‘It is,’ I agreed. ‘You’re passionate about reading, aren’t you, Mrs Gardiner?’
‘Yes, I suppose I am,’ she replied. ‘I always have been. I get it from my parents. My father used to say that books are the architecture of a civilised society and reading the most important tool of learning.’
‘He was a wise man,’ I said.
‘Taught for forty years, did my father,’ said Mrs Gardiner proudly. ‘My mother read to me every night until I was well into my teens, and she bought me a book every birthday and every Christmas and always inscribed it with a little message. Those books are my treasured possessions. I remember when I first became headteacher here at Crompton and asked a child what books he had at home. I have to admit I was shocked by the answer. After thinking a bit, he replied that they did have one – a big, thick, yellow book which they kept underneath the telephone. I feel that children should own books and build up a little personal library, so we buy them one each Christmas and put a bookplate in the front with their name and the date. Reading is so important. If parents would just spend fifteen minutes each evening with their children, talking about the words and the pictures and making reading enjoyable, what a difference it would make to their learning.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I told her.
‘And do you know, some of the children coming into this school at five have never had a story read to them at bedtime or heard a nursery rhyme. Some parents just don’t seem to bother these days. The children know all the pop song lyrics, of course, but few of the traditional rhymes. We have to teach them about Jack and Jill and Humpty Dumpty and Little Jack Horner.’
‘Well, I think it’s a splendid idea to buy the children books, I really do.’
‘There’s only one problem,’ said the headteacher.
‘Oh?’
‘Father Christmas.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘What has Father Christmas done?’
‘He hasn’t done anything,’ said Mrs Gardiner. ‘It’s just that we haven’t got one. The crossing patrol warden took on the part last year but ended up nearly having a nervous breakdown. He said he’d rather face a roadful of careering traffic than the hall full of excited children again. I have to say they did give him a bit of a hard time. Tequila interrogated him as to why she hadn’t received the presents she had asked for the previous year, another child told him he wasn’t the real Father Christmas and one little girl got completely carried away, fastened onto him like a Whitby limpet and just would not let go. She screamed and yelled and when we finally managed to prise her off she threw a most disgraceful tantrum. Then Father Christmas’s beard kept slipping and he forgot the names of the reindeers.’ The headteacher paused for a moment and gave me a sly sort of look. ‘Now, I’ve just had a thought. Mr Phinn. You don’t fancy –’
I cut her off, throwing up my hands as though to fend her off. ‘No, no, Mrs Gardiner, I’ve played Father Christmas before and it is not false modesty when I tell you that I was an unmitigated disaster.’
‘Ah well,’ she said, ‘I shall just have to twist my husband’s arm.’ At that moment there was a loud rap on the door. ‘Excuse me, Mr Phinn,’ said the headteacher.
Outside she was confronted by a round, shapeless woman with bright frizzy blonde hair, an impressive set of double chins and immense hips. She had a ruddy complexion, heavy sleepy eyes and a mouth which turned downwards as if in perpetual hostility.
‘Can I ‘ave a word, Mrs Gardiner,’ she said angrily.
‘I am a little busy at the minute, Mrs Braithwaite,’ replied the headteacher.
‘Yes, well you might be, but this is himportant.’
‘It always is, Mrs Braithwaite,’ sighed Mrs Gardiner.
‘Eh?’
‘What seems to be the problem this time?’
‘Our Tequila came ‘ome yesterday wi’out ‘er Christmas bobbles. She had ‘em in ‘er ‘air yesterday morning when she come to school and she come ‘ome wi’out ‘em. Somebody’s gone an’ nicked ‘em off of ‘er.’
‘We can’t be certain about that,’ replied the headteacher. ‘They might have fallen out when she was running around in the playground.’
‘No, they didn’t!’ snapped Tequila’s mother. ‘I tied ‘em on right tight. She come ‘ome wi’out ‘em, rooarin’ ‘er eyes out. They was new, them bobbles. Just bought ‘em from t’market.’
