‘Something to say?’
‘An apology?’
The man coughed nervously. ‘Yes, well… er… I’m sorry for the… er… trouble, I’m sure,’ he mumbled. ‘And… er… I’ll let you know about Miranda and the trip.’ And with that, he lumbered from the room.
‘One expression from this rich and poetic language of ours,’ I observed, ‘which comes to my mind is being “taken down a peg or two”.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Mr Hornchurch. ‘Now that’s another very interesting nautical expression.’ It was as if I had wound him up like a clockwork toy. ‘At the time of Nelson, there was a strict hierarchy at sea displayed by the position of the ship’s colours after they had been raised. The greatest honour was conferred by the flags flown at the masthead. To be “taken down a peg or two” was to receive a reduction in the honour shown to you. Of course, nowadays, it has come to mean taking the conceit from a boastful person, rather like “taking the wind out of one’s sails”. Now there’s another expression which –’
‘I think we have had enough expressions for one day, thank you,’ said Miss Drayton, laughing. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I think that was very generous of you, Mr Hornchurch. I don’t think I would have been quite so understanding.’ Her brow creased a fraction, ‘You were quite right about those particular expressions, weren’t you?’
Mr Hornchurch stretched out a hand towards the bookcase. ‘Would you like me to get the OED?’ he asked.
‘No, that won’t be necessary,’ said the headteacher. ‘Off you go, then, but I do think it might be wise to modify the range of idioms that you discuss with the children.’
Mr Hornchurch nodded and then, with a mischievous grin on his face, made a mock-naval salute, and said, ‘Aye, aye, sir!’ With that, the most eccentric teacher it has been my pleasure to meet strode for the door, leaving us both laughing.
10
I was at the office early on the Monday morning, eager to report back to Miss de la Mare about ‘the storm in the teacup’ at Tarncliffe, and also determined to broach the question of Ugglemattersby once and for all.
Julie was already tapping away noisily at the typewriter in the adjoining office when I arrived and she shouted down the corridor: ‘Morning, Mr Phinn.’
‘How do you know it’s me?’ I called back.
Julie appeared at the door of the inspectors’ office. ‘Mr Pritchard is running a course this morning,’ she said, ‘and Mr Clamp is never in this early at the start of the week and Dr Mullarkey is at a meeting in York. Anyway, Miss de la Mare has you in her appointment book for eight o’clock.’
‘How do you know that?’ I asked.
‘Because she rang through just before you came in,’ she replied, ‘and told me you had an appointment with her this morning. She asked me to tell you she’s running a bit late and she’ll ring when she’s ready for you. She’s likely to be held up because she has to see venomous Brenda, the black widow of County Hall – something to do with the school closures.’
There was no love lost between our secretary and the Chief Education Officer’s PA. In fact, there was a mutual dislike bordering on hostility between the two of them, and a long-running history of disputes and disagreements. Any mention of Mrs Savage to Julie was guaranteed to wind her up.
‘It might not have been me coming into the office,’ I said. ‘It could have been the Personal Assistant from hell checking up on us again,’ I said.
‘If it was Mrs Savage,’ Julie retorted, ‘I’d have heard her a mile off. With all that jewellery she wears, she sounds like a wind chime in a gale whenever she moves. Mind you, it’s more difficult in the new offices to be warned of her arrival since she doesn’t have to come up the two flights of stairs any more. She was always huffing and puffing by the time she got to the second floor.’
It was true. Mrs Savage did like to adorn herself in expensive and heavy jewellery. It was a wonder that her neck, hands and wrists were capable of supporting so many chains, rings, necklaces and bracelets that hung from her like Christmas tree baubles.
‘So I have an extra ten minutes, good,’ I said.
‘Well, there’s plenty of work for you on your desk to be getting on with, and there’re some calls to make from Friday afternoon.’
‘No peace for the wicked,’ I said, looking through the pile of papers on my desk.
‘So, how’s that little squirrel of yours, then?’ she asked.
‘Who told you about the squirrel?’ I asked.
