Private Matters: An Independent Education Where Not Everything Is Traditional

By Mairi Fraser

Charles Hamilton, esteemed Headmaster of the independent Bartford Academy, finds himself torn between professional fulfilment and a desire to escape private complexities.

As the leader of one of Britain’s most prestigious boarding schools, the embattled teacher must perform daily struggles, with a range of suffocating and self-absorbed characters, resulting in growing personal doubt and a worrying reduction in spirit.

Private Matters offers a witty and wistful observation of the great British boarding school, its complex tapestry and myriad colourful lives within.

As Summer Term ends, Bartford’s once-familiar landscape undergoes complete transformation, revealing an intricate web of relationships, challenging the institution’s longstanding traditions and, possibly, stakeholder perception.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Sep 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9781035809035

Mairi Fraser

Mairi’s career has taken her from the front line of Fleet Street’s urban jungle to the UK's most rural pastures and assorted pleasures of working from the kitchen table. Along the journey, she has been a picture editor, feature writer, columnist, and after-dinner speaker, when she recanted tales of journalistic experience and endeavour, delivered with a strong dose of humour and a good dollop of self-deprecation. Private Matters is Mairi’s first attempt at putting pen to paper without a news editor bearing down and a deadline approaching.

Book preview

About the Author

Mairi’s career has taken her from the front line of Fleet Street’s urban jungle to the UK’s most rural pastures and assorted pleasures of working from the kitchen table.

Along the journey, she has been a picture editor, feature writer, columnist, and after-dinner speaker, when she recanted tales of journalistic experience and endeavour, delivered with a strong dose of humour and a good dollop of self-deprecation.

Private Matters is Mairi’s first attempt at putting pen to paper without a news editor bearing down and a deadline approaching.

Dedication

This book was written with the very generous support, inspiration and patience of Charlie, Schube and designer Douglas Colqhoun, without whom it would not have been possible.

Copyright Information ©

Mairi Fraser 2023

The right of Mairi Fraser to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781035809028 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781035809035 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

1 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5AA

Acknowledgement

A book is never the work of a single person and this one is no exception. While every character within Private Matters is entirely fictitious, inspiration has been drawn from many sources: distant personalities, personal experience, third-party anecdotes and an over-active imagination.

Of course, the leading lady in this book is Bartford Academy herself, the framework on which all other school life hangs. The traditional British boarding school has had its set-backs, but its role within the country’s fabric should never be underestimated, providing not just fine education, but employment, security and structure to countless thousands within its community.

I would like to thank those in the know for their professional insight, generosity of spirit and team ethos in helping me with this book. All these traits were offered in boundless quantities, a reflection of the great organisation itself.

Chapter One

In the Beginning: Charles

Heads were supposed to be enthusiastic about the start of term. In fact, Heads were supposed to be enthusiastic about every part of the term: end, middle and beginning. That was their remit and supposed raison d’etre.

However, this Head was feeling less than positive about the forthcoming months.

Charles Hamilton, was, he had to privately admit, feeling the strain of age.

The large, oak-panelled study in which he now sat, shrouded him in silence, providing a barrier to the cacophony of daily school life.

Fingers steepled, he wondered, had the portraits of former incumbents always look so pleased with themselves? Charles removed his half-moon glasses, rubbing at the unsightly mark left on the bridge of his nose.

Beside him, on the grand mantelpiece, a small wooden metronome ticked repeatedly. A present from a former pupil, engraved with the effusive phrase, You made every second count.

Charles let out a loud sigh. He was safe in the knowledge that Prudence, his relentlessly efficient, but frequently brusque, self-styled personal assistant—hadn’t he employed a secretary?—was out on the school’s front lawns, making final arrangements for tomorrow’s arrival of all pupils.

Ah, yes, the pupils. Or should he refer to them as clients? Customers even? The continual pressure on intake numbers ground him down. Like the morphing of secretary to PA, he was unsure when he had crossed the divide from respected educationalist to front-line sales person.

A sudden stab of reality shot through the beleaguered Head. Looking at the picture of his fearsome father on the desk, he could hear Archibald Hamilton, himself a teacher, although never rising to the dizzy heights of Headship, almost hissing out the words: Pull yourself together, boy. How could such a short phrase have such a long impact? The late Mr H was a commanding character and definitely not one to indulge pre-term doubt. ‘Pull myself together indeed. Bloody 59, and my father’s still telling me what to do,’ Charles thought gloomily.

