Pillow Talk. Freya North

      ‘Are you going to tell?’

      Paul Glasper forsook the history A level essays he had settled down to mark, to pose the question to Miranda Oates in an excitable whisper, as if it was the juiciest secret to hit the school.

      ‘What? Tell what?’ asked Nigel Garton as he came into the staff room, as bleary-eyed as the pupils to whom he’d just taught double physics.

      ‘Who?’ Arlo Savidge asked, a step behind him. ‘Tell what who when?’

      Paul held his hands up. ‘It’s not for me to say,’ he said with a slow and obvious wink to Miranda who rolled her eyes and flicked him a ‘V’ with her fingers.

      Miranda shrugged. ‘I’m going for a job interview.’

      ‘A job?’ said Nigel. ‘What sort of job?’

      ‘A teaching job, of course.’

      ‘But you already have a teaching job,’ said Nigel.

      Miranda shrugged. ‘Head of English.’

      ‘You’re Head of English here, aren’t you?’ Arlo said.

      ‘Yes, but I don’t want to base my entire career here at Roseberry Hall. Unlike you two.’

      She looked at them while they looked at each other, baffled.

      ‘Don’t know why not,’ Nigel muttered, a little affronted.

      ‘It’s easy to forget that there’s life outside Roseberry Hall,’ Miranda said.

      ‘But isn’t the sense of belonging, of community, the point, surely?’ said Arlo.

      ‘You sound like the school’s prospectus,’ Miranda said. ‘Anyway, how about “Good luck, Miss Oates”?’

      ‘Good luck, Miss Oates,’ Nigel said flatly.

      ‘Good luck,’ said Arlo, ‘of course good luck. But you’d be sorely missed if you left.’

      Paul noticed how a sparkle enlivened Miranda’s eyes, that the smile she shot over to Arlo was laced with a glance of hope.

      Roseberry Hall was not a large school in terms of population, but in terms of acreage it was vast. The estate was contained, yet also heralded, by the original fine stone wall, something of a rarity in the hedge-bound locality. It was some eight feet high, crowned every few yards by a small decorative turret echoing those which were a feature of the Hall itself. From a distance and depending on the time of year, ramblers walking the Norse Lyke Wake Walk could look down on the Roseberry Hall estate in its entirety; from that perspective, the buildings and grounds and the wall running the entire perimeter resembled a well-constructed sandcastle complex. The eighteenth-century Hall itself, with its turrets and thick-silled casement windows and magnificent arched doorway, managed to be imposing in its grandeur without being intimidating. The founder of the school, Radcliff Lawrence Esq., a wealthy philanthropist whose special interests were education and architecture and the consequences of the one on the other, was sensitive to the effect that entering through that portal could have on a schoolboy. Lawrence believed that a school’s job was to teach by nurturing, not by fear. A child will not want to learn in a building he is intimidated to enter; but if the building inspires awe then the passage to the classroom will be an eager one. Lawrence’s ethos has lasted as well as the buildings themselves and to this day, despite the school being called Roseberry Hall Public School for Boys, the pupils themselves continue to be known as Radcliff Lawrencers.

      It wasn’t a league-topping school in terms of academic excellence but in terms of producing well-mannered, bright and confident boys, it was exemplary. Everyone who worked there and every parent who paid handsomely for a son to be educated there, understood this to be the higher point. Roseberry Hall wasn’t about bullying astronomical grades out of the boys nor was it about saturating Oxford and Cambridge universities with alumni. Rather, the school was about not forcing a child to learn but inspiring them to want to listen. David Pinder, headmaster for over two decades, would reiterate in every speech he gave – to the boys, the parents, the governors, his staff – ‘Manners Maketh Man: our pupils join us as boys and leave us as fine young men, fully equipped to deal with the world at large.’ It was a proclamation that could be repeated by rote – by parents, pupils, governors and the staff alike. As if carrying Radcliff Lawrence’s torch, Mr Pinder, with his jolly demeanour and ebullient commitment to the school, instilled in everyone connected with Roseberry Hall his belief that the school occupied an important and enviable niche within the British public boarding-school system. For the staff and the three hundred and fifty boys from the ages of eleven to eighteen, no one could doubt that the school also occupied a privileged niche of English countryside. Tucked safely and scenically into genteel grassland at the foot of the North York Moors, the school was positioned twenty minutes from stunning coastal scenery yet just a short journey to many of the most picturesque villages in the area. The lie of the land was perfect for sports: manicured pitches within the school’s grounds opening out to serious cycling and running country. It was as if Roseberry Hall sat in state, receiving the varied gifts of the region. Depending on the weather conditions, even the plumes and fugs of effluence, the occasional colossal flares from the monstrous ICI works stretching for miles like a space-age city outside Middlesbrough, were considered to add drama and aesthetic intrigue to the big skies above the school.

      The demarcation of work and rest was another of Radcliff Lawrence’s philosophies, thus schooling was contained in either the main Hall itself or in the newer science block built sympathetically from local stone with a more modern take on the turret emblem. The boys were lodged in five accommodation houses with sizeable apartments for the housemaster or mistress and their families, and lesser apartments for their deputies. The rest of the staff were scattered through the grounds, either in annexes, or in quirky little turreted follies just large enough to comprise a living room, kitchenette, small bedroom and compact shower room. Miranda Oates had a folly. Paul Glasper was deputy housemaster of Armstrong House. Nigel Garton’s rooms were part of the pavilion on the sports field. Arlo had a folly. Steven Hunter, the art teacher, lived above the decidedly grand boat-house. David Pinder resided in the headmaster’s house, an ornate turreted cottage that looked a little like a cake. After prep each evening, the Hall was shut, as if it was as important for the building to have a rest from the scamper and flurry of school-time as it was for the community to have a break from school. If the staff wanted a place other than their private quarters to spend their evenings, they used the Old Buttery, a self-contained building whose atmosphere was part staff room, part den. It was a healthy mix of shabby old leather suites and a huge plasma screen; Cook’s home-made cakes and the staff’s lethal home-brew. The evening of Miranda Oates’s interview, fortunately a Friday night, the Old Buttery was heaving with her colleagues glad of the excuse to test Barrel number 4 which had been fermenting since the New Year.