The Other Side of the Dale (11 page)

‘If I've got owt to say I says it, and if I've got owt to ask I asks it,' he replied casually.

The following week, on a sunny but cold late autumn morning, I visited St Helen's, a tiny Church of England primary school in the depths of the Dale, as part of the reading survey. The small stone building and adjacent chapel had been built in 1788 from the bequest of a wealthy landowner for the education of his estate workers. It had continued over the years to serve the Anglican community in the two villages of Kirby Crighton and Kirby Ruston and one or two children from the nearby United States Air Force Base at Ribbon Bank. The trees had a golden lustre to them that bright morning, the mists had gone and the air was clear and fresh. The whole land surrounding the small school was a vast and silent panorama of fields and hills. I entered the building armed with my questionnaire, checklist, survey form and standardized reading test. In the small entrance area, sitting on a round, coloured cushion and surrounded by an array of books, was a small girl engrossed in her reading.

‘That looks a very interesting book,' I said smiling.

She looked up with a most serious expression on the small face and replied, ‘Mrs Smith says we are not allowed to speak to strangers.' She then returned to her reading. having been firmly put in my place, I pressed the buzzer at the reception desk, signed in and was soon in the Headteacher's room looking across the desk at the serene countenance of Mrs Smith.

‘You will find that we devote a great deal of time and effort to the teaching of reading, Mr Phinn,' said the Headteacher. ‘We pride ourselves on achieving good standards and I think you will find every child well on the road to reading.' I was not to be disappointed.

In the infants, I met Elizabeth. She was in that part of the classroom called the Home Corner, where children can dress up, get into role, practise talking, reading, writing and acting out parts. Mrs Smith confided in me later that she had chuckled when a rather pompous inspector, in her dark and distant past, had referred to this area as The Social Interaction Centre. The Home Corner in this classroom was set out like an optician's shop. There were posters and signs, price lists and eye charts, a small desk with plastic till, appointment book and a large red telephone. Elizabeth was dressed in one of her daddy's white shirts. She had a piece of string around her neck attached to a pair of empty frames and was busy arranging some spectacles on a small stand. She was the first child to be tested for reading so I approached.

‘Hello,' I greeted her amiably.

‘Oh hello,' she replied cheerily and popped the frames on the end of her nose. ‘Is it a pair of glasses you want?'

I hadn't the heart to say, ‘No, I'm here to give you the Cathcart-Smitt Reading Test,' so I replied, ‘Yes, that's right.'

‘What sort have you in mind?'

‘I think I'd like a pair which makes me look considerably younger.'

‘Well, we'll see what we can do.' Then she added, ‘I shall have to test your eyes, you know.'

‘I thought you might,' I replied.

‘Can you read?'

Here was the school inspector come to test the child's reading and he was being tested himself. I nodded and was presented with a list of letters which I read as she pointed to each in turn.

‘You have very good eyes,' she said as she rummaged in a box of frames. ‘And you want some to make you look young?' She finally decided on a pair as pink as elastoplast, pointed at the ends, with diamanté studs. I tried them on and looked in the mirror. Elizabeth watched fascinated for a moment and then began giggling. She slapped her hand over her mouth to stop herself but her little body shook with mirth.

‘Are you laughing at me?' I asked sadly, peering through the ridiculous pair of glasses. She nodded slowly and stopped giggling.

‘And are you the manageress of this optician's shop?' She nodded again, her face taking on a slightly quizzical expression. She really did not know what to make of me.

‘I don't think it is very nice, you know, for you to laugh at your customers.' I pulled a strained face. ‘I'm very upset.'

She stared for a moment before approaching me and then, patting me gently on the arm, whispered gently, ‘It's only pretend, you know.'

Elizabeth then read to me in a clear, confident voice full of expression. She completed the reading test with flying colours and talked to me about her reading interests with enthusiasm.

The following week I visited a real optician's to collect some new reading glasses. The amount of reading small print had put quite a strain on my eyes since I had started the job. I waited a good few minutes to gain the receptionist's attention and when I finally managed to lure her to the desk she was curt and unsmiling and said without bothering to look up from the order book on the desk: ‘Ready in a week!'

