“The second stage is aimed specifically at those children who try to read books under the table which are not part of the Official Reading Scheme. You are probably horrified by this, but believe me it does happen! I once found a six-year-old boy reading “Oliver Twist” instead of “Biffa the Bear buys some smart green trousers”. And on making enquiries about why he was reading a book he couldn’t possibly understand and which was not in the Official Reading Scheme, this boy, this boy, told me that he was enjoying it! We soon sorted him out believe me, by giving him a year’s homework to complete in a week, copying out the entire Biffa Blue, Red and Green Trouser Series.”
On hearing about Dirk Dashley’s successful programme for the rehabilitation of young offenders against the Official Reading Scheme, more of the children expressed their opinion on the matter by bawling very loudly in a most uncontrollable fashion. Some of the distressed children held up their arms in the hope of being lifted up and comforted by their parents, who seemed more concerned about Biffa and his green trousers.
Unmoved and apparently deaf to the small protesters and their discontent, Dirk Dashley continued with his dismal catalogue of delinquency.
“No child here at the Privy has ever reached the third stage of the Discipline Code, but if that should ever happen, parents, there would be serious consequences. Sir Alex Ferguson, the legendary manager of Manchester United and a particular hero of mine –”
Top man, thought Carl Trumper, suddenly interested.
“– got results by using the hair-dryer. Following the lead of Sir Alex we use the tumble-dryer. If any child crosses that line in the sand between the second and third stage of the Discipline Code, he or she will be bundled into the school’s tumble-dryer in order to help them come to their senses.”
Apart from Tracey Trumper who murmured her approval for this unusual course of action in dealing with the most unruly of students, the assembled parents looked a little uneasy at the thought of their child being tumble-dried.
There was an uncomfortable silence of around five seconds; even the potential crossers of the line in the sand had for some reason stopped crying at this point.
“Only joking mums, dads and kiddies, only joking!” Dirk Dashley roared and doubled-up in mirth. Miss Flowerpot also smiled at the jest, relieved that she would not have to give any of her class the tumble-dry treatment: that would surely have been judged as “Requiring Improvement” by Ofsted, if not “Inadequate”.
“This guy doesn’t know what he is talking about,” said Tracey Trumper tartly, barely able to contain her disappointment.
“What do you expect? He’s not even a real Headmaster. He’s an imposter!” remarked Carl Trumper, who now doubted whether the bogus Headmaster had ever read Fergie’s autobiography.
After all this time which I have spent telling you about Dirk Dashley and Arry’s first few hours spent at the Privy, you are probably wondering what he was up to during the speech and the hubbub created by that speech. He certainly was not crying: in fact, I am not even sure that he was aware of what was going on; or at least, if he did, Arry did not show it.
What Arry did do, was to systematically go round the room, introduce himself to his future classmates and whisper something in their ear. What he said, I haven’t a clue, but the reaction from all the other children was exactly the same: at first a frown and then a smile, followed by a nod. Whatever he had said, it clearly had cheered them up and explains why they had all stopped crying by the time Dirk Dashley had revealed the truth about the third stage of the Discipline Code.
Despite reservations about the effectiveness of the school’s Discipline Code, Tracey Trumper left her son in the capable hands of Miss Flowerpot; Carl Trumper, despite his reservations about the identity of the Headmaster, was also happy enough to go home without Arry; and Tommy Trumper left with a smile on his face, having dropped several plants from the 2B’s Nature Table into a Tesco plastic carrier bag.
Miss Flowerpot took all the children into her classroom.
“Now children, let’s get to know each other. Let’s introduce ourselves to each other. Lovely.”
Miss Flowerpot was so sweet: the words just dripped from her mouth.
“Now, let’s start with you shall we? What’s your name?”
Miss Flowerpot was looking at Arry.
“Jeffrey.”
“Jeffrey. What a lovely name. This is Jeffrey everyone. Shall we say hello to Jeffrey?”
“Hello Jeffrey,” chorused the happy scholars.
