Maybe it was because I was naive, or maybe I’d just been lucky, but I can honestly say that, prior to meeting her, I believed most people in this world to be quite reasonable. And for those few eccentric oddballs I did stumble across over the years, I could usually sympathize with them because they often had extenuating circumstances to justify their outrageous behavior. But not her.
Major Harriet T. Hunter, a.k.a. The Major, Head and CEO of Cothbert House School, introduced me to cynicism. It all began at an interview, of sorts, in Vancouver’s Bacchus Lounge at the Wedgewood Hotel—a setting so totally at odds with who she was and what she represented. And yet, to be fair, that meeting would change my life and the lives of so many others forever.
“Ah, yes … Mr. Gower,” the manager acknowledged, looking down at his reservation book. “Welcome to our Afternoon Tea. Ms. Hunter asked me to seat you if you arrived before her.”
He raised his eyebrows and signaled to a waiter, who led me to a table-for-two beside a tall, arched window overlooking the street. Seating myself, the waiter deftly flicked my white napkin, handing it to me while I stared in awe at the European-inspired lounge. High-back chairs, dark wooden walls framed by velvet curtains, and a vaulted ceiling exuded elegance and sophistication.
It was early June of 1995, and I had just turned thirty-four. Looking back, I now realize that what I had thought was just a series of unfortunate events was actually a premature mid-life crisis.
In January of the same year, I had resigned from a dead-end administrative position at a renowned private school in Eastern Canada after being passed over for more senior roles, sold everything I owned, and driven almost non-stop across several provinces of Canada, eventually arriving in Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast. I told myself—and anyone else who bothered to ask—that I was going to explore new opportunities. And my mother, bless her heart, on hearing of my decision, exclaimed with passion, “It’s fate. I can feel it in my bones. You must go, no matter what your father thinks.”
Unfortunately, after six months of bravado and no new opportunities, reality settled in much quicker than anticipated, and my father’s unmitigated displeasure was beginning to resonate as true. My bank account had dwindled to a few thousand dollars while I was getting distinct vibes from the family with whom I was staying in Vancouver (distant relatives, not one of whom my immediate family members had ever met) that I was starting to overstay my welcome.
There were certainly respectable private schools on the West Coast where I could have probably found employment, but none of them was hiring. It was therefore somewhat of a surprise when I discovered an ad in the paper for a principal at Cothbert House School. I say surprised because it was my understanding that Cothbert, a school well-known for accepting students who couldn’t get accepted anywhere else, had gone belly-up in the 1980s. Apparently, an exchange student from California burned down much of the school’s dormitory when his homemade chemistry set exploded. From what I’d been told, the school had attempted to carry on with makeshift accommodations and reassuring letters to parents, but it was never able to get fire insurance again and was therefore reduced to ruin.
“Are you Gower?” A gruff voice broke my reverie.
“Yes, that’s me—Phil Gower,” I said, scrambling to my feet, dropping my napkin.
A heavy-set woman with a buzz-cut and brown horn-rimmed glasses shook my hand.
“Major Harriet T. Hunter. You can call me Major,” she said, scanning me as if deciding whether I was worth her time. “You look younger than I expected,” she added, with noticeable surprise.
I smiled awkwardly. “Yes, I hear that a lot.”
I had come to accept that my genes were set on preserving my eternal boyish appearance: a small frame, fine, light auburn hair that drooped no matter how I tried to style it, and impish blue eyes that still seemed to overlook the world’s imperfections. Despite a few feeble attempts to grow facial hair and my investment in a carefully curated rotation of dark business jackets, I couldn’t shake the look of an idealistic sophomore.
“Well, so be it,” sighed the Major, dropping her stare. “Be seated, young man,” she ordered, falling unceremoniously onto a chair opposite me and snapping her cell phone shut.
Her choice of clothing seemed unfitting for both the occasion and the setting. A houndstooth pant suit barely concealed her stained white shirt, on the top of which was affixed a carelessly-knotted plaid bow tie.
I sat down again, just as a young waiter rushed over to retrieve my fallen napkin.
“Hey, waiter,” barked the Major, pulling a crumpled paper from her blazer pocket. “I’ve got a gift certificate for your Afternoon Tea.”
She shoved the paper into the hovering waiter’s hand and then dismissed him by twisting her body to look out the window.
“I’ve always thought there was money to be made in education, Gower,” she began. “I know that’s not very PC, but I don’t give a damn. I haven’t made my money by listening to whiners. And let me tell you, on the West Coast, there are a whole shitload of whiners: the tree huggers; the crappy craft people who live on the local islands; and your union workers, who sit around watching the clock half the time, complaining about job descriptions. That’s why I’m interested in an Easterner like yourself. You people are different.
I’d never really classified myself as an Easterner nor considered it an advantage for a job interview.
“You know,” she continued, “they say, that if you tipped Canada on its end, all the nuts would fall to the West Coast.”
I laughed politely, not really knowing if she was joking.
“You ever heard of Cothbert House School?” she asked.
“Well, yes. If it’s the one I think it is. I thought it went bankrupt in the eighties.”
