‘I bet he missed a few baths, though,’ said Sidney, ‘what with the thirteen children and the one tin tub.’
‘My father was the local convener for NACODS,’ said David. ‘The National Association of Colliery Overmen, Deputies and Shotfirers.’
‘No, this is NACADS,’ I told him, accentuating the second “A”. ‘The National Association of Chief Administrators and Directors of Schools.’
‘NACADS,’ mused Sidney, leaning back precariously on his chair. ‘It sounds like a self-help group for world-weary geriatrics. Mind you, I guess if it were, Dr Gore would feel very much at home being president of that. I’ve noticed of late how tired and irritable he’s getting. Two peas in the old colloquial pod, you two, Gervase.’
‘Perhaps he’s suffering from post-natal depression as well,’ said David.
‘I’ve been given the job of organising various exhibitions and events,’ I told them. ‘Displays of children’s work, the usual sort of thing.’
‘And does this little job of Dr Gore’s mean having to liaise with Mrs Savage?’ asked David.
‘Yes, it does,’ I replied glumly. ‘I wouldn’t mind doing his little job for him but the thought of having to liaise with the Ice Queen herself fills me with dismay.’
‘Poor you,’ said Sidney.
‘Oh dear,’ groaned David. ‘I can hear the rumble of enemy fire. I suppose this is the conference she was going on about during the summer holidays.’
‘When? I never heard any mention of it,’ said Sidney, twiddling a pencil round and round in his fingers.
‘No, it was when you were swanning around Italy, and we were packing up the office, including all your things,’ I replied.
‘Ah, yes, that was most kind of you – if only I could find where you’ve put everything. I still haven’t found my earthenware vase. However, that is nothing compared to having to work with our Brenda.’
‘That woman is insuerable!’ said David. ‘Last week she had the brass neckto send back two of my reports with corrections. Corrections! The impertinence of it, correcting my English.’
‘Well, I would have thought you would have welcomed that,’ said Sidney, being deliberately provocative. ‘I well recall a conversation we had last year when you were bemoaning the sloppy use of English.’
‘As usual, Sidney, you are missing the point,’ said David irritably. ‘You are quite happy giving everyone the benefit of your views whether they want to hear them or not but you are incapable of listening to others. I am perfectly capable of using correct English, thank you very much. My point is that Mrs Savage returned a report to me with corrections on.’
‘On which there were corrections,’ interrupted his colleague.
‘On which there were corrections,’ repeated David, ‘but these corrections did not need to be corrected.’
‘Well, that sounds perfectly clear to me,’ said Sidney. ‘Did you understand him, Gervase?’
‘Behave yourself, Sidney,’ I told him. ‘What did you write, David?’
‘I wrote,’ said David, ‘that the Head of the Mathematics Department at Lady Cavendish High School for Girls, and I quote, “sets the standard by which the remainder of the department is judged”. Mrs Savage took it upon her self to change it to “are judged”, which is, of course, incorrect. I told her in no uncertain terms when I saw her swanning down the top corridor at County Hall with a face as hard as a diamond, like some mature model out of a woman’s magazine, pretending to be all important, that I was not going to put up with it.’
‘You mean up with it you were not going to put,’ said Sidney.
‘I’ll come over there in a minute, my friend,’ exclaimed David, ‘and knock you off that chair and put you flat on your back!’
‘Mrs Savage is the last person to start advising people how to use English,’ I said. ‘She continually uses a whole new vocabulary of dead terms and office catchphrases: “coming aboard”, “running things up flagpoles”, “getting up to speed”, “blue sky thinking”, “squaring the circle”, “touching base”. It’s a whole new language.’
‘She goes on a one-day course in office management,’ said Sidney, ‘and comes back with all this gobbledegook.’
‘Like a certain art inspector who goes to Italy for a fortnight and comes back peppering all his conversation with French phrases,’ said David.
‘Touché!’ said Sidney.
