The Other Side of the Dale (23 page)

‘Mrs Savage is helping me to sort out the library,' continued Mr Townson.

Mrs Savage made a sort of humming noise before looking at her watch, as if entirely bored by this conversation.

‘If it's not convenient,' I began, ‘I can call –'

‘No, no!' snapped Mrs Savage rising to her feet. ‘I was about to go.' She swept for the door but turned on her high heels. ‘I will be in touch, Simon,' she said sweetly. Then she nodded in my direction before saying in an icy voice, ‘Goodbye,
Mister
Phinn.' Then she was gone and I inwardly gave a great sigh of relief.

‘An absolutely delightful woman,' enthused the young Mr Townson rubbing his hands. ‘She's been so supportive and sympathetic. Cannot do enough for me.'

I ran my finger along a shelf on which were a number of books on the art of ballroom dancing.

‘Do you dance by any chance, Mr Townson?' I asked casually, plucking a tome from the shelf.

‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Why?'

‘Oh nothing,' I replied. ‘Nothing at all.'

It was Thursday and I was thankful the end of a dreadful week was in sight. Problem after problem, pressure after pressure, had risen their ugly heads one after the other. On Monday Dr Gore had asked the whereabouts of a committee report I had promised to write, and which I had completely forgotten about, and Harold Yeats had left a note on my desk saying he was still awaiting answers to a number of important queries. My attempts to respond were dashed when an overworked and overstressed headteacher had poured out his woes over the telephone and I had agreed to call in and be of what help I could. In his room, later in the day, I spilt a cup of coffee over the chair, the carpet, the coffee table and the school secretary.

On Tuesday, the course which I had carefully planned and directed for thirty teachers had not been the roaring success I had hoped it would be, judging by the appraisal sheets. The various comments –‘quite interesting', ‘of some use', ‘helpful handouts' and ‘satisfactory' – damned me with faint praise. On Wednesday I had a dreadful toothache, a difficult school visit and Mrs Savage had telephoned three times asking me to return some papers she had sent to me to look over. It was now Thursday and I still had letters to write, the summer term's courses to plan, reports to complete and three schools to visit. In addition, that evening I had agreed to talk to a group of parents about reading development.

I was feeling weary, full of the troubles of the world and very sorry for myself, therefore, when I arrived at the first school that morning. A small boy, of about seven or eight, stood in the entrance hall feeding a tank full of tropical fish.

‘Hello,' he said brightly.

‘Hello,' I replied.

‘I'm the fish monitor.'

‘Yes, I can see,' I said peering into the tank at the colourful creatures scooping up the floating food with open mouths. ‘What sort are they?'

‘Hermaphrodites.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Hermaphrodites. They're neither one thing nor t'other.' There followed a small lecture on the life of the fish. ‘I do the frogs and toads as well,' he added. ‘We've got a tank down here where they live. You can have a look if you like. We collected the frogspawn from the pond last weekend. We'll hatch it out and look after the tadpoles until they've grown into frogs big enough to fend for themselves. You see, when they've just turned from being tadpoles into little frogs and toads they're … now, what's the word miss said … er?'

‘Tiny?' I suggested.

‘No, no.'

‘Weak?'

‘No, no.'

‘Delicate?'

‘Vulnerable, that's what they are, vulnerable.'

‘Yes of course,' I replied, ‘vulnerable.' I was feeling pretty vulnerable by this time.

‘You see, hundreds of tadpoles hatch out and most get eaten by fish or birds and the weaker ones die.'

‘Well, that can't be helped, I suppose.'

‘Unless it's a maternity toad. Now you take the maternity toad. That's a funny creature and no mistake. She keeps her tadpoles in her mouth where they are safe and sound. Normally frogs and toads don't do that but inside the maternity toad's mouth the tadpoles are protected. She's got a really big mouth that she can blow out, sort of inflate like this.' He puffed out his cheeks to demonstrate. ‘I've got a picture of the maternity toad if you want to see it.'

‘So she keeps all her tadpoles in her mouth, does she? It must be uncomfortable for her but I suppose they are safe from any harm.'

‘Aye,' said the little boy and then added with a short laugh, ‘unless, of course, she sneezes!' He continued to chatter on as he checked the temperature of the water.

