‘Why should I, sir?’ he replied. ‘It’s the truth. I’m not ashamed of it. My father says it is always best to be honest.’
‘He sounds a remarkable man, your father.’
‘He is, sir. He works hard, he takes me to the cinema, football matches, once we went to the theatre. We like to go for long walks and we talk about things a lot. We can talk about anything. He’s just… well, special, you know.’
‘And what quality do you admire most in this very special father of yours?’ I asked.
The boy thought for a moment, staring at his book and biting his bottom lip. Then he looked up and into my eyes. ‘When he makes a mistake, my father says he’s sorry. Grown-ups don’t tend to do that. If my father gets it wrong, he says so. He says it’s not being weak to admit you don’t always get things right or that you don’t know something.’
I thought of the strident newspaper article the previous class had been asked to consider. The tub-thumping journalist who had little good to say about the younger generation ought to meet this polite, mature for his age, young student. There are many, many children who come from loving homes and are in the hands of hard-working and dedicated teachers but they are not the ones who appear on the front pages of newspapers. Boys like Russell do not make news.
‘Sir?’ The boy’s voice broke into my thoughts.
‘Oh, I’m sorry!’ I exclaimed. ‘I was miles away. I was just thinking about what you said. Well, Russell, I hope that if I have a son, he will speak about me in the same way as you speak about your father.’
‘That’s really up to you, isn’t it, sir?’ replied the boy, smiling broadly.
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I said.
When the bell sounded, the boys packed their bags, stood behind their desks and waited to be dismissed.
‘Please complete your poem for homework,’ the teacher told the class, ‘learn the spellings I gave you yesterday and remember half an hour’s reading every night. I tell them frequently, Mr Phinn, that they cannot become great writers unless they are great readers, for on the back of reading is writing. Good advice, eh?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.
‘Good morning, boys,’ trumpeted Mr Poppleton.
‘Good morning, sir, good morning, Mr Phinn,’ they answered and filed out of the room.
‘You have some talented pupils, Mr Poppleton,’ I told him as we headed across the school yard. ‘The work I have seen this morning was of an extremely high standard.’
‘Yes, they are very good, but you would expect no less in a selective school. And I cannot really take credit for the standard of their work. The boys have only been at the school for less than two weeks and therefore any talent they have or good work they produce is down to their previous schools.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
‘Pupils of this calibre are sometimes a little daunting, I have to say,’ he continued, ‘but I have always been of the opinion that teachers should show children the ropes and not be at all surprised if they manage to climb higher than they. I’m sure somebody famous said that. Indeed some, like Kirit and Russell, will be making ropes of their own before long. Now, Mr Phinn, would you care to partake of a pre-prandial cup of tea prior to braving the school dining room and a plate of Mrs Payne’s chicken nuggets and chips? Had Napoleon used Mrs Payne’s chicken nuggets in his cannons at Waterloo instead of balls, the unfortunate emperor would, without a doubt, have won the day. They are like grapeshot, but few would hazard to tell her so.’
‘That’s kind, Mr Poppleton, but I want to look in at the library and see what is the extent and range of the stock. I need to report on the available resources, as well as on the teaching.’
‘Ho, ho,’ he chuckled. ‘I shall await your observations on our college library with great interest.’
We had now arrived at the bicycle sheds where a knot of boys were in loud and intense discussion about a particularly impressive-looking machine with a shiny black frame and silver handlebars.
‘What have we here?’ asked Mr Poppleton. ‘A little conversazione?’
‘Oh no, sir,’ said one of the boys, patting the bicycle they were discussing. ‘It’s a Raleigh Mustang.’
With a resounding laugh, the amazing Mr Poppleton scurried off in the direction of the school dining room for his chicken nuggets.