Outside, the mowers were starting. Like the first cuckoo of Spring, their sound an unmistakeable clarion to the start of Autumn Term at Bartford Academy, an ‘Independent School of international standing’.

Chapter Two

New Neighbours: The Romanos

Sol Romano had found his Nirvana. At least he thought he had. While many would say that making a living in the far-off Caribbean was their ideal lifestyle, Sol had tired of the relentless sun and incestuous world of the ex-pat community.

So here he was. Back in his ancestral country. Master of all he surveyed. Leader of the pack. King of the castle.

That had been the idea, but having been in his ‘large, rustic hunting lodge with adjacent 30 acres’ which, according to the estate agent’s blurb, had been open to interpretation and a wonderfully blank canvas on which to make one’s own mark, for nearly a month, Sol was rapidly realising he was most certainly not the master. A more truthful version: he was a beleaguered cash-cow, beholden to the vagaries of local tradesmen and, almost as irritatingly, local wildlife.

Was it normal, he’d wondered, to have deer stripping the surface from your teak patio furniture or mice partying at the expense of your larder?

The protected Pipistrelle bats he’d found nesting in the outbuilding with plenty of potential, subject to the usual planning constraints, had been a particular bug-bear. Suddenly the lure of continual sunshine and rented mansions seemed very attractive.

Sol was an intelligent man, used to the finer things in life and to people doing as he wanted, immediately. His Italian heritage stemmed from paternal grandparents having fled their war-torn homeland, heading for the safer shores of Britain in the early 1940s. Grandfather Antonio had, apparently, despite living in suburban Milano, always harboured a dream to be surrounded by countryside. Arriving at the gloomy port, Antonio and his young wife, Martina, had set down roots just a mile from the ship and struggled financially while starting and building their cake and pasty business.

Sadly, they never made it out of the city. Sol’s father Piero and then his sisters, Greta and Lucia, were a great blessing but also a large financial burden. The market for sweet things lay in the recovering city and so it was there that the family stayed. Although the three children played among dustbins of the mean-streets, theirs was a well-structured upbringing, nestled in the warm embrace of committed parents.

A lifetime of hard work and worry struck down poor Antonio at the tender age of 48. Piero assumed the role of head of house, together with being the head of the blossoming bakery business. The family continued to live in their urban surrounds.

By the time Piero had met and married Chiara, business was booming. Money was not a problem for the happy couple but, despite a lot of enthusiastic trying, their union only produced one offspring, Sol Antonio.

The child was bright and eager for education, deciding early that sweating in a cake shop—however rewarding—was very definitely not for him. A degree in Economics from Manchester University, swiftly followed by an MBA while training at a large accountancy firm, yielded the required escape route. Along this career trajectory, the dark and brooding Sol Romano acquired a light and warm young wife, the lovely Melanie; children Violetta and Casper completing the picture.

At first, the new family frequented the affluent ‘burbs’ before an unmissable opportunity to join a renewable energy market start-up in Barbados, saw the foursome decamp to sunnier climes. For over a decade, living the decadent lifestyle of the tax-free, the brilliant, but ever-so-slightly arrogant, Sol, sat in his air-conditioned office making millions. Violetta and Casper, were moved to the very best British schools’ money could buy, the lovely ‘Mel’ hopping back and forth across The Pond on frequent, but usually unnecessarily extravagant, shopping trips.

Tragically, it was on one of those frivolous outings when Mel concentrated too much on her new Manolo Blahnik’s and not enough on the oncoming traffic of London’s King’s Road.

The family managed to make it to her bedside, but that was all, she never regained consciousness, posing away just 48 hours later.

That had been nearly three years’ ago. Initially, Sol continuing in the Caribbean, the children at school in the UK, holidays spent yoyoing between friends and relatives. Quiet, sensitive, Casper accepted the situation, retreating to a world of stoic study. Not so Violetta, railing against the tragedy, disruptive at school, quickly expelled from two establishments, now on a very sticky wicket at the third. Sol understood her anger—having many very dark moments himself—but he despaired of his recalcitrant offspring.

The answer, possibly, had been to retire. Move closer together. Start again. Try and unite the fractured family. Hayward Lodge was their starting point. A new school was next. Surely Bartford would provide such stability?

Chapter Three

Minding Her Own Business:

Bethany Merriman

‘Now that’s a nice little motor,’ Bethany Merriman thought, peering through her window, carefully removing all residue with a deadly combination of vinegar and lemon, the shiny convertible slipping into a spot right outside. Not seen that number plate before, make, model and lettering duly filed in a DVLA-style mental Inbox.

