The Other Side of the Dale (21 page)

‘Pardon?'

‘Have you anything on in the evening?'

‘Ν-nο,' I stammered, ‘I don't have anything on.'

‘Right then, Sunday it is. Come about seven. I'll send you a map showing directions. I live with my parents in Collington.'

‘Are you sure Miles won't mind?' I asked gingerly. ‘You inviting me round for supper. I mean, would he mind?'

‘I couldn't care less whether Miles minds or not, to be honest,' she replied. ‘After the dreadful holiday in Austria, where all I heard was how expensive everything was and how good he was at this and good he was at that, I became heartily sick of Miles. So we don't see each other any more.'

I gulped – and there was another of those embarrassed silences.

‘Gervase, are you still there?'

‘Yes, yes, I'm still here. So Sunday, I'll see you on Sunday.'

It was fortunate that no one else was in the office or they would have jumped out of their skins at hearing the deafening, ear-piercing whoop for joy that I emitted.

The house was large. It was a high-gabled, stolid, stone, three-storeyed Victorian town house, the sort mill owners lived in and were now often converted into residential homes for the elderly or flats. It looked very imposing and grand. A long gravel driveway swept in a graceful curve between carefully tended lawns and borders to the large porch.

As I pressed the bell my stomach began to churn and my throat became hopelessly dry. Christine opened the door and my heart thumped at the sight of her smiling face. She shook my hand, led the way down a long entrance hall and into an elegant room where I was introduced to her mother. Mrs Bentley was an older version of Christine. She had the same warm blue eyes, slim figure and the same gentle manner.

‘Mr Phinn, Gervase,' she said softly. ‘I'm so very pleased to meet you. I've heard such a lot about you from Christine and from my husband. I must say, I'm a little nervous meeting a school inspector.' Not half as nervous as I am, I thought. ‘I imagined them to be rather frightening figures, watching points and criticizing anything that moved, but my daughter and husband have put me right.'

‘Oh, really?' Well, I'm glad about that,' I replied.

‘My husband tells me you're a very different sort of person.'

‘Have I met your husband, Mrs Bentley?' I asked.

Before she could reply, the man in question entered.

‘Now then, young man, let's get you a drink, shall we, and talk over some of the finer points of refereeing a rugby match.' It was ‘Legs' Bentley.

Early in March I was asked by Harold Yeats to give the opening talk on the Newly-Qualified Teachers course, to a group of new entrants to the teaching profession.

‘This is always a successful and good-humoured course, Gervase,' Harold explained enthusiastically, ‘and you can be sure of having a captive audience. Everyone is so eager and interested. No pessimists, no cynics, no weary, care-worn teachers. All bright and interested. I want you to introduce the day, if you will, by speaking about some of the qualities you consider the good teacher should possess.'

‘Why me?'

‘Well, you're relatively new to the team and bristling with fresh ideas. I should imagine you'll relate to the young teachers rather better than Sidney or David, or myself for that matter.'

I considered hard and long about what I should say and spent the preceding weekend planning the lecture carefully. A good teacher, I thought, should be committed, hardworking, enthusiastic, dedicated and well-organized. He or she should have good discipline, be able to command respect and, of course, relate well to children. And then I got to thinking about those of my own teachers whom I considered ‘good', those I remembered with admiration and affection. They all possessed the qualities I had considered and felt important, they were all industrious, intellectually astute, enthusiastic and committed but they all had one extra
characteristic in common: they encouraged their pupils to chance their arms, to experiment, to try out ideas without the fear of being criticized or disparaged. My lecture finished, therefore, with a heartfelt plea to those young, keen teachers.

‘To move forward, both teachers and pupils need to take a few measured risks,' I said in conclusion. ‘So – don't be afraid to chance your arm.'

One young teacher who had heard me speak that Monday morning certainly took the advice to heart. I was visiting St Anthony's Boys' Secondary Modern School to observe the morning lessons of a newly-qualified young teacher called Miss Isleworth. She had an engaging brightness and enthusiasm and clearly was enjoying her first year of teaching.

‘I heard you speak on the course last Monday, Mr Phinn,' she said rather nervously, ‘and I did so enjoy your talk.'

‘Thank you very much,' I replied. ‘It's always nice to hear the occasional appreciative comment. It tends to be something of a rarity for an inspector to be complimented on his advice.'

‘And you know you mentioned about good teachers “chancing their arms”?' she continued.

‘Yes.'

‘Did you really mean it?'

