Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

‘My goodness,’ sighed Mrs McGuire, ‘you would not believe the difficulties we had getting the powers that be to agree to the alterations to accommodate that one little girl. The school was only built a little more than a century ago and it’s not listed or anything but you’d think it was York Minster or Skipton Castle, the trouble we had obtaining permission to make the minor changes to the structure, to install the stair lift, widen the doors, things like that. I mean, it wasn’t as if we were taking a sledge-hammer to some religious shrine and knocking down something irreplaceable.’ She must have seen the expression on my face. ‘Are you all right, Mr Phinn?’ she asked. ‘You’ve gone quite pale.’

  I decided to take David’s advice and when I got back to the office that afternoon I went in search of old Perkins – or Jasper Perkins, to be correct – in the Architects’ Department. Mr Perkins was a delightful and erudite gentleman whom I discovered poring over a large map in a small office tucked away at the very rear of County Hall. I explained about the chapel and waited in trepidation for his considered opinion.

  ‘Do you like to be teased, Mr Phinn?’ he asked, echoing my words to India earlier that day.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Perkins?’

  ‘Teased. Do you like your leg pulled?’ He chuckled. ‘I think you’ve got friends with very vivid imaginations or ones that enjoy a little ruse. Firstly, speaking as a lay preacher of some thirty years, I know of no Methodist chapel on your property. There are two chapels in Hawksrill, if my memory serves me aright. I’ve preached at both. There’s the Primitive Methodist on Shire Lane and then the Wesleyan Methodist on Snig Hill. As for the Reverend Jessop conducting some sort of service up where you live, I think it extremely unlikely. He’s not in the best of health and he’s got quite enough on, managing the two chapels in the village, without taking on a third. He did attempt to amalgamate the two chapels, you know, but traditions die hard and both congregations dug their heels in. But, that’s another matter. Anyway, Mr Phinn, I am pretty certain that there was no third Methodist chapel in Hawksrill. Now, speaking as an architect, you would have been made fully aware when you purchased the property that this was a listed building or a site of particular historical interest. There have been a few occasions when some buildings have been demolished by accident and one or two that have slipped through the net, but they are very few and far between. I think you can rest assured that you won’t be locked up for the desecration of a church.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mr Perkins,’ I said, shaking his hand vigorously. ‘You don’t know what a weight you have lifted off my shoulders. I owe you a drink.’

  Mr Perkins raised an eyebrow and gave a wry little smile. ‘I’m a Methodist, Mr Phinn, remember.’

  There would have been a veritable spring in my step as I made my way down the top corridor of County Hall that afternoon had it not been for the swollen knee which was still extraordinarily painful. I had ignored Christine’s advice about going to the doctor but now determined to make an appointment just as soon as I got back to the office.

  I stopped in my tracks, however, when I turned a corner. Outside Committee Room One, a group of councillors was huddled around a loud gesticulating individual in a baggy tweed suit. Although he had his back to me, I recognised instantly the bull neck which overlapped the collar, the mop of unnaturally jet black hair and the bombastic voice. It was Councillor George Peterson. I had come across Councillor Peterson a good few times before and he always managed to make my hackles rise with his clever comments and tasteless observations. There seemed no way that I could avoid him but I was going to make a determined effort anyway. So I quickly continued down the corridor, limping but walking on the balls of my feet so my heels would not betray my presence and looking down as if I were preoccupied in some knotty problem. I sailed past the cabal and thought that I had not been seen, but as I reached the top of the long curved staircase, a voice echoed down the corridor.

  ‘Hey! Hey! Mr Phinn. Not tryin’ to avoid me, are you?’

  I turned round to face the group and gave a watery smile. ‘Councillor Peterson.’

  ‘You were goin’ at a fair lick. I’ll walk across to t’inspectors’ office wi’ you. I’ve got a meetin’ with Dr Yeats.’ He turned to his companions. ‘We’ll raise it at t’next meetin’, Horace,’ he said to one of his fellow councillors, before striding towards me. ‘This is a right carry-on about these school closures, in’t it?’ he said as we descended the stairs together.

  ‘Yes, it’s very unfortunate,’ I replied, negotiating the steps.

