Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Now, it’s nowt fancy,’ shouted the speaker down the line. ‘Tha dunt need no “penguin suit” or owt o’ that sooart.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  ‘Ee, I’m reight glad tha can do it, Mester Phinn. My brother’s wife, ‘er what’s in t’ Ribsdyke Countrywomen’s Association, said tha were a real barrel of laughs.’

  ‘Really,’ I sighed.

  9

  ‘I am not happy, Mr Clamp,’ complained Connie. ‘I’m not happy at all, having harems of naked women cavorting about the place.’

  ‘Connie,’ replied Sidney, his beard bristling and his eyes flashing wildly, ‘there will be no harems of naked women. There will be one woman, a single person, an individual, and she will be doing no cavorting, I can assure you of that.’

  ‘I don’t care how many of them there are,’ retorted the caretaker of the Staff Development Centre, ‘I just do not like that sort of thing going on on my premises.’

  Connie, with her round, florid face, bright copper-coloured perm, brilliant pink nylon overall and the large multicoloured feather duster, which she invariably wielded like a field marshal’s baton, resembled a huge, savage and exotic bird of prey. She was a blunt, hard-working and down-to-earth Yorkshire woman and she kept the premises spotless but she ruled the place with a rod of iron. Like many Yorkshire folk, she had strong and unwavering views which she was not afraid of expressing. She was, as they say in Yorkshire ‘not backwards in coming forwards’. She had no conception of rank or status and treated everyone who entered her empire exactly the same, be he the exalted Minister of Education or a man to clear the blocked drains. She could be obstinate, difficult and outspoken but Connie possessed a great impulse for generosity and an intense pride in the work she undertook.

  It was a warm Friday afternoon towards the end of September and I was at the Staff Development Centre, where all the teachers’ courses were held, to direct a conference on the teaching of Shakespeare. I had arrived just after lunch to find Connie and Sidney in heated discussion in the entrance hall.

  ‘Look here, Connie,’ said Sidney, changing tack and forcing a smile, ‘there will be nothing going on here. The person, in the singular, is not a striptease artiste, she is a model, a professional model, one who poses tastefully for artists to sketch, draw and paint.’

  ‘But she’ll have nothing on,’ persisted Connie.

  ‘Of course she’ll have nothing on,’ said Sidney, trying to contain his anger. ‘She is a nude. Nude models do not generally get wrapped up as if they’re going on an Antarctic expedition. They pose nude so artists can draw them. The whole point is for the artist to see them au naturel.’

  ‘See them what?’ asked Connie.

  ‘In the natural form, unencumbered.’

  ‘With nothing on,’ persisted Connie.

  ‘Yes, with nothing on.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it.’

  ‘And as for cavorting about the place,’ Sidney explained, ‘she will be static, stationary, immobile, motionless, inert, sitting on a chair.’

  ‘She could be sitting on top of the Eiffel Tower for all I care, Mr Clamp,’ said Connie, flourishing the feather duster like a wand. ‘She still won’t have a stitch of clothing on. She’ll be displaying everything she’s got to the world and his wife. Well, I think it’s quite disgusting, grown men ogling a young woman and calling it artificated. I’m as broad-minded as the next person and I like nice pictures but they have to leave something to the imagination. Nobody can accuse me of being a Pharisee.’

  ‘Philistine,’ murmured Sidney.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘It’s Philistine, not Pharisee.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Oh, never mind,’ sighed Sidney.

  ‘As I was saying,’ said Connie, ‘I’m not one of these Pharisees, but I draw the line at naked women.’

  ‘You make it sound like Sodom and Gomorrah,’ mumbled Sidney.

  ‘There’s no call for that sort of language, Mr Clamp, thank you very much!’

  Sidney appealed to me. ‘Gervase, please try and enlighten Connie. I have an art course coming up next week and I have a female model for the teachers to sketch as part of the figure-drawing workshop. Can you impress upon Connie here that I am not opening a Soho strip joint, a bordello or a night club for lap dancers?’

  ‘Connie,’ 1 said, coming to Sidney’s defence, ‘all the great artists painted and drew the naked female form – Picasso, Matisse, Goya, Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo –’

  ‘All foreigners,’ Connie interrupted. ‘Well, of course, that doesn’t surprise me one jot. But what I am surprised at, Mr Phinn, is you taking Mr Clamp’s side. You, a newly married man with a baby on the way and liking that sort of thing.’

