‘So, was your summer holiday better than last year?’ I asked her. Connie had had a disastrous time in Ireland the previous summer.
‘We didn’t go nowhere this year,’ she said, prising the top off a large tin of biscuits, ‘except for a couple of weekends in the caravan at Mablethorpe, and then it rained all the time.’ She adopted another expression from her extensive repertoire. ‘My father went into hospital and I was traipsing back and forth for most of the time.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Connie,’ I said. ‘Is it serious?’
‘He had a stroke. He was at the Legion playing dominoes when it happened. Next thing he was in casualty and he’s been in ever since. He’s getting on, you know. Ninety-two next birthday and he still lives on his own. He’s very independent is Dad, and been fit as a butcher’s dog until now. Never had so much as a cold in his life before this happened, and he was down the pit for nearly forty years. He smokes like a chimney, eats a full fried breakfast every morning, black pudding included, and he likes a drink. The doctor said it had caught up with him. I said to the doctor, “Well, whatever it is that’s caught up with him, it’s took its time.” “Well, you have to expect these things at his time of life,” says he. “He’s a good age.” “Yes, well, that’s as may be,” I told him, “but I want my father looking after. I don’t want any of this euthenoria business you read about. If he goes into one of them comas,” I told him, “don’t you dare turn him off. He fought for his king and country. He deserves top treatment, the RIP sort.” That’s what I told him.’
‘So he’s still in hospital, you say?’ I asked, attempting to suppress a smile.
‘Yes, still there. Mind you, he’s a lot better than he was when he went in. He was sitting up and entertaining the nurses when I last saw him.’
‘Well, that’s good news,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you’ll be able to get a holiday later this month.’
‘No, I don’t like leaving this place in term time, what with all the courses and conferences and interviews on. More trouble than it’s worth. Can you imagine what mess I’d find in the art room if I left it for a couple of weeks?’
I swiftly steered her away from a continuation of the saga of Sidney and the art room. ‘Well, I hope it won’t be too long before your father’s home.’
‘Oh yes, well, we’ll just have to hope and pray. He was wanting to go to the Cenotaph in London again this year with his British Legion pals. He’s a Dunkirk veteran as well, you know. He always looks forward to his trip to London. All dressed up in his blazer and flannel trousers with creases like knife edges, wearing his medals, but I shouldn’t think he’ll make it this year. I’m so proud of him when I see them marching past the Cenotaph. They want to get some of these young hooligans in the army. They have no appreciation or gratitude for what the older generation did for them.’ Connie began pouring the tea.
‘Well, I hope he’ll be home soon,’ I said, accepting the proffered mug. I decided it was time to change the subject. ‘I’m getting married, you know.’
‘You’re not, are you?’ she gasped, pausing in her pouring. ‘Is it that nice young woman with the blonde hair, Miss Bentley?’
‘Well, it’s not likely to be anyone else, Connie, is it?’ I laughed. ‘I’m not exactly your Casanova.’
‘Well, you never know,’ she said, starting to pour her tea again. ‘You seem to be very pally with that little nun. That Sister Brenda.’
‘Sister Brendan.’
‘That’s her. You seem to hit it off with her and no mistake. She’s forever on your courses.’
‘Nuns are celibate, Connie,’ I told her.
‘They’re celi-what?’
‘They’re not allowed to get married.’
‘Yes, well, as I’ve said to you before, I had no idea she was a nun when I first met her. I was talking to her as if she was a normal person. There was no long black skirt or headgear. I didn’t know she was a nun. She looked like an air hostess in that dark blue suit and with her hair all buffeted up. If they can drive cars and dress like that, I reckon it won’t be long before they’re getting married. Anyway, I hope you and Miss Bentley will be very happy.’
‘Thanks, Connie.’
‘You’ve not known her that long, have you? In my day, we used to walk out together for a few years before we decided to get married. I think the reason for all the divorces these days is that people rush into it.’
‘I’ve been going out with Christine for nearly two years.’
