When that Committee had proposed the closure of a number of small schools, two of which were not only greatly valued by the small communities they served but also produced more than adequate results, Miss de la Mare had marshalled the facts, come out fighting and had persuaded the councillors to scrap the idea. I was greatly relieved and very grateful to her for one of the schools on the list for closure had been Hawksrill, the school which my own child would one day attend. Miss de la Mare spoke her mind, fought her corner and got things done but she was also good humoured, supportive and was someone for whom we inspectors had a great deal of respect.
Since she had taken up her post at the beginning of the previous term, there had been many changes and all for the better. A month after she had arrived, Miss de la Mare had emerged from the Chief Education Officer’s room at County Hall with the new title of Chief Inspector and the promise that all the inspectors’ salary scales would be re-negotiated. Julie, the inspectors’ clerk, had soon after been promoted and re-designated inspectors’ secretary: that was no change so far as we were concerned since we had always called her ‘secretary’. She had now been promised extra clerical help. She would no longer have to type all the school reports, which had occupied so much of her time, but send them to the central typing pool at County Hall. But the major change, of course, had been the move downstairs of the inspectors’ office. No longer were the four of us in a cramped and cluttered office, but in a much more spacious and newly refurbished area on the ground floor, formerly occupied by the school psychologists. Julie had been up-graded from her broom cupboard to a still small but light and airy room. Yes, indeed, Miss Winifred de la Mare had certainly got things done. As I drove into the Staff Development Centre that September morning I wondered just what she would do about me.
The Staff Development Centre, where all the courses and conferences for teachers and most of the staff meetings and interviews took place, had once been a secondary modern school. The former playground area was now the car park, the biggest classrooms and the hall had been adapted for lectures and courses, and the smaller rooms had been converted into meeting rooms and resource centres. There was a small staff room, reference library, well-equipped kitchen, spacious lounge area and office. The SDC was as a good school should be – bright, cheerful and welcoming and, above all, spotlessly clean and orderly. This was as a result of the industry and devotion of the caretaker, Connie, who kept the building, inside and out, immaculate.
Connie was a colourful and assertive character – a warm-hearted, down-to-earth Yorkshire woman who had no understanding whatsoever of rank, status or social standing in the world. She was severally known by Sidney Clamp as ‘that virago with the feather duster’, ‘the tyrant with the teapot’, ‘the caretaker from hell’, ‘the termagant in pink’, ‘the despot with the stepladders’ and various other assorted cognomens. Everyone who drove through the gates or crossed the threshold of her domain, be it Dr Brian Gore, our esteemed Chief Education Officer, or the humble man who arrived to empty the dustbins, was greeted with the same uncompromising forthright manner, usually with the words, ‘I hope you’ve parked your vehicle in the correct specificated areas and not blocked my entrance.’
Connie had a delightfully eccentric command of the English language. She was a mistress of the malapropism and a skilled practitioner of the non sequitur. For Connie, English was not a dull and dreary business, it was something to twist and play with, distort, invent and re-interpret. She could mangle words like a mincer shredding meat.
She had a somewhat explosive relationship with Sidney who, being loud, expressive, untidy and larger than life, was a person guaranteed to cross swords with her. She once vowed ‘to take the bull between the horns’ and tackle Sidney (who she described as ‘a wolf in cheap clothing’) once and for all. ‘The mess that man leaves behind,’ she frequently complained, ‘with all his artificated courses. I’m sick and tired of clearing up after him. He leaves a trail of debris and destruction wherever he goes.’ Once when she had returned to work after being ‘in bed with her back’ – the result of moving large bags of clay Sidney had left after his pottery course – Connie had announced that because of Mr Clamp she had been ‘under a psychopath for a week’.
On another occasion, when some teachers complained that they couldn’t hear one of the speakers who was delivering a lecture in the main hall, she agreed that the ‘agnostics’ were not too good in that particular room.
