The Other Side of the Dale (14 page)

‘No, I'm afraid I can't. I know even less about linoleum and cushion flooring.'

‘Curtains?'

‘Or curtains.'

‘Well, this is a rum do,' she said shaking her head. ‘You'll not get any sales the way you're going on, young man. They used to be very helpful in this store.' She walked off but not before commenting to another elderly lady
customer, ‘I wouldn't ask him, dear. I think I know more about carpets and curtains than he does.'

The other customer nodded in agreement and I heard her replying, ‘Shop assistants just aren't as helpful these days, are they?'

It then dawned on me. I did look like an assistant in my grey suit and with the bright badge on my lapel.

A week later a memorandum arrived from Dr Gore explaining that when in schools, inspectors should clip their official identity cards to their lapels rather than use the badges which had not proved to be popular.

‘What a pity,' said Sidney, after reading the note. ‘I rather liked wearing my badge. It was rather like me – bright, bold and larger than life. It's quite distinctive, don't you think?'

None of his three colleagues replied.

Father Leonard was a remarkable priest. I came across him a number of times on my travels around the county's schools. He was a member of the Education Committee, and it amused me the way he would feign ignorance on a matter with a wide, inscrutable smile, ask for clarification and then demonstrate in his quiet, diffident way that he had understood perfectly. He was a man of immense wisdom and erudition, with such a gentle and unassuming manner and such a prodigious knowledge that all who heard him speak could not fail to hang on every word.

He was a tall stick of a man who wore a rather shabby-looking, ill-fitting cassock, threadbare at the cuffs and along the collar, and great scuffed black boots. His eyes, dark and penetrating, nestled in a net of wrinkles and the long, generous mouth seemed to be permanently smiling. He loved the company of children and was constantly reminding his parishioners, parents and teachers, that we all had a lot to learn from them.

‘The young child is the greatest philosopher of all,' he would say. ‘He or she is open minded, trusting and honest, and greets people without any pre-conceived opinions. They see the world as it is – something wonderful and new and full of excitement.'

On one occasion recently I had been delighted to learn that Father Leonard would be attending the Presentation Evening at St Walburga's Roman Catholic Grammar School
where I was due to address the parents and students, and award certificates and cups. I arrived at the school in good time to find the various guests drinking sherry in the Headmaster's room. I spotted the formidable Sister Brendan from St Bartholomew's Roman Catholic Infants School, and joined her.

‘How nice to see you again, Mr Phinn,' she said.

‘And you, Sister,' I replied. ‘Incidentally, the Headmaster knows that I am joining his assembly this evening and, furthermore, I am word-perfect in the hymn “I am walking in the footsteps of Jesus” just in case it appears in the programme.'

‘I am very glad to hear it,' she said, smiling sweetly.

The Headmaster crossed the room towards us, bringing a gentle-looking cleric with him. ‘This is one of our governors, Mr Phinn,' he said. ‘Could I introduce you to –'

‘We have met,' I said and smiled back at the genial figure in black. ‘Good evening, Father Leonard, I hope you are well?'

Before the priest could reply, Sister Brendan interrupted: ‘No, it's not Father Leonard,' she said. ‘It is now Monsignor Leonard. He has been elevated.'

‘Ah, well, good evening, Monsignor, and many congratulations on your promotion. But should you not be wearing the appropriate clerical garb, so innocents like myself don't get caught out?'

The priest gazed down at his shabby black cassock.

Sister Brendan interrupted again. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Surely a monsignor is entitled to wear purple, isn't he? Purple beading, purple sash etc?'

‘He doesn't
have
to wear those,' said Sister Brendan. ‘Any more than His Holiness
has
to wear white.'

‘Quite, Sister, but on official occasions I thought it was
de rigueur
to wear the appropriate garb?' Then turning to Monsignor Leonard, I said, ‘Are you still at Mertonbeck, Monsignor, or have you been moved?'

Once more Sister Brendan spouted forth before the priest could open his mouth. ‘Mr Phinn,' she said, ‘Monsignor Leonard is now the Vicar General and if there is any moving to be done,
he
does it. He is in charge of moving priests and clergy within the diocese.'

