‘Freebies?’ exclaimed Mrs Braddock-Smith, her eyes lighting up at the thought, no doubt, of more funding that might come her way. ‘Did you say freebies?’
‘No, no, Barbara,’ chuckled the cleric. ‘The Feoffees. I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say that the Feoffees are of ancient provenance, founded in the reign of Henry VII, the first of the Tudor monarchs, to maintain law and order.’
‘I can’t say that I have ever heard of them,’ said the head-teacher, making a small dismissive gesture.
‘They were very important in their day,’ announced the archdeacon, preparing to do the very thing he proclaimed he would not do – bore us with the details. ‘The Feoffees were typically composed of a group of local gentry, important landowners and civic worthies, men who held high rank or –’
Mrs Braddock-Smith interrupted the archdeacon. ‘Well, I can’t say that I have ever heard of them,’ she said.
The archdeacon faltered momentarily but then continued. ‘I am a Feoffee myself,’ he said proudly and proceeded to give us the full benefit of his knowledge of this arcane institution.
The headteacher was patient for about a minute then she gently interrupted the archdeacon a second time. ‘Perhaps you could tell me all about it another time. In fact, we could discuss it at the next governors’ meeting, Archdeacon,’ she said. ‘I thinkthe school is a very worthy cause, and if the Feoffees are a charitable group, perhaps they could send a bit of money our way. Some extra funding for the new play area we have planned would be very welcome.’
‘Maybe,’ Archdeacon Richards replied and swiftly changed the subject. ‘And what do you make of our school, then, Mr Phinn?’
‘I’ve only been in the building for a little over an hour,’ I told him, ‘but I am impressed with what I have seen so far.’
‘I hope you feel the same after my assembly,’ said the clergyman. ‘I must own that I do feel a trifle nervous at the thought of a school inspector sitting at the back of the hall with his little black book.’
‘Oh, I feel certain that Mr Phinn will not find anything amiss,’ the headteacher said quickly. ‘I was telling him about our outstanding results. I don’t think he’ll find better readers in the whole county and I should hazard to say that the written work is well above that of children in many schools.’
‘It is true we are justifiably proud,’ said the archdeacon softly.
‘Mr Phinn visited the Junior School this morning,’ observed Mrs Braddock-Smith, giving the chairman of governors a knowing look. I had suspected that it would not be long before the situation at Ugglemattersby Juniors was raised.
‘Really?’ said the archdeacon.
‘Yes, I did,’ I replied simply.
‘And how is Mr Harrison?’ he asked in the most solicitous of voices.
‘He’s very well,’ I lied. There’s no way, I thought to myself, that I was going to discuss the problems of the headteacher of another school with Mrs Braddock-Smith and her chairman of governors, particularly in a village where the jungle telegraph was so obviously finely developed.
‘I don’t know Mr Harrison that well,’ continued the clergyman. ‘He’s of the Methodist persuasion, you know, so we don’t see him in church although he does hold the school’s harvest service at St Mary’s. Speaking of the harvest service, Barbara,’ he began, ‘I thought that this year –’
The headteacher clearly did not wish to be diverted from the subject in hand. ‘He does try so hard, Mr Harrison,’ she said in an overly sad and sympathetic voice. ‘He must feel so very disappointed that so many of our parents chose to send their children on to other schools rather than his.’ She looked at me expectantly. I could tell there was another agenda going on here but I was determined not to be a part of it.
‘I am sure he does,’ I replied.
‘It’s quite a mystery really, isn’t it?’ said the headteacher.
It was no mystery. All three of us knew why so many parents opted to send their children elsewhere. Mrs Braddock-Smith was waiting for me to make a comment but I remained silent.
‘And how is Mrs Battersby?’ asked the archdeacon. ‘Her husband is one of my churchwardens, you know, a man of – er – strong views which he is not afraid of expressing.’
‘She’s very well, too,’ I replied and before they could ask about the other teacher, I added, ‘and so is Mrs Sidebottom.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ said the archdeacon, realising at last that I would not be any more forthcoming on the question of Ugglemattersby Junior School. He glanced at his watch. ‘Nearly time for assembly, I think.’