‘I think your mother's got a little chatterbox at home,' I said.

‘Oh no,' he cried, ‘my little brother's got asthma, so we aren't allowed to have pets.'

‘Would you take me to the Headteacher's room, please,' I said, smiling for the first time that day. ‘Mrs Sevens is expecting me.' When we arrived at the room the Headteacher emerged to greet me.

‘Miss, I think your dad's here.' The little boy waved a grubby hand at me and departed to feed the frogs and toads.

That evening I was billed to speak to parents at a primary school where eighty per cent of the pupils were from ethnic minority homes. It was an inner-city school of red brick, sprawling, flat roofed and surrounded by busy roads, tower-blocks and row after row of long terraced housing. Inside, however, it was gleaming and welcoming, and the children's backgrounds, religions and cultures were celebrated in the drawings and pictures, the colourful range of writing and the careful displays of artefacts.

All through my talk a most attentive young woman of Asian origin smiled from the front row and as I was packing up my books and papers she approached me.

‘Do you remember me, Mr Phinn?' she asked.

‘I'm afraid, I don't,' I replied. ‘I meet so many people and have such a poor memory for faces, I'm afraid.'

‘My name is Rahila Hussain. You used to teach me.'

There have been a number of occasions when young men or women have approached me in the street or in a school, a shop or a library with the words: ‘You used to teach me, Mr Phinn,' and then they would reminisce about their times at school, recalling lessons and incidents I had long since forgotten.

‘I used to teach you, did I? You will have to jog this memory of mine. I am trying to place you.'

‘I came from Pakistan without a word of English when I was fifteen. You taught me English.'

‘Well, I think I did a pretty good job, Rahila, listening to you now.'

‘You did an
excellent
job and I shall always remember your lessons. I passed just one exam at the end of my schooldays and it was English. All those extra lessons of yours paid off.'

‘Well, that's wonderful,' I replied. ‘It's lovely to see you, and thank you for coming to listen to me speak.'

‘You used to teach several pupils who couldn't speak much English and those who needed extra help, every Wednesday and Thursday lunchtimes, in the school library.'

‘I remember now,' I said. ‘You were in the same group as Jamuna and Jason.'

‘That's right.'

I had met Jamuna several years after she had left school when I had been a patient at the Royal Infirmary. I had
been asked to take all my clothes off, was given a square of tissue paper for modesty's sake and told to wait for the doctor in a small examination room. A smart, efficient-looking sister had entered to take my details and as our eyes met there was instant recognition.

‘Hello, Mr Phinn. Do you remember me? You were my teacher.' It was Jamuna. She extended her hand for me to shake – but I declined, smiling weakly.

I had met Jason again just before moving to North Yorkshire. I was coming out of the post office in Doncaster town centre one cold, overcast Saturday morning when a tall, fair-haired young man as broad as a barn door, blocked my path. ‘Now then, Mester Phinn!' he had shouted in a loud, friendly voice. ‘How tha' doin'?'

‘I'm doing very well, thank you,' I had replied.

‘Tha' dun't remember me, does tha'?'

‘I'm afraid not. I meet so many …'

‘Tha' used to teach me.' When he saw no recognition on my face he had continued, ‘I reckon thas'll remember me when I tell thee my name. Once taught, never forgotten. Jason Batty, that's me.'

‘Ah,' I had said. ‘Yes, I do remember you, Jason.'

He had chuckled. ‘I thought tha' would. I were a bit of a rogue, weren't I?'

‘Well, yes, you were, but a likeable rogue. More of a rascal really, Jason.'

