Not for me. Not for you.
But for someone, somewhere.
One day.
Pass it on, boys. That's the game I want you to learn.
Pass it on!
Hector. A word.
Er, this is not the first time, apparently.
But on this occasion, she managed to make a note of the number.
For the moment, I propose to say nothing about this.
But, fortunately, it's not long before you're due to retire.
In the circumstances, I propose that we bring that forward.
I think we should be looking at the end of term.
Have you nothing to say?
"The tree of man was never quiet;
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I."
This is no time for poetry.
Erm, I'm assuming your wife doesn't know.
I've no idea.
What women know or don't know has always been a mystery to me.
And are you going to tell her?
I don't know. I'm not sure she'd be interested.
Well, erm... there's another thing.
Strange how even the most tragic turn of events
generally resolve themselves into questions about the timetable.
Irwin's been badgering me for more lessons.
In the circumstances, a concession might be in order.
In future, I think you and he might share.
- Share? - Share!
In the meantime, you must consider your position.
I do not want to sack you.
People talk.
It's so... untidy.
It would be easier for all concerned if you retired early.
Look, nothing happened.
A hand on a boy's genitals at 50mph
and you call it nothing?
The transmission of knowledge is in itself an erotic act.
- In the Renaissance... - Fuck the Renaissance!
And fuck literature and Plato and Michelangelo and Oscar Wilde
and all the other shrunken violets you people line up.
This is a school, and it isn't normal.
- Still here? - It is Wednesday, sir.
I thought with the day trip to Fountains and...
Well, it's only half past four.
- Well, in that case, where's Dakin? - With Mr. Irwin, sir.
Ah. Of course.
He's showing him some old exam questions.
Ah, with all the appropriate gobbets, no doubt.
Well, no matter. We must keep up the fight without him.
- What have you learned this week? - "Drummer Hodge", sir. Hardy.
Ah, nice.
"They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest Uncoffined -just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest Which breaks the veldt around;
And foreign constellations west Each night above his mound."
"Young Hodge the Drummer never knew - Fresh from his Wessex home -
The meaning of the broad Karoo, The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view Strange stars amid the gloam."
"Yet portion of that unknown plain Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign His stars eternally."
Good. Very good.
Any thoughts?
I wondered, sir, if this "portion of that unknown plain will Hodge forever be"
is like Rupert Brooke, sir.
"There's some corner of foreign field,
In that dust a richer dust concealed."
It is, it is. It's the same thought. Though Hardy is better, I think.
It's more... more, er... well, down-to-earth.
Quite literally down-to-earth.
- Anything about his name? - Hodge?
The important thing is, he has a name.
Say Hardy's writing about the Zulu Wars.
Or later, or... The Boer War, possibly.
And these were the first campaigns
when soldiers, common soldiers, were commemorated.
The names of the dead were recorded and inscribed on war memorials.
Before this, soldiers - private soldiers -
were all unknown soldiers.
And so far from being revered, there was a firm in the 19th century
in Yorkshire, of course, which swept up their bones
from the battlefields of Europe in order to grind them into fertilizer.
So, thrown into a common grave though he may be,
he's still Hodge, the Drummer.
Lost boy though he is, on the far side of the world...
he still has a name.
How old was he?
If he was a drummer he'd be a boy soldier. Not even as old as you, probably.
- No, Hardy. - Oh, how old was Hardy?
Oh, erm. When he wrote this... about 60.
My age, I suppose.
A saddish life, though not unappreciated.
"Uncoffined" is a typical Hardy usage.
It's a compound adjective, formed by putting "un" in front of the noun.
Or verb, of course.
Unkissed,
unrejoicing,
unconfessed,
unembraced.
It's a turn of phrase
that brings with it a sense of not sharing.
Of being out of it, whether because of diffidence or shyness.
But a holding back.
Not being in the swim.
Can you see that?
Yes, sir.
I felt that a bit.
The best moments in reading are when you come across something -
a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things -
that you'd thought special, particular to you,
and here it is, set down by someone else.
A person you've never met, maybe even someone long dead.
And... it's as if a hand...
has come out... and taken yours.
