Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Councillor Peterson is our Chairman of Governors,’ said Mr Pennington-Smith, looking rather embarrassed. ‘Now, perhaps I might go over the proceedings. The evening will commence with the school orchestra and some poetry recited by the students, followed by Councillor Peterson who will say a few words to welcome the parents. Then I shall give my annual report and this will be followed by the presentation of the prizes. I wonder, Mr Phinn, would you do the honours?’

  ‘Present the prizes?’

  ‘If you would be so good,’ said the headmaster.

  ‘Well, yes, of course, I should be delighted.’

  ‘And don’t go droppin’ any o’ t’cups,’ said the councillor, laughing at his own supposedly amusing comment. ‘Or walkin’ off wi’ ‘em.’ Before I could reply, he consulted his watch and barked across the room. ‘Well, I think we’re about ready for the off by my reckonin’. Sup up, everybody, and we’ll make a start and get the show on t’rooad.’

  The party processed behind Mr Pennington-Smith, resplendent in his black academic gown with fur-lined hood.

  ‘I asked t’headmaster,’ chortled Councillor Peterson, indicating the hood with the white fur, ‘when he was at t’University of Alaska but I don’t think he saw t’funny side.’

  We made our way into the school hall and up onto the stage to the accompaniment of the school orchestra. The first ten or so rows were full of smartly-dressed students and in the seats behind were the proud parents. After the school orchestra had played a selection of rousing melodies and three students had recited a Shakespeare sonnet, a dreary Robert Burns poem spoken in a very poor attempt at a Scottish accent, and an excellent rendition of John Betjeman’s poem ‘Original Sin on the Sussex Coast’, the Chairman of Governors made his ponderous way to the lectern. Councillor Peterson’s ‘short’ address, in which he lambasted wishy-washy, airy-fairy, modern teaching methods, and lamented the demise of gabardine raincoats and schools caps, and the disappearance of corporal punishment (which, he said, had never done him any harm), lasted a good fifteen minutes but concluded on an unintentionally amusing note.

  ‘Now, this school ‘as ‘ad its share of problems, there’s no denying that. We’ve ‘ad cracks in t’walls, asbestos roofs what ‘ave been condemned, gas leaks, bomb scares and floods and the last inspectors’ report – that was before the present headmaster was in post, of coourse – mentioned some shortcomings. So we ‘ave ‘ad a difficult year. Make no mistake about that. We are at t’edge of a precipice, not to put too fine a point on it, but, with the recent appointment of Mr Pennington-Smith, we are now moving forward with confidence.’

  Mr Pennington-Smith decided upon a nautical metaphor for his address. ‘Mr Chairman of Governors, governors, members of staff, parents, honoured guests and, last but not least, students of West Challerton High School,’ he began, ‘welcome, welcome, to the first, but certainly not the last of my Annual School Prize-giving and Speech Days. It is with great pride that I stand before you this evening as your new headmaster to report upon the school’s outstanding academic and sporting successes. But, you know parents, I see myself not as a headmaster at all, but more as the captain of a ship, standing proudly on the bridge, scanning the horizon, with the salty spray of enthusiasm in my face and my sails full of an optimistic wind. And what is our destination? I hear you ask. Where are we going? Well, I will tell you. We are heading for the land of opportunity and the harbour of success. It will not be an easy journey. Sometimes we are buffeted by the stormy gusts of educational change. Sometimes we are carried off course by the cold currents of government policy. Sometimes we face the hurricanes and gales of school inspection.’ He glanced briefly in my direction at this point and allowed himself a smug little smile. ‘Sometimes we are inundated by a heavy downpour of yet more documents from the Ministry of Education. Sometimes we are becalmed by the shortage of the necessary resources. Yet we always keep a steady course, with a firm hand on the tiller, for the land of opportunity and the harbour of success. As captain of this ship of ours, I have the experience and skill to steer us onwards. I have all my correct navigational equipment intact and I have with me on the bridge, to help keep us heading in the right direction, my first officer – the deputy head – Mr Stipple, and my second officer – the senior mistress – Mrs Wellbeloved. My other officers – the teaching staff – are keen, capable and well qualified. They help me navigate this ship of ours to the land of opportunity and the harbour of success. They assist me to plot the course, steer the ship, make sail towards our desired destination. And you, the students here tonight, our precious cargo…’ The head-master paused to sweep his hand before him. ‘You know well the name of this, our ship, a name that stands for history, for tradition and for the highest possible standards. What is the name of this our ship, I ask? What is the name of this vessel of ours riding the crest of the wave for the land of opportunity and the harbour of success?’

