The Heart of the Dales (5 page)

‘No, I haven't,' I replied.

‘He's recently been elected to the County Council,' Mrs Sidebottom informed me, ‘and is a colleague of Councillor Peterson, who, as you are no doubt aware, is very influential on the Education Committee. My husband has a particular interest in schools and teaching and hopes to be elected to the Education Committee in due course.'

I detected a veiled threat in her voice. ‘Well, I haven't met him,' I said, somewhat dismissively.

‘I'm sure you will,' she told me. I had an uneasy feeling that the meeting with County Councillor Sidebottom would be sooner rather than later.

‘You were telling me about the traveller children,' I said.

She shook her head and another strand of hair escaped. ‘It really is very inconvenient. The children arrive one minute and leave the next so I hope you are not expecting to see a great deal in Niall's book.' Before I had a chance to reply, she continued. ‘I would be very interested to hear what suggestions
you
have in helping me to teach the child.'

Her voice was persistently filled with quiet sarcasm. I was certain that any suggestions I might proffer to this teacher would fall on stony ground and any guidelines I gave her would be consigned to the bin.

‘I think we are running a course on that very subject next term,' I told her gleefully. ‘I'll send you all the information and reserve you a place, if you wish.'

When Mrs Sidebottom returned to her desk at the front of the classroom, I approached the boy who had been the topic of the conversation.

‘Hello,' I said, pulling up the hard wooden chair to sit beside him.

‘How are ya?' he asked, with nonchalant confidence. He was a handsome lad with a tanned skin and a ready smile.

‘I'm fine.'

‘So am I, but I'm a bit knackered, so I am, after chasing the bloody 'osses. By Jaysus, they gave us a run for us money. Still, we got 'em all back.'

‘May I look at your book?' I asked.

‘Now, who would ya be?'

‘An inspector,' I replied.

‘Ah, ya do have a look of the polis about ya,' he remarked, screwing round to peer up at me closely.

‘A school inspector.'

‘So what do ya do?'

‘I visit schools to hear children read and look at their work,' I told him.

‘Well now, that sounds like a great number to be on, spending your days listening to kids read. Now, how would ya be getting a job like that?'

‘By working hard at school,' I told him, reaching for his exercise book.

He placed his hand on mine. ‘Now, don't yous be expecting much in there,' he said. ‘I'm not one for the reading and the writing and the mental arithmetics. I just can't get my head around this fraction and percentages business.'

‘You need to know about fractions and percentages, Niall,' I told him.

‘And why is that now?'

‘Because if you don't know about fractions and percentages, people might cheat you.'

‘They won't be cheating
me
,' he said vehemently, banging his fist on the deskas he reached the word ‘me'. ‘Just let 'em try!'

‘What do you want to do when you leave school?' I asked the boy.

‘I want to do what my da does.'

‘And what does he do?'

‘He collects scrap metal and sells it.'

‘And what's the sort of scrap that is best to collect and resell, that gives you the greatest profit?'

‘Oil drums,' he answered after a moment's thought. ‘There's a good market for used oil drums.'

‘Now suppose someone told you he'd got a hundred oil drums and he said that he would sell you a quarter of them – that's twenty-five per cent of them. Because you don't know about fractions and percentages, you wouldn't know, would you, if he sold you the right amount? He could be cheating you. He could sell you ten or fifteen rather than the twenty-five because you wouldn't know what a quarter of a hundred is. So you see, you need to understand about fractions and percentages.'

‘No one would dare cheat me,' the boy insisted, in a hard determined voice.

‘But you wouldn't know whether he was or not,' I persisted.

Niall considered what I had said for a moment, rubbed his chin and then nodded. ‘He wouldn't cheat me because if he said you can have a quarter of them there oil drums, I'd say to him, “I'll have the lot or none at all.”'

There was little chance, I thought, of anyone cheating one so canny.

As I looked through the boy's book, red-cheeked Simone piped up, ‘Miss, I can't find mi readin' book. I don't know weer I've gone an' putten it.'