‘And if I don't get a word in soon, Sister,' said the monsignor smiling benignly, ‘I'll arrange to have you moved to South America.'

On the way to the hall, the priest took my arm and whispered in my ear: ‘You have to know how to handle nuns, Mr Phinn. Wonderful woman, Sister Brendan, but very forceful. Had she not taken the veil, I suggest she would have been governing the country by now.'

Now, on the run up to Christmas, I met Monsignor Leonard again. I arrived at the small Roman Catholic primary school at Netherfoot the week before the school broke up for the holidays. I had volunteered to narrate the Christmas story to the infants but never reached the end. Dominic, a massively freckled boy with spiky ginger hair that stood up like a lavatory brush, positioned himself at my feet on the small carpet in the reading corner. To say he was hyper-active would be an understatement. He was lively and interested and his questions and comments came fast and furious.

I began: ‘It was cold and dark that December night many, many, many years ago, and on the hillside, where the icy winds whistled through the dark trees –'

‘I can whistle,' said Dominic puckering up his lips.

‘And the grass was frosted and stiff with cold –'

‘Do you want to hear me whistle?'

‘Not now, I don't,' I said, ‘perhaps later.' I continued with the story. ‘Matthew, the little shepherd boy, huddled in a dry hollow with his sheep to keep warm. The cold winter wind blew about his ears, and high above him the dark sky was studded with millions of tiny silver stars –'

‘Miss Stirling gives you a star if you do good work,' said Dominic.

‘It wasn't that sort of star,' I said. ‘These were like tiny diamonds sparkling in the darkness. This was the night that a very special baby was to be born.'

‘Jesus.'

‘That's right, it was Jesus.'

‘I've heard this story already!' exclaimed Dominic. ‘I know what happens.'

‘We all know what happens, Dominic,' I responded, ‘and we are going to hear what happens again.'

‘Why?'

‘Because we are.'

At this point, I caught sight of the priest quietly entering the classroom and positioning himself unobtrusively at the back.

‘Now, very soon a very special baby would be born and his name, as Dominic has already told us, would be Jesus.'

‘Was he induced?' asked Dominic.

‘Pardon?'

‘Was baby Jesus induced?'

‘No, he wasn't induced.'

‘I was induced.'

‘Well, baby Jesus wasn't induced.'

‘How do you know?'

‘Well, I know because it was a long, long time ago and they didn't induce babies then.'

‘Why?'

‘Just listen to the story, Dominic, and then we will all find out what happens.'

‘But I know what happens,' he replied.

At this point, a little girl, with long blonde plaits and an angelic face, raised her hand.

‘What does seduced mean?'

‘Oh dear,' I sighed wearily, catching sight of the priest and the teacher attempting to stem their laughter. ‘I will tell you another time – when you are older. Now let's get on with the story. And then amidst the tiny diamonds that sprinkled the dark sky there appeared a great shining star, a star that sparkled and gleamed with such a wondrous brilliant light that –'

‘How much did he weigh?' asked Dominic.

‘Who?'

‘The baby Jesus?'

‘I've not got to the baby Jesus yet.'

‘I was an eight-pounder. My grannie said I was like a plucked turkey when –'

‘Dominic!' I said very quietly and slowly. ‘Now just listen to the story. You are spoiling it for all the other children.'

‘I know how this story ends,' he replied undaunted.

‘Then why don't
you
come out here and tell us all, Dominic,' I said, throwing in the towel.

And so he did. Like a seasoned actor taking centre stage he came out to the front of the class and recounted the Christmas story in such a simple, animated and confident way that we all listened in rapt silence.

‘Once upon a time there was a man called Joseph and a lady called Mary and they were friends and they played games together and they had fun. Then they had a wedding and after the wedding they went home and then they had
some lunch and a drink and then they set off for Bethlem on their honeymoon and they went on a donkey. When they got to Bethlem there was no room at the inn so they had to stay in a barn round the back and then Mary had a little baby and she called it Jesus and she put him in a manger and all the animals were around him and the big star shone up in the sky and then the shepherds all came and then the three kings came and they all gave him presents because it was his birthday and baby Jesus had plenty of milk because there were lots of cows about.'