Out of term time, it wasn’t often that Pincham Stores had exotic visitors. Nestled between coast and woodland, the village—population 281 according to the sign as you drove into town—had little to attract tourists. Once home to a thriving mill, the industrial heartland was now a rotting pile of Victorian bricks. For employment, inhabitants either ventured to the equidistant towns of Clemswick or Ligwold, worked from home, or simply didn’t work, biding their time complaining about the lack of local economy.

The same could not be said for Bethany. Big haired, big hearted, big bosomed, she was a force of nature, landing on the local scene some four years’ earlier. Previously running a small, but successful, interior design business in the Home Counties, Bethany had been inexplicably laid-low for several years with the mysterious and debilitating ME bug. Finally admitting defeat, she had to let staff go; struggling to meet mortgage payments, the business folded.

Along with it, the stylish city centre apartment and an initially supportive partner who turned out to have little interest in being a nurse. Bethany had found that, while she recovered from the crushing physical effects of the condition, her pride was too deeply wounded for recovery in the same town.

It was a chance reading of The Lady magazine in the hairdressers’ that found Bethany pondering the small ads. Would you like to make a lifestyle change? Would you like the opportunity to run a busy business from home in a beautiful part of the countryside? Bethany was unsure if it had been the rush of blood to her head as she sat under the heated blower, or the chance to thumb her nose at local doubters, that initiated her email. Whichever, contact was soon made, train ticket hastily arranged.

It was love at first sight. Despite a gloomy November afternoon, the prospect of a long, cold winter ahead, Bethany saw beyond the many reasons not to jump in, becoming, by Christmas, the proud owner of a two bedroomed cottage with adjacent village shop. Recovery had begun.

Locals had been slow to accept the uniquely-shaped breads and artisan cheeses. Kafir had been a non-starter and the rush on hand-dried porcine never did materialise. However, the warmth of the proprietor, her willingness to be ‘open most hours’ and, best of all, her rapidly acquired and encyclopaedic knowledge of all matters local, plus a propensity to share juicy nuggets of information, always made a visit to Pincham Stores very worthwhile.

For Bethany though, the real lifeblood was being so close to Bartford boarding school. That, during term time anyway, provided a regular and exotic stream of big-spending punters. Ah, tomorrow at last, Bethany sighed. She smiled at the thought of all those new faces and eclectic tastes. Term time, it’s almost like the good old days.

Chapter Four

Family Planning: The Rushmans

Ben Rushman tried very, very, hard to avoid the inevitably painful last-minute preparations each new term demanded. It staggered him, repeatedly, that despite provision of a very detailed kit list, there was always such chaos.

Was it really, he wondered, so very hard to muster the required box of drawing pins for the board in your bedroom, or the ‘secret’ stash of chocolate for when Matron closed the tuck shop? Surely, the requirement of only battery-powered fairy lights was a straightforward instruction?

Mrs Rushman was a formidable organiser. As Head of Bartford’s Parent’s Association, Saffron—and God forbid anyone who ventured the term ‘Saffy’—left not an iota to chance. However, having a seventeen-year-old entering Upper Sixth required a certain amount of loosening of the pre-term organisational strings. For better, or usually worse, daughter Primrose was now firmly in charge of her personal luggage.

Primrose had inherited her mother’s stunning good looks and racehorse-length legs, but very definitely not the ability to plan ahead. Darling, please, we have to leave by ten at the latest tomorrow, you know Daddy insists the car is packed the night before, called the immaculate Saffron from their grand staircase’ bottom step.

Dear Primrose; on the face of it, such an innocent little flower. Underneath, quite the thorny little rose.

Having Daddy as the Chairman of the Board of Governors at your school had its disadvantages and the start of term ‘lunch and drinks with the Head’ was one of them. Primrose lay on the King-sized bed, rolling very well made-up eyes, picking at long, artificial, nails and turning the music volume to max. Honestly, did Mum really think it was going to take her the rest of the day to throw together a bit of uniform and some Canterburys?

Preparations for this term were slower than usual for one very good reason. That ‘reason’ had unceremoniously dumped poor Primrose, via text, at the beginning of the long summer holiday. Zak Milton-Bruce, fellow Sixth Former, all-round A-lister, pursuing Primrose, for months. Enjoying the attention, and near celebrity status garnered among boarding house contemporaries, Primrose had finally succumbed to advances during Bartford’s annual, high-octane, Easter Ball.

