‘And it came in a big brown bottle and I had to take it for a couple of days and then one morning I was sitting on the toilet and there was a “clunk” and I shouted down the stairs, “I’ve got my marble back!” and my dad said, “Leave it alone!” and –’
‘My goodness, David,’ said the teacher hurriedly, ‘what a to-do. I think we’ve heard quite enough about your unfortunate accident, haven’t we, Mr Phinn?’
‘Yes,’ I said, wishing that the teacher would not constantly keep referring to me for an opinion.
‘Just one more, before we get on with our writing,’ said the teacher, turning to a large, friendly-looking boy with cropped hair and large ears. ‘Scott’s from America, Mr Phinn. All the way from Tennessee. Come along then, Scott, what was your accident?’
‘Well, I guess the worst accident I had was when I was riding my bike on the sidewalk –’
‘We call it “pavement” over here, Scott,’ interrupted the teacher.
‘Oh yeah, pavement, and I came to this slope. I was pedalling so fast I just could not stop. I put on my brakes but I carried on skidding and sliding until I hit one of those great white things in the middle of the road –’
‘Bollards,’ said the teacher.
‘Straight up, miss,’ said the boy. ‘I really did.’
11
One of the great joys of being a school inspector is the opportunity of meeting so many interesting, unusual and sometimes truly bizarre people. And Mr Maurice Hinderwell was certainly out of the ordinary.
I arrived at Scarthorpe Primary School one bright October morning to undertake a half-day’s follow-up inspection. The small school was a squat, dark, stone building, tucked away behind the ancient Norman church of St Mary the Virgin and partially hidden by a towering oak tree with branches reaching skywards like huge arms. It had been in the spring of the previous year when I had visited Scarthorpe, to take a look at the standards in reading and writing, and I had found it to be well managed and held in high regard by the parents. There had been a few recommendations for improvement and I was here that morning to see that they had been implemented.
As I approached the building now, I recalled the first occasion, eighteen months before, when I had driven up that twisting ribbon of road. Behind me, in the valley bottom, rolling green pastureland dotted with ewes and their lambs contentedly cropping the lush grass had stretched into the distance. Before me an ocean of bright green young bracken had swept upwards to a belt of dark pines and beyond to the rocky tops. Above, the sky had been a vast canopy of pale blue. It had taken my breath away. What a glorious place to live, I had thought. It was a very different scene now, but equally magnificent in its autumnal beauty. Through the windscreen appeared a sea of fading crimson heather, the bracken on the slopes was beginning to turn and the distant felltops were now a pale purple in the early morning light.
I had been driving behind a tractor for some time along the narrowest of winding roads so arrived a little later than expected. The bell had just gone for the start of the school day so, not wishing to interrupt the headteacher’s assembly, I headed for the staff room. There I discovered, sitting in the corner of the room, a small man in an incredibly creased grey suit, loud spotted bow tie and small shiny boots. He was balancing a cup of steaming coffee on the arm of the chair with one hand and holding a chocolate biscuit in the other.
‘Nice morning,’ he said jovially as I entered.
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied. ‘It’s beautiful.’
To my amazement, the little man posted the whole of the chocolate biscuit into his mouth and crunched noisily. Clearly he was not a member of staff or he would have been at assembly. I decided he was a governor or a book representative or, more likely, here to see about the plumbing or electrics.
‘I’m here to inspect the school,’ I told him. ‘I’m a school inspector.’
‘Oh, yes?’ he said, spitting bits of biscuit in my direction. I sat in the chair the furthest away. He made no effort to introduce himself. ‘I wouldn’t like that job myself, school inspector,’ he told me, poking a bit of irritating biscuit from his teeth. ‘Too much like hard work. All those reports to write. And I don’t suppose you’re very popular either. Having you in must be like a visit from the KGB.’ He took a great gulp of coffee and smacked his lips noisily. ‘No, it can’t be the most rewarding line of work, school inspecting.’ Before I could enlighten him, he continued. ‘Most important thing for me is job satisfaction, not money or status or long holidays or fancy perks. It’s job satisfaction, knowing that you’re doing something worthwhile and challenging, a service to the community. That’s something I’ve got – job satisfaction. I love my work. I get up every morning raring to go. Yes, it’s a very satisfying job, is mine.’