‘That doesn’t mean a thing. No, gone are the days of long courtships and chaperones and getting engaged and asking fathers for their daughter’s hand. These days, most people don’t seem to bother with marriage. They “live over the brush”, as my mother would say. They don’t have husbands and wives nowadays, they have partners. I ask you! That’s what you have on the dance floor, a partner. You wonder what the world’s coming to, don’t you? Take my cousin’s girl. She’s at West Challerton High, supposed to be doing her exams this year. She changes her boyfriends as often as she changes her knickers. I said to my cousin, “It’ll end in grief, you mark my words.”’ Connie took a gulp of tea and grimaced. ‘Anyway, I hope you’ll have a very happy life together.’
‘Thank you, Connie.’
‘Ted and me have been married for thirty-five years, you know, and hardly a cross word has passed between us.’ I had met Ted on a few occasions. He was a small, quiet man with a permanently worried expression. I guessed that Connie’s long-suffering husband had thrown in the towel years ago.
Connie topped up her mug and then picked a biscuit out of the tin. ‘I’m glad you’ve called in today because I wanted to have a quiet word with you.’
Oh no, I thought, what now? ‘Did I leave the room in – ‘ I began.
‘No, no, nothing like that. You’re quite tidy compared to the others.’ Damned with faint praise, I thought. ‘It’s Miss Pilkington I wanted to have a word with you about.’
Miss Pilkington was the headteacher of Willingforth Primary, the school which Connie’s grandchildren, Damien and Lucy, attended. I had never heard Connie describe anyone in such glowing terms as she had done this head-teacher. ‘She’s excellent, Miss Pilkington,’ Connie had confided to me one day, as she had washed the dishes at the end of a training course. ‘A woman after my own heart. She doesn’t stand no nonsense, I can tell you, not like some of these airy-fairy, wishy-washy teachers you hear about.’ Connie had gone on for a good ten minutes telling me how happy her grandchildren were at Willingforth, how much they were learning and what a beautifully clean school it was. When I had finally got around to visiting the school I had found that Connie’s assessment was spot on.
‘So what about Miss Pilkington?’ I asked now.
‘She’s having a bit of trouble at the moment. I mean, I don’t suppose it’s for me to say really. As you well know, I’m not one for gossip, but I do think one of you inspectors ought to call in – and not Mr Clamp, he’d only make it worse.’
‘Well, it’s funny that you should mention Willingforth,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a request from Miss Pilkington to go and see her next week.’
‘Ah well, that’s it then. I’ll say no more.’ She took a gulp of tea. ‘But if they don’t remove him, there’ll be fireworks.’
‘Remove him?’ I repeated, intrigued.
‘As I said, I’m not a hot gossiper but I shall say my piece and then say no more. My Lucy came home at the beginning of this term with tales that would make your hair curl.’ She produced a new and wonderfully gruesome expression from her repertoire of faces, ‘There’s this new boy. Terry they call him. Terry the Terror. Terry, the storm in a T-shirt. He’s come from a really bad home, I heard, being fostered by a doctor in the village. And he’s a right little handful. “Put the paste on the table, Terry,” says Miss Pilkington to him and he does just that. He pastes all the table-top as if he’s painting a picture. “I can see your coat on the floor, Terry,” says Miss Pilkington to him. “Yes, so can I,”
he says, walking past. Cheeky little devil. He’s rude, badly behaved and my Lucy says he spits and swears. He wants a good smack, that’s what he wants. Course you’re not allowed to lay a finger on them these days, are you? I tell you, it never did me any harm. Miss Pilkington’s at the end of her tether with this lad, so my daughter tells me.’ Connie took another gulp of tea. ‘And there’s moves afoot.’
‘Moves?’
‘To have him sent to another school.’
‘Well, I’m going to be there next week, Connie,’ I told her. ‘Thanks for the tea. I’ll see you on Monday. Oh, and I hope your father improves.’
Half an hour later, I was sitting at a corner table in Mama’s Pizza Parlour, waiting for Christine. Mama’s was a small family restaurant, rather dark but very atmospheric and tucked away down a narrow alleyway just off Fettlesham High Street. We had arranged to meet there early before going on to see an amateur production of Antony and Cleopatra, performed by the Netherfoot Thespians. One of Christine’s friends was taking part. I was intrigued to find out how a group of motley amateurs would stage such an epic Shakespearean drama.
