‘This is hardly Chiswick,’ observed Christine.
‘Oh, I know that,’ said the landlord. He leaned over the bar. ‘Quite frankly, I want to attract a rather better clientele. I have big plans for The Oak.’
‘Well, I wish you luck,’ I said, thinking that he would certainly need it. I carried the drinks over to the regulars, and the landlord returned to the lounge bar.
Thomas Umpleby raised his pint. ‘’Ere’s to us, all on us, an’ me an’ all. May we nivver want nowt, none of us, nor me neither. Good ’ealth, Mester Phinn.’
‘’As tha sooarted out them squirrels yet, then?’ Harry asked me.
‘Yes, all sorted out,’ I said.
‘Tha got rid on ’em, then?’
‘Yes, I got rid of them.’
‘What’s this about squirrels?’ asked George.
‘’E’s ’ad an hinfestation,’ Harry told him.
‘Two actually,’ I said, ‘but they’ve gone.’
‘That’s what thy thinks,’ chuckled Harry. ‘They’ll be back. Markmy words.’ Ever the prophet of doom, I thought.
‘We used to eat squirrels, tha knaas,’ said George.
‘Eat them?’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m telling thee, my owld mam used to cook’em,’ said George. ‘An’ they were very tasty, an’ all. My owld mam used to mekone o’ them stews wi’ taties an’ carrots and onions. Tasted a bit like rabbit.’
‘I like rabbit,’ said Christine, ‘but I don’t think I could bring myself to eat squirrel and certainly not cook it.’
‘Sometimes it were t’only thing what there were to eat,’ said George. ‘When I were a lad, times was ’ard. Many’s t’time we ’ad to mekdo wi’ bread an’ jam an’ what we could scavenge from fields an’ hedgerows. It were quite a treat to ’ave squirrel ’ot-pot.’ He tooka gulp of beer. ‘Aye, times were ’ard, all reight, but we was ’appy.’
‘More than can be said for us now,’ grumbled Harry.
‘Tha reight theer,’ agreed George.
‘Aye,’ sighed Harry sadly.
‘Come on, you two misery-guts, stop yer moanin’ and a-groanin’,’ said Thomas. ‘Tha two are abaat as ’appy as a pair o’ funeral bells.’
‘What about a poem, Mr Umpleby,’ I said.
‘Nay, I’m not reight in t’mood for poetry today, if truth be towld,’ he replied.
‘Oh, please,’ pleaded Christine.
‘Gu on then,’ he said, taking very little persuading. ‘Just for thee, Missis Phinn, but only one mind, I’m not doin’ no epics today. I’ll give thee ‘The Laugh of a Child’. Mi sainted mother, God rest her soul, used to recite this. It were one of ’er favourites. She did a sampler of it when she were a little ’un. Beautiful it is. I ’ave it on mi wall.’
The old man stood and, with one arm outstretched, he declaimed his poem in a voice as bracing as a Yorkshire moor, and as clear and sparkling as the singing becks.
Luv it! Luv it! ’Tis the laugh of a child,
Now ripplin’, now gentle, now merry and wild.
It rings in t’air with t’innocent cush
Like t’trill of yon bird at t’twilight’s soft ’ush.
It floats on yon breeze like t’toll of a bell,
Or t’music which dwells in t’heart of a shell.
’Tis best music of all, so wild and so free
’Tis merriest sound in t’whole world to me!
We all applauded vigorously, and would have stamped our feet on the ground had we been able to reach the floor but the stools were too high; instead, we banged our glasses on the table.
The young landlord appeared at the bar. ‘Could you keep the noise down in here, please?’ he asked. ‘You’re disturbing the other customers in the lounge. And,’ he added, ‘all breakages will have to be paid for.’
‘You know, I do feel sorry for Harry and his pals,’ said Christine later when we were backat the cottage. She tooka steaming casserole out of the oven and placed it on the table.
‘That smells good,’ I said, creeping up behind her and kissing her on the neck.
‘They were so out of place sitting on those horrible modern stools. They looked like parrots on a perch. And there was certainly no need for the landlord to say what he did.’
‘You’re the best cookin Yorkshire, Mrs Phinn, do you know that?’ I said, lifting the lid of the large metal dish and sniffing the contents. ‘Mmmmm.’
