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Miss Price composes herself and speaks calmly but firmly. He has a damp towel wrapped around his lower body and does not appear to be wearing anything else at all apart from his glasses.
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Miss Price knows him as a shy, studious boy, rather awkward in social interaction, but an exceptional academic talent.
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Standing outside the door is Paul, one of the most gifted Oxbridge entrance boys (Miss Price’s policy of calling her pupils by their first names is regarded as daringly progressive by her peers). She walks to the door and opens it, then stops dead in bewilderment. The door is thick, and people do not always hear her voice. Her musing is interrupted by a soft knock at her study door. Miss Price has finished with one pile of paperwork and pauses for a moment to contemplate her grand surroundings and the long journey from humble roots that brought her here. The sounds from outside die away as the sports lessons come to an end and the pupils troop in from the playing fields and netball courts to shower and change. Not only financially, but in terms of bringing a certain variety, spice even, to her beloved school community. Miss Price is calm and satisfied the experiment of admitting boys has so far been a success, to judge from the first month or so. Through the slightly open window, Miss Price can hear the high, clear voices of the senior girls playing netball and, somewhere further away, the deeper shouts of the boys at football practice. Wednesday afternoons at St Wendreda’s are devoted to sport, in line with the school’s professed philosophy that a healthy body fosters a healthy mind. She is catching up on some mundane paperwork. It is a sunny autumn afternoon and Miss Price is in her rather daunting oak-panelled study, the portraits of her predecessors frowning down upon her. Not at Eton or Roedean, but at the less well known, although no less proud, establishment of St Wendreda’s Ladies’ College, somewhere in the south of England, where Miss Price, the ambitious young Headmistress (teachers in Public Schools are known as Masters and Mistresses) has this year decided to admit boys to the school for Oxbridge entrance tuition. But I hope it serves to introduce the scene we are about to witness.
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Furthermore, in these financially straitened times, it is not at all uncommon for a school dedicated to one gender to open its doors to pupils of the other, for this advanced tuition.Įxcuse the history lesson you did not come here for that. As a result, the English school system at any given time contains a cohort of pupils aged over 18 who are spending one extra term at expensive private schools, either at their parents’ expense or, for some lucky few of those from poorer families, supported by charitable scholarships, all in the fervent hope of getting into Oxbridge. You will have heard of some of these: Eton and Winchester for boys, Roedean and Bedales for girls. And, of course, most of the schools which can, practically speaking, afford to keep a select group of pupils on for half a year extra are the private ones, the most expensive and exclusive of which are, most bafflingly of all, known as “Public Schools”. One of the anomalies is that the great medieval universities of Oxford and Cambridge (collectively “Oxbridge”) select part of their student intake on the basis of special exams which take place half a year after when most pupils leave school. It has grown up haphazardly over centuries, subject to the caprices of tradition and political whim, baffling to the outsider. The school and university system of England is a strange, anomaly-ridden thing. I should emphasise that every character mentioned in the story is over 18 years of age at the time of the action. UK-based readers can probably skip the first couple of paragraphs. Author’s note: I originally wrote this for a site that has a mostly American audience, hence the bit at the start explaining about the British education system.