The Other Side of the Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘No,’ I replied gently, watching the tall, stooping, rather eccentric figure who moved amongst his pupils with his calm, patient and gentle manner. ‘I won’t forget.’

  2

  County Hall was a large, grey, stone mansion of an edifice built to last. It stood like many a Yorkshire town hall, sturdy and imposing, and dominating the centre of the market town of Fettlesham. Surrounding it were formal gardens with well-tended lawns and neat footpaths. The interior was like a museum, hushed and cool, with long echoey, oak-panelled corridors, high ornate ceilings, marble figures and walls full of gilt-framed portraits of former councillors, mayors, aldermen, leaders of the Council, high sheriffs, lord lieutenants, members of parliament and other dignitaries. It was really quite a daunting place.

  ‘Just be yourself, answer the questions honestly – and remember to smile,’ I thought to myself as I waited with the four other candidates in the small anteroom to the Council Chamber. It was the good, sound, sensible advice I always gave to my students when, the term before they left school, I helped them to prepare for their job or college interviews. ‘And if I’m not successful,’ I thought, ‘well, it’s not the end of the world, is it? I enjoy my present job and have done pretty well to get a senior master’s post in a large and flourishing comprehensive school before the age of thirty. In a few more years I could very well be a headteacher with all the challenges and demands that would bring.’ But I was not convincing myself. I really wanted this job. The post of County Inspector of Schools with the responsibility for organizing courses, running workshops, working in the classrooms alongside teachers and students, meeting governors and parents, advising, influencing, encouraging and challenging others in the profession, held infinitely more appeal than the post of headteacher. I was so keen I was becoming increasingly tense and edgy. ‘Just be yourself, answer the questions honestly and smile,’ I reminded myself again but I was too nervous to listen to the small, reassuring voice in my head and fidgeted and fretted, adjusted my tie for the umpteenth time, tapped my fingers on my chin and smiled nervously at the other candidates on interview with me for the post.

  I had heard about the position of County Inspector of Schools a couple of months before when I had entered the staffroom of Elmwood Comprehensive School at morning break, arriving in the middle of a lively discussion between Cyril, the Head of the History Department and Harry, the Head of English.

  ‘It’s just not you, Harry,’ the Head of History had been saying. ‘I’m sorry but it’s not! For a start you’ve only taught in a couple of schools, you have no experience of English in primary or special education, you’ve never taught drama and, quite frankly, you’re too old. They’ll be looking for one of these sedate young Oxbridge sorts – cut-glass accent and more degrees than a thermometer. I mean, just think about the inspectors we’ve had in this school. Dry, dusty, poker-faced, mean-minded little men who spend their time watching points and nit-picking. Do you seriously think that sort of work would suit you? It must be an awful job, inspecting schools, sitting at the back of lessons, bored out of your mind, ticking little boxes and writing endless reports. You’ll never see your family, you’ll have to deal with awkward teachers all the time and you’ll be travelling hither and yonder. And you don’t even like driving – you’re always complaining about the few miles you drive to school. Think of the miles you’d clock up touring the county along those narrow twisting roads in all weather. And what about all those late nights, all those weekends? And I mean, you’re not getting any younger. You can hardly be described as “energetic” and “dynamic”, now can you? It takes you all your time to get up the stairs in Ε Block and you need two cups of coffee and a cigarette to face 4C on Friday afternoon. Now be honest, Harry, it’s just not the sort of job for you.’

  ‘Well, if you’ve quite finished, thank you very much, Cyril. I am very appreciative of all your encouragement and support,’ the Head of English had replied quite peeved by the advice his colleague had so freely and publicly given. ‘With friends like you I don’t need enemies. For your information, I merely mentioned that the post held some slight interest, that’s all. I didn’t request a lecture on why I would be singularly unsuitable. You make me sound like some broken-down old carthorse ready for the knackers’ yard.’

  ‘What are you two on about?’ I had asked.

  The Head of History, undaunted by his colleague’s outburst, had continued in a casual voice.

