‘Do you think he will?’ I asked.
‘I’m sure he will,’ said David. ‘As you know, when Harold is roused it is not a pleasant sight.’
‘I feel a bit guilty now, for being in such a good mood,’ I said. ‘I wasn’t the most sympathetic of listeners.’
‘Oh, Sidney will get over it. He does tend to make a drama out of things. I wonder where on earth he has got to? He has been gone for over two hours.’
‘Probably stormed off in a huff,’ I. suggested.
‘Poor Sidney,’ said David, screwing the top back on his pen. ‘He does get into a state but it soon blows over. Well, I’m off home and if I don’t see you tomorrow, Gervase, enjoy your weekend with that lovely wife of yours. How is Christine incidentally?’
‘She’s fine,’ I told him.
‘You are a very lucky man, Gervase,’ said David, rising from his chair and stretching.
‘Yes, I know,’ I replied.
As I drove home, I pondered on David’s words. Yes, I was indeed a very lucky man. The Easter before, on a bright, cloudless spring morning, I had married the most beautiful, talented and gentle woman in the world, Miss Christine Bentley, headteacher of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School. I had met her a few weeks after starting in my post as county English inspector and for me it had been love at first sight. We had honeymooned in the Lake District and had returned to our dreamy Peewit Cottage in the village of Hawksrill in the Dales. The dream cottage, in fact, had wood-worm, dry rot, rising damp, cracked walls, broken guttering and nearly every conceivable problem but we had fallen in love with the magnificent views and after spending most of our spare time renovating and refurbishing, it was beginning to take shape.
At the end of the previous summer term Christine had told me the most wonderful news – that I was to be a father the following spring. So everything in the world seemed right: home, family, friends and job. I was cycling along that country lane of David’s on a bright summer’s day without a care in the world. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, the fresh wind was blowing through my hair and nothing and nobody could possibly spoil the sense of elation I felt.
Little did I know that there was someone lurking in the bushes ready to push the thundering great stick through my spokes.
3
The frosted glass at the reception desk at King Henry’s College slid back sharply and I was confronted by a tall, thin, hawk-faced school secretary with small, cold blue eyes behind unfashionable horn-rimmed spectacles. She gave me a stony stare. The feeling of pleasant anticipation I had felt as I had strolled up the long drive to the imposing school building immediately dissipated.
‘Would you mind not tapping on the glass,’ she told me in a superior voice. ‘There is a buzzer, you know.’
‘Where?’ I enquired innocently, giving her an exaggerated smile and looking into the pale blue eyes.
She poked her head through the hatch like a tortoise emerging from its shell, and tutted noisily. ‘The buzzer is under those registers, which should not have been left there,’ she announced, giving me an accusatory glare as though I were the culprit. She snatched up the registers and pulled them through the window and into the office. There was a great in-drawing of breath. ‘The number of times I tell the students not to leave the registers there,’ she said to no one in particular. ‘I might just as well talk to myself for all the notice they take.’
I continued to smile and await the apology but it soon became apparent that none would be forthcoming.
‘Now,’ she said, ‘may I help you?’ Her face remained dramatically tight-lipped and stern, and her voice retained its weary condescension.
‘I hope so,’ I said pleasantly. ‘I have an appointment.’
‘With whom?’
‘The headmaster.’
She began flicking through a large black book. ‘At what time?’
‘At a quarter to nine.’
She glanced up at the clock on the office wall. ‘You’re rather early.’
‘I often am.’
She continued to turn the pages. ‘And you are?’
I passed through the brown envelope that I had received from the school the week before. It was addressed to: ‘Mr Gervase R. Phiss, Inspector of Schools, The Inspectors’ Division, Education Office, County Hall, Fettlesham, Yorkshire.’ Had my welcome been rather warmer, I would have pointed out that the name was Phinn and not Phiss, but after the reception I had just received, I did not feel quite so charitable, so I said nothing.
