Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Well,’ said Harold, smiling widely and showing his set of tombstone teeth, ‘I think we have explored this in enough depth. After a tea break we can move on to the practicalities.’

  ‘You’ve certainly changed your tune, Sidney,’ I remarked over my cup of tea and one of Connie’s Garibaldi biscuits. Sidney, David and I were in the staff room; Harold and Gerry were still in deep conversation with Miss de la Mare.

  ‘Well,’ replied my colleague, stirring his tea vigorously, ‘I’m nothing if not open-minded.’

  ‘Huh,’ responded David. ‘The danger of being open-minded, Sidney, is that your brains might fall out.’

  ‘I am, at heart, a very flexible thinker,’ continued Sidney, undaunted. ‘If an argument is put simply, effectively and convincingly, as I feel it was this afternoon, I will willingly consider it. And I do have to concede that there may very well be something in this spirituality thing. It’s just all the paperwork which I do so abhor.’

  ‘Well, don’t get too keen,’ I warned him. ‘There is nothing so fearsome as a convert. They become unbearably zealous, tiresome in the extreme and entirely single-minded. We certainly don’t want you proselytising all over the office, Sidney.’

  ‘Certainly not,’ agreed David.

  ‘I must say, though,’ said Sidney, pausing to take a great gulp of tea, ‘our pale Irish beauty continues to be a bit of a dark horse, doesn’t she? She sits there for ages without a word but when she gets started there’s no stopping her. I’ve never seen her so animated and vociferous. To be honest, I cannot recall having heard her speak more than a few words in the office and then this afternoon she launches into a lecture which would not have disgraced a presentation on the podium of the Royal Society of Arts.’

  ‘She was very impressive,’ I agreed.

  ‘Do you think she was trying to impress?’ asked David.

  ‘I just wonder whether she did put in for Harold’s job,’ said Sidney.

  ‘You may very well be right,’ said David. ‘She didn’t sound all that convincing to me when she denied that she had applied.’

  ‘Then there were her comments about applying for that university post,’ said Sidney, ‘and asking for time to think about it.’

  ‘And why is she with Harold and that HMI now?’ asked David. ‘Why are they closeted together and what are they talking about?’

  ‘Have you got a thing about closets, David?’ I asked. ‘That’s the third occasion you’ve mentioned them this afternoon.’

  David ignored me. ‘I think she may very well be our next Senior Inspector. Everything is pointing to it.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine Gerry taking on Harold’s job and all it entails. She has Jamie to look after, for one thing.’

  ‘There’s another mystery,’ mused Sidney. ‘She never mentioned that until it was discovered. A dark horse indeed is Dr Mullarkey. She never talks about the father of her child. Do you know any more, Gervase? Doesn’t Christine sometimes look after the son?’

  ‘Yes, but she hasn’t said anything to me,’ I said. ‘She steers well clear of the subject.’

  ‘He could be some politician or media personality,’ mused Sidney. ‘Does Jamie resemble anybody?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Sidney, will you let it drop!’ I exclaimed. ‘If Geraldine wanted people to know who the father is, she’d tell them. Clearly she does not, so that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘Mysterious, though,’ persisted Sidney. ‘Anyway, as I said, she was most impressive this afternoon. You might be sorry you did not put in for Harold’s job, old chap. I agree with David. I think Geraldine might well be our new boss.’

  ‘She’s welcome to it,’ I said.

  ‘Geraldine wouldn’t be all that bad,’ said David.

  ‘No,’ agreed Sidney, raising the mug to his lips. ‘I could live with it.’

  ‘My, my,’ I said, ‘this must be a record. You two agreeing for more than an hour.’

  Further discussion was curtailed by Connie entering the room. She was wearing the familiar shimmering-pink overall and holding a clipboard like a game-show host. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said, casting a critical glance around the room to make sure everything was as it should be.

  ‘Good afternoon, Connie,’ we chorused.