Such a character, positioned at the entrance to the Centre, with her copper-coloured perm, attired in a brilliant pink nylon overall and holding a feather duster like a field marshal with his baton ready to do battle, could be quite unnerving for visitors. Teachers attending courses at the SDC, seeing Connie’s set expression, which could freeze soup in cans, and the small sharp eyes watching their every movement, would creep past her like naughty schoolchildren. After the coffee break they would dutifully return their cups to the serving hatch under Connie’s watchful stare, and they’d leave the cloakrooms in the pristine condition in which they had found them. At the end of their lectures, visiting speakers would ensure that the equipment they had used was neatly put away, the chairs carefully stacked, the rooms left in an orderly fashion, litter placed in the appropriate receptacles and all crockery returned to the kitchen. She had been known to pursue offenders into the car park and berate them if they did not leave the room exactly as they had found it.
On this damp, dreary September morning, Connie was standing at the entrance in her familiar pose as I entered the Centre. Under her scrutinising eye, I thoroughly wiped my feet on the mat and closed the door without banging it.
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ she said. No ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn, have you had a nice holiday?’ No, ‘Hello, and how are you?’ Just ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ was all I was going to get.
‘Good morning, Connie,’ I replied, trying to sound cheerful.
‘You’re early. The meeting doesn’t start till eight thirty. I’ve only just put the tea urn on.’
‘I was hoping to see Miss de la Mare before the start,’ I told her. ‘Has she arrived yet?’
‘She’s in Meeting Room One, rootling through a pile of papers,’ Connie replied. ‘The amount of paperwork you lot get through! Acres of Amazon rain forests must get chopped down every week to keep you inspectors in paper. There’s such a thing as conservatism, you know. I suppose you’ll be wanting a cup of coffee?’
‘That would be splendid,’ I said.
‘I’ve only got the ordinary kind,’ she said, staring at me fiercely as if expecting some sort of confrontation. ‘Not that decaffeinicated stuff.’
‘That’s fine,’ I replied.
‘I had a head teacher in here last term asking for “proper” coffee. “And what’s proper coffee when it’s at home?” I asked her. “Proper ground coffee,” she said, “that you get in one of those caf… er, cath… um, catheters.”’
‘Cafetière,’ I murmured.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Any road, I said to her, “I don’t serve anything fancy, just ordinary instant coffee out of a jar not out of an er… um… and you can like it or lump it.”’
‘Well, I would like it, Connie,’ I told her, ‘just so long as it’s hot and wet.’
‘Just as well,’ she told me, mollified, ‘because that’s all I’ve got. I’ll go and put the kettle on. Oh, before I go, I’ve told Miss de la Mare that we’ve got painters and decorators in the Centre next week and to remind you inspectors at your meeting that some of the rooms will be unavailable and there’ll be a lot of wet paint about. If Mr Clamp thinks he can swan into the Centre without a by-your-leave and arrange courses without booking a room, as he’s accustomised to do, then he’s got another think coming.’
‘I’ll remind them,’ I told her.
‘The last thing I want is decorators messing the place up, leaving paint all over the floor, putting marks on my walls, moving my stepladders. I shall be k
eeping a close eye on them, you can be sure of that.’
Oh yes, I thought to myself, as she strode off in the direction of the kitchen, flicking her feather duster along the walls and across the top of the bookshelves as she went, I can be sure of that and no mistake.
I found Miss de la Mare at a large table in the meeting room scribbling some notes on a vast pad of paper. The whole of the surface around her was covered in papers and booklets, folders and files. Dressed in a substantial and rather loud red and green tweed suit, she looked more like the Madam Chairman of the Yorkshire Countrywomen’s Association than the Chief Inspector of Schools.
‘Good morning,’ I said, feeling my stomach churning.
‘Oh, good morning, Gervase,’ she replied, looking over the top of her rimless half-moon spectacles. ‘You’re bright and early.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you before the meeting.’