Having scrutinised the envelope, the secretary’s manner changed instantly. ‘Oh, oh, yes, the school inspector.’ She allowed herself a small, thin-lipped smile. ‘I’m so sorry, I thought you were a parent or a book salesman. It’s always very hectic here. I never seem to have a minute to myself. It’s like Euston Station at rush hour. Do please take a seat in the waiting-room, Mr Phiss. I shall inform Mr Nelson that you have arrived.’
In the small room a rather harassed-looking woman with wispy greying hair sat straight-backed with her hands clasped tightly together on her lap. With her was an equally harassed-looking boy of about eleven. They both shifted uneasily on their chairs. The boy, who had a pale face, looked up when he saw me approaching and began twiddling his hair nervously.
The woman stood and extended a hand. ‘Mr Nelson?’
‘No, no,’ I replied, ‘I’m not the headmaster. I’m just a visitor.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were Mr Nelson.’ She sat down and swept away a stray strand of hair from her face. ‘Nerve-racking, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘What is?’ I asked, sitting next to her.
‘Meeting the headmaster. I know I shouldn’t get into this state but I always have had a dread of headteachers’ offices. It brings back unhappy memories.’ I smiled. ‘We’ve an appointment at nine. It’s John’s first day, you see.’ She turned to the boy and gave a weak smile. ‘He should have started with all the other boys last week but he’s just got over glandular fever. He’s a bit nervous, so I thought I’d come along with him.’ A boy of eleven is quite capable of making his own way to school, I thought to myself, but I said nothing. ‘He’s worried that all the other boys will have made friends by now and he’ll be left out.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And he’s a bit on the sensitive side.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much,’ I assured the boy. ‘You’ll soon settle in and make friends.’
‘I do hope so.’ The woman sounded unconvinced. ‘He’s got asthma, as well, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘I wanted to see the headmaster, to tell him. He’s not the most confident child.’ The boy continued to twiddle his hair. ‘He’s an only one. My husband thinks I’m a bit over-protective, to be honest.’ Her husband was right. ‘We arrived early just to be on the safe side. You see, we had to catch two buses. I thought I’d come with him on his first day. Show him how to get here and make sure he’s all right.’
‘You’ll be fine, John,’ I told the boy.
The boy pulled a tragic face but: remained resolutely silent.
His mother prodded him. ‘Sit up, John, and stop fiddling with your hair, for goodness sake. If you do that in front of Mr Nelson, he won’t be very impressed.’ She turned her attention back to me. ‘Of course, he did very well to get in at King Henry’s. Very good results. Excellent sporting facilities. Music’s very good too. There’s a waiting list as long as my arm for places.’ She began wringing her hands. ‘Yes, it’s a very good school.’ The boy looked up glumly. ‘There were only three in his primary school who passed the entrance examination, you know.’
‘Good,’ I said to the boy. ‘Well done.’
The boy continued to stare into the middle distance, a glum expression on his face.
‘He had a private tutor,’ his mother told me. ‘Cost an arm and a leg, but you do the best you can, don’t you?’
‘Are you looking forward to starting, John?’ I asked the boy.
‘It’s the best sc
hool in the area,’ the woman told me proudly before the boy could reply.
I would reserve my judgement on that one, I thought to myself. If the icy reception was anything to go by, things did not bode well.
I had visited many schools during the relatively short time I had been a school inspector and was always intrigued and often amused by the reception I received. On some occasions I would be welcomed like a long lost relative, all smiles and handshakes, at other times it was as if the Gestapo had turned up. On one occasion I was mistaken for a Mr Davies. The headteacher had been devastated to learn that I was a school inspector, there to look at lessons and not the plumber to fix the smell in the boys’ lavatories. Usually the school secretary greeted me with courtesy and good humour. It was rare, however, to be addressed with such polar hostility as I had been that morning. The cold blue eyes of the school secretary at King Henry’s could freeze soup in kitchen pans.