When the bell sounded for the end of afternoon playtime, the Infants filed into the hall to a stirring tune, hammered out on the piano with great vigour by Mrs Hartley, and sat down cross-legged on the floor. I had gone to the back but was ushered forward to the front by the headteacher to a seat next to hers and the archdeacon’s. I faced the sea of red. In the very front row, sitting straight-backed and serious-faced and with his arms folded tightly over his chest, was Joshua.
‘Good afternoon, children,’ said Mrs Braddock-Smith when silence had fallen.
‘Good a-f-t-e-r-n-o-o-n, Mrs Braddock-Smith,’ they chanted.
‘This afternoon in our assembly we have got not one but two very important visitors with us,’ said the headteacher. All eyes looked at the archdeacon and me. ‘You all know Archdeacon Richards, who is our special friend and comes to see us often, but some of you will not yet have met our other important visitor. His name is Mr Phinn and he is a school inspector. Mr Phinn is here to see all your wonderful work and hear you read. Shall we all say a good afternoon to our visitors?’
‘Good a-f-t-e-r-n-o-o-n, Archdeacon Richards, good a-f-t-e-r-n-o-o-n, Mr Phinn, good a-f-t-e-r-n-o-o-n, everybody,’ the infants chanted.
‘Good afternoon, children,’ I replied.
‘Good afternoon, children,’ repeated the archdeacon.
‘You know, Mr Phinn,’ continued the headteacher, waving an expansive hand at the rows before her, ‘not only are these children such remarkable readers and excellent writers, they are also wonderful singers as well, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, Mrs Braddock-Smith,’ the whole school said in unison.
‘And I am sure Mr Phinn would like to hear you sing, wouldn’t you, Mr Phinn.’
‘Yes, I would,’ I said loudly and wishing she would get on with the assembly. I had heard quite enough about how wonderful the children were for one day.
‘Well, let us all stand up nice and smartly,’ said the head-teacher, ‘fill those lungs and raise the roof.’
Very soon the hall was filled with the singing, which was sadly drowned by the over-zealous playing of Mrs Hartley.
‘Did you enjoy that, Mr Phinn?’ asked the headteacher when the children had finished the hymn.
‘Very much,’ I said.
‘Now, please sit down, children, legs crossed, arms folded, and nice straight backs. The archdeacon would like to say a few words.’
Far from being ‘a few words’, the archdeacon spoke at length to the children, who shuffled and fidgeted and yawned and found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. The clergyman droned on about how the seasons change and how autumn – ‘the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness’ – was fast approaching. ‘The crops in the fields are nearly all gathered in,’ he said, ‘the fruits ripe on the boughs are being picked and the vegetables collected and stored for the winter. And what is the word which means the gathering in of the crops?’ he asked.
‘Digging up,’ suggested a child.
‘Well, the produce would be dug up, yes,’ said the archdeacon smiling, ‘but this word begins with the letter “H” and we have a very special festival in church.’
‘Halloween!’ shouted out another child.
‘No,’ said the vicar, attempting to keep his composure, ‘not Halloween.’
‘Holiday!’ suggested another.
‘No, not holiday.’
‘Helicopter!’ shouted a third child.
‘Now we’re being silly,’ said the archdeacon. ‘No, children, the word I was thinking of is “harvest”, the gathering in of all the fruit and vegetables and crops from the fields, and each year in church we have a Harvest Festival to thank God for all His wonderful gifts to us.’
‘I like Halloween,’ called out one infant. ‘I can dress up as a witch and go “trick-or-treating” with my brother.’
‘Well, that’s something very different,’ said the archdeacon, his face colouring up. ‘Now, I think we’ll have our last hymn, if you please, Mrs Hartley.’
Accompanied by more spirited martial music from the piano, the children then marched back to their classrooms, followed by Mrs Braddock-Smith and the other teachers. The archdeacon and I remained – along with one small and very distressed girl standing alone in the middle of the hall, wailing piteously. A little puddle could be seen on the floor beneath her. Her tiny face was flushed with great anxiety and I could see that her eyes were filling with tears.
‘Oh dear,’ said the archdeacon sympathetically.
‘I’ve wet myself,’ moaned the child, her cheeks smeared where her hands had tried to wipe away the tears.