‘And what do these Christmas bobbles look like?’ enquired Mrs Gardiner.
‘Well, they was red Father Christmases wi’ winking eyes. I didn’t shell out good money to ‘ave ‘em nicked.’
‘We will have a good look round for them, Mrs Braithwaite, and now if you will excuse me, I am rather busy.’
‘No!’ cried Tequila’s mother. ‘That won’t do. It won’t do at all. Somebody’s nicked ‘er bobbles and I want ‘em findin’. It’s ‘appened before. My Tequila’s come ‘ome without other things which ‘ave gone missing like her Mickey Mouse knickers for one thing.’
‘Mrs Braithwaite,’ said the headteacher sharply. ‘Leave the matter with me and I will make inquiries. Now I really must ask you –’
The woman was not to be put off. ‘Well, I wants to know what you are going to do.’
‘Well, let me see,’ said Mrs Gardiner calmly. ‘Tomorrow, I shall get the teachers, the classroom assistants, the dinner ladies, the mid-day supervisors, the cleaners, the lollipop lady, the caretaker and all the children to search for Tequila’s Christmas bobbles which must have cost you all of two pounds. We will stop all the lessons to look high and low and we will leave no stone unturned until we have found them.’
Mrs Braithwaite paused for a moment before replying, ‘Are you taking the piss?’
In the infant classroom the children were busy colouring in Christmas cards.
‘Just put your pencils down for a moment please, children,’ said the teacher, ‘and look this way. Now, do any of you remember Mr Phinn? He came into our school earlier this year.’ Amidst the sea of faces I noticed Matty observing me from his desk in the corner of the room, a truculent expression on his little face. I felt certain he remembered me. I certainly remembered him.
‘I know who ‘e is,’ said a large and very voluble infant with a plump face, frizzy hair in huge bunches (minus the Christmas bobbles) and great wide eyes. I knew it wouldn’t be long before Tequila made her presence felt. ‘It were ‘im what told us about that cat.’
‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Lazy Tom.’
‘We might be gettin’ another cat for Christmas,’ Tequila told me.
‘I thought your granny didn’t like cats,’ I said.
‘She dunt, but she dunt live wi’ us any more. She’s in an ‘ome.’
‘Well, I am very sorry to hear it,’ I said.
‘My dad’s not,’ said the child. ‘He said it were t’best place for ‘er. Mi granny dribbles in ‘er knickers and she –’
‘Yes, you told me before,’ I said.
‘That’s enough now, Tequila,’ said the teacher.
‘But I were tellin’ ‘im about mi granny.’
‘Yes, I know you were,’ said the teacher sharply, ‘and we’ve heard quite enough. Now, I’m sure Mr Phinn would like to see our crib.’
‘Very much,’ I said.
The crib was a large but extremely sorry-looking affair with dull strips of wood stuck together haphazardly, scraps of faded hay and huge figures which had clearly seen better days. The white paint had flaked off the Baby Jesus giving Him an unhealthy grey appearance. Joseph had lost an arm and the angels their haloes, the three kings looked like down-and-outs and the ox and the ass were chipped beyond recognition. Someone had tried to brighten up the Virgin Mary by repainting her with long yellow tresses, bright red lips, crimson cheeks and an electric blue cape. She had a strange, rather alluring smile on her face. Looking at her, the adjective ‘virgin’ was the last word that came to mind.
‘They’ve gorra much nicer one in Fettlesham,’ Tequila informed me. ‘Ours is reall
y tatty.’
‘But that’s what it probably would have looked like,’ I told her. ‘Baby Jesus was born in a stable, a cattle shed, and he had a manger for a bed. It wouldn’t have been nice and clean and bright like the crib in Fettlesham. The stable Baby Jesus was born in would have been full of rather smelly animals and dirty hay. There was no room in the inn, you see, so Mary and Joseph had to stay in the stable and it didn’t have lovely furniture and carpets and central heating.’
‘Well, they should ‘ave booked in advance,’ pronounced Tequila. ‘It allus gets busy at Christmas.’
