Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  Whenever I saw an outstanding English teacher, I often thought of Miss Mary Wainwright and thanked God for the good fortune of having been taught by her. She brought Shakespeare to life, and developed in me a love of literature for which I shall be forever grateful.

  My thoughts were interrupted when I heard my name mentioned by the teacher. ‘And the last version is one that Mr Phinn, as a Yorkshireman, will appreciate. It’s the Yorkshire version of Hamlet.’

  Two boys, ambled towards each other at the front of the room, hands thrust deep in their pockets.

  ‘Hey up, ‘Amlet.’

  ‘Hey up, ‘Oratio, what’s tha doin’ ‘ere?’

  ‘Nowt much. ‘Ow abaat thee then, ‘Amlet? I ‘ant seen thee for a bit.’

  ‘Nay, I’m not that champion, ‘Oratio, if t’truth be towld.’

  ‘Whay, ‘Amlet, what’s oop?’

  ‘Mi dad’s deead, mi mam’s married mi uncle and mi girl friend does nowt but nag, nag, nag. I tell thee ‘Oratio, I’m weary wi’ it. ’

  ‘Aye, tha’s not far wrong theer, ‘Amlet. She’s gor a reight gob on ‘er, that Hophilia. Teks after ‘er owld man.’

  ‘Anyroad, ‘Oratio, what’s tha doin’ ‘ere in Helsinor?’

  ‘I’ve come for thee dad’s funeral.’

  ‘More like mi mam’s wedding.’

  ‘Aye, she dint let t’grass grow under ‘er feet, did she?’

  ‘I don’t know what mi owld man ‘ud mek of it, ‘Oratio, I really don’t.’

  ‘Well, tha can ask ‘im theeself, ‘Amlet.’

  ‘’Ow’s tha mean?’

  ‘’E’s been walkin’ on t’battlements every neet this week, a-mooanin’ and a-grooanin’ and purrin’ t’wind up iverybody. We’re sick to deeath on it, ‘Amlet, we really are.’

  ‘Ger on!’

  ‘It’s reight, ‘Amlet. ‘E won’t shurrup. A-mooanin’ and a-grooanin’ an’ a-clankin’ abaat like there’s no tomorra.’

  ‘I wonder wor ‘e wants?’

  ‘Well, tha can ask ‘im thaself, ‘cos ‘ere ‘e comes now.’

  A third boy entered. ‘’Ey up, our ‘Amlet.’

  ‘’Ey up, dad. How’s it gooin’?’

  ‘’Ow’s it gooin’? How’s it gooin’? What’s tha mean, how’s it gooin’? I’m deead, ‘Amlet, and I’m not that chuffed abaat it.’

  ‘Oh, aye, I forgot.’

  ‘I was done in, ‘Amlet, murdered, killed, slayed, bumped off, hassassinated.’

  ‘Ee, that were a rotten trick.’

  ‘Rotten trick! Rotten trick! It were bloody criminal, that’s what it were.’

  ‘Who did it, dad?’

  ‘Mi kid brother.’

  ‘Mi Uncle Claudius?’

  ‘Aye, ‘im what’s nicked mi crown and married thee mam.’

  ‘What’s to do, then, dad?’

  ‘What’s tha mean, what’s to do?’

  ‘What’s tha come back fer?’

  ‘I wants thee to sooart thy uncle out, that’s what I wants thee to do. I wants thee to do to ‘im what ‘e did to me, our ‘Amlet. Now I ‘ope tha’s got t’gumption for it. Come on, ‘Oratio, let’s let t’lad get crackin’. ’

  As I watched and laughed along with the teacher and students, I thought of Mr Poppleton’s words that young people are naturally very funny. He was right: humour is highly related to learning and adds inestimably to our quality of life. There are few things more pleasurable to hear in life than young people laughing unselfconsciously.

  Following the performance, there was loud and spontaneous applause and cheering which died suddenly when the door opened and there stood Mr Frobisher, like ‘The Ghost of Christmas Past’.

  ‘There is a great deal of noise coming from this room,’ he said. ‘I could hear it at the end of the corridor.’

  ‘We’re studying Hamlet,’ explained Mr Purdey, seemingly unperturbed by the interruption.

