‘Of course. Fire away.’
Driving back to the office that afternoon, I had realised I was in a considerable dilemma over what to do about young Mr Hornchurch. All the things he should have had in place were simply not there: clear planning, detailed documentation, careful record-keeping, an orderly classroom – and yet his results were well above average, his teaching was very good, and the children were making excellent progress in their work; above all, they were all immensely motivated.
Harold sat hunched over his desk, his head cupped in his large hands, listening intently as I described my visit to Tarncliffe School. When I had finished, he steepled his fingers in the familiar fashion, and said, ‘I’ve come across this sort of teacher before and they are the devil’s own job to deal with, but the bottom line is this. Do the children in his care get a good education? I think it’s as simple as that. Are his lessons interesting, challenging, broadly based? Does he thoroughly know the subjects he teaches, and does he develop the children’s knowledge, skills and understanding of them? Does he achieve high standards, have good discipline, mark children’s books carefully and constructively? If he is doing all that, then he is doing more than many. The most important thing, Gervase, as you well know, is the teaching, not the paperwork or the neatness of his classroom. Everything pales into insignificance compared with the quality and effectiveness of the teaching. You can have the most efficient, well-organised, meticulously tidy teacher but if he can’t teach then he might as well pack his briefcase and go home.’
I nodded. Would I ever be as wise an inspector as Harold? I thought.
‘You see, Gervase, we don’t want a profession of clones. Teachers are as different as any other professionals. Look at our office and how different we all are. I know for a fact that my successor will be very different from me. He or she will want to make changes, stamp a new identity on things, highlight different priorities. I know also that I shall be remembered, affectionately, I hope, for a few weeks and then forgotten. Life will go on. None of us is indispensable. We are all different and that is what makes the world so interesting. You and David and Geraldine might think at times that I’m a little easy on Sidney, putting up with his comments, letting him climb on his bandwagons and ramble on about his likes and dislikes. Well, Sidney is like your Mr Hornchurch. He can be the bane of one’s life unpredictable, short-tempered, mercurial, full of schemes and projects and mad ideas – but, deep down, I know he is passionate about his subject, about education and about children. You cannot stifle that creativity. Sidney’s an enthusiast and we need enthusiasts in education. That’s why I put up with his constant badinage, his moods and his idiosyncrasies, because I know the calibre of the man and how effective he really is. To confine and cramp that sort of personality would destroy so much good. He needs channelling, he requires a light touch on the tiller, not a heavy hand on his shoulder. Had you been successful and taken over from me, handling Sidney would have been no easy matter, as my successor will soon discover. So I would say to this young man at Tarncliffe: “You are in many ways an exceptional teacher but you have to conform to some extent. Tidy up your room, plan your lessons better so people like us can see what the pupils have been doing, keep records so parents can see what progress their children are making, but, above all, continue to be imaginative, enthusiastic – and different.”’
On my way back to the main office, I decided that no new Senior Inspector could ever be quite as understanding and tolerant as Harold. I was so deep in thought that I bumped into a young man carrying a stack of files. He looked as if he had walked straight out of a fashion magazine.
‘Hi!’ he said. ‘I’m Frank.’
‘Gervase Phinn,’ I said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Ah, Mr Phinn – you’ll find the course outline you wanted typing on your desk. Anything else just pop in my in-tray. See you later.’
With that, he headed down the stairs, whistling.
When I got back to the office, my three colleagues had returned from their various school visits and, presumably primed by Julie as to my whereabouts, were hanging around to hear my news.
‘Well?’ asked Sidney.
‘No, I’m not on the shortlist,’ I replied, slumping into my chair and sighing.
‘Oh, that’s tough,’ said Gerry, and came over and placed a hand on my arm. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Yes, a damn shame,’ said David. ‘Did Harold give a reason?’
‘Not enough experience,’ I replied.
‘Well, that’s true enough,’ said Sidney. ‘You’ve not been in the job five minutes.’
‘That’s right,’ said David, ‘put your extensive and sensitive counselling skills to good use, and make a man feel better. He wants some sympathy and understanding, not you telling him that he shouldn’t have applied in the first place.’
