At the conclusion of the inspection day at West Challerton High School, I read the first draft of my report to the Headmaster, a large, bluff, outspoken Yorkshireman who nodded thoughtfully throughout.
‘Aye well, Mr Phinn, you’ve told me a lot that I already know, particularly about Mr Palmer who I agree is past his sell-by date, but you’ve added a few ideas of your own that I would take issue with.’ He then challenged a number of my conclusions. We argued and debated for a while but I stood my ground steadfastly and said I felt the conclusions were fair and based on firm and extensive evidence. I added that the report in general was a very favourable one and the Headmaster should not dwell on the relatively few criticisms. I added that he appeared to be taking them personally.
‘Well, what can I do, Mr Phinn, but take them personally? I am, after all, in charge of the school and when the school is attacked it’s the Headteacher who bleeds.’
We parted on amicable terms and he escorted me to the entrance. ‘Is it Welsh?’ he asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘Your name? Is it a Welsh name?’
‘I’ve had this conversation before with your Head of English,’ I replied. ‘No, it’s French actually. French-Norman. St Gervase was a Roman martyr put to death under the Emperor Nero. It was a popular name in medieval times. I believe William the Conqueror had several knights of that name with him when he invaded. The name literally means “spear carrier”.’
The Headmaster gave a wry smile. ‘ “Spear carrier” eh? Well, that’s very appropriate for a school inspector.’
‘Yes, I suppose it is,’ I replied. ‘I always seem to be on the sharp end of things in this line of work.’
‘I wasn’t meaning that,’ said the Headmaster. ‘I have always been of the opinion that school inspectors are like cross-eyed javelin throwers. They hurl a lot of spears in the direction of schools, missing the point most of the time, but occasionally, and by sheer accident, they happen to hit the right target. Good afternoon to you, Mr Phinn.’
7
‘I must say when I heard the name Gervase Phinn, I had visions of a huge, red-headed, hot-tempered Irishman,’ murmured the tall, bearded, larger-than-life character who sat next to me. ‘Gervase Phinn,’ he repeated. ‘It is such a wonderfully esoteric and imaginative name. It has a sort of ring to it. The Collected Poems of Gervase Phinn. Mmmmm. Now take my name – Sidney Clamp. Not much of a ring to that, is there? A Retrospective Exhibition of the Contemporary Watercolour Paintings of Sidney Clamp. Doesn’t quite sound the same, does it? It’s not the sort of name to appear in the annals of Art History: Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh, Salvador Dali and – Sidney Clamp!’
‘You could always change your name,’ I suggested.
‘Too late, too late,’ he lamented, and gave me a mournful look. ‘Too late for many things now.’ It was early evening and I was sitting next to the renowned inspector of creative and visual arts, waiting for the first inspectors’ meeting of the new term to start.
‘Of course, it could be worse,’ he said suddenly. ‘I once knew a teacher called Death and he looked like death as well: thin and grey and bent like the Grim Reaper. He used to add an apostrophe and pronounce it De’Ath. It made not the slightest difference, of course. All the children referred to him as Mr Death. Then there was a Mrs Onions. She taught drama at West Challerton High School – did the same and insisted on being referred to as Mrs O’nions. You can imagine the hilarity amongst the students when the new member of staff arrived, a Ms Garlick. My suggestion that they should present a dramatization of The Lady of Shallot for the next school production was not well received.’ He laughed loudly. ‘You know, I’ve never agreed with old Shakespeare: “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I go along with Oscar Wilde: “Names are everything!” I think you can tell a great deal by a person’s name. Have you met Mrs Savage yet by the way?’
I had met Sidney very, very briefly in my first week. He had rushed into the office, puffing and panting, snatched his pile of letters, thrust some documents into Julie’s hands for typing, hurriedly shook my hand and disappeared.
‘Whoever was that?’ I had gasped.
‘That,’ Julie had replied, sighing dramatically, ‘is Mr Clamp. He appears like the genie from the lamp and then disappears into thin air.’
A week later, Sidney had bolted past me on the