  ‘Really? I wasn’t aware, Mr Purdey, that Hamlet was quite so amusing.’ Mr Frobisher then caught sight of me and gave a watery smile. ‘Ah, Mr Phinn, I didn’t see you sitting there. I was wondering where you had got to. I shall be on bus duty after school, so will join you and Mr Nelson at about half past four, if that is convenient.’

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ I said.

  He peered around the room. ‘And you boys will be aware of the school rules on the wearing of blazers. Well, do carry on, Mr Purdey,’ said the head of English, leaving the room.

  ‘What a day,’ said Mr Nelson, breathing out heavily. ‘I’ve barely had chance to get a cup of tea, it’s been so busy.’

  I sat before the headmaster at the end of the school day, on the uncomfortable ladderback chair, thinking that a cup of tea would indeed be most acceptable. Clearly one was not forthcoming and, anyway, if it had been, the school secretary might well have added more than milk to it.

  ‘Mr Frobisher will not be long,’ said Mr Nelson. ‘I suggest, to save your repeating yourself, we wait for him to join us.’

  ‘Actually, Mr Nelson,’ I replied, deciding to get the difficult bit over with as quickly as possible, ‘I would prefer to have a private word with you before Mr Frobisher arrives.’

  The headmaster turned to face me, his brow furrowing. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think it might be better.’

  ‘This sounds rather ominous, Mr Phinn,’ he said. ‘Do I take it you are not entirely satisfied with what you have seen today?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ I told him. ‘On the whole, the lessons I observed were very good. Indeed, some were excellent. Generally, the teaching in the department is highly competent and at times most innovative and imaginative, but there is one exception, I am afraid to say.’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed the headteacher, ‘Mr Poppleton. It has to be said, he is rather eccentric and individualistic, but he has been at the school for more years than I can remember and the boys do so enjoy his teaching. Indeed, his examination results are most creditable. I have mentioned the snuff –’

  ‘It’s not Mr Poppleton,’ I interrupted. ‘His lesson was excellent.’

  ‘Is it Mr Purdy? Mr Adams? I am sure you are aware that they have just started their teaching careers and it is to be expected that –’

  ‘No, their lessons were fine.’

  ‘Surely, it’s not Mrs Todd. I am aware that she has not taught in a grammar school before, but she came highly recommended by the headteacher of the comprehensive where she taught and has had extensive teaching experience. Indeed –’

  ‘Mr Nelson, it is none of these teachers,’ I told him.

  The headmaster began rubbing his temples. ‘Then, by a process of elimination, it must be the head of department. You know, I had a feeling it would be Mr Frobisher.’

  ‘It is Mr Frobisher,’ I said.

  ‘And you felt his lesson to be unsatisfactory?’

  ‘I appreciate that Mr Frobisher has one particularly difficult boy in his class –’

  ‘Ah, yes, Maxwell-Smith. He can indeed be a thorn in the side, that young man. His father is quite a handful too and often contacts the school with one complaint or another.’

  ‘Yes, the boy was a difficult and very demanding student. I am aware that I have only observed the one lesson, but I did judge it to be less than satisfactory.’

  ‘What was the lesson about?’ asked the headmaster.

  ‘It was an extremely dreary lesson on the use of the apostrophe.’

  ‘I was under the impression, Mr Phinn,’ said Mr Nelson, ‘that the apostrophe is a dreary subject.’

  ‘More importantly,’ I said, ‘Mr Frobisher has not the best relationship with the students and the work that I managed to see was extremely narrow in range.’

  Mr Nelson thought for a moment before replying. ‘Mr Frobisher, it has to be admitted, is not the most dynamic and enthusiastic of teachers and I have noticed that he found teaching rather more exacting last year but he is very loyal to the school, has not had a day’s absence as long as I can remember and, with regard
to his duties, is punctilious. But –’

  ‘But as a teacher?’ I inquired.