‘They looked quite pathetic. Like fish out of water. And you should have seen poor Mr Umpleby’s face when he was told to be quiet.’
‘I thought they were parrots on a perch?’
‘You know what I mean. It’s such a pity,’ she said. ‘That traditional eighteenth-century inn with its timber frames, oak beams and horse brasses.’
‘You’ve changed your tune,’ I said. ‘You were all for change before we went out.’
‘That was before I saw the changes,’ she said. ‘The place now looks so pseudo. It’s lost all its character.’
‘There’s always the Golden Ball,’ I said. ‘They could go back there.’
‘That’s worse.’
‘They’ll get used to the changes,’ I said dismissively. ‘Now, can we eat? I’m starving.’
‘I don’t think they will ever get used to the changes,’ Christine replied. ‘And, yes, we are ready to eat. Will you call to Mum? She’ll be upstairs putting Richard down for his sleep.’
I shouted up the stairs, then turned back to Christine. ‘Now the landlord at the Royal Oak–’
‘The Oak, you mean.’
‘The Oak, then. You have to admit that he’s a vast improvement on the last miserable specimen.’
‘Now who’s changed his tune?’
‘And he is making a bit of an effort to brighten up the place.’
‘Well, I didn’t like him – or his decor,’ said Christine.
‘At least he smiled,’ I said, ‘and we didn’t have to wait an age for the drinks.’
‘Well, I didn’t like him,’ she repeated. ‘He had clammy hands.’
‘Look, Christine, I’m starving,’ I said. ‘Can we eat?’
Christine’s mother appeared in the kitchen. ‘Hello, Mum, all well?’ she said.
As she ladled out the steaming casserole, I said grace in the style of Thomas Umpleby, a true Yorkshire grace: ‘God bless us all and mekus able, to eayt all t’stuff ’at’s on this table.’ Then I asked, ‘What are we eating by the way? It smells delicious.’
‘I’m trying out an old Yorkshire recipe,’ she told me, her eyes full of mischief. ‘Very traditional. It’s called écureuil bourguignonne.’
‘And what’s that when it’s at home?’ I asked.
‘Squirrel hot-pot!’ she replied.
13
The Reverend Percival Featherstone, Chairman of the Governing Body at St Margaret’s Church of England Primary School, was a stern-looking cleric with a sizeable hawkish nose, grey strands of hair combed across an otherwise bald head, and heavy-lidded eyes. His large eyebrows met above his nose giving one the impression that he was permanently scowling. Because he wore thin, gold-framed spectacles and sported great bushy grey sideburns, he looked every inch the Victorian parson. I could visualise this grimly-serious figure walking the streets of Barchester for he looked as if he had stepped out of the pages of Trollope’s most celebrated novel.
I had inspected St Margaret’s at the end of the previous term and had promised to make a return visit to the school – an austere Victorian grey stone building adjacent to the church in the village of Hutton-with-Branston – at the beginning of the new academic year to go through my conclusions and recommendations. Prompted by the situation that had arisen at Ugglesmattersby Junior School, I had quickly arranged a visit.
Fortunately for me, and in a quite unexpected way, things seemed to have sorted themselves out with regard to Ugglemattersby. The first meeting with the headteacher, Mrs Braddock-Smith, and the governors of the Infant School, where I had outlined the suggestio
ns for the amalgamation, had gone amazingly smoothly and everyone present had been strongly in favour of the recommendation. The meeting with the head-teacher, Mr Harrison, and governors of the Juniors, had been less good humoured but, again, it appeared that my lucky star was shining brightly for the predicted ‘fly in the ointment’, Councillor Sidebottom, was ‘down with the flu’ and couldn’t attend the meeting. All in all, things seemed to be working out fairly well.
St Margaret’s had an excellent reputation for creative arts and Mrs Kipling, the headteacher, a small wiry-haired woman with smiling eyes, was a regular delegate on Sidney’s art courses. In fact, it was rumoured that she had quite a crush on him.
During the summer inspection, I had been given pride of place in the front row to watch the end-of-term musical concert. The choir had sung confidently and with genuine enthusiasm, the small brass band had played with gusto, and the twin girls playing the piano duet had been most impressive. But the star of the show had been a boy of eleven who had delighted the audience with a selection of violin solos. When he had finished, the applause had been loud and enthusiastic and the boy, with a massive grin on his face, had taken a very low and prolonged bow.