‘Don’t worry, my dear,’ he said.
‘I’ve wet myself,’ repeated the child.
‘Accidents do happen,’ said the clergyman, now standing in front of her. ‘It’s nothing to get all upset about.’
‘I’ve wet myself,’ said the child again.
‘Why didn’t you put your hand up?’ asked the archdeacon.
‘I did,’ replied the child, sniffing noisily, ‘but it trickled through my fingers.’
5
After my visit to the Ugglemattersby schools I decided, rather than go straight home, to return to the office and write up my report while things were fresh in my mind.
Little did I expect to find Sidney and David at their desks and I was even more surprised to find Geraldine there, too.
‘Ah!’ cried Sidney as I entered the room, ‘a full complement! What a rarity. We must celebrate – all in the office at the same time. We shall retire to the local hostelry for a little drinkie and catch up on what we did over the summer.’
‘Not for me, Sidney,’ said Geraldine hastily. ‘I must be going in a minute. I have a little boy to get home to. The child minder will want to get away.’
‘And I’ve a meeting at the Golf Club at seven,’ said David, ‘so you can count me out.’
‘Well, that just leaves us, Gervase,’ said Sidney. ‘Fancy a pint, old boy?’
‘No thanks, Sidney,’ I told him. ‘I have this report to write up.’
‘Pish!’ he exclaimed. ‘It can wait until tomorrow.’
‘Not this one,’ I said.
‘Oh dear,’ said David, ‘that sounds serious. I detect something dark and troubling in our young colleague’s eyes. Would you like to tell us about it?’
‘How long have you got?’ I asked, placing my briefcase on my desk and flopping into a chair. ‘No, I’ll tell you another time.’
‘Gerry was telling us about her holiday to the Emerald Isle this summer,’ David told me.
‘Yes, it was memorable,’ said Geraldine. ‘I know it sounds clichéd, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the sun setting over Galway Bay at Oranmore, and the pale moon rising over the grey mountains.’
‘Oh sure and beggora,’ said Sidney, adopting a mock-Irish accent, ‘don’t I just feel one of my mawkish Irish melodies a-comin’ on, to be sure.’ He then began to sing, ‘If you ever go across the sea to Ireland, be certain at the closing of the day –’
‘Behave yourself, Sidney,’ interrupted Geraldine, laughing.
‘The Welsh have a great deal in common with the Irish, you know,’ said David.
‘Here we go,’ mumbled Sidney.
‘And, of course,’ continued David blithely, ‘the shared Celtic heritage explains why both races have such a love of and talent in music and poetry.’
‘I will grant you that the Welsh and the Irish do have something in common when it comes to language,’ said Sidney, ‘and that is their inability to shut up. Get a group of you Celts together and nobody can get a word in. It’s like throwing a bone to ravening dogs. Yap! Yap! Yap!’
I smiled. ‘Well, it is a fact that the Irish and the Welsh do like to use words and have a lot to say for themselves,’ I said.
‘Thank you, Gervase’ said Sidney. ‘That is exactly my point.’
‘But I have to say that the Irish and Welsh are often better users of English than the English themselves,’ I said. ‘They embroider the language, make it more colourful, more inventive. Oscar Wilde once said that if only the English knew how to talk and the Irish how to listen. “The Saxon took our lands from us,” he said, “and left us desolate. We took their language and added new beauties to it.” In Wales, I thinkit’s called “talking tidy” and in Irish it’s “a touch of the blarney”.’
‘Well I call it verbal diarrhoea,’ said Sidney dismissively.
‘When I hear you expounding thus, Sidney,’ said David, ‘three words come to mind: “kettle”, “pot” and “black”.’
‘Speaking of pots,’ said Sidney, going off on one of his tangents, ‘have any of you seen my ceramic vase which was on the windowsill in the old office? I’ve searched high and low for it and it seems to have disappeared into thin air.’
David and I exchanged glances.
‘Ceramic pot?’ said David innocently.
‘The one that was on the windowsill. It was a very good example of a finely-glazed earthenware vase,’ said Sidney. ‘I made it on my pottery course last term.’
