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he finds it hard to separate in his mind the familiar-but-foreign fields of the Fens and the foreign-but-familiar mudscapes he has come from. He expects the ground to quake and heave under his feet and become a morass. He is sent to a home for chronic neurasthenics. He thinks: there is only reality, there are no stories left. About his war experiences he says: ‘I remember nothing.’ He does not believe he will one day tell salty Tales of the Trenches: ‘In some of the big old shell-holes – there were eels …’ He does not believe he will ever talk to his son about mother’s milk and hearts.
    But much will happen to Henry Crick. He recovers. He meets his future wife – there indeed is another story. In 1922 he marries. And in the same year Ernest Atkinson brings indirect influence to bear on his future employment. Indirect because the Atkinson word is no longer law; the Atkinson empire, like many another empire, is in decline, and since before the war, when he sold most of his share in the Leem Navigation, Ernest Atkinson has been living like a recluse, and some would say a mad one at that. But in 1922 my father is appointed keeper of the New Atkinson Lock.

4
Before the Headmaster
    A ND Lewis says, ‘We’re cutting back History …’ Just like that. As if there’s no need to go into the actual and embarrassing reasons for my inevitable departure, these being fully acknowledged (if never discussed) between us. As if we can play the game that it is not under a cloud of personal disgrace that I am to make my exit, but over a simple matter of curricular rethinking.
    But hold on, Lewis. Cutting back History? Cutting History? If you’re going to sack me, then sack me , don’t dismiss what I stand for. Don’t banish my history …
    Children, our commendable and trusty headmaster – if I may waive professional discretion for a moment – regards me and my department (whatever he says) as a thorn in his flesh. He believes that education is for and about the future – a fine theory, an admirable contention. Thus a subject, however honoured by academic tradition, which seeks as its prime function to dwell on the past is, ipso facto , first to go …
    Children, there’s this fellow called Lewis – better known to you, indeed to me, as Lulu – who’s trying to make out that I’m a bad lot, that I’m even just a bit off my rocker. And that this is the inevitable result of my long dabbling in the hocus-pocus of this selfsame History.‘Early retirement, Tom. On full pension. Half the staff would jump at it.’
    ‘And the closure of my department?’
    ‘Not closure. Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not dropping History. It’s an unavoidable reduction. There’ll be no new Head of History. History will merge with General Studies.’
    ‘Amounts to pretty well the same thing.’
    ‘Tom, let’s be clear about this. This isn’t my personal decision. I don’t, it’s true, have a taste for your subject. I’ve never disguised my views. You don’t care for physics. Nor, so you’ve made clear, for headmastership. We’ve been sparring partners for years –’ (a weak smile) ‘–it’s been the basis of our friendship. A little healthy academic animosity. But there’s no question here of a vendetta. You know how the cuts are biting. And you know the kind of pressure I’m under – “practical relevance to today’s real world” – that’s what they’re demanding. And, dammit, you can’t deny there’s been a steady decline in the number of pupils opting for History.’
    ‘But what about now, Lew? What about in the last few weeks? You know as well as I do there’ve been no less than six requests by students doing other subjects to transfer to my ‘A’ level group. I must have some attraction.’
    ‘If you call a complete departure from the syllabus “attraction”, if you call turning your classes into these – circus-acts – “attraction”.’
    He snorts and starts to lose patience.
    ‘I gave you