‘I mean, I don’t mind being picked up by someone who uses English well, but certainly not by Mrs Savage. As my dear departed Welsh grandmother used to say’ – Sidney sighed dramatically and rolled his eyes – ‘“before you look at the mote in someone else’s eye, take a look at the tree in your own.”’
‘I don’t see how you could see anything with a tree in your eye,’ said Sidney.
‘And what surprises me,’ continued David, deciding to ignore Sidney’s flippant remark, ‘is why Dr Gore allows her to get away with it. Take that crass document she sent about the school closures. It was incomprehensible.’
‘Maybe because our dear Dr Gore is just too exhausted and worn out. She is enough to make the most even-tempered person exhausted and irritable. I should think the old man feels thoroughly NACADS.’
‘Well,’ said David, ‘I wish you luck working with that woman, I really do.’
‘In the long tradition of esprit de corps, which exists in our little team, Gervase,’ said Sidney, ‘you know that if we can be of any help we would be only too happy to oblige – tous ensemble.’
‘Of course,’ agreed David, ‘that goes without question. I am more than happy to help you. I will, of course, produce an exhibition of mathematics teaching and children’s work and, if you wish, I could arrange a gymnastics display and perhaps a performance of traditional dancing.’
‘That sounds excellent,’ I said.
‘I don’t mind a bit of gymnastics,’ said Sidney, ‘but could we leave out the Morris dancing? And I shall be only too pleased to mount une exposition magnifique of children’s painting and sculpture. I like nothing better than celebrating young people’s efforts and I have just the person in mind to help me. The newly appointed Head of Art at Crompton Secondary Modern, la charmante Colette, an inspirational teacher and also an inspiration to look at.’
‘Ah! I thought there would be a woman somewhere in your scheme of things,’ sighed David. ‘And I suppose she’s French, is she?’
‘However did you guess?’ asked Sidney with mock surprise in his voice.
‘I wondered why we have been bombarded with all these Gallic phrases,’ said David. ‘Been brushing up on your French, have you?’
‘She is the perfect Pre-Raphaelite beauty,’ said Sidney, raising his hand like a priest about to give a blessing. ‘Tall, pale-complexioned with piercing violet eyes and delicate slender hands, and with an explosion of auburn hair cascading straight down her back. A long-legged goddess. Une belle femme. She could have walked out of the canvas of a Burne-Jones masterpiece. I shall get onto it pronto.’
‘Give me strength!’ cried David. ‘He’s gone into Italian now.’
‘I’m feeling better already,’ I said.
‘And no doubt Geraldine will come up with something spectacular,’ said David. ‘Now there’s an example to any parent. You don’t hear her complaining about sleepless nights, changing nappies and post-natal depression. I take my hat off to her, bringing up a child single-handed.’
‘I wonder if she suffered from cracked nipples,’ mused Sidney.
At that moment my telephone rang.
‘Brenda Savage here,’ came a sharp voice down the line.
‘Oh, hello, Mrs Savage,’ I said, emphasising her name to let my colleagues know to whom I was speaking. Sidney pulled a gruesome face, David grimaced.
‘Following our discussions with Dr Gore this morning,’ she said formally, ‘I feel it is important that we need to expedite matters ASAP. As time is very short and there is much to do, particularly in incentivising your colleagues to get aboard th
is project, I suggest we put our heads together. I have produced a possible paradigm and need to flag up a few things with you. Have you a window in your diary next week?’
‘No,’ I replied simply. ‘I’ve a full programme of school visits, an English course to run and three governors’ meetings.’
‘I cannot impress upon you too strongly, Mr Phinn, that we must push ahead with this,’ she said testily. ‘Are you available now?’
‘Now?’ I asked. ‘This very minute?’ Better get the inevitable meeting with her over and done with, I thought. ‘I am free until two o’clock, and then I have to join an appointments panel.’
‘Then I shall come over and see you,’ she said. ‘I shall be over straight away.’ The phone clicked.
‘Mrs Savage is on her way over,’ I told my colleagues insouciantly.