‘That’s a coincidence,’ she replied, putting her pen down, removing her spectacles and turning to face me. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, about something – how shall I put it – of a somewhat delicate nature.’
‘That sounds ominous,’ I said.
‘Well, it might blow up into something very serious if it’s not handled carefully. Dr Gore has asked for it to be dealt with as a matter of some urgency.’
‘And it concerns me?’ I asked.
‘Yes, it does,’ she replied.
‘I had better sit down.’
‘This is not something that is going to take a few minutes, Gervase,’ she told me. ‘I need to speak to you at some length about this particular matter. It concerns a school report you wrote some time ago.’ My heart sankinto my shoes. Surely no one could have spoken to her about Ugglemattersby Junior School so soon. Then I recalled Mrs Sidebottom’s words that her husband was a colleague of Councillor Peterson, an important member of the Education Committee and Mr Sidebottom had probably been on the phone to his chum who, in turn, had most surely been on to Dr Gore straight after my visit the day before.
‘So,’ said Miss de la Mare, ‘are you able to remain behind after the meeting?’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said, feeling the stirrings of tension and dread building up inside of me. ‘My first appointment this afternoon is at one thirty.’
‘Well, you may have to cancel that,’ she said, placing the spectacles back on her nose and picking up her pen. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t wish to appear rude but I have to finish the agenda for this morning’s meeting. There is quite a deal for us to get through.’
I joined Connie in the kitchen.
‘There’s no Garibaldis,’ she said bluntly, pouring boiling water into a mug. ‘It might be a pigment of my imagination but I could swear blind there was a full two packets of biscuits at the beginning of this week. They consume Garibaldis in this place like there’s no tomorrow. I’ve an idea it’s Mr Clamp who’s the culprit. He’s always got his hands in my biscuit barrel, nibbling away like a half-starved squirrel.’
‘Don’t mention squirrels,’ I said.
‘Why, what’s wrong with squirrels?’
‘Don’t ask,’ I told her.
‘Anyway,’ said Connie, ‘there are only custard creams and a couple of ginger nuts, though I dare say it’s a bit early for biscuits.’
‘Did you have a nice holiday?’ I asked, trying to take my mind off the impending interview with the Chief Inspector.
‘No, I didn’t!’ she replied, pulling open the fridge door and taking out a jug of milk. She swirled it around and then sniffed at it. ‘You know, that new milkman must think I was born yesterday trying to palm me off with old milk. I always order three bottles, all semi-skimmed. This morning I gets two full cream and neither are fresh.’ She slid the jug across to me. ‘I could swear it’s on the turn.’
‘What was wrong with your holiday?’ I asked, pouring some milk in my coffee and perching on a stool. ‘I thought you usually take your grandchildren to your caravan.’
I knew from experience that once I moved the conversation on to the topic of her grandchildren, Connie’s apparently sharp and offhand manner would immediately evaporate for she doted on little Damien and Lucy. At the mention of them, the thin line of her mouth would disappear, the arms that had been tightly folded under her bosom would relax and her eyes would sparkle. There was nothing she liked better than talking about her grandchildren.
‘We did take them on holiday with us,’ Connie told me, ‘but it rained cats and dogs for most of the week. Torrential it was and the winds were wicked and nearly blew us into the bay. We hardly got on the beach. Poor little mites were as good as gold-dust but we never had a chance to build sandcastles or go on the donkeys or take a stroll along the prom. We did go out on a boat trip but if I vomited once I vomited five times. Up and down went that boat like a fiddler’s elbow. We spent most of the holiday in a caff on the front or in the amusements.’
‘So, what –’ I began.
‘Our little Damien was no trouble at all but then he went and lost his purse with all his holiday money in it. At the police station, the sergeant was about as much use as a grave robber at a crematorium. “Can you remember where you lost it, sonny?” he asks him. I said, “If he knew where he lost it we’d be there looking for it, wouldn’t we, and not wasting police time?” People say the daftest things. Anyway we never did find the purse. I said to Ted, I said, “Well, we can kiss that down the drain.” I bought him a stick of rock to cheer him up – Damien, that is, not Ted – and he went and dropped that in a puddle and roared his little eyes out for the rest of the day. No, Mr Phinn, the holiday was not a success. It was catastrophical.’
