The Heart of the Dales (41 page)

The boy stared up at me, with a suspicious expression on his small face. ‘No, should I?'

‘Mr Phinn.'

‘Are you a social worker?'

‘The school inspector.'

He smiled and nodded. ‘Oh, aye, I remember thee,' he said. ‘You're the one who asks all them questions.'

‘And I judged the public speaking competition at the Fettle-sham Show when you won first prize for your performance of a piece of verse about cricket.'

‘Aye, I did an' all,' he said nodding, and then recited the first verse:

Whativer task you tackle, lads,

Whativer job you do,

I' all your ways,

I' all your days,

Be honest through and through:

Play cricket.

As he said the lines, I recalled the boy's face beaming with pleasure and pride as he had been given the award – a face like a footballer who had just scored the winning goal.

‘And do you still play cricket?' I asked.

‘Naw, not any more.'

‘So what school are you at now?' I asked.

‘West Challerton'Igh,' he told me.

‘They have a good cricket team there, don't they?'

‘Yea, well, I'm not in it,' he told me, getting to his feet.

‘And how are you getting on at West Challerton?'

‘I'm not,' he said. ‘It's crap.'

‘Terry, why were those boys chasing you?' I asked.

He bent down and picked up a stone, which he examined as if he had found something precious. ‘They gang up on me,' he said.

‘Why do they do that?'

‘Cos I'm little and don't give'em what they want – money and sweets – but I don't take any crap from'em.'

‘Have you told anyone that these boys are bullying you?'

‘I can handle missen,' he said, as if I had said something offensive. ‘They think they're tough when they're in a gang
but on their own they're like all bullies – bloody cowards.' He threw the stone at some rooks in the field behind him. ‘Bloody rooks. Eat owt they do. Farmers'ate'em.'

‘Did they hurt you, those boys?' I asked.

The boy rubbed a red mark on his neck. ‘I've'ad worse,' he said looking me in the eyes.

I guess you have, I thought. ‘I think perhaps you should tell somebody at school,' I said.

‘Naw,' he said dismissively. ‘What's the use? They never do owt. You just'ave to put up wi' it.'

‘No, you don't,' I said. ‘You don't have to put up with it. If you are being bullied, you should tell someone you trust – your foster parents, a teacher, a friend. You must never ignore bullying. It won't just go away. Something should be done about it.'

‘Aye, well,' he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, ‘they'll'ave got tired of wait in' by now, so I'd best be off'ome.'

‘Just a minute, Terry,' I said.

‘What?'

‘Have you told your foster parents you're being bullied?'

‘Naw, it'd only mekthings worse.'

‘No, it wouldn't,' I said.

He looked at me, and his face tightened. ‘'Ow would you know?'Ave you been fostered, lived in a children's home, taken away from your mam, not allowed to see your little brother, always movin' around from one place to another, switch in' schools,'avin' to go to all these meetin's when they talk about you? Then you get to this new school an' all the teachers know you're in care and then everybody knows an' you stand out an' kids start to pick on you cos you're different. Then they say things about your mam an' where you come from, an' you get into a scrap and sent to the deputy'ead an' you can see it in the teacher's eyes – ‘These kids are all the same – trouble.'

I listened to his outburst but couldn't reply. I really had no conception of the life this child led. What a sad, angry and troubled boy he was, standing on the grassy verge, his blazer ripped and his eyes filling with tears.

‘Terry –' I began.

‘See ya,' he said and, with that, the boy set off running down the road.

‘Terry!' I shouted after him. ‘Will you promise me you will tell someone?'

He turned and called back to me, ‘I've told
you
, haven't I?'

As I drovetothe office on that cold afternoon, I recalled the time when I was about Terry's age and I too had a problem with a bully – but that's a story I'll tell another time.

In the office I sat at my desk, staring out of the window wondering just what I could do about Terry Moss up.

‘Penny for them,' said Julie, who had come in to put some papers on Geraldine's desk.

‘Sorry, what –' I asked.

‘You were miles away.'

‘I was thinking,' I said.

‘What about?'

‘About a little boy who leads a life no child should lead,' I said.

‘Sounds serious,' said Julie. ‘I think I'd better make you a strong cup of tea.'