There was silence at the end of Dominic's story, then he looked at me and said, ‘OK?'

‘OΚ,' I replied, ‘very OK.'

On my way out that morning the little girl with the blonde plaits and the angelic face approached me shyly. ‘I liked that story,' she said quietly.

‘Did you?' I replied. ‘I'm glad. Thank you for telling me.'

‘But Dominic tells it better than you do. Happy Christmas.'

Monsignor Leonard, who had been watching and listening, placed his hand gently on my arm. ‘There is an old proverb, Gervase, which goes like this: “Here's to the child and all he has to teach us.' ”

Later that week, I met Sister Brendan again and she had the last laugh. I arrived at the Church of England primary school adjacent to Sister Brendan's, to find an extremely distraught headteacher.

‘Oh dear, Mr Phinn,' she gasped, ‘oh dear me.' Teachers are sometimes rather nervous when I arrive in school but I had never had such an effect before. This woman was near to fainting. ‘Oh it's not you, Mr Phinn, it's just that Father Christmas has appendicitis and it looks as if we
will have to cancel the party. The children will be so disappointed. They were so looking forward to it.'

It turned out that Father Christmas was Mr Beech, the school crossing patrol assistant, who every year took on the arduous role at the infant and nursery Christmas party. This year he had been rushed to hospital and his daughter had telephoned to say that he would not be able to oblige as Santa Claus that afternoon. There were tears in the Headteacher's eyes. ‘The children will be so disappointed. They are all so excited about Father Christmas coming.'

What could I do? I was the only available man. Nervously I donned the costume and after a strong cup of coffee entered the hall to find row upon row of open-mouthed, wide-eyed children. They squealed in delight when they saw the familiar red coat and white cotton-wool beard. Everything went well until a bright little spark announced loudly, ‘You're not real, you know.'

‘Oh yes, I am!' I replied in a deep jolly Father Christmas voice.

‘Oh no, you're not,' she persisted, ‘your beard's held on by elastic. I can see it. And Father Christmas has big boots. You're wearing shoes.'

‘Ah, well, I got stuck in a snowdrift on my way here and my boots were so filled up with snow that I borrowed these shoes from Mr Beech.' School inspectors have to think on their feet when it comes to bright little buttons like this one.

‘You can't have because Mr Beech has gone to hospital,' continued the child. ‘My mum told me because he lives next door. You're not the real Father Christmas!'

‘Oh yes, I am!' I said in my loud, jolly voice and heard a whole school hall shout back: ‘Oh no, you're not!'

The Headteacher intervened and bailed me out by starting the singing. After three verses of ‘Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer' each child came forward to receive a small present.

‘What are the names of your reindeers?' asked a little boy.

‘Well, there's Rudolf,' I started, ‘and Donner and Blitzen and er … er …'

The Headteacher, seeing that I was struggling, helped me out again by explaining that Father Christmas was rather deaf.

‘Some of the snow from the snowdrift is still in his ears,' she said.

One child asked me if I knew her name and when I replied that I did not looked crestfallen. ‘But I thought Father Christmas knows all the boys' and girls' names?'

The Headteacher explained that Father Christmas's eyes weren't too good either and he had such a lot of letters to read.

One rather grubby little scrap asked if she could sit on my knee.

‘No, Chelsea,' said the Headteacher firmly. ‘I don't think –' She was too late – the child had clambered up and clung to me like a little monkey.

‘Come on down, Chelsea,' said the Headteacher. ‘I don't think Father Christmas wants children on his knee. He's got a poorly leg.' Any more ailments, I thought, and I would be joining Mr Beech in the Royal Infirmary.

‘Now, you be a very good little girl and sit on the floor, Chelsea,' I said in my jolly voice, ‘otherwise all the other children will want to climb up.' Chelsea stayed put and held fast like a limpet. I chuckled uneasily until the child's teacher managed to prise her off. The Headteacher shrugged
and looked knowingly at the teachers standing around the hall.

After the children had sung me out to ‘Jingle Bells' I was invited into the staffroom. It was extremely hot under the red suit.