  ‘You asked for an honest opinion, Harry, and that is what I gave. It would not suit me either, if it comes to that.’ He had then turned in my direction. ‘There’s a post in this week’s education supplement for a school inspector – English and drama. Harry was considering it and asked for my honest opinion. He is now sulking because I gave my honest opinion. I am nothing if not blunt.’

  ‘I asked for an opinion not a character assassination –’ Harry had begun but further discussion was curtailed by the sound of the bell. Both men, still arguing, had headed for the door. When they had gone, I had picked up the education supplement which Harry had left behind, and glanced at the advertisement which had been circled in red biro: ‘Wanted for September, a County Inspector of Schools for English and Drama. We are looking to appoint a well-qualified, energetic, experienced and creative honours graduate, with senior management experience in a school or college. He or she would join a well-established, successful and dynamic team, responsible for the advice to, and for the inspection of schools in the North of England.’ It seemed to jump off the page. Surely, all inspectors were not ‘dry, dusty, poker-faced, mean-minded little men’. I had met some really lively and enthusiastic inspectors and the job is what you made it.

  That evening I had thought hard and long about the post and decided to apply. I sent off for details and returned the completed application form within the week. A reply arrived three weeks later inviting me for interview at 9.00 am at County Hall in Fettlesham. So here I was waiting to be called into the Council Chamber to convince the Panel that I was the best candidate for the job. I was reasonably confident that I was well qualified and therefore in with a chance until I met the other four applicants for the post. Three of them seemed infinitely more self-assured and experienced and much better qualified than I. They sat in the anteroom calm and composed, chatting amiably – mostly about themselves.

  ‘I completed my Ph.D. in early literacy problems,’ a tall, confident young woman was telling an urbane distinguished-looking man. ‘I feel certain I have read one of your books about qualitative and quantitative methods in the teaching of aphasic pupils, when I was undertaking my research into the specific learning difficulties of early years, itinerant inner-city children.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ he replied in a cultured and confident voice, stretching back casually in his chair and staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve written extensively and lectured widely on the topic of aphasia. My doctorate was in dyslexia.’

  ‘Yes,’ added the third candidate, an equally suave and self-confident man in an immaculate blue suit and sporting a carefully trimmed beard. ‘I remember you gave the keynote address on that very topic at the university where I lecture. It went down very well, I recall.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ drawled the object of the praise. ‘I just hope that they are as receptive in the States this summer. I’m out there for a lecture tour, you know.’

  The fourth candidate, a small, dark-haired, softly-spoken woman, smiled nervously in my direction. I guess she thought, looking at me, that we had much in common compared to the others. We had arrived at the same time and had spoken briefly as we had made our way along the dark corridor of the anteroom. She was the Headteacher of a large inner-city primary school and clearly loved her job. When she spoke about the children, the challenges, successes and the demands, her dark eyes lit up and her nervousness disappeared. She confided that she was not entirely certain that the post was right for her.

  ‘At which university do you lecture?’ asked the self-assured young woma
n suddenly, looking in my direction.

  ‘I don’t lecture,’ I replied. ‘I’m a schoolteacher.’

  ‘Really?’ pronounced the urbane man and his bearded companion in unison. Three sets of eyes stared at me curiously. I felt way out of my league here. Cyril had probably been right – ‘cut-glass accents and more degrees than a thermometer’.

  ‘Have you published?’ asked the bearded Blue Suit.

  ‘Nothing of any importance,’ I replied. ‘Just a few poems and stories for children, and an occasional article for an academic journal.’

  ‘No, I didn’t recognize the name,’ remarked the expert in dyslexia, staring at his watch. ‘I do wish they would get a move on. I really cannot abide waiting about.’