  No one volunteered a name. The headmaster’s eyes came to rest on a small boy in the front row. He was a strangely old-fashioned-looking boy, wearing grey trousers and eminently sensible shoes. He stared up from behind thick-lensed glasses like the bottom of milk bottles. It was Joseph. He was staring seriously at the headmaster. ‘Yes, you, boy,’ Mr Pennington-Smith commanded, ‘Barclay, isn’t it? Tell us the name of this ship of ours.’

  ‘Is it the Titanic, sir?’ enquired Joseph with a small smile.

  17

  We could hear Sidney chortling to himself as he climbed the stairs to the office.

  ‘Someone is in a remarkably good mood,’ remarked David, looking up morosely and peering over the top of his spectacles. He pushed away from him the report he was attempting to complete and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘It’s Friday,’ I reminded him, trying to sound cheerful, ‘and the prospect of a nice quiet weekend.’

  ‘Huh!’ snorted my companion, shaking his head wearily. ‘Nice quiet weekend? Not if I haven’t finished this wretched report which I have been working on for the best part of a week. Gerry did the right thing by going off early.’

  A moment later, Sidney strode through the door, threw his briefcase onto his desk with a flourish and flopped heavily into the nearest chair. Then he threw back his head and laughed so loudly that Julie came bustling in to see what the noise was.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ she asked. ‘Are you having some sort of a turn?’

  ‘No, Julie,’ replied Sidney, ‘I am perfectly well, thank you. I am laughing. I am having a hearty laugh which, so the philosophers tell us, is a sign of a healthy soul.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ said David. ‘I sincerely hope that you are not going to go all philosophic on us. I couldn’t bear that after the week I have just had.’

  ‘What an old grump you are, David,’ said Sidney. ‘“A cheerful heart is good medicine but a crushed spirit drieth up the bones.” Book of Proverbs.’

  ‘Yes, well I feel as if I have a crushed spirit at the moment so I don’t feel like laughing,’ retorted David. ‘Could we, therefore, dispense with your insufferable bonhomie and good humour?’

  ‘“A merry heart doeth good like a medicine.” Still Book of Proverbs,’ continued Sidney, unabashed.

  ‘“And a heavy fist doeth great damage to the features of the intolerably jovial.” Book of David.’

  ‘Well, this will warm those little Welsh cockles of yours,’ smiled Sidney. ‘I have the most wonderfully amusing story to tell you. It was so absurdly entertaining, I just cannot stop chuckling to myself

  ‘Well, you can share it with us,’ I told him. ‘We’re not feeling too happy with the world at the moment, are we, David?’

  ‘That is putting it mildly,’ remarked David gloomily, plucking the spectacles from his nose. ‘Every blessed report 1 write, I keep thinking of the new Senior Inspector and what he said. I tell you, I’ve been put right off my stroke since Mister Carter criticised our reports. I’m certain he was referring to mine in particular. He was looking directly at me when h
e fired the broadside about flabby writing. I do tend to be a bit wordy, I have to admit, and am a little anecdotal, but I have always found that the schools appreciate —’

  ‘You are sounding paranoid,’ Sidney interrupted. ‘He was referring to all of us. You are, if truth be told, rather loquacious, David, but at least you do not use that ceaseless flow of limp metaphors and memorised maxims beloved of management gurus like Simon Carter and our very own Brenda Savage. They use a sort of verbal wallpaper to cover the cracks in their thinking and the gaping holes in their arguments. Anyway, our new Senior Inspector was staring at me when he made that particular caustic comment. You are taking it far too personally. He thinks we are all as bad as each other.’

  ‘I didn’t like him,’ observed Julie, leaning against the door jamb and examining a broken nail. ‘He’s got cold fishy eyes and warm clammy hands. He asked me if I was the clerical ancillary – I ask you! – and told me he would be reviewing my roles and responsibilities as soon as he’s settled in. He also thinks that Frank is superfluous. If he starts interfering, I shall tell him to stick his job.’