‘That young woman,' I thought, ‘would benefit from a lesson in good manners and how to treat customers.' And I knew just the person to teach her.

That Friday afternoon as I climbed the stairs to the Inspectors' Office, I felt weary after a week's work in schools. I had just about completed the last visit of the reading survey and had a weekend ahead of me to draft some early findings.

Julie saw me from the outer office and popped her head around the door. ‘You've got a visitor.' She raised an eyebrow and curled her top lip.

‘I have? Who is it?'

‘Mrs “I could curdle milk with one of my stares” Savage. The Lucretia Borgia of the Education Department.' I entered the office to find a tall, elegant middle-aged woman, of strikingly good looks, casting a critical eye on the spider plant which sat on the window sill. I had certainly imagined, from Julie's description, a very different sort of woman. Mrs Savage was dressed in a stylish black suit, black stockings and shoes and was bedecked in an assortment of expensive gold jewellery. So this was the formidable Mrs Savage.

‘Mr Phinn!' There was a clash of bracelets and a wealth of false smiles.

‘Mrs Savage?' I replied.

‘I thought, rather than communicate by constant memoranda and hurried telephone conversations, we should meet face to face to discuss the collating of the results of the reading survey. I do want things to run smoothly. I just cannot be doing with last-minute arrangements. I like things to be done efficiently and thoroughly.' Her voice had a sharp, strident quality and her eyes shone with intensity. She looked ready for combat.

My mother had always advised that, when confronted by belligerent or hostile people bristling for an argument, the best plan of attack was to disarm them with graciousness and affability. It never failed to work. So – I grinned like a shark and replied in the softest of voices.

‘I am sure that, with your assistance, Mrs Savage, the final part of the survey will go exceptionally smoothly.' I motioned her to take a seat. ‘Would you care for a cup of tea?'

‘I only drink herbal tea,' she replied curtly before continuing. ‘It's just that I cannot impress on you too strongly how very important this report is, Mr Phinn.' Her voice was still hurried and strident. ‘You are, of course, new to writing reports of this nature and addressing the full Education Committee. Dr Gore has asked me especially to help you organize things. He spoke to me personally on the matter only this morning.'

‘Dr Gore, I know, regards your work very favourably.'

‘Have you been discussing my work with Dr Gore?' she asked looking quite alarmed.

‘No, no, it's just that he mentioned how organized and capable you were.'

‘Oh, did he?' She allowed herself a slight smile. ‘Well, I do endeavour to respond to requests for help promptly and efficiently. I like initiatives such as this to be well planned
from beginning to end and with various contingencies built in. I may be something of a stickler but –'

‘I think you are so right,' I cut in.

‘Pardon?'

‘About the need for careful planning – I think you are so right.'

‘You do?'

‘But, of course. And I know I will get the highest level of support from you.'

‘Oh,' was all she could respond with. She was struck dumb with astonishment. The wind had been sucked from her sails. I guessed she had been ready for a confrontation with this new, jumped-up inspector who had been ‘disrupted, disturbed, and disorganized' according to Julie, by her mistake with the telephone extension number. On every occasion when Mrs Savage blustered, I agreed with her. I readily accepted her suggestions and supported her ideas, all of which were, in fact, eminently sensible. After an hour, we had planned the report down to the finest detail and Mrs Savage was a different person.

‘Your help has been invaluable, Mrs Savage,' I concluded, giving her the shark-like smile.

‘Well, it is nice to be appreciated, I'm sure.' Julie looked up from her desk as we passed and, with eyes like a hawk, watched her enemy head for the stairs. ‘And should there be anything else,' said Mrs Savage in a much softer tone of voice, ‘please do not hesitate to ask. You have my extension number.'

As she clattered down the stairs in her high-heeled shoes, jangling her bangles, Julie shook her head. ‘ “And if there is anything else,” ' she minced, imitating Mrs Savage, ‘ “do not hesitate to ask.” How that woman has the brass neck to mention extension numbers after the havoc she caused!
And as for you, Mr Phinn, you really did lay it on thick.'

