‘My, you are in a glum mood this afternoon, aren’t you,’ observed Julie. ‘As my grandma would say, you’ve got a face like a pan of fat.’
‘Julie,’ I said sharply, ‘I really do have to get on. I came in the office to reply to my mail, deal with the telephone messages and finish a report, not to discuss my career.’
‘Ooo, pardon me!’ she said, sliding off the desk.
‘Look, I’m sorry if I snapped but I really do have a great deal to do this afternoon and I have to see Harold before I set off for West Challerton.’
‘Well, don’t take him any problems,’Julie told me. ‘He’s got enough of those on his plate to keep him occupied all term. Thursday is his day for dealing with complaints. As I said, he’s been in since seven and hard at it for most of the morning with hardly time for a cup of coffee. He was supposed to be slowing down but since he was asked to stay on it’s as if he has another lease of life. Well, I’m going to the canteen for my lunch and will try and find out what’s going on from Doris. She’s sure to have heard something. She hears everything from behind that serving hatch.’ Julie straightened her meagre skirt, stretched and headed for the door.
‘Have there been any calls for me?’ I asked her before she disappeared. ‘I was hoping that a Mr Frobisher from King Henry’s might have got back to me.’
‘No, he hasn’t called. There are about six or seven but only one urgent one,’ she told me.
‘Nothing from King Henry’s, then?’
‘No, but will you please, please ring that man with the loud voice. He keeps on calling and he’s nearly sent me demented bellowing down the line. I never got a word in, so I don’t know what his name is or what it was about. His telephone number is on your pad.’ With that she departed for the canteen.
‘Is there something wrong?’ asked Geraldine when Julie had clattered down the stairs on the absurdly high-heeled stiletto shoes she was fond of wearing. ‘You’re not your usual cheerful self today.’
I told her about little Matty. ‘There are some children,’ I said, ‘who will have every opportunity and advantage in life. They will be cherished, encouraged, supported and loved as they grow up and there are others, like that little boy at Crompton Primary School, who has and will have precious little. I just find it so very sad and depressing, that’s all. I’ve met quite a few neglected children in my time. I just don’t know why it’s getting to me now.’
‘Perhaps it’s because you’re to be a father,’ said Geraldine. ‘Becoming a parent changes your whole outlook. It really does. The things in life you thought were important – money, position, job, status – just pale into insignificance when you have a child. He or she becomes the centre of your world.’
‘For some parents, maybe,’ I said. ‘I guess not for Matty’s. As his headteacher pointed out, it’s the same old story: unmarried mum, inadequate parenting, absentee father –’ I stopped mid-sentence and wished that the floor would open and swallow me up. ‘I’m sorry, Geraldine, I didn’t mean –’
She laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’m used to it. In an ideal world a child should have a mother and a father, but sometimes things don’t work out. They didn’t for me.’
‘Does Jamie see his father at all?’ I asked.
‘No. Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ she replied quickly. ‘So, what about Harold’s job then? Are you going in for it?’
‘Part of me says, “Yes, it will be a tremendous challenge” and another part says, “Don’t touch it with a barge pole.”’
‘Well, it’s a decision only you can make,’ she said.
‘Yes, I know.’
We both got on quietly with our work for the next hour or so, which was thankfully clear of interruptions. At three o’clock I decided to see if Harold was free. I wanted to get his advice about King Henry’s College and have a chat about the job at the same time.
Harold’s office was large but always appeared cluttered and cramped. A row of ugly olive-green metal filing cabinets stretched along one wall, a set of heavy bookcases, crammed with box files, bulging folders, heavy tomes and thick reports from the Ministry of Education, filled the other. There was a square of carpet on the polished wooden floor and two hard-backed chairs. Harold’s ancient oak desk, buried beneath a mountain of paper, faced a sash window through which one had an uninspiring view of the rear of County Hall. It was a world away from the plush office of Mrs Savage.
‘Come in! Come in!’ exclaimed Harold when I knocked and poked my head around his door.
‘Could I have a quick word, Harold?’ I asked.