‘I most certainly did. I don't think we move forward unless we take a few measured risks now and again.' I was beginning to sound very pontifical.

‘Well,' said Miss Isleworth with a great in-drawing of breath, ‘I'm certainly going to chance my arm this morning.'

‘Really?'

‘I have quite an adventurous drama lesson planned with thirty-five thirteen-year-old-boys who are not too
motivated, I'm afraid. I just hope it will be all right and the risk I'm taking is worth it.'

I reassured her as we walked across the playground to the drama studio – a grandiose name for a temporary classroom, perched on four large concrete blocks and sited on a muddy patch of ground. It resembled those POW huts one sees in the old war films: plain wooden walls, dark brown paint the colour of gravy, and grey, sloping asphalt roof. The glass in the windows was painted black.

‘This is the drama studio?' I asked in disbelief, as we tiptoed around the puddles in the playground in the direction of the hut.

‘Yes,' she replied smiling, ‘I'm afraid so. The Headmaster wanted it as far away from the main building as possible so that the other classes aren't disturbed by the noise. It's a bit grim, isn't it?' As we climbed the steps to the temporary classroom, the heavens opened.

‘What is the theme of the drama lesson?' I inquired as we lumbered in out of the rain.

‘We're re-enacting the sinking of the
Titanic,'
she replied cheerfully.

It was my turn for a great in-drawing of breath. ‘Good heavens!' I said. ‘That
is
a pretty adventurous undertaking.' The sinking of the
Titanic
in a wooden hut with thirty-five lively teenage boys. She really
is
chancing her arm, I thought with some concern.

In the musty darkness of the hut, the drumming of rain on the wooden roof was all that could be heard. It was pitch black inside.

‘Oh dear,' sighed the teacher, as she searched for the light switch, ‘I don't think they've turned up. I said we would be having a school inspector in. I think they may have decided to give the lesson a miss.'

‘I can hear breathing,' I whispered. The teacher clicked on the lights to reveal all the pupils in complete silence and frozen as in a tableau. They were arranged in various positions and attitudes on five large, grey staging blocks, which presumably represented the
Titanic.
In a corner three shadowy figures stood behind two large drums and a table of assorted percussion instruments. Another boy stood behind a large spotlight on a stand.

‘Just relax for a moment will you, boys,' said Miss Isleworth. The figures on the blocks came slowly to life. ‘I am really really pleased to see the very responsible way in which you have prepared for the play.' She turned in my direction. ‘This is Mr Phinn who will be joining us this morning. There's a chair in the corner, Mr Phinn.'

‘Miss, can we start?' asked an excited, diminutive little figure on the highest block, who sported a battered bus conductor's cap.

‘In a moment, Dean. First, let me recap what we are doing this morning. This is the climax of the drama where the great ship hits the iceberg. The night is still, the sea is calm. It is dark and the air is icy. Most of the passengers are in bed. On the bridge Captain Smith and his first officer peer into the night unaware of the mountain of ice floating slowly towards the ship. Are you ready on the lights?'

‘Yes, miss!' came a chorus.

‘Are you ready on the drums?'

‘Ready!'

‘Actors, are you ready?'

‘Ready, miss.'

‘Right then, action!'

The room fell into complete darkness. A spotlight picked up two small figures on the highest staging block.

‘It's a cold night, Captain Smith, and no mistake,' said one.

‘It is indeed, especially for this time of year,' replied the other.

‘In the Atlantic.'

‘On our maiden voyage.'

‘To America.'

‘In 1912.'

‘On the unsinkable
Titanic.'

Light illuminated the other pupils on the different blocks miming various actions. Some were sleeping, others walking the deck.

Both boys peered into the darkness. ‘What's that then?' asked the first.

‘What?'

‘That in the water in front of us.'

‘It's … it's an iceberg!'

‘Stop engines!' they both shrieked. This was followed by booming drums, clashing cymbals, screams and shouts, panic and mayhem. All the pupils who had arranged themselves on the various staging blocks lurched forward together, then fell back struggling as they sank beneath the icy waters. All was still. Then the spotlight picked out one lone figure with his hands in his pockets, standing in the water ahead of the
Titanic
and looking round self-consciously.

‘Robert,' called Miss Isleworth, ‘what are you doing?'

‘I was away last week, miss,' came the reply. This was followed by good-humoured groans and laughs.

‘Right everybody!' shouted the teacher. ‘Just get up a moment. We'll run through this again. Robert, you get on the
Titanic.'
Robert joined the captain and the first officer on the highest block.

