The Other Side of the Dale (18 page)

I looked up smiling. ‘The inspectors could be pretty savage in those days, couldn't they?'

‘Of course, the Headmaster was sacked,' continued Miss Precious. ‘He seems to have just upped and gone following the inspector's visit. Just after the First World War the new Headmaster arrived, a Mr MacMillan. He is still remembered by some of the very old inhabitants in the village. He was known as Captain Mac, and was prone to ranting and raving and was a demon with the cane. Evidently he had seen action in the trenches and suffered terrible wounds, mental and physical, and wanted a quiet, untroubled life in Bartondale.' She flicked the pages. ‘Captain Mac was a man of few words and stern disposition.'

The entries read:

Monday, December 9th

Heavy snow. Eight children absent. Direful day.

Tuesday, December 10th

More snow. Twelve children absent. Frozen pipes in boys' lavatory. Awful day.

Wednesday, December 11th

Still more snow. Only three children present. Frozen pipes in girls' lavatory. Appalling day.

Thursday, December 12th

Thaw sets in. Two absentees. School full of mud and water. Horrible day.

Friday, December 13th

Full complement of children. Burst pipes, flooded toilets. School inspector, Mr Thoroughgood, visited. Calamitous day!

‘This is really interesting,' I said. ‘Have you thought of writing a short history of the school and including all this material? It would make an excellent piece of action-research for the children.'

‘We've done it,' she replied proudly. ‘The children researched the history of Barton Moor Parochial School, collected photographs and old maps, made copies of parish records and interviewed parents and grandparents. We discovered a host of fascinating characters from the past: eccentric parsons, dyed-in-the wool farmers, hedgers and ditchers, colourful landlords of the local inn, a footpad who was hanged at York and the Lord of the Manor who ran off with a serving maid. We amassed a great deal of information and Joseph put it all together. I think you met Joseph Barclay earlier this morning. He's the young man I wanted to pick your brains about. It was Joseph who produced a short but very readable account of the school's history.' She reached up and plucked a booklet from the shelf. The chronicle was word-processed in bold clear lettering and written in a style unusually mature for an eleven-year-old. It was illustrated by small line drawings, carefully executed maps and well mounted photographs.

‘It's good, isn't it?' Miss Precious said. ‘You'll see Joseph's other work next lesson. I would be very interested to know what you think of it and then I would really welcome some advice on his education. He's a very unusual little boy is Joseph Barclay, very unusual indeed.'

The very person we were talking about was in the classroom when I arrived at the end of morning break. He was busily tidying the books in the small corner library.

‘Hello, Mr Phinn,' he said.

‘Haven't you been out to play, Joseph?' I asked.

‘No, sir. I had a few jobs to do in the classroom. I keep things ship-shape.'

‘It's good to blow a few cobwebs away, you know, get a breath of fresh air, have a run around in the morning.'

‘Oh, I get enough fresh air. I walk a mile to school each morning and a mile home in the afternoon. That keeps me hale and hearty.' I smiled at the old-fashioned turn of phrase.

When the children had settled at their desks after the morning break, Miss Precious began her lesson.

‘Now children,' she said, ‘Emily's mother has been gardening again.' There was loud, good-humoured laughter and a few children groaned, ‘Oh no!'

‘And she found something.' Miss Precious turned to the corner of the classroom where I sat watching with interest. ‘I should explain, Mr Phinn, that Emily, like most of the children in the class, lives close to Barton Moor and her garden goes right up to the site of the battlefield. Emily's mother has found some really interesting things in her garden, hasn't she, Emily?' A bright-faced little girl nodded. ‘Tell us what your mother found yesterday.'

‘Well,' began Emily, ‘it's a sort of buckle. It's maybe from a belt or a bag. It's all rusted up but there is a little silver rose in the middle. My mum was pulling up some dead flowers and there it was.'

‘We'll add that to our collection, shall we, Emily, and when someone comes up from the university in the better weather we can find out exactly what it is.'

‘So other things have been found, have they?' I asked.

‘Yes, sir,' announced a boy waving his hand and arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. ‘My grandad found some lead musket balls and three brass buttons when he was mending a gate.'

‘My dad found a sort of spear thing,' chimed in another. ‘It was under the foundations when we built the extension. It's at the museum now. What was it called?' he said, turning to Joseph. ‘You know that spear thing that my dad found. Can you remember what it was called?'