‘In actual fact, it was I who encouraged Gervase to go for the job. I think he would have made a pretty good Senior Inspector but, it has to be admitted, he is inexperienced. Anyway, it’s not the end of the world, is it? He might have changed had he become our boss – all serious and demanding and full of his own importance. I’m sure your old Welsh grandmother would say to him if she were here, which I am thankful that she is not, that it is probably for the best.’
‘She would almost certainly have said,’ David reposted, ‘“If you get knocked to the floor, pick yourself up, dust yourself down and start all over again.”’
‘She could have made a mint writing lyrics for Hollywood musicals, your old Welsh grandmother,’ said Sidney. ‘Ah! I think I detect a small smile on our colleague’s face,’ he continued, looking over at me.
‘You know, Gervase, life’s problems are all relative,’ said David, taking off his spectacles which was a sure sign that I was going to hear one of his homilies. ‘Take my friend, Owen Wynn-Jones. Highly successful doctor, JP, captain of the golf club this year, president of the Fettlesham Rotary Club. Got everything going for him and then he receives this letter from his daughter, Bronwen, who’s at a top-class girls’ independent boarding school in Wales. “Dear Daddy”, she wrote. “I think you should sit down before you read on.” No parent wants to receive a letter starting like that, I can tell you. “I’m pregnant,” she wrote. “In fact, I’m expecting twins.” Owen, of course, was devastated, completely devastated. “Do you remember when I hurt my ankle playing lacrosse and went to hospital,” continued his daughter, “and the headmistress wrote to say I had to stay in overnight? Well, that’s when I met Shane. He was coming out of the Drug Rehabilitation Unit and we got talking and I fell in love with him. It was love at first sight.” Anyhow, the girl goes on to tell poor old Owen that this Shane is the father of the twins, that people don’t take to him because of his aggressive appearance – shaven head, facial tattoos and extensive body piercing etc. And it got worse. She wrote that he was trying to kick his heroin addiction and had an imminent court appearance for burglary. Owen, by this time, was a quivering wreck. “I want so much for you and Mummy to meet him before his court case,” continued Bronwen, “and come to love him as I do, because he will probably be sent back to prison. What I would really like is for us to get married and have the reception at the golf club with all our family and friends.” It couldn’t get much worse could it?’ said David, looking at each one of us in turn. ‘“I hope you still love me, Daddy,” she ended. “Much love, Bronwen.” Well, of course, old Owen was near to collapse at this stage. Then his eye caught a small PTO at the bottom of the page. He turned over and found an additional sentence. “All of what I have just told you is complete and utter rubbish,” his daughter had written, “but I’ve failed my exams again and want you to get things in perspective.”’
As soon as the other inspectors had gone home, I telephoned Christine at Winnery Nook School.
‘I’m really quite relieved,’ she said. ‘I think we will both have more than enough on our plates this year without the extra pressures of a new job.’
‘Ye
s, I know, that’s what you said before, and it’s what Harold has just said.’
‘You’re not too disappointed, are you, darling?’
‘Well, I am a bit. I thought I might have got an interview at the very least. It’s a bit of a knock to my ego, isn’t it? Not even called for interview. I just hope Harold’s successor is as easy to work for and as supportive as he’s been.’
‘As you know, I’m stuck here this evening for a governors’ meeting, but it should be finished by eight-thirty. Why don’t I take you out then and you can drown your sorrows?’ After a moment, when I didn’t answer, she said, ‘Gervase, are you still there?’
‘Yes, I’m still here.’
‘So, shall we go for a drink?’
‘Yes, all right.’
‘Well, you don’t sound all that enthusiastic,’ she chided. ‘Cheer up! It’s not the end of the world. Incidentally, I went round to the estate agent’s at lunchtime, and have got some interesting brochures to show you.’
‘OK.’
‘Our dream cottage might be amongst them, darling.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘With honey-coloured stone walls and a grey slate roof – and roses round the door and a view across the dale.’ She was trying so very hard to cheer me up.