‘I cannot find my reading book,' the teacher repeated slowly and precisely, ‘because I do not know where I have put it.'

‘That's wor I just said, miss. I've gorran putten it down someweer an' I don't know weer I've putten it.'

‘I have put it down somewhere, Simone,' corrected Mrs Sidebottom, ‘but I do not know where I have put it.'

‘Have ya, miss?' the child asked innocently. ‘Did
you
'ave mi book, then?'

‘No,
you
have put it down,' the teacher said, drawing a deep exasperated breath.

‘I know, miss, that's wor I just said,' the girl answered, screwing up her nose.

‘There is no such word, Simone, as “putten”,' the teacher explained. ‘The word is “put”. “I have put down my book” and not “I have putten down my book.”'

‘Miss!' another child piped up. ‘She's gone an' putten it on
my
desk. It's 'ere.'

‘Put, William, put,' the teacher corrected sharply. Mrs Side-bottom sighed dramatically. ‘You know, Mr Phinn,' she said, ‘sometimes I really ask myself why I bother.' I asked myself the selfsame question. ‘I think I am fighting a losing battle,' she continued, ‘trying to get the children to speak properly.' I was certain she was right in that as well.

Just before morning break, the teacher wrote a sentence in large white letters on the blackboard: ‘I have putten my book on the teacher's desk.'

‘Now, children,' she said, facing the class. ‘Look this way, please. On the blackboard I have written a sentence. Who can tell me what is wrong with it?'

Young William waved his hand backwards and forwards in the air like a lupin in a strong wind. ‘I know, miss!' he shouted out.

‘Come along then, William, what is wrong with the sentence, “I have putten my book on the teacher's desk'?”

‘Miss,' the boy replied, ‘tha's gone and putten “putten” when tha should 'ave putten “put”.'

I had only been in the school for just over two hours, had had a revealing conversation with the unhappy head teacher, had sat in on a distinctly dull and unnecessary lesson, and had looked at a range of children's work books, most of which I judged to be unsatisfactory. I was dismayed to find that the various major recommendations about the teaching contained in my previous report seemed to have been largely ignored.

During the break, therefore, I found a secluded area in the small school library. I was keen to make some notes while my concerns were still fresh in my mind. I was just starting to jot down my observations about the conversation with Mr Harrison when I was aware of a figure standing a few feet away.

He was a small wiry lad of about ten or eleven with an earnest, purposeful face, wild tufty ginger hair sprouting up from his head like a clump of dry grass, a scattering of freckles around his nose and bright intelligent eyes. His small hands were placed firmly on his hips, his legs apart. He looked like a miniature admiral on the quarterdeck facing a mutinous crew and demanding who the ringleader was.

He thrust his face into mine, stuck out his chin and demanded, ‘So, what are you for?'

I smiled and shook my head. ‘What am I for?' I repeated, chuckling.

‘Aye,' he said quickly, ‘what are you for?'

‘I'm a school inspector,' I told him, continuing to smile.

‘I knows that,' he sighed, screwing up his nose. ‘Mester 'Arrison, our 'eadteacher, 'e telled us that you were a school inspector and you'd be comin' in today. Mester 'Arrison, 'e said we 'ad this important visitor this mornin' an' for us to be
on us best behaviour, mek sure we watches us manners, an' answer yer questions and 'e telled us 'ow all on us 'ad to look 'appy an' interested – but what I wants to know is what are you
for
?'

A large girl with a pale moon face, large owl eyes and two big bunches of thick straw-coloured hair tied with crimson ribbons, appeared from behind a shelf of books and stared at me impassively. She was sporting a tight pink T-shirt with ‘LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE' emblazoned across the front in large glittery uneven letters. I smiled at her but she stared back at me as if I were some strange and rather unpleasant exhibit displayed in a museum case. She then proceeded to explore her nose with her index finger. A little green bubble emptied and filled in the other crusty nostril.

‘Well,' I said to the boy, ‘I go into schools and see what children are doing.'

‘Why?' the child asked brusquely, tilting his head to one side.

‘Because that is what I do for a living.'