  ‘So don’t keep this very funny story to yourself, Sidney,’ I said, not wishing to prolong the depressing discussion of the new Senior Inspector. ‘We could do with cheering up.’

  ‘Well,’ began Sidney, grinning like a hungry frog, ‘have either of you been into West Challerton High recently?’

  ‘Yes, I was there last week to attend Prize-giving and Speech Day,’ I told him. It was now my turn to smile as I recalled the event on stage.

  ‘And met the new headmaster?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I did. He would hardly miss Prize-giving, would he?’

  ‘You know, then, how inflated and self-promoting the man is and so full of his own importance, swanning around the place in his academic gown like Napoleon.’

  ‘I was not aware that Napoleon wore an academic gown,’ remarked David. ‘He wore a sort of greatcoat, if my memory serves me right.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ continued Sidney. ‘The way he struts about the place with his hands behind his back.’

  ‘Napoleon tucked his hand inside his coat, didn’t he?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Am I allowed to finish this story,’ demanded Sidney, ‘without petty interruptions?’

  ‘Go on, go on,’ I urged.

  ‘Well, you know the way he tells everyone how everything in his educational garden is so rosy,’ continued Sidney, ‘and how things have really flourished and blossomed since he took over? He likes horticultural metaphors, does Mr Pennington-Smith —’

  ‘And nautical ones,’ I interjected, thinking of his address at the Prize-giving again. ‘I have a funny story about that as well.’

  ‘The other chap, old Blunt, was a pain in the neck at times,’ observed David, ‘but you knew where you were with him. Blunt by name and blunt by nature, that was him. Always a man for speaking his mind. I recall that once —’

  ‘David!’ snapped Sidney. ‘Who is telling this story, you or me?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what story you’re going to tell,’ said David. ‘I was going to tell you about the P.E. equipment.’

  ‘Is it funny? It doesn’t sound as though it could be the least bit funny.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really.’

  ‘Well mine is. It is very funny, extremely funny, so may I be allowed to continue?’

  ‘Come on, Sidney,’ I said, ‘let’s hear it. We’ll be here all night at this rate.’

  ‘Well, earlier this week, when I was on a two-day visit to the school inspecting the visual arts department, the headmaster had this final-year pupil in his room when I arrived. She was a tall, gangly, sullen-looking girl of about fifteen. Anyway, he asked me to wait in the outer room – that little glass adjunct which he euphemistically calls his personal assistant’s office. As I sat there waiting to give him the oral report of my inspection visit, I could hear the conversation as clear as if he were sitting next to me. He says, “Well now, Delores, you are still sure you want to keep it?” “Oh yes, sir,” the girl replies. “And you have given up any thoughts of adoption?” “Oh yes, sir,” she says again. “You are very young to be bringing up a child. Have you talked it through very thoroughly with your parents and the social services?” “Oh yes, sir,” replies the girl for the third time. “When is the baby due, Delores?” he asks. ‘Not until October, sir,” says the girl. “And are you getting on well with your studies at home with the private tutor?” “Oh yes, sir,” she says. “When you come into school next week to take your final exams, we are putting you in the deputy headteacher’s room rather than in the hall with the other students. We felt it would be a little less embarrassing for you with people staring and so forth.” “Thank you, sir.”

  ‘At this point,’ continued Sidney, ‘I could hear the girl getting up and heading for the door. “Oh, and Delores,” the headmaster calls after her, “the Outward Bound week over the summer holidays is off.” “Aw, no, sir,” moans the girl. “I was looking forward to that.” “Well, you can hardly go abseiling, canoeing, caving, orienteering, mountain-climbing and grass-skiing when you’re five months pregnant, can you? Tell your mother that we will refund the deposit she paid for the trip.” “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”’

  Sidney paused for effect.

  ‘Is that it?’ said David. ‘It doesn’t sound at all that amusing. In fact, I feel quite sorry for the poor girl, bringing a baby into the world as a teenage, unmarried mother. OK, so she shouldn’t have got into that position in the first place – to coin a phrase – but it takes a lot of guts to do that.’