‘Sorry, Christine,’ I said, snapping out of it. ‘I must sound a real misery guts. Of course, we’ll go out tonight and forget all about the job.’
‘Fine, see you at the school at about eight-thirty, then.’
‘Oh, and there was something else,’ I told her.
‘Oh dear,’ sighed Christine. ‘This sounds ominous. What is it?’
‘I love you,’ I said.
‘Aaah,’ Christine said softly, and put down the telephone.
9
The Lady Cavendish High School for Girls was built at the end of the last century, paid for by an industrialist who had accumulated his enormous wealth through the wool industry and who wanted to leave his mark in the world. Sir Cosmo Cavendish, who had had little formal education himself but had a real talent for making money, had endowed a boys’ grammar school which he had named after himself; a few years later, he had funded a girls’ high school which took his wife’s name. Like the boys’ school, the girls’ High was a vast over-decorated pile with red-brick towers and turrets, parallel rows of sightless mullioned windows and distinctly lacked charm. I was there to spend a day with David and Gerry inspecting the core subjects of English, mathematics and science. When Harold had notified the headmistress of our impending visit, she had been less than enthusiastic, so we were not expecting a particularly warm welcome.
The walk up to the main building from the visitors’ car park was exceptionally pleasant that bright morning in late February and I was in excellent spirits. I was quickly getting over my disappointment about the Senior Inspector’s post and was determined to remain optimistic about the future. After all, in less than two months Christine and I would be married. On that sunny morning all seemed right with the world. The air was fresh, the sun warm on my face, the sky vast and blue; the almond trees just outside the car park were speckled with a delicate blossom, and I noticed clumps of daffodil leaves were pushing up through the grass bordering the carefully combed gravel path.
I paused at the large dull-bronze statue of the school’s founder, identical to the one which dominated the entrance to the boys’ school. Sir Cosmo stood on a large plinth, hands on hips, legs apart and chin jutting out as if to say to the world: ‘Now then, look at me. I am somebody to be reckoned with.’ The statue was so enormously vulgar that it was obvious Sir Cosmo had been a man with a pathological desire to be in the public eye and to be remembered. The effect of coming face-to-face with the imposing figure was rather diminished at this particular moment, for, perched on the monumental head, was a fat pigeon pecking at a piece of bread in its claw.
The entrance to the school, through a great archway shaped like a yawning mouth, was forbidding. Stone steps rose between baroque pillars to a heavy oak double door the size of which would not have disgraced a cathedral. The reception area was cool and silent and smelt unpleasantly of disinfectant, lavender floor polish and school dinners. There seemed to be a great deal of wood everywhere: heavy, dark-panelled walls, a well-worn but highly polished woodblock floor, and long wooden shelves on which huge silver cups and shields were displayed, together with ranks of photographs of stern headmistresses in black gowns and rows of unsmiling girls; all these were set in identical heavy wooden frames. A forest must have fallen to furnish the school, I thought to myself
I pressed the buzzer on the reception desk and a moment later the frosted glass slid back slowly and I faced an elderly woman with thin bloodless lips and a fuzz of white hair.
‘Good morning. May I help you?’ she asked.
‘Good morning,’ I replied. ‘My name is Mr Phinn and I’m from the Education Office.’
‘Is the headmistress expecting you?’
‘Indeed she is,’ I replied.
The woman ran a long finger down a register before her. ‘Ah, yes, here you are, Mr Phinn, right at the bottom of my list. Would you take a seat and I will tell Miss Bronson’s secretary you have arrived.’
A minute later I followed the secretary’s respectfully hurrying footsteps along a narrow, green-tiled corridor with its curiously pervasive smell of dust. A flood of white sunlight poured through a high window, slanting in long bars across the musty air and onto the floor. The woman made no effort to engage me in conversation.
‘It’s a lovely day,’ I remarked finally.
‘Yes, it is,’ she replied, stepping ahead purposefully.
Up a long curving staircase with highly-polished mahogany banisters and stone steps we went and then down another narrow, green-tiled corridor.
‘I wonder if I might wash my hands,’ I said.
