Look to Your Wife

PRELUDE

The Letter

June 17th

Dear Headmaster,

Please, please, please do something about Lisa. When you first came to Blagsford School, we were all thrilled to have a man of your calibre and academic excellence. Edward Chamberlain is a name that inspires awe and reverence in the educational world. I, amongst many others, was full of admiration when you took on that academy ‘sink’ school in the north of England. How brave and clever of you. Everyone knew that you would turn it around. But you surpassed all expectations, raising it from ‘Unsatisfactory’ to ‘Outstanding’ in such a short time, before coming here.

Naturally, some whispered that you would use it to your advantage, only to gain the coveted knighthood for services to education. Congratulations, by the way. Well deserved (though we all know that you only got it because of your background). We know how lucky we are to have you. I have been one of your most loyal supporters since you came to the school a year ago. It pains me to have to write this: I can barely believe that I am doing so.

But please, Edward, silence your wife. She is a liability, and she is damaging your reputation. Blagsford is a small world. The community of public schools is even smaller. Social media is a very useful tool, but Lisa’s embarrassing and vulgar tweets are presenting a very bad image for the school. The woman is barely literate, for heaven’s sake. She has no idea how to use French accents. Her grammar is appalling. I winced when she tweeted about meeting the opera singer ‘Jesse Norman’.

To many of us, it beggars belief that Lisa Blaize has published a book. Still more that it got some very good reviews and was shortlisted for the Fashion History Book Prize. Did she flash her boobs at one of the judges? Many say you wrote it. At the very least, her copy-editor must be first rate. I’ll wager the poor thing dreads the day when Lisa’s next typescript comes in.

I was invited to your celebration party, but, like quite a few other people, couldn’t face being subjected to another episode of The Lisa Show. Like many others, I was dreading what becoming Lady C would do to Lisa’s already grossly inflated ego. I am pleased for you, Edward, and would have happily attended the party if all I had to do was talk to interesting, intelligent and perhaps even inspirational folk. But I simply don’t have the time, let alone the inclination, to seek out ‘glam’ clothes to feed Lisa’s attention-seeking fantasies.

It’s clear from Lisa’s Twitter account just how obsessed she is with designer clothes and shoes and skin potions, and how much time and money she devotes to her appearance, but it’s naïve of her to expect the rest of us to do the same when we are extremely busy people, and, I might add, far less vain than Lisa.

I don’t know how much attention you pay to Lisa’s Twitter account, but if you have a look at her tweets over the past five or six months you will get a sense of what people are concerned about and why Lisa has become an object of ridicule, not just at Blagsford, but across the public school network more widely. You will be able to see that she comes across as almost pathologically vain and egotistical …

* * *

‘Lisa, I’ve had a poisonous letter. It’s unbelievably cruel. And very funny. It claims to be from a member of staff. It’s a vicious attack on you. Of course, I don’t believe a word of it. These idiots know nothing about you.’

‘Why do you say “about you”, and not “about us”? Is the letter aiming to hurt you or me? Is it about who you are and where you’ve come from?’

‘Probably me. First there was Airfaregate and now this. You’re my Achilles’ heel. They know that.’

‘Does it mention Sean?’

‘No. Would you like to see it?’

‘No, Edward, certainly not. I make it a rule not to read anonymous letters. People who write things like that are rarely “well” people. And I don’t want spiteful things sticking in my head. In fact, I’m surprised that you read it, knowing that it was unsigned. The person who did this wants to sow a seed of doubt in you. Please don’t read it again. Throw it away and forget about it. In fact, just give it to me.’

‘But they seem to know so much about you. I’m curious. It reads to me like a bitchy gay, you know the type who hates women. Well, there are lots of them in the world of teaching, so no clue there. Critical of your tweets, your grammar, your body. Digs at your Liverpool background. It even implies that I wrote your book for you.’