  ‘My best friend is an unmarried mother,’ chipped in Julie. ‘And it’s no laughing matter, I can tell you. She had a terrible time with all the gossip and people making comments.’

  ‘It must be very hard bringing up a child on your own,’ I said, thinking of Gerry.

  ‘Look, all of you,’ cried Sidney, exasperated, ‘I haven’t finished the story yet! This is not a general discussion about the trials and tribulations of teenage pregnancies.’

  ‘Well, hurry up, will you?’ said Julie, ‘I’ve got a bus to catch at six and if I miss it, I’ll have to wait another hour.’

  ‘Please don’t let me detain you, Julie,’ replied Sidney curtly. ‘I could make the story episodic if you would prefer and relate the dénouement tomorrow.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The conclusion to this very funny story which I am attempting to relate despite the frequent interruptions. As I said, don’t let me detain you.’

  Sidney’s sarcasm was wasted on Julie who was now attempting to cut her nail with a large pair of office scissors. ‘No, I want to hear the end but can you hurry up and cut out all the conversation bits?’

  ‘Those are the funny parts!’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘It’s the conversation bits which make it interesting. It is the conversation bits which enhance the narrative and embroider the story.’

  ‘And I thought I was wordy and anecdotal,’ remarked David, closing the report and plucking his glasses from his nose. Then, with a cynical little laugh, he added. ‘And you won’t be doing any enhancing and embroidering in your school reports if Mr Simon Carter has his way.’

  ‘Please don’t bring him up again,’ I pleaded.

  ‘Right, well, if that is the way you want it,’ Sidney told us. ‘I will cut out the conversation bits and tell you, without gloss, what happened next. So the headmaster tells Delores –’

  At this point the telephone rang.

  ‘Leave it! Leave it!’ ordered Sidney. ‘I am determined to get to the end of this blessed story if it kills me!’

  ‘No, I had better answer it,’ I said, picking up the receiver.

  ‘Well, go on,’ said David, addressing Sidney. ‘So the headmaster says to Delores

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘It is quite impossible for me to continue,’ Sidney told him, ‘with Gervase prattling on in the background.’

  ‘But I’ve got to get my b
us,’ wailed Julie.

  ‘Gervase, it’s me, Gerry,’ came a distressed voice down the phone. ‘I’m in a spot of bother.’

  ‘What’s happened?’ I asked. I cupped my hand over the receiver. ‘Will you be quiet,’ I told Sidney, who had decided after all to continue to regale Julie and David with the account at West Challerton High.

  ‘My car’s broken down,’ said Gerry. ‘It suddenly cut out and I’m stranded here in a lay-by on the wrong side of Fettlesham. I have to get home in a hurry.’

  ‘Have you called the breakdown people?’ I asked.

  ‘I have, but they’ll be quite a while and I have something urgent to do. I really have to get back. Could you possibly collect me and take me home? I wouldn’t ask, Gervase, if it weren’t really important.’

  ‘Of course, no problem. Tell me exactly where you are.’

  ‘Look,’ I told my colleagues when I had put down the telephone and interrupting Sidney yet again, ‘I’ve got to go and get Gerry. Her car’s broken down.’

  ‘I’m forever telling her about that old car of hers,’ said David. ‘It’s not safe, an attractive young woman driving all over the county in an old jalopy like that.’

  ‘It’s not as if she can’t afford a better car,’ remarked Julie. ‘Some of us, of course, have to make do with public transport. And on that subject, I’m off since I’ll miss my bus if I don’t get my skates on,’ and, with a wave of her hand, she left the room.

  ‘But what about my story?’ shouted Sidney after her. ‘I haven’t finished my story.’

  ‘Tell us another time – a shorter version,’ called back Julie.

  ‘Well, I shall make a move,’ said David, putting the report in his briefcase and rising. ‘I’ve had this week in a big way.’

  ‘I really don’t know why I bother,’ said Sidney, shaking his head and slumping back in his chair. ‘I really don’t know why I bother.’

  Gerry was waiting at the side of the road, pacing up and down and looking uncharacteristically anxious and impatient. She was usually such a composed and easy-going sort of person and I had never seen her in such an agitated state.