‘Of course, come in,’ he replied, ‘I wanted to speak to you anyway. Pull up a chair.’
‘You look busy,’ I said, nodding in the direction of his desk.
‘Always am, dear boy. Every Thursday I set the afternoon aside to try and deal with all the problems, contentious issues and complaints which dear Dr Gore, in his wisdom, sends my way. He has an uncanny habit of passing the most awkward things on to me to deal with.’ Harold gestured to a bright red folder before him. ‘Still, I shouldn’t complain. I shan’t have this for much longer.’
‘So there are a lot of complaints and problems?’ I asked.
‘Oh yes, but that’s part of the territory of the Senior Inspector. For example, there’s a letter here from an irate parent claiming compensation. Apparently his child’s teacher simulated a volcanic eruption in class.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘She used health salts, yellow powder paint and vinegar, and evidently created quite an impressive display. Unfortunately, she rather overdid the health salts and powder paint and one child arrived home like the Gingerbread Man, a bright golden colour from head to foot. The father wants to know who is paying for the cleaning of the child’s clothes and what compensation will be forthcoming for the distress caused.’
‘Silly man,’ I said.
‘Maybe, but I have to deal with it. It starts as a small complaint, then the local newspapers get hold of it and it’s blown out of all proportion. Then I’ve received several letters about bullying which, of course, have to be taken very seriously, a couple concerning excluded pupils, and a letter from Sister Clare of the Sacred Heart Convent, complaining, in no uncertain terms, about the opening of a sex shop opposite the gates of the school.’
‘I never realised you had all this to do.’
‘And there’s more. There’s the headteacher who is convinced the head of the infant department is a witch and has put a curse on him and the French assistante who allegedly assaulted a sixth form student with a banana.’
‘A banana?’ I repeated.
‘She was using some plastic fruit as visual aids to get her class to practise their French when a boy made some clever comment. The assistante, who can’t have been much older than the boy himself, evidently threw this banana at him which unfortunately hit the boy smack between the eyes, knocking off his glasses, before rebounding to the teacher like a boomerang. From what the Chair of Governors says in his letter, Mademoiselle Régine caught the missile and received a standing ovation from the class.’ I shook my head and smiled. ‘I’m afraid the boy’s parents did not see the funny side and have contacted a solicitor. I’ve just been speaking to the headteacher.’
‘I can’t see it standing up in court,’ I said. ‘ “And what was the offensive weapon?” asks the judge. “It was a banana, my lord.” ’
‘It may sound bizarre,’ said Harold, ‘but it has to be dealt with nevertheless. The hours I spend dealing with such issues.’ He gave a great toothy smile. ‘But not for much longer. I shall pass on all such matters, with a light heart, to my successor.’
‘I see,’ I said thoughtfully.
Harold assumed a grave expression. ‘Now, I’m pleased you popped in, Gervase, because my biggest and most urgent problem this week concerns Hawksrill Primary School.’
‘Hawksrill’s a splendid school,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘Yes, I am tol
d it’s a very good school,’ replied Harold, ‘and the reports I have read bear that out. Well, the fact of the matter is, it’s closing.’
‘Closing!’ I exclaimed.
‘I’m afraid so. There was an Education Sub-Committee meeting earlier this week – went on until after eight in the evening. I had to sit outside in that draughty top corridor of County Hall for nearly an hour waiting to be called. It was a terribly contentious meeting, interminable arguments, acrimonious exchanges. Anyway, the long and short of it is that the Sub-Committee has decided, reluctantly I have to say, to close the school next year.’
‘Why, for heaven’s sake?’
‘Well, I am sure you are aware that there have to be big cuts in the educational budget. Small schools like Hawksrill are not really viable. It’s much more cost effective to have larger schools and close the ones in some of the very small villages. Hawksrill’s building needs quite a deal of work on it. The roof’s leaking, the toilets require some refurbishing and the perimeter fence needs repairing. The headteacher, Mrs Beighton, and her assistant, Mrs Brown, have both indicated that they are looking to retire in the near future so there would be no redundancies or redeployments. All in all, it’s quite fortuitous.’