As the clock struck six Christine arrived. She made heads turn as she walked towards me.
‘Excuse me, young man,’ she said, ‘may I join you?’
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘but I must warn you, I find you a devilishly attractive woman and I might just leap over the table and have my wicked way with you.’
‘Sssh,’ she said, laughing, ‘people will hear. Have you been waiting long for me?’
‘All my life,’ I sighed. ‘I’ve been desperately hoping against hope that one day I would meet the woman of my dreams. Let me swim in those limpid pools which are your eyes, hold your lithe body in my arms and smother hot kisses on those yielding lips.’
‘Will you be serious! If you won’t be sensible I shall pour this jug of water over you. That should cool your burning ardour.’
How lovely she was, I thought to myself as I looked at my wife-to-be across the table. What a lucky man I am.
‘So how’s Harold?’ Christine asked, glancing down the menu.
I had told her of Harold’s intention to retire at the end of the school year and had raised with her the possibility of my applying for his job. She had been less than enthusiastic, suggesting I would have enough on my plate with what was already a relatively new job, a new wife and a new house, without taking on additional responsibilities at work.
‘Of course, I’ll back you if you really want to go for it,’ she had told me, half-heartedly, ‘but don’t you think it’s a bit soon for you to start applying for a senior position like that? Think of all the extra work. I would like to see my husband other than just at the weekend.’
‘You sound as if I’ve already got it,’ I had said, rather disappointed by her response.
‘Well, you must be in with a chance,’ she had replied. I had certainly been thinking about it a great deal since Harold had made the shock announcement a couple of months before, and it was clear that it had also been on Christine’s mind as well, although we hadn’t spoken much about it.
‘So, how’s Harold?’ she asked now.
‘Oh, he’s fine. I told him at the beginning of the school holidays, when he looked worn out, that the summer break would recharge his batteries. He certainly seems back to his old self: getting in early, working late, attending all those meetings. Personally, I think he needed a good holiday.’
‘Perhaps he’ll change his mind.’
‘About what?’
‘About retiring.’
‘No, I don’t think so. He’s pretty determined.’
‘And are you?’ asked Christine. She looked up from the menu.
‘Am I what?’ I asked.
‘Determined – to apply for this job?’
I opened my mouth to answer but the waiter arrived at the table with a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket.
‘For you, madam, and you, sir,’ he said.
‘Oh, how lovely!’ cried Christine. ‘What a nice thought.’ She leaned over the table and squeezed my hand.
‘I didn’t order any champagne,’ I said.
‘A gentleman called in earlier,’ the waiter informed me. ‘It is with his compliments.’ He plucked a card from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table before me.
‘Congratulations,’ it said in a large unmistakable script, ‘on capturing the most beautiful woman in Yorkshire. I am sure you will both be idyllically happy. Give Christine a kiss for me. SC.’
‘Sidney,’ I said, shaking my head and smiling. I passed Christine the card.
‘How sweet of him.’
After the waiter had opened the champagne, and had poured us both a glass, I toasted my future wife. ‘To us, my darling, and to what lies ahead of us.’
Her blue eyes shone. ‘To us.’ And we clinked glasses.
After the first exhilarating sip of the bubbly wine, I said, ‘Look, Christine, I’ve not really made up my mind about applying but I am certainly not ruling it out.’
She reached across the table and took my hand again. ‘Gervase, I don’t see all that much of you now. What is it going to be like if you have Harold’s work load? Don’t you really think you’ll have enough on this year?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, ‘but the job won’t start until next September.’
‘And take Sidney. You get on really well with him as a colleague, and David as well, but what if you become their boss? They are lovely, warm, friendly people but I should imagine they can be something of a nightmare to manage. I just want you to give it some serious thought.’
‘I will, I promise.’ I changed the subject. ‘Now, what about tomorrow? Are we still house hunting?’