  That was the end of any further dialogue for the door opened and a tall, stooping, quietly spoken man entered and introduced himself. ‘I am the Chief Education Officer of the county, Dr Brian Gore,’ he said. ‘I am so pleased you have all been able to attend for interview today.’ He shook our hands warmly and chatted for a while, asking us if we had had a good journey and if we needed anything. He then glanced at his watch. ‘I know how nerve-racking these interviews can be, but just be yourselves and try to enjoy the day. We have studied your applications thoroughly and have received very fulsome references and feel we have a particularly strong field for this post. The interview will be a pretty informal affair – about half an hour to forty minutes each and we will see candidates in alphabetical order, if you have no objections. The Interview Panel is composed of two councillors, an education officer, two headteacher representatives and myself. We hope to arrive at our decision today so you may wish to wait for the outcome. Alternatively, you may wish to leave after your interviews and I will contact you at home this evening. Now, if there is nothing else, I look forward to seeing each of you in the course of the morning.’ He gave a reassuring smile and was gone.

  I was the last candidate for interview so had a tedious yet apprehensive two-hour wait before I was called. For the first half hour or so I walked slowly down the long echoey, oak-panelled corridors, going over possible questions in my head. Feeling a tight knot of fear growing in the pit of my stomach, however, I made for the gardens where I could get a breath of fresh air. An old man in an ancient suit, and pushing a barrow-load of hedge clippings before him, smiled as I approached.

  ‘Champion day,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied. ‘Lovely and bright. The gardens look magnificent.’

  ‘Well, I do try my best and you can’t do more than that, can you?’ he said, chuckling, and resting his barrow for a moment. ‘Are you one of the new councillors then?’

  ‘No, no! I’m here for an interview. School inspector’s post.’

  ‘School inspector, eh? I shall have to watch my p’s and q’s, won’t I?’ he laughed. ‘Have you come far?’

  ‘Just from Doncaster.’

  ‘Not a town I know, Doncaster, but my father used to go to the races there. Do they still run the St Leger?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, every year.’ For a while we chatted about the weather and the countryside and the crowded roads and other commonplace topics which thankfully took my mind off the dreaded and fast-approaching interview.

  ‘Well, I shall have to get on,’ announced the gardener looking at the old chrome fob-watch which he had extracted from his waistcoat. ‘I wish you well, young man. It’s a lovely part of the country to work in and I hope you come in first and beat the other runners in your own St Leger this morning.’

  ‘That’s kind of you,’ I replied, ‘but having seen the other runners I have a feeling I’m the rank outsider in this particular race.’

  ‘The favourite doesn’t always win, just remember that.’

  ‘Well, I shall certainly try my best,’ I said smiling, ‘and you can’t do more than that, can you?’

  ‘You can’t, young man, you can’t.’

  For the next half-hour I walked around Fettlesham. It was a prosperous market town with a long main street full of smart dress shops, one or two expensive jewellers, various craft and antique shops, coffee shops, wine bars and banks. The estate agent’s window displayed a selection of large, expensive farmhouses and modern detached ‘executive’ residences which were way above the price range I could afford.

  As I arrived back at the small anteroom, I paused outside the heavy mahogany door for a moment and listened to raised, animated voices, inside: the young woman and the expert on dyslexia were comparing details of their interviews.

  ‘Quite tough questions, I thought,’ the urbane individual was saying. ‘The vicar’s very astute and the old councillor at the end knew his stuff. That Dr Gore’s sharp, isn’t he? I think I did myself justice, though, all things considered. I knew of all the reports to which they referred and they seemed most impressed with my portfolio of papers and articles.’

  ‘Did they ask you about dyspraxia?’ asked the woman. ‘I thought it was going to come up. I was pretty well prepared for the question but they never asked anything about –’ She immediately stopped talking as I entered. Then she changed the subject with consummate skill and began to talk about her recent research into learning difficulties.

  ‘Not long to wait now,’ said the primary school headteacher smiling in my direction. ‘The interview wasn’t too bad. Those on the panel were very pleasant and there were no trick questions. Actually I quite enjoyed it.’

  ‘I shall be glad when it’s over,’ I replied quietly.

