The Heart of the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

‘Hello, Andy,’ I said.

  ‘Ere on hofficial business, are tha?’ he asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ I told him.

  ‘Are tha closin’ t’school down, then?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘By the way, the garden is looking really good.’

  ‘An’ t’gutterin’?’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘An’ no more squirrels?’

  ‘Not one.’

  ‘’As thy’eard abaat mi Uncle’Arry?’ the boy asked.

  ‘No, what?’ I replied.

  ‘’E’s been barred.’

  ‘Barred?’ I repeated.

  ‘From t’Royal Oak. New landlord got sick on’im complainin’ all t’time, moanin’ abaat all t’changes so’e barred’im. Telled’im not to come back an’ to tekhis pals wi’ im.’

  ‘All four have been banned?’ I asked. ‘That’s a bit much.’

  ‘Well, to be’onest, Mester Phinn, it were a bit cheeky-like fer mi Uncle’Arry to get up this pertition an’ ask people comin’ into t’pub to sign it.’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ I said, although it was just the thing Harry Cotton would do, I thought to myself.

  ‘Any road,’e’s in a reight temper these days, angry as an’ungry ferret in a sack.’

  ‘I’ll remember to keep out of his way,’ I said.

  ‘Well, let us know if there’s owt else I can’elp thee wi’.’

  ‘There is something,’ I said, having a sudden and inspired thought. ‘Could you walkwith me to the car? I’d like a quiet word with you.’ When we were out of earshot of the other boys, I stopped. ‘Andy,’ I said, ‘there’s a boy in the first year here at West Challerton called Terry Moss up. He’s a bit of a loner, small for his age with ginger hair.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon I’ve seen’im abaat. Funny kid. Allus on’is own.’

  ‘Well, he’s had a fair bit of trouble in his life and I thinkyou can be of help.’

  ‘What’s tha want me to do then, Mester Phinn?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s being bullied by three older and much bigger boys and it occurred to me that –’

  He finished my sentence. ‘Tha wants me to put a stop to it.’

  ‘Well, what I was thinking was, that you might –’

  ‘No problem, Mester Phinn,’ he said. ‘I’ll fettle it for thee. Nob’dy’ll pickon’im from now on. I’ates bullies, there’s summat up wi’em. Anyone who likes to mek others upset must be a bit tapped in t’ead.’

  ‘I don’t want you to do anything in particular, Andy,’ I said. ‘Just keep a watchful eye on Terry.’

  The boy winked. ‘I follow yer drift, Mester Phinn,’ he said knowingly, tapping the side of his nose. ‘I’ll not do nowt in particular.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘But there’s summat tha can do fer me,’ he told me.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I replied. ‘What that?’

  ‘Keep thee gob shut abaat t’smokin’.’

  22

  On a morning towards the end of November, I visited King Henry’s College in Brindcliffe to observe some English lessons. On my previous visit, I had been mostly impressed with the quality of teaching. The exception was the head of department, Mr Frobisher, a pale-complexioned individual, with large hooded eyes magnified behind rimless spectacles. He seemed to be totally devoid of humour and had the arrogance of a Spanish conquistador.

  Following my very critical report, he had decided to take early retirement.

  I was surprised this morning, however, to find Mrs Todd back at King Henry’s. When I had first met her, here at this school, she had recently retired as the head of the English Department in a large comprehensive. She had been persuaded to do some supply teaching at King Henry’s and had been there during the Frobisher affair. She had told me some time later that she was moving on to The Lady Cavendish High School for Girls, to cover for a maternity leave. She was a petite woman with neatly-permed, tinted hair and clear rather piercing blue eyes behind small round spectacles. Having sat in on one of her lessons, I knew she was someone who clearly enjoyed the challenge presented her by lively, intelligent but sometimes rather difficult and demanding students, and that, I suppose, was why she had been prevailed upon to return to the classroom once her own family had grown up.

  She met me now outside the staff room, and she explained as we walked together to her classroom.

  ‘My contract at The Lady Cavendish ended when the teacher I was covering for returned to work. She had a little boy called Harry, by the way.’

