You’ll doubtless all be hissy-fitting with expectation, waiting to hear about this week’s state visit to Pre-Prep. Well it was Reception and Nursery this time. The majority of the young Bromsgrovians were courteous to a fault, though during one brief exchange, a particular four-year-old displayed Aristotelian logic, Daliesque surrealism and a positively Saturnalian disregard for the order of things all in one go. He was pulling plastic letters out of a sand tray when he called out to me:
“Oi! Edwards! Come ‘ere.”
I swept across the room in the hope nobody had heard the unconventional nature of the summons.
“Do you know my brother?” he said.
“No.” I said.
“Well I do.”
And then he went back to pulling letters out of the tray. Conversation over.
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The Year 8 boys won the national rugby sevens title at Millfield, and the Under 16 girls lost their cherished national netball title by one extra time score at Southampton. Two amazing Bromsgrove teams of whom we are immensely proud. The best I can offer the girls is a four hundred year old observation from Francis Bacon: “There is no comparison between that which is lost by not succeeding and that lost by not trying.”
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Monday and Tuesday were, in the argot of the Upper Fourth, well big.
Take a bow Mrs. Bateman and team who organised a very large Sixth Form conference on problems facing the developing world. It was demanding, in your face, meaningful, big-issue education of the highest order. Visiting state and independent schools, and eminent guest speakers from venerable universities swelled the ranks. There was but one downer: I, the Chairman, had lost my voice. By the time it came to questions and answers at the end, I was doing little more than mooing into the microphone in response to some very challenging observations from the brightest young minds in the Midlands. On Tuesday, the Combined Cadet Force inspection, superbly organised by Mr. Stephens, saw my moo morph into a deeply unattractive bleat (had I gone down on all fours I could actually have doubled up as a regimental mascot. Now there’s an image to savour). However, what a Utopian sight greeted the inspecting Brigadier: so many nations represented by the cadets; young people whose forebears had fought one another (sometimes over centuries) standing shoulder to shoulder in the Bromsgrove sunshine. I left with a sense of optimism such as most Everton supporters will never know.
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I miss the barneys of bygone Senior Parents’ Liaison meetings. Thursday evening’s gathering was eminently civilized. Sure, car parking has replaced the weather as the new conversational black (I’m not sure if the last ten words hang together in any conventional sense, but you get the drift), yet good constructive points were well made by engaged parents for the betterment of the School. Wistfully, I thought of angrier us-and-them days, and especially a parental letter I had received years ago when I suggested we change the nature of Saturday School: “Congratulations Headmaster. You have, overnight and singlehandedly, turned a once great international institution into a provincial backwater.”
At least I knew where I stood back then.
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On Tuesday, the new Foundation Director, Jane Rogers, came in for a meeting with some key Foundation players. Some of this country’s most successful people have thrown their weight behind the ambitious long term goal of the Bromsgrove Foundation: to make Bromsgrove a needs blind school by raising mighty funds for bursaries. Recent additions to the board include Sir David Arculus (look up Sir David on Wikipedia if you’re not familiar with the business world and you’ll understand the calibre of person I’m talking about). That people such as this are willing to be Bromsgrove trustees is humbling. I am excited beyond measure as to what we can achieve, even though I know it will be one of my successors who reaches the magic number and says: “We now welcome applications from absolutely anybody, regardless of household income.” However, next academic year we will, for the first time ever, give out over one million pounds in means-tested bursaries. What an ironic shame that this week, of all weeks, saw the School attacked in the local press for high-handedness in the community.
Much remains to be done if we are to deconstruct the stereotypes. Take my situation. Mum and dad were born in Anfield, Liverpool (currently residing very near the bottom of the poorest postcode in Britain table). Dad left school at 14, mum at 16. I was the first in my family to go to university because of the sacrifices they made. But in the eyes of some, I suspect, that’s all irrelevant or inconceivable now. I came into the world fully formed as posh, privileged and, presumably, out of touch. Insanity. But Bromsgrove has to reach out still more: we must try to change perception rather than wait for some social epiphany. Huge task. Bromsgrove’s educational DNA needs to be shared, not kept in test tubes.
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I’ve been invited to a conference at which Titans from Gove to Mandelson, Starkey to Dimbleby will be sharing thoughts on the future of education. One Head is going to argue that in order to be successful, Heads must model themselves on Clint Eastwood in Pale Rider. Oh dear. My movie role model is very different. Lie low. Be quiet. Do great things if you can. Deliberately lose a hundred little battles in order to win the war. Let egos puff and swell around you, and let false rumour run riot if people are gullible enough to believe it. You will be remembered for your deeds.
I am Keyser Soze.
But a nice version obviously. Friendly. Personable. Not given to blowing up ships. That kind of thing.
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Namby-pamby Heads will sometimes tell you theirs is the loneliest job in the world. Rubbish. We all know John Tracy has been up there alone in Thunderbird 5 for forty-seven years, so we can scotch that self-pitying bagatelle from the outset. However, there has been a sad change to my routine: this is week three without my little workmate of thirteen years, Jude the Border Terrier. Now, where there used to be a basket in the corner of my office and the sound of contented snuffles, there is only a skirting board that needs painting.
