Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘We can go now, Mr Mitchell, when you are quite ready.’

  As the coach wound its way in an autumn drizzle down the long gravel drive and through the ornate wrought-iron school gates, I sat back, sighed contentedly and looked forward to a relaxing journey. We passed the enormously vulgar statue of the founder of the school, Sir Cosmo Cavendish, standing, legs apart on his plinth, glowering at the world. A pigeon sat on his fat head.

  It wasn’t long before Mrs Todd raised the spectre of Mr Frobisher. ‘He was not the easiest man to get along with, you know,’ she told me. ‘I’m sure you must have found him difficult?’

  ‘Well, I only met him the once and, to be frank, inspectors are rarely received with open arms.’

  I thought it best to be very guarded in what I said to Mrs Todd. Discussing a teacher with another, despite the fact that he had left the school, seemed to me to be highly unprofessional. I therefore contented myself with nodding and grunting.

  ‘I think the bottom line was that the man lacked a sense of humour, which to me is perhaps the most important characteristic in a good teacher. He found difficulty in relating to the members of his department and to the older students. Some of the older boys ribbed him unmercifully.’ I began to feel quite sorry for the man. ‘He took everything so very seriously. Of course, his home life isn’t at all happy, I gather. His wife isn’t a well woman and I think she is rather demanding and possessive. I only met her the once, at a music recital, and I had to endure a diatribe about how disappointed she was that her husband never made it to headship, how he could have been more ambitious and how undervalued he was. She told me that all he ever seemed to think about these days was his clocks.’

  ‘Clocks?’

  ‘He collects clocks,’ Mrs Todd told me. ‘He has quite a collection I believe.’

  I felt even more sorry for Mr Frobisher as the story unfolded. I thought of Christine and all her support and encouragement. How lucky I was.

  ‘Your visit certainly threw the cat amongst the pigeons, I can tell you,’ continued my companion, ‘but it had the desired effect. Mr Frobisher upped and resigned. They’ve just advertised for the head of department position.’

  ‘So I hear,’ I said. I attempted to change the subject. ‘Teenage boys can be difficult to handle,’ I observed.

  ‘And girls,’ she added.

  ‘Yes, and girls.’

  ‘My philosophy with regard to adolescents going through that problematic stage in their lives,’ Mrs Todd informed me, ‘is to back off, lighten up and calm down. It’s always worked with my four boys. Life is too short to get all worked up about an untidy bedroom, the occasional backchat and the odd drunken night out. It’s a phase they go through, a young person’s reach towards adulthood.’ Appearances can indeed be deceptive, I thought. Mrs Todd, elegant, middle-aged, immaculately dressed, someone who would not have looked out of place at a Mothers’ Union meeting, did not look at all like the easy-going and unflappable person I was now hearing.

  ‘Well, you certainly handled your students well,’ I told her. ‘Your class was extremely well-behaved.’

  ‘I have had a lot of experience,’ she told me. ‘I started my teaching career in a very tough inner-city boys’ school. It was a baptism of fire. The stories I could tell! The boys were always at great pains to shock me, a young woman teacher straight out of college, and were rather disappointed and not a little surprised when I didn’t rise to their little games. I recall once, a boy named appropriately Duane Pratt, arriving at my room with a condom over his head.’

  ‘A condom!’ I exclaimed.

  The two girls in front turned round and gave me a very strange look.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Todd, without the slightest trace of embarrassment. ‘He was a small, silly little boy and I guess someone had put him up to it. He wasn’t clever enough to think of it himself. Anyhow, he walked in with this bright-pink condom stretched tightly over his head like a cap. He looked like Noddy sitting there at the front desk grinning inanely at me.’

  ‘Whatever did you do?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she repeated. ‘The class all waited for my outraged reaction but I just ignored him, gave out the books and started the lesson.’

  ‘You just ignored him?’

