Christ! If They had Known!
A couple of weeks later the school inspectors arrived. The whole school was on parade. Polished. Garnished. Drilled by the right. Everything positive was highlighted and burnished. Especially prominent were John’s paintings, history essays and burgeoning history and geography projects. His Morocco photographs formed a dazzling display that occupied the lion’s share of the exhibition in Geography Room. His only serious competitor was Fred, who’d produced some fine woodwork – West Indian-style chairs – a geography project about Barbados and had cooked some exotic Caribbean food, which was duly served up for the inspectors’ lunch.
Washed, scrubbed, groomed, honed and resplendent in his red blazer and Head Boy badge, John led the inspectors on a conducted tour of the school. It was a bravura performance: showing off, flashing his ingratiating smile, playing up to an appreciative audience. It was the sort of thing he was really good at.
The climax came when, accompanied by a crowd of admiring juniors, he ushered them into the model railway room in the attic. The model railway had come a long way since the early days when an anarchic Danny Fleetwood had adorned the maths teacher Polly’s upended rear with an RAF-style roundel. It was now a miniature world of hills, trees and villages with tunnels, embankments and stations, much of it created by John himself and a team of willing juniors. The juniors duly rose to the occasion, shepherding three long trains simultaneously round the fearsome curves and through the multitudinous hazards of the marshalling yard.
Prominent among them was a quite ridiculously beautiful little new boy, named Mark Downing. Physically uncoordinated and an academic disaster area, under John’s tutelage he’d managed to make a big castle which crowned one of the hills. Grabbing an inspector’s arm, he pointed to his castle. ‘Look, sir. Ah made that all by meesell, didna, Mr Denby!’
The inspector duly responded with an appropriate accolade. ‘Did you? Did you really? Well done! Very well done!’
In a short life chiefly marked by disasters Mark had had few – if any! – such accolades. Intoxicated by the new experience, he embraced John. ‘Me big bruvva! Me hero! Ta ever so!’
The inspectors were suitably impressed. ‘Most impressive. All the work of the youngsters? Magnificent’, etc., etc., etc.
John walked on air. Artist, scholar and now Leader of Men.
Then suddenly – out of the blue – came a visitation from the ‘hidden world’. As Mark pressed his little body against him, he felt a wild electric thrill surge through him. Crazy, madly exciting ‘stirrings’ erupted in awkward parts of his anatomy. The Demon was there and, bold and insolent, was taking possession of him. It was like one of those slaves who stood beside victorious generals when they entered Rome in triumph. ‘Remember, you are only a man.’ Here, it was: ‘Remember that you are not a real man, but a fraud. You can’t do the proper thing. Never will be able to.’
Thankfully, neither the inspectors, nor the juniors, nor little Mark, noticed the embarrassing effects of the arousal. Instead they pronounced themselves ‘deeply impressed by the excellent relationship between the senior and the junior boys and, especially by the mature leadership evinced by the head boy’. Christ! If they had known!
Contradicting the Historical Dialectic
Dorothy duly received a glowing report: ‘Dedicated staff… excellent relationship between staff and pupils… a school which fulfilled its stated aims by caring for and nurturing each individual pupil, whatever their background and native ability… high standards of work from some very unpromising pupils…’, etc., etc., etc. Hidden among the jargon of the concluding paragraphs was a coded message: if only some of the local comprehensives were as successful as Beaconsfield School.
Dorothy luxuriated. Vindication! All her trials and tribulations had not been in vain: she’d won through in the end! And, indeed, what a missile to fire at her traducers up at the university! She couldn’t resist sending a copy of the report to Professor Stimpson.
The net result was a series of seminars in the higher reaches of the Education Department about the way in which the Inspectorate was ‘riddled with inappropriate middle-class prejudices’. Later the theme developed into a session on Factualism as opposed to Objective Reality. Factualism was the seeming success of a private school like Beaconsfield; while Objective Reality was the underlying truth – apparent only to the ‘properly aware’ – of how such places were actually undermining, not only education, but the whole of society by contradicting the ‘Historical Dialectic’.
