallish, large, handsome, greying, elderly man, with a sallow complexion, dark blazing eyes, a sharp nose and a firm narrow-lipped mouth. His conversation revealed him as an extremely experienced teacher of the classics, and he was probably an able administrator into the bargain, thought Richard. In addition he had a mellifluous voice and a neat turn of phrase; altogether he was a highly capable person. But there was something bitter and disdainful about the man; had his been the choice, Richard would not have entrusted any boy's future to Mr. Piers' care.

The applicants were now wandering about nervously, standing and sitting and standing again in the attempt to conceal
their agitation. Richard went over to a window and stood looking at the view; Piers came to his side and directed his attention to the foreground of the landscape, the main school entrance where the Governors who were to decide their fate were now arriving. Piers knew and named them all, adding comments which Richard thought witty but unkind and probably unfair.

There was a stooping, white-haired man with fine features blurred by age.

“Chairman,” said Piers. “Well-meaning, but still living in 1910.”

There was a forceful-looking woman, thin, beak-nosed, well-tailored.

“Former headmistress. Acid as an unripe apple.”

There was a fiery eager youngish man whose politics bristled from every angle of his personality.

“Our left-winger.”

There were a couple of thin capable-looking persons with brief-cases, obviously official nominees—“They're the ones for the tricky questions”—and there were several large florid balding burghers whose Yorkshire voices rose in stubborn though not unfriendly argument to the window above.

“Mostly Old Boys. No real knowledge of what they're trying to appoint, of course. They are mere cloth manufacturers, as devoid of sensibility as their own looms.”

“Well, it's an industrial community,” said Richard mildly.

Lastly there came ripping up the drive a large and gleaming blue and white car, which turned and parked with such skilful swiftness that the gravel flew up in all directions. A good-looking solid Yorkshireman in middle life sprang out and ran up the school steps energetically.

“That's the boy you've got to watch,” said Piers. “Mr. Arnold Amos Janna Barraclough of Holmelea Mills and Holmelea Hall, no less. He's the V.I.P. round here. His grandfather gave the land on which the new school buildings
were erected, so there's always a Barraclough on the Board of Governors.”

He looked at Richard expectantly, obviously anticipating questions. Richard, disliking his tone, was rather markedly silent.

“No doubt he's a good man of business,” continued Piers as before: “But he knows nothing of education. I shouldn't suppose he ever takes a book in his hand.”

“Let us hope he is a good judge of character,” said Richard lightly, turning away.

“Yes—let us hope so,” said Piers, grim.

“Is there any set order in which we are likely to be interviewed?” asked Richard, speaking pleasantly to mitigate his previous snub.

“They usually interview in alphabetical order unless there is some special reason against it.”

“I shall come second, then,” thought Richard, at the same time perceiving that Piers had revealed an all too familiar acquaintance with candidate procedure—he had applied, and failed, many times.

The Clerk to the Governors—a local solicitor, Piers had informed him—came in, and took the first candidate, whose name began with the second letter of the alphabet, away. The young man was not absent very long.

“They've soon finished with
him
,” murmured Piers to Richard with satisfaction.

“Is that a bad sign or a good one?”

“Usually bad.”

The candidate certainly looked chilled and crestfallen.

“One can always tell,” murmured Piers as before.

“Mr. Richard Cressey, please,” said the clerk.

Richard's pulse leaped and he smiled nervously, but his hopes were high as he followed the Clerk into the next room. He disliked accepting any indication from Piers, but the way the man had sought Richard's company seemed to show that
he had privately tipped off Richard as his probable Head. A sounder basis was the kindness the Holmelea headmaster had shown Richard that morning. Yes, Richard's hopes were high.

2

He found himself in an armchair at the foot of a long polished table, with the Chairman facing him at the other end and the Governors clustered at the sides. On either hand of the Chairman sat the Clerk and the schoolmistress; then on Richard's left came a couple of official nominees and the left-winger, with one of the men Piers had designated as Old Boys looking rather uncomfortable, between; while on his right sat three Old Boys and Mr. Barraclough.

“Mr. Richard Cressey,” began the Clerk.

There was a general greeting to which Richard replied, then the Clerk read out Richard's academic qualifications and the course of his career hitherto, from the top paper of a pile in front of him. Similar piles lay in front of every Governor, and they all perused the top paper carefully. At this Richard's heart warmed to them. He thought them an admirable crosssection of a modern industrial community, all on different social levels of wealth, speech and dress, but all honest persons, trying to do their duty to the school according to their several lights.

“I shall only deserve to get this job,” thought Richard, “if I answer the questions with the most careful honesty, so as to reveal myself as I really am.”

Immediately he felt calm and even happy, rather as he did when he sat down to write a necessary letter to a pupil's parent, something important and difficult but useful and well within his powers. All he had to do was to think as hard as he could and translate his thought accurately into simple words. These people would understand him.

“Well now, Mr. Cressey,” began the Chairman in the thin
voice of old age: “This is a very glowing testimonial about you that we've had from your present headmaster.”

Richard coloured with pleasure.

“It seems you like teaching.”

“Yes, sir,” said Richard.

“We all have some questions we should like to ask Mr. Cressey, no doubt,” continued the Chairman, looking interrogatively round the table.

