Mr Campion's Fault by Mike Ripley

Rupert.
    ‘Only about sixty per cent of our boys are private pupils,’ said the headmaster. ‘The remainder come via the local education authority after sitting the eleven-plus. Of course, the local authority is strongly Labour and supports the Comprehensive ideal.’
    ‘It does sound an attractive ideal,’ Perdita said, turning her face up and smiling sweetly at her godfather.
    The hairs on the back of Rupert’s neck began to stand to attention. Had he really married a Bolshevik? Fortunately Brigham Armitage, although he had the demeanour and sartorial smartness of an off-duty church warden, did not seem at all worried by radical concepts, especially not when issued from a perfectly pretty mouth.
    ‘Which of course it is,’ said Mr Armitage, returning Perdita’s smile from underneath a neatly clipped moustache, ‘in theory. Equal opportunity in education is a perfectly sound ambition. The problem is, my dear, that in practice it will mean catering to the lowest ability and the brighter children will be held back.’
    ‘The brighter children or just selected children from privileged and richer families?’ Perdita asked, noting that her husband was staring fixedly into his teacup and shuffling uncomfortably in his chair.
    The headmaster, as headmasters are trained from birth to be, remained unflappable.
    ‘Some of our best pupils are county boys as we call them and not only do they not pay fees but many win scholarships from the various foundations and charities in the mining industry, which even covers the cost of their uniforms and their bus fares. As long as they are pupils at Ash Grange, our aim is to get as many of them as possible into the five per cent of young people who go on to university, whatever their background. If that is condoning privilege and selection, then so be it.’
    For the second time since they had entered school premises, a strident electric bell rang out, the sound bringing the same relief to Rupert as it would to an out-matched boxer reeling from a first round battering.
    ‘That’s the end of final period,’ said the headmaster, ‘and we should remove ourselves to the staff room where we can catch your new colleagues or at least some of them before they disappear.’
    ‘Do some of them live off the premises?’ Rupert asked, thinking it an innocent enough, non-political issue.
    ‘All of them,’ said Mr Armitage. ‘My wife and I are here all the time, of course, and the senior staff are on a rota. Two of them are on duty every night to supervise the boarders. We have about thirty boarders, mostly sons of army families, at the moment but Celia hopes we will have many more in the future. She rather likes the idea of being a den-mother. We never managed to have children of our own, you see.’
    Brigham Armitage eased himself from the captain’s chair and stood to attention behind his desk. He raised his right hand to his face, almost as if he were about to salute, but with finger and thumb stroked the wingtips of his moustache to ensure every individual hair was in its proper place, then he tugged down on the hem of his waistcoat and buttoned his jacket, all with clipped military movements.
    ‘If you would follow me, I’ll lead the way to the staff room,’ he announced, ‘if, that is, we can avoid being trampled by a herd of boys thundering to leave now that school is finished for the day, then I’ll give you a brief tour of the premises, just to get your basic bearings.’
    He ushered the young Campions towards his study door. ‘I am sure you have a preconceived notion of us,’ he said genially, ‘especially if you’ve read
Nicholas Nickleby
.’
    ‘You mean Dotheboys Hall?’ said Rupert with convincing innocence. ‘That thought had not crossed our minds.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sure it did. The comparison is always made by people from down south, but we have broad shoulders here in Yorkshire. We are used to being characterized as a race of skinflints who wear flat caps, like