She stopped in her tracks and turned to face me. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replied stiffly. ‘There’s a cloakroom just off the corridor here.’ She gestured down yet another corridor. ‘I’ll wait here.’
The cloakroom was just that, a small room with a row of black metal pegs along the wall, two large cupboards and a washbasin. There was no lavatory. I emerged a moment later and informed the secretary, with not a little embarrassment, that it was a lavatory I really wanted.
‘Oh,’ she said, rather taken aback, ‘well, if it was the lavatory you needed you should have said.’ She shook her head and made a sort of clucking noise. ‘We will have to return to the reception area. There’s only the girls’ lavatories up here.’ Off she set again, her heels clicking on the wooden floor. ‘I do wish people would make themselves clear,’ she sighed as she headed down the stairs with me in pursuit.
Following my ablutions and another journey through the labyrinth and up the stairs, I was shown into the headmistress’s study – a large, opulent room, panelled in light oak and carpeted and curtained in deepest blue. A bookcase, which covered one entire wall, was crammed with dull-covered volumes and dominating the whole area was a huge roll-top desk, behind which Miss Bronson was sitting magisterially with her hands clasped before her. David and Gerry were perched facing her on uncomfortable mahogany chairs with high arm rests and looked like naughty children in front of the headteacher for misbehaving. There was an empty chair next to them.
Miss Bronson rose to greet me. She was a thin, slightly stooped woman with a pale indrawn face, narrow dark eyes and thick iron-grey hair cut in a bob. A voluminous black gown was draped around her shoulders. ‘Do come in, Mr Phinn,’ she said in a very upper-class accent.
‘Good morning,’ I said, reaching forward to shake a small cold hand. I smiled and nodded at David and Gerry.
‘We now have the full complement,’ announced the headmistress. ‘I am not sure what the collective noun is for school inspectors. Perhaps you, as the English specialist, might enlighten me, Mr Phinn. A “threat” of inspectors, maybe?’ She gave me a watery smile, revealing a remarkably fine set of ev
en teeth. ‘Would you like to have a seat and we can talk about the day, briefly I should say, because I have to take the morning assembly in ten minutes or so.’
‘I was just explaining to Miss Bronson before you arrived, Mr Phinn,’ said David, ‘that we are hoping to observe a range of lessons in the course of the day, evaluate the teaching, look at the students’ books and folders and present a combined written report to reach the school within the next few days.’
Miss Bronson listened to him with a kind of half-amused detachment before leaning forward and responding. ‘And I was endeavouring to enquire of Mr Pritchard what exactly is the purpose of this visit. You are aware, Mr Phinn, as I am sure your two colleagues are as well, that we achieve the very best results in the county and we have done so for a number of years. Indeed, we are one of the most academically successful schools nationally and there is a ridiculously long waiting list of gels wishing to come here. Ninety-nine per cent pass rate last year. Twenty-four gels went up to Oxford or Cambridge and the great majority of the rest went on to higher education elsewhere. We beat all the local independent schools into a cocked hat and are quietly confident that this performance will be replicated this coming summer.’
‘Yes, indeed, Miss Bronson, I am fully aware of the excellent results,’ I said.
‘And as I was also explaining to your colleagues, Mr Phinn,’ she continued, giving a sigh which expressed both impatience and amusement, ‘when the gels start here, they get a good grinding –’
‘I’m sorry?’ I said, startled.
‘We give the gels a good grinding.’
‘Ah yes, a good grounding,’ I repeated, trying to keep a straight face.
‘That’s what I said, a good grinding in the basics and then we develop their abilities and aptitudes, enabling them to reach their full potential. Gels are sent to this school in order that, by dint of our solid and rigorous teaching, by discipline of mind and body, by the example and unstinting support of my staff, they may develop into the very best type of woman: confident, independent, strong-minded, honest and fair. Because of our reputation and our outstanding results, I think it would be reasonable to extrapolate that the teaching is of the very best at this school. The parents are highly satisfied with the calibre of my teaching staff, the governors are more than happy and the gels, I am sure you will discover, find their lessons both challenging and interesting.’ A shaft of sunlight fell across her pale face and gave it the appearance of wax.
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 15