‘Well,' I replied, ‘a little blandishment goes a long way. In my experience, people always appreciate recognition for what they do and respond much better to a kind word and a smile. I found Mrs Savage not quite the ogre she is painted when I got to know her. In fact, she was perfectly pleasant and more than helpful. I think her bark must be worse than her bite.'

‘You think so, do you?' replied Julie, arching the eyebrow again. ‘Well in my experience, her bite is worse than her bark and she can yelp and yap and howl and growl louder than most. You mark my words, you may just have bitten off more than you can chew with Mrs Savage. My advice is to stay well clear of her. Beware of the woman in black.'

I should have heeded Julie's prophecy.

David Pritchard, County Inspector for mathematics, Ρ Ε and games was a small, good-humoured, silver-haired Welshman with the comic-pathetic expression of a music hall comedian. He had that gift for words and power of persuasion often possessed by those of Celtic origins. I had met him during my first week with the County Inspectorate. He had breezed into the office, had greeted me like a long lost brother, had shaken my hand vigorously and had taken me for lunch in the staff canteen, all the while talking incessantly. I had learnt more about the inspection business during that one lunch-hour than I had gleaned from all the documents, memoranda, guidelines, policies and other papers which had been sent to me prior to my taking up the post.

I had been in the job now for eight weeks and felt I was really getting to grips with the varied work. I was gaining in confidence and enjoying both the delights and the demands of the work. It was a mild November Saturday morning and, over breakfast, I was browsing through the local paper's section on ‘Houses for Sale'. The flat I rented above The Rumbling Tum café looked over Fettlesham High Street. It was roomy and more than adequate for my needs, but extremely noisy and there was a lingering musty smell in every room which, try as I might, I could not remove. I was thinking I might just look at one of the cottages advertised in the paper when the telephone rang.
It was David Pritchard. His voice, breathless and strained, was like that of a soul in purgatory.

‘I'm in a real fix, Gervase,' he explained, ‘and I need your help.'

‘Well, of course, David, but whatever's happened? Are you –' I was stopped in my tracks.

‘It was such a bright, sunny morning when I got up that I thought I'd get a round of golf in while Gwynneth was shopping. I don't know whether you play golf or not, Gervase. I find it such a relaxing game and –'

‘David!' I interrupted. ‘What's happened?'

‘Broke a leg,' he said bluntly.

‘What?'

‘I was heading for the club-house for a drink and tripped on this broken paving slab – mind you, they call them patio squares at the Golf Club as the steward pointed out as they carried me in after the fall. I said, “I really don't care what you call the wretched things, they've managed to cripple me.” '

‘Broke a leg?' I intervened again.

‘Clean break. Went over like a skittle. Snapped like a nut. Laid me out good and proper.'

‘And where are you now?'

‘Waiting to have a plaster cast put on at the Royal Infirmary.'

‘I really am sorry to hear that, David,' I sympathized. ‘I suppose you're out of action for a few weeks then?'

‘Afraid so. Now the thing is, I had a planned visit on Thursday to Sir Cosmo Cavendish Boys' Grammar School. It's the annual inspection of the Ρ Ε and games department and they are depending on me spending the day there. It's been planned for weeks. The head of department is retiring at Christmas and is all keyed up for this last visit and, of
course, the Headmaster, who's a bit of a dry old stick but quite a decent sort, will be none too pleased if it doesn't take place.'

‘Well,' I sighed, ‘it can't be helped. These things happen. Will Dr Gore bring in a replacement to inspect games and Ρ Ε then?' There was a deathly silence. ‘David? David? Are you still there?' And that's when the bombshell was dropped.

‘Well … er … that's why I'm calling. I'm afraid it has to be you.'

‘Me?'

‘I'm very sorry, Gervase, but there is no one else.' I could hear the embarrassment and unease in David's voice.

‘But my specialisms are English and drama, David,' I pleaded, ‘not sport! I'd feel … well, uncomfortable to say the least, inspecting games and PE.'

‘But you've taught games and PE, haven't you? You've coached rugger and football. You've got a ref's badge and teacher's swimming certificate. You seem eminently qualified to inspect games and Ρ Ε. I have every confidence in you.'

