8. Son of Dikkerby

8.                                            Son of Dikkerby

“This is Mr Marjoram. Johnny Marjoram.” Dikkerby stood next to the young man at the front of the small, ill-ventilated staffroom. The teachers sat round in wonder.

“Your new Headmaster,” added Dikkerby. He held a proprietorial hand on the young man’s shoulder. Johnny Marjoram was short. Very short. He wore the standard issue grey suit. His head appeared to have burst through his hair and left him with a distinguished, if shiny, head. He looked much older than his years. It was as though the baldness had lent him an air of gravitas.

“And there are going to be changes!” Johnny Marjoram’s voice was low and menacing. His eyes glinted with an unintelligent sparkle. He turned to Dikkerby for confirmation.

“Quite so! Quite so! Johnny and I sing very much from the same hymn sheet.” Dikkerby guided Johnny Marjoram away from the teachers and back to the Headmaster’s study. He closed the door.

“Did I do good, Dikkerby? Did I ? I ***king told them, didn’t I?”

“You did very well, Johnny. Very well. Now watch that language! And those vowels! Dear me!” The last two words were muttered as an aside. They sat down. Johnny tilted his head to a slight angle. He found this gave him an aura of intelligence.

“I’m a good guy, Dikkerby, ain’t I?” He asked from his faux leather armchair.

“Aren’t I?” Corrected Dikkerby. “Still a way to go, Mr Marjoram.” It had been a long uphill struggle. Johnny Marjoram was in fact his third successor, fourth if you counted Dikkerby himself, who had felt obliged to come back and take the reins and steady the ship. (If reins can be said to steady a ship). The first successor turned out to have a fondness for young men. Especially the good looking ones. The second had a talent for comedy and sheer stupidity. But this chap! This chap could be moulded and that was what was important.

Johnny Marjoram flew solo the following Monday. He stood before the anticipatory hush of the teaching staff.

“You’re all good guys and I think you’re doing a wonderful job but there are going to have to be changes. The following six people will be going part-time from tomorrow. I have put your names on the white board behind me.”

There was an audible gasp from the teachers.

“You will all take a 25% cut in salary from this moment onwards.”

The gasp was accompanied by the occasional, “Shit!” This time.

“You can’t do that,” said one bold soul.

There was a long silence. Johnny Marjoram looked at the Bursar. He looked at the teacher in question. “Thank for your very valuable service, Mr Drummond.” He paused, “Consider it at an end. Clear your desk forthwith!” Johnny Marjoram smiled the smile of leadership. The smile of bullies all round the world. The ones who really enjoy their work.

“The Business, “ and he never used the word school after that meeting. Never. “The Business requires these changes. Ladies and Gentlemen that is all.”

He walked out of the staffroom. A violent babble of indignation burst out into the air.

Back in his office, Johnny was straight on to Skype. He told Dikkerby, who was sipping a glass of Merlot in his Panamian villa retreat.

“Well done, Johnny. You exceed expectations.” The line was ended.

The next morning all the six part timers sat in the study.

“Mr Marjoram, this just isn’t fair!” said one young woman.

“And what do you teach?” The voice was low and menacing. The eyes glinted.

“Textiles, sir. Why?”

“Not any more, ya don’t! Textiles, my ***ching arse! You’ll teach History and like it. Only proper subject worth a s**t!”

He turned to an elderly teacher who was sitting with his shirt collar open and tie-less.

“Are you Molloy?” The question stabbed out.

“Yes, sir,” answered the old man in trepidation.

“Ha! Drama eh? From now on you will a wear a suit and a tie and your shoes will shine brightly. The Business requires it. The children, all good guys, will sit in a circle and you will read from the plays of Shakespeare till you have read them all. Then you may begin on Sophocles. There will be no more poncy games! Is that clear?”

And so it went on.

Six months later Mr Marjoram walked from his car to the study. This had become a mild ordeal since the children of all the teachers now stood in a ragged line with their hands held out. Their parents could no longer afford to feed them.

“Treat ‘em mean, keep ‘em keen!” muttered Mr Marjoram as he swept past the wailing line.

In Panama Dikkerby relaxed and planned.

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