‘Thanks, Julie, that would be great. But first, could you get me the school secretary at West Challerton High on the phone, please? I need to arrange a visit.'

At that moment, David and Sidney arrived noisily in the office – arguing as usual.

‘We shall have to agree to disagree,' said David crossly.

‘Fine,' said Sidney. Then, after a pause, added, ‘But I know I'm right.'

A few minutes later, after I had spoken to West Challerton School, arranging to go and see the headmaster the next morning, Julie tottered in with a tray of cups of tea for all of us. It was some feat to carry them without spilling a drop, considering the height of her heels.

‘Do you remember, Mr Phinn,' she asked, ‘when Mrs Savage told you that her car wouldn't start the other afternoon and
she had to cadge a lift from you to get to the planning meeting at Manston Hall?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, it wasn't that it wouldn't start,' said Julie gleefully. ‘She'd been clamped!'

‘Mrs Savage clamped!' repeated Sidney. ‘Oh goody!'

‘Makes a change from Mr Clamp being savaged,' chuckled David.

‘According to Marlene on the switch board,' said Julie, ‘she had parked her car in one of the councillors' bays and she got clamped. She goes round telling everyone not to park in those bays and then she goes and does it herself. Typical! Well, what's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. She had to show herself at the Admin. office, and pay a fine to get the clamp taken off.'

‘Hoist by her own petard,' I observed.

‘Her what?' asked Julie.

‘Nothing,' I said. ‘Just an expression.'

‘Well, whatever it means, it serves her right,' said Julie. ‘It's poetic justice.'

‘What's all this about you giving Mrs Savage a lift anyway, Gervase?' asked Sidney. ‘You seem to be getting mighty pally with her, if you ask me. You'll be making old Todger jealous.'

‘First of all, Sidney,' said David, ‘his name is Tadge and not Todger, as you well know. Secondly, Gervase is a happily married man with a young baby, so has no interest in other women and, finally and most importantly, Mrs Savage is the last person in the world he is likely to get pally with.'

‘Thank you, David,' I said. ‘I couldn't have put it better myself.'

‘Oh, by the way,' said Julie, holding up a copy of the
Fettlesham Gazette
, ‘you're in the paper.'

‘I am?' I asked.

‘And there's a photograph of you with a group of soldiers and a seedy-looking man in a raincoat,' she told me.

‘I knew that your nocturnal exploits in the gentleman's lav
on Fettlesham High Street would eventually catch you out and get to the press,' said Sidney. ‘You've been exposed, dear boy, if you will excuse the pun.'

‘It's a real rag that paper,' I said. ‘They rarely checktheir facts. It was pure luck that we were able to scotch that article about Tarncliffe School and Mr Hornchurch's English lesson. And when I wrote an article for National Poetry Day, it was full of errors.' I reached for the paper and began looking through it. ‘It'll be a review of the play I was in the weekend before last. I'm dreading to see what it says. The night the critic was there was a humiliating failure.'

‘I recall once there was a wonderful headline in the
Gazette
about the Lady Cavendish High School,' said Sidney. ‘HEADMISTRESS UNVEILS BUST AT DEDICATION CEREMONY'. I can just imagine the redoubtable Miss Bronson unveiling her bust.'

‘I can't find this review,' I said.

‘Page eight,' Julie said. ‘Marcia McCrudden's column.'

‘Give it here,' said Sidney, coming across the room and snatching the paper from me. ‘I'll tell you what it says and spare your blushes.' He turned to the page. ‘Here it is,' he said, taking a theatrical stance before reading: “‘The staging of a wartime classic drama, based on the autobiography of the Dame of Sark, was performed last week by the Fettlesham Literary Players at the Little Theatre. It was a bold undertaking by any standards and was warmly received by a most appreciative audience.”'

‘Does it really say that, Sidney?' I asked. ‘That's not bad.'

