Chapter Text
Tuesday, 2 September
The first day of the academic year descended upon Darrowby with a sky the precise colour of a freshly washed slate and a crispness in the air that carried the melancholic, yet pleasing, scent of damp earth and turning leaves. Siegfried Farnon manoeuvred his 2004 Rover 75 Tourer, a vehicle of distinction, regardless of the slander his brother frequently levelled against it, into the pristine tarmac of the car park at precisely 7:30 am. He was the first to arrive. He always was. It was a matter of principle; the golden hour of silence before the onslaught of humanity was the only time he could truly prepare his mental fortifications for the day ahead.
The new Darrowby Primary School stood before him: a consolidation of the village schools of Darrowby, Houlton, and Rainby. The old schools had been crumbling, yes, Victorian piles of weather-beaten sandstone where the plumbing sang a mournful opera and the roofs shed tiles like autumn leaves, but they had possessed soul. They were buildings that had withstood two wars, the reigns of five monarchs, and over a century of Yorkshire winters. However, the powers that be had decided that history was inefficient. To house the swelling ranks of two hundred pupils, they had erected this… facility. Parents cooed over the cavernous gymnasium; teachers marvelled at the staffroom with the latest stainless steel appliances and space to relax during their breaks. Everyone was delighted. Everyone, that is, except Siegfried Farnon.
Siegfried mourned the loss of the old school. He had spent twenty-one years within those sandstone walls, and they had suited him perfectly. He held a deep, philosophical objection to the encroachment of modern technology into the sacred space of the classroom. To his mind, it produced intellectually lethargic pupils, utterly incapable of critical thought unless a computer did the heavy lifting for them. When he had formally requested a blackboard, a tool of honest, albeit dusty instruction, the Headmistress, Mrs Marjorie Pumphrey, had laughed gaily. “We must move with the times, Mr Farnon! You shall have a Smart Board, just like everyone else. The children need to be exposed to the technology they’ll one day work with.”
Siegfried had lodged a formal complaint regarding the alarming fetishisation of technology, but it had fallen on deaf ears. He was deeply concerned that his students were destined to become thumb-scrolling automatons, too busy navigating "apps" to navigate the complexities of long division. To his mind, the modern classroom was a sensory assault, a kaleidoscope of beeps, notifications, and glowing pixels designed to overload the parietal lobe until the children’s concentration spans were reduced to that of a gnat. He feared he was witnessing the atrophy of critical thought, replaced entirely by the dopamine hit of endless scrolling. For the past three years, he had found himself explaining repeatedly and emphatically that a fifteen-second video of a teenager dancing in a kitchen on TikTok was neither a primary nor secondary source regarding the Industrial Revolution.
He surveyed the building now. Constructed of honey-coloured stone that looked suspiciously like veneer and vast sheets of glass, it was sterile, clinical, and aggressively soulless. It looked less like a place of learning and more like a call centre for a failing insurance firm. The old school had cracks in the foundation, certainly, but those cracks had character. This glass monstrosity was a stranger he had no desire to become acquainted with. Nevertheless, Siegfried retrieved his briefcase, straightened his tie, smoothed the lapels of his tweed jacket, and let himself in with a key fob. The interior smelled of disinfectant and industrial paint. His brogues squeaked indignantly on the polished floor, a sterile silence that Siegfried knew would soon be shattered by the muddy chaos of two hundred children.
He marched to his classroom, pausing to glare at the plastic slat beside the door: YEAR 4. BADGER CLASS. Mr S Farnon. He was still harbouring a profound resentment over the animal assignment. Badgers. Temperamental, nocturnal, grumpy creatures prone to biting. He felt Mrs Pumphrey was making a subtle commentary on his character. He would have preferred the dignity of the Horse, or the cunning of the Fox. He would have even tolerated the Otters. But no, he was to lead the Badgers. With a long-suffering sigh that echoed down the empty corridor, he unlocked the door and flicked on the lights. It was time to do battle with the Smart Board before the students arrived.