‘Ah, Sir Edward Chamberlain, that purveyor of feminist fashion history. The man I met a year after my book was published. But I hate to see you so upset. Don’t let them get to you. It doesn’t bother me one bit. Is it someone jealous of the knighthood? How petty and unkind. Anyway, I’m not ashamed of being a Scouser and not having had a posh education.’

‘Darling, perhaps you had better stop tweeting for a bit. Just let the dust settle.’

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

Hamlet Cocks Up

Blagsford School for Boys was founded in 1552 under a law set out in the Charities Act of 1545, which had been passed by Henry VIII to put to use funds from the dissolution of the monasteries. For nearly four hundred years it stood opposite the Cornmarket in a quiet, pretty Midlands market town.

Between the wars, it moved to the edge of town. There was a need for more boarding houses, and an opportunity arose when death duties forced a local gentry family to sell their eighteenth-century mansion with its landscaped grounds – readily convertible to a sports field – and its small lake (or was it a large pond?). A few Old Blaggers objected, saying School wouldn’t be School in a new location, but the move was a success.

Blagsford had twice made it to the top fifty of the Sunday Times Independent School Ratings. The Good Schools Guide described it as ‘a comfortable mix of brains, brawn, and artistic flair, but demanding and challenging too’. Less good headlines were made after twenty-six pupils were taught the wrong Shakespeare play (Hamlet instead of Much Ado about Nothing) in preparation for an A level examination.

Every English teacher’s worst nightmare, Edward had thought to himself, reading the story in the paper. As a Tudor historian with a particular interest in the cultural consequences of education policy, and a special fondness for Hamlet, he felt a real sympathy for Mr Camps, the poor man who was forced into early retirement by the governors after the Hamlet cock-up. Though he was also quietly grateful. Camps happened to be the head, who liked to lead from the front by taking one A level set himself. It was probably because he was overwhelmed by administrative duties, and didn’t have time to attend departmental meetings, that he had taught the wrong play. The resultant vacancy had been Edward’s opportunity to apply for the position of Headmaster of Blagsford.

* * *

Edward had won a scholarship to a famous public school himself, got into Oxford, and taken a first-class degree in history.

He had stayed on to complete his doctorate, which was then published as an academic monograph entitled Gilded Lilies: Grammar School Education and Social Mobility in Tudor England. He was pleased with the pun in the title, though he had to explain it whenever someone at a cocktail party asked him what his book was about.

In the early sixteenth century, a man named William Lily wrote the standard Latin grammar textbook for use in schools. In the middle of the century, the Tudor monarchs founded numerous new grammar schools in order to train up a kind of civil service for the nascent modern state. This gave lower middle-class boys ample opportunities for social mobility. By the end of the century, Lily’s grandson John had benefited from this – he had become the most famous and popular writer in Elizabethan England, thanks to his clever (but admittedly unreadable) novel Euphues, and his court comedies that Queen Elizabeth absolutely adored. And, of course, this same process of education and social mobility was the key to the life and work of William Shakespeare, whose plays he adored. So you see, Edward would conclude, in best lecturer mode, it was the educational revolution that had made Hamlet possible.

Edward had wrestled with the idea of becoming an academic, but felt that he didn’t quite have the killer touch. He knew from certain aspects of his postgraduate experience that he would never gain full institutional acceptance in the world of Oxbridge, and he saw too many fellow students exiled to junior lectureships in dreary, rainy places like Dundee and Belfast. He was more of a big fish in a small pond sort of guy, and felt that he would have more freedom (and certainly more money) as a teacher in a good public school. They were always on the lookout for bright young men who knew the tricks of the trade when it came to Oxbridge admissions, which was what the parents cared about. He soon had half a dozen offers to become a history teacher. He was relieved that the independent schools didn’t bother with all the nonsense of having to do an additional teacher training degree, where all you learned was lesson planning and crowd control.

