Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘No trouble at all, Mr Phinn,’ said the headteacher, and I heard the line go dead. A moment later Mrs Durdon was on the phone.

  ‘Hello, Mr Phinn,’ she said in a hushed voice. ‘I did ask the receptionist who answered the phone at your end to tell you to ask for me personally. I didn’t want Miss Precious to know.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I tried to explain, ‘but –’

  ‘It’s just that Miss Precious retires at the end of the term and I wanted to invite you to a surprise party. I hope she doesn’t suspect. You might have let the cat out of the bag. I shall have to think of some good excuse for you ringing me.’

  ‘Well, I’d love to come, Mrs Durdon, if I am not busy.’

  ‘Best thing for me to do is put it in a letter. It was most unfortunate Miss Precious answering the phone. I don’t think your receptionist sounded very “with it” this morning.’

  The tell-tale click-clack of high heels on the hard corridor floor outside the office heralded the arrival of my unwelcome visitor.

  ‘I must go, Mrs Durdon,’ I said. ‘I look forward to hearing from you.’

  ‘Good morning,’ I heard Mrs Savage say beyond the office door.

  Then I heard the morose tones of Mrs Osbaldiston reply, ‘Mornin’.’ Then she added, ‘You’re early, aren’t you?’

  I was tempted to show myself at this point but resisted the temptation, deciding instead to eavesdrop. This was going to prove interesting.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ replied Mrs Savage curtly.

  ‘I said you’re early,’ said Mrs O.

  ‘No, I am not,’ came another curt reply. ‘In fact, I am prompt. I am always prompt. I said I would be here at eight-fifteen and if I am not mistaken that is the exact time on the clock in the corridor.’

  Mrs Osbaldiston did not sound in the least daunted by the cold and superior voice. ‘Well, I was told you’d be here at nine. I’ve got it on my list.’

  ‘And who are you, may I ask?’

  The sharp, authoritative tone was clearly lost on Connie’s locum. ‘Mrs Osbaldiston.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What is your function here?’

  ‘My function?’

  ‘What exactly do you do?’

  ‘What do I do?’

  ‘Am I in an echo chamber?’ asked Mrs Savage.

  ‘You’re in the Staff Development Centre,’ Mrs Osbaldiston informed her. ‘And for your information, I’m filling in for Connie, the caretaker. She’s in France scattering her father’s ashes at Dunkirk.’

  ‘Really,’ said Mrs Savage wearily.

  ‘I’m holding the fort, so to speak, doing a bit of cleaning and that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And, as I said, I have it on my list that you’d be arriving at nine. Anyway, now you’re here, do you want to see where you’ll be? You’re in the end room where it’s warmer and more private. I’ve pulled the curtains as well. I’m sure you don’t want people gawping at you through the window. I’ll put a cushion on your chair before you start posing. I suppose being sat on a hard wooden chair for any length of time must be uncomfortable on the nether regions, specially if you have no clothes on.’

  ‘No clothes on!’ snapped Mrs Savage. ‘Whatever are you talking about?’

  I nearly betrayed my presence with a burst of laughter but smacked my hand over my mouth. Mrs Osbaldiston had mistaken Mrs Savage for the nude model. I could visualise the scarlet lips pursing in disapproval and the dark eyes flashing.

  ‘Well, I was told you’d be taking your clothes off for Mr Camp,’ continued Mrs Osbaldiston blithely.

  ‘Taking my clothes off for Mr Camp!’ repeated Mrs Savage. ‘What are you talking about? Have I entered Bedlam?’

  ‘No, I’ve just told you, this is the Staff Development Centre,’ replied Mrs Osbaldiston calmly.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ asked Mrs Savage.

  ‘The nude model, aren’t you?’

  ‘The what?’ spluttered Mrs Savage. I am Mrs Savage, Personal Assistant to Dr Gore.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Dr Gore is the Chief Education Officer.’

  ‘Can’t say I’ve heard of him,’ replied the old lady. ‘Any road up, I thought you was the nude model.’