‘Mr Clamp, who else?’ She perched herself on the end of my desk and straightened her strip of emerald-green skirt. ‘We were having a laugh about it on Friday when he was in the office. He told us about two little boys at one of the schools he was visiting. When they saw a squirrel outside the classroom window, one of them said, “Ooh, look at that squirrel in the tree. Let’s tell miss.” “Shurrup, Gavin,” said the other, “she’ll make us write about it.”’ Julie laughed. ‘I get no work done when Mr Clamp is around.’
‘Well, I can tell you that Christine and I aren’t laughing at the moment. We keep being woken up in the dead of night by its wretched scratching and scraping and scuttling about in the loft. It is driving us mad. In fact, I’m expecting Mr Hinderwell to deliver a squirrel trap today or tomorrow. Keep an eye out for it, will you?’
‘Certainly. I’ll put it by your desk when it arrives.’ Julie adopted a pose of a squirrel begging, with her hands held up in front of her substantial chest. ‘I played a squirrel once in the infant nativity play,’ she said. ‘I was burning hot in that grey woollen costume under all the stage lights, and it smelt revolting, too – of smelly socks and sweat and toilets. I couldn’t see properly through the eyeholes and kept banging into things. I knocked the frankincense off the stage and tripped over the manger.’
‘I wasn’t aware that they had squirrels in the stable at Bethlehem?’ I said, smiling at the thought of the mayhem.
‘There was in our version. In fact, there were all sorts of assorted animals. I think the costumes were left over from when the juniors did The Wind in the Willows. It was a real laugh, that Nativity. Maureen Broadbent was a mole and stole the show by biting one of the angels. Jimmy Parker walked on stage in a white sheet with cardboard wings and a halo shouting, “Shift thissen. It’s t’Angel o’ Lord ’ere. Move out of t’way!” and then he trod on Maureen’s paw – they were really her fingers, of course. So she bit him!’
‘It sounds great,’ I chuckled, ‘a real barrel of laughs.’
‘The best part was when we presented Baby Jesus with His presents,’ Julie told me. ‘After the Three Wise Men had given their gifts, all the animals gave theirs. Well, I went on stage without mine and Mrs Proctor, my teacher, brought the house down by shouting out from the wings of the stage, “Squirrel, get back here, you’ve forgotten your nuts!” So why does the boss want to see you so early on a Monday morning?’ asked Julie, suddenly changing the subject.
‘It’s about a school with a problem,’ I told her. ‘Well, it was supposed to be a problem but, as it turned out, it was all a fuss about nothing, a storm in a teacup. I had better things to do with my time last Friday afternoon I can tell you than go on a wild-goose chase for Councillor Peterson.’
‘Marlene, who works on the switchboard, was telling me about Councillor Peterson’s latest gaffe. Joyce, who takes the Education Committee minutes, was telling her how she overheard Councillor Peterson telling another councillor about it. Marlene nearly wet herself laughing. Listen to this! The Ministry of Education and Science asked for an elected member to represent the county at a Regional Race Committee meeting in York. It was all to do with equal opportunities, multi-racial matters, making sure that people of different races and cultures are not discriminated against.’
‘Well, that’s a good idea,’ I said. ‘It’s about time some notice was taken of that.’
‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘who should put himself forward but Councillor Peterson.’
‘I would have thought
he was the very last person to represent the Authority on racial awareness,’ I said, ‘but, of course, he does like to have his fat fingers in every pie.’
‘Let me finish,’ said Julie. ‘So off he goes to this Race Committee meeting in York, and comes back and reports that he’d thought it was all about horse racing! He thought he was all set for a slap-up meal and a day at York Races. He was dressed for the part as well, in his tweeds and trilby hat and with a pair of binoculars round his neck– or so Joyce said she’d heard him say, and that’s what she told Marlene who told me.’
‘Typical of him,’ I said. ‘And speaking of meetings, could you ring County Hall and see if Miss de la Mare wants to see me yet?’
‘Well, I thought it was very funny,’ said Julie, presumably stung because I hadn’t laughed. ‘And I’m not going to ring County Hall because, if you remember, I told you she would ring over when she’s ready for you.’ And with that, she tottered back to her office on her bright green high heels.