‘It’s not fortuitous for the children at the school,’ I protested.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Harold, rubbing his chin, ‘but they can be bussed the few miles to the neighbouring school. You see, Hawksrill only has about thirty children and the village has an ageing and declining population.’
‘Hang on, I live in Hawksrill,’ I reminded him.
‘Yes, yes, I know, and that is why I wanted to have a quiet word with you prior to the news getting out.’
‘I don’t like the idea of this at all, Harold,’ I said. ‘I’m not at all keen on any child of mine being bussed in and out of the village every day, particularly in winter along those twisting, narrow roads. One of the reasons Christine and I decided to live in Hawksrill was its lovely school.’
‘Yes, I quite understand that, but there is really no alternative. Councillor Peterson and the Education Sub-Committee –’
‘I might have guessed Councillor Peterson would have a hand in it,’ I interrupted.
‘He and the Sub-Committee,’ continued Harold, ‘considered all the options and reluctantly decided that five small schools, including Hawksrill, will be closed in the next academic year. I do see his point. It’s just not economic to keep such small village schools open with dwindling pupil populations and the rising costs of repair and maintenance. I’m sorry, but there it is. The headteacher and the Chair of Governors will be informing the parents by letter next Friday. Then, no doubt, there will be a meeting with the governors, parents and other interested parties, which is likely to be a very lively affair if previous meetings of this nature are anything to go by. This will be followed by the appeals procedures, various further meetings and possibly a tribunal.’ Harold smiled. ‘Your child might very well be at secondary school by the time Hawksrill actually closes.’ I didn’t smile. I was feeling shell-shocked. ‘Anyway, Gervase, I just wanted you to know before it hits the papers. Now, was there something you wanted to have a word with me about?’
‘No, nothing,’ I said, getting up. ‘Nothing at all.’
I returned to the office even more depressed than before. Geraldine had gone but Julie was there, placing my typed letters on my desk along with a mug of coffee. I had to hand it to her. She was an excellent secretary, and – despite always being overworked – she was highly efficient and very organised. She had had, for a few weeks the previous year, a clerical assistant called Frank, a hard-working and good-natured young man, but when he had been promoted to work in Financial Services, he had not been replaced and she was back holding the fort single-handed.
‘Have you rung that man with the loud voice yet?’ Julie asked now.
‘Pardon?’ I asked.
‘The man with the loud voice, who wants to speak to you urgently. Have you phoned him?’
‘No.’
‘Please would you do it? I’m sick of his bellowing down the phone at me.’
I sighed heavily. ‘All right. I’ll do it now,’ I said. I stared at the notepad on my desk. It’s amazing, I thought to myself, how life can suddenly change. One minute everything is right with the world and the next it has all turned sour. First Mr Frobisher, now Hawksrill school closing.
‘So are you going to phone him?’ asked Julie.
‘Yes, yes,’ I snapped. ‘In a minute.’
‘Right,’ she said and left the office.
I dialled the number on the pad. ‘Hello, my name is Gervase Phinn,’ I said wearily when I heard the phone being picked up at the other end. ‘I believe someone on this number wishes to speak to me.’
“Ello! ‘Ello! Is that Mester Phinn?’ came a thunderous voice down the line.
‘It is,’ I said, before holding the receiver at arm’s length.
‘Jacob Bannister, ‘ere. Tha might ‘ave ‘eard of us. “JBB’s Quality Animal Feeds”.’
‘No, I’m afraid not, Mr Bannister,’ I replied, before stretching the receiver away from my ear again.
‘We’re very big in these parts!’ he shouted. ‘You might ‘ave come across our vans with the slogan “Rearing is as easy as ABC, when you buy your feeds from JBB”.’
‘Well, I don’t have much call for animal feeds in my line of work,’ I told him.
‘Eh?’ he bellowed.
‘I said, I don’t have – What can I do for you, Mr Bannister?’
‘Tha’re like t’Scarlet bloody Pimpernel. I’ve been trying to speak to you for a couple of weeks. “They seek ‘im ‘ere, they seek ‘im theer.” Tha’re never in.’