4
Willingforth Primary School resembled a prosperous, well-maintained private residence. It was set back from the main road, which ran the length of the small picturesque village, tucked behind the Norman church and the village pond. It was an imposing grey stone Georgian building with high leaded windows, each sporting a pair of white shutters, and a large oak-panelled door with brass knocker in the shape of a smiling ram’s head. To the front was a small, well-tended lawn with a sundial and tubs of bright geraniums still untouched by frost. A casual visitor to the village, strolling past, would have no idea that this was a school. There was no playground or noticeboard, no noise of boisterous children.
The door opened into one large bright classroom. The walls were pale blue, the long patterned curtains at the window somewhat darker, while the high curved roof supports were painted in navy-blue and cream. In one corner, on a square of carpet, were three fat reading cushions and a small bookcase filled with picture books. On the wall above, in pride of place, was a large coloured sampler decorated with the motto ‘STRAIGHT WORDS, STRAIGHT DEEDS, STRAIGHT BACKS’. The children, sitting on solid, straight-backed wooden chairs, worked at highly-polished desks complete with lids and holes for inkwells. This was a classroom like no other I had visited. The view of the dale from the classroom window was breathtaking. Acre upon acre of fields, criss-crossed by limestone walls, sloped gently upwards to a long scar of white rock, wind-scoured and craggy. In the far distance clouds oozed over the fell tops.
I was at the school very early that mild autumn day at the request of the headteacher, Miss Pilkington. I had received a blow-by-blow account of Miss Pilkington well before I had met her some two years before. Connie, my informant, had described the headteacher as ‘one of the old school’. I had rather expected a dragon of a woman, with cold piercing eyes behind steel-rimmed spectacles. But I was wrong. Miss Pilkington had turned out to be a tall, extremely elegant woman, probably in her late forties. She had a streamline figure, flawless make-up and wore designer clothes. ‘Miss Pilkington’, I had written in my report following my first visit, ‘is a teacher of high calibre.’ Her lessons were well planned and organised, she had extremely good subject knowledge and had an excellent relationship with the children. Her s
tandards were high and discipline could not have been better.
My conversation with Connie at the SDC the week before this current visit had given me enough information to know what the meeting that morning was likely to be about. Of course, I was not going to let on to Miss Pilkington that I had been discussing the situation with one of the grandparents who also happened to be the cleaner at the Staff Development Centre.
The headteacher was waiting to greet me. She was dressed in a well-cut suit, a cream silk scarf tied neatly round her neck. She looked rather pale and drawn.
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ she said, ‘it’s very nice to see you again. I am so grateful that you have managed to come out so early. I really do need your advice.’
‘I’m here to listen, Miss Pilkington,’ I said.
‘Well, shall we sit down and I’ll explain. We have about twenty minutes before the children arrive.’ She indicated two elegant chairs at the side of the room. ‘I really do have something of a problem and I need to talk it through with somebody.’ She sat stiffly on one of the chairs, clasped her hands in front of her and took a breath. I could see she was clearly very worried. ‘At the beginning of the term, a new boy arrived. Terry Mossup is his name. He is being fostered by a local doctor and her husband and, from what I gather, he is from a very deprived background. I understand that there had been some abuse and there has certainly been a great deal of neglect. I would guess that he was allowed to do what he wanted and had no consistent treatment by adults and no stability in his home life. Quite frankly, Mr Phinn, I am at a loss to know what to do.’
At this point, Miss Pilkington rose from her chair and paced up and down the small space in front of us. ‘I’ve been a teacher for twenty-five years and have never ever come across a child like this one. He is just unmanageable. I never thought I would admit this to anyone but he is driving me to distraction. Most of the time he is rude, very naughty and destructive but then at other times he is totally uncommunicative and just sits there as if in a trance. At one moment he’s picking on the other children, shouting out in class, refusing to do his work and then a moment later he’s taking a spider that he’s found and gently putting it outside. He’s the only one the cat lets stroke her and he likes nothing better than feeding the birds at playtime. I’ve had a word with his foster parents, who must be saints to take him on, and they have asked me to persevere with him. Oh dear,’ she said, swinging round to face me, ‘you must think I can’t cope.’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 5
