Tiffany Reisz - The Headmaster

Teaching…walking…talking with students…reading…meetings with the headmaster…long meetings…dinner meetings…breakfast meetings…

And then a bang sent Gwen jumping a foot in the air. She’d been so lost in the quiet of the cottage she’d almost started to believe everyone had gone to bed. She dashed down the stairs to the front door and opened it. Two boys stood outside on her porch.

“Boys…hello there,” she said. “Christopher was it? And Laird?”

“That’s us,” Laird said. “We came to say hello and see if you needed anything.”

“We’re the welcoming committee,” Christopher said. “So…welcome.”

“A committee of only two?” she teased.

“More boys wanted to join the welcoming committee,” Christopher explained. “But they weren’t welcome.”

Gwen laughed and the boys smirked and nodded at one another.

“Well then, I’m glad you two took the time out of your not welcoming people onto the welcoming committee to welcome me to Marshal. This is a beautiful school.”

“Thank you,” Laird said with a bow. “I built it all by myself.”

“You did a spectacular job. Can I have a tour?”

“You can, but that’s not our area. We’ll have to send you the touring committee for that.”

“Who’s on the touring committee?”

“Everyone who’s not welcome on the welcoming committee,” Christopher said with only the slightest trace of his stammer.

“So what does the welcoming committee do since they don’t give tours?” she asked, crossing her arms and leaning on the door frame. The boys looked at each other again.

“I don’t know.” Christopher ran his fingers through his hair. Cute kid. He had a young John Lennon look about him with his shaggy haircut, suit and skinny tie. “We formed the committee about five minutes before we knocked on your door.”

“We should have planned this better,” Laird said. “Sorry, we haven’t welcomed anyone before.”

“You didn’t welcome Miss Muir when she got here?”

“She was here before us,” Christopher said. “And she wasn’t all that welcome.”

“You didn’t like her?” Gwen asked, curious about her predecessor.

“She didn’t like us very much,” Laird said and shrugged. “Her loss. And our gain. We have you, and you like us.”

“Very much,” she said. “And I like the school, too. So far.”

“Tell her the thing.” Christopher prodded Laird in the arm.

“The thing?” Laird asked. “Oh, the school thing. Sure. I can do that.”

Laird paused and cleared his throat. Christopher hit him in the chest.

“The William Marshal Academy,” Laird began his speech, sounding like a well-rehearsed tour guide, “was founded in 1893 by General John Foley, gentleman hero of the Union Army.”

“The school,” Christopher continued, “was established to take the best young men of America and train them in the ways of academic scholarship and ethical learning.”

“The school motto is Fortius quam fraternitas nullum est vinculum , ” Laird said.

“There is no stronger bond than brotherhood,” Christopher translated for her.

“That’s very impressive,” Gwen said applauding.

“You should also know that Thursday night is roast beef night, so try to have something to do on Thursday night,” Laird said.

“Not good?” she asked.

Christopher mimed slicing his hand across his throat.

“Good advice,” she said. “I’ll be sure to take it. Anything else I need to know about the school?”

“Headmaster Yorke isn’t married,” Christopher said.

Gwen pursed her lips at him.

“What?” he asked. “I thought that was important information.”

“The headmaster’s personal life is none of my concern,” Gwen said. “Has he ever been married?”

Laird raised his eyebrow at her.

“I said it’s not my concern,” Gwen said. “I didn’t say I didn’t want to know.”

“She has a point,” Christopher said.

“So?” Gwen asked.

“He was married,” Laird said, nodding. He leaned in closer. “I heard he’s…you know.”

“What?” she whispered.

Christopher looked around as if checking for spies.

“The D word,” Christopher said in an even lower whisper.

“Deranged?” Gwen asked. “Demonic? Dying?”

“Divorced,” Laird said, his voice strangely grave.

“Oh.” Gwen shrugged, amused by how shocked the boys were over a divorce. “It happens.”

“Does it?” Christopher asked. “My parents said they’d rather die than ever get divorced.”

“I’d rather die than ever get married,” Laird said.

“You and me both,” Christopher said. They shook hands. “But the headmaster should get married.”

“He needs a wife,” Laird agreed. “Someone younger than him so she can keep up with him. I caught him reading Shakespeare’s First Folio in the northwest turret last week. He was correcting it.”

“Younger. Definitely. And pretty. But she has to be smart, too,” Christopher said. “He’d go bonkers unless he had a smart wife. He needs someone to lecture to.”

“Pontificate at even,” Laird said.

“Someone who isn’t us,” Christopher said.

“Boys? Can I ask you a question?” Gwen asked.

“Anything, Miss Ashby.”

“Did you cajole Headmaster Yorke into hiring a new literature teacher because you need a new English literature teacher? Or are you all trying to play matchmaker for the headmaster?”

Christopher looked at Laird. Laird looked at Christopher. They both looked at her. This was becoming a habit of theirs.

“Yes.”

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