  ‘What’s up wi’ yer leg?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I had an accident,’ I told him. ‘I banged it. Nothing serious.’

  ‘Aye, well, I was just sayin’, it’s a right carry-on about these school closures.’

  The least I said the better, I thought. ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘We’ve just ‘ad an hextrahordinary meeting of the Sub-Committee about it. It’s a right can of worms and no mistake.’ He made no attempt to hide his anger. He puffed out his cheeks, shook his head and grimaced theatrically.

  ‘Feelings are running very high,’ I remarked, looking into the red meaty face.

  ‘Too right, they are, and I’ll tell you what school is t’fly in t’ointment. It’s Hawksrill. Everybody bar the cat and its mother is gettin’ in its two pennyworth about t’closure of that particular school and it’s turning very nasty.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We’ve ‘ad countless late meetings of t’Sub-Committee, letters of protest, pictures in t’paper of people wi’ placards. That Chairman of Governors, Reverend Braybrook, has put it on t’agenda of t’full Education Committee and when ‘e gets started there’s no stoppin’ ‘im. ‘E thinks ‘e’s in ‘is pulpit.’ Those in glass houses, I thought. ‘We’ve ‘ad t’local member of parliament writin’ me notes and Lord Marrick grumbling at me down t’phone and next week, blow me, if one of these HMIs isn’t comin’ up from London to see me about it – woman with a funny name and a very sharp manner.’

  ‘Miss de la Mare?’

  ‘Aye, that’s ‘er. Anybody’d think I was doin’ this to be awkward. Anyroad, I don’t suppose I should be tellin’ you all this.’

  ‘And why is that Councillor Peterson?’ I enquired.

  We stopped at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Because it might get back to t’opposition.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meanin’ that that wife of yours and ‘er protest group are causin’ all t’trouble, stirrin’ things up.’

  My hackles began to rise but I kept calm, breathed out slowly and looked him in the eye. ‘I can assure you, Councillor Peterson, I have not discussed the situation with my wife or anyone else, for that matter. Like you, I guess, I keep County Council business to myself and do not talk to her about such things.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but that wife of yours gave me a real grillin’ at t’public meetin’ and you don’t even ‘ave kiddies at t’school.’

  ‘No, but we will have or would have had, I should say. People in the village feel very strongly about the school closing. It’s at the very heart of the community and it’s used for all manner of activities and events. More importantly, Hawksrill is an excellent school as all the reports show. In fact, it’s one of the best schools I have visited.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all that, but it’s small, very small and it’s too uneconomical to keep it goin’. What your wife and these protestors don’t seem to realise is that we ‘ave to cut costs. I don’t want to close a school any more than you do, but we ‘ave to save money somehow and that’s t’top and bottom of it. You should per’aps ‘ave a quiet word with your wife and tell ‘er to go easy.’

  ‘Councillor, gone are the days when a husband tells his wife what to do.’ I was certain that the councillor himself did not go around giving orders to Mrs Peterson. She was the headteacher of Highcopse County Primary School and a fierce and formidable woman.

  ‘I am sure you realise, Mr Phinn, that should she k
eep up this pressure, it could make it tricky for you.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, if you were to get Dr Yeats’s job, you’ll be t’one that ‘as to deal wi’ t’closures. ‘As that crossed your mind?’

  ‘Yes, it has,’ I replied.

  ‘I mean, you can’t be on t’side of t’angels and drink wi’ t’devil and it’s not goin’ to do much for marital harmony, you at loggerheads with your wife about Hawksrill School, is it?’

  ‘That situation will not arise,’ I assured him.

  ‘Oh, but it could. After the last fiasco when we appointed that Mr Carter who gave back-word – and I never really took to ‘im – then you might find yourself t’new Senior Inspector and that means that you’ll ‘ave to deal with all this. It’ll be you who’s in charge of closin’ t’school.’

  ‘I repeat, that situation won’t arise,’ I told him. I looked him in the face. ‘You see, I don’t intend applying for Dr Yeats’s job. Good afternoon, Councillor Peterson.’

  With that I limped off towards the car park.

  14

  ‘Are you doing anything this Saturday?’