  ‘And you were persuaded to come back here as the acting head of department?’ I said.

  ‘Dragooned more like.’ She laughed. ‘After Mr Frobisher left, they appointed a teacher who I believe they were pleased with. Most unfortunately, however, she had to stand down when her teenage son was involved in a serious motor cycle accident during the summer holidays, and now requires round-the-clock care at home. The school got in touch with me, and here I am.’

  ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ I said warmly. ‘And you don’t mind being back in the old routine?’

  ‘No, I am very happy to be back in the classroom. It didn’t take much to persuade me. When I’m away from school, I miss teaching terribly.’

  The sixth form group stood up when we entered the classroom.

  ‘Do please sit down, boys,’ said the teacher. She faced the class and smiled. ‘It will not have escaped your notice that we have a visitor with us today. This is Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ The speaker, sitting at one of the front desks, was a gangly boy with lanky brown hair and angry acne across his forehead and cheeks. ‘I know you, don’t I?’

  I recognised the boy immediately. Who could forget such a character? I had met Hugo Maxwell-Smith on my last visit to King Henry’s. He had been extremely obstreperous, constantly challenging Mr Frobisher, trying to catch him out, or making some clever comment and demonstrating his undoubted ability. He was an extremely bright but belligerent student. I wondered how Mrs Todd was coping with such a tricky and troublesome individual.

  ‘Do you?’ I asked the boy innocently.

  ‘You’re the school inspector,’ said the boy. ‘The man in black who sits in the corner of our classroom with his little note book and a set of questions. I’m sure you remember.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, recalling well the occasion when the boy had grilled me. ‘Who exactly are you?’ he had asked ‘And what is it that you do?’ When I had informed him that it was usually the inspector and not the pupils who asked the questions, he had replied, ‘But surely in a good school, the pupils are encouraged to ask questions, are they not?’

  ‘You will have to be careful, Mrs Todd,’ Hugo told her with a smirk on his face. ‘It was after Mr Phinn’s last visit to King Henry’s that Mr Frobisher suddenly and mysteriously left. I think the term is “The Kiss of Death”.’

  ‘I shall have to watch my step then, Hugo, won’t I?’ replied Mrs Todd pleasantly. ‘Now, why don’t you get out your books and we can begin.’

  The lesson was extremely well taught but, as expected, Hugo was at pains to be clever and an insufferable show-off. When asked by the teacher what was Romeo’s last wish he replied, ‘To get laid by Juliet.’

  The innuendo was not lost on the teacher who remained unflustered and affable. ‘By that, do you mean Romeo wished to be buried in the crypt next to Juliet, Hugo, or to have sex with her? You really have to be more explicit in what you mean.’

  The boy didn’t give up and continued to try and embarrass the teacher. ‘There’s a lot of erotic imagery in the play,’ he observed, ‘isn’t there, Mrs Todd?’

  ‘Indeed there is, Hugo,’ said the teacher, ‘but then there is a great deal of sexual language in many of Shakespeare’s plays. It appealed to the groundlings, just as smutty humour and suggestive allusions appeal to some people today.’ She gave him a long and knowing look. ‘So what was the point you wished to ma
ke?’

  ‘It was just an observation,’ replied the boy.

  ‘Well, thank you for that,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘I am most grateful to you for pointing it out, and I am sure that I don’t need to spell out all the sexual allusions to you, Hugo, do I, your being a man of the world?’ There were a few sniggers from the rest of the class. ‘But if you are unsure about anything, I shall be most happy to explain things.’

  ‘Of course I know what they mean,’ he replied, clearly put out, ‘but –’

  ‘Was there something else?’ asked the teacher.

  ‘No,’ said the boy.

  ‘Then we can get on,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘Perhaps, Hugo, you might like to read on from where we were at the last lesson. Act 1, Scene 5, line 47.’

  The boy sighed and read the verse in a sing-song manner:

  O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright.

  It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night

  Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop’s ear;

  Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

  So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,

  As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.