The woman in question appeared before me. Her manner was distinctly different now. ‘Mr Phiss,’ she said, allowing herself another thin-lipped smile, ‘the headmaster will see you, if you would care to follow me.’ She ignored the woman and her son who looked up expectantly on her arrival.
‘Good luck,’ I said to the boy, getting to my feet.
‘Say thank you to the man,’ prompted his mother.
He stared up morosely and shrugged.
The secretary strode ahead of me, her heels clicking on the hard floor. There was the same smell in the air I recalled from my school days: stale cabbage, disinfectant and floor polish. There was the same long, cold corridor I remembered too, the wooden block floor, the high ceilings, the quadrangle, the heavy oak doors to the classrooms. It was like going back in time.
At the school secretary’s approach the hubbub of noise in the corridors subsided and the pupils opened their crowded ranks to allow her to sweep through.
‘It’s a most unusual name, Phiss,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘Is it foreign?’
‘Actually –’ I began, about to enlighten her.
‘I can’t say I’ve ever heard the name Phiss before,’ she continued. ‘We have a boy here called Phipps, a Phillips, and another called Phillpots. Oh yes, and there’s a Phillimore, but I have never heard the name Phiss.’
‘It’s French Huguenot,’ I told her, keeping a straight face.
‘Really?’
‘My ancestors came over with the weavers in the seventeenth century after severe persecution at the hands of Henry of Navarre. My mother’s still not quite got over it.’
‘Oh, I am sorry,’ she said, in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘Actually, it’s not pronounced Phiss.’
‘Is it not?’
‘No,’ I said mischievously, ‘it has a silent “aitch”.’
We arrived at the headmaster’s study. Mr Nelson rose from his desk to greet me.
‘Headmaster,’ said the school secretary, her face as solemn as ever. ‘This is the inspector of schools, Mr… er… Pice.’
Mr Nelson was a gaunt, middle-aged man with grizzled grey hair and a pained expression. A black academic gown, with long dangling sleeves, enveloped his lean frame, giving him the appearance of a giant spider. Through small, rimless spectacles he surveyed me critically like a doctor might a patient, before extending a long, cold hand.
‘Mr… er…’ he began.
‘Phinn,’ I said. ‘There was a misspelling on your letter.’
‘You might have said!’ snapped the school secretary, her face white with displeasure and a fierce light in the small blue eyes.
‘Thank you, Mrs Winterton,’ said Mr Nelson with elaborate courtesy. The school secretary had not remained for his instruction to depart and was already heading for the door at high speed, tut-tutting as she went.
When she had gone the headmaster sat down, tapped his long fingers edgily on the desk and confided in a low voice, ‘Mrs Winterton can be a trifle sharp at times, but she is quite indispensable. Worth her weight in the proverbial.’
More like a pain in the proverbial, I thought to myself. ‘I’m sure she is,’ I replied. ‘I did try and tell her that there was a misprint on the letter.’ The headmaster stared at me blankly. ‘ “Phiss” instead of “Phinn”,’ I elaborated.
‘Quite. I have mentioned about her typing,’ said the headmaster, ‘but she can be very touchy.’
‘Yes, I’m sure she can.’
‘Well, Mr Phinn, do take a seat.’ He indicated an uncomfortable-looking, ladderback chair placed to the front of his desk. ‘So, you are to spend a day in the school inspecting the English Department?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied.