EPISTOLARY WARFARE
Militant Mother Hen
Meanwhile the Morocco saga rumbled on. The British Embassy at Rabat eventually produced a report which stated quite unequivocally that Kevin Bartlett and his gang had been caught drug dealing by a carefully prepared police sting operation. The Bishop duly sent a photocopy of it to Dorothy, who wrote a massive letter to the Youth Outreach Committee.
Marshalling this and all the evidence so laboriously amassed during that gruesome Saturday evening, she demolished their accusations point by point, especially the business about drugs. As for the ‘grossly improper relationship’ of one of her pupils with an adult leader, she waxed indignant. The youth concerned had had ‘an unfortunate accident’ while suffering from a stomach upset. Having given all his spare clothes away to destitute locals in ‘a spirit of genuine and mature compassion’, he had none to change into and had, of necessity, to borrow some from the adult leader. To elevate his ‘excruciating predicament’ into an act of homosexual soliciting was ‘quite unacceptable’. Adolescents were ‘especially sensitive’… and as for ‘the sheer hurt and anguish’ engendered by such ‘prurient and unfounded allegations’…! Here her indignation blazed up into a fury, fuelled by her desperate need to do penance for having so gratuitously wronged him before. Militant Mother Hen, not just fending off the marauding fox, but aggressively savaging it.
Faced with this, the Committee backed off a little. They duly wrote a letter thanking her for ‘supplying useful information’. A final resolution of the business, however, awaited ‘further clarification’.
She also wrote a lengthy letter to the Guardian in a similar vein. To her bewildered anger it was neither published, nor even acknowledged. Not, of course, that she should have expected otherwise. The Guardian was a serious newspaper with properly informed views on education. It did not have time to waste on the semi-literate prejudices of petty bourgeois teachers in private schools.
A Very Different Matter
It was a very different matter, however, when a week later Dr Giles Denby chose to comment on the issue. Ground-breaking historian, Labour member for Boldonbridge West, member of the Shadow Cabinet, ‘Conscience of the Party’ and ‘tireless campaigner for equality and social justice’ etc., etc., etc., he had to be taken seriously; very seriously. Ever vigilant – as always! – he submitted a closely reasoned diatribe castigating the way in which the ‘middle classes’ exploited the welfare state for their own devious ends, and in particular ‘altruistic initiatives’ aimed at ‘deprived inner-city youngsters’.
Waxing indignant with righteous fury and with a multitude of precisely ordered facts and figures, he mercilessly exposed their machinations. The recent Boldonbridge Youth Expedition to Morocco was a classic example of this perfidy. Step by step, he detailed the way in which this ‘bold and generous-spirited socialist initiative’ had been subsumed into the ‘commercial interests of a small private school’ which was ‘a petty bourgeois money-making racket of the worst sort’. It was, of course, merely a microcosm of what was taking place nationwide within the N.H.S.
Those in the know were deeply impressed by Dr Denby’s sincere incorruptibility in refusing to spring to the defence of his wayward and overindulged son who had weaselled his way onto the Morocco expedition and had been implicated in drug trafficking and other less mentionable activities.
Naturally, such ‘compass
ionate and well informed’ views had to be taken seriously. The lengthy missive was published in its entirety, not merely as a Letter to the Editor, but as a leading article on the editorial page.
It was a welcome shot in the arm for the beleaguered Youth Outreach Committee. They felt vindicated and began to explore the possibility of legal action against Beaconsfield School.
Letters from Paraguay: A Bolt Out of The Blue
Then, like a bolt out of the blue, came a clutch of letters from Father Robert Steadman in Paraguay. A ‘Very Personal and Confidential’ one was for the Bishop’s eye only. What revelations it might have contained were anybody’s guess. Its contents remained hidden from prying eyes.
Another very public letter went directly to the Youth Outreach Committee.