By 8:10 am, Siegfried’s struggle with technology had escalated to a volume that attracted the attention of his much younger brother, who had been strolling toward his own domain, Year 1 Bumblebee Class. Tristan Farnon looked irritatingly cheerful as he leaned against the doorframe.
“Technology got you down, big brother?” Tristan grinned, viewing the scene with the detached amusement of a man who didn’t care about standards.
“Don’t you have crayons to sort, Tristan?” Siegfried snapped, not looking up from the tangled nest of cables. He yanked out the HDMI cord, glared at it, reinserted it with force, and rebooted the system for the third time. The screen remained stubbornly blue. “I am attempting to facilitate an education here, not launch a shuttle to the moon.”
“I thought after school today you, me, James, and Helen could meet at the Drovers,” Tristan continued, undeterred. “Unwind. Decompress. It promises to be an exciting first day, after all. 200 students all in one building… Can you imagine the noise?”
“Not now, Tristan. Can’t you see that this infernal ‘Smart’ Board is actively sabotaging my preparation time?” Siegfried’s frustration was mounting and his temper was close to exploding. “It is a malignant glowing rectangle designed solely to torment me.”
“Why don’t you go and ask Mrs Hall for help? The librarian?” Tristan suggested, stuffing something in his mouth. “She’s brilliant at this sort of thing. She set up my projector on the INSET day while I… supervised.”
“I do not need a librarian. I got along just fine at the old school without one,” Siegfried scoffed, straightening up. “I need this useless technology to cease being forced upon me! It is a barrier to real learning. Plato didn’t need an HDMI cable.”
“Only a barrier if you can’t get it to work,” Tristan grinned.
Siegfried shot him a withering glare that could have curdled milk, but Tristan was immune to such things after twenty-five years of being Siegfried’s younger brother.
“Look,” Tristan sighed. “Take a break from HAL and the 2001: A Space Odyssey fever dream you’re having. Go to the staffroom. Mrs Hall made a fresh pot of tea, and she brought muffins. Homemade. They’re actually delicious, even better than that café we sometimes stop at on our way in to work.”
Siegfried groaned, a sound of temporary resignation. “I need to run off some handouts on the photocopier regardless. I suppose I might as well ingest some caffeine while I am there. But I refuse to grovel to a librarian for technical support. I would rather tear this interactive abomination off the wall with my bare hands.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and, in a monotone voice, mimicked, “I’m afraid I can’t let you do that, Dave.”
In the staffroom, the faculty had gathered to partake in tea and the aforementioned muffins. The room was a sanctuary of beige upholstery, white tiled floors, and ivory-coloured cupboards. James Herriot, the Year 5 teacher of Kestrel Class, sat with his wife Helen, who managed the chaotic energy of the Reception, or Hedgehog, Class. They had migrated from the old Darrowby school with the Farnons, a tight-knit unit forged in the fires of Ofsted inspections and pub lunches. Diana Brompton, opinionated, fashionable, and sharp, was the teacher of Year 3 Hare Class, and had arrived from the Rainby school with Gerald Hammond, a gentle, soft-spoken man, who presided over Year 6 Red Stag Class.
Rounding out this motley crew was Richard Carmody, a young man who looked perpetually startled by the presence of children. Carmody’s ambition lay in teaching at the university-level, but a reversal of family fortunes had forced him into the primary sector. He was currently tasked with Year 2 Squirrel Class, a demographic entirely unsuited to a man who used words like "pedagogical" and "recalcitrant" in casual conversation. He sat in the corner, looking as if he were trying to solve a quadratic equation in his head.
Upon entering the staffroom, Siegfried made a beeline for the tea pot and poured himself a cup. He was desperate to feel the caffeine shooting through his veins, hoping it would assist him in solving his technological woes.
“Siegfried!” James stood and greeted him with an enthusiasm that Siegfried found frankly exhausting after his earlier battle with technology. “Ready for the first day?”
Siegfried opened his mouth to unleash a litany of grievances regarding the soulless architecture and the impertinent whiteboard, but Tristan cut in.
“It’s too early for the lecture, James. The technology has threatened a hostile takeover of his classroom, and he’s losing the war.”