David snatched up his briefcase and made a hurried exit, followed by Sidney. ‘Adieu, mon brave!’ he cried as he left the office.
‘Do you think I’m malleable?’
I was helping Christine wash the dishes that evening when I put the question to her.
‘What a strange thing to ask,’ she said.
‘Well, do you?’
‘Think you’re malleable?’ she repeated. ‘You mean like a lump of clay that’s moulded into shape?’
‘Well, not really like a lump of clay,’ I said. ‘What I mean is “easily persuaded”.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Sidney says I’m malleable, that I take too much on because I can’t say No to people.’
‘Well, for once I think Sidney’s got it right,’ said Christine, ‘You do take on too much and do tend to say Yes to people far too often.’
When Winco Cleaver-Canning had shown his whiskered face at the door that morning, clutching the play script of The Dame of Sark, Christine had discovered that I had virtually agreed to join the cast. When I arrived home, she had shaken her head and asked me crossly why I hadn’t said I was too busy. She had asked the very same question when I had agreed to speak at a charity dinner, join a sponsored walk, help a dyslexic boy in the village with his reading and write an article for National Poetry Day for the Fettlesham Gazette. ‘It’s a simple enough word,’ she had told me. ‘Just say No.’
Later that evening, when I was reading the paper and Christine was doing some sewing, she said, ‘I meant to tell you that Andy is coming up on Saturday to fix the guttering. I don’t know why you didn’t wait until he could help you instead of trying to fix it yourself and bringing the whole lot down. Andy said it’s a two-man job, so I’m assuming you will be able to give him a hand?’
‘I think, my dear,’ I said jokingly, ‘that I shall follow your very good advice.’
‘And what advice is that?’ asked Christine.
‘I shall just say No.’
16
By the end of that week, I was feeling more settled, under less strain. There had been no further sign of our visitors with the bushy tails and I hoped that they were settling down on the Manston estate. On Saturday, Andy, with limited help from myself (I held the ladders) fixed the guttering and finished tidying up the garden, and Christine cooked the most delicious pheasant and venison casserole for dinner on the Saturday night – on the proceeds of a little present Harry Cotton had brought round during the week. ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t know,’ said Christine bravely, as she prepared the meat for the oven. She had prevailed upon Andy to pluckand gut the pheasant.
On Sunday, a gloriously sunny day, we decided to give ourselves a day off, and went to Whitby. The tide was out, and Christine and I strolled along the vast sandy beach to Sandsend with little Richard strapped on my back. How I looked forward to the time when he was old enough to help me build castles, collect crabs from the rock pools in a plastic bucket, search for fossils, paddle in the cold grey waters of the North Sea and join me on a trip around the harbour in the old lifeboat.
That evening I read The Dame of Sark, which I enjoyed hugely, and became quite excited about ‘treading the boards’ once again with the Fettlesham Literary Players. Sitting in front of the fading fire before going to bed, I also felt happier about taking on Dr Gore’s latest little job. The discussions with Mrs Savage had gone surprisingly well, and we had arranged to meet again this coming week, when we would visit Manston Hall. We were both a little concerned that Lord Marrick’s home would not have the same facilities as a conference centre, and we needed a ‘site visit’, as Mrs Savage called it, to acquaint ourselves with the layout, the lie of the land.
Both David and Sidney had been busy planning their contributions for the exhibition, and Geraldine, as I knew she would, had immediately agreed to put on a science display. As well as telephoning the schools that I wanted to provide material for an exhibition of children’s writing, I had contacted the County Music Adviser, Pierce Gordon, and enlisted the services of the Young People’s Brass Band to entertain the delegates on the Sunday morning. The brass band had at first been reluctant to change their normal rehearsal morning – ‘Christmas is a very busy time for us,’ I was told – but when their band-leader understood that they would be playing at Marrick Hall, he agreed to switch rehearsal times.