  ‘I’ve been doing my monthly stock check and things have gone missing.’ Without waiting for a response she consulted her clipboard. ‘There’s someone been stealing toilet rolls from the gentlemen’s lavatory. Can I ask you to keep your eyes peeled when you run your courses?’

  ‘Yes, Connie,’ we replied.

  ‘I put four rolls in there last week and they’ve all gone,’ she said.

  ‘Do you want us to frisk people on their way out?’ asked Sidney. ‘Make certain they don’t have a toilet roll concealed about their person?’

  ‘You get worse,’ she told him.

  ‘When I was at school, you know, Connie,’ remarked David, ‘when we wanted to go to the toilet, we had to ask the teacher for a piece of toilet paper. He gave us a regulation two segments of that rather smelly, pale-brown, shiny variety. It certainly made sure there was no extravagant use.’

  ‘Well, it’s a thought,’ said Connie, ‘but I don’t want to go that far.’ I could see from her expression, however, that a seed of an idea had obviously been planted in her head. The very notion of teachers having to collect a toilet roll from the caretaker prior to paying a visit brought a smile to my lips. ‘And have any of you seen my pair of steps – the small wooden ones which I keep in the storeroom? They’ve gone walkabout again.’

  ‘No, Connie,’ we chorused.

  ‘Well, somebody’s got them. They don’t just disappear. They haven’t got legs. I need them next week when they’re coming from the Parks Department to cut back that ivy what’s creeping all over the place. They cut it last year but the thing’s gone berserk again. If it was up to me I’d cut that creeper, whatever you call it, down.’

  ‘Clematis,’ said Sidney.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The ivy that’s creeping all over the place. It’s called clematis.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m not sure if I believe you,’ said Connie, waving her clipboard towards Sidney. ‘I well remember you telling me that red flower what grew in the tub was a variegated flaming alopecia and then I found out that was a scalp condition.’

  ‘It is a clematis, Connie,’ I said.

  ‘Well, whatever it’s called, it wants pruning and I need those ladders. Are you sure you haven’t had them, Mr Clamp, for when you do your mounting?’

  Sidney arched an eyebrow. ‘I have not, Connie, but if I had borrowed your steps, I should have made sure they were put back in the storeroom.’

  ‘Mmmmm,’ she hummed. ‘What about you, Mr Pritchard? Have you been using them on your P.E. course for climbing activities?’

  David rolled his eyes. ‘No, Connie, I haven’t touched them.’

  ‘Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Sorry, Connie,’ I said. ‘I haven’t seen them.’

  ‘Have you asked Dr Mullarkey?’ asked Sidney.

  ‘She wouldn’t have them,’ said Connie. ‘She’s the only one of you inspectors who puts everything back and leaves the room as she finds it.’

  ‘Another fan,’ murmured Sidney.

  ‘It’s a mystery to me where they’ve gone,’ moaned Connie. She scribbled on her clipboard before adding, ‘Well, if they’re not back next week, steps will be taken.’

  ‘I thought that they already had been, Connie,’ remarked Sidney, keeping a deadpan expression.

  ‘What?’ she snapped.

  ‘Taken the steps, that is.’

  ‘You might think it amusing, Mr Clamp, but I have to account for all my equipment and it’s no laughing matter. You’ll soon be complaining if the top surfaces are dirty because I can’t reach to do my dusting because my steps have gone missing.’

  ‘Could it be the vicar, Connie?’ I asked. ‘He uses the Centre, doesn’t he?’
/>
  ‘I hardly think a man of the cloth would walk off with my stepladder. Anyway, what would the vicar be doing climbing up ladders?’

  ‘Taking the moral high ground?’ suggested Sidney, grinning at his own mirth.

  ‘What about the pensioners who use the Centre on Fridays?’ asked David.

  ‘They have enough trouble with their zimmers, never mind clambering up a set of steps. Some of them are very dodgy on their legs. Most of them have to use the ramp to get in the Centre. Steps are too steep for them. The Council has had to remove those stiles on the Dales Walk footpath and replace them with gates because the old people just can’t get their leg over.’