‘Aye, well, I reckon you and t'rest of t'staff 'ad yer 'ands full wi' me and no mistake. I were a bit of a tearaway. You were all reight though, Mester Phinn. You were strict but fair and you were all reight. I never did get mi 'ead round old Shakespeare but I did enjoy them English lessons. It were that French teacher, Mrs Faraday, I had trouble wi'. “Batty by name and batty by nature,” she used to say. I
din't like that. She din't have much time for us “thickies”. She used to say what were t'point of teaching French to groups like us. She used to say we wunt mek much of us lives. I don't think she liked kids very much. She were allus shoutin'. She had this gret big bowl o' plastic fruit on her desk. She'd hold up an apple and ask,
“Que'est-ce que c'est?”
and we were supposed to shout back,
“C'est une pomme.”
Then she'd pick up a pear and ask,
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
and we'd shout back,
“C'est une poire.”
Once, she had this reight big plastic banana in her hand.
“Qu'est-ce que c'est?”
she asked but caught sight o' me talking at t'back o' classroom. She let fly wi' that plastic banana. It flew straight through t'air like a missile and 'it me straight between eyes, ricocheted off mi forehead and flew back to her like a boomerang. She put up her 'and and caught it. All t'class jumped to their feet and give her a standing ovation. She went ballistic! I din't learn much wi' that Mrs Faraday.'

‘Well, you seem to have remembered quite a bit of French, by the sound of it, Jason.'

‘Nay, Mester Phinn, I learnt a bit o' French after I'd left school. I do a bit of importin' and exportin' – fruit and veg, you know. I go over to France quite a bit. I've picked up a bit o' the lingo. I mean, you have to, don't ya?'

‘So you're a greengrocer then, Jason?'

‘Aye, in a manner o' speakin'. I've six market stalls. “Batty's High Class Fruit and Vegetables”. Started wi' one stall in t'outdoor market and built up ovver t'last few years. I 'ave twenty folk workin' for me now.'

‘You've done really well. I'm really pleased for you.'

At this point, drops of rain had begun to fall.

‘It's goin' to chuck it down in a minute, by the looks of it,' Jason said staring at the grey sky. ‘Are you in yer car, Mester Phinn, or can I give you a lift?'

‘I did actually come into town on the bus and it's very kind of you to offer me a lift but I live just outside the town on the Doncaster Road. I guess it's too far out of your way.'

‘Nay, not a bit of it, Mester Phinn, I can go that way. You must come round one evening. I live in King's Wooton. You can't miss our house. It's that big stone un. Used to be t'vicarage. Got a nice bit o' land at back.'

I made my way to a small van parked nearby, but Jason called me back. ‘Nay, nay, Mester Phinn, I'm not in t'van.' He had opened the door of a new, brilliant white, shining sports car with gleaming chrome, great fins on the back and tinted windows. My astonishment must have shown. ‘I can see that tha' thinking, “What's a gret big bloke like him doin' driving a piddling little car like that?” Well, I'll tell thee. Wife's got t'big car today, so I've got 'ers. Come on, Mester Phinn, before tha' gets soakin' wet.'

I remembered Jason with affection – and admiration because he was obviously well-established on the fast track.

‘There were about ten or eleven of us,' continued Rahila now. ‘Sadhu, Javaid, Popinder, Thomas, Jason, Balvinder, Jamuna, Larchvinder, Kim, Florence and myself.'

‘Yes, that's right, I remember now.'

‘Once you were angry with us for not doing our homework. You asked how did we expect to learn English unless we were prepared to put some time and effort in and to practise using the language. It was at the end of the lesson I remember when Jamuna asked you to try writing a few words in Nepalese, and Sadhu showed you how a Sikh would write. Javaid wrote you a sentence in Urdu, and Kim in Cantonese. We then looked at some Arabic script – all very, very different from English.'

The memory of those lessons came back as she talked. I had been a young English teacher, in my very first year in
the profession, with little understanding or appreciation of the linguistic skills of those multi-lingual pupils of mine, of how exceptionally difficult it must have been for them to grasp a writing system so very different from their own and how incredibly well they had managed, in such a short time, to cope with this tricky and troublesome English language I was trying to teach them. It had been a humbling and salutary experience to see the range of different languages before me that day.

‘It was the only time you shouted at us, Mr Phinn, so don't look so glum. You didn't make a habit of it. We all of us knew that you gave up a lot of your time to help us and we were very grateful. You were a really good teacher and we loved your lessons.'

‘Thank you very much, Rahila. What a nice thing to say. Comments like that make the job of teaching very worthwhile.' I could feel a lump in my throat so changed the subject. ‘So you have children of your own now, and they attend this school?'

‘Oh no, I'm not married,' she replied. ‘Believe it or not, I'm a teacher in charge of English.'