Don’t tell me, another emotionally-repressed public school master?

Got it in one. The “Crock” is proof, yet again, that writers consider this the world’s least sexy profession. With the single exception of Jean Brodie your average fictional teacher is dead from the waist down. In Crocker-Harris’s case the heart is dead as well. Too much Greek and Latin plus a bitter relationship with wife Laura seem destined to send the Crock into an early grave.

But the boys love him really?

No. They refer to him as “Hitler of the Lower Fifth”.

His colleagues admire him though?

No, the headmaster is forcing him to retire for the good of his health - and everyone’s delighted.

But his wife, she cares for him deep down?

Nope. She prefers the science master, Frank Hunter. And proves it regularly.

Has this guy got anything going for him at all?

Just Taplow.

Is that just off junction 8 on the M4?

No, Taplow is a pupil, the only person who seems to have any respect for The Crock. He gives the old man a farewell present, Robert Browning’s translation of Aeschylus’s Agamemnon which reduces poor Crocker-Harris to tears.

Why? Is it a bad translation?

No it’s a metaphor, dummy. Agamemnon was slain by his faithless wife. Just as Andrew Crocker-Harris is dying daily from a lack of love. “I should have known for myself that I was not only not liked but positively disliked,” he admits making free with the double negatives. Emboldened by this new burst of self-knowledge Crocker-Harris does battle with the Head and insists on making his farewell speech exactly as he wants to do it.

He tells the boys he loves each and everyone of them?

Come off it. The Crock has a moment of self-revelation not a personality transplant. His great crie de coeur is that Britain’s schools need more Latin amp; Greek: “How can we mould civilised beings if we no longer believe in civilisation?” And does his wife come back to him?

No, but Frank Hunter dumps her.

This isn’t exactly a happy ever after is it?

Hell, no. In fact it bears out what the Crock has always told his pupils about marking essays. “You have got what you deserve. No more. No less.”

Isn’t it about time we had some happy fictional teachers?

Adrian Mourby