The governors of St Oswald’s were delighted that Gordon Stanmore was starting today as their new Head Teacher. The preceding head, Linda Brough, had been a classic case of promotion above her capabilities, and her failure to even attempt to relate to the management training provided left her totally unequipped to run a big school effectively. She retreated into paranoia, vindictiveness and random gestures, thoroughly demoralising all the staff except a couple of yes-women, a part-time teaching assistant and a secretary, with whom she felt superior and safe.

But, joy of joys, over the Easter holiday she’d fallen overboard on an Arctic cruise; the result, it was suspected, of having climbed up on the railings in search of a better mobile phone signal after drinking the equivalent of a whole bottle of vodka in the free bar. Her travelling companion Wendy, her friend all the way from their own schooldays, told the inquest that Linda had got it into her head to send an abusive text to her husband Bill, from whom she’d recently separated. Though she did not feel the need to mention it at the inquest, Wendy, who had on several occasions had it off with Bill practically under Linda’s piggy nose, was pleasantly reminded of those exciting times and did nothing to dissuade Linda from making a fool of herself.

The deputy head had done his best for the remainder of the school year, with a staff in buoyant mood now that the dead weight of Linda had been removed to the bottom of the Arctic Sea, from which it hadn’t been recovered. Meanwhile the advertisement for the head’s job had produced quite a crop of applicants, but Gordon Stanmore’s application was head and shoulders above the rest. He was already head of a league-table topping school serving east Cornwall, but wanted to move to North Yorkshire to be near to his elderly mother.

At his interview he’d given perfect answers to all their prepared questions and then had them in stitches with his tales of the class-room and staff room, even risking a couple of gentle anecdotes about his experiences of governors’ meetings, but avoiding anything dangerously subversive.

Little discussion was needed before the unanimous decision was made to offer him the job. And now the Chair of Governors and the deputy head were waiting in the Head Teacher’s office to welcome him to St Oswald’s to start the job of turning the school around. They had asked him to come in mid-morning as the Chair hadn’t fancied getting up too early.

Through the window they watched Gordon ride into the car-park and tether his horse to a bicycle rack.

Moments later Betty, the School Manager, brought him to the door.

‘ ’Morning all! Thanks Betty. Would you be kind enough to bring the bairns in when they wake up?’

Gordon shook hands vigorously. He was every inch the country horseman. Such tweeds and twills had never before been seen in St Oswald’s. He carried two leather bags, one a capacious satchel and one of the size and shape to contain a shotgun.

‘What a tonic! A good gallop over the Stray and I did for a couple of rabbits in the Valley Gardens. I say, there were a lot of poor sods stuck in the traffic everywhere, even at this time. Is that normal?’

‘Oh yes,’ said the Chair, ‘it’s pretty terrible all day long. You came by horse, it seems?’

‘That’s right; Jennifer, there she is, lovely girl. And what rhythm! The twins went right off to sleep even though we must have been doing thirty. Mind you, the gun woke them up for a while.’

‘The twins?’

‘Rory and Nick. Betty will soon hear them when they start up. I’ll need some volunteers to look after them. Thirteen year old girls usually first to put up their hands… which classes are having biology up to lunch-time?’

‘Just 7B,’ said the bemused deputy. He hoped Miss Khan had them under some semblance of control.

‘OK, you can take me to meet them in a minute,’ said Gordon. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, could I have the room to myself for a sec? I need to get changed.’

Outside the room the Chair beckoned to the deputy head and led him quickly down the corridor out of earshot.

‘What in heaven’s name?! Comes on a horse, and brings twin babies with him? I presume they are babies he’s talking about?’

‘Could be dogs, perhaps? Here’s Betty – will you pop out and have a look?’ She went off.

‘Yes, but even dogs…… but surely there can’t be any reason to worry. His references were fantastic.’

Betty reported back. ‘They’re babies all right, about six months, and that horse has just done something.’

Suddenly they heard loud music. Gordon appeared carrying a ghetto blaster, wiggling his bottom and long white legs to the salsa beat. He had changed into sandals and a Hawaiian shirt and shorts.

‘Some music to get us all in the mood,’ he beamed. ‘Let’s go and meet the kids.’

At least it wasn’t rap, though the deputy. He wasn’t yet aware that rap would feature on Thursday afternoon, after half a day each of Baroque, electropop, plainchant, African drumming, and grand opera, with many more genres to take their turn later.

It would be a couple of weeks before trad jazz came round, the deputy’s particular favourite, and he would be impressed with Gordon’s choices.

In fact by then he’d be impressed with Gordon in every way. The horse, the twins and the shotgun were fantastic teaching aids, and all over the school teams of students were engrossed in weighing, measuring, and inventing, to an accompaniment of gamelan one day or Sinatra another. Various solutions to Harrogate’s traffic jams had been presented to the council, via an interactive web site of the childrens’ own devising. Gordon’s mother and the twins had been incorporated in an art installation and ‘Jennifer the musical’ was under development. Everything was going to be fine.

Linda’s acolyte, the teaching assistant Dawn, was not so happy. For one thing the only music she liked, X Factor-style power ballads, hadn’t come up and never would. She had also been unenthusiastic when asked to microwave horse manure and dispose of squirrels that Gordon had shot and brought in for dissection.

‘They’re going to bring Linda up,’ said Bill out of the blue, disturbing Wendy’s rhythm.

‘For God’s sake, Bill.’ She disengaged and lay down with her back to him. ‘You’ve put me right off. What are you talking about?’

‘They’ve found her body. I’ve told them I don’t want it. They should leave it where they found it.’

‘So why don’t they?’

‘Because the new head’s got involved. He’s all excited about it, thinks it’ll fit in well to Key Stage something-or-other.’

‘It’s none of his business, surely?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so. But he’s got the kids looking into the legalities.’

‘Whatever for? They can’t have her body in the bloody school.’

‘No, they’ll put it back apparently. He just wants to take photos and that sort of thing. And to see if she’s got the stockroom key in one of her pockets.’