Let's just have that last verse again and I'll let you go.
"Yet portion of that unknown plain Will Hodge forever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign His stars eternally."
Shall I tell you what is wrong with Hector as a teacher?
And it isn't that he doesn't produce results - he does.
But they're unpredictable and unquantifiable.
And in the current educational climate, that is of no use.
I mean, there's inspiration, certainly. But how do I quantify that?
And I heard one child singing yesterday morning,
and on inquiry I find that his pupils
know all the words of "When I'm Cleaning Windows".
George Formby, and Gracie Fields.
Dorothy, what has Gracie Fields got to do with anything?
So, the upshot is... I'm glad he handled his pupils' balls
because that at least I can categorize.
It's a reason for his going no one can dispute.
You didn't know.
Not that, no.
I assumed you knew.
- He handled the boys' balls? - I don't want to spell it out.
You've been married yourself. You know the form.
And, to be fair, I think it was more appreciative than investigatory.
But it's... inexcusable, nevertheless.
No. No, it's to everyone's benefit that he should go.
As soon as possible.
Sir? Can I say something, sir?
Well, we've got the most important exam of our lives coming up
and we're just sat here reading literature.
Leaving that aside for the moment, there's something I have to tell you.
We know all that, sir.
- How do you know? - About sharing classes with Mr. Irwin, sir.
- No, no, not that. - Why is that, sir?
It's a question of timetabling, apparently.
No, no, this is... something else.
Does that mean your lessons will be more like Mr. Irwin's?
- More use, sir? - Less farting about?
Hush, boys, hush.
Can't you see? I'm not in the mood.
What mood is that, sir? The subjunctive? The mood of possibility?
Get on with some work. Read.
That's what we're saying. There's no time for reading!
- Can't you just give us the gist, sir? - Precis it, sir. Like Mr. Irwin does.
Just the outline, sir. Then we can pretend.
- Pretend? - No, no, no, sir! That's what exams are for!
Will you shut up about these exams!
Shut up, all of you!
What made me piss my life away in this godforsaken place?
There's nothing of me left.
Go away.
Go.
Sir...
Would you like to start?
I don't mind.
How do you normally start? It is your lesson, general studies.
Well, the boys decide. Ask them.
Anybody? Floor's open.
Oh, come on, boys. Don't sulk.
We don't know where we are, sir. Your class or Mr. Irwin's.
- Does it matter? - Well, yes, sir.
Depends if you want us thoughtful or... smart.
He wants you civil, you rancid little turd.
Hitting us. You're a witness. He could be sacked.
I thought we'd talk about the Holocaust.
Good gracious! How can you teach the Holocaust?
That would do as a question. Can you, should you, teach the Holocaust?
Anybody? Come on.
It has origins, it has consequences. It's a subject like any other.
Not like any other, surely. Not like any other at all.
No, but it's a topic.
They go on school trips there nowadays, don't they? Auschwitz, Dachau.
What's always concerned me is where do they have their sandwiches?
The visitors' center. It's like anywhere else.
Yeah, but do they take pictures of each other there?
Are they smiling?
Do they hold hands? Nothing is appropriate.
What if you were to write this was so far beyond one's experience,
silence is the only proper response?
Mr. Hector's answer to lots of questions, isn't it, sir?
Er, yes. Yes, Dakin, it is.
"Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent."
That's right, isn't it, sir? Wittgenstein.
- Yes, that's good. - No, it's not good.
It's flip, it's glib, it's journalism.
- It's you that taught us it. - I didn't teach you.
And Wittgenstein did not screw it out of his very guts
in order for you to turn it into a dinky formula.
Why can't we simply just condemn the camps outright as an unprecedented horror?
There's no point, sir. Everybody will do that.
"The camp's an event unlike any other."
"The evil unprecedented." Et cetera, et cetera.
No! Can't you see that even to say "et cetera"
is... monstrous?
"Et cetera" is what the Nazis would have said.
The dead reduced to mere verbal abbreviation.
All right, not et cetera. But given that the death camps are thought of as unique,
wouldn't another approach be to show precedents?
- Put them, well, in proportion. - Proportion?