‘No, I spend most of my time in schools, Mr Bannister,’ I replied, rather piqued. ‘That’s what I do for a living.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’m a school inspector. I try to get into schools as much as possible. Now, what can I do for you?’
‘I ‘ear you do talks.’
I should have guessed. He wanted me to speak at some dinner or other.
Shortly after becoming a school inspector I had been dragooned into speaking at a charity event. The very persuasive nun, Sister Brendan, headteacher of St Bartholomew’s School, had invited me to give a light-hearted talk at the school one evening to raise money for disadvantaged children. I had been delighted, and not a little surprised, to discover that my talk had been warmly received. Some weeks later I had received an invitation from the wonderfully named and very formidable Mrs Cleaver-Canning – or, rather, the Honourable Mrs Cleaver-Canning – to speak at her golf club Ladies’ Night dinner. I had been recommended by a friend of hers who had heard me speak at some charity evening. Things had then snowballed and I was soon receiving invitations from Rotary Clubs and Women’s Institutes, Soroptomist groups and Townswomen’s Guilds, and all manner of luncheon clubs. These organisations generously supplemented the funds of several children’s charities and my reception had been, without exception, very positive.
‘Yes, I do speak at different functions,’ I told Mr Bannister. ‘But at the moment –’
‘After dinner talks like t’one my brother’s wife’s ‘eard you at, at t’Countrywomen’s Association Dinner in Ribsdyke a couple o’months back? She said tha were a funny man.’
I was not feeling particularly ‘funny’ that afternoon. ‘I’ve been called many things, Mr Bannister, but –’
‘Eh?’
‘I am rather busy at the moment,’ I told him.
‘Eh?’
‘I said I am busy at the moment.’
‘I don’t want tha to speak this very minute, Mester Phinn,’ he said.
I sighed. ‘So would you like me to speak at a function?’ I asked.
‘Eh?’
‘I said, would you like me to speak at a dinner?’ I was raising my voice an octave higher.
‘Aye that’s t’idea. At Fettlesham Farmers’ Club Dinner, December the firs
t. We’re raisin’ money for T’Children’s Society. For them kiddies what don’t have much goin’ for ‘em.’
‘Yes, I know The Children’s Society,’ I said. ‘It’s a very worthy charity.’
‘Well,’ shouted the speaker down the line, ‘I know it’s a fair bit off but I wants to get things soarted. To tell you t’truth we was let down by t’speaker we booked, cricketer for Yorkshire in t’dim and distant past. Never ‘eard of ‘im mi’sen. I’m a rugby union man. Anyroad, how’re tha fixed?’
‘I should explain, Mr Bannister –’
‘Jacob!’
‘I should explain, Jacob, that I am not a comedian. I don’t tell blue jokes or anything like that.’
‘Coourse tha dunt. We don’t want owt like that. We want sommat funny wi’out being mucky. And my brother’s sister said tha’d fit t’bill a treat.’
‘It’s December the first, you say.’ I flicked through my diary. I was free but felt like saying no, such was the mood I was in. Then I thought of Matty. He was the kind of child The Children’s Society helped.
‘Are tha still theer?’ roared the voice down the line.
‘Yes, I’m still here,’ I told him.
‘So, tha’ll do it?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I’ll do it.’
‘Champion!’ he roared, nearly bursting my eardrum. ‘We meet at T’Marrick Arms in Chapelwatersthwaite at seven prompt. It’s a bit difficult to find. Does tha know it?’
‘Oh, yes, I know Chapelwatersthwaite,’ I told him. ‘I know it well.’
The very first school I had visited when I had become a school inspector had been at Backwatersthwaite in the neighbouring village. It had been the devil’s own job to find and I had motored at a snail’s speed up hill and down dale, along twisting narrow roads and through countless villages which all looked the same, until I had finally arrived at The Marrick Arms in Chapelwatersthwaite. I had got to know the pub pretty well in the next half hour – I must have passed it a good few times before I had finally found the right road to Backwatersthwaite. So, yes, I knew well the venue for the farmers’ dinner.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 12