  ‘I always think the last one in is at such a disadvantage,’ began the expert on dyslexia. ‘The panel members are tired and probably quite restless by now, and they’ve heard answer after answer. I certainly don’t envy you having to follow the rest of us.’ He smiled condescendingly before adding, ‘Still, someone’s got to be last, haven’t they?’

  ‘Yes, someone’s always got to be last,’ I replied. The word ‘last’ seemed to have been mentioned a few too many times for my liking, I thought, just as the bearded candidate came back from his interview. He was somewhat red-faced and breathless.

  ‘Phew, what a grilling,’ he sighed heavily, and then turning to me said, ‘Last man in!’

  The Council Chamber was a magnificent circular room with a high domed roof. Ranks of highly-polished wooden desks and carved benches flanked a large central mahogany table at which was sitting Dr Gore and other members of the Interview Panel. Above their heads great gold letters shone down: ‘Labor improbus omnia vincit – with work you achieve everything.’

  ‘Do take a seat Mr Phinn,’ said a solid, ruddy-faced individual in a thick tweed suit, ‘and we will begin.’

  The questions from the Panel members were wide ranging but straightforward enough – about my qualifications, experience and expertise, my views on changes in the education system and recently-published reports. Dr Gore sat listening intently to the answers, gazing fixedly at me with his long fingers steepled before him. When it came to his turn, the questions became quite specific and very probing: ‘What are the characteristics of a good school? How can you tell whether a teacher is effective or not? How should reading be taught? Should children be taught the rules of spelling? What are the qualities of a good headteacher? How should a teacher stretch and challenge a gifted pupil? What is the most appropriate education for a child with special educational needs? How do you help the dyslexic child? What do you think are the roles and responsibilities of a school inspector?’

  It was this last question which got me into such a tangle. Instead of answering the question directly as I had done with the others, on the spur of the moment I tried to be clever and drew an analogy. It was clearly lost on most of the Panel.

  ‘I think a school inspector is rather like Janus,’ I replied.

  ‘Who?’ asked the affable-looking cleric who had been smiling passively until this point.

  ‘Janus,’ I repeated.

  ‘Jesus?’

  ‘No, Janus the Roman god. He is depicted as looking in different
directions at the same time.’

  ‘I don’t follow this line of thought,’ said the cleric, his brow furrowing. ‘Are you saying a school inspector needs eyes in the back of his head?’

  ‘Well, I suppose sometimes he does,’ I replied giving him a weak smile, ‘but what I really mean is that the role of school inspector is, to my mind, a rather contradictory one.’ I stared across at the bewildered faces.

  ‘Janus,’ Dr Gore interrupted with a wry smile, ‘is the Roman god of doorways after whom January is named – is that not so, Mr Phinn? He is represented as two-faced, looking both forward and backward.’

  ‘So a school inspector should be two-faced?’ asked the confused cleric, looking quite alarmed. ‘Is that what you are saying, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘No, no,’ I stammered. ‘I mean he should look in one direction, to the schools and the teachers to help, support and advise, and at the same time he should look to the Education Committee to act as its monitor of standards and quality in the county schools. In a sense, he is both adviser and inspector rolled into one. What I mean to say is, it is quite a complex and demanding role.’

  ‘Sounds as if he needs to have a split personality,’ commented a generously-shaped councillor, chuckling.

  ‘Or hindsight,’ remarked another, getting in on the act.

  As I returned to the room where the other candidates were waiting, I felt pretty certain that I had trailed in last of the five runners. It had been a dire performance. I had tried to be clever at the last fence and had come a cropper. I had done what I always advised my pupils to do at interviews: been myself, attempted to answer the questions honestly, admitting when I did not know the answer rather than trying to bluff my way through and, at the outset of the interview at least, I had smiled a great deal. But I should not have tried to be clever.

  We did not have to wait long for the Panel to reach its decision. Barely twenty minutes had elapsed when the door opened and Dr Gore entered. I felt a sinking feeling in my chest and a tightness in my throat. I had so much wanted this job. I knew I could have made a success of it. The small reassuring voice in my head could be heard again, ‘Well, it’s not the end of the world, is it?’