‘It was a halberd,' replied Joseph, ‘a sort of hatchet with a spike on the top which would have been mounted on a long wooden pole and used by the pikemen during the battle.'

‘That's it!' shouted the boy. ‘A halberd.'

‘Has anyone else found anything in their gardens?' I asked.

‘I found a dead cat, sir!' announced a large boy with a big placid face. This was received with some kindly laughter but I noticed that it failed to bring a smile to Joseph's lips. He sat sober-faced at the front desk like the receptionist at a funeral parlour.

‘I don't think somehow that a dead cat, Ben,' chuckled the teacher, ‘dates back to the Battle of Barton Moor. Soldiers were not in the habit of taking their pets into battle with them. I should think –'

‘Excuse me, miss,' interrupted Joseph, ‘some of the commanders did take their pets into battle with them. Prince Rupert had a dog – it was a toy poodle – called Boy which he sat on his saddle and he took everywhere with him, even into the thick of the fighting.'

‘Do you know, Mr Phinn,' said Miss Precious amiably, ‘Joseph has more history in his little finger than I've got in my entire head.'

I spent the remainder of the morning listening to the children read confidently and clearly and examining their written work.

When it came to Joseph's turn he collected his reading book and several folders and arranged them on the desk before me. His record of the books he had read over the year was wide and challenging, and mostly historical in theme. He had listed the title of each book neatly with the author's name, date and brief comments about how
interesting or otherwise he had found the book. When I asked him to read a paragraph or two to me, his reading was slow but deliberate and without any stumblings or hesitations at the difficult words. His writing was beautifully presented and accurate but entirely serious in theme. There were no amusing poems, entertaining stories or lively, funny accounts. It was all solemn and pensive. One poem, in particular, I read several times. I had never come across such a melancholy and poignant piece of writing from a child before.

When I was little I thought that God was like Santa Claus,

A smiling, wrinkled face, a great white beard, a gentle voice.

Now I am older I think that God is like an old man

With a tired, lined face and furrowed brow

Who weeps to see the world he has made.

‘So what did you make of our Joseph?' asked Miss Precious at lunchtime. ‘He's a most remarkable boy, isn't he?'

‘He's one of the brightest children I have ever met,' I replied. ‘A highly intelligent, articulate and, for his age, immensely knowledgeable boy, very polite but …' I paused for a moment to try to think of the most appropriate word, ‘I find him a melancholy, a quite disconcerting child. That's my opinion, for what it's worth.'

‘You are very perceptive, Mr Phinn. He's such a pleasant boy is Joseph, always helpful and courteous. He produces wonderful work and has never been an iota of trouble but he has such a mournful, pessimistic nature and is so very old for his years, too old. The other boys come in from the playground with scraped knees and grubby hands, their hair like haystacks and shirts hanging out, but Joseph appears pristine – not a hair out of place. I just wish sometimes he'd
run in panting and laughing like the others as if he'd been pulled through a hedge backwards – but he never does.'

‘Is he bullied?' I asked.

‘Oh good gracious, no, the other children tolerate him remarkably well. You saw that in the lesson. They just accept him for what he is. The boys tried at first to involve him in their games but he prefers to be alone. I wish he would kick a football around with the others or play conkers or climb trees as boys do, but he prefers his own company. In summer he can be seen sitting quietly reading on the bench in the playground like an old man enjoying his retirement. In winter he potters about the classroom tidying up, cleaning the blackboard, sharpening the pencils.'

‘What do his mother and father say?' I asked. ‘Are they worried about him?'

‘Well, that's part of the problem, I feel,' sighed the Headteacher. ‘He lives with his grandparents. I won't go into the reasons why he doesn't live with his mother and father, it's very sad and also confidential. His grandparents are well meaning and caring and they try their best with him. They send him to school spotless and attend parents' meetings without fail but they are like many older people, they've slowed down and want a quiet, unhurried life.'

‘Well I have to say, Miss Precious, that I don't think he could be in a better school than this. There is a spirit of happiness and endeavour here. The children talk freely and knowledgeably about their work and most write with excellent fluency. The work Joseph undertakes is certainly challenging enough and he seems, in his own way, a contented child. I will, however, have a word with the educational psychologist and see if she can be of any help. Mrs Richards is much better equipped than I to advise in this sort of thing. Joseph's a very unusual young man and I guess
we'll all be hearing a great deal about him in the future.'

