Not at Eton or Roedean, but at the less well known, although no less proud, establishment of St Wendreda's Ladies' College, somewhere in the south of England, where Miss Price, the ambitious young Headmistress (teachers in Public Schools are known as Masters and Mistresses) has this year decided to admit boys to the school for Oxbridge entrance tuition. It is a sunny autumn afternoon and Miss Price is in her rather daunting oak-panelled study, the portraits of her predecessors frowning down upon her. She is catching up on some mundane paperwork. Wednesday afternoons at St Wendreda's are devoted to sport, in line with the school's professed philosophy that a healthy body fosters a healthy mind. Through the slightly open window, Miss Price can hear the high, clear voices of the senior girls playing netball and, somewhere further away, the deeper shouts of the boys at football practice. Miss Price is calm and satisfied; the experiment of admitting boys has so far been a success, to judge from the first month or so. Not only financially, but in terms of bringing a certain variety, spice even, to her beloved school community. The sounds from outside die away as the sports lessons come to an end and the pupils troop in from the playing fields and netball courts to shower and change. Miss Price has finished with one pile of paperwork and pauses for a moment to contemplate her grand surroundings and the long journey from humble roots that brought her here. If only her mother had lived to see it. Her musing is interrupted by a soft knock at her study door. She stands up. "Come in!" A pause, then another knock. The door is thick, and people do not always hear her voice. She walks to the door and opens it, then stops dead in bewilderment. Standing outside the door is Paul, one of the most gifted Oxbridge entrance boys (Miss Price's policy of calling her pupils by their first names is regarded as daringly progressive by her peers). Miss Price knows him as a shy, studious boy, rather awkward in social interaction, but an exceptional academic talent. Paul is trembling and tearful. He has a damp towel wrapped around his lower body and does not appear to be wearing anything else at all apart from his glasses. Miss Price composes herself and speaks calmly but firmly. "Paul, what on earth is going on?" Paul can barely get his words out. "Miss ... I'm sorry, it's just Miss Jackson said I had to come and see you straight away. I've done something bad, Miss." Cathy Jackson is the head of girls' sport, coaches the netball team and is a formidable woman, unafraid to take disciplinary matters into her own hands. If she is escalating something straight to the Headmistress, it must be serious. And, thinks Miss Price, how would Paul have attracted Cathy's attention? Their paths should have no reason to cross. Something is very strange here. "Come in, Paul. Stand in front of my desk there, that's right. Now tell me, in your own words, exactly why Miss Jackson sent you here, and why you are only wearing a towel. Take all the time you need, but I need the whole truth." "Miss, you know this school is a really old building ..." "Of course. What does that have to do with anything?" "Well some of the rooms have changed use over the years. Sorry Miss, I'll start at the beginning. We all had sport this afternoon. Football for boys and netball for girls. And we came back in and showered. And I was first in the shower and first out." This seems irrelevant, but she had asked for the whole truth. "Go on, Paul." "And ... and ... well like I said the rooms used to be different. I had heard other boys say that if you go to the back of the sports equipment storeroom there is still a door there that would lead through to the girls' changing room. It's been locked for years but you can see through the keyhole ..." Ah, thinks Miss Price, now I see where this is going. Oh my God what has he done ... "So ... so ... I sneaked in there straight after my shower ... I was there ... at the keyhole ... the girls were on the other side, showering and getting changed. And ... and ... I was watching them, Miss ..." His voice was barely audible. "Is there more, Paul?" "Miss Jackson came in to the storeroom to put some stuff away. She found me, Miss. She said I had to come straight to you." "And that's it, is it?" "Yes, Miss." "Paul?" "Miss, I don't know how to say this ..." "Clearly and truthfully would be my advice ..." "Miss, when Miss Jackson found me, I was ... I was ..." "What, Paul?" But she has guessed. "I was touching myself, Miss. And she saw what I was doing." Miss Price looks down at her desk for a long time. Stupid little bastard, she thinks. Why can't he just watch porn on his phone like all the other boys? The implications of this are gigantic. "Paul, listen to me carefully. Does anyone else besides Miss Jackson, you and me know about this? Did the girls know you were watching them?" "No Miss. I'm sure about that." That at least was good. She trusted Cathy Jackson to keep quiet and await further instructions from her. "Did you ejaculate? Is there any physical trace of what happened?" "No Miss." "Do you freely admit to what you have done? Did anyone force you? Is there anything about what you have said that you want to change?" "No Miss. It was just me. It was my fault." "Paul, we have here a prima facie case of gross misconduct. Now, as you know, usually this would be dealt with by means of a meeting between you, me, your parents and a representative of the school Governors, and we would agree on a warning, suspension or exclusion from the school. But what you need to understand is that this process takes place in the public domain. Word of your actions would get out - to other pupils and their parents, and inevitably into the media. And if it were to become widely known that my policy to admit boys had led to us harbouring a voyeur, you can imagine the outcome. Parents would withdraw their daughters from the school, maybe even so many that the school was no longer viable. If it closed - after more than 150 years of illustrious history, Paul! - it would ruin the life chances of all the pupils, and the careers of all the staff. The only way to save the school would be for me to resign. I would never work in education again. There would in any case be an official enquiry by the education authorities, and quite possibly the police. Do you begin to understand the seriousness of this situation?"

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