“And what’s your name pet?”
A rather dapper looking boy with well-jelled hair obliged Miss Flowerpot.
“Jeffrey, my name is Jeffrey,” said the splendid little boy, patting his natty hair to the rhythm of the syllables.
“Another Jeffrey! How lovely! Let’s hope we don’t get confused having two Jeffreys in the class! Say hello to another Jeffrey boys and girls.”
“Hello another Jeffrey.”
“And what about you dear, next to Jeffrey?”
Miss Flowerpot’s speculative prophecy about confusion became an instant fact, as there were two little girls sitting next to what had become a choice of Jeffreys.
Both girls looked very puzzled.
“Oh silly me. I mean you!” Miss Flowerpot pointed at a rather fierce looking girl dressed in denim.
“Jeffrey.”
“Yes I know that Jeffrey is sitting next to you, dear, and we already know his name. What is your name?”
“Jeffrey,” the denim-clad girl insisted.
Miss Flowerpot hesitated in any further contradiction, recalling the latest Jeffrey’s parents in the School Hall who also looked rather fierce. She thought that they might be what an Ofsted Inspector had called a “troubled family”.
“Lovely, let’s move on to you now. And before you tell us your name, may I say what a pretty pink dress you are wearing. You look just like a little sugarplum fairy on top of the Christmas tree. Isn’t it just lovely class?”
The class seemed to possess neither good taste nor sufficient expertise in Fashion to make a definitive judgement, as nobody reacted: except, that is, the denim-clad girl who, like her parents, looked troubled: she just scowled.
The little girl in the pretty dress, however, beamed a smile which only a little girl who has just been called a sugarplum fairy could.
“Jeffrey.”
I am going to stop at this point just to let you know that this little girl was just so shy and so cute and was definitely not troubled. Not only had she been blessed with an angelic face, with a mop of the most beautiful blonde curls and with a pink fairy dress, but she also had a voice to go with the outfit. So instead of pronouncing Jeffrey in the usual way, she pronounced it as if it had the letter W rather than the letter R. I didn’t want to write it as Jeffwey in case you, like Miss Flowerpot, got confused by the growing Jeffrey problem. So that’s sorted that out.
“My goodness, we have rather a lot of Jeffreys today don’t we!” Miss Flowerpot giggled a nervous giggle and was starting to feel a little uncomfortable about making further enquiries about names. However, she knew that as a teacher, and therefore a responsible adult, she had to find out the names of all the children for purposes of what Ofsted called “effective interaction”.
So, twiddling her bow into more and more twisted shapes, Miss Flowerpot, asked all the little people in the class their name. She discovered that all twenty-five of them were called Jeffrey.
And so very early in the term, Miss Polly Flowerpot hoped that Dirk Dashley would change his mind about tumble-drying the children, but clearly packing twenty-five Jeffreys into one machine might have proved quite difficult.
CHAPTER 4
An Inspector Doesn't Call
Unless you have been home-schooled, you will know that the worst thing you can shout at a te
acher in the playground (and then run very fast to escape round the corner), isn’t a rude insult, or even a horrible swear word, such as…well, I’ll leave you to fill in the gap. No, the dreaded word, which would certainly lead to a short stay in most schools’ tumble-dryer if you were ever caught, is Ofsted. Just the mere whisper of this two syllable missile is enough to reduce the toughest teacher on the block to emotional and physical rubble. Even Dave Hard-Case, Head of Nastiness, cowers trembling in a corner or just starts blubbering on the spot if he hears that Ofsted is on the way!
Once upon a time, Ofsted used to give schools a few week’s warning before they turned up to inspect a school: this was great because it gave the Head time to put plans into place to ensure that the inspection went well. Displays of the latest student work would be put up all around the corridors. School Policies on this, that and the other would be updated or written. Special trips would be created for the most troubled students in the school: sadly, this meant they missed out on meeting the Ofsted Team, but nobody complained. There would also be special Ofsted Assemblies whose theme was either not talking to strangers or the importance of going home every night and cheering Mum or Dad up. Cheering them up would consist of describing how effective the school’s assessment arrangements had been that day in ensuring the rapid progress of all students.