  Sidney raised an eyebrow again. ‘You don’t say?’

  ‘Anyway, I shall take up the matter of my missing steps with Dr Yeats just as soon as he’s finished talking to that multi-coloured inspector. Oh, and Mr Clamp, how long are those nudes going to be up on the wall?’

  ‘Don’t you like them, Connie?’ asked Sidney.

  ‘No, I do not!’ she snapped. ‘I’ve never seen anything so horrible in all my life.’

  ‘You will be relieved to know then, Connie,’ said Sidney, ‘that I shall be changing the display next week. Oh, and speaking of things going missing, have you any idea where the portrait of Mrs Osbaldiston has gone? Somebody seems to have walked off with her.’

  Connie gave me a knowing look. ‘No idea,’ she said, before departing with the clipboard tucked under her arm.

  16

  The scenery was at its best the bright early December morning when I visited Shaptonhall Primary School. As Harold had asked, we were to visit a number of schools as part of the initiative on spirituality to see how teachers promoted children’s spiritual development in our particular subject area. Miss de la Mare had also encouraged us to observe some school assemblies which she felt played a significant part in extending pupils’ moral and ethical insights, so I had arranged a series of morning visits. Shaptonhall was top of my list.

  I was a little early so I drove at a leisurely rate along twisting narrow roads, bordered by black hawthorn hedges or walls of square, deep stone, marvelling at the boundless views which stretched around me: tawny green pastures cropped by a few vagrant sheep and only interrupted by little copses and scattered farmsteads, sweeping up to the swelling contours of the distant windswept summits.

  In the school assembly the headteacher, Mr Greenaway, a small man with large expressive hands and a deep resonant voice, related the parable of the Prodigal Son. ‘There was once a farmer who had two sons,’ he boomed. ‘One day, the younger son said to him: “Father, will you give me my share of your property?” The father agreed and divided all he owned and gave half to his son. The young man sold it and left home with a bulging purse and a light heart.’ The headteacher continued with the story, telling the children how the younger son had squandered all this money and then had returned home penniless, ashamed and repentant, with his head held low. He told them how the father, with great happiness in his heart and with tears of joy in his eyes, had run to meet his son and how he had put his finest robe around his shoulders, sent his servant for his best sandals and ordered the fatted calf to be killed for a splendid feast to celebrate his son’s homecoming. He paused momentarily, then continued, loudly and dramatically: ‘And when the elder son heard the sound of the music and laughter and the news that his brother had returned, he was not pleased and would not enter the house. His father was saddened about this but his elder son told him angrily, “I have worked like a slave all these years for you, yet you have never even offered me so much as a goat for a feast with my friends. Now my good-for-nothing brother, who has spent all your money, turns up and you kill the fatted calf for him.” The father had replied, “My son, you are with me all the time and everything I have is yours. Is it wrong that we should celebrate your brother’s homecoming? My son was dead but now he is alive, he was lost but now he is found.” ’

  Mr Greenaway spread wide his arms. ‘Now children,’ he said, ‘who do you think was the happiest of all?’ There was a forest of hands. He picked a small girl in the front row.

  ‘The father!’ she cried.

  ‘That’s right, Katy, and who do you think was the saddest and most disappointed about the son’s return?’

  Before he could pick anyone, a large boy at the back shouted out, ‘Well, I reckon t’fatted calf can’t ‘ave been too ‘appy.’

  The next school on my itinerary was St Margaret’s Church of England Primary School, in the picturesque village of Hut-ton-with-Branston. This discrete, grey stone building with a red tiled roof stood adjacent to the old church and faced the village green. The Chairman of Governors, the Reverend Featherstone, whom I had arranged to interview, was a dour-looking individual with a large hawkish nose, grey wispy hair and heavy-lidded eyes.