  ‘Do I look like a nude model?’ asked an exasperated Mrs Savage.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ said Mrs Osbaldiston stubbornly, ‘I’ve never seen one.’

  At this point I decided to enter the fray and emerged from the office, attempting to keep a straight face. ‘Good morning, Mrs Savage,’ I said seriously.

  Mrs Savage was attired in a scarlet jacket with silver buttons, tight-fitting black skirt, long dangling silver earrings and high-heeled patent leather shoes. It was very like the ensemble Julie had worn some weeks earlier when she had attended the Health and Safety meeting. I told myself not to smirk.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Savage, drawing her lips together into a thin line. ‘This… this person here, was under the misapprehension that I was some sort of… of model.’

  ‘Really?’ I said innocently.

  ‘I thought I had entered Bedlam.’ The eyes in the stony visage glowed with anger, the mouth remained small and tight.

  ‘I told her it was the Staff Development Centre,’ said Mrs Osbaldiston blithely, more to herself than to me. ‘I don’t know where she wants to be. Anyway, you’ll have to deal with her, Mr Flynn. I’ve got lots to do.’ With that she waddled off, mumbling to herself, ‘And I never did get that cup of tea.’

  The meeting with Mrs Savage was short but not very sweet. I agreed to nominate certain schools for the foreign inspectors to visit, prepare some briefing papers and devise a programme, and Mrs Savage announced that she would organise the travel and accommodation, and deal with the administration.

  ‘And do keep me up to speed, Mr Phinn,’ she said in a hectoring tone, as she rose to leave. ‘I will arrange a further mutually-convenient meeting to tie up any loose ends just prior to their visit.’

  ‘Very well,’ I replied, wishing she would high-tail it off back to County Hall.

  ‘And I shall be having a word with Dr Gore about nude models at the Staff Development Centre,’ she told me. ‘I assume it is Mr Clamp who has organised this. The man gets worse.’ I did not reply. ‘I am afraid that particular colleague of yours sails very close to the wind at times. By the way, I sincerely hope that the caretaker – that Connie woman – has cleared things before having time off to visit France. She can’t just take leave when she wants to and it is up to the office to arrange replacements, not her. Personnel will be informed of this as soon as I get back to County Hall. I shall also be having words with Dr Gore about that other cleaning woman whom I encountered this morning.’ She stroked out the creases in her skirt. ‘Now, I must return to the office,’ she continued, as if I were deliberately detaining her. ‘Dr Gore is finalising arrangements for the appointment of Dr Yeats’s successor this morning, specifically organising the interview panel…’ She paused, as if awaiting some sort of response, but I remained tight-lipped. ‘The advertisement for the post of Senior Inspector has gone into the Staff Vacancy Bulletin and will appear in the educational journals and national newspapers later this week.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so,’ I said.

  When Mrs Savage had departed, I bade my farewell to a harassed-looking Mrs O. and headed for the door. In the car park I discovered a lean woman climbing from an extremely old and rusty car. She could have been Mrs Osbaldiston’s twin sister: tightly curled greying hair, small down-turned mouth and an amazingly wrinkled in-drawn face.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘is this the Staff Development Centre?’

  ‘It is,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr Clamp,’ she told me. ‘I’m the artists’ model.’

  *

  St Helen’s Church of England Primary School was a square, grey-stone building with small mullioned windows, a very impressive heavy oak door and a high sh
iny slate roof. It had been built in the latter part of the eighteenth century following the bequest of a wealthy landowner for the education of his estate workers. It was still continuing to serve the two villages of Kirby Crighton and Kirby Ruston and a few children from the nearby United States Air Force Base at Ribbon Bank. It was situated in a very advantaged area, and houses in the vicinity were amongst the most expensive in this part of the county. I had visited the school during my first year on such a nippy day as this when the trees were beginning to turn golden.