‘Scout's honour.' He read on. ‘The undisputed star of the show was Margot Cleaver-Canning who gave an inspired performance as the formidable Dame of Sark, Mrs Sibyl Hathaway. She captured the larger-than-life character superbly, dominating the stage with her imperious presence. In her voluminous blackdress, she was every inch the powerful matriarchal figure whose courage and determination remained steadfast during the occupation of her island home. She was ably supported by Norman Cleaver-Canning as the mild-mannered, aristocratic,
rather bumbling German commander, who was no match for the Dame. It was a delight to see them on stage together. Sharon Mawson, playing the part of Celine, Mrs Hathaway's French maid, brought sparkling humour and vitality to a very demanding role. She maintained the Breton accent throughout the drama with great authenticity. I look forward to seeing much more of this talented young woman.”'

‘It gets better,' I said.

Sidney read on. ‘“Another sterling performance was given by George Furnival, the sinister Dr Braun, whose angry delivery of his lines showed his displeasure and hostility when in the presence of the Dame. His pale deadpan features and slimy manner were perfectly suited to the role of a member of the feared Gestapo.”'

‘Sounds a
tour de force
to me,' said David. ‘I should have got tickets to take Gwynneth. Why didn't you tell us about it?'

‘Do I get a mention?' I asked, ignoring him.

‘Yes, here you are at the end,' said Sidney. He read in silence.

‘Well, go on,' I said. ‘What does it say?'

‘Perhaps you ought to read it yourself, old boy,' said Sidney, with a rather hangdog expression.

‘No, no,' I said, ‘go on Sidney. I'd like to hear. I don't mind what it says.'

I should have thought back a moment to my performance.

‘Very well,' said my colleague. He coughed. ‘“Gervase Phinn, playing the part of the British Colonel Graham, was…”' Sidney paused.

‘Was what?' I asked.

‘“Lacklustre”,' said Sidney.

‘“Lacklustre”!' I cried.

‘That's what it says.' Sidney continued, ‘He mumbled though his few lines with little conviction and it was hard to suspend one's disbelief and accept that one so youthful looking –”'

‘Well, there's a compliment, at least,' interrupted David.

‘Go on, Sidney,' I said quietly.

‘“… that one so youthful looking and so lacking in assertiveness could have been the senior British officer who liberated the island.”' Not an overwhelmingly good review, is it, old boy?'

‘It's awful,' I said. ‘I was fine at rehearsal. It was the blasted sound effects or, rather, the lack of them that did for me. It put me completely off my stroke.'

‘Well, it rules you out for a role at Stratford,' said David.

‘“Lacklustre”!' I said again. It was then that I recalled this was the very same word I had used to describe the two teachers at Ugglemattersby Junior School.

‘I'd best get on,' said Julie, giving me a sympathetic glance as she left the office.

‘Never mind, Gervase,' said Sidney, returning to his desk and leaning back in his chair. ‘You have to look on the positive side of this. One good thing is that you won't be called upon again to tread the boards, having to give up all those evenings rehearsing with a group of broken-down amateur actors. You can now, as the politicians frequently say, spend more time with your family.'

‘Cheer up,' said David. ‘You'll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow.'

‘Yes,' I said, feeling rotten inside. ‘It's just that I'm a bit taken a back by the review. I didn't think I was that bad. Anyway,' I said, picking up my briefcase, ‘I must be away to a governors' meeting.' To be honest, I was relieved to have an appointment to go to.

The following morning, I went straight from home to West Challerton High School. I was glad that I had been able to get an early appointment to see the headmaster because I really wanted to get this bullying problem sorted out.

Mr Pennington-Smith was thin and stiff as a broom handle. He had short-cropped iron-grey hair and eyes like blue china marbles behind thick black-framed glasses. He was wearing, as always, a blackacademic gown.

‘And what have we done to deserve a visitation from yet
another school inspector?' he asked, with undisguised sarcasm in his voice. He had kept me waiting in the entrance hall for a good ten minutes before emerging from his room to meet me. ‘You inspectors must enjoy coming to West Challerton,' he continued in his deep and grating voice. ‘You seem to spend so much time here.'

It was true that Sidney, David and Geraldine had visited the school frequently in recent months, largely because several areas of weakness had been identified in their reports. Despite his grandiose claims when he had taken over the headship, little had been translated into good practice. Mr Pennington-Smith was, as David's old Welsh grandmother might have described him, ‘all wind and no substance'.