I just had to ask: ‘And what exactly do you do?’
‘Have a guess.’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘I’m the County Pest Control Officer.’
‘Indeed – I see.’
‘I deal with pests: cockroaches, bed bugs, rabbits, moles, bats, wasps, ants, beetles, fleas, every pest imaginable. You name it, I kill it. You’ll be pleased to hear we don’t include human pests like VAT officers, traffic wardens, tax investigators and’ – he paused for effect – ‘school inspectors are not on the list either.’ He chuckled at his own witticism.
‘So the school has a problem with pests, has it?’ I asked.
‘Rats.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The school. They’ve got rats. Quite a colony by all accounts.’ I shuddered and pulled a face. ‘Got a call last week from Mrs Fox, the headteacher. Now there’s a name to conjure with. I do foxes as well, you know. Anyway, she was in a right old state. Got her knickers in a real twist. Teachers were in a panic, dinner ladies hysterical, governors complaining, caretaker a nervous wreck and parents up in arms. Rats have this effect on people, you know. Kiddies weren’t worried, to be honest. Quite took to the rats they did, watching their antics. They were running up and down the climbing frame in the playground, scuttling across the wall, burrowing behind the bicycle sheds, paddling in the waste near the dustbins. The rats, I mean, not the kiddies.’
‘It sounds frightful,’ I said. I must have looked horrified.
‘No, no, as I said to Mrs Fox, I’ll soon have the little buggers – pardon my French. Mind you, some of them aren’t so little. They can grow to the size of small rabbits, you know. I do rabbits as well. Your average rat grows to about a foot long and weighs about a pound, but you can get them much bigger. But I’ll get them, oh yes, I’ll get them.’ He took another gulp of coffee before adding philosophically, ‘I always do.’
‘Well, good luck,’ I said.
‘It’s not a matter of luck,’ my sharp-faced companion informed me. ‘It’s more a matter of skill, intuition and know-how. You have to appreciate how rats think, you see.’ He sipped the remains of his coffee and then licked his lips. With his dark inquisitive eyes, small pointed nose, protuberant white teeth and glossy black hair bristling on his scalp, he did not look so dissimilar to the creatures he had come to exterminate. ‘I think of all the pests I have to deal with, the rat is my favourite. He’s a much greater challenge than your average cockroach or your bed bug.’
‘Really?’
‘Aye, it’s a fact. Intelligent creatures are rats, but I have to exterminate them. It’s a fact of life. They’re walking death traps,’ he told me, his small eyes flashing. ‘One in ten rats carries Leptospira which can lead to a whole host of very unpleasant diseases, you know.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘Oh, but I do,’ he chuckled to himself. ‘Penicillin and other antibiotics have little effect against causal organisms like leptospirosis. One of the varieties of leptospirosis is called Weil’s disease, you know. Very unpleasant that. Very unpleasant indeed. It’s contracted through rats’ urine, often found in contaminated water, and is fatal more often than not. They urinate eighty times a day, do rats.
Did you know that?’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I replied weakly.
‘And one in ten rats carries Listeria and Cryptosporidium, both of which can cause very nasty gastroenteritis. You could be ill for weeks with a dose of that, on and off the lavatory, diarrhoea, vomiting, spitting blood. Of course, humans are very susceptible to all these horrible diseases that this particular rodent can carry. Rat urine and faeces get everywhere. They like to live near kitchens where there’s lots of cooked food and waste. I don’t eat out much myself. I say, is there another chocolate digestive going?’
‘Oh dear,’ I sighed. The morning had started off so well. I was beginning to feel quite ill.
‘One in twenty-five rats has the Hantavirus antibody,’ he continued blithely, ‘which can lead to haemorrhagic fever. That’s a killer. Once you’ve got that, mate, you’re dancing with death.’