  ‘What I’m trying to say,’ I persevered, ‘is that there’s really nothing disgusting about it.’

  ‘Well, you would say that,’ replied Connie, in no way mollified. ‘You’re a man. You’re all the same when it comes to naked women. I’ve seen them on the buses gawping at all those newspaper pictures of half-dressed women and looking at the top shelf in the newsagents. I’ve seen my Ted at it. You can call it tasteful if you like, Mr Clamp, and try to talk me round until the cows come home. I think a young woman taking off all her clothes for men to have a good gander at is disgusting. Now, I’m broad-minded to the point of obscenity, but I draw the line at naked girls.’

  ‘She is not a girl,’ groaned Sidney. ‘Miriam is getting on for sixty, for goodness sake.’

  ‘Getting on for sixty!’ gasped Connie. ‘Well, she ought to be ashamed of herself, stripping off for people at her age. She ought to be going ballroom dancing or flower arranging at her time of life, not taking her clothes off for men.’

  I left the two combatants and headed for the room where my conference was to take place. I wanted to check that everything was ready. I had thirty secondary school English teachers signed up for the afternoon and had asked the widely-published Shakespearean scholar, Lawrence Parry-Wilson, to give a keynote talk to be followed by questions. It had taken some persuading on my part for Professor Parry-Wilson to speak because, as he had explained to me, he was massively busy. I had felt pretty pleased with myself when he had finally agreed.

  That feeling of elation soon disappeared when he opened his mouth. To say the lecture was dry and uninspiring would be an understatement. Professor Parry-Wilson’s books were challenging, informative and readable but his skills as a public speaker were clearly very limited. He mumbled his way through a prepared text in wearisome detail, shuffling and scratching, grunting and grimacing. Sometimes he would stop, stare vacantly out of the window and then nod as if some unseen presence were speaking to him. I could see the teachers getting increasingly restless. When it came to the questions, I was the only one who raised a hand and, before answering, the professor scratched his beard, grunted and nodded thoughtfully, before finally launching into an almost incomprehensible sermon. I had allowed an hour for questions, hoping that a lively debate would ensue, but by three-thirty it was clear things were not going to improve, so I thanked the professor and closed the course.

  I dreaded what the teachers’ evaluation sheets would reveal. It would have been much better, I thought to myself as I headed for the kitchen for a cup of tea, to have had Mr Purdey of King Henry’s College speaking to the teachers about how he taught Shakespeare. It would have been more interesting and a whole lot more useful.

  ‘You’ve finished early,’ said Connie, poking her head through the serving hatch in the kitchen. ‘I thought your conference was due to finish at four.’

  ‘It was, but we finished early.’

  ‘I had to tell that man with the fuzzy hair and the goatee beard, him what did the talk for you, not to block my entrance at the front. He parked right in front of the red and yellow cones. It’s a health and safety hazard parking there, as I’m always telling people. I might as well talk to myself all the notice they take. You would think that these clever people coul
d read a simple notice, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘I’m afraid that was my fault, Connie,’ I told her, coming into the kitchen. ‘The car park was full and I said it would be all right for him to leave his car there.’

  ‘Well, please don’t in future, Mr Phinn. If there was a fire in the centre, a car parked there would be an impediment.’

  I changed the subject. ‘Has Mr Clamp gone?’

  ‘He has, and I can’t say that I’m sorry either. Naked women indeed!’ Connie shook her head and took two mugs out of the cupboard. ‘I’m going to have a word with Dr Yeats about this. It’s not part of my job description, catering for that sort of thing. I mean I’ve got all sorts of people in the Centre. There’s a Women’s Institute meeting here next week on that day. It’s enough to give the poor ladies heart attacks, confronted with a naked woman.’ She spooned coffee into the mugs and clicked on the kettle.

  ‘In my experience the WI are pretty broad-minded, Connie,’ I said.

  ‘How would you know?’

  ‘My mother was in the WI. It’s not all jam and Jerusalem you know.’