However, since then, things have changed a bit. The Lead Inspector of the Ofsted Team, the big cheese usually dressed in a grey suit, rings the school the day before the inspection and has a reassuring chat with the Head. This makes the rapid mounting of current work quite tricky and the organisation of treats for the troubled almost impossible: unless that Head is called Dirk Dashley, of course. With SAS precision (he had, after all, been parachuted into the school), Mr Dashley had put plans into place should he receive the dreaded phone call. Policies were updated every day. He collected together a huge pile of anonymous, undated work, ready for his Personal Secretary to put up on the walls and supply each piece of work with a name and recent date. He had also arranged for a trusted Teaching Assistant to take any troubled boys and girls for a long walk down Southport pier and spend the day in the pavilion at the end of the pier playing on the slot machines. They were to investigate the hypothesis that the probability of returning to school having made any profit from the £20 initial cash outlay provided by the school was about zero. This mathematical treat would take place over a seven hour period to ensure the results were fair and accurate.
So when Dirk Dashley got the call he was confident: all the correct paperwork had been labelled and filed; staff, parents and governors had been primed for months on end via a weekly Newsletter, titled “Privy Talk”. This was keenly appreciated by the school’s Friday lunchtime Origami Club and also by those students with an interest in designing aeroplanes.
The Lead Inspector had introduced himself over the phone as Dr Ed Soft and according to an amused Dirk Dashley in conversation with the Chair of Governors and Staff that evening, he sounded about nine years old and a bit of a pushover!
“Hope he doesn’t turn up in short trousers!” joked the jovial Mr Dashley. The Chair of Governors and Staff appreciated the Head’s attempt to cheer them up, but remembered all too well the dark days of the previous inspection. Letters in the “Southport Evening Standard” from irate parents had been merciless, describing the departing Chair of Governors as having been being well and truly deck-chaired and the departing Head as having the leadership skills of a three-legged beach donkey. Whilst it was recognised that Mr Dashley had done a good job in restoring local confidence through his tough Discipline Code, there was still a great deal of nervousness around the Staff Room. Miss Flowerpot, in particular, was anxious. Her lemon floral blouse was in the wash and might not be dry in time for the arrival of the Ofsted Team; the books in the Official Reading Scheme were a bit creased, so Biffa’s trousers were not quite as smart as they should have been; and even several years after the event, she still worried about doing the Register in case twenty-five Jeffreys turned up unexpectedly.
“We’ve come through some hard times, but now we have great expectations of being judged as an Outstanding school. That’s what I put in all the documents and that’s what I told the Lead Inspector on the phone this afternoon. He didn’t argue. Soft by name, soft by nature, that’s my view. It’s in the bag.”
Dirk oozed confidence. He had dragged the school out of Requiring Improvement, he felt, and now it was just a question of Ofsted rubber-stamping his outstanding work: no problem. He could see it now, the glowing headlines in the “Southport Evening Standard”, announcing a triumph of determination and data management; a special edition, perhaps, to print the sacks of letters from parents thanking Mr Dashley for putting Southport back on the educational map. Perhaps even a knighthood in recognition of his work would be in order: Sir Dirk Dashley.
I could be wrong, but I am guessing that there are probably two things you are thinking about at the moment, as you read this chapter. The first thing you might be considering is whether or not Arry will wear his Irregular Badge during the inspection.
Well, the answer is no. I hope that this is not a huge disappointment to you. If it is, you will just have to use your imagination and invent what Arry might have done during the inspection when wearing his Irregular Badge. You could imagine him, perhaps, locking the school gates and organising a noisy protest, walking round and round the playground with placards containing rude slogans and naughty pictures, such as…again, better leave that one to your imagination. Alternatively, you might picture him turning up to school in a pair of smart, but non-regulation, bright green trousers, claiming that Biffa had told him to do it. If you have got a really weird, but wonderful imagination, you might amuse yourself by seeing Arry in your mind’s eye being interviewed by the Lead Ofsted Inspector and spinning irregular, scripted, little yarns to tie him up in knots.