  The question, from the Head of the English Faculty at The Lady Cavendish High School for Girls, took me rather by surprise. I had observed Miss Bridges’s lessons the previous year and judged them to be some of the best I had ever seen. I had rather expected this diminutive schoolma’am with the pale, indrawn face, dark eyes and thick iron-grey hair scraped back into a tight little bun, to be a rather dry and crusty individual and that her lessons would be dull in the extreme. Appearances can, of course, be deceptive, and the talented Miss Bridges turned out to be lively, amusing and immensely enthusiastic. She was quite clearly idolised by the students she taught and their examination results were outstanding. Now, here she was on the phone asking me out.

  ‘Saturday?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Are you free this Saturday? Let me explain. I am taking a party of senior girls to see the Royal Shakespeare Company’s matinee performance of King Lear at Stratford-upon-Avon and I have a couple of spare tickets. Two students can’t come at the last moment. It’s such a pity to let the tickets go to waste and I thought, since you are something of a Shakespeare aficionado, you and your wife might care to join us. I did so enjoy meeting you when you visited LCHS last year. Also, it would be good to have some more adults with us. Our girls are extremely sensible, of course, but one never knows when emergencies might arise and it’s always good to have another pair of hands.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you, Miss Bridges,’ I said, flicking though the pages in my desk diary. ‘Actually, Christine and I don’t have anything on this Saturday. I’m sure she would love to come. I certainly would. I haven’t seen a Shakespeare play for some time. It will be a real treat.’

  ‘Splendid!’ cried Miss Bridges. ‘Well, that’s settled then. If you could be at the school for eight of the clock prompt, that will give us ample time to travel down to Stratford in time for the matinee performance.’

  Christine was distinctly lukewarm when I mentioned it to her that evening. ‘It’s not a barrel of laughs, King Lear, is it?’ she said gloomily. ‘We could both do with being cheered up this weekend, not thoroughly depressed. It’s all doom, gloom, treachery and murder, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, no, it’s far from a comedy,’ I agreed, ‘but it’s sure to be a superb performance and a day out, away from school closures and reports and listed chapels, will buck us both up. Anyway, it will take a lot to depress me at the moment. Deciding not to apply for Harold’s job has made me almost light-headed. I feel like celebrating.’

  I had thought long and hard about applying for the Senior Inspector’s post. I was flattered, of course, that my three colleagues in the office were keen for me to try my hand again, and Dr Gore’s comments, when we discussed the King Henry’s College report, had led me to believe that I would be in with a serious chance this time. But then I had seen Harold’s desk which overflowed with reports, letters of complaint and all manner of official documents. I remembered his talking about the numerous problems he had to solve – ‘Sometimes,’ he had said, ‘I feel like a glorified agony aunt’ – and, of course, the endless late night meetings. I had seen how wearied he had become by all the pressure and stress, and how much he was looking forward to his retirement. This time, I had not taken long to come to the conclusion that Christine was right and that I should not apply. I had quite enough on my plate with a new wife, new house, and a baby on the way. Maybe another opportunity would arise one day, when things were more settled.

  ‘I really am pleased about you not going for the job,’ said Christine now, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  ‘So, are we on for Stratford?’ I asked.

  ‘Would you mind awfully if I didn’t go?’ Christine said. ‘It’s just that Baby Phinn is a bit tiring at times and my bladder is a bit unpredictable in my present condition. I need to be in close proximity to a loo. I really couldn’t face a long coach journey at the moment.’

  ‘Of course!’ I cried, ‘I never thought. I’m sorry, darling. I’ll ring Miss Bridges and tell her we can’t go.’

  ‘I’m the one who’s pregnant,’ said Christine. ‘You go. I’ve got lots to do. It will take you out of yourself. You deserve a bit of a break. Actually, I thought I might do a bit of early Christmas shopping in Fettlesham this weekend before all the crowds start.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t mind me going?’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’

  So, early on the Saturday morning, I duly arrived at the car park of the vast, mock-Gothic edifice with its ugly redbrick towers and turrets, which was The Lady Cavendish High School for Girls. I had contacted Miss Bridges, asking her to find someone to take Christine’s place. The Head of the English Faculty, wrapped up like an Arctic explorer, greeted me warmly and introduced me to her colleagues, Miss Pike and Mrs Roache.