‘I’ve not seen it,’ said Geraldine. ‘Have you asked Julie?’
‘Yes, and she doesn’t know where it’s gone, either,’ replied Sidney. He looked at David and me. ‘Do either of you know where it is?’
David and I did indeed know where it was. The remains of the finely-glazed earthenware vase were in the skip at the back of County Hall where I had deposited them. The item in question, an ugly brown specimen, had slipped from my hands when, during the office move, I was negotiating the narrow stairs. I had thought it prudent not to tell my colleague.
‘It was a lustrous piece of pottery,’ said Sidney, ‘and I was very attached to it. It’s a mystery where it’s gone. Mind you, there are a lot of things I can’t find since you two took it upon yourselves to move all my stuff. Folders and important files have gone walkabout, I am missing a number of books, and now my unique finely-glazed lustrous earthenware vase has gone, goodness knows where.’
‘I’m sure it will turn up, Sidney,’ said David, knowing full well that it would not. ‘Well, I shall have to be going.’ He rose from his chair and stretched. ‘Goodnight, Gervase. Don’t stay too late. Come along, Sidney, let’s leave the man to finish his report.’
‘And I must be away, too,’ said Geraldine, giving me a small wave.
‘I’ll see you all tomorrow at the meeting,’ I said.
‘Ah, yes, I can ask our esteemed boss if she knows where my vase has gone,’ persisted Sidney, following his two colleagues. ‘Bye, Gervase.’
The three of them departed noisily and in the silence of the office I thought back to my previous visit to the Uggle-mattersby Junior School, when I had presented such a critical report. I had, as Mr Harrison had pointed out, promised to return to ensure that my recommendations for improvement had been implemented – and I hadn’t done so. I had been too busy with the affairs of other schools, and my mind had been occupied with more pressing matters. These, I knew, were feeble excuses. I should have followed things up. I had convinced myself that Mr Harrison, the new head teacher, keen, experienced and confident, would quickly sort things out but this clearly had not been the case. I had not even bothered to ring him up and check that he had settled in and that the situation in the school was improving. Now I had to face Miss de la Mare, the Chief Inspector, a
nd explain myself. I supposed my report would have to be a bit colourful and inventive. With a sigh, I finally got around to putting pen to paper.
I arrived home to my cottage in the pretty little Dales village of Hawksrill on that wet and windy evening with Ugglemattersby still on my mind. I parked the car on the narrow track that ran along the side of the cottage, turned off the engine and sat for a while in the silent darkness. I thought about the depressing day I had had, considered what I needed to do next and then I rehearsed mentally just what I would say to the Chief Inspector when I saw her at the inspectors’ meeting the following day. I suppose I could try to shift the blame by telling her that I had assumed, quite wrongly as it had turned out, that if things had not been going well at the school after his appointment, the head teacher would have contacted me to ask for support and advice. I could argue that I had so many schools to visit and so many courses to run, conferences to organise and a whole raft of other important jobs to do, that I had put Ugglemattersby to the back of my mind. But these excuses sounded unconvincing. I would just have to face the music.
I was usually keen to get home from work to my dream cottage and my family. We would bath the baby together and kiss him goodnight before putting him in his cot in the little bedroom under the eaves. Then I would snuggle up with Christine on the old sofa in front of the open fire, and share my day with her and hear what she had been doing, while the smell of supper cooking wafted through from the kitchen. Through the car window now, the cottage looked cheerful and welcoming, and I knew the two people I loved most in the world would be waiting for me.
Christine and I had wanted Peewit Cottage in the village of Hawksrill as soon as we had set eyes upon it. Colleagues at work thought we had taken leave of our senses, cobbling together every penny we had to buy this rundown, dark stone barn of a building with its sagging roof, old-fashioned kitchen and cold damp rooms, but, standing in the overgrown garden, we had fallen hopelessly in love with the magnificent views. We had stood on the tussocky lawn with its bare patches and mole hills, surrounded by waist-high weeds, tangled brambles and rampant rose bushes, and gazed across a panorama of green undulating fields criss-crossed with silvered limestone walls that rose to the craggy fell-tops, and we had marvelled. We knew we could transform this old cottage into our dream home.
The Heart of the Dales Page 7