‘Mary had to have her baby in a cold, dark barn,’ I continued. ‘He had no nice new clothes, no toys, no cot. He came into the world with nothing. He was one of the poor and mean and lowly.’
Matty, who had been watching with eyes like saucers, shook his head slowly and said quietly but with feeling, ‘Poor little bugger.’
18
One evening, just after the schools had broken up for Christmas, Christine and I were snuggled up on the sofa in front of a blazing fire.
‘I can’t remember when we last did this,’ she said.
‘Well, we’ve both been so busy,’ I replied. ‘This has been such a hectic term, not one I would care to repeat.’
‘I hope I shall see more of you when the baby arrives,’ Christine said. ‘When our child starts to talk, I don’t want him or her asking who that strange man is who disappears early in the morning and arrives home late at night with his big black bag.’
‘You make me sound like Dr Crippen,’ I said.
‘Well, we’ll want to see more of you. You’ll have family commitments.’
‘You will,’ I said. ‘I’m determined to have more nights in and try to get home earlier. I want to snuggle up with my little girl and read to her every night.’
‘And what about the baby?’ asked Christine mischievously.
‘I’ll read to her as well.’
I was thinking of Mrs Gardiner and her remarkable father. She was right, of course: one of the most important things parents can do for their children is read with them – not to them or at them, but with them, making reading a pleasure.
‘You are really certain it’s going to be a girl, aren’t you?’ asked Christine.
‘Of course, I am,’ I said. ‘The eldest child in every Phinn family as far as we can remember has been a girl and it’s been the same with the Bentleys on your side. Little Lizzie will be blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful, just like her mother. And she’ll be clever, too. Elizabeth Gaskell, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Elizabeth Phinn – it’s the name of a great writer. And if it’s a boy he’ll be called Fred and play cricket for Yorkshire.’
‘I thought we had decided on Matthew,’ said Christine.
‘I think Matthew for son number two. A first born son should have his father’s names.’
‘Certainly not!’ exclaimed Christine. ‘One Gervase in the family is more than enough.’
‘If it’s a boy, what about naming him Richard, then, after my father?’
‘Or Leslie, after mine?’
‘Or Richard Leslie?’
‘Or Leslie Richard?’
‘This is all academic, Christine,’ I said, ‘because it will be a girl – little Lizzie Phinn.’
We sat in silence for a while, watching the flickering flames and feeling the warmth of the open fire.
‘This is the life,’ I said at last.
I was well and truly in the Christmas spirit. The main reason I was feeling particularly pleased with life concerned Harold’s job and my decision not to apply. It was as if a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Had I been elevated to the Senior Inspector’s position, I would have had even less time to spend with my family and when I was at home I’d no doubt be as grumpy as a bulldog with toothache. It had crossed my mind that Geraldine might have put in for the job. With the usual veil of secrecy that she wrapped herself in she had given nothing away, but whoever had been offered the job was taking a very long time to make up his or her mind. The office would close for Christmas the following week and we were still in the dark as to who Harold’s successor would be. Secret meetings had taken place at County Hall which even Julie and her network of informants could not penetrate. It all seemed very mysterious.
Another reason for my good humour was the Quaker meeting house. The nightmare scenario of my standing at the gate of Peewit Cottage facing a coachload of American Quakers who had come to see the famous historic building had faded like the bad dream that it was. In fact, Harry had not referred to the subject on any of his frequent visits, nor had it been mentioned by anyone in the village. It was a great weight off my mind.
There was reason to feel a little optimistic concerning the proposed closure of Hawksrill School as well. Everything had gone uncharacteristically quiet at County Hall but Julie’s informants had told her that, largely due to the fuss the Action Group had caused, the plans for closure had apparently been delayed. Of course, she was told, she mustn’t breathe a word. So that was something else to make me feel happy about.
