ships. Zigzags and big black and white stripes, that sort of thing, to break up the outlines and confuse the enemy.
‘And next to that is my personal favourite: a Yorkshire scene by a Victorian painter of the old school, as it were. That’s one of Atkinson Grimshaw’s views of Whitby harbour at evening. Grimshaw was a Leeds man, but I don’t hold that against him. He’s often looked down on as a journeyman painter, slightly mechanical perhaps, and clearly no Turner.’
‘But you know what you like!’ Perdita said cheekily.
‘We usually do in Yorkshire,’ said Mr Armitage stiffly, ‘and being Yorkshiremen we naturally ignore the rather snooty comments of so-called art critics.’
‘Not just those critics based in London and the south?’ asked Rupert gently.
‘I thought all critics were based in London,’ the headmaster said casually whilst aiming a steely stare at his goddaughter. ‘Especially theatre critics.’
‘Well, we certainly don’t pay them any heed, do we?’ Perdita bristled.
‘We wouldn’t give
their
opinions house-room in Yorkshire, my dear … my dear Miss Browning.’
‘Good for you, Headmaster, and whatever my hus— Whatever Mr Campion thinks, I like your Atkinson Grimshaw.’
Rupert, who could not remember passing an opinion on the painting, bit his tongue and remained silent.
‘Thank you. He is an artist who is yet to have his day, I feel. I bought that canvas ten years ago for seventy pounds and I look on it as a sound investment. It’s going to be worth a pretty penny one day. But enough of my hobby. The working day of a headmaster extends long after the last day bell has gone and I want you to meet at least some of the staff before they disappear, so let us proceed to the Dragons’ Den, as the boys call it.’
Mr Armitage indicated they should continue down the corridor which ended in a small hallway, where a set of incongruously modern stairs rose to the first-floor level providing a bridge to a more recent extension to the house. As the stairs were clearly in use by a trickle of departing schoolboys all wearing relieved expressions, it was a safe assumption that they led to a series of classrooms. On the far side of the stairwell was a polished oak door with a shiny brass plate proclaiming: staff room.
In any school, particularly in the early morning before assembly and at going-home time in the afternoon, a headmaster has to take on the role of a traffic policeman on point duty. It was a clearly a role which came naturally to Brigham Armitage, who stepped into the midstream of pupils descending the stairs, one arm raised to halt traffic, the other waving the Campions across the hall to the safety of the staff room.
Their crossing should have been unremarkable and without hazard, despite Perdita having to smother a giggle at the sudden thought of Mr Armitage assuming the responsibilities of the Tufty Club, were it not for a sudden commotion at the top of the stairs just as the Campions were being given right-of-way across the bottom.
‘Oh, do get out of my way, you stupid boys! I have a bus to catch.’
The owner of that angry feminine voice appeared through a scrum of startled boys, all of whom melted to the side of the staircase to allow the bustling tornado to pass freely. It was a woman of late middle-age, very tall and very thin, who clearly demonstrated that her elbows were sharp and that she could use them destructively. She wore a double-breasted brown-and-grey check plaid wool coat and a beige hat of plush sheepskin which could only be described as bucket-shaped.
She descended the stairs in a fury, using the handbag she clutched to bat away any boy who might obstruct her progress, and for a second Perdita thought the woman could not have seen them in their little tableau at the foot of the stairs, directly in her path.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, move!’ the woman snapped at a startled boy who consequently dropped his satchel in panic.
The woman’s
‘And next to that is my personal favourite: a Yorkshire scene by a Victorian painter of the old school, as it were. That’s one of Atkinson Grimshaw’s views of Whitby harbour at evening. Grimshaw was a Leeds man, but I don’t hold that against him. He’s often looked down on as a journeyman painter, slightly mechanical perhaps, and clearly no Turner.’
‘But you know what you like!’ Perdita said cheekily.
‘We usually do in Yorkshire,’ said Mr Armitage stiffly, ‘and being Yorkshiremen we naturally ignore the rather snooty comments of so-called art critics.’
‘Not just those critics based in London and the south?’ asked Rupert gently.
‘I thought all critics were based in London,’ the headmaster said casually whilst aiming a steely stare at his goddaughter. ‘Especially theatre critics.’
‘Well, we certainly don’t pay them any heed, do we?’ Perdita bristled.
‘We wouldn’t give
their
opinions house-room in Yorkshire, my dear … my dear Miss Browning.’
‘Good for you, Headmaster, and whatever my hus— Whatever Mr Campion thinks, I like your Atkinson Grimshaw.’
Rupert, who could not remember passing an opinion on the painting, bit his tongue and remained silent.
‘Thank you. He is an artist who is yet to have his day, I feel. I bought that canvas ten years ago for seventy pounds and I look on it as a sound investment. It’s going to be worth a pretty penny one day. But enough of my hobby. The working day of a headmaster extends long after the last day bell has gone and I want you to meet at least some of the staff before they disappear, so let us proceed to the Dragons’ Den, as the boys call it.’
Mr Armitage indicated they should continue down the corridor which ended in a small hallway, where a set of incongruously modern stairs rose to the first-floor level providing a bridge to a more recent extension to the house. As the stairs were clearly in use by a trickle of departing schoolboys all wearing relieved expressions, it was a safe assumption that they led to a series of classrooms. On the far side of the stairwell was a polished oak door with a shiny brass plate proclaiming: staff room.
In any school, particularly in the early morning before assembly and at going-home time in the afternoon, a headmaster has to take on the role of a traffic policeman on point duty. It was a clearly a role which came naturally to Brigham Armitage, who stepped into the midstream of pupils descending the stairs, one arm raised to halt traffic, the other waving the Campions across the hall to the safety of the staff room.
Their crossing should have been unremarkable and without hazard, despite Perdita having to smother a giggle at the sudden thought of Mr Armitage assuming the responsibilities of the Tufty Club, were it not for a sudden commotion at the top of the stairs just as the Campions were being given right-of-way across the bottom.
‘Oh, do get out of my way, you stupid boys! I have a bus to catch.’
The owner of that angry feminine voice appeared through a scrum of startled boys, all of whom melted to the side of the staircase to allow the bustling tornado to pass freely. It was a woman of late middle-age, very tall and very thin, who clearly demonstrated that her elbows were sharp and that she could use them destructively. She wore a double-breasted brown-and-grey check plaid wool coat and a beige hat of plush sheepskin which could only be described as bucket-shaped.
She descended the stairs in a fury, using the handbag she clutched to bat away any boy who might obstruct her progress, and for a second Perdita thought the woman could not have seen them in their little tableau at the foot of the stairs, directly in her path.
‘Oh for goodness’ sake, move!’ the woman snapped at a startled boy who consequently dropped his satchel in panic.
The woman’s
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