‘Oh?’ This sounded slightly ominous.
‘I want you to sit at the front with me, and I want you to glower at the boys I have asked to remain behind after the infants and the girls have gone to their lessons.’
‘Glower?’
‘I want you to scowl and look angry,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘All will be explained at the end of the assembly,’ said Mrs Gardiner.
The children marched into the hall, heads up, arms swinging, accompanied by stirring martial music played on an old upright piano with great gusto by a small man who bobbed up and down on the piano stool in time with the beat. Mrs Gardiner took centre stage, legs slightly apart, her large hands clasped before her, eyes ever watchful. I, the visual aid, was placed behind her on a large wooden chair with arms, trying to look solemn. The children lined up in rows like little soldiers, they sang the hymn lustily and said the prayer with downcast eyes and then, at the signal from the headteacher, they sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at Mrs Gardiner expectantly.
‘Good morning, children,’ said the headteacher, loudly and clearly.
‘Good morning, Mrs Gardiner,’ chanted the children. ‘Good morning, everyone.’
‘I think I must be going deaf,’ said Mrs Gardiner. ‘Shall we try that again and this time with a bit more enthusiasm.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Gardiner,’ shouted the children. ‘Good morning, everyone.’
‘That’s much better,’ announced the headteacher. ‘Now, sit up smartly, children. I would like to introduce our special visitor, someone very important from the Education Office. This is Mr Phinn, a school inspector.’
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn, a school inspector,’ chorused the children loudly.
‘Good morning, children,’ I said seriously. I felt like a king, enthroned in my heavy wooden chair, set high on the stage.
There followed a small homily from Mrs Gardiner about good manners and consideration for others and then the children, with the exception of the upper junior boys, were dismissed.
Mrs Gardiner turned to face me and, in a hushed voice, said, ‘Now, Mr Phinn, I want you to look really angry and scowling.’ She turned to the pupils and placed her hands firmly on her hips. ‘Down to the front, you boys!’ ordered the head-teacher. A nervous group of pupils lined up before her. The children could see by her body language that Mrs Gardiner was angry about something. ‘You are a group of dirty, dirty, dirty little boys, do you know that?’ Mrs Gardiner enunciated each word clearly and slowly. A sea of faces stared back at her. Some of the younger pupils shuffled uneasily, others bit their lips and one boy looked like a terrified rabbit caught in a trap. ‘You might well look shame faced and sheepish. You are dirty, disgusting little boys and you know what you have done and why you have been asked to remain behind.’
‘Miss, is it because –’ began a boy.
‘Be quiet!’ snapped the headteacher. She paused for effect and scanned the faces. ‘Last night, when Mrs Garbutt – who keeps this school so clean and tidy – went into the boys’ toilets, she was disgusted. Disgusted! She came straight away to find me and when I saw the floor and the walls in the boys’ toilets and the mess you had made, I too was disgusted. The floor was awash – and I do not mean with water!’ She stabbed the air with a finger. ‘I know full well what you have been up to. You’ve been seeing who can get highest up the wall.’ I suppressed a smirk quickly, and continued to glower. ‘Oh, yes,’ continued Mrs Gardiner, ‘I know what you’ve been doing. You have been having a competition to see who can reach highest up the wall, you dirty little boys.’
At this point, all the boys stared at a small lad with spiky black hair and a very embarrassed expression on his face. He was clearly the winner of the contest. Mrs Gardiner’s furious gaze settled on him. The boy rubbed his eyes and began to sniffle.
‘The waterworks won’t wash with me, Jimmy Sedgewick, so don’t bother with the crocodile tears. It is not Mrs Garbutt’s job to clean puddles up after you. And let me tell you this,’ Mrs Gardiner shook a finger at the boys, ‘if there is so much as a drop or a drip, a splash or a smidgen on the floor today, you will all get down on your hands and knees and clean it up. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Mrs Gardiner,’ replied the children in subdued voices.