Not proportion, then, but putting them in context.
But to put something in context
is a step towards saying it can be understood and explained.
And if it can be explained, then it can be explained away.
Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.
- That's good, Posner. - It isn't good. I mean it, sir.
When we talk about putting them in context,
it's the same as the dissolution of the monasteries.
Dozens of monasteries had been dissolved before Henry VIII.
The difference is I didn't lose any relatives in the dissolution of the monasteries.
Good point.
You keep saying, "good point". Not good point, sir. True!
To you, th-the Holocaust is just another topic on which we may or may not get a question.
No!
No! But this is history. Distance yourselves.
Our perspective on the past alters.
And looking back, immediately in front of us is dead ground - we don't see it.
And because we don't see it, this means there is no period so remote as the recent past.
And one of the historian's jobs
is to anticipate what our perspective of that period will be.
Even on the Holocaust.
- Won the argument there, sir. - What?
The Holocaust. Yep, you really showed him.
- You flirt! - I don't understand it.
I've never wanted to please anybody the way I do him.
Girls not excepted.
- He's going, you know. - The big man?
Yeah. Don't let on. Fiona says.
Sacked? Who complained?
That's why the lifts have stopped.
Poor sod. Though in some ways, I can't say I'm sorry.
No. No more genital massage as one speeds along leafy suburban roads!
No more of the bike's melancholy, long, withdrawing roar
as he dropped you at the corner, your honor still intact.
'Ey.
A lecher though one is, or one aspires to be,
it occurs to me that the lot of woman cannot be easy,
who must suffer such inexpert male fumblings virtually on a daily basis.
Are we scarred for life, do you think?
Well, we must hope so.
" by Echo and the Bunnymen)
Dad.
Never gives an inch, does he?
"Lucid and, up to a point, compelling, but if you reached a conclusion it escaped me."
- Seen your handwriting recently? - Why?
- You're beginning to write like him. - I'm not trying to, honestly.
- You're writing like him and all. - No, I'm not!
Dakin writes like him. I write like Dakin.
It's done wonders for the sex life.
Apparently I talk about him so much, Fiona gets really pissed off.
Doing it's about the only time I shut up.
- Would you do it with him? - Yeah, I wondered about that.
I might. Bring a little bit of sunshine into his life.
It's only a wank, after all.
What makes you think he'd do it with you?
You complacent fuck!
The Archbishop of Canterbury know you talk like this?
I like him. Just wish I thought he liked me.
Irwin does like him. He seldom looks at anyone else.
- How do you know? - Because nor do I!
Our eyes meet looking at Dakin.
Oh, Pos. With your spaniel heart.
- It will pass. - Yes, it's only a phase.
Who says I want it to pass?
But the pain. The pain!
Hector would say it's the only education worth having.
I just wish there were marks for it.
Mr. Crowther, now, one of your interests is the theater.
Tell us about that.
Erm, I'm keen on acting. I've done various parts.
Can I stop you? Don't mention the theater.
Oh. Well, it's what I'm interested in.
Then soft-pedal it, the acting side, anyway.
Dons, most dons think the theater is a waste of time.
Music is all right, though, isn't it? They don't frown on that.
No, you should just say what you enjoy.
- Mozart? - No.
Everybody likes Mozart. Somebody more off the beaten track. Tippett, or Broekman.
- But I don't know them. - May I make a silly suggestion?
Why can they not all just tell the truth?
I hesitate to mention this lest it occasion a sophisticated groan.
But it may not have crossed your minds,
but one of the dons who interviews you may be a woman.
I'm reluctant at this stage in the game to expose you to new ideas
but, having taught you all history on a strictly non-gender orientated basis,
I just wonder whether it occurs to any of you how... dispiriting this can be.
- Am I embarrassing you? - A bit, Miss.
It's not our fault. It's just the way it is.
"The world is everything that is the case." It's Wittgenstein, Miss.
Yes, yes, I know it's Wittgenstein, thank you.
Can you for a moment imagine how depressing it is
to teach five centuries of masculine ineptitude?
Why do you think there are no woman historians on TV?
- No tits! - Hit that boy!