“Oh, you should see Mrs Hall,” James beamed, oblivious to the thundercloud forming on Siegfried’s brow. “I was locked out of the Staff Portal this morning, something about permissions, and she sorted it in a jiffy. She’s a wizard with the system.”
Siegfried let out a pained groan. “If I have to hear one more eulogy for this bloody librarian…”
“Relax, Siegfried. She’s incredibly helpful,” Helen chimed in, nursing a cup of tea. “And you should see what she’s done with the library. It’s less like a book repository and more like a…”
“A reading oasis,” Tristan finished, looking pleased with himself for coming up with the phrase.
“That sounds like a grotesque misuse of public funds,” Siegfried grumbled, sipping his tea. “Children need books and shelves to keep them on. They do not need to pretend they are in Narnia. If they are actually reading, the décor should be irrelevant. Imagination takes place in the mind, not on the wallpaper.”
“Come on, Siegfried,” Helen chided gently. “You know how important environment is. It makes them feel welcome and they’ll be more likely to pick up a book.”
“It makes them feel coddled,” he retorted. “It’s style over substance. Much like the Smart Boards.”
To an outsider, Siegfried’s abrasive curmudgeonry might have seemed rude, but the staff knew better and ignored him. Outside of the Herriots and his brother, most staff would likely describe him as an “acquired taste.” He was an engaging, brilliant, if bombastic, educator whose class consistently achieved top marks on end-of-term assessments, largely due to his high expectations for them and genuine inspiration. Siegfried didn’t lecture his students; they acted out his lessons. They didn’t just learn about the Romans; they became the Romans. His methods were exceptional and his students loved him. So, the staff knew his bluster proceeded from a deep, if loudly voiced, care for standards. They also knew that his hatred of bureaucracy, technology, and change was the only thing more reliable than the tides.
And this Mrs Hall, with her technical wizardry and "reading oases," had already made his list. He made a mental note to steer a wide berth around the woman. More than likely, she was one of those librarians who wore her glasses on a chain and smelled of mothballs and Murray Mints, counting down the days to retirement by interfering in other people’s business. She sounded like one of those insufferable know-it-alls who believed efficiency was a personality trait.
Well, he wasn’t going to have it.
“Siegfried,” James said, a fine dusting of blueberry muffin crumbs cascading from his mouth down the front of his jumper, “Mrs Hall is a wonderful person. Truly. She was the backbone of the Houlton school for the past three years. Tristan and I met her at the Festival of Education last year, you remember, when you were arguing with that professor about rote learning? She’s incredibly kind and passionate about literacy—”
“Mmm, these muffins are positively sinful!” Dorothy chimed in from the table where the muffins sat. She was the school’s Office Manager, and had also migrated from the Houlton school along with Mrs Hall and Richard Carmody.
“I have heard quite enough about this Mrs Hall and those blasted muffins.” Siegfried deposited his empty teacup into the sink with a clatter and smoothed his tie. “I have work to do.”
He stalked over to the photocopier, a large, sullen grey beast that occupied the corner of the staffroom. He placed his worksheet, a handwritten, masterfully constructed set of long multiplication problems, onto the glass and pressed the large green button.
The machine responded immediately, not with the whir of industry, but with a series of piercing, rhythmic beeps that sounded suspiciously like mockery.
“Confound it!” Siegfried bellowed. The display flashed a cryptic red error code. In a fit of temper, he tore open the first paper tray, found it full, slammed it shut, and proceeded to assault the remaining three trays with equal vigour. The beeping continued, unabated.
“Insolent piece of rubbish! You’d think with a new school we’d get a machine that actually works!” He raised a flat hand, prepared to strike the machine’s flank, but before he could make contact, a voice floated up from his right.
“Rough start to the day, Mr Farnon?”
He turned his head toward the soft lilt of a Yorkshire accent. He found himself looking into the dark blue eyes of a woman who was regarding him with an expression that sat somewhere between pity and amusement.
“What do you think?” he snapped, abandoning pleasantries entirely.