‘Mr Phinn,’ continued the headteacher, pointing in my direction, ‘is a very important school inspector sent especially from the Education Office about the toilets, and he was appalled, appalled, when I told him what you have been up to. Just look at his face. See how disgusted he is.’
All eyes focused on me as I sat on my throne. I pulled a particularly gruesome face. There was a laboured pause before the headteacher continued and, when she did, I could not, in all my wildest dreams, have imagined what she would say next. I was, to use the old Yorkshire expression, ‘gobsmacked’.
‘When Mr Phinn goes to the toilet,’ said Mrs Gardiner – I looked at her in horror, dreading what was to follow – ‘he doesn’t flip it about like a fireman’s hose. Do you, Mr Phinn?’
‘N… no,’ I replied feebly with an even more woebegone expression on my face.
‘He directs it where it should go. And that is what you boys will do in the future. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Mrs Gardiner,’ replied the boys.
‘Have you anything to add, Mr Phinn?’ asked the head-teacher.
‘No, nothing,’ I murmured, attempting to take in what I had just heard. ‘Nothing at all.’
Later in her room, Mrs Gardiner sat behind her desk and remarked, ‘I think we made our point, don’t you think, Mr Phinn?’
I still had nothing to add.
I was not looking forward to my afternoon in Ugglemattersby. The meeting, held a short time earlier with the parents of the children who attended the two schools, could not have gone better. The gathering, held in the village hall, had been very well attended, and the general feeling was that the amalgamation was an excellent idea. The parents of the Juniors, especially, no doubt liked the idea of the modern, attractive premises. The two teachers from the Junior School, Mrs Battersby and Mrs Sidebottom, had sat at the back like stone statues, hands knotted tightly in their laps; it was clear that they were not in favour of the proposal and had simmered in angry silence.
Councillor Sidebottom, who had got up from his sickbed, determined to make this meeting, had soon discovered that the parents were vociferously in favour of the proposal. With an eye to the next county elections, he had obviously felt it prudent not to exacerbate his voters and had been remarkably restrained. He had explained that he was in an invidious position and could not speak freely, but had added that he did want to register his opposition. It would have been interesting to have been a fly on the wall in the Sidebottom home after the meeting. The evening had ended with the parents voting in favour of the change. I had even received some applause at the end of my presentation.
After this meeting, I had written to the two headteachers explaining my purpose for wanting to see them, and had enclosed copies of the proposals from the Education Committee. These two meetings were likely to be difficult since I anticipated that both Mr Harrison and Mrs Braddock-Smith would expect to take on the role of the new headteacher. I decided to see them separately to explain the situation and to sound out their views. Now, driving out of gloomy Crompton and into open countryside, I rehearsed what I would say.
The closure of a school, as I knew from personal as well as professional experience, often proved to be a highly contentious affair. Two of my colleagues had already found the process extremely stressful, as Miss de la Mare had predicted it would be. In the schools destined for closure that David and Geraldine had visited, parents, governors, local residents, former pupils and members of staff had objected strongly and that was only the beginning. Pressure groups were being formed, petitions raised, local councillors and even Members of Parliament were becoming involved, columns of newspaper articles were appearing, and there were interminable and a
crimonious meetings. If a school closure went ahead, there would be redeployments and redundancies accompanied by another set of disagreeable meetings and interviews.
Sidney, of course, could run through a minefield and emerge unscathed; his discussions, as he was at great pains to tell us, had gone ‘swimmingly’.
To my surprise and relief, Mrs Braddock-Smith had seemed veritably elated when, a few weeks before at the governors’ meeting, I had explained that the proposal was to close the Junior School and relocate the children on her premises. Now I was meeting with her to discuss the amalgamation in more detail.