Well, he certainly had the money, thanks to the live-in accommodation arrangements when he became a housemaster. But not quite the freedom he might have expected to continue his writing career. In time, though, he was glad of that. He discovered that he was good at organization, and liked running meetings. There was something satisfying about the art of letting everyone have their say, while still pushing the business along. Before long, he was promoted to deputy head in a minor public school just outside Guildford, in the south of England. It was a place that aspired to imitate his own famous alma mater.

Then he had a kind of epiphany. He wasn’t really sure whether it was out of idealism or ambition, but he suddenly decided to leave the private sector and venture away from the south. Was it because he looked around the staffroom one day and saw old men with thinning hair who had never left the cocoon of public-school life? Or was it that he genuinely believed that, having made his case about education and social mobility in Tudor England, he could actually put it into practice in the real world? Was it his vocation to bring black kids out of the ghetto? Or maybe he knew that it would give him a certain edge, a fast track to greater things. So he had applied for the position of head teacher at St Joseph’s Academy in Liverpool.

His friends had teased him mercilessly, saying he wouldn’t last five minutes. ‘Too posh, mate,’ said Nick, his best friend from Oxford. He knew that there was an element of truth in this; he was Oxford through and through. Of course it was a risk applying for the Academy job, but, unlike most of the people he knew, he liked taking risks. St Joseph’s was desperate for a turnaround, and in normal circumstances would not have even considered a man from the public-school sector.

At interview, the panel was impressed by Edward’s CV, but more so by the man himself. He was told that he and another candidate were to be called back for a second interview. He had a hunch, from things he had overheard on the day of the first interview, that his rival was an internal candidate. I bet they’ll go for the safe option, he said to himself. He had been impressed by the governors, and had liked the energy and grittiness of Liverpool. He really wanted the job.

He phoned Nick to talk it over.

‘Ed, that’s so weird that you called – I was about to email you. Did I ever tell you about my American cousin? Lives in Boston, filthy rich and on the board of a top school out there – I mean really top, Milton Academy. Just outside Boston, feeder for Harvard and Yale. Couple of the Kennedy boys went there. T. S. Eliot, James Taylor, you name it. They’re looking for a new head of history, and he asked me for advice. You said you wanted a change: how about the New World?’

Edward was an Englishman to his core. He had no desire to move to America, not even to Anglophile New England. But he saw his opportunity. He emailed the secretary to the governors of St Joseph’s Academy and asked about their timetable for a final decision, mentioning in passing that he was also having to make a decision about an offer from a top American private school. He stressed that he was really passionate about the St Joseph’s job, but that if it wasn’t going to work out, he’d want to take the American opportunity.

This swung the decision. One of the St Joseph’s governors was in PR. He persuaded his colleagues that this would be a great story for the school. The decision was made before the second interview, and the PR man made sure that there was a big splash: ‘Ed the Head turns down $250k to come to Liverpool’ screamed the headline in the Echo. It was the sort of story that Scousers loved, just like the rumours that long-lost son John Lennon was allegedly heading back to Liverpool – the day before he was brutally gunned down on a cold December day. No one had really believed it, but they all loved the story.

Ed was delighted, though he did wonder how the internal candidate had reacted at being brushed off before the second interview. Later, he learned that the newspaper story was the first that the internal candidate, Chuck Steadman – who, by a strange coincidence, was an American – had heard of the news. Black mark for the governors, Edward said to himself. Communication, communication, communication.

CHAPTER 2

Lisa

What Edward hadn’t expected was to fall in love. Not just with that vibrant, exciting city, with its stunning architecture (built on slave money, he noted to himself, appreciating the irony) and its warm, friendly people, but with Lisa. She was a textiles teacher at the school. He noticed her at once, at his first assembly, because she was the only one not listening. She was whispering to a colleague. She was also the most beautiful woman in the room. Arguably the only beautiful one. She had shoulder-length dark hair, which flicked up at the bottom, huge grey eyes with sooty lashes, and a friendly dimpled smile. But it was her bone structure that mesmerized him most. She’d give Kate Moss a run for her money in that department, he thought. You could slice cheese with those cheekbones.

