Gentlemen & Players Read Online Free PDF

him as one of the lads, completely failing to see the man’s real cunning. Nitty-gritty . A typical Bishop expression. You can almost forget that there’s an Oxford degree (an upper second) behind the Yorkshire accent and the rugby player’s face. No. It doesn’t do to underestimate Bishop.
    I smiled at him and put down my cup. “I have my own methods in the classroom, sir, as I’m sure you do. Outside it, I make it my business to know every bit of jargon that comes my way. It’s my belief that if you can do the talk, and you get the results, then whether or not you’ve been following the latest government guidelines becomes irrelevant. Most of the parents don’t know anything about teaching. All they want is to be sure they’re getting their money’s worth. Don’t you agree?”
    Bishop grunted. Frankness—real or faked—is a currency he understands. I sensed a grudging admiration in his expression. Test two—I’d passed again.
    “And where do you see yourself in five years’ time?” That was Strange, who had remained silent for most of the interview. An ambitious man, I knew, clever beneath his prissy exterior, eager to safeguard his little empire.
    “In the classroom, sir,” I replied at once. “That’s where I belong. That’s what I enjoy.”
    Strange’s expression did not alter, but he nodded, once, reassured that I was no usurper. Test three. Another pass.
    There was no doubt in my mind that I was the best candidate. My qualifications were excellent: my references first-rate. They ought to be; I spent long enough forging them. The nicest touch was the name, carefully selected from one of the smaller Honors Boards on the Middle Corridor. I think it suits me, plus I’m sure my father would have been pleased that I’d re-created him as an Ozzie—an Old Boy of St. Oswald’s.
    The John Snyde business was a long time ago; not even the oldsters like Roy Straitley or Hillary Monument are likely to remember much about it now. But for my father to have been an Old Boy accounts for my familiarity with the school; my affection for the place: my desire to teach there. Even more than the Cambridge first, the reassuring accent, and the discreetly expensive clothes, it makes me suitable.
    I invented a few convincing details to carry the story—a Swiss mother, a childhood overseas. After such long practice I can visualize my father quite easily: a neat, precise man with musician’s hands and a love of travel. A brilliant scholar at Trinity—that’s where he met my mother, in fact—later to become one of the leading men of his profession. Both killed, tragically, in a cable car accident near Interlaken, last Christmas. I added a couple of siblings for good measure: a sister in Saint Moritz, a brother at university in Tokyo. I did my probationary year at Harwood’s Grammar School in Oxfordshire, before opting to move north into a more permanent post.
    As I said, it was almost too easy. A few letters on impressive-looking headed paper, a colorful CV, an easy-to-fake reference or two. They didn’t even check the details—disappointing, as I had gone to such lengths to get them right. Even the name tallies with an equivalent degree given out the same year. Not to myself, of course. But these people are so easily blinded. Even greater than their stupidity, there’s the arrogance, the certainty that no one would cross the line.
    Besides, it’s a game of bluff, isn’t it? It’s all to do with appearances. If I’d been a northern graduate with a common accent and a cheap suit, I could have had the best references in the world and never have stood a chance.
    They phoned me the same evening.
    I was in.

3
    St. Oswald’s Grammar School for BoysMonday, 6th September

    The next thing I did after the meeting was to go looking for Pearman. I found him in his office, with the new linguist, Dianne Dare.
    “Don’t mind Straitley,” Pearman told her cheerily as he introduced us. “He’s got a thing about names.