- Hit him! - Sir, you can't, sir.
I'll tell you why!
Because history's not such a frolic for women as it is for men.
Why should it be? They never get round the conference table.
In 1919, for instance, they just... arranged the flowers,
then gracefully retired.
History is a commentary
on the various and continuing incapabilities of men.
What is history?
History is women following behind... with a bucket.
Erm... Rudge.
Now, how do you define history, Mr. Rudge?
Can I speak freely, Miss?
- Without being hit? - I will protect you.
How do I define history?
It's just one fucking thing after another.
I see. And why do you want to come to Christ Church?
It's the one I thought I might get into.
No other reason?
Do you like the architecture, for instance?
But they'll ask me about sport, won't they?
If you're as uncommunicative as this, they may be forced to.
The point is, Rudge, even if they want to take you on the basis of your prowess on the field,
you have to help them, at least pretend there are other considerations.
Look, I'm shit at all this. Sorry.
If they like me and they want to take me,
they'll take me because I'm dull and ordinary.
I'm no good in interviews, but I've got enough chat to take me round the golf course,
and maybe there'll be someone on the board who wants to go around the golf course.
I may not know much about Jean-Paul Sartre,
but I've got a handicap of four.
Where have you heard about Sartre?
- He was a good golfer. - Really?
I never knew that. Interesting!
Peter, how did you know Sartre was a golfer?
I don't know that he was.
How could I? I don't even know who the fuck he is.
Well, they keep telling us you have to lie.
I have a feeling Kafka was good at table tennis.
- I'll see you tomorrow. - Sir. I never gave you my essay.
What degree did you get, sir? You never said.
- Second. - Ha, boring.
- Didn't the old magic work? - I hadn't perfected the technique.
- No, come on. - It's after four. I'm gonna.
- What college were you at? - Corpus.
- That's not one anyone's going in for. - No.
- You happy? - There? Yeah. Yeah, I was quite.
Do you think we'll be happy, say we get in?
- You'll be happy, anyway. - I'm not sure I like that.
Why? Uncomplicated - is that what you mean?
Outgoing? Straight?
They're none of them bad things to be, you know.
It depends. Nice to be a bit more complicated.
Or to be thought so.
It's Felix!
Oh, Christ!
Shh!
- Not very bright, are you? - Am I not?
No, sir.
- How's Posner? - Why?
- He likes you, doesn't he? - Well, it's his age.
- He's growing up. - It's hard for him.
Boring for me.
You're not suggesting that I do something about it?
It happens. I wouldn't anyway. Too young.
- You still look quite young. - That's cos I am, I suppose.
- How do you think history happens? - What?
How does stuff happen, do you think?
People decide to do stuff. Make moves, alter things.
- I'm not sure what you're talking about. - No? Think about it.
Some do, make moves. I suppose.
Others react to events. In 1939, for instance, Hitler made a move on Poland, Poland...
- Gave in. - Is that what you mean?
No.
Not Poland, anyway.
- Was Poland taken by surprise? - To some extent.
Although they knew something was up.
- What was your essay about? - Turning points.
Ah, yeah. That's moments when history rattles over the points.
- Shall I tell you what you've written? Dunkirk. - Yep.
- Hitler turning on Russia. - Yeah.
- Alamein. - Yeah, all those.
More? That's good.
When Chamberlain resigned as prime minister,
Churchill wasn't the first thought. Halifax more generally acceptable.
But on the afternoon the decision was taken, Halifax chose to go to the dentist.
If Halifax had had better teeth, we might have lost the war.
- That's terrific. - Well, it's subjunctive history.
Come again?
Subjunctive - the mood used when something might or might not have happened.
When it's imagined.
Hector's crazy about the subjunctive.
- Why are you smiling? - Nothing.
Good luck.
You may begin.
Shit.
- Yes? - Bit hit-and-miss, Miss.
I was so nice about Hitler, a much misunderstood man.
Queen Elizabeth, Miss.
Less remarkable for her abilities
than the fact that, unlike so many of her sisters, she got a chance to exercise them.
That's the stuff!
Hope they don't mind trainers. They're all I've got.
It's not an exam in footwear.