“Yes, I have one!” cried the left-winger immediately, his long nose quivering, his fanatical eyes flashing, as he bent forward. “Why are you applying for this post, Mr. Cressey?”

“I should very much like to be headmaster of a school of this kind,” said Richard thoughtfully. “There is much useful work to be done through such schools, and I should like to have a hand in it.”

“And you'd like the increase in salary too, no doubt?” cried the left-winger.

“That too would be agreeable,” said Richard, smiling.

The left-winger snorted but subsided.

“Why did you come to these parts at all, Mr. Cressey?” said the Old Boy on his left. “You're not a native of these parts, you see, are you? Why did you come to Ashworth Grammar School, eh?”

“I lived here as a child when my father was a minister in Ashworth,” explained Richard. “I felt an inclination to return to the West Riding.”

“And how do you like it now you've got here, eh?”

“It interests me keenly,” said Richard.

“What do you think about our dialect here, then?” said an Old Boy from across the table.

“Historically it is a fascinating study,” began Richard. “It is a survival of old speech, as you know, not a modern corruption.”

“Aye, but what about the boys using it?”

“I should not tolerate any grammatical errors in their
speech,” said Richard, considering. “A Yorkshire intonation is perfectly natural and permissible, of course, but it might militate against their success in certain professional spheres. I think probably it is best to put that point to them clearly. I ought perhaps to say,” he added, smiling, “that I am all on the side of good manners. I very much dislike rudeness masquerading as sincerity.”

“Well—you've got your work cut out with these lads,” returned the Old Boy sharply. He grinned, however, and Richard did not feel him to be unfriendly.

“Your subject is English,” began one of the official nominees in a prim, precise style. “How will that influence your allocation of time in the school?”

“I should like to give a good deal of time to teaching,” said Richard frankly. “But I'm fully aware of the importance of administration in a school, and I should put my duties as headmaster first.”

“How many hours a week are you prepared to devote to the job?” snapped the left-winger.

“As many as are necessary for the proper conduct of the school,” snapped back Richard with a smile.

“Have you ever had any trouble with discipline, Mr. Cressey?” said the second official nominee.

“No,” said Richard laconically.

“Would you insist on the boys wearing their school caps out of school?” said the Old Boy on the left.

“Yes.”

“What would you do if they disobeyed, eh?”

“I should take all the usual disciplinary steps—and,” said Richard, looking round at them sternly: “I should expect support from my Governors.”

There was a pause. The Governors exchanged glances-Richard thought, of a not unfavourable kind.

“Mr. Cressey,” said the Chairman in his thin old tones: “You are thirty-seven. If you were appointed headmaster
here, you would find on your staff one or two men over sixty years old. How would you tackle that problem?”

“With consideration, I hope,” said Richard. “I would discuss any alterations I proposed making, thoroughly with all the staff, before I took action. But the headmaster's decision must be final, since the responsibility is his.”

The Chairman nodded thoughtfully.

“Mr. Cressey,” broke in the former schoolmistress in deep Oxfordian tones: “Do you enjoy good health?”

Ah, trust a woman's eye on a physical question, thought Richard with a pang. For the thousandth time he wished that his large grey eyes, his clear pale cheek, could be metamorphosed into a beefy stare, a florid tan. He considered. Of course he lacked the animal vigour of, say, the man Barraclough. On the other hand, he was rarely ill.

“Yes,” he said at length, “I do.” Seeing that his hesitation had produced a look of doubt on the faces round the table, he felt himself entitled to add: “It is certainly seven years since I had to consult a doctor.”

The faces brightened.

“And what was the diagnosis then, Mr. Cressey?”

“Just a touch of influenza,” said Richard.

The faces brightened still further.

“May I ask what your hobbies are, Mr. Cressey?” bayed the former schoolmistress in a friendly tone.

“Oh, all the arts,” said Richard. “Music, drama, painting, films. And to a certain extent, walking. I take my longer holidays as far as possible abroad.”

The schoolmistress nodded, smiling.

“Mr. Cressey,” said Arnold Barraclough suddenly in a very loud tone: “What would you do if——”

Richard turned to him. To his astonishment he saw that the man was furiously angry. His shrewd kindly face was crimson, his heavy nostrils dilated; the square hands protruding from the sleeves of his admirably cut grey suit and fine white shirt
were screwing up the sheet of paper which held Richard's qualifications, with savage strength.

“What would you do if you found a boy or group of boys in the school encouraging improper behaviour?” he shouted.

Richard was annoyed. He hated being shouted at and particularly disliked any illiberal frenzy on sexual questions.

“I should certainly never dramatise the matter,” he said coldly. “These things are normal in small boys during a certain phase.”

“Oh, you'd take it lightly,” said Barraclough grimly. His eyes were positively red and sparkling with rage, Richard noticed; really they looked quite extraordinary.

“No, I should not,” began Richard, still more annoyed. “But——”

“Have you ever played any games, Mr. Cressey?” said Barraclough, still in the same loud, brutal tone.

“I have played almost every game in my time,” said Richard stiffly. “Except golf and squash.”

“Ever do any good by it?”

“In what sense?”

“Ever play for your house, or your school or your university?”

“No.”

“You're not married, I believe, Mr. Cressey?”