  ‘Hugo,’ said the teacher, in mock-horror, ‘you have the greatest words of love at your disposal and you are reading them like an inventory. I want to hear passion in your voice. Romeo’s smitten, he can hardly breathe for love of this beautiful young woman.’

  ‘Can someone else read it, Mrs Todd,’ said the boy, blushing and clearly irritated. ‘I think it’s rather soppy.’

  ‘Self-indulgently sentimental, I think might be a better description if you were making this observation on your examination paper. Examiners do not take kindly to colloquialisms. But, of course, I don’t agree with you that this is mawkish. I think the lines are rather beautiful. Perhaps, Hugo,’ she said smiling, ‘when you are in love, the words of Romeo might ring true.’

  There were more titters from the class.

  The boy brooded for much of the lesson but as it neared morning break he thought he would have another salvo. ‘Mrs Todd,’ he said, ‘you know you said there is a lot of sexual language in many of Shakespeare’s plays.’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the teacher.

  ‘I’ve never been quite sure,’ he said, nudging the boy next to him, ‘what the difference is between the word “erotic” and the word “kinky”.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I can explain,’ said the teacher, without the least sign of any embarrassment. ‘Let me see. “Erotic”, I think, comes from the French érotique meaning “sexual love”, but “kinky” will have a much more recent provenance. Let me give you an example. To have a long soft ostrich feather brushed enticingly across your cheek by a beautiful woman might be considered erotic. To use the whole ostrich would be, I guess, regarded as kinky. Does that explain?’

  ‘Yes, miss,’ replied the boy sullenly, as the rest of the class burst out laughing.

  After the lesson, when I was chatting with Mrs Todd, she said, ‘I think I mentioned on the last occasion we met, Mr Phinn, that I have brought up four boys of my own and know all too well how the adolescent’s mind works. I taught for many years in a tough inner-city school, and I have always found that the rebellious and unmanageable boys tend to seek attention by misbehaving or trying to provoke the teacher. There is nothing I haven’t seen or heard when it comes to teenagers. Hugo tries it on but he will soon learn that I am not the one to rise to his clever comments.’

  ‘I thought you handled him very well,’ I said. ‘I remember what a thorn in the flesh he was for Mr Frobisher.’

  ‘I know I might sound uncharitable,’ she said, ‘but Mr Frobisher did rather ask for it. I remember the time the school staged the Scottish play. Mr Frobisher, rather puritan in his views, if you recall, tinkered about with the text in case anything should give offence to anyone in the audience. Our colleague, the inestimable Mr Poppleton, was incensed that anyone should have the impertinence to alter Shakespeare but Mr Frobisher carried on regardless, chopping and changing. He told young Hugo, who was playing the part of King Duncan, to adjust the language of his very first line. You may remember, Mr Phinn, that in Macbeth, the King, seeing a survivor of the battle staggering on to the stage, asks his attendants, “What bloody man is that?” Hugo, as directed, changed the line to his own version, “And who’s that silly bugger, then?” You can imagine Mr Frobisher’s reaction!’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘Hugo will either end up in prison or become a very successful barrister like his father.’

  Later that morning, I arrived at Westgarth Primary School. I had visited this school, an ugly, sprawling building enclosed by black iron railings, when I had first started as a school inspector. I had accompanied Harold Yeats, the then Senior Inspector, and we had been mistaken for the men from the Premises and Maintenance Section of the Education Department who were due to come to fix the leak in the boys’ toilets.

  I had made a return visit to Westgarth School the following year to speak at a parents’ meeting and had found the chairman of governors, Mr Parsons, to be an insufferable individual. He was loud, extremely portly, and had a profound sense of his own importance. He had berated me, as I prepared to give my talk, about the decline in educational standards, the lack of discipline and manners in the young and the increase in juvenile crime. I had listened to him wearily.

  As I made my way up the path to the school entrance now, to attend the interview panel for a new deputy headteacher, I hoped that Mr Parsons wouldn’t be there, but I knew full well he would be, no doubt spouting his outrageous views. I noticed a red sports car parked in the road outside the school, which told me that Dr Gore’s representative on the panel, the redoubtable Mrs Savage, had already arrived. This was likely, I thought, to prove a very interesting morning.