  ‘He is, how does one put this, not as good as he was. In fact, he became rather disillusioned several years ago. He applied for deputy headships a number of times but was unsuccessful, despite his excellent academic qualifications. I imagine he thought he would end his career as a headmaster. He finds the students these days rather more outspoken and less attentive. He harks back to a golden age, I’m afraid, when pupils did what they were told without question, a time when there was the cane. Young people these days do tend to be more forthright and, of course, we have some very exigent students here. Maxwell-Smith is not alone. I realise Mr Frobisher is not the best teacher in the world, but he is sound enough, don’t you think? Certainly his classrooms are quiet, the students always appear to be in a workmanlike atmosphere and he marks his books thoroughly. And he has only a couple more years to go. Of course, when he retires, it is my intention to appoint someone with greater energy and enthusiasm.’ This monologue sounded to me as if the headmaster was trying to convince himself.

  ‘As I said, I have only observed one lesson,’ I replied, ‘and it would be unreasonable to judge a teacher on the evidence of one lesson but I am sufficiently concerned to make a return visit and spend more time in the department observing him.’

  ‘I don’t think that will be very well received,’ sighed the headmaster. ‘Your predecessor, Mrs Young, did spend some time a few years ago doing just that but with little effect.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ I said, sitting up on the hard wooden chair.

  ‘I am sure her report will be filed at the Education Office. Did you not read through it prior to your visit?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied, feeling rather guilty.

  ‘Well, Mrs Young felt very much the same way as you do. Following her visit, Mr Frobisher agreed to relinquish the sixth form teaching which he was finding the most irksome. He also attended one or two courses on the development of communication skills but it is very difficult to change the habits of a lifetime.’

  ‘So, there have been reservations expressed about his competence before?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, yes, but I never considered them serious enough to institute any kind of disciplinary proceedings. Mr Ball, one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors, who visited us some years ago, was not impressed but, as I said to him at the time, I’ve seen far worse teachers than Mr Frobisher in my career. It is true I have received one or two parental complaints about him but not enough to take things further. In any case, as you will be well aware, it is very difficult to do anything about a teacher in terms of disciplinary action unless he runs off with a sixth-form girl or steals the dinner money. I have, it is fair to say,’ said Mr Nelson, staring out of the window like the great admiral himself looking for his lost fleet, ‘tended to turn a bit of a blind eye. As I intimated, Mr Frobisher is near the end of his career. Is it really worth all the time and trouble, quite apart from the effect it will have upon the man himself and on the school, to pursue this further?’

  ‘Children deserve the best, Mr Nelson,’ I said.

  At that very moment there was a rap on the door and the man himself entered. ‘May I come in?’ said Mr Frobisher.

  6

  That evening I arrived home to find a note from Christine. She had a governors’ meeting after school that afternoon, followed by a parents’ meeting in the evening, so would not be in until late. I was pleased in a way because I could settle down without any disturbance and try to put together the report on King Henry’s – a report I knew would be the most difficult I had ever written. It was after ten o’clock when I finally put down my pen and placed the completed report in my briefcase, just at the very moment when Christine walked in.

  ‘Hello,’ she said brightly, coming over and pecking me on the cheek.

  ‘How did it go?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine. I couldn’t ask for better governors, and the parents’ evening went like a dream. It’s so good to have supportive colleagues and parents. It makes such a difference.’

  ‘That’s good,’ I said.

  ‘And did you have a good day?’ she asked.

  ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘that bad? Do you want to talk about it?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘not now, anyway. I’m bushed. I think I’ll turn in.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’ Christine asked, slipping her arm through mine. ‘We could have a glass of wine, snuggle up in front of the fire and you could tell me all about it.’

  ‘Not now, love,’ I replied. ‘I’ve had a really tiring day. I’m sorry I’m such a misery. I’ll snap out of it this weekend, I promise.’

  The next day, on my way to a conference in York, I dropped the report off at the office for Julie to type. I spent the morning in lectures, the content of which, I fear, passed clean over my head, and the afternoon in discussion groups. I contributed nothing, sitting there in brooding silence. My mind was full of the events of the previous day at King Henry’s College.

  I arrived back at the office at the end of the afternoon to find Julie had typed out the report, placed a copy on my desk and sent another to Dr Gore’s office. This would be despatched to the school. I read through what I had written. In the cold light of day, it sounded extremely critical.

  At that moment Sidney and David breezed in. ‘Friday!’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘Thank God it’s Friday!’