Somebody told me it's four miles to the bogs.
Do you want somewhere with a shit degree but has toilets en suite?
I say if they don't like me, then fuck 'em.
Oh, Peter, I wish I had your philosophy.
- What'll you do? Flutter the eyelashes? - I think the half-smile with a hint of sadness.
Fuck off!
Get in, sit down.
Good luck.
Come in.
Mr. Lockwood?
No Irwin here.
- This is Corpus, isn't it? - Yeah.
They liked my Hitler answer, praised what they called my "sense of detachment".
They said it was the foundation of writing history.
Ah, fucking hell!
It's like a stately home. My parents would love it.
This is Mr. Rudge, who, if he comes up, is hoping to read history.
- Who is he? - Rudge.
- What's he want us for? - No idea.
- Pep talk? - Bit late for that.
It's probably about Hector.
- I sort of know. - I imagine everyone sort of knows.
- Does his wife? - He doesn't think so, apparently.
But I imagine she's another one who's sort of known all along.
The husband on a low light.
That's what they want, these supposedly unsuspecting wives.
The husband's lukewarm attentions. Just what they married them for.
Oh, he's a fool, but he was also unlucky.
For a start, the lollipop lady's only on duty a couple of hours.
Five minutes later, she'd have gone off.
And what if the lights had been green?
Or if there'd been no children coming?
The smallest of incidents, the junction of a dizzying range of...
alternatives.
Any one of which could have had a different outcome.
If I was... a bold teacher - if I was you, even -
I could spend a lesson dissecting what the headmaster insists on calling
"this unfortunate incident".
And it would teach the boys more about history
and the utter randomness of things than...
well, than I've ever managed to do, so far.
I wonder how they're going on.
- Don't you ever want to go back? - To Oxford?
I'm not clever enough.
I'm not anything enough, really.
Dorothy, a word.
Trouble at t'mill.
That's the news he's aching to impart. My marching orders.
- I sort of knew. - Ah.
Dakin told me.
Did he tell you why?
I've got this idea of buying a van,
filling it with books and taking it round to country markets.
Shropshire, Herefordshire.
"The open road, the dusty highway."
"Travel, change, interest, excitement." Poop-poop!
See, what I didn't want was to turn out boys
who would claim in later life to have a deep love of "literature".
Or who would talk in their middle age
of the lure of language and their love of words.
"Words" said in a reverential way that is somehow...
Welsh.
That's what the tosh was for - Gracie Fields, Brief Encounter.
It's an antidote. Sheer, calculated silliness.
Has a boy ever made you unhappy?
They used to do.
See it as an inoculation, rather.
Briefly painful, but providing immunity for however long it takes.
Given the occasional booster, another face,
another reminder of the pain,
it can last you... half a lifetime.
- Love. - Who could love me?
- I talk too much. - Do they know?
They know... everything.
Don't touch him. He'll think you're a fool.
It's what they think of me.
You knew as well, I gather?
And the boys knew.
Well, of course the boys knew. They had it at first hand.
I didn't actually do anything.
I mean, it was a laying on of hands. I don't deny that.
But more my way of... benediction than gratification.
Hector, darling, love you as I do, that is the most colossal balls.
- Is it? - A grope is a grope.
It is not the Annunciation.
You twerp!
Anyway, what Felix wanted to tell me is that when I finish next year,
he's hoping he can persuade you to step into my shoes.
Irwin.
For your information, they're a size seven court shoe, broad fitting.
Chris! Chris!
Adi!
David!
Evening. Lockwood, 4C.
Ah, Irwin!
Splendid news! Splendid news.
Posner, a scholarship. Dakin, an exhibition.
And places for everybody else!
It's more than one would ever have hoped for.
Irwin, you're to be congratulated on a remarkable achievement.
Oh, and you too. You too, Dorothy, of course, who laid the foundations.
- Not Rudge, Headmaster. - Not Rudge. Oh, dear.
- The others have all had letters. - It was always an outside chance.
It's a pity. It would have been good to have a clean sweep.
Still, as I've said all along, you can't polish a turd.
Rudge!
You haven't heard from Oxford?