No, the two Beaconsfield boys had not been involved in drug trafficking. That had been confined entirely to Kevin Bartlett and his gang, who had been caught red-handed in a Moroccan police sting operation. Photocopies of the police report and a statement from the British Embassy at Rabat – which, unknown to everybody, he’d secretly kept with him – clinched the issue. Indeed, a glance at the police records of Boldonbridge would show that the said Kevin had convictions for GBH and was believed to be deeply involved in the local drug scene.
While ‘sincerely applauding the earnest endeavours of altruistic youth leaders’ to induce the likes of Kevin Bartlett to embrace a better way of life, the ‘scapegoating of innocent youngsters’ was ‘to be deplored’. And no, Mr Morris had certainly not climbed Jebel Toubkal. That had been an entirely self-managed effort by the youngsters themselves, masterminded by the said John Denby. As for being a ‘thoroughly bad and disruptive influence’, the reverse was true. Without his drive, energy and linguistic skills, the whole expedition would have ground to a halt.
As for ‘wantonly involving the children in his care in all kinds of unacceptable dangers’, he, Father Steadman, had done alpine training in Austria and had climbed extensively in the Atlas Mountains. Morris may well have had a Mountain Leadership Certificate, but he had never climbed outside Britain and couldn’t speak a word of any foreign language, and was thus ‘unfitted to lead a group of youngsters in the Atlas Mountains’. And as for ‘sleeping in unhygienic and disease-ridden local houses’ and ‘forcing British children to eat unpalatable and filthy local food’, wasn’t the whole point of the expedition to get away from the tourist trade routes and experience a different culture at first hand? One after another the allegations were demolished, buried indeed, under an avalanche of evidence; chapter and verse, the lot. Insinuations about an ‘improper relationship’ with one of the boys, if not immediately withdrawn, would end in court.
State of The Art Missile Strike
Another letter went to the Guardian. While ‘applauding sincere and altruistic attempt to reach out to deprived youngsters’, wasn’t it ‘just a little naïve’ to take ‘young offenders known to be drug abusers’ to a place like Morocco? Everybody knew that was where the hippies went to get their dope. Photocopies of the documents, which he enclosed with the letter, proved their guilt beyond doubt. And as for trying to foist the blame onto innocent youngsters…! This was a ‘monstrous abuse of authority’ and ‘quite unworthy of any teacher of youth leader with the slightest claim to professionalism’. Youngsters were not responsible for their social backgrounds, and ‘to victimise them for it’ amounted to ‘racism’. Even so, the youngsters concerned could hardly be described as a ‘privileged elite’: full details were given of Michael Connolly’s domestic circumstances.
As for ‘wantonly involving the children in his care in all kinds of unacceptable dangers’, a bombardment of evidence and justifications followed, chapter and verse, the lot; indeed, a strike by metaphorical guided missile with all the devastating precision of state-of-the-art technology.
And then the ‘improper relationship’. Said youth had had a stomach upset and was in a ‘state of some distress’. Was helping him out any excuse for malicious and filthy insinuations? Indeed, readers might just care to consider ‘the sheer hurt and mental injury inflicted on a sensitive and wholly innocent youngster’. This sort of thing was ‘child abuse of the worst sort’. The letter was published and, moreover, got pride of place on the Letters to the Editor page.
A Question of Pedigree
Dorothy, it was true, had said almost identical things in her letter. But this time it was… well, a bit different! It was not, after all, what was said that was important but, rather, who said it. Father Steadman was a devout Catholic. That, by itself, was a bit ‘iffy’ in a post-Christian world. But, then, the Catholic Church did have intellectual credibility – if only of a limited kind – but, more to the point, it did have claims to being a ‘victimised Oppressed Minority’, as was evident in Ulster. The clincher, however, was his first-class honours degree, his PhD from Cambridge, and his working among the downtrodden and deprived in a struggling Third World country. For what could possibly be more respectable than working among exploited, alcoholic and drug-abusing Guarani Indians? Che Guevara himself could hardly have been more socially and intellectually worthy of attention! It was, after all, a question of pedigree, and apart from the religious bit, Father Steadman’s pedigree was pretty watertight.