The headmaster raised his head slowly, rubbed his chin and sighed. He resembled a wounded admiral watching the return of his defeated fleet. ‘Not the best time, I have to say, the beginning of term, for a school inspection, when things are especially busy. I did point this out in my reply to you when you informed me of this proposed visitation. No, not the best time at all. The new school year has barely started, teachers are just becoming acquainted with their classes, getting to grips with the timetables, sorting out their rooms, et cetera. Indeed, I have an exceptionally busy day ahead of me with a Management meeting and then the Governors’ Finance Sub-committee and numerous other pressing commitments. This morning I have to see several parents, including one who is contesting our decision not to accept his son at the school. All very trying. As you will no doubt be aware, we are very heavily oversubscribed here at King Henry’s. And it’s such a tedious and time-consuming business this interviewing, and is not without its stresses.’ He paused. ‘But, of course, the Education Department, in its infinite wisdom, does insist on these appeals being heard.’ I felt it politic not to enter this particular debate and remained silent. ‘So, as I said, Mr Phinn, your visit has come at a most inconvenient time.’
I looked directly at him and he returned my gaze. ‘I should imagine there is never a convenient time for a school inspection, Mr Nelson,’ I told him amiably. ‘As I explained in my letter, however, I do have a very busy programme of visits to schools this term and I must start somewhere. King Henry’s is high on my list.’
‘High on your list,’ repeated the headmaster, twisting his mouth to one side and cocking his head. ‘My goodness! That does sound ominous.’
‘Not at all,’ I assured him, ‘it’s just a short day’s visit to look at the English teaching in the school. According to my records, it’s been quite some time since you have had an inspector in the English Department. Indeed, I have not been in the school before and I have been working for the Education Department for three years. I thought it high time that I paid you a visit. As you are aware, the last inspection was carried out by my predecessor, Mrs Young, shortly before I started.’ He looked at me sceptically. ‘It is quite routine. I am sure everything will be fine.’
Mr Nelson took a slow, deep breath. His face was noble in its pallor. ‘I did say in my letter to you, Mr Phinn, that I would have preferred a more suitable time.’ He sat in thoughtful silence for a moment, drumming his long fingers on the desk top, no doubt awaiting a response. Perhaps he expected me to agree with him, arrange a visit for a future date and depart forthwith. When I remained firmly tight-lipped, he nodded and continued, his voice hardening a fraction. ‘Well, if you are to join us for the day, I am sure you will find things in order. As you will have surmised from the details you asked me to send to you, our examination results are outstanding.’
They were certainly good, I thought, but not outstanding. The girls’ high school achieved much better results. Anyway, King Henry’s was a grammar school for which only the brightest pupils in the area were selected by examination and personal interview. As David had rightly pointed out to me, the school should indeed attain good results.
‘And I have to say,’ continued the headmaster, ‘Mr Frobisher, the head of the English Faculty, is not entirely enthusiastic about th
e visit. You will find him a somewhat formal and traditional teacher, one of the “old school”, and he does have his share of –’ There was a sharp knock on the door, interrupting the flow. ‘Ah, that must be him now. I asked him to join us before lessons commence. Come!’
Mr Frobisher bore an unnerving resemblance to the headmaster. He was also a lean, sallow-complexioned man with heavy-lidded eyes and a pained expression. The only difference was the hair. Whereas Mr Nelson’s was grizzled, Mr Frobisher’s hair was straight and black and carefully parted down one side. He too wore rimless spectacles and a capacious black gown.
‘Good morning,’ he intoned, giving me a calculating stare.
Oh dear, oh dear, I thought to myself, another chilly reception. I took a deep breath, stood and smiled. ‘Good morning.’
‘This is Mr Phinn,’ the headmaster told him. ‘The school inspector.’
‘I thought it was Mr Fish.’
‘There was a misprint on the letter,’ explained the headmaster. ‘Mrs Winterton again, I’m afraid.’
‘Oh,’ said the head of English. ‘Well, I have to say, today is a very inopportune time for your visit, Mr Phinn.’
‘The headmaster has pointed this out to me, Mr Frobisher,’ I explained, not wishing to rehearse the whole conversation again. ‘I appreciate that the beginning of term is not the best of times, but I do have a heavy schedule of visits over the next few weeks.’ Before he could answer I looked theatrically at my watch and continued. ‘I see the lessons are about to begin. Perhaps we should make a start?’
Up and Down in the Dales Page 4