  ‘Well, the WI are not that broad-minded, I can tell you. You wouldn’t get them taking their clothes off and posing for anyone, not at their age anyway. And then there’s that nun who’s always in here on courses, that Sister Brenda. Suppose she’s here when this model is stripping off and swanning around the place in her altogether.’

  ‘I don’t think an artists’ model is likely to be swanning about the place in her birthday suit, Connie,’ I said. ‘I guess she’ll stay put in the room.’

  ‘Yes, well I don’t like it and I’ve warned Mrs Osbaldiston already about Mr Clamp’s shenanigans.’

  ‘Who’s Mrs Osbaldiston?’ I asked.

  ‘Didn’t I say? She’s my neighbour is Mrs Osbaldiston and I’ve asked her to hold the fort while I’m off next week. She cleans at the High School. I’ve asked her to come in. I shall be away next Tuesday for three days.’ She poured hot water into the two mugs and reached for the milk jug. ‘You don’t have sugar, do you?’

  ‘No, thank you. You’re away next week, did you say?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll not be in for a few days.’

  ‘So you’ll not be here for Mr Clamp’s course?’ I asked, picking up a mug.

  ‘No, I won’t and I’m glad I won’t as well.’

  I changed the subject. ‘Are you going on holiday?’

  ‘Not at this time of year, I’m not,’ she told me. ‘I’m taking my father’s ashes to Dunkirk. It’s something I promised him I would do, scatter his ashes where some of his pals had been killed, but I’ve just not got around to doing it.’ Connie’s father had died the previous year. ‘He lived in a cellar for a week at Dunkirk, you know, with nothing but a pound of sugar and rain water until he managed to get out on one of those little boats. Do you want a Garibaldi biscuit?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘That’s what brought his stutter on, you know. He always said he wanted to rest with those pals of his who never made the journey home. He was a Dunkirk Veteran. I’m going with my Ted to scatter his ashes.’ Connie sniffed and took a sip of coffee. ‘Oh, look at me now, I’m getting all weepy.’

  ‘He was a brave man, Connie,’ I said.

  ‘He was the best father you could hope for, was Dad. Never raised a hand to me, never used a bad word. He was always there for me, he was. When you’re growing up you spend most of your time trying to get away from your parents, don’t you? You always think you know better. You always think they’re forever nagging you and not letting you do this, that and the other. When I was a girl, I had to tell Dad where I was going and who I was meeting. I had to be in by a certain time and woe betide if I came in late. I couldn’t wear this skirt or that make-up.’ She took a sip of coffee and sighed. ‘You never really appreciate your parents when you’re young. It’s only when they’re dead do you realise you never can get away from them. They’re always going to be with you in your thoughts and in your memories. And when they’re dead, you stop being a child, don’t you?’ Sometimes Connie uttered the most profound thoughts. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot, you have a message.’

  ‘From whom?’

  ‘That Mrs Savage at County Hall. The one who sounds as if she’s got a potato stuck in her mouth. She said to phone her immediately.’

  ‘Now what does she want?’ I sighed.

  ‘I don’t know, but she said it was urgent. She’s got a tongue as sharp as a butcher’s knife, that one, and a look as cold as a cemetery. I’ve had confrontations with that woman before now, parking that fancy red sports car so it blocks my entrance, flouting health and safety regulations.’

  ‘She’s been put in charge of that at County Hall,’ I told Connie.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Health and safety.’

  ‘Well, she’s the last one to tell people about health and safety. Mind you, it doesn’t surprise me at all. People without much substance always rise to the top like froth on the top of coffee.’ She stared for a moment at the mug she was holding. ‘I think this milk’s off. Anyway, I wouldn’t bother phoning now. Let her wait until Monday.’

  What an end to the week! It had been full of trials and tribulations and it would, no doubt, end on an acrimonious note. Ignoring Connie’s advice, I headed for the office with a sinking heart to telephone Mrs Savage.

  ‘You wanted to speak to me, Mrs Savage?’ I said rather formally when I finally got through.

  ‘Yes, I did,’ she replied icily. ‘Dr Gore wishes to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘At once.’

  ‘I see.’ I resisted the urge to ask what about but I had a shrewd idea it concerned the wretched report on King Henry’s. ‘Well, I’ll be there presently.’

  ‘May I impress on you, Mr Phinn,’ continued Mrs Savage, ‘that it is a matter of utmost urgency. I take it the course you have presumably been directing has now finished?’