Men Among Children. Children Among Men
In the face of this unexpected counter-attack, a meeting was convened at County Hall. The lawyers were all for going to court. ‘It’s all bluff. After all, they’re only teachers. Men among children. Children among men.Legal action will scare them rigid.’
This induced a baleful stare from Dobson. ‘Huh! I suppose you’re saying that I’m a child, too, are you? Thank you for nothing!’
He advised caution. He knew – if the lawyers didn’t! – that there were just too many skeletons lurking in his cupboards for comfort. Those police reports from Morocco could blow a fatal hole in any case he could fabricate. And Heaven alone knew what else the Beaconsfield lawyers might rake up. Besides, he didn’t trust middle-class lawyers: they were money-grubbers on the make and on the take. Even if the court case failed they would still be laughing all the way to the bank. He, on the other hand, could face crippling legal bills.
So a truce was declared. ‘Sincere apologies’ were issued ‘for any hurt caused to innocent youngsters by some unfortunate misunderstandings’. The matter was officially dropped.
All Faces Saved; Judicious Rearrangement of Facts
Finally, the Bishop published his article in the Diocesan Journal. Those who thought they knew him were bemused by the strangely emollient tone of the article: so unlike the notoriously contentious bull in the china shop!
‘Sincere and praiseworthy’ efforts had been made to ‘reform hardened young criminals’. Unfortunately, however, on this occasion the venture ‘had misfired somewhat’, but nevertheless, ‘great praise was due to Brian Dobson’ for the ‘utterly unselfish’ way in which he had abandoned ‘his lifelong ambition to explore the Atlas Mountains’ and escorted his erring charges back home to safety. The fact that ‘on this occasion things had come a bit unstuck’ was no reason for not repeating similar ventures in the future. Indeed, it was to be hoped that ‘the dynamic and altruistic Brian Dobson’ would not be put off by this unfortunate setback and would try again as soon as possible. As St Paul so rightly said….etc.etc….
Meanwhile, ‘inspired by the true leadership qualities’ of the ‘highly qualified PE teacher, Joe Morris’, who had ‘an exemplary faith in young people’ and ‘the praiseworthy courage to let them plan the venture with a minimum of adult interference’, the remaining youngsters had made a ‘truly splendid self-managed ascent of the Jebel Toubkal, the highest mountain in North Africa’. Furthermore, Joe Morris had ‘unselfishly volunteered to take charge of the less able members of the expedition, shepherding them carefully over high and dangerous mountain passes, thus enabling Father Steadman, an experienced alpinist, to lead the young ti
gers up an appropriately challenging mountain peak’.
In fact, the whole venture had been a triumph, which conclusively proved to any doubters ‘the excellence and the high professionalism of the expedition leaders’ and, also, ‘the wisdom of the Youth Outreach Committee in appointing so excellent a leader team’. In all it was ‘an inspiring beacon of hope for the future’.
So, prizes all round; at least, for the people who mattered. All faces saved. No direct lies, just a judicious rearrangement of the facts.
A Load of Garbage?
A little later Meakin ran into the Bishop in Boldonbridge. ‘That article of yours,’ he blurted out in an unguarded moment. ‘It was a load of garbage, wasn’t it?’
Instead of the expected explosion, however, the Bishop grinned wickedly. ‘Of course it was! But then, so is most of the history you read. Call it diplomatic oil on troubled waters.’
It was a side of the Bishop that Meakin hadn’t seen before. It seemed that Donald Mackay was rather more than a tactless old bull in a china shop. Perhaps it all had something to do with his intelligence work in Ulster and his ability to control the prickly-proud, testosterone-crazed young Mburong warriors in that remote corner of Uganda.
‘We’ll Lay This One to Rest’
The big loser was John. There was no mention of his bold effort of leading a band of escapees up Toubkal. No mention of how he had beggared himself to pay for the donkeys that had enabled the girls to make the ascent. No mention of how he alone had found a safe way through the cliff band on Aksoual when even Steadman had been at a loss. His great achievements had been airbrushed out. Indeed, that was the fate of the whole Morocco saga at Beaconsfield. Airbrushed out.
Far, Far the Mountain Peak Page 36