  ‘I’m afraid we live in a secular society, Mr Phinn,’ he told me, stroking his long nose, ‘a world of fast food, television and fancy holidays. There’s precious little spirituality in the world these days. My Sunday School teacher read the story of David and Goliath last week and asked the children who beat the Philistines. One child replied that he didn’t know because he didn’t follow the minor leagues.’ The cleric shook his head wearily. ‘I am saddened that children’s biblical knowledge these days leaves a lot to be desired. I’ve had children tell me about Moses going up Mount Cyanide to receive the Ten Commandments, and Solomon with his three hundred wives and seven hundred porcupines. Do you find this lack of biblical awareness on your travels, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ I told him. ‘Scripture isn’t taught a great deal in schools these days, unless of course it’s a church school.’

  ‘Well, this is a church school,’ he reminded me. ‘I cannot say that the children here are any more acquainted with the Bible than in any other school. My curate questioned a class only last week about the Garden of Eden and asked the name of the person who stole the apple from the tree and a child promptly told him that it wasn’t him because he didn’t like fruit. It doesn’t help, of course, when parents these days take it into their heads to call their children all sorts of weird and wonderful names. Gone are the fine biblical names like Hannah and Simon. Instead, they are named after pop singers and film stars, footballers and –’

  ‘Exotic drinks,’ I added, thinking of Tequila Braithwaite.

  ‘I’ve had requests for Jezebel and Salome and Delilah,’ bemoaned the vicar. ‘It’s very difficult explaining to the parents who these women were and what their line of work was. One child very nearly went through life with the exotic name of Onacardie. I asked the parents at the christening: “And what do you name this child?” The mother replied loudly, “Onacardie.” I had just begun sprinkling the water over the baby’s head and intoning: “I christen this child Onacardie,” only to be quickly interrupted by the irate mother. “No, no, vicar!” she hissed. “On ‘er cardy. The name’s written on her cardigan. We want her to be called Siobhan.” ’

  I was reminded all too forcefully of the Reverend Feather-stone and our discussion about children’s lack of biblical knowledge when I visited High Ruston-cum-Riddleswade Endowed Church of England County Parochial Junior and Infant School later that week. It was there that I met Elizabeth. She was a tall girl of about eleven, with pink-framed glasses and a rather earnest expression.’

  ‘Are you looking forward to Christmas?’ I realise it was a rather inane question which I asked her but she answered pleasantly and with a small smile.

  ‘Oh yes, it’s a lovely time of year,’ she said. ‘I love the smells of mince pies and fir trees and all the lights twinkling. And I like the Christmas morning service, the carols and the readings. The church is always full and everyone is friendly and happy.’

  ‘Well, Christmas is the most important time in the Christian year, isn’t it?’ I said casually.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think you will find it is.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘
I said, no, it isn’t. Christmas is not the most important time in the Christian year.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was quite taken aback.

  ‘It’s Easter, Mr Phinn,’ she told me. ‘That’s when Jesus suffered on the cross, died for our sins and rose from the dead.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said hurriedly. ‘The only one to do so.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Rise from the dead.’

  ‘No, that’s not right either.’ Oh dear, I thought. A walking biblical encyclopaedia. ‘There was Mary and Martha’s brother.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lazarus.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said. ‘I’d forgotten about Lazarus.’

  ‘And don’t forget Jairus’s daughter. Jesus told him that she wasn’t dead but sleeping and said, “Little maid, arise.”’

  ‘Oh yes, of course. How could I have forgotten Jairus’s daughter?’

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ said the girl, scrutinising me through the pink frames of her spectacles, ‘your biblical knowledge is not all that good, is it?’

  Later that morning the headteacher escorted me to the door. ‘I gather you had an interesting conversation with Elizabeth?’

  ‘Very interesting,’ I replied simply, not wishing to elaborate.

  ‘She’s a delightful girl and very bright. Elizabeth is the granddaughter of one of our governors. I believe you’ve met Reverend Braybrook, the Rural Dean.’