She annoyed him, though. He felt that he was being teased for something he hadn’t yet done. Later, when they were formally introduced, she thrust out her hand and gave his a firm, confident shake. But he couldn’t help noticing (with his devotion to Shakespeare) that her palm was slightly moist. So not that confident, he thought to himself. What did Iago have to say about sweaty palms and sexual desire? She could be trouble, he thought. Just as well he was happily married.

‘You’ve always liked your Donnas and your Lisas,’ his wife Moira joked.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ said Edward.

‘Well, you know. All those Felicities and Sophies in your previous school didn’t really do it for you. I mean from a teaching perspective, not a dating one. You love the idea of educating those working-class girls, but you’d never fancy them. I know I’m safe on that score. What did Oswald Mosley once say, “Vote Labour, sleep Tory”? That’s you through and through, Ed.’

‘Well, look what happened to Mosley. Are you trying to tell me that I married up?’ He laughed. ‘Well, I did. And I’m not ashamed to admit it. But I do agree that I love being around these feisty girls, rather than teaching dull, posh Lucindas, always flicking their long, glossy hair and cultivating a look of studied indifference. I’ve seen enough of them to last me a lifetime. Yes, I like the St Joseph’s girls, even though I only see them when they’re naughty. I miss the teaching sometimes. That’s the only downside of a leadership role. You don’t see enough of the children. And they make me laugh. They really do. And I miss you too, Moira. And the bloody cat. You’d love the city, if you gave it a chance.’

Moira had not come north. She worked in publishing in London, and didn’t want to give up her job. They had agreed to commute, meeting every other weekend in term time. Edward would return home during the school holidays.

‘Well, I’ll think about it, darling. Do you know what my mother had the cheek to say to me the other day? “You should live in Liverpool, Moira. Men have their needs.” What a dinosaur! Well, I’m sorry that you raised a feminist, Mummy, I told her. Why should I pack up my great job, and leave our lovely little house in Surrey with its easy commute to London, when you probably won’t stay five minutes in ghastly Toxteth. I tried to explain to her that this job was just a stepping stone. You could never live permanently there, and nor could I.’

‘No, I think you’re right, I don’t think I could, much as I love the flat they found for me. But the commute is killing me. My hair is going grey. You’ve got to come north more often, Moira.’

Edward had gone straight in with a plan for St Joseph’s, and it was working. On his first morning, an Inset day, he had walked slowly around the school grounds, taking in everything. He carried a small orange Post Office notebook. There were no markings in the playground for football or netball. The canteen stank of cabbage. The staffroom was painted corporation cream, with paper-thin brown carpet tiles, sticky underneath his handmade Italian shoes. The buildings were as tired as the staff. There was no sense of dignity or care, for either the teachers or the children.

He called the governor who was in PR and arranged for painters and decorators to come in overnight. The Scousers loved a challenge, especially on double overtime. When the children arrived for the first day of term, a five-a-side AstroTurf football pitch had been laid down, and a basketball court was marked out on the playground. The staffroom was freshly painted with a Dulux imitation of Farrow and Ball Cornford White, and there was even a new carpet. On the classroom walls there were large framed posters of aspirational heroes: Shakespeare, Einstein, Emmeline Pankhurst, Nelson Mandela (this was a detail he had arranged in advance). God knows how they had performed the makeover in one night or how much it had cost, thought Edward – but he had charmed the governor into picking up the bill.

He had been told that on the last day of term, the children smashed the fire alarm. It was a ritual. This interested him. He thought long and hard about why they did this. And then he got his answer. They wanted to make a mark. To end their schooldays with a statement and go out with a bang. So he came up with an idea. They would end their schooldays with a prom. There would be a survivors’ breakfast. Suits for the boys, and prom gowns for the girls.