I quickly passed over the packet of biscuits. I was by now fascinated by the gruesome account. ‘It’s fortunate then,’ I said, ‘that there aren’t so many rats about.’
‘Not so many about!’ he squeaked derisively. ‘Not so many about! There’s seventy million in this country alone, that’s how many. There are more rats than humans on this planet, over six billion of the buggers – pardon my French. Rats have sex twenty times a day and can give birth every four weeks. One in twenty domestic premises are infested with rats and that’s a conservative estimate, so I’m kept pretty busy, I can tell you. You think there aren’t so many because you don’t see them. They’re elusive creatures. But they’re there all right. Watching, waiting, breeding and spreading disease wherever they go. You see, your rat is very clever, he’s devious, quick-witted and adaptable. You’re never more than fifteen feet away from a rat. Rats’ teeth are harder than aluminium or copper. They can gnaw through cables, climb brickwork, get into cavity walls and swim up toilet U-bends. You could be sitting there, reading your paper, minding your own business – if you’ll excuse the pun –and up he pops.’ I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. ‘They can squeeze through a hole no larger than my thumb and will eat almost anything.’ He took a sizeable bite out of the biscuit he had plucked from the packet and crunched noisily. ‘Very nice digestives, these. Will you have one?’ I shook my head. He polished off the biscuit. ‘Then there’s what we call in the business your “intermediate vectors”, like fleas.’ He became suddenly quite animated. ‘Now your flea is a fascinating creature. The distances they can spring is quite mind-boggling. The danger is that they feed off the rat, sucking its blood, and then pass on the rat’s disease to you. That’s how the Black Death started.’
I suddenly began to feel rather itchy. ‘How will you dispose of the rats?’ I asked, scratching my scalp.
‘Traps and poison, simple but effective. You know, I have a certain respect for Rattus. He’s quite amazing. Body like a coiled spring, calibrated senses, razor sharp incisors, jaws of steel, superb night vision, fast mover, brilliant swimmer and agile climber. I almost admire him in a funny sort of way.’
‘Well, you certainly seem to enjoy your work,’ I said.
‘I love it. Every day is different, every day has its share of exciting challenges.’
Thankfully, the bell for the end of assembly sounded. My companion rose to his feet, brushing the crumbs from his trousers. He placed the empty mug on the side and stretched his arms widely. ‘Well, I shall have to make a start, I suppose. I need to reconnoitre, find the right place to lay my poison and set my traps. Mrs Fox has been explaining things to the children in assembly. She felt it would be best coming from her. She thought my explaining things might frighten the kiddies.’ Having heard him, I could well see her point. ‘Now, I know you inspectors like to look into everything in a school but a word of advice. Don’t go poking about in the undergrowth, pushing your fingers into holes or lifting anything suspicious-looking. There’ll probably be a trap or poison in there.’
‘I won’t,’ I assured him.
‘Anyway, nice meeting you, and if ever you do need anything disposing of – and I don’t include your mother-in-law in that list – then phone Maurice Hinderwell at the County Pest Control Unit in Crompton. Service with a smile, that’s me.’
I little thought that morning at Scarthorpe School that I would one day quite soon be requiring the services of Mr Hinderwell.
The Mrs Fox I remembered from my last visit was a large, cheerful woman with a foghorn voice. On this morning, however, she was very different. She appeared so careworn and subdued that I suggested to her that I cancel my visit and return at a later date when the problem with the rats had been resolved. She sighed with relief and readily agreed to my suggestion.
‘Oh yes, that would suit very well, Mr Phinn,’ she said. ‘Was it not Hamlet who said that “troubles come not in single spies, but in battalions”?’ I knew exactly how she felt. ‘First we had the blocked drains, then the leaking roof, then an outbreak of scabies and an infestation of head lice. And then’ – she took a deep breath – ‘the rats arrived. Parents are beginning to think this school is cursed. A school inspection would just about finish us off.’
‘I’m very happy to fix another date, Mrs Fox,’ I told her, ‘and return when the rats have gone. I have plenty of paperwork to catch up with back at the office and I’m running a course this afternoon so that will give me the chance to go through my notes.’