  I could hear the chairman of governors’ loud and abrasive voice at the end of the corridor as I approached the head teacher’s room. Taking a deep breath I knocked and entered. There were five people present, four of whom were being lectured by Mr Parsons. The speaker stopped mid-sentence when he saw me. ‘So, if you want my opinion –’

  ‘Good morning,’ I said brightly.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Parsons. ‘It’s Mr Flynn. We can make a start now you’ve arrived.’ There was the hint of criticism in his voice.

  ‘Phinn,’ I said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Thornton, the headteacher, moving forward to shake my hand. ‘Thank you for coming.’

  Mrs Thornton was dressed in a thick green tweed suit in contrast to the CEO’s Personal Assistant who was standing by the window. Mrs Savage was attired in an elegant salmoncoloured dress with a black velvet jacket. She looked as stylish as ever. ‘You know Mrs Savage, of course,’ continued the headteacher, ‘but may I introduce two of my governors, Mrs Smethurst and Mrs Curry.’ The headteacher gave me a knowing look as she said, ‘And, of course, you’ve met Mr Parsons.’

  ‘Well, now we’re all here,’ said the chairman of governors, ‘shall we make a start? I’ve a business to run and don’t want these interviews dragging on.’

  ‘I don’t think it will take us long,’ the headteacher told him. She turned to me. ‘Unfortunately, two of the candidates have pulled out at the last minute so we only have three applicants to consider. I did suggest to Mr Parsons that perhaps we ought to re-advertise –’

  ‘But I said we should go ahead,’ he interrupted. ‘I’m the sort of person who likes to get things done.’

  The interviews took place in the school hall. The six of us, with Mr Parsons positioned in the centre, sat in a row at a long trestle table in front of which was a hard-backed chair for the interviewee.

  First of all, the candidates’ application forms were considered by the governors and the headteacher and, much to my horror when I heard the name, it became clear that the chairman had a preferred choice. Neither Mrs Savage, who was present to record the deliberations and report back to Dr Gore, nor I, who always preferred to wait until I had seen a
nd heard what each applicant had to say, gave an opinion. However, from what I had read on the application form, one of the candidates seemed eminently suitable, another was a strong possibility and the third, Mr Parson’s obvious favourite, was quite unsuitable.

  I had met Miss Pinkney, the first candidate, when I had inspected St Catherine’s, a school for those with ‘special needs’, some two years earlier and had been very impressed by her teaching. I had arrived in the hall to watch a drama lesson, where I had met this larger-than-life, bubbly, middle-aged woman with long hair gathered up in a tortoiseshell comb. She had been dressed in a bright pink and yellow Lycra tracksuit, and I remember thinking at the time that she looked like a huge chunk of Battenberg cake.

  ‘Come along in, Mr Phinn,’ she had boomed. ‘Shoes by the door, jacket on a peg. There’s a spare leotard if you want to slip into it.’ When she had seen the appalled look on my face, she had added, ‘Only joking!’ She had then informed me that her students, all of whom were disabled but ‘very talented’, were her ‘stars’. It was transparent that this teacher had a very positive relationship with the children; she was sensitive, encouraging, and good-humoured.

  I had met a cheerful and obviously clever young man at St Catherine’s whose ambition was to study English at university. Michael, aged sixteen, had been blind since birth but announced when I spoke to him that his blindness was not a ‘handicap’ nor a ‘disability’; it was ‘more of an inconvenience’ and that if sighted people like myself were a little more considerate and put things back in their proper place, then he wouldn’t bang into them. I had learnt to read Braille when I had studied for a teaching diploma but had become very rusty and Michael had been most amused at my miserable efforts to decipher the dots on the page.

  ‘Not the world’s best reader,’ he had told me, good naturedly. ‘I think you need to brush up on your Braille, Mr Phinn.’

  He’d had no problems, of course, reading the text and his fingers had moved across the page at a remarkable speed.

  ‘You’re a pretty important person, aren’t you?’ Michael had told me.

  ‘Not really.’