Oh dear, I realised I had now upset Julie. I was definitely on edge about the forthcoming meeting with the Chief Inspector.
A moment later, she popped her head around the door. ‘I meant to say, will you please give that double-barrelled woman with the fancy name a call before your meeting? I’ve left a note with her number on your desk. I couldn’t get her off the line on Friday and I don’t want a repeat.’ She then adopted what she considered a frightfully upper-class accent. ‘I hev to speak to Mr Phinn abite something very himportant. It’s abslewtly hessential he rings me, tout de suite.’
The urgent call was from Mrs Cleaver-Canning, or should I say the Honourable Margot Cleaver-Canning. I had met this impressively large and formidable woman a couple of years before when I had been inveigled by her into speaking at the Christmas dinner of the Totterdale and Clearwell Golf Club when she was the Lady Captain. Prior to being formally invited, she had summoned me to her elegant house so she could vet me and make sure I would be suitable. Here I had met this vision with purple-tinted bouffant hair, large grey eyes and scarlet bow of a mouth, and her long-suffering husband, Winco – Wing Commander Norman Cleaver-Canning (Rtd) DFC. Some time later, the honourable lady had dragooned me into taking a minor part in an amateur production of The Sound of Music. Perhaps ‘memorable’ is not the right word to describe the last performance. ‘Traumatic’ might be more fitting. As the curtain had fallen, I had been informed that Christine had been rushed into hospital to have our first child who had decided to arrive a bit earlier than expected. There had been no time to change out of our costumes. Winco, resplendent in a heavily be-medalled German admiral’s uniform, had driven me in his Mercedes at breakneck speed to Fettlesham Royal Infirmary with the Mother Abbess, (Mrs Cleaver-Canning), with an inch of stage make-up on her face, directing proceedings from the passenger seat. I had arrived just in time to see my son being born.
I made the call.
‘Gervase, how are you?’ came a loud and high-pitched voice down the line.
‘I’m fine, thank you, Mrs Cleaver-Canning,’ I replied.
‘I do wish you would call me Margot.’
‘Well, I’m fine, thank you, Margot, and how are you?’
‘Top notch. And how is that dear little child of yours?’
‘He’s thriving.’
‘Good. And your charming wife?’
‘She’s very well, too.’
‘I am so glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘It was quite an experience, wasn’t it, the evening your little boy came into the world? A performance to remember.’
‘It was indeed,’ I replied.
‘Now, I am sure you will have ascertained that I am not telephoning you merely to exchange pleasantries.’
‘No, I guessed there would be something else,’ I said, with a sinking feeling.
‘I’ll come straight to the point. I am desperate for a man again.’
‘Oh, no, no, Mrs Cleaver-Canning – er, Margot. I really cannot. I’m afraid –’ I started.
‘Now, before you turn me down,’ she interrupted, ‘please hear me out. It’s a truly wonderful play and everyone is so excited about performing it, but the sticking point is that there are nine parts for men and we have only secured eight. It’s not a big part and you would only make a short entrance at the very end, just as you did when you gave that barnstorming performance as the SS lieutenant in The Sound of Music. The way you strutted on the stage in the last act and delivered your four words was quite masterful.’ Flatterer, I thought. ‘So please don’t turn me down. There would be minimal attendance at rehearsals and you wouldn’t need to be there on the nights of the performance until well into the second half.’
‘I’m up to my eyes at the moment and –’ I began again.
‘It’s called The Dame of Sark by William Douglas-Home,’ Mrs Cleaver-Canning continued blithely. ‘A magnificently patriotic and poignant piece set in one of the Channel Islands at the time of the last war and the German Occupation. I will be playing the lead part of Sybil, the fiercely determined and courageous Dame of Sark, who comes to respect and even like Colonel von Schmettau, the Commander of the German forces. Winco will be playing him.’
‘It’s just that –’
‘You would take the part of Colonel Graham who liberates the island in the last scene. It’s a little gem of a part, a mere eighteen lines, a perfect cameo, and you’re just ideal for it. As Raymond, our producer, said, the part could have been written for you. It is your métier. Winco will drop a copy of the play off and you can peruse it at your leisure.’
