A New Dawn

Over the past week I’ve been wondering how Eton could change when Simon Henderson, the incoming headmaster, takes over. I imagine any changes will be minimal at first, since Eton is an inherently conservative institution and not subject to the whims of fashion. Yet who knows, maybe Mr Henderson has plans for a revolution that could fundamentally change the school, for better or worse. Letting my imagine run away with me somewhat, I wrote the following story about a possible Etonian dystopia under the new headmaster.

__________________________________________

Hubert awoke with a jolt. He lay still for a moment, then felt his forehead with the palm of his hand; it was dripping with sweat. The same nightmare he'd experienced each night for the past week had woken him up again. The one with his house master standing over him, bloodshot eyes, beating him for missing that goal in Junior League.

He felt for his watch in the darkness and located it under his pillow. Twenty past five. Ten minutes left till wake up.

His body had got used to the early starts by now. The first week had been awful, waking up at six every morning. But now it was just routine. Even when they'd pushed it forward half an hour after the leggit it hadn't disrupted him greatly. He spent most of his days in a daze now. Surviving mostly.

The bell rang harshly and he scuttled out of bed. Grabbing his towel from the hook he made his way to the showers, joining the throng of other boys on their way. No-one said a word to each other. The rules were simple: no talking, two minutes under the shower, and shampoo once a week. A CCTV camera watched them from the corner of the room.

Back in his room Hubert changed into a sports outfit. Black polo shirt, black shorts and black socks. The Eton blue was a distant memory. He walked downstairs and out into the driveway where the whole house was forming itself into perfect, straight rows. He joined the back of the E block one and looked ahead at a boy facing all of the boys. It was the house captain, Chapman. In his right hand was a thick, wooden cane.

The bell rang again and Dr Gruel, the house master, appeared. Slowly, he walked over and joined Chapman in front of the D blockers.

‘Any absences today?’ he asked the boy.

‘None today, sir.’

‘And any incidents in the night?’

‘Just a couple. They were dealt with’

They spoke tersely, like military officers. The house watched them, and listened as they made the announcements for the day. Senior League to play on Agars. D block to run ten miles ahead of the Steeplechase. The list went on, but there was only one thing on everyone's mind - who would get it today?

The moment came eventually. Dr Gruel cleared his throat and drew out his pocket book. In it was the name of the boy who had disappointed him the day before.

'Jenkins!', he shouted.

Everyone's head turned. There at the front of the F block queue stood Peter Jenkins, his bottom trembling and a tear already forming at the corner of his eye. Yesterday Hubert had seem him drop his pen in front of Dr Grue. That must have been it

'Come here!' Chapman ordered, taking control.

With his knees wobbling, Jenkins made his way towards the two figures. On reaching them he dropped to his knees and positioned his buttocks in the air to face his house captain.

'Thwack!' The first hit struck the flesh like a rifle shot. The boy squealed pathetically.

'Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!' The blows continued and the yelps of pain increased. Eventually the torture stopped.

After the beating there was an hour and a half’s fitness on South Meadow. Today it was relay races with sacks of bricks. Several people collapsed from exhaustion and were wheeled off to the Sanatorium.

As Hubert nibbled at his cold toast at breakfast later he wondered how it had got to this. Since Henderson's arrival everything had changed. All the comforts and pleasures of school life had gone and been replaced with a boot camp-style existence. Although everyone he knew had complained to their parents, nothing had come of it. They had already been told in advance that this was a world-beating educational approach.

Over time a cult had grown up around the new headmaster. A picture of his face now adorned every classroom wall, and impressive-sounding quotes attributed to him were read out in chapel. One EW per week was dedicated to studying his life achievements.    

Some of the beaks had resisted the change. They were soon got rid of, often in the middle of the night. A new, obedient beak was then installed by next div, as if nothing had happened. One elderly master was even dragged away from the lunch table and bundled into the back of a van by two burly security, never to be heard of again. Any remaining resistance among the staff dissipated soon after this.

The only way to get ahead in this new Eton was to please the people with power. These included the house masters, the house captains and members of Pop. Money was the main way immunity could be obtained - one C blocker had already paid five figures to buy the house captaincy for next year. But not everyone could afford it, Hubert among them. The only hope for these unfortunates was to pray that the nightmare would end. ‘Please God, let Tony Little come back' were the last words he thought each night.