Mrs Savage, for her part, busied herself confirming details with the hotels where accommodation had been booked earlier in the summer. She drew up the invitation list for the reception on the first evening, and finalised arrangements with the caterers for both that and the dinner on the Saturday night. She was planning to provide a short history of Manston Hall that would go into each delegate’s packalong with the official programme, digests of the speakers’ lectures, directions to the venue etc., and this was one of the reasons she wanted to go down to the Hall as soon as possible. All in all, things were progressing well.
I was in excellent spirits, therefore, when I walked into the entrance of Daleside Primary School on the Monday lunchtime. I had a veritable spring in my step. I was there to observe Miss Graham, a probationary teacher.
In the headteacher’s room, with a cup of coffee in my hand, I explained to Mrs Blackett, a small, dark-haired, softly-spoken woman, what I intended to do while I was in the school that morning and asked if she had any questions or observations before I went into the first class.
‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ she enquired.
I looked at her a little more closely. ‘I’m afraid not,’ I replied. ‘As you are no doubt aware, I meet many people on my travels.’ I sounded terribly pompous, so added quickly ‘And I’m afraid I’m not very good at names and faces.’
‘I thought you might have remembered me, and the occasion when we met.’ A small smile played on the woman’s lips.
I was pretty certain she wasn’t an ex-girlfriend; was she a former colleague from my teaching days or, even further back, someone I was at school with? I looked again at the smiling face but no recognition dawned. ‘There are so many schools in the county,’ I told her defensively, ‘and I meet many other people during the year at the conferences and courses I run.’ She still held the amused expression. ‘One of my colleagues,’ I continued, ‘worked out that it would take over twenty years for one of the inspectors in the team to visit every school in the county.’ She continued to smile at me, and when she didn’t offer to tell me where we had met, I said, ‘I’m sorry but you will have to remind me.’
‘We were on interview together,’ she replied, ‘at County Hall for the post of inspector.’
‘Of course!’ I said, and then did recall her. ‘It’s… er…’
‘Dorothy.’
‘I remember now,’ I said. ‘Dorothy Blackett. We had a very interesting conversation. You were a headteacher in the Midlands, as I recall, but you were born in Yorkshire.’
‘That’s right,’ she said, ‘and neither of us thought we were in with much of a chance.’
‘It was a pretty daunting experience,’ I said, ‘with all the other hugely-qualified and experienced candidates, bursting with confidence, and tha
t battery of questions from the interview panel. There was no one more surprised than I when I was called backinto the room and offered the job.’
‘Oh, I had a sneaking feeling you would get it. I could see how keen you were. I recall thinking you were a bit of a dark horse at the interviews and that you didn’t give very much away about yourself.’
‘That was nerves,’ I told her.
‘I’ve followed your progress,’ she continued, ‘and from what I have heard, you are doing very well and are making quite an impression.’
‘And I remember your saying, when you congratulated me, that you were rather relieved that you didn’t get the job because you weren’t sure whether you wanted the post or not.’
‘I did,’ she replied, ‘and I guess that uncertainty came over at the interview. You see, my dream was to work in the Yorkshire Dales. That is what I really wanted. I was brought up here and wanted to return to my roots.’
‘And your dream came true,’ I said.
‘It did,’ she replied. ‘After the debriefing interview afterwards, Dr Yeats told me that the panel was impressed with my answers and any further applications I should make for posts in the county would be looked upon favourably. Last year, this headship came up. I applied, got the job and here I am.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ I said, ‘and if I can –’
A sharp rap on the door interrupted me.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Blackett.’ It was the school secretary. ‘I thought you ought to know that Gavin is in a bit of a state. His, er…’she paused, struggling for the right word – ‘er… little problem seems to have flared up again. Shall I send for his mother to come and collect him?’
‘Yes please, Vera,’ said the headteacher, ‘that would be a good idea and I would like a word with her when she arrives. I really don’t think he should have been sent to school in this state.’ The secretary nodded and after she had closed the door behind her the headteacher shookher head and smiled. ‘Not a day goes by when there isn’t some incident or crisis,’ she told me.
‘It’s the same in my job,’ I said.
The Heart of the Dales Page 23