‘Well, I think,’ she said with obvious self-satisfaction, ‘it’s the only course of action. There’s plenty of room on this site and, let’s face it, the Junior School is in decline.’ She sounded somewhat smug. ‘As you are aware, Mr Phinn, many of the children in the village, after an excellent start here in the Infants, are being sent by their parents to other primary schools and even to preparatory schools. It is a sad fact but true that the Junior School does not provide the sort of education these upwardly mobile, professional parents are looking for. Now, I don’t want to appear unprincipled, but Mr Harrison has not been an unmitigated success at the Juniors, has he? Sadly, for whatever reason, he has had his share of problems, and parents in the community just don’t have any confidence in the school. After all, at the recent meeting, the parents of the Juniors were in complete support for the merger, as were my parents. In my considered opinion, it’s a very appropriate move on the part of the county to close the Juniors and for the children to be educated at my school. I feel fully confident I can take on the headship of the amalgamated school and –’
‘It’s not quite as simple as that, Mrs Braddock-Smith,’ I told her, irritated by her smugness.
‘Oh?’
‘The schools will amalgamate, as you rightly say. It is proposed that the current Junior School will close and two temporary classrooms will be erected on this site to house the Junior children, until an extension is built.’
‘Isn’t that what I was saying?’ enquired the headteacher, looking puzzled.
‘The Infant School will also cease to exist,’ I said, ‘and become part of a county primary school with a new headteacher.’
‘A new headteacher!’ exclaimed Mrs Braddock-Smith. ‘How can there be a new headteacher when I am already in post?’ The colour drained from her face as what I had said sunk in.
‘Well, both you and Mr Harrison will be considered for the position in the first instance, and then if neither of you is appointed, it will go to national advert.’
‘You mean I will be in competition with Mr Harrison for the post?’ asked Mrs Braddock-Smith. ‘And it may go to national advert?’
‘Yes,’ I replied. She had obviously assumed that the position would be hers.
She gave a wry smile. ‘Well, I may sound as if I am blowing my own trumpet, Mr Phinn, but when you compare my track record with that of my colleague down the road, I should think there will be little doubt which one of us is the better suited for the position of headteacher at the new school. You yourself have seen the quality of the education I provide here and the excellent standard of work the children achieve. And, though I say so myself, I feel I run a school second to none in the county.’
‘That may very well be the case, Mrs Braddock-Smith,’ I told her, ‘but the appointment will be in the hands of the governors. I can only advise.’
‘My governors,’ she said, ‘have always greatly valued the work I have done here and know that I will be able to rise to the challenge.’
‘There will be a new governing body,’ I said, ‘comprising of governors from both schools.’
‘I see,’ said the headteacher. Mrs Braddock-Smith’s elation had evaporated like a burst balloon. She rose from her desk in queenly fashion. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I naturally assumed that I would be asked to become headteacher of the amalgamated schools. I thought that is why you wished to see me. As you might imagine, this has come as some surprise. I shall have to see what Archdeacon Richards has to say about all this – and my union. And now, if you will excuse me, Mr Phinn, I have a great deal to do. As you are no doubt aware, half-term starts this afternoon and there is much to be done before the children breakup for their holiday.’
Oh dear, I thought, a minute or so later as I stood at the gate looking back at the school building; this situation was likely to be more contentious than I had imagined. I sensed a presence behind me and, turning, discovered the same hawk-faced crossing patrol woman I had encountered when I had visited the Infant School earlier in the term. She was now wielding her lollipop sign emblazoned with ‘STOP!’ most aggressively.
‘I hear that you’re closing the Juniors,’ she said sharply.
‘Not me personally,’ I said.
‘Well, I don’t like the idea.’
‘Really? Why not?’
‘It will mean a whole lot of new kiddies coming to this school and crossing the road up here.’ She pushed her lollipop in my face.
‘That’s very likely,’ I told her, moving back a pace.
‘Older children, who can be real nuisances and not do what they’re told. And there’ll be many more cars hooting and puthering out exhaust fumes. It’ll be like a war zone up here. Well, will I be getting some help?’
‘I’ve really no idea.’
‘I hope I will because I won’t be able to cope on my own.’