  Mrs Smith, the headteacher, greeted me at the door and ushered me into a small entrance area. On the wall was a large photograph of all the teachers, governors and ancillary staff and another of all the children, sitting up smartly and smiling. There were also pictures and prints, potted plants and a large dried-flower arrangement. It looked a cheerful and welcoming place. ‘It’s very nice to see you again, Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Smith. ‘You’ll find we’ve grown quite a bit since your last visit to us.’

  I had given the school a very good report on the last occasion and this visit was to see if standards in English had remained high.

  ‘A victim of your own success, eh, Mrs Smith?’ I suggested.

  ‘One would like to think so,’ said the headteacher, clearly pleased with the flattering observation, ‘but it is rather the result of more American children attending from the base. And there are some real characters, as you’ll see.’

  On the way to the infant classroom, the headteacher told me about Esther. ‘She’s a remarkable little reader and has the vocabulary of an eleven-year-old. I’ve never come across a child like this in all my teaching career. She’s just six and can read virtually anything. Her mother’s a lecturer at York, her father a colonel in the United States Air Force which, of course, explains a lot. Esther is an amazingly fluent reader. She simply devours books. I should say she is gifted.’

  ‘What do her parents say?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, they seem to take it in their stride. They certainly don’t want her pressurised or anything like that, no special provision or extra work and, I must say, I have to agree with them. Young children should enjoy their childhood. I do, however, need some advice on suitable reading material for such a gifted infant.’

  I have, on my visits to schools, very often been told by a teacher that a particular child is ‘gifted’ or ‘talented’ or ‘exceptionally able’. It generally turns out that the child is bright or intelligent but it is rare to find a child of really outstanding ability. Einsteins are extremely rare. I smiled at Mrs Smith and said I would speak to the child and hear her read.

  I discovered little Esther at a table splashing paint on a large sheet of pale yellow paper. There were three egg-shaped, bright-pink figures complete with long spindly arms, fingers like twigs and great beaming smiles. They all had tummy buttons.

  ‘Hello,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hi!’ the child replied, looking up and smiling. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, leaning over and scrutinising her picture. ‘Now, who are these interesting people in your painting?’ I asked.

  ‘There’s Daddy,’ Esther told me, gesturing with the brush. ‘He’s the large one. There’s Mommy in a bikini and the little one is me. We’re on the beach in France. Have you been to France?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘It’s cool, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. Now, Mrs Smith tells me you are a very good reader,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me!’ she replied.

  ‘Would you like to read to me?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I like reading. I’ve got lots and lots of books at home. I have my own library in my bedroom.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ I said, ‘and I bet you have a bedtime story every night, as well.’

  ‘I sure do. Daddy and Mommy take it in turns. I have a cuddle and a bedtime story every night. Daddy says stories are very good for children.’

  ‘Your daddy’s right,’ I told her.

  ‘Daddies always are,’ she told me pertly. ‘Shall I get my reading book?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘perhaps you would read one of mine.’

  I carry around with me in my briefcase various documents and books: standardised reading tests, non-verbal assessment sheets, word recognition lists and also a few books of varying difficulty to test children’s reading ability. The reading scheme books, with which the children learn to read, have familiar characters and settings, repeated words and phrases to give children confidence and security but the good reader is able to be confronted with an unknown text and read and understand it. I presented little Esther with a book suitable for a seven-year-old.

  ‘Gee, this looks too easy,’ she told me, examining the cover and flicking through the pages.

  ‘Easy?’ I repeated. ‘I’ll be very surprised if you manage to read it.’

  The child gave me the kind of melancholy smile a Mother Superior might bestow upon an erring novice. ‘May I have a harder book, please?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, reaching into my briefcase, ‘let’s try another one.’ I selected a book suitable for a nine-year-old. ‘Now, if you find this a bit hard, don’t worry. It’s a book for older children.’

  She stared at the cover for a moment. ‘Shall I start from the beginning?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘From the very beginning?’

  ‘From the very beginning,’ I repeated.

  The child tilted her head, stared at the large black stamped box at the very top of the cover page and then she read: ‘Property of Yorkshire County Council, Education Department, Schools Inspectorate.’