  ‘I most certainly did. I could see it was not the most comfortable of headgear and it wasn’t long before he began to find it somewhat constricting. His face took on a sort of red tinge, I remember. I should think a condom on one’s head would be quite painful after a while. The silly boy sat it out, right through to the end of the lesson. He didn’t want to lose face with his pals, you see. When the bell went and he headed for the door, I called him over. “Duane,” I said, “do you know, you have given a whole new meaning to the term ‘dickhead’.” ‘I spluttered with laughter and the girls in the seats in front of us giggled. ‘I am a teacher, Mr Phinn, who does like to have the last laugh.’

  After a couple of hours we stopped at a service station on the Mi for us all to stretch our legs. The girls and staff dispersed in the direction of the Ladies, the coach driver disappeared, presumably for a smoke somewhere, and I headed for the telephones because I was anxious to know that Christine was all right. I felt a bit guilty about leaving her at home while I was out ‘gallivanting’, as my mother would have said. I was the last back on the coach because I had had to wait behind a long queue of people at the telephone kiosks, and it was only when the coach was speeding along the motorway that I realised that I wanted to go to the lavatory. As the coach steadily clocked up the miles, I became increasingly uncomfortable and kept crossing and uncrossing my legs to try and ease the pain in my complaining bladder.

  ‘Are you not comfortable there, Mr Phinn?’ asked Mrs Todd, after witnessing my contortions.

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine,’ I said, giving a pained smile. ‘I’ve got a bit of a knee problem, sort of twinges. An old rugby accident. Cartilage trouble.’

  ‘You should get it seen to. My husband’s a surgeon at the hospital. He’s always telling me that torn cartilages are one of his specialities.’

  ‘Yes, I intend to,’ I said.

  The discomfort got worse and worse. I just had to go to the lavatory or I would burst.

  ‘I suppose we’ll be stopping for lunch soon,’ I said casually to Mrs Todd.

  ‘Oh no,’ she replied. ‘We shan’t be stopping now until we get to Stratford. We’ll eat our sandwiches there on the lawn in front of the theatre, just by the river. I love the waters of the Avon, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I mouthed.

  The pain in my bladder was becoming unbearable. I just had to go to the lavatory. Then I thought of the most horrendous scenario: me standing by the side of the road doing what I had to do with thirty girls and four women teachers staring out of the coach window in amazement. The embarrassment, the indignity, the shame! No, I would have to think of something.

  I teetered down to the front of the coach until I was on the step next to the driver.

  ‘Oi!’ he cried. ‘Nobody’s supposed to come beyond that point back there. There’s a notice. “Don’t distract the driver when the vehicle is in motion.” It’s a safety hazard.’

  ‘This is an emergency,’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh, bloody ‘ell!’ he exclaimed, beginning to brake. “As someone been sick?’

  ‘No, no. I have to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Toilet!’ he exclaimed loudly.

  ‘I have to go,’ I whispered in his ear. ‘I’m desperate.’

  ‘Didn’t you ‘ear what I said when we was setting off? I said make sure –’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know, and I’m truly sorry but I’m fit to bursting.’

  ‘Well, I can’t just stop ‘ere and there’s no services on this stretch of motorway. You’ll just ‘ave to cross your legs and wait till I get to a caff’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ I said between gritted teeth.
<
br />   ‘Well, I’m not stopping on t’hard shoulder. I’d get done for that.’

  ‘Look, I really am desperate.’ There was a pathetic pleading in my voice. ‘Please.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll get off and go via Coventry. There’s a car park and toilets in t’ cathedral precincts.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘But you’ll ‘ave to clear it with t’missus back there.’

  I tiptoed down the aisle until I arrived at Miss Bridges. ‘I was just talking to the driver, Miss Bridges,’ I said casually, ‘since I thought it might be a good idea to break our journey at Coventry and see the wonderful cathedral.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. It’s not on the programme,’ said the teacher.