‘It may well be,’ I said mischievously, ‘that the crossing patrol warden down at the Junior School, who I believe is extremely well thought of and very good humoured, is asked to take on the job up here.’ With that and a hearty ‘Good afternoon’, I headed for my next appointment, leaving the vision in luminous yellow open-mouthed and lost for words.
At the Junior School, Mr Harrison was waiting in the entrance to greet me. He looked a whole lot better than when I had last seen him at the parents’ meeting and was actually smiling.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn,’ he said cheerfully.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘It’s been a beautiful day, hasn’t it? Getting a bit nippy now, but it’s been bright and fresh.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, surprised by his obvious good humour.
I followed him to his room where he sat at his desk, rubbed his hands together vigorously and asked, ‘Cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you,’ I replied, bemused by his manner. Mr Harrison was grinning like a cat that had got the cream.
I had written to him after my last visit, explaining that I had seen the Chief Inspector with the intention of recommending that a thorough inspection of the school would take place, but events – namely, the proposed amalgamation of the two schools – had changed things.
‘As you know,’ I said now, ‘the plan is to close down this school and move the Juniors in with the Infants at the school up the road.’
The headteacher leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I think it’s an excellent idea,’ he said.
‘You do?’ I said, taken aback.
‘I do,’ he said. ‘Numbers are declining here, there’s plenty of space up at the Infants and I thinka fresh start with new teachers and a new headteacher will make all the difference.’ I considered for a moment how to approach the thorny question of the new headteacher. He must have been reading my mind. ‘And then, of course,’ he said, ‘there’ll be the appointment of the headteacher of the amalgamated schools.’
As at the meeting with the headteacher of Ugglemattersby Infant School, I explained that, in the first instance, he would be in competition with Mrs Braddock-Smith for the headship of the new school, and if neither was deemed satisfactory to the board of the newly-elected governors, then the position would be advertised nationally.
‘I think she deserves the job,’ he said. I detected a slight sardonic inflection in his voice.
‘Who?’
‘Mrs Braddock-Smith,’ he replied.
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br /> ‘You do?’
‘I do,’ he said. ‘She’s a very successful headteacher and runs a popular and high-achieving school, as she is always at great pains to point out, and I am certain she will rise admirably to the challenge.’ There was undisguised sarcasm in his voice.
‘So you won’t be applying for the post?’ I asked.
‘No, I won’t,’ he told me, a smile still playing across his face. ‘You see, I am resigning.’ He looked as pleased as Punch.
‘Resigning?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘My wife is a great one for telling me that things have the habit of working out for the best. Well, I’m pleased to say that they have now for me. The chairman of governors of my last school down in London phoned me a few weeks ago, when I was at my lowest ebb, to tell me that the present headteacher is retiring at the end of this term. He asked if I would consider putting in an application for the post. I was, of course, very flattered. I then received such encouraging letters from my former colleagues on the staff urging me to apply. Why, even the caretaker wrote asking me to return. I cannot tell you how I felt receiving such letters. I applied, went for the interview last week and was offered the position. So, you see, Mr Phinn, the amalgamation of the schools is all academic as far as I am concerned. I shall be returning to London.’
‘Well, congratulations,’ I said, and meant it.
‘And I do hope that Mrs Braddock-Smith is appointed as the headteacher of the new primary school, I sincerely do.’ He looked well pleased with the situation. ‘She always told me that she welcomed a challenge and I have no doubt in my mind that should Mrs Battersby and Mrs Sidebottom be redeployed to the new school, they will provide her with all the challenge she needs.’
20
It was the opening night of The Dame of Sark and I was ready to head off home from the Staff Development Centre, shower, change, have some tea and get to the Fettlesham Little Theatre in good time. Much to the cast’s amazement and despite Raymond’s frequent panic attacks and periodic theatrical outbursts, the production had fallen into place and it seemed that we might not make total fools of ourselves on the night.
The Heart of the Dales Page 29