  I shook my head and smiled.

  Later that morning in the nursery, I met Imogen. She looked like a china doll: golden curls, huge blue eyes and a flawless complexion. The child was casually turning the pages of an early reader. Each page displayed an object: house, bus, church, man, woman, dog, car and so on, beneath which was the word in large black letters. ‘Will you read it to me, please?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, amused by such a confident little thing.

  ‘I know some words,’ she told me, ‘but I can’t read all of them.’

  When I had finished reading the book, I wrote the word ‘car’ on a piece of paper. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘can you read this word for me?’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ she replied.

  ‘It begins with a curly “c”. Would you like to have a guess?’

  ‘No, I can’t read it.’

  ‘Let me give you a clue,’ I said. ‘Your daddy or mummy might drive you to school in it in the morning.’

  ‘Oh yes!’ she cried. ‘You mean Wolls Woyce.’

  The older children were in the middle of a discussion when I joined them after morning break. Their teacher, a round, jolly woman in an orange skirt, white blouse and green cardigan, greeted me warmly and ushered me to a chair at the front of the classroom. She looked like a walking flag of Ireland.

  ‘Now, this is Mr Phinn,’ she told the children. ‘Some of you might remember him. He visited us before, didn’t you Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Yes. I did,’ I said.

  ‘And Mr Phinn is very interested in children’s reading and writing, aren’t you, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said.

  ‘And today we are writing a cautionary tale. We’ve been reading a story about children who did not do as they were told and as a result they all came to a sticky end.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘There’s the disobedient boy who did not listen to his father and played with fire, despite being warned of the danger, and ended up burnt to a crisp. It’s not as gruesome as it sounds,’ she said in an undertone. ‘Nothing gratuitous. And the girl who ignored her mother’s cautions and played near the river bank. She came to a watery end. Then there was the boy who went near the railway line, ignoring all the signs that warned him of danger. That had a very unfortunate outcome. Now, before they write their o
wn cautionary tales, Mr Phinn, the children are describing an accident they have had because they have not taken sufficient care. Let me see. Katy, would you like to tell our important visitor what you are going to be writing about?’

  ‘Miss,’ said the girl enthusiastically, ‘when I was little we went to a pizza parlour and I sniffed some pepper up my nose.’

  There was a ripple of laughter. ‘It’s not funny, children,’ said the teacher seriously. ‘The pepper might have gone right down into Katy’s lungs. It could have been very serious, couldn’t it, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘It could,’ I agreed.

  ‘And I couldn’t stop sneezing and coughing,’ continued the child. ‘My mum went bananas –’

  ‘I think a better phrase to use would be “became very angry”, Katy,’ interrupted the teacher.

  ‘She became very angry and said what a stupid thing to do. We had to go home and my dad said I would not do that in a hurry again.’

  ‘I think your father was right, Katy,’ said the teacher. ‘Don’t you, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Yes, I do,’ I agreed.

  ‘David, what about your accident?’ asked the teacher, looking at a small boy near the front.

  ‘Miss, I swallowed a marble,’ said the boy.

  There was another ripple of laughter. ‘Good gracious!’ exclaimed the teacher. ‘That was a very silly thing to do and could have been very dangerous. You could have choked to death, couldn’t he, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.

  ‘Miss, I was pretending it was a sweet,’ continued the boy, ‘and I popped it in my mouth and swallowed it by mistake. I started to cough and my mum had to smash me on the back really really hard and –’

  ‘I think a better phrase to use would be “strike firmly” or “slap heavily”, David,’ interrupted the teacher.

  ‘So, my mum had to strike me firmly on the back but it wouldn’t come up, so I had to go to hospital. The doctor gave my mum this paper to get some medicine –’

  ‘Prescription,’ interposed the teacher.

  ‘Gave mum this prescription to get some medicine and it was thick and pink and had a horrible taste and –’

  ‘Tasted unpleasant,’ prompted the teacher.