Arry: So, Dr Soft innit?
Lead Ofsted Inspector: Yes, I …
Arry: Sweet bro. Is you wantin’ the gen on the school? Cos if you do, I is your man, I is fly, right?
Lead Ofsted Inspector: Well, yes, I was rather hoping for a little –
Arry: Yakkety-yak. Respect bruv. I is up for that.
Lead Ofsted Inspector: (picking up his pen and sensing a very useful troubled student): Ah yes, respect, that is exactly what I want to talk to you about. Do you feel that Mr Dashley respects the students in the school?
Arry: Bro, I ain’t never heard of no Dashley dude. So is you bangin’ on about dis Ashley geezer in my class who don’t never give me no respect and so me sort it wiv’ him in a ruck under the desk?
The other thing you may be wondering is whether Dirk Dashley will manage to outsmart the Lead Ofsted Inspector, Ed Soft. The answer to this question, I’m afraid, is also a no. Okay, paintings, computer-generated pictures, complex mathematical problems relating to Probability and numerous lively poems and stories were put up on the wall for the Ofsted Inspectors to admire. This looked really good as all the work was clean, up to date and did not have any tatty corners. However, the display did cause a little confusion, as some of the more forgetful students couldn’t remember having done the work which had their name on it. Some trouble-makers were even claiming that they had done a piece of excellent work which had been misattributed to some less talented classmate. However, the educational walk to Southport pier in search of mathematical knowledge did get off early, well before Ofsted was due to arrive, and an atmosphere of calm settled around the school.
A knighthood, at this point, was still on the cards.
“Remember the routine Mrs Smooth, as soon as the Inspector enters the building you must check his badge to make sure he is who he says he is: we don’t want any irregularities do we?”
Mrs Smooth was a Secretary who, like any good school Secretary, knew exactly what to do – especially as she had been reminded every day over the last few years by the soon to
be Sir Dirk Dashley.
The Head tried to put everyone in the Staff Room at their ease with some well-judged jokes about Ed Soft.
“Should Dr Soft forget his lunch box, phone his parents immediately,” he insisted. “And whilst you are on the phone, remind them that new boys should be picked up fifteen minutes before the end of school,” Mr Dashley chuckled.
Sensing that he was on a roll, he also quipped, “We have a very clear Anti-Bullying Policy at this school, so please re-assure Dr Soft that if some of the bigger boys start picking on him, he must report it to a senior member of Staff immediately.”
On the approach of nine o’clock, Dirk Dashley became a little nervous himself. Pacing up and down the school foyer and checking his watch, he looked for his visitors crossing the playground.
Five-past nine and the only person walking through the door was Arry Trumper, who seemed remarkably pleased to see the Head.
“Heartiest felicitations most revered leader! Apologies for my tardiness, but –“
“Oh it’s you, I was expecting the Ofsted Inspector. I don’t suppose you saw him on your travels, did you?”
Arry became animated.
“You are referring, possibly, to a distinguished gentleman transporting a briefcase and whose sartorial tastes tended towards the lugubrious?”
Dirk Dashley became even more animated.
“Yes that’ll be him!”
Arry paused.
“Negative. My most profound apologies revered leader: I did not have the misfortune to encounter such a person. I sincerely hope that you will have, what is referred to in the vernacular as a good day.”
“Gifted and talented; more like irritating and off his bloody trolley,” Mr Dashley muttered, as Arry disappeared round the corner to look for the Late Register.
Ten-past nine arrived and there was still no sign of Dr Soft and his Team. This is very irregular, thought Dirk Dashley, whilst examining his watch and calibrating it with the school clock.
The Boy Who Preferred to Be Somebody Else Page 4