Before I set off for my appointment at the next school, I said goodbye to the teachers and children.

‘I do hope you will mention the window in your report, Mr Phinn. It would certainly give me ammunition with my governors,' smiled Miss Precious. Then she added: ‘Joseph, perhaps you would care to show Mr Phinn out and put the catch on the door after him. Do have a safe journey, Mr Phinn, and thank you so much for coming.'

As we walked towards the entrance, Joseph asked, ‘Are you writing a report on this school?'

‘Yes, I am,' I replied.

‘Well, if you want my opinion, I think this is a very good school with many positive features. Miss Precious really tries her best and works very hard.' It sounded like the comments from one of my own reports. ‘I hope you'll put that in to your account of the school.'

‘I shall certainly consider doing so, Joseph,' I said. At the door he held out a small hand and stared up at me through the thick lenses of his glasses.

‘Well, I must get back to my work,' he said as I shook his hand. ‘ “Time waits for no man” as my grandfather says. Have a safe journey. Goodbye, Mr Phinn.'

‘Goodbye, Joseph,' I said.

I arrived home late that evening when all was still and silent and the air misty and cold. The lights of the shops and houses lit up the high street, casting bright bars of yellow across the road. My flat above ‘The Rumbling Tum' café was in darkness. I let myself in but paused for a moment before I turned on the light. I could not stop thinking of a lonely little boy with thick-lensed glasses walking home along the narrow path that bordered the vast and friendless Barton Moor.

Connie was washing the cups and saucers in the small kitchen at the Staff Development Centre. I heard the clinking and clanking of crockery from way down the corridor so guessed she was not in the best of moods.

‘Good morning, Connie,' I greeted her breezily, popping my head through the serving hatch.

‘Oh!' she jumped. ‘You gave me quite a start. I was miles away.'

‘Yes, I could see that. Is everything all right?'

‘No, everything's
not
all right, if you
must
know! I've just had one of Mr Pritchard's ΡΕ courses – great big gallumping games teachers in track suits, jumping up and down and running all about like whirling dervishes, and trailing mud right into the Centre all over the carpets. I had a mercifully quiet time when Mr Pritchard broke his leg – apart from the marks he made all over the floor with his crutches. Now he's back with a vengeance. You will never believe the amount of tea they consumed – it would sink the
Titanic
!
And
,' she stressed the word, ‘I've got another of those art courses in the offing. All those stuffed animals and paint everywhere. It takes me a full week to recover from one of Mr Clamp's in-service sessions.' She glowered and shook her head.

I changed the subject. ‘Harold was telling me you have a grandson, Connie.'

The transformation in Connie was nothing short of
miraculous. The tight lips relaxed, she smiled coyly and her eyes took on a sparkling gleam of pleasure. She ceased clinking and clunking the crockery, dried her hands and emerged from the kitchen.

‘Oh, he's a bobby dazzler, Gerv,' she began. ‘The things that little lad says never cease to amaze me. He's the spit-and-image of his grandad is little Damien. His expressions are exactly like my Ted's.'

‘Has he started school yet?'

‘Yes, he started at Willingforth Primary last September, same time as you started here. He's in his second term now. My daughter, Tricia, she lives in Willingforth and sends him to the village school. His sister Lucy is in the juniors. That Miss Pilkington's the Headteacher.' When Connie prefaced a name with the word ‘that' as in ‘that inspector with the fancy car' or ‘that teacher who never returns her cup to the kitchen' or ‘that Savage woman' I was pretty certain it would be followed by a diatribe. But I was wrong in this case.

‘I take it Miss Pilkington is not the flavour of the month, Connie?' I said casually.

‘Oh no, she's very compis mental.' I assumed this to be a compliment. ‘My daughter's no grumbles in that direction. My grandson loves his school, bless him. He's come on leaps and bounds since he started. He knows his alphabet and his words and can do some of his tables. He brings a reading book home every night and is that keen. And he's so well behaved. He was quite a little character before he started, asking for sweets all the time and when he didn't get them shouting and screaming blue murder. But that Miss Pilkington got the measure of him in no time at all. She was having none of it. A couple of weeks in her class
and he was as good as gold. She's excellent is Miss Pilkington. A woman after my own heart. She doesn't stand any nonsense, I can tell you, not like some of these airy-fairy, wishy-washy teachers you hear about. Miss Pilkington's one of the old school.'