‘You're not here!' they both snapped. ‘This is the bridge. There's only us two up here.'

Robert descended a block. ‘And you're not here either!' said another boy. ‘This is first class and we're full up.'

Down another block went Robert. ‘This is the engine room and there's no room for you down here either.'

Robert appealed to Miss Isleworth. ‘Miss, there's
nowhere
for me to go!'

‘He can be a seal in the water, miss,' suggested a helpful individual in first class.

‘I'm not being a seal. I want to be on the
Titanic,'
moaned Robert and wandered over to where I was sitting. ‘There's no room for me on the
Titanic,'
he said to me in the saddest of voices.

‘Aren't you the lucky one,' I replied.

Miss Isleworth, thinking on her feet, called Robert over to her. ‘You can go in the galley, Robert,' she said.

‘Miss, I don't want to be a slave.'

‘It's not that sort of galley, Robert. It's the ship's kitchen.'

‘What was it called again, miss?'

‘The galley, Robert. You can be cooking when the
Titanic
hits the iceberg.'

So Robert assumed the lowest position, looking distinctly unhappy with his assigned role.

‘Right, let's go through it again,' said Miss Isleworth. The room fell into complete darkness. The spotlight picked up the two figures on the highest staging block.

‘It's a cold night, Captain Smith, and no mistake,' said the first officer.

‘It is indeed, especially for this time of year,' replied the other blowing on his hands.

‘In the Atlantic.'

‘On our maiden voyage.'

‘To America.'

‘In 1912.'

‘On the unsinkable
Titanic.'

Light illuminated the other pupils on the different blocks miming various actions. Some were sleeping, others walking the deck. Robert was moving his hands backwards and forwards as if poking an imaginary fire.

Both boys peered into the darkness. ‘What's that then?' asked the first.

‘What?'

‘That big thing in the water in front of us.'

‘Blinking heck!' shouted the captain. ‘It's a great mountain of ice coming our way. It's an iceberg. It's … it's an iceberg!'

‘Stop engines!' they both shrieked. Booming drums, clashing cymbals, screams and shouts, panic and mayhem followed. All the pupils lurched forward, then fell back struggling as they sank beneath the icy waters. All except Robert who was still merrily cooking in the galley.

‘Robert!' shouted a rather exasperated Miss Isleworth. ‘What
are
you doing?'

‘I'm cooking the chips on the
Titanic,
miss.'

There was a groan from the captain, officers, passengers and crew.

‘Robert,' said the teacher, ‘the
Titanic has
hit the iceberg. The front of the ship has been ripped open like tinfoil, the watertight compartments are flooding, the icy waters are rushing in, people are panicking to get to the lifeboats, crockery is falling on your head, knives are flying past your ears, burning fat is splashing in your face – and you are cooking chips in the galley.'

‘Yes, miss.'

‘Well, just think what you
would
be doing. Imagine what
it would be like in the hot steamy kitchen at the bottom of the boat when the disaster happens.'

‘Yes, miss.'

‘Right, let's go through it one more time,' said Miss Isleworth.

‘Again, miss? We're going through it again?' asked an angry Captain Smith, pulling his bus conductor's hat off his head.

‘Last time,' the teacher assured him.

The room fell once again into complete darkness. The spotlight picked up two small figures on the highest staging block.

‘It's a cold night, Captain Smith, and no mistake,' said the first officer in a very matter-of-fact voice.

‘It is indeed, especially for this time of year,' replied the other, blowing half-heartedly on his hands.

‘In the Atlantic,' said the captain casually.

‘On our maiden voyage,' sighed the other.

‘To America.'

‘In 1912.'

‘On the unsinkable
Titanic.'

Light illuminated the other pupils positioned on the different blocks, miming various actions but with little enthusiasm – except for Robert who was enthusiastically cooking his chips in the galley.

Both boys on the highest staging block peered into the darkness. ‘What's that then?' asked the first.

‘What?'

‘That big thing in the water in front of us.'

‘Could be an iceberg, I suppose,' mumbled the captain.

‘Shall we stop engines?' asked the other.

‘We might as well,' sighed his companion, ‘otherwise we might hit it.'

There followed a few lukewarm drum beats, an occasional cymbal, the odd scream and a shout, then some unenthusiastic movements on the blocks. All the pupils leant forward then fell back before slowly disappearing beneath the icy waters. All was still. The spotlight picked out a lone figure gradually sinking beneath the waves with one arm held aloft. It was Robert. Then ‘glug, glug, glug' and he was gone.