After the concert, I had gone backstage to congratulate the young performers.
‘You were excellent,’ I had told the budding Paganini.
‘Oh, thanks, sir,’ the boy had replied. ‘I was really, really nervous with all those people out there and my violin teacher as well. When miss said we’d got a school inspector in the front row, I thought I’d be sure to fluff it.’
‘Well, your nerves didn’t show,’ I had told him. ‘And I was impressed with that very professional bow at the end. You looked like a seasoned performer.’
‘Oh, the bow,’ the boy had said. ‘The reason I bent so low was to check the front of my trousers to see if I’d wet myself.’
After my inspection the previous term, I had written a very positive report but I guessed that the chairman of governors, the fearsome-looking Mr Featherstone, would have something to say on this Tuesday afternoon. I had spent a couple of hours in the classrooms, and was now sitting in the headteacher’s study, together with the clergyman in question. His thin white hands were clasped before him and darkeyes stared pointedly at me, nodding slowly and solemnly as I talked through my report and my findings. He looked dramatically tight-lipped and thoughtful. The headteacher, sitting next to him, awaited his response.
The cleric took a deep and audible breath and rubbed his long nose. ‘So,’ he said finally, ‘things seem to be very much in order then, Mr Phinn.’ He didn’t look all that pleased, I thought.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied chirpily. ‘In fact, Mrs Kipling and her staff should be commended for all their hard work and dedication. This is a very good school with many outstanding features. The children workhard, achieve good results and their behaviour appears to be good. As you have heard, there are only a few minor issues to be addressed.’
‘Very gratifying, I’m sure,’ said the chairman of governors sonorously, again stroking his nose. He thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I have to say that I had little doubt that the school would receive a praiseworthy report but it is good to have one’s observations reinforced. I was particularly pleased to hear that the children’s religious education was satisfactory.’ There was another long pause. ‘I think I mentioned to you at our last meeting, Mr Phinn,’ he continued, ‘that I am deeply saddened by the children’s lackof biblical knowledge generally.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘and I think I said that this is certainly the case in many schools I visit, although I have to say that the pupils here do seem to have a better knowledge than most. Children do not, as a rule, know as much about the Bible as they used to do.’
The vicar took a deep breath and stared heavenwards. ‘Very regrettable,’ he sighed. ‘I think this school endeavours to create the Christian ethos while considering other people’s beliefs, as indeed it should do. But you know, it is all very well children learning about other religions, cultures and ways of life, but we are living in a Christian country and I think first and foremost they should have a good grounding in Holy Scripture and a sound knowledge of Jesus. It is so important that children know about Him and His works. Archdeacon Richards was only telling me last week that he was addressing an assembly at a school in Fettlesham last Easter and was telling the children that Jesus had risen from the dead and had returned to see His disciples. He asked the children if they knew what words Jesus had spoken when He walked through the door to face His apostles. One child apparently stood up, threw out his arms like a magician and shouted, “Ta-da!”’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, biting my lip to hide a smile.
‘Archdeacon Richards also told me about the time,’ continued the cleric, ‘he was telling the children the parable of the Feeding of the Five Thousand. He asked the children what important lesson Jesus had taught to the multitude. He was saddened, as I frequently am, by the one answer he received: “Remember to take your litter home with you.”’
I could have added to the cleric’s stories. I was once addressing an assembly at a school in Bartondale and asked the children who the Good Shepherd was. One bright sparkhad waved his hand in the air. ‘I know! I know!’ he’d cried. ‘It’s Jack Farrell. Mi dad reckons ’e’s not lost a sheep in fotty years.’ In another school, the student teacher had asked if the children could remember the name of the famous King of Babylon mentioned in the Bible whom they’d been reading about the previous week. She persevered for a time, trying to elicit the answer, until one boy told her wearily, ‘Miss, nae bugger can tell ya.’ ‘Very good,’ she replied, ‘well tried, but try to remember that the name is pronounced Nebuchadnezzar.’