‘How do you know what I have and haven't done?' I asked, bridling.

‘Well, because Harold mentioned it. I've just been speaking to him. He agreed with me that you came out as the most appropriate and best qualified person. I mean, Sidney can't do it. He doesn't know the difference between a lacrosse stick and a cricket bat. He'd fall over his own feet. And as for Harold – well, he's getting on a bit and doesn't fancy the prospect of chasing great big strapping lads around the games field in November at his time of life.'

‘Neither do I!' I exclaimed.

‘There really is no one else. It would be a waste of my
time trying colleagues in other areas. It's too short notice. Their diaries will be full. Gervase, you
must
do it.'

‘But I can't, I just can't. I would make a terrible job of it! You will have to explain to the Headmaster that there is no one suitably qualified to inspect games and PE.'

‘I don't think Dr Trollop, the Headmaster, will let me off the hook quite so easily. I know him of old. I know you can do it.
Please
say yes!'

So it was that I arrived at St Cosmo Cavendish Boys' Grammar School on the Thursday morning as nervous as a new boy going to the high school on the first day. The Headmaster, a tall cadaverous man with sunken cheeks, greyish skin, a mournful countenance and draped in a long black academic gown, shook his head and rubbed his chin thoughtfully when I acquainted him with the situation. He would make a good living as an undertaker with that dark, solemn face and those great gloomy eyes, I thought to myself.

‘So Mr Pritchard is indisposed you say, Mr Phinn?' he murmured in a soft, low, vaguely ecclesiastical-sounding voice.

‘I'm afraid that is the case, Dr Trollop,' I replied rather lamely.

‘Very unfortunate, very unfortunate indeed,' he intoned, still shaking and rubbing. ‘We have a deserved reputation at SCCBGS for our sporting achievements.' He smiled slightly with thin, pursed lips and took to shaking his head and rubbing his chin again. He then gave me the shrewd, penetrating stare of a psychologist before continuing. ‘I was rather hoping for a
specialist
inspector.'

‘Well I'm sure you appreciate the real dilemma we are in,' I said.

‘And, of course, it's the Head of Department's last term,' he sighed. ‘Mr Auchterloonie leaves us at Christmas, after thirty years' service to the school. He was so looking forward to seeing Mr Pritchard and hoping to depart for his much-deserved retirement with his work vindicated in the report.' The Headmaster looked at me sadly with the funereal expression of the undertaker who has just offered his condolences to the bereaved. ‘Is there no specialist inspector you could import from another area who could have a look at the games and PE?'

‘In all fairness,' I said looking into the doleful eyes, ‘I do agree the subjects should be inspected by a specialist but there is no one, I'm afraid.'

‘In addition, Mr Phinn, classes are ending early today for the North Yorkshire Schools League rugby matches, the crucial third round, and I did particularly want Mr Pritchard to be here.'

There was something immensely sad in the Headmaster's glance at me. ‘It is very unfortunate, Mr Phinn,' he sighed, ‘but beggars, as they say, cannot be choosers.'

Mr Auchterloonie was a broad, solid, hard-looking man with a leathery face as crinkled and brown as a walnut. With his tough, straggling white moustache and small sharp eyes, he had the vigorous, tusky look of a walrus.

‘We were expecting tae be inspected by Mr Pritchard,' he growled at morning break when he collared me outside the staff toilets. ‘I thought you were the English and drama inspector?'

I explained the predicament. ‘Mr Pritchard has broken his leg.'

‘Well, canna he not inspect on crutches or in a wheelchair?' came the reply.

‘Not really,' I replied. ‘However, I am prepared to inspect
games and PE myself. I can make judgements on the quality of the teaching and learning, the available resources and the appropriateness of the accommodation and facilities. Of course, my report will not be as detailed nor perhaps as well-focused as it would have been if Mr Pritchard had been undertaking it but I am accredited to inspect Ρ Ε and I have taught games in an earlier life as a teacher.'

‘Aye, well, Mr Phinn,' growled the teacher, ‘I suppose ye'll have tae do.'