Two months of blissful togetherness resulted in undiluted pleasure, quickly becoming the ‘couple of choice’, invitations piling-up on respective noticeboards. Unfortunately for both the beautiful Primrose and the magnificent Zak, too many Summer Term strolls in the school’s ground led to little—or none at all in Zak’s case—worthwhile studying. Consequently, a great deal of stress was experienced during end of term exams. Official notification had not been needed to confirm dismal performances. Zak’s dad, Rupert—something ‘big’ in the city and of whom Ben Rushman was just a little bit in awe—called a complete romantic cessation, swiftly despatching Zak to South Africa to work off frustrations in a friend’s vineyard.

Distraught, Primrose failed to rally at her family’s annual family gathering at their French villa, overshadowing proceedings with more grace and introspective attitude. Not even Saffron’s stern rebukes had had the slightest affect. Coupled with the ignominy of her boyfriend’s enforced exile, Primrose had to endure the torture of a tutor throughout the remaining weeks of the holidays. Miss Deacon was sympathetic to the cause, but also paid handsomely to acquire results from her reluctant charge. A grim—from Primrose’s point of view—study programme was initiated, spawning a long summer of Latin declensions; advanced algebra and the finer details of the American Civil Rights Movement.

This humiliation aside, now it was time to face the fabulously tanned Zak. Her own pale fingers grasped the goose down duvet, pulling it over her head. Really, it was just so damned hard being a teenager.

If I didn’t have that bloody luncheon tomorrow, a very disgruntled Ben mouthed-off to Saffron, I’d make her get the bus. Honestly, she’s supposed to be learning independence, self-reliance, I doubt she could follow a straight road without a SatNav. Why I’ve forked out a small fortune for Duke of Edinburgh Awards and Cadet training I’ll never know! Stalking off to the drawing room, Ben was accompanied by the clatter of several Dachshund paws on polished oak floor: bloody things!

Saffron was weary, slumped inelegantly against the rail of her beloved purple AGA, it, at least, offering some consolation. Summer had been long and tricky. Early September heralding the routine thrill of new clothes and piles of ‘tuck’, together with swathes of pictures and memorabilia to decorate Primrose’s room, was somehow being lost in the fog of adolescence, tensions between Ben and Primrose, increasingly hard to arbitrate.

Thank goodness for lovely Jamie. Ah, Jamie. Golden boy Jamie. Jamie who had sailed through Bartford and gone on to read Earth Sciences at Oxford. Jamie who had never been caught where he shouldn’t have been, nor ventured an ‘inappropriate’ relationship.

Just go with the flow, Mum, he’d soothed on the phone a few nights before, she’s just rebelling against the whole Zak, studying, grounded thing, she’ll get over it, just give her time.

‘Time,’ Saffron thought grimly, ‘we don’t have much of that. One more year and the schooling days would be over. This was going to be a challenging year.’

Lost in her thoughts, the usually supremely confident Saffron was experiencing a stab of uncertainty, clinging on to the hope harmony would prevail, their youngest despatched to Bartford. It was delicate though; she wasn’t convinced tensions within Chateaux Rushman were confined to Primrose.

Crunching across gravel, Ben was bellowing Saaaaffffrron, I’ve got a bloody puncture, I hope you renewed the AA membership?

Oh God, did I? Saffron squirmed. This didn’t bode well for a smooth transition into the final school year.

Rallying, she flicked through a very well filed pile of paperwork, producing with relief bordering on euphoria, relevant document. I’ll call them darling; don’t you worry about a thing.

If only she had the courage of her convictions.

Chapter Five

London Calling: The Brookfields

I just cannot believe the PM still listens to what that idiot says. Honestly, his lobby group ought to be lined up and shot. How can the country attract serious foreign investment if we go about making such xenophobic comments? I despair.

Not for the first time, Milo Brookfield flung down his daily rag in disgust. The machinations of government may now be many miles from home, but the comings and goings at Westminster were still very close to his heart.

I don’t know why you torture yourself reading this stuff, I’ll have a word with Charles when I see him on Tuesday, Kiki commented patiently, sipping a double expresso, eyes coolly objective.

Kiki Brookfield. Katriona Brookfield. Dr Katriona Brookfield. Intelligent. Funny. Authoritative and, most annoyingly for other school mothers, more than able to keep a very safe distance from the parenting politics.

Each Monday, Kiki shook-off padded gilet and Hunter wellies, slipping into something eminently more comfortable, before zipping back to London.