I often heard about these airy-fairy, wishy-washy teachers who supposedly believed that children learned to read by osmosis and that spellings are caught rather than taught, but I had yet to meet one.

‘Have you been out to Willingforth school yet then?' Connie asked.

‘No, I have that pleasure to come.' I reckoned Miss Pilkington sounded like a real virago.

‘Well, when you do, you're in for a rare treat. You could eat your food off the floor in that school, it's so clean – and the toilets, you have never seen toilets like …' It was as if I had wound up some talking mechanical toy. Connie continued in her eulogy for a good ten minutes more. Why had I ever raised the subject of her grandson?

It was a month later, on a frosty February afternoon, that I had occasion to visit Willingforth Primary School. Everything looked bleak and grey as I drove slowly along the empty road beneath a dark overcast sky. The fresh bursting life of spring, the bright summer sunlight dancing on the fells, the mellow golds of autumn seemed many months away.

The village of Willingforth itself looked deserted. I searched in vain for a school sign, drove up and down the main street, peering this way and that, did a circuit of the gaunt Norman church and the picturesque duck pond, until I accepted defeat and decided to ask at the local inn. There
were a couple of old farmers leaning indolently against the public bar and putting the world to rights. They stopped talking and turned in my direction when I entered.

‘Shut that door, lad, thy're lettin' a rare old draught in,' growled one of the ancients.

‘Could you tell me where the village school is, please?' I asked amiably.

‘Tha' wants school, does tha'?' asked the first local, eyeing me over his spectacles as if I were some rare specimen.

‘Yes, if you could point me in the direction, I should be most grateful.'

‘Tha's got business up theer then, has tha'?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I replied simply, ‘I have.'

The landlord, who had been busy washing glasses at the other end of the bar joined his two customers.

‘Young mester's wantin' school.'

‘Oh aye?' said the landlord, staring fixedly at me.

‘Willingforth Primary School,' I said.

‘Tha's got business up theer then, has tha'?' he asked.

‘Yes,' I replied again, ‘I have.'

‘If tha's selling owt,' said the first ancient observing my grey suit and black briefcase, ‘my advice is to get back in thee car. Tha'll be out o' that door before thy ‘and's off t'door 'andle.'

His companion chuckled. ‘Tha' will that.'

‘Oh aye,' agreed the landlord.

‘No, I'm not selling anything.'

‘And if tha's a parent wantin' to send thee kiddie theer, be ready for a rare old grillin'.' His companion and the landlord nodded.

‘No, I'm not a parent.'

‘Aye, well whatever, thas'll have to watch thee p's and q's when tha' get up theer and no mistake.'

‘Tha' will that!' agreed number two. ‘She dunt mince 'er words that Miss Pilkington. By heck, she's a fierce woman and no mistake. She could put the wind up a banshee could that teacher.'

‘Actually, I'm a school inspector,' I said.

There was an audible in-drawing of breath and the three men's faces took on the most excruciating expressions – as if they had swallowed their teeth.

‘Well, I'm glad I'm not in thy shoes, young man,' said the first old man.

‘Nor me,' added the other with a grave expression. ‘I don't reckon she'll take kindly to being inspected, Miss Pilkington.'

‘It'll not be '
im
who'll be doin' t'inspectin'!' roared the landlord to the great amusement of his customers.

Miss Pilkington sounded as welcoming as a scrapyard rottweiler. I finally extracted directions to the school and five minutes later was parked outside a four-square and imposing stone building, facing open countryside, on the edge of the village. There was no indication that it was a school. Usually these small village schools have playgrounds adjacent to the buildings, tall black iron railing fencing them in and large school signs but not this one. It looked like a private, carefully-maintained private residence. There were shining white shutters at every window, a large oak panelled door with brass knocker and a neat, lawned garden to the front. I braced myself, clambered from the car and approached the school with great apprehension. Taking a deep breath I turned the heavy brass handle and entered.

The door opened straight into a large airy classroom, the like of which I had never seen before. Instead of the small melamine-topped tables and modern chairs usually found in the primary schools I visit, the room was furnished with
hard straight-backed wooden chairs and highly-polished desks complete with lids and holes for inkwells. The walls were a pale blue and the beams and curved wooden supports stretching across the high ceiling were painted navy blue and cream. I caught sight of a large coloured sampler with the words: ‘
STRAIGHT WORDS, STRAIGHT DEEDS, STRAIGHT BACKS
'. Framing the high windows hung long blue floral drapes, while the reading corner had a soft pale carpet and large matching cushions. There was a Victorian fireplace, its mantle of dark slate and inlaid marble and its heavy black iron grate filled with carefully arranged dried flowers in various shades of blue and white. I had never seen a colour co-ordinated classroom before. If there were a prize awarded for schoolrooms from one of these glossy magazines –
Creative Decorating
or
Imaginative Interior Design
– Willingforth Primary School would have won hands down.