‘It’s ironic, really,’ she sighed. ‘We were about to start rehearsals for the Christmas play next week. Well, that will have to be cancelled. There’s no way I’m staging that particular piece of drama.’
‘What was it to have been?’ I asked.
‘The Pied Piper,’ she replied, giving me a weak smile.
So I departed, my mind full of the frightening facts about disease-ridden rodents, giant blood-sucking bed bugs and acrobatic fleas.
I was not in the most positive frame of mind as I walked into the entrance of West Challerton High School later that day to direct the staff-training course. The previous year, one of Dr Gore’s ‘little jobs’ had been for me to take part in a Ministry of Education initiative called ‘Language and Literacy for Learning’. English inspectors from selected education authorities had been given the task of observing a range of lessons in a sample of secondary schools, to assess how effective teachers in different subject areas were in using questions, developing reading competence, organising group work, encouraging discussion and teaching writing skills such as summary and note-taking. The inspectors were also instructed to examine how teachers evaluated pupils’ work. From this ‘pilot’ survey, it was found that the questions asked and the written work set in the classroom could very well act as barriers to communication between teachers and their students. A fully-blown national project had emerged and each secondary school in the country was now asked to devise a ‘Language and Literacy for Learning’ policy. All teachers were required to explore the issues in the Ministry of Education’s detailed report through courses, subject-based workshops and working parties in order that an understanding of the theory could be translated into practice.
The second-in-charge in the English department was a dynamic young teacher called Miss Mullane. She had been asked by the headmaster to lead on this project, produce guidelines and organise training sessions and it was she who had asked me to address the staff. I had observed Miss Mullane a couple of years before, when she had taught at the ill-named Sunny Grove Secondary Modern School, a dark, grim building set in a wretchedly depressed inner-city environment, scarred with graffiti and ankle-deep in litter. The atmosphere in her classroom had been such a contrast. It had been bright and warm and the pupils had responded well to her outstanding teaching. I had kept in touch with her and had been pleased when she had been put in charge of the ‘Language and Literacy’ initiative and been only too happy to accept her invitation to speak to the staff.
When I saw Mr Pennington-Smith sweeping down the corridor towards me in his black academic gown, I had a presentiment that my course would not
go all that well. I could quite understand the headmaster wearing his gown for a speech day or when the pupils were in school but wondered why he still had his symbol of authority draped around him. It was not really conducive to a training course for teachers.
‘Aaaahhh, Mr Phinn,’ he intoned, ‘you’ve arrived. The staff are waiting for you in the school hall.’ He gave a weak smile. ‘It’s never easy delivering these training courses, is it?’ he said as we walked together down the corridor. ‘Most of the staff feel they could be better occupied than sitting in a draughty school hall at the end of the day, listening to a lecture on language and learning. Most of them do not see the relevance for their subject areas. I have to say, I have a deal of sympathy with that view. The Ministry of Education, in its wisdom, seems to invent these initiatives, churning out discussion papers, frameworks, guidelines and unwieldy reports that rarely get read. These people in their ivory towers in London have not the first idea of the amount of work that goes on in schools.’
‘I have to admit, Mr Pennington-Smith,’ I said, ‘that when I was asked to take part in the pilot project, I too felt very sceptical but I have changed my mind. I think this initiative is worthwhile and well overdue. I am convinced that school failure begins with the inability of young people to master spoken and written English. Teachers of all subjects need to be aware of the process by which their students acquire information and know something about the reading demands of their own subjects.’
‘There is none so zealous as a convert,’ remarked the headmaster. We stopped at the entrance to the hall and he rested his hand on my arm. ‘If I may proffer a little advice,’ he whispered in my ear. ‘We don’t want thought-showers, brainstorming, bullet point presentations, group work and plenary sessions and could you make your talk amusing and entertaining?’
‘Make it amusing and entertaining?’ I repeated.
‘We don’t want anything heavy or rigorous.’
Up and Down in the Dales Page 16