  ‘I know, but this is an opportunity not to be missed. Have you been to Coventry Cathedral, Miss Bridges?’

  ‘Well, no, I haven’t.’

  ‘The cathedral is quite stunning and we have plenty of time.’

  ‘I don’t think we have, Mr Phinn,’ said the teacher, looking at her watch.

  ‘Miss Bridges, I really do think we should break our journey at Coventry. It would only take half an hour and it really is well worth a visit.’

  She looked a little daunted. Perhaps the tone of my voice was a trifle threatening. ‘Well, if you really think so.’

  ‘Oh, I do, I do!’ I exclaimed.

  Ten minutes later, the longest ten minutes in my life, we pulled into the car park by the cathedral. I nearly cried when I saw the GENTS sign. As soon as the coach came to a halt, I leapt down the steps and shot off like a man pursued by a charging rhinoceros. To my dismay, I heard Miss Bridges’ voice behind me.

  ‘Follow Mr Phinn, girls. Follow Mr Phinn. He’s heading for the cathedral.’ I turned and to my horror saw thirty girls in green uniforms running across the car park in my direction.

  It was on the journey home that I made a fool of myself again. We had stopped at another service station for a short break and what Mr Mitchell described as a ‘toilet stop’. I did not like the way the bus driver, emphasising the phrase ‘toilet stop’, looked pointedly at me.

  I was heading back to the coach when I was approached by a very distressed-looking young woman.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘I’m most terribly sorry to trouble you, but I wonder could you assist me?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Well,’ explained the woman. ‘I’ve been really, really silly. I’m in a terrible fix. I just can’t get into my car. The key won’t work in the lock. I’ve tried and tried but it just won’t open the door. Are you any good with keys?’

  ‘Oh, it’s probably frozen up,’ I told her, smiling reassuringly.

  ‘But it’s not that cold, is it?’

  ‘Locks can be temperamental,’ I told her. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure with a bit of manipulating I’ll get the door open for you.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said.

  Her car, a small red Toyota, was parked near the coach. I took the key from her, twisted and turned, pushed and pulled, but to no avail. ‘It just doesn’t seem to work,’ I said.

  ‘This is awful,’ moaned the woman. ‘I’m off to see my mother in Nottingham and she worries so. She’s not on the phone, you see. And all my work papers and handbag and everything are in the car.’ Her eyes began to fill up. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll get it open.’

  I tried another door, again twisting and turning, pushing and pulling. Then there was a snap.

  ‘Dash it!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’ve broken the key off in the lock.’

  ‘Oh no,’ groaned the woman. ‘Now what do I do?’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘there’s an RAC man in the service station. I’ll get him.’

  On the way back to the main building, I stopped at the coach and explained the situation to Miss Bridges and the bus driver. Neither seemed all that pleased.

  ‘So ‘ow long are we going to be waiting ‘ere?’ asked Mr Mitchell, puffing out his cheeks and looking heavenwards with a martyred expression. ‘I’ve got a schedule to keep.’

  ‘And the girls’ parents will get worried if we are not back on time,’ added Miss Bridges.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I told them. ‘This will only take a moment. I’ll get the RAC man and leave him to sort it out.’

  If only it had been that simple.

  The RAC man and his young colleague scrutinised the lock. ‘You’ve broken the key off,’ the older one concluded.

  ‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I said. I felt like saying, thank you for telling me the blindingly bloody obvious.

  ‘Oh yes, snapped clean off. It’s no good being heavy-handed with keys, you know,’ he told me, like a headteacher chastising a naughty schoolboy. ‘These mechanisms are very delicate.’

  ‘And Toyota cars are the devil’s own job to get into,’ added his young companion.

  ‘Can you get into the car?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, I can get into the vehicle all right,’ said the older man, smiling.

  ‘Thank goodness for that,’ I sighed.

  ‘You should have come to me in the first place.’ He stared at the lock for what felt like an inordinate amount of time. ‘There is, of course, the small problem of needing the key to drive and you broke it off.’