  ‘Quite a fishy collection of teachers,’ she said, chuckling, ‘and now we have Mr Phinn. Very apt. We’re just waiting for Mrs Todd, who’s gone to powder her nose, then we can be on our way. Mrs Todd used to teach at the big comprehensive and is covering for a teacher on maternity leave. I thought she might like to step into the breach and join our party. I believe you met her when you inspected King Henry’s in September.’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I replied.

  ‘You caused quite a stir, I hear,’ said Miss Bridges, a wry smile on the small lips.

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Well, whatever they said about you,’ said Miss Bridges, ‘I found you very agreeable.’ Which made me wonder just exactly what they had said about me. I guess the staff thought I was something of a ‘hatchet man’. ‘Mrs Todd’s husband’s a surgeon at Fettlesham Royal Infirmary, you know,’ continued the teacher, ‘and she has four very clever sons.’

  ‘So I believe,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, here she is now!’ cried Miss Bridges. ‘Shall we get on the coach? The girls are aboard already and are excited to get going.’ She looked for a moment at the craggy-faced individual with an enormous protruding stomach and greasy black hair slicked back on his head, who was leaning by the door of the coach and puffing mightily on a large pipe. Clouds of evil-smelling smoke filled the air. ‘I do hope the driver will be all right,’ she added sotto voce.‘All our regular drivers were already booked – some important football game, I believe.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ I said.

  ‘Are we all set then?’ the driver shouted as Miss Bridges, her colleagues and I approached him.

  ‘All present and correct, Mr Mitchell,’ the teacher told him, waving her hand in front of her face to diffuse the smog.

  ‘And ‘ave all t’girls paid a visit before they got on? I don’t want to ‘ave toilet stops all t’way down. Last school party I took, they were on and off t’coach like a fiddler’s elbow. They were jumping on t’seats, running up and down t’aisle, dropping litter, pulling faces out o’ t’winde
r, mekkin an ‘ell of a racket. I tell you, school parties are not my idea of fun. OAPs, now, they’re t’best.’

  ‘I have made certain that the girls have all done what is necessary, Mr Mitchell,’ Miss Bridges assured him. ‘And you can be certain there will be no jumping up and down or unnecessary noise.’

  ‘And you’ve mentioned t’litter?’

  ‘I’ve mentioned the litter.’

  ‘And told ‘em not to stand up and block mi view?’

  ‘They are well aware of that, too.’

  ‘And there’s no smoking on t’coach,’ he said, exhaling a cloud of pungent smoke.

  ‘No smoking,’ repeated the teacher. ‘Very sensible. It’s such an unpleasant habit.’

  The pointed remark was lost on him and he blew out another cloud of smoke. ‘And they know where t’sick bucket is?’

  ‘All has been explained,’ said Miss Bridges impatiently, ‘so could we make a move, do you think?’

  ‘Because cleaning vomit off seats is not something I take kindly to and t’last school party I ‘ad on ‘ere –’

  ‘Shall we get going?’

  I could see by Miss Bridges’s twitchy manner and increasingly exasperated countenance that she was getting irritated.

  The driver looked to be in no great hurry. He blew out his cheeks, tapped his pipe on the side of the coach and looked at the sky with a martyred expression on his face. ‘Looks like rain,’ he said grimly.

  I climbed up the steps of the coach and faced rows of young women all in identical clean white blouses and yellow ties, dark green pinafore dresses and matching berets which displayed, in gold, the Lady Cavendish school badge. A hush descended, and as I made my way down the aisle to sit in my designated seat on the back row next to Mrs Todd, I felt thirty pairs of eyes trained on me.

  Miss Bridges was the last on the coach. She did a quick head count, smiled widely and said, ‘Well, girls, I think we are all set. As you will have observed, we have a gentleman with us for the trip, in addition to our driver, of course. Some of you might recall seeing Mr Phinn when he visited the school last year to carry out an inspection. Do make him feel welcome, won’t you? He’s something of an expert on the bard so you may like to ask him about the play we are to see. I am sure he is a mine of information.’ She turned to the driver. ‘Lead on, Macduff.’