Then there was the gammy knee. Although it still ached after a long day, it was feeling a whole lot better. Christine was not enamoured by the flesh-coloured elastic stocking which I permanently wore, but it had certainly helped relieve the pain. Dr Sadler had arranged, within a week, for me to see a specialist at Fettlesham Royal Infirmary.
‘I’m very impressed with the speed with which you’ve been able to see me,’ I had told the Senior Registrar, as he prodded and poked my kneecap. ‘I thought I’d have to wait weeks to see a specialist.’
He had smiled like a hungry vampire. ‘We see patients pretty promptly, Mr Phinn,’ he had told me, ‘but you will probably have to wait some time until we can operate. Months, rather than weeks, I’m afraid.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’ll be on the waiting list for an operation. Your knee problem is not life-threatening, you see, so it may be quite some time before we get around to sorting it out.’
‘Well, I guess I can live with that,’ I had said.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ he had replied, not letting the smile slip.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Christine asked now.
‘Oh, just how lucky I am.’
We sat there just enjoying the warmth and closeness of each other.
‘You know what this room needs?’ she said suddenly.
‘What?’
‘The ticking of a clock.’
‘A clock?’
‘Yes, and I don’t just mean a clock on the mantelpiece, but a grandfather clock. My grandparents had one, and on its face was an old-fashioned sailing ship – you know, fully rigged – which went up and down on the waves as the clock tick-tocked. I used to watch it for hours. A grandfather clock would look just right in the corner. It would tick away reassuringly.’
‘And strike in the middle of the night and wake up little Lizzie,’ I added.
‘No, our baby will sleep like a top.’
‘I don’t think we can afford a grandfather clock at the moment, darling,’ I told her. ‘Maybe in a couple of years.’
‘Yes,’ she sighed. ‘It was just a thought.’
It was a thought, however, which firmly planted itself in my head. I, too, liked the idea of a grandfather clock but I wasn’t going to admit it to Christine. It would be a surprise. She would wake up on Christmas morning with a grandfather clock tick-tocking and chiming in the corner.
The following Saturday, on the pretext of completing an urgent report at the office, I set off for Roper’s Salesroom in Collington to look for a grandfather clock. I always enjoyed browsing around auction houses, running my hand along the smooth oak tables and mahogany chests of drawers, sitting in beautifully-carved balloon-back chairs, breathing in the smell of old furniture and beeswax, and watching the dealers pricing up the furniture and bargain hunters rootling through the boxes of bric-à-brac. Sometimes I just sat there, being buoyed up by
watching other people bid against each other. I never bought anything expensive – just a box of old letters, some faded photographs, a dusty book given as a prize on some speech day in the dim and distant past, a couple of old-fashioned fountain pens, a handsome inkwell (damaged).
Once I bought, for a pound, a dog-eared exercise book with hard black covers, written by a soldier fighting in the trenches in the First World War. There are tender poems, vivid accounts and horrific descriptions. It is a gem. Books such as this, of no real value in itself, tells the story of a soldier now dead and gone and probably forgotten. There is no name, no details of his regiment, just page after page of copperplate handwriting. One would have thought that such a poignant record of his experiences would have been treasured by his family instead of ending up as part of a job lot at an auction house. As I turn the yellowing pages of the book, I think with sadness of that young man and of the horrors he had experienced, and I wonder if he ever did return home to the young woman in his poems, the girl he loved.
I had another reason for being rather sentimental about Roper’s Salesroom, of course. It was where, three years earlier, I had caught sight of the person I would come to love – the stunning young woman with soft blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes who was now my wife.
The salesroom now was full of prospective buyers hoping to buy one or more of the pieces of the elegant and expensive-looking furniture on display. Perhaps someone had the wall-space for one of the huge oil paintings of solemn-faced individuals or dark landscapes in ornate gold frames: some were as big as the end wall in our sitting-room. There were sculptured bronzes, shimmering crystal and delicate porcelain but none of that interested me this time. My eye was immediately caught by two grandfather clocks which looked as if they had come straight out of the palace at Versailles. I read the catalogue description of the first:
Up and Down in the Dales Page 26