  ‘Oh dear, yes,’ I said.

  ‘You should have come to us first thing,’ said his companion, ‘then this wouldn’t have happened. Are you a member of the RAC, by the way?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied.

  ‘And are you fully covered for roadside recovery and for home assistance?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Could I see your membership card, please sir? I do need to make a note of the number.’

  ‘But this is not my car,’ I explained.

  ‘It’s mine,’ piped up the woman, who up to this point had been watching the proceedings in silence with a doom-laden expression on her face. ‘I just asked this gentleman to help. I wish I hadn’t now.’

  ‘Some help, breaking the key off,’ mumbled the older man.

  ‘Are you in the RAC, madam?’ asked the younger man.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied, ‘I’ve always meant to join but –’

  ‘The times we’ve heard that, eh, Jack?’ said his colleague, shaking his head. ‘It’s only in emergencies like this that people wished they were in the RAC. Save them a whole lot of time, grief, trouble and money if they had joined in the first place.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, ‘could you sort this out? I am with a party of thirty schoolgirls and really have to –’

  At this point, two traffic policemen arrived. ‘What’s the problem?’ asked the taller of the two.

  ‘We’re trying to get in this car,’ explained the older RAC man. ‘Bloke here broke off the key in the lock.’

  ‘Who broke the key off in the lock?’ asked the taller policeman.

  ‘I did but –’ I started.

  ‘I told him,’ said the RAC man, ‘that it’s no good being heavy-handed. He should have come to me in the first place, then this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘It’s easy to say that after the event,’ piped up the woman.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the right key?’ the other policeman asked me.

  ‘It’s not my car,’ I said.

  ‘Not your car?’ he repeated. ‘Well, what were you doing trying to get into it?’ He reached for his pocket book.

  ‘It’s this lady’s car,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, it’s my car,’ explained the woman.

  ‘And this man was trying to get into your car, was he, madam?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she replied.

  ‘I see.’ The policeman flipped open the covers of his little black book.

  ‘No, no, you don’t see,’ I spluttered. ‘This lady stopped me as I was coming out of the service station and asked me to help her. She couldn’t ge
t into her car. The key wouldn’t work.’

  The situation was rapidly descending into farce. Then the greasy bus driver arrived.

  ‘Look,’ he said to me, ‘can we get moving? I’ve got a schedule to keep.’

  ‘And who might you be?’ asked the smaller of the two policemen.

  ‘I’m ‘is driver. There’s thirty girls waiting for ‘im.’

  The crowd which surrounded the small red car was now joined by an elderly couple. They looked worried and confused.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked the old man.

  ‘This man’s broken the key off in this lady’s car,’ said the older of the RAC men.

  ‘Her car?’ exclaimed the old man. ‘It’s my car!’

  Out came the policeman’s notebook again and as he flicked it open there was a sort of shriek from behind us.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ cried the young woman. ‘It’s the wrong car. We’ve been trying to get into the wrong car.’ She pointed to an identical small red Toyota parked further down the line of cars. ‘That’s mine. I recognise the radio aerial.’ Then with a weak smile she said to the semi-circle, ‘I’m awfully sorry. I feel such a fool.’

  ‘If you’d all like to accompany me into the service station,’ said a solemn-faced policeman. ‘I’ll need to take some statements.’

  ‘So did you have a nice time?’ asked Christine when I staggered through the door later that evening.

  ‘It was memorable,’ I told her. ‘Memorable.’

  15

  ‘Well I think it’s very strange, very strange indeed,’ said Sidney, twisting a large paper clip out of shape. ‘I cannot recall any other occasion, in all my time in the school inspectorate, when this has happened. It is without precedent.’

  It was Friday afternoon and Harold had called a meeting for all the team at the Staff Development Centre to consider a new initiative from the Ministry of Education. Discussion, however, centred on the appointment of the new Senior Inspector.