5
As soon as I entered through the heavy doors of the school library, I knew exactly what Mr Poppleton meant by his enigmatic observation. It was a cold, gloomy room with wall-to-wall shelving in dark oak. There was not a student in sight, which was hardly surprising given the temperature and the inhospitable atmosphere. As I had told Mr Poppleton, I always tried to find the time to check the school library even if it meant I had to do it during lunch – not that I had much appetite for chicken nuggets. I had come across some weird and wonderful titles in my time, most of which should have been thrown out onto the bonfire years ago. I made a habit of jotting down some of the worst into a notebook. They often came in handy when I was invited to give after-dinner talks.
I scanned the dull green and grey covers of the books on the shelves, and knew immediately I would be able to add to my collection: Travels in Southern Rhodesia, Harmless Scientific Experiments for Boys (I had once found the equivalent book for girls), The Stately Houses of Scotland (five volumes), The Collected Sermons of Bishop Francis Feasby. I prised a dusty volume entitled Britannia’s Empire from the shelf. I opened the book at random and read: ‘Pygmies are savage little black men but all loyal subjects of George V.’
The library of King Henry’s College appeared not to have been updated for many years. I found Scouts in Bondage by Henry Prout, The Skull of Swift by Sir Shane Leslie, Exhibition Poultry by George R. Scott, The Walking Stick Method of Self Defence by an Officer of the Indian Army, Leadership Secrets of Attila the Hun by Wess Roberts PhD and, perhaps most bizarre of all, Flashes from the Welsh Pulpit by the Rev G. Davies. These were for the collector of the weird and wonderful but not of any interest to teenagers. I looked in vain for the bright glossy-backed paperbacks and sports magazines that appeal to adolescent boys but found none. I discovered a selection of more modern books in the fiction section but the non-fiction stock was lamentably out-of-date and inappropriate.
I sat at a solid square table so typical of those found in old-fashioned libraries and began writing up some comments and recommendations about the lessons I had seen that morning, but found my mind kept wandering back to the conversation with young Russell. What would my sons or daughters say of me when they were teenagers, I thought. Would I be so loved and respected like Russell’s father? Would I be as special to them as his father clearly was to him? I had been inspired in Mr Poppleton’s classroom, by the man himself, by his infectious enthusiasm and by the poems the pupils had written. I pushed the notes away and began to scribble a poem of my own, dedicated to someone very special to me – my unborn child.
Always believe in yourself.
Promise always to be compassionate.
Appreciate that you make mistakes,
Recognise that I do, too.
Entrust me with —
I suddenly sensed a presence and, looking up, found a gangly boy with lanky brown hair and angry acne across his forehead and cheeks peering over my shoulder. It was Master Hugo Maxwell-Smith.
‘Writing up your report?’ he asked, eyeing the papers in front of me.
I quickly covered the poem. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘Should make interesting reading.’
I changed the subject. ‘Is the library well used?’ I asked, looking around the empty room. It was, of course, an inane question to ask.
‘No, sir,’ replied the boy simply. ‘As you can see, there’s nobody here except you and me. I hope your report will include some mention of the library. It needs a complete overhaul.’
‘Yes, it will. So why are you here?’ I asked.
‘Doing a little research on the apostrophe, actually,’ he replied.
‘Really? I gathered it wasn’t one of your favourite topics.’
‘It isn’t,’ replied the boy, ‘but I have been checking up on the rules.’ No doubt to challenge poor Mr Frobisher again, I thought. ‘It is interesting that the great writers didn’t think much of the apostrophe. George Bernard Shaw, for example. The playwright, you know.’
‘Yes, I do know,’ I said.
‘I found the following during the morning break,’ he said, consulting a notepad. ‘He says that he never used the apostrophe in any of his writing unless the omission would suggest another word. This is what he said. “There is not the faintest reason for persisting in the ugly and silly trick of peppering pages with these uncouth bacilli.” That’s what he wrote back in 1902. I couldn’t have put it better myself. I thought Mr Frobisher might find that interesting.’
Infuriating, more like, I thought to myself.
‘Well, I’ll let you get back to your report,’ he said, before disappearing behind a bookshelf.