‘It’s all very regrettable,’ continued Mr Featherstone now, ‘and so very depressing.’ It was obvious he was getting well and truly into his stride. ‘I am afraid we live in a secular and affluent society, Mr Phinn, in a world of what I consider quite unsuitable television programmes, loud music, convenience foods and expensive holidays. I may sound a little old-fashioned, but I do sometimes despair at the way things are going.’
‘Times do change,’ I murmured.
‘Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis,’ he intoned.
‘I’m sorry?’ said Mrs Kipling.
‘All things change and we change with them,’ I said.
‘I am glad you know a little Latin, Mr Phinn,’ said the vicar. ‘That is another of my regrets – the decline in the teaching of the classics in schools.’
‘I recall that we had a conversation about christenings the last time we met, Mr Featherstone,’ I reminded the cleric. ‘About all the unusual names that parents give their children.’
‘Indeed,’ he said stroking his long nose again. ‘So many children these days are named after pop stars, footballers and television personalities. It’s the cult of the celebrity. The old biblical names seem to be fast disappearing – Samuel and Simon, Mary and Michael, Joseph and James are now replaced by Dean and Darren, Carlie and Crystal, Shane and Sharlene. And some parents give little thought to the fact that their children, when they arrive at school, have to cope with some quite bizarre names. I’ve even had a request to christen a child Kipper! Kipper, I ask you? I really think it very unkind to saddle a child with such an unusual name.’
‘I have come across some very unusual names, too,’ I said. ‘I’ve met children called Walter Wall, Duncan Biscuit, Teresa Green, Brent Willey, Rose Bush, and one child with the surname Pipe who was burdened with a first name of Duane.’
‘Dear me,’ sighed the clergyman. ‘Do you recall, Mrs Kipling, when we had the Smout children here?’
‘I do,’ replied the headteacher. ‘There was Paris Smout, Vienna Smout, Seville Smout. It is just as well the parents didn’t go on a City Break to Brussels.’ She chortled gently.
‘Indeed,’ sighed Mr Featherstone, without the trace of a smile.
‘I have a pet theory about first nam
es,’ said Mrs Kipling. ‘Over the many years I have been in education, I have come to the conclusion that Shakespeare got it wrong when he said that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. I learned very early on that boys called Richard tend to be well behaved, quiet children who workhard, Matthews are very polite and thoughtful, Dominics are little charmers, Damiens have far too much to say for themselves and Kevins are accident-prone. Penelopes tend to be lively and interested, Traceys too big for their boots and Elizabeths little darlings.’
‘And what about me?’ I asked. ‘What are little boys like with a name such as mine?’
Mr Featherstone looked in my direction. ‘I don’t think I know your Christian name, Mr Phinn,’ he said.
‘Gervase,’ I told him, smiling.
‘Really?’ he murmured. ‘How very droll.’
When the vicar had departed, I went through the school report in greater detail with the headteacher.
‘Your chairman of governors does have a bit of a bee in his bonnet about the lack of religion in people’s lives and the decline in the teaching of scripture in schools,’ I observed. ‘I guess he can be rather difficult at times.’
‘He’s actually a very caring and committed priest,’ said Mrs Kipling, springing to the cleric’s defence. ‘He spends a deal of time in the school, and he encourages the children to visit the church. He might look a little severe, Mr Phinn, but appearances can be deceptive. Remember the parable of the Good Samaritan? Underneath that rather hard shell, Mr Featherstone is a very kindly man and has been most supportive of me personally. You might be surprised to hear that his church is full on Sundays and people come a fair distance to hear him preach.’
‘Really?’ I said with some amazement.
‘We had a wonderful Harvest Festival at St Margaret’s church the Sunday before last, and every elderly person in the village received a hamper of food delivered by the children and then a visit from Mr Featherstone. He also raises a great deal of money for the Children’s Society. When I started as headteacher here, I took the children over to the church. The little ones, much to the teachers’ embarrassment, were rather boisterous and noisy and we were about to take them out when Mr Featherstone stopped us. I was quite taken with what he said. “Please don’t worry about a bit of noise,” he told me. “To me, there is nothing like the sound of little children’s voices.” Yes,’ she concluded, ‘I consider myself very fortunate to have someone so actively interested in the life and work of the school.’
The Heart of the Dales Page 19