A waiter arrived carrying our tea along with a silver stand containing an assortment of baked goods and sandwiches.
“You’re right. It went bankrupt in ’85. Some American kid set the place on fire, and it never recovered.” The Major turned around just as the waiter began to arrange our food. Before we had even been handed our plates, she was popping sandwiches in her mouth.
“Help yourself, Gower!” Then, turning to the waiter with a sandwich in her mouth, “Was that certificate okay there, son?”
“Yes, ma’am. You are entitled to two Afternoon Teas,” he smiled awkwardly, pouring the tea into both our cups.
A couple of sandwiches later, the Major launched back into her story.
“Anyway, Gower, like I was saying, Cothbert went bankrupt in 1985 after some American prick bombed the place. It’s been sitting vacant ever since. It was originally bought by a leftist charity organization that re-built the residence and tried renting out the campus to local church groups. But the charity found it was cheaper to just close it all down. It held onto the site for tax purposes, until finally it was busted by the local RCMP for running a marijuana grow-op. The site was then put up for auction.”
The Major poured a second cup of tea for herself and then downed its contents.
“Help yourself, Gower,” she said, dropping her cup loudly onto its saucer, all the time staring out the window in an obvious attempt to avoid eye contact.
I didn’t need to be asked twice, so I quickly poured the remaining tea into my cup while I waited for the Major to continue her story. She had now shifted her focus to devouring the tower of sandwiches and cakes that threatened to overflow onto the pristine white tablecloth.
“So, did you buy Cothbert House School?” I finally asked, cautiously trying to move the conversation along.
“Of course I bought it,” replied the Major, slithering back towards me. “That’s why you’re here. I want to start a new school, and I want to hire you as my principal.”
“You want to hire me for a school that doesn’t exist?”
“Look, here’s the deal, Gower,” said the Major, finally looking me in the eyes as she grabbed another handful of sandwiches. “There are a bunch of snotty-nosed private schools in Vancouver and over on Vancouver Island. Their noses are as high as kites, and most of them refuse to take international students who can’t speak English. And let me tell you, there’s been a bloody boom of them from Asia during the last couple of years. So, here’s my idea. We offer a one-year program for international Asian students, give them all the bells and whistles of a regular boarding school, bring their English up to scratch, and then help them get accepted to them snotty-nosed schools a year later.
“So … basically you want to set up an ESL school,” I responded, feeling a bit deflated.
“A what?”
“English as a Second Language School.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. One of them,” she said, wolfing down a scone heavily laden with Devonshire cream and raspberry jam. “Are you going to eat or what?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said, reaching for the last remaining sandwich.
I was skeptical about her proposal. I had been loosely involved in the world of ESL at my last school, where we ran a small program for children of newly-arrived immigrant families. I quickly discovered that ESL instruction is a huge industry and that most of its major players are profit-making enterprises operating as pseudo schools granting bogus diplomas and certificates.
“Look, Major, I do appreciate your offer, but I have to be honest, ESL schools don’t exactly have a great reputation. What makes you think the local private schools will even take notice of your school?”
“Good question, Gower. I like your thinking! My accountant asked me the same question. That’s why I want to hire you. You’ve already worked at one of them private schools. You know what they want. And the schools will take notice because I’m going to hire qualified teachers.”
That’s reassuring, I thought. The Major caught my look.
“What I mean is that I’m not going to hire any of those certificate types. My teachers will have to have a teaching degree.”
I took a sip of my tea, wishing it were something stronger.
“So? What do you think, Gower? Are you game?”
“Well … ” I began, trying not to choke on my tea at her insolent bluntness. “I … I need more time to think about this. Also, I’m not entirely sure how you’re going to structure the school. I mean, my experience with ESL is pretty limited.”
“Look, here’s the deal,” she said, repeating her classic opening line. “I’ll look after the minor issues, you know, like teachers and curriculum. I want you to focus on getting students.”
I took another mouthful of tea as I tried to formulate a suitable response. I had never heard a Head of School refer to teachers and curriculum as ‘minor issues’.
“Do you have any students enrolled yet?” I asked hesitantly.
“Not exactly. I’ve got about a dozen on the back burner. But here’s the beauty of all of this. I’ve crunched the numbers with my accountant. If we charge each student thirty thousand dollars a pop, I only need about twenty students to break even. The rest is gravy. Of course, we’ll have to hire a few more teachers as the numbers rise, and buy a couple more books, but otherwise we’re looking at big money.”
By this time my head was spinning. The situation bordered on the absurd, yet the Major’s passion for her misdirected vision was undeniable.
“Look, Gower, why don’t you drive up to the school tomorrow and take a look around. I’ll have a contract ready for you to sign and then we can get going.”
The Major pulled a torn piece of paper out of her pocket, drew a map with directions to the school and, as an afterthought, jotted down her phone number.
“See you tomorrow, Gower. Let’s say around 4:00 pm?”
Heaving herself out of her chair, the Major hustled off without even giving me a chance to respond. I curled both hands around my almost empty teacup, staring dully out the window as I tried to make sense of what had just happened.