At the far end of the long room stood, who I presumed to be, the formidable Miss Pilkington. I had rather expected a Dickensian character, a dark, brooding, aggressive individual with cold, glassy eyes, steel-rimmed spectacles and a thin bony frame. Her hair would be white and scraped back savagely from her lined face and she would have a hard beak of a nose. But I was wrong. Miss Pilkington was a tall, elegant woman approaching middle age, and dressed in a pale green silk suit.

‘Do come in, Mr Phinn,' she said, ‘I was expecting you.' As I headed in her direction she addressed the forty or so children, ranging in age from five to eleven: ‘This is Mr Phinn, children. He is the school inspector and he will be joining us for the remainder of the day.'

The class chorused enthusiastically: ‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn.'

‘Good afternoon, children,' I replied.

‘If you could bear with me for a moment, Mr Phinn,' continued the teacher, ‘I just need to explain to the children what they will be doing this afternoon. My assistant, Miss Bates, who teaches the infants, telephoned in sick this morning so I need to tell the little ones what they will be doing. I will then be continuing some work started with the juniors on spelling.'

She ushered me to a chair next to the blackboard where I watched with great admiration as she outlined clearly to a very attentive and interested class the work to be undertaken. I was filled with even greater admiration as the older pupils re-arranged the desks quietly without direction from the teacher, made sure the younger ones had the necessary equipment and paper and started them off on their work, before returning to their own desks ready for their lesson of spelling.

‘Please don't let me interrupt the lesson, Miss Pilkington,' I said. ‘I should be very pleased to discuss the reason for my visit after school.'

‘Very well,' said Miss Pilkington. When the junior children were seated and all eyes were on her, the Headteacher began the lesson. ‘How many did you find, Tom?'

A large boy with a shock of ginger hair and a face full of freckles answered. ‘Six, miss.'

‘Well, that is a very good effort, Tom. Did anyone find any more than six?'

‘I found eight, miss, but had a bit of help from my mum,' answered a tall pale-faced girl at the back.

‘That is excellent, Janine.' Miss Pilkington turned to me. ‘We have been undertaking a little research to find out how many different ways we can find of spelling the sound “shun”. We have done some work on the prefix and the
suffix and now are looking at the various spelling patterns and word endings.' She turned back to the class. ‘Remember I said that good spellers do not make wild guesses but make sensible predictions, didn't I?'

‘Yes, miss,' chorused the class.

‘Now, in nine out often cases the sound “shun” is spelled “t-i-o-n” as in the words “disruption”, “investigation”, “examination”, “interruption” and, of course, “inspection”.' She glanced in my direction. There was obvious significance in the particular words chosen. ‘There are over a thousand words which have the sound “shun” at the end and are spelled “t-i-o-n” for every four exceptions so you can be pretty sure that if a word has the sound “shun” in it, it will be spelled “t-i-o-n”. Let's see how many other possible spellings there are of the sound “shun”.'

There followed a lively discussion and the various ways of spelling the sound were listed, with the pupils quick to provide different examples: ‘comprehension', ‘ocean', ‘fashion', ‘Russian', ‘politician', ‘suspicion', ‘truncheon', ‘complexion'.

‘That's excellent, but there are just two more rather difficult and unusual exceptions to the rule which only a real expert on the English language would know.' She glanced again in my direction. I just knew what was coming. I was sitting at the front of the classroom, next to the blackboard in full view of the children, a supposed expert on the language, an inspector of English no less. Miss ‘I don't reckon she'll take kindly to being inspected' Pilkington was going to turn in my direction, fix me with a confident stare and ask me to provide the two other ways of spelling the sound ‘shun'. And I, for the life of me, could not think of any more alternatives. My mind quickly raced through various words but with no success. It kept focusing on the
picture of the landlord at the local inn roaring with laughter as he predicted: ‘It'll not be '
im
who'll be doin' t'inspectin'.' But the teacher let me off the hook.