‘You ought to be on the stage Connie,’ I said, laughing. I was feeling much better already.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked.
‘Just that you can tell a very entertaining story. Anyway, your grandchildren are back at school this week.’ I took a sip of the coffee and pulled a face. The milk was indeed sour. ‘I do think this milk–’ I started.
Connie was now in full flight and, once on the topic of her grandchildren, was not to be diverted. ‘Keen as mustard to get back to school, they were. You should have seen the school report from their head teacher what they brought home at the end of last term. At the confrontation meeting, Miss Pilkington told my daughter that they are a delight to teach and both doing really well. As sharp as buttons they are and very good little readers. Top table material, she said. I wouldn’t say they were child progenies or anything like that but they certainly weren’t at the back of the queue when the brains was given out.’
‘I’m glad they like reading,’ I said. ‘You know, if every parent in the country read with their children every night for just half an hour it would make so much difference.’
‘Oh, they get a story every night and when they’re on their own they never have their noses out of a book,’ said Connie. ‘It was our Damien’s birthday over the summer and his grand-dad bought him this picture book about a crocodile, which came with a glove puppet. I said to Ted that I thought it was a bit frightening myself. Big green thing this puppet was, with huge yellow eyes and rubber teeth and a long scaly tail. Put the wind up me, I don’t mind saying. Ted, daft as a brush, kept chasing me round the bedroom with this crocodile. I don’t know what the neighbours must have thought hearing me shouting at him, “Put it away, it’s horrible.” Anyhow, he got Damien on his knee and kept snapping the creature’s jaws together. There were these two pieces of wood under the fabric and they clacked really loudly every time he snapped them together.’
‘It’s just the sort of thing children love,’ I said.
‘Any road,’ continued Connie, ‘in the crocodile’s mouth was a small fish, little coloured plastic thing. Ted opened the jaws wide and asked young Damien, “Would you like to take the fish out of the crocodile’s mouth?” He looks up at his granddad with
these big eyes and do you know what he replied?’
I shook my head. ‘You tell me, Connie.’
‘He said, “Dream on!”’ Connie laughed, and repeated, ‘“Dream on!” Can you beat it!’ Then her smile went. ‘But, if you was to ask me, I think that my daughter – Tricia, that is – tends to spoil Lucy when it comes to food. Damien eats like there’s no tomorrow. Damien Dustbin his granddad calls him but Lucy’s very fernickity. She wants all this fancy stuff, wholemeal bread and high-fibre cereals. Won’t touch butter. Has to have this margarine with that monoglutinous sodomite. I told her, I said that when I was a girl, I’d have given my right arm for a bit of butter and you ate what you were given. There was no choice and if you didn’t clean your plate then there was no pudding. I said there are lots of people starving in Africa who would be glad of what she’s turning her nose up at. There were no burgers and chips and chicken nuggets and ice creams and sweets when I was a girl. None of this decaffeinicated coffee and orgasmic vegetables. They were lean years in the nineteen-thirties and forties, and you ate what you got. I remember my mother boiling up a sheep’s head to make soup and it lasted for a fortnight. We went berserk at the sight of an orange, and I remember my first banana. You couldn’t get them during the war, unless you was pregnant, which of course I wasn’t.’
I glanced surreptitiously at my watch and wished I had never started this conversation. ‘Well, I had better make a move,’ I said.
‘To be honest, it came as a bit of a surprise that first banana,’ she said, smiling at the memory.
I was now intrigued. ‘In what way?’ I asked.
‘Well, I don’t know whether I should tell you,’ she said, still smiling.
The Heart of the Dales Page 9