‘Well, dunt you 'ave a proper job, like?'

I laughed. ‘I think it
is
a proper job,' I told him. This question had been put to me a good few times before by inquisitive pupils, so I was well used to hearing it and answering it.

The large girl was now examining the contents of her nose critically. Then she wiped her finger on her T-shirt, sniffed loudly to remove the bubble of mucus, ran a small finger across the base of her nose and departed. I hoped the boy might depart too but he remained resolutely rooted to the spot in front of me, his arms still akimbo.

‘Dooan't mind 'Yacinth,' he informed me, confidentially. He tapped the side of his nose knowingly. ‘She's got what they calls especial needs, tha knaas.'

‘Thank you for telling me,' I said. I noticed his use of ‘tha'. The children of the Dales tended to drift in and out of the local dialect.

‘She lives up on t'tops at Ferntop Farm and foots it to t'schoil every day – all two mile on it. 'Yacinth's not much cop at yer
writin' an' yer readin' an' yer addin' up an' such, but by the 'ell, she can't 'arf arm wrestle. Champion at conkers an' all, an' good at footie in t'goal. Aye, she's a gret feighter is 'Yacinth. Nob'dy messes around wi' 'er.'

‘I'll bear that in mind,' I said.

This pupil interrogation, interesting though I was finding it, was becoming rather time consuming and I was keen to get on with writing down in my note book some initial thoughts on the morning's events. There was much to record and I wanted to get on with it while things were fresh in my mind.

‘So what do you actually
do
, then?' said the ginger-headed boy, thrusting his freckled face even closer to mine. ‘What are you
for
?'

‘I visit schools and I hear children read,' I informed him patiently. ‘I look at their books and examine the work, see how well they write, if they can spell words, use punctuation and then I talk to the teachers to see that everything is all right.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I have to make sure that all in the school is as it should be.'

‘Is that abaat it, then?' he asked.

‘Just about, but I then suggest ways that we can make the education in the school even better.'

‘Well, if tha asks me,' confided the boy, ‘I think tha's got a reight job on 'ere.'

‘Really?'

‘Oh aye.'

When visiting schools, I often ask the children questions about how satisfied they are with their education, but without singling out particular teachers and lessons. I now asked the boy, ‘So, if you had a magic wand and could change things in this school, what would you change?'

He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled noisily. ‘'Ow long 'as tha got?' he asked.

‘All right,' I said. ‘What is the best part of your day in this school?'

‘Goin' 'ome,' he replied, without pause for thought.

‘I see.'

‘Are tha gunna write it down in that little black book o' yourn?'

‘Not at the moment,' I told him.

‘So, tha'r a sooart of expert on education then, are tha?' he observed.

‘Yes, I suppose I am.'

The boy blew out noisily again through pursed lips. His expression was one of exaggerated disdain. ‘Mi dad 'ates hexperts,' he told me, screwing up his face. His eyes gleamed with an impish delight. ‘Oh aye, no time for 'em at all. He 'ates inspectors, an' all. 'E don't see point to inspectors, mi dad. 'E dunt know what they're for. We 'ave inspectors from t'Ministry comin' up to our farm checkin' up on t'beeasts, watchin' what we're gerrin up to, askin' questions, writin' stuff down. Mi dad says they're a bloody nuisance and it's a reight pity they've got nowt else berrer to do wi' their time than interferin' in other people's lives. Any road, that's what 'e says. 'E says they're abaat as much use as a chocolate fireguard, allus pokin' their noses into other people's business.' The boy nodded soberly and set his chin a little harder

I had been the County Inspector for English and Drama in Yorkshire now for four years and had become well used to the plain, outspoken and disarming pupils I had met in the course of my work. I had found the young children of the Dales in particular to be amusing, forthright, inquisitive and sharply observant and, on some occasions, like this lad, possessing the tenacity of a Yorkshire terrier and the bluntness of a sledgehammer.

I thought it an opportune moment to curtail the conversation with my critical young chatterer. ‘Isn't it morning break?' I asked pleasantly.