  ‘Yes, it has.’

  ‘Well, in that case, could you return to County Hall ASAP?’ Without waiting for a reply she continued. ‘I will inform Dr Gore that you are on your way.’ With that she thumped down the phone.

  I sat back on the chair, sighed and shook my head. ‘She gets worse,’ I murmured to myself.

  Connie appeared at the door with my mug of coffee. ‘It’s getting cold, this,’ she said.

  ‘Sorry Connie,’ I told her. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got an appointment.’

  Dr Gore, Chief Education Officer for the County of Yorkshire, peered over the top of his small, gold-framed spectacles and then, resting his hands on the large mahogany desk in front of him, smiled like a contented cat.

  ‘And how are you, Gervase?’ he purred, steepling his long fingers in front of him like a judge about to pass sentence.

  ‘I’m very well, Dr Gore, thank you,’ I replied, attempting to hide my nervousness.

  ‘Good, good,’ the CEO murmured. He stared for a moment and nodded thoughtfully. ‘And how is that lovely wife of yours? Is she keeping well?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Dr Gore,’ I replied.

  ‘And when is the baby due?’

  ‘The end of March.’

  ‘ “Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, The droghte of March hath perced to the roote.” ’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Chaucer.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, wishing he would get on with it and put me out of my misery.

  ‘Well,’ he said after a weighty pause, ‘I’m sure you are wondering why I sent for you.’

  ‘Yes, I was wondering,’ I replied, getting more and more tense.

  ‘I was speaking to Mr Nelson last week,’ he said casually. Here we go, I thought. ‘He’s in the same Rotary Club as I am, you know. He’s next year’s District Governor, as a matter of fact. You’re not a Rotarian are you, Gervase?’

  ‘No, no, I’m not.’

  ‘Wonderful organisation is Rotary. “Service before Self” – that’s our motto. Do you kno
w, we raised a thousand pounds last year for a sensory garden at St Catherine’s Special School?’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Anyway, Mr Nelson mentioned you had paid a visit to King Henry’s College recently.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I said.

  ‘Took a bit of a look at the English department, I believe.’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘I gather you were not impressed with one particular teacher?’

  ‘About the report, Dr Gore –’ I started to say.

  ‘Ah yes, the report,’ said the CEO, resting his elbows on the desk and peering at me over the top of his small, gold-framed spectacles. ‘Mr Nelson said that he had never read a report quite like it.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I must say that when I read it, it was, how shall we put it, rather direct and to the point. You certainly didn’t pull any punches.’

  ‘I would like to say, Dr Gore –’ I began again.

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘But, of course, that’s as it should be.’

  I stared at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, that’s how it should be.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Why, yes. I want my school inspectors to give clear, honest and objective assessments of what they see. To tell me how it is. You wouldn’t be doing your job if all you did was say that everything was fine. I have to say that sometimes the reports which land on my desk are very bland. I recall Mr Carter, who was to have taken over from Dr Yeats, was very critical of the lack of focus and clear issues for action in some of the inspectors’ reports. Yes, I too thought your report on King Henry’s was excellent. Well done.’

  ‘Mr Nelson thought it was an excellent report?’ I asked, dumbfounded.

  ‘Yes, indeed. We didn’t, of course, discuss the report at our Rotary meeting. That would have been entirely inappropriate. Mr Nelson merely mentioned it was extremely well written and to the point. Just wanted to put in a good word on your behalf

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I did read through the report with the others this morning and I must say you certainly have got to the nub of the problem in the English department. I rang up Mr Nelson to have a word and from what I gather the head of department at King Henry’s, Mr Frobisher I believe his name is, has become rather tired and a little cynical over the past few years, not incompetent or anything like that but, to use common parlance, past his sell-by-date. He can, I believe, be quite difficult at times. When Mr Frobisher returned to school last week – evidently he had been away ill for the first time in living memory – the headmaster asked to see him and it was not a very good-humoured meeting, by all accounts. Mr Nelson was quite taken aback with Mr Frobisher’s reaction but rather pleased with the outcome. The teacher concerned has decided to take early retirement which certainly suits Mr Nelson. He can now appoint someone more dynamic and enthusiastic.’