  ‘Do keep it down, Sidney,’ said David. ‘You know the psychologists on the bottom floor have complained about your booming voice and Gervase is trying to work. Hello, Gervase.’

  ‘Hello,’ I replied wearily.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sidney, dropping his briefcase on his desk with a thump and flopping into his chair. ‘Our young colleague does look down in the dumps. Whatever’s the matter?’

  ‘I’ve got things on my mind,’ I told him with the voice of a peevish child.

  ‘We’ve all got things on our minds,’ said Sidney unsympathetically, stretching back and observing the cracks on the ceiling.

  ‘Well, you don’t look as if you have,’ I retorted. ‘I’ve never seen you so cheerful.’

  ‘That is because,’ said David, ‘Harold has laid down the law to the headmaster of West Challerton High School and Sidney is to make his triumphant return next week.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ chortled Sidney. ‘Harold was quite superb. It was a bravura performance on the phone. I heard it all. He’s going in with me next week to see Mr Pennington-Smith.’

  ‘I’m glad somebody’s happy,’ I said.

  ‘Gervase,’ said David, peering over the top of his spectacles, ‘if I had pulled an expression like that when I was a lad, my old Welsh grandmother would have told me I had a face like a smacked bottom.’

  ‘Yes, for goodness sake, cheer up,’ said Sidney, throwing a ball of screwed up paper in my direction. ‘You are about as much fun as an incontinent trapeze artist. There’s the weekend ahead of you. No more reports, school visits or paperwork, no shrill telephones ringing every five minutes. Above all, a blessed rest from the homely words of wisdom of David’s old Welsh grandmother whom, if I could get hold of her, I would cheerfully throttle.’

  ‘I don’t feel like cheering up, Sidney,’ I said. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve got things on my mind.’

  ‘What, pray,’ asked Sidney, ‘could a healthy young man like you, with a beautiful wife, a youngster on the way, a picture-postcard cottage in the Dales and a rewarding and relatively well-paid profession, have to worry about?’

  ‘Yes, do tell us,’ said David. ‘You were in such high spirits a couple of days ago. Whatever’s happened?’

  ‘As Connie would say,’ said Sidney, ‘“A trouble shared is a trouble doubled.” Do tell.’

  Connie, the caretaker of the Staff Development Centre, was a mistress of malapropisms and non sequiturs.

  So I told them about my visit to King Henry’s Coll
ege the previous day and the verbal report I had given after school.

  ‘And how did the head of department react,’ asked Sidney, sitting up, ‘when you informed him that he was useless?’

  ‘Sidney!’ I snapped. ‘I did not say he was useless. I said that his lesson was less than satisfactory.’

  ‘It’s much the same thing. You’re just couching it in euphemistic language. “Less than satisfactory” means “unsatisfactory” which means “weak” or “poor”, “below standard”, “inadequate”, “incompetent”, ergo “useless”. I recall once when I had a similar tricky situation –’

  ‘Look, Sidney,’ interrupted David, holding up a restraining hand, ‘let the poor man finish. Now, Gervase, what happened when you told the head of English that his lesson wasn’t up to much?’

  ‘Less than satisfactory,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Yes, yes, less than satisfactory,’ David repeated.

  I related the whole dreadful episode: how Mr Frobisher had turned a ghastly white, shot bolt upright in his chair and had begun to tremble with anger; how he had told me that he had never had his professional competence challenged like that in all his forty years of teaching and that he intended to take matters further with his union representative.

  ‘Then he upped and walked out,’ I told my colleagues.

  ‘High drama, indeed,’ said Sidney.

  ‘And what was old Horatio doing while all this was going on?’ asked David.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Nelson.’

  ‘Turning a blind eye,’ I said glumly. ‘He never opened his mouth.’

  ‘Typical,’ said David. ‘Anything for a quiet life. He is not a man of decisive action, Mr Nelson. It’s a case of the captain having lost control of the ship at KHC or perhaps, more appropriately, the admiral having lost control of the fleet.’

  ‘Well, to be frank, I think you could have handled it rather better,’ said Sidney unhelpfully.

  ‘Really?’ I replied, with clear irritation in my voice. ‘How?’