For the first ten years of family life, an excruciatingly trendy district of north London had been home to the Brookfields and their three children, Tabitha, Fred and Percy. However, a succession of bombs, break-ins and increasingly unsuitable boyfriends rendered a radical family rethink. Milo, a national newspaper’s political hack, worked the Westminster beat for over a decade. Real passion though lay in writing books, the urge to put pen to long paper coinciding with the family’s desire to decamp the city.

A plan was hatched, involving the swapping of their rambling five-storey terraced house for a substantial, semi-rural former manse, in addition to a city ‘bolt hole’ for the provision of overnight shelter.

Milo denounced Westminster’s stressful corridors of power, investing in an extravagant home computer (how much?) and ‘built in office space’ at which to complete his novel. Kiki continued her high-level Whitehall advisory capacity (details of which were never fully disclosed to family, friends or the school community), commuting to the capital on a weekly basis, staying at the newly acquired central apartment.

All three children quickly embraced the move, loving their newly-found space and freedom, relishing a less aggressive academic schedule. The new set-up hadn’t been entirely smooth. Kiki having to appease a natural, but never publicly discussed, left-wing leanings to the onslaught of private education and an appalling, weekly, carbon footprint. Immediately, a very healthy donation to several environmental charities was instructed. Writers’ block has blighted Milo, anticipated inspiration slow to surface, an unhealthy caffeine habit quickly developing.

The purchase of a family dog afforded the perfect excuse to kill time in the endless forests, conjuring plot lines and characterisation. On the whole it was a good existence for everybody, bar a little frustration at preliminary hurdles.

At 17, Tabitha loved her family’s new set-up. Initially, she’d missed Kiki, but Bartford was so busy, her absence was barely noticed. Anyway, Dad did a pretty good job at keeping it all together—who’d have known he was so good at sewing on name-tags—she just wasn’t as convinced a bestseller was in the offing.

Twins, Fred and Percy, were, at 13, oblivious to tensions in the marriage, quickly gaining several friends and becoming fully free-range.

Joining Bartford just two weeks before the end of summer term, their mother dryly noted the establishment of her children’s’ very healthy life/play balance!

Unlike Primrose Rushman, Tabitha Brookfield was desperate to get back to school. As a day pupil, accruing necessary items for a new term was no more complicated than a quick check that skirts were below banned hemline lengths (they were) and enough suitable writing implements remained at her disposal (they did).

Not for Tabitha the tedium of holiday tutors or restricted friendships. Tabitha was a girl on a mission; A Levels firmly in her sights and a post-school masterplan of a well organised gap year and life at a red brick university, beckoned. Just can’t wait for tomorrow, she texted London ‘bezzie’ Miranda, soooo much fun!

Chapter Six

What a Reception: Lucinda Black

September: Autumn had very definitely arrived in Pincham. As was usual, an ‘Indian Summer’ of unseasonably warm daytime temperatures put up a brave fight against chillier nights.

Bethany was in buoyant mood, darting among the shop’s shelves with the agility of a mountain lion. The start of term always produced an income spike, but it was more than the bottom line that interested Bethany. She put on a brave face with all but her two best mates—Lucinda Black, Bartford’s receptionist, herself an exiled southerner, and Delia the postie, a local lass through and through who knew everyone and their granny—her warm personality belying a fragile soul, having not yet recovered from the knock of losing business and partner. Come on girl, you’ve got this.

Bethany loved her regulars, always going the extra mile to help source their desire. Secretly (she would never admit as much) she missed the exotic flow of customers from her previous life, instead, learning to love the cyclical ebbs and flows produced by term timetable. Today was an upward curve. Pincham Stores, within walking distance of Bartford, was, at several miles from the previous settlement, perfectly placed to provide a last-minute stop-off for car-bound teenagers, persuading irritated parents that they really, ‘HAD TO HAVE MORE CHOCOLATE AND SUPPLIES!’

Initially, Bethany completely missed a trick, spending most of the pre-term afternoon and following day apologising for the lack of all things calorific. Not now. Now she stocked up weeks in advance, even branching out into the more exotic flavours of locally made chocolate, selling like the proverbial hot cakes. After all, £4.50 was a small price to pay for a slim bar of heaven, flavoured with ‘a hint of heather and the petals of fresh lavender’ to placate a child not rejoicing at the prospect of a new boarding term!

Well, good morning, Bethany, you’ve been busy I see, Gregor Pinchbeck announced, sweeping through the door for his daily paper and rolls. Gregor was one villager expressing initial reservations about the "that