“Oh, well, it’s not all as bad as that, surely,” she smiled, stepping forward with a calm authority that made him pause. “Let’s have a look at the screen, shall we? Usually tells us exactly where the bother lies.”
She didn’t wait for his permission. She stepped into his personal space, peered at the flashing red light, and pressed a sequence of buttons with infuriating confidence. Then, she unlatched the side transport door, a panel Siegfried hadn’t even realised existed.
It dawned on him then. The capability. The helpfulness. The interfering. Taken aback, he looked at her for a long minute. She was not the mothball-scented matron with glasses on a chain he had expected. He didn’t linger too long on that thought, though. He had mathematics to duplicate.
“Ah,” he said, his tone curdling. “You must be Mrs Hall. The woman beatified by the staff for her technological miracles.”
Mrs Hall didn’t look up. She reached carefully into the guts of the machine, near the fuser unit. “Technology doesn’t need a miracle to work, Mr Farnon. It’s only ever as smart as the human working it.”
She gently extracted a crumpled, concertinaed piece of paper, closed the side door with a satisfying click, and stepped back. The machine whirred to life, happily spitting out his multiplication problems.
She turned to him then, her eyes twinkling. And that irritated him.
“Yes, well,” Siegfried cleared his throat, his cheeks flushing a faint, betraying pink. “Thank you for that. That will be all, Mrs Hall. In the future, I can assure you I am perfectly capable of solving my own problems.”
“I have no doubt,” she said, her voice remaining maddeningly polite.
“Now,” he muttered, patting the pockets of his waistcoat, “where did my glasses walk off to?” He began to scan the surface of the photocopier, lifting his stack of warm paper.
“On your head,” Mrs Hall answered helpfully.
Siegfried froze. He reached up and felt the familiar wire frames nestled in his hair. He lowered his hand quickly, hoping to salvage some shred of dignity.
“And my register?” he asked, his tone dripping with pre-emptive sarcasm, daring her to know.
“Jacket. Left pocket.”
He paused, then patted the front pocket of his tweed jacket. There was the distinct crinkle of the register, folded exactly where he had put it five minutes ago.
“If you’ll be needing anything else—”
“Thank you, Mrs Hall, but I do not require your assistance.” He turned his back on her with a theatrical swivel, pretending to concentrate intensely on the collating of his worksheets.
“Have a lovely morning, Mr Farnon,” she called out before walking away. He swore the tone of her voice was laced with amusement.
The woman had already gotten on his nerves, and the school bell hadn’t even rung.
At 8:35 am, Siegfried marched down the corridor toward his classroom, his footsteps heavy with dread. He still had to contend with the Smart Board. The thought of wrestling with HDMI cables and input sources before the school bell rang at 8:45 made his stomach turn. He sighed, steeling himself for the inevitable battle against the digital age.
He entered his classroom and stopped dead in his tracks.
The Smart Board was on. It was not displaying a "No Signal" error, nor a blue screen of death. It was projecting his desktop perfectly: the photograph he had taken of a skylark rising from the heather last April, during a camping trip to the moors he had undertaken specifically for birdwatching.
He was speechless. He blinked, wondering if perhaps James or Helen had staged an intervention.
He walked slowly to his desk. The laptop was neatly connected, the cables coiled with military precision. Lying across his keyboard was a small piece of lavender-coloured stationery.
He picked it up. The cursive handwriting was as though it was from another era, neat, looped, and admittedly lovely to look at.
Tristan mentioned the whiteboard was being unkind to you, so I thought I’d pop in and sort it. It can be a bit tricky logging on for the first time. I’m here to help with the technology, Mr Farnon. I look forward to getting a question that actually stumps me, and I’m sure you’ll be the one to ask it. – AH
Siegfried stared at the note. He looked up at the skylark on the screen, then back down at the lavender paper. A ghost of a smile, reluctant, barely there, touched his lips before he caught himself. He cleared his throat loudly in the empty room.
“Annoying woman,” he mumbled to the empty desks.
He folded the note carefully, however, and slipped it into his pocket, right next to his register. He found himself wondering, briefly, what the A stood for.