Perhaps you'll hear tomorrow.
Why should I? They told me when I was there.
I'm sorry.
What for? I got in.
How come?
What, how come they told me, or how come they took a thick sod like me?
I had family connections.
Somebody in your family went to Christ Church?
Well, in a manner of speaking. My dad.
Before he got married he was a college servant there.
This old... parson who'd just been sitting there most of the interview suddenly said
was I related to Bill Rudge who'd been a scout in staircase seven in the 1950s.
So, I said he's my dad,
and they said I was just the kind of candidate they were looking for.
Mind you, I did do the other stuff like...
Stalin was a sweetie and Wilfred Owen was a wuss.
They said I plainly thought for myself and was exactly what their rugger team needed.
- Are you not pleased? - It's not like winning a match.
You see, Miss... I want to do the stuff I want to do.
I mean, this, I only wanted it cos the others did, and my dad.
Now I'm in, I just feel like telling the college to stuff it.
I think that's Mr. Hector.
No, it isn't, Miss. It's me.
- I went round to your college. - I'm surprised you're interested.
I was kind of lonely. I wanted to see where you'd been.
- Only no one had heard of you at Corpus. - I was at Jesus.
- You said Corpus. - Corpus, Jesus... What does it matter?
I never got in. I was at Bristol.
I did go to Oxford but it was just to do a teaching diploma.
- Does that make any difference? - To what? To me?
At least you lied, and lying's good, isn't it? We've established that. Lying works.
You ought to learn to do it properly.
Anybody else, I'd say we could have a drink.
Is that a euphemism - a drink?
Saying "a drink" when you actually mean something else?
- It is, yeah. - Actually, forget the euphemism.
I'm just kicking the tires on this one, but further to the drink...
What I was really wondering was, is there any chance of your sucking me off?
Or something similar.
Actually, that would please Hector.
- What? - "Your sucking me off."
It's a gerund. He likes gerunds.
And "your being scared shitless", that's another gerund.
- I didn't know you were that way inclined. - I'm not.
But it's the end of term, I've got into Oxford. I thought we might push the boat out.
Anyway, I'll leave it on the table.
I don't understand this.
Reckless, impulsive, immoral.
How come there's such a difference between the way you teach and the way you live?
Why are you so bold in argument and talking, but when it comes to the point...
when it's something that's actually happening - I mean, now you're so fucking careful.
Is it because you're a teacher and I'm a boy?
- Obviously that. - Well, why? Who cares? I don't.
You've already had one master touch you up.
Is that what it is? It's that you don't want to be like Hector?
Well, you won't be. You can't be. How could you be?
- Hector's a joke. - He isn't, you see. He isn't.
- That side of him is. - Dakin.
- All right. Let's go for a drink. - Don't take out your sodding diary.
- Maybe next week... - Next week?
Get this, man - "You can suck me off next week."
I've heard of a crowded schedule, but this is ridiculous.
God, we've got a long way to go.
- Do you ever take your glasses off? - Why?
- It's a start. - Not with me.
Taking off my glasses is the last thing I do.
Yeah? I'll look forward to it.
What do you do on Sunday afternoons?
What are you doing this Sunday afternoon?
I was going to go through the accounts of Roche Abbey.
It's a... it's a Cistercian house. It's just to the south of Doncaster.
Only, I think I've just had a better offer.
I think you have.
And we're not in the subjunctive any more, either.
It's going to happen.
I just wanted to say thank you.
So? Give him a subscription to The Spectator or a box of Black Magic!
Just cos you got a scholarship
doesn't mean you've got to give him unfettered access to your dick!
- Well, how would you say thank you? - On my knees probably, same as you.
I shall want a full report.
- Are you jealous? - No!
- You're jealous, aren't you? - No, not of the sex.
Just... of your being up for it.
- Me, erm... - Oh, write it down.
- Wish me luck. - What for?
What for?
Dakin? Can I help you?
I've never known such impertinence! Your scholarship seems to have gone to your head.
- The point I'm making... - I know the point.
I'm just curious, sir. What's the difference between Mr. Hector touching us up on the bike
and your feeling up Fiona?