Mr Auchterloonie lived up to his reputation. His lessons were well-taught and there was no trace of indiscipline or laziness on the part of his pupils. The boys responded well to the firm but fair approach of a well-respected teacher. They also enjoyed his touches of humour.

As they ran out on that Thursday morning onto the hard pitches, with a cold November wind whistling in their faces, one boy shouted over to Mr Auchterloonie, ‘Sir, it's
freezing
.'

The teacher gave a tusky grin before answering. ‘There's an old Scottish saying, Farrington, that “Many are cold, but few are frozen!” ' The boys who heard that roared with laughter. ‘Now let's play rugger!' called the games teacher, rubbing his hands together.

It was the end of the school day and things had gone remarkably smoothly. I was on my way to say my farewells and return to the Education Office when I spotted Dr Trollop near the school entrance. He was in animated conversation with a tall, distinguished-looking man in his mid-fifties, with a thin, neatly-trimmed moustache and dressed immaculately in dark blazer and grey flannel trousers. The Headmaster's mournful countenance had been replaced
by a distinctly cheerier look and there was a lightness in his voice when he called out across the quadrangle.

‘Ah, Mr Phinn!' he called as he caught sight of me. ‘Do please come and meet “Legs” Bentley.'

I approached, nodded and smiled at the visitor. ‘I'm sorry,' I said, ‘but I didn't quite catch the name.'

‘ “Legs”, “Legs” Bentley,' repeated Dr Trollop before turning to his visitor. ‘I've always known you as “Legs”. I'm not sure I even know your first name.'

‘It's what everyone calls me,' replied the distinguished-looking man genially.

‘ “Legs” was the fastest wing half in Yorkshire in his day. No one could catch him once he was running down the pitch full pelt. Hence the nickname,' explained Dr Trollop.

‘I'm very pleased to meet you,' I said, shaking the visitor's hand.

‘Mr Phinn is leading the school inspection of the games and Ρ Ε department in place of his colleague, Mr Pritchard, who has had an unfortunate accident,' explained the Headmaster. ‘ “Legs” is President of Yorkshire Rugby Union this year, Mr Phinn, and has called in to see the rugger matches this afternoon. I guess you were on your way to the pitches when I called.'

I smiled weakly and nodded. The report would have to be written later that evening.

‘Well, you won't want to miss the matches, will you, Mr Phinn?' asked his companion. ‘They promise to be really cracking games.'

‘No, no, I won't want to miss the matches,' I replied, resigned to another hour or so out in the cold.

As I headed back towards the playing fields, I sensed a presence behind me. Then Mr Auchterloonie materialized
silently at my side and, greeting me with the tusky smile, said amiably, ‘Ah, there ye are, Mr Phinn. I thought you'd want to catch the matches. I'll walk over with ye. One of the boys was telling me that you follow the rugby?'

I nodded. ‘Yes, when I get the chance.'

‘Do you play?'

‘I did, but I stopped playing after a couple of accidents. I was a very indifferent player, I'm afraid. I tended to make up the numbers.'

‘Aye, well, it's nae worse fae that. I tell the boys winning is one thing but playing the game is more important. I tell them just to try their best, have a go.'

‘Good advice,' I replied.

‘The President of Yorkshire R U is here this afternoon,' commented Mr Auchterloonie.

‘Yes, that's right. I've just met him.'

‘He's something of a legend in Yorkshire is “Legs” Bentley.'

‘So I hear,' I replied.

‘Incredibly keen on youth rugby.'

‘Really?'

‘I should think ye know the rules of rugby union pretty well, don't ye?' asked Mr Auchterloonie.

‘Well, I suppose I'm reasonably conversant with them.'

‘And I hear ye've done a wee bit of refereeing in your time.'

I could feel myself rather like a fish on a line being drawn slowly in – drawn relentlessly, breathlessly, into a net from which it might well be difficult to disentangle myself.

‘Yes,' I replied slowly, ‘I did coach and referee matches when I was a young teacher but that was some years ago now.'

‘Now the situation is this, Mr Phinn …'

I could predict what was coming next. ‘You' re, short of a referee,' I sighed.