Mr J. P. Ponsonby-Smythe, the headmaster in his retirement dinner speech, brandished a whippy crook-handled cane, swished it through the air and declaimed to the 300 Old Boys present, ‘Discipline is the backbone of the Empire.’
They cheered lustily. Wasn’t he a card.
‘Proper discipline made England what she is today and with continued discipline, we shall continue to be great.’
He gulped more whisky and spoke without notes. In his mind he was back in School Hall. ‘The Socialists are marching. They are coming for us. They want to destroy all that is good in our nationhood. Replace us with the mediocre. It is the politics of envy.’
The cheering soared to a crescendo. Feet stomped. They were fifteen years old again roaring on the school’s rugby team.
‘We must stand up to their Gestapo. They want to destroy our school. Only when we are all sent to concentration camps will they be satisfied.’
‘Be prepared. Every man in the school’s Office Training Corp is ready. Our very survival is at stake.’
From the back of the room a strong voice sang familiar words. The room hushed. The sweet song rang through the crowded hall. Then another voice joined in. Then another. The rafters rocked with the words of the School Song. With tears flowing down cheeks, they stood as one and lustily sang. They were on the march.
At the weekend, the local newspaper reported only that the headmaster was presented with a refrigerator as a retirement gift.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 