A comparable situation historically
would be the dismissal of Cardinal Wolsey.
Don't give me that Cardinal Wolsey shit.
Who else knows about this?
Fiona. Erm... Miss Procter. Mr. Hector to my study, please.
- I might try the army. - You? You're a shambles!
- They put you through college, pay your fees. - Provided you kill people afterwards.
We won't go to war again. Who's there to fight?
I don't know about a career. I've got to get fucking out of the way first!
- That goes on. - Or doesn't.
Now look, everybody. This is known as Posner's reward.
Is that it? The longed-for moment?
- Well, what's wrong with it? - It's too fucking brief.
I was looking for something more... lingering.
Go on, Stu, go on!
Come on, come on!
And what's this? Hector's reward?
It's only polite. Just for old times' sake.
Just don't let him go past the lollipop lady.
Ready, sir?
- Oh, Dakin. - Think of it as a gesture, sir.
But I'm not leaving. I'm coming back next year.
That's brilliant!
A boy in a motorcycle helmet? Dakin!
No! No-no-no-no! Under no circumstances.
Hector, I thought I'd made this plain.
Take... somebody else.
Take... take Irwin.
- Irwin? - Sure. Why not?
Do you want my Tudor Economic Documents?
Fuck off. Fuck right off!
"How does history happen?" I asked Irwin.
And he couldn't answer.
But now he knew. Nothing special.
Skid on a corner. Ordinary stuff.
Irwin had never been on the back of a bike before, so...
maybe going around the corner he leaned out instead of in and so unbalanced Hector.
Trust him to lean the opposite way to everyone else.
But he had no memory of what caused it.
I suppose the last thing he remembered was me asking him out for a drink.
Something we never did, incidentally.
Still, at least I asked him.
And, barring accidents, it would have happened.
Listen. There is no "barring accidents". It's what I said.
History is just one fucking thing after another.
If I speak of Hector,
it is of enthusiasm shared, passion conveyed
and seeds sown of future harvest.
He loved language. He loved words.
For each and every one of you, his pupils,
he opened a deposit account in the bank of literature
and made you all shareholders in that wonderful world of words.
Will they come to my funeral, I wonder?
And what will they be?
Akhtar, what are you?
A headmaster, Miss. In Keighley, near Bradford.
One of you is a magistrate, I know.
- And, Timms, what are you? - Chain of dry-cleaners, Miss.
And I take drugs at the weekend.
And are you all happy?
Kids don't help, though, Miss.
Dakin, you're happy, I'm sure.
Of course I'm happy. I'm a tax lawyer. Money's incredible.
For fuck's sake!
Despite knowing, along with Wittgenstein,
that the world is everything that is the case,
Lieutenant James Lockwood of the First Battalion York and Lancaster Regiment,
is wounded by friendly fire
and dies on his way to hospital.
He is 28.
Tout comprendre, c'est tout pardonner.
- Rudge, I'd forgotten you. - As usual, Miss.
You're a builder. Carpeting the Dales in handy homes.
Rudge homes are at least affordable homes for the first-time buyer.
I take wives around the showhouse.
I tell them I was at Oxford. I get fucks galore.
There is one journalist, though on a better class of paper -
a career he's always threatening to abandon in order, as he puts it, "really to write".
Hector always said I was a journalist.
And so you were. School was just an apprenticeship for television.
I enjoy your programmes, but they're more... journalism than history.
But of all Hector's boys,
there is only one who truly took everything to heart,
remembers everything he was ever taught.
The songs, the poems, the sayings, the endings.
The words of Hector never forgotten.
Slightly to my surprise, I've ended up, like you, a teacher.
I'm a bit of a stock figure. I do a wonderful school play, for instance.
And though I never touch the boys, it's always a struggle.
But maybe that's why I'm a good teacher.
I'm not happy, but I'm not unhappy about it.
He was a good man.
But I don't think there's time for his kind of teaching any more.
No. Love apart, it is the only education worth having.
Pass the parcel. That's sometimes all you can do.
Take it, feel it, and pass it on.
Pass it on, boys - that's the game i want you to learn.
Pass it on.
Subtitles by Visiontext