‘That’s just the point, Margot,’ I said, trying to sound forceful. ‘I don’t seem to have any leisure at the moment. As I mentioned, I am up to my eyes –’
‘All the more need for a hobby outside work,’ she interrupted. ‘You know what they say about all work and no play.’
‘Mrs Cleaver-Canning, Margot,’ I said. There was a touch of desperation in my voice. ‘I really am so very busy. There’s work and the baby and the garden and so much to do in the cottage.’
‘Oh please, Gervase,’ she said in a high pleading voice. ‘Please don’t disappoint me. The whole production depends upon you.’ And then she played her trump card. ‘And you do owe me a favour. I mean, if it hadn’t been for Winco driving you to the hospital…’
I thought for a moment. ‘The least I can do is look at the play,’ I said feebly.
‘Thank you so much,’ oozed Mrs Cleaver-Canning, who never ever took No for an answer.
Of course I knew, and so did Mrs Cleaver-Canning, that in effect I had agreed to take the part. I couldn’t very well look through the play script, build up her hopes and then refuse to do it. When I thought about it later, I was quite pleased I had agreed. I had enjoyed the badinage at the rehearsals, meeting people outside the world of education and talking about things other than schools and teachers. I had also enjoyed my few brief moments in the spotlight and, to be honest, taking part hadn’t involved a great deal of time and effort. And, as Mrs C-C had reminded me, I did owe her a favour. However, despite all these positives, I decided to pick the right moment to tell Christine.
Miss de la Mare’s office was on the top corridor of County Hall. When she had taken up her appointment the term before, the Chief Inspector had wasted little time in relocating to a spacious and modern office near to Dr Gore’s. I recall well when she had first seen the office previously occupied by her predecessor, Harold Yeats – that cluttered and cramped room, with its row of ugly olive-green metal filing cabinets, heavy bookcases, square of threadbare carpet and Harold’s vast ancient oak desk. She had shaken her head and said to no one in particular, ‘This just will not do.’ Within the month she had moved.
County Hall was an imposing building, magnificently ornate and sturdy, dominating the market town of Fettlesham and standing in extensive and well-tended formal gardens. The interior was equally impressive: endless corridors, high ornate ceilings, great brass chandeliers, heavy velvet drapes, and walls full of gilt-fr
amed portraits of former worthies. I always felt rather intimidated when I entered the huge oak doors that led into the great entrance hall.
The meeting with the Chief Inspector was not quite the ordeal I had expected. I presented a full written report on Tarncliffe School and explained to her how the confusion had arisen.
‘And if the parent in question had taken the trouble to contact the head teacher in the first place,’ I told her, ‘instead of telephoning one of his cronies at County Hall, all this could have been avoided.’
‘Maybe,’ Miss de la Mare said, ‘but to be fair to the parent, and indeed Councillor Peterson, the two expressions that caused all the contention really do sound rather vulgar. I shouldn’t think that many people – apart from English specialists like you – are aware of their origins or what they actually mean. Personally, they are not expressions I would use, or I suspect that you would either. Perhaps Mr Hornchurch should have pointed this out to the children. However, to use a more familiar expression, “that’s all water under the bridge now”.’ Thank you for dealing with it, Gervase. I shall read your report with interest and explain matters to Dr Gore and Councillor Peterson when I meet with them later this morning. I will also ring the Editor of the Gazette to make sure that article doesn’t go ahead. Now, I am sure that you, like I, have a very busy day ahead of you so I won’t detain you further.’
I took a deep breath. ‘There was another matter I wanted to speak to you about,’ I said, placing a second report on her desk and sliding it across. ‘Ugglemattersby Junior School.’
The Chief Inspector gave a slight smile and stared down at the report. ‘Go on,’ she said.
Miss de la Mare listened patiently as I explained how I had visited the school and had been unhappy with what I had seen and heard. I admitted that I had been at fault for not having followed through the last report, which I had written just over two years before, by returning to the school to check on progress. I told her that I hadn’t even telephoned the head-teacher to see how he was getting on. I accepted it had been my responsibility to ensure that the recommendations in my report had been addressed, and I had failed in that regard.
The Heart of the Dales Page 15