The first lesson of the afternoon was with Mrs Todd, a former English mistress who had recently retired from the local comprehensive school but who had been prevailed upon to return to the classroom to cover for a teacher who was away ill. She was a diminutive woman, smartly dressed in an expensive dark blue suit, a cream blouse and small black lace-up boots. She had neatly permed, tinted hair and an assortment of gold jewellery. There was not the slightest possibility of chalk dust coming into contact with Mrs Todd, I thought to myself.
The lesson, in which she revised some rules of spelling with a group of fifteen-year-olds, was lively and interesting. She was clearly a very knowledgeable teacher and she maintained order with a quiet self-assurance and good humour. I was interested to observe how she dealt with a confident, somewhat spotty-faced young man, in appearance and manner not unlike the rather unnerving Maxwell-Smith of Mr Frobisher’s class. The boy was at pains to demonstrate what he thought was his strong command of the English spelling system. He raised his hand on a number of occasions to challenge the teacher but she retained her affable manner and composure. I am sure that the secret of dealing with such smart-Alecs is to keep calm and not let their clever comments affect you. Mrs Todd was consummate in dealing with such students.
Having completed her revision of the general rules, she wrote a list of awkwardly spelt words on the board, some correctly spelt, others not. Then, banning the use of all dictionaries, she told the students to write down in their exercise books the incorrect words correctly spelt. When they had completed the exercise, she wrote the correct spellings against the incorrect words, and asked each student to say how many he had amended correctly.
‘But, Mrs Todd,’ said the spotty boy when he discovered he was not as good as he thought, ‘I’m certain “Inoculate” is spelt with two n’s.“I-n-n-o-c-u-l-a-t-e”.’
‘No, Michael, with just the one,’ replied the teacher.
‘Oh, I thought it was with two,’ he said frowning. ‘I’ve always spelt it with two.’
‘Have you really? Well, you were wrong to do so, I’m afraid,’ replied the teacher pleasantly.
‘ “Innocuous” has two n’s,’ he said.
‘That is correct,’ said Mrs Todd amiably. ‘But “inoculate” has only the one.’
‘Well, I’m pretty certain “desiccate” has two s’s,’ he persisted and reached for his pocket dictionary.
‘There are few certainties in life, Michael, but one of them is that “desiccate” has just the one s. The next time you are making a cake, have a look on the packet and you will see “desiccated coconut”.’
The picture of the serious-faced but spotty young man baking a cake brought a smile to my lips. ‘It’s rather like the word which means “obstinate”,’ said the teacher, throwing me a knowing look. ‘It is often thought that the word “asinine” has two s’s, too.’
The boy, having looked up the words in the dictionary and discovered that the teacher was, in fact, perfectly correct, remained in brooding silence for the rest of the lesson.
‘You know, Mr Phinn,’ Mrs Todd told me later, ‘adolescence is a strange time in one’s life, isn’t it? All those changes. Some young people become so shy and self-conscious that to get them to talk is like getting blood out of a stone. Others, like Michael, do so enjoy showing off a little, and like to kick against authority. I have found that the very bright student can be as troublesome and challenging as the lazy and disaffected one. We have quite a few like Michael in the school. They just want to be noticed, be a little individual, flex their muscles. It’s all part of growing up. I should know, I have four sons.’
‘What a houseful you must have had,’ I observed.
‘Yes, indeed! And they all went on what felt like twenty-six-year long courses at university: medicine, architecture, French, fine art. That’s why I need to do a bit of supply work, to put some money back into the bank account. It was an expensive business bringing up children.’
‘You must be very proud of them,’ I said.
‘I am. Have you children, Mr Phinn?’
‘No, not yet,’ I replied. ‘One on the way though.’
‘Well, I expect your child will have all the advantages of life, as I hope my boys have had. Some children get so little support and encouragement at home, precious little love and attention. I used to work in an inner city school and, my goodness, some of those young people had desperate lives.’
‘Did your boys come to King Henry’s?’ I asked.
‘Good gracious, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘They attended St Ignatius, the Catholic Grammar. They would not have liked it here and, quite frankly, I don’t intend to stay here for much longer. I’ve been asked to cover a maternity leave later this term at a girls’ high school—The Lady Cavendish High School for Girls. Sounds frightfully posh, doesn’t it? Do you know the school at all?’
‘I do,’ I replied. ‘It’s an excellent school and the head of the English Department is one of the best teachers I have observed.’
Mrs Todd thought for a moment, as if considering whether or not to speak. ‘This might sound a little unprofessional, Mr Phinn,’ she said finally, ‘but I do find the head of the English department at this school a very difficult man to relate to and his manner with the students is, at times, unfortunate.’
‘I see.’ I quickly changed the subject. I certainly did not wish to discuss Mr Frobisher with a member of his department. That would have been unprofessional. ‘Michael seems quite a clever boy, doesn’t he?’
‘He is,’ she agreed. ‘Although he can be a little too clever for his own good. He’s a very bright young man and he knows it. He just needs to exercise a little humility now and again. But I can handle Michael.’
‘Yes, you certainly can,’ I agreed. I had no doubt about that.
The last lesson of the day was with the sixth form and a newly qualified teacher. I arrived at the rather noisy classroom to find twenty or so students, all of whom I noted were in shirtsleeves, sitting around tables in animated discussion.
‘Is there a teacher here?’ I asked one young man sitting near the door, raising my voice above the hubbub.
‘I’m the teacher,’ he replied, giving me a broad smile. ‘Simon Purdey.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Mr Purdey,’ I said, ‘I thought you were one of the students.’
‘Well, there are only a few years between us and I have been told that I look young for my age. You must be Mr Fish, the inspector.’
‘Phinn,’ I corrected.
‘Oh, I did wonder when we were told it was Fish. Sounded a bit suspicious.’
‘What are the students doing this afternoon?’ I inquired.
‘We’re studying Hamlet as our “A” level text and I’ve asked the students to read through Act 1 and re-write it in a different genre: as a modern radio play, the opening chapter of a detective novel, a horror story, thriller, romance, monologue, documentary drama, that sort of thing. Each group has a different genre to consider.’
> ‘Sounds interesting,’ I said.
‘Well, I thought it would get them straight into the play and also be a bit of fun before we start the more serious business of looking at the actual text. I think it’s a better way than wading drearily through Shakespeare as I did at school. Do you know, we were made to write out passages of Shakespeare as a punishment? Would you credit that? The greatest words in the English language and they were set as a punishment! I only really came to appreciate Shakespeare when I was in the sixth form and a new teacher arrived. She just turned me on.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I had a remarkable English teacher in the sixth form, too.’
‘Anyway,’ continued the young man, ‘I thought that by writing the opening of the play in another form, the students would have to read the first act carefully and critically and then transpose it, making decisions about what to include and what to omit. Later we will look at the actual text itself and act it out. Do you want to see how far they have got?’
‘Yes, I would,’ I replied.
As I watched the series of highly original openings being acted out in front of the rest of the class, I recalled my sixth-form years when I too studied Shakespeare’s most famous play. I was taught by a Miss Wainwright, a small, softly spoken woman who invariably wore a pristine white blouse buttoned up at the neck and a long dark skirt. The small lace handkerchief that she secreted up her sleeve would be occasionally plucked out to dab her mouth. Save for the large cameo brooch placed at her throat, she wore no jewellery and there was no vestige of make-up. What was so memorable about this remarkable teacher was her eyes. They shone with intensity, especially when she was discussing her favourite subject, Shakespeare. She had taken us to see a production of King Lear at the Rotherham Civic Theatre. I realise now that the acting had been wooden and the costumes bizarre, but the beauty and poignancy of the language had come through. King Lear had entered with his dead daughter draped in his arms and he howling to the heavens: ‘She is gone forever!’ To my horror, Miss Wainwright – sitting one away from me in the row had begun to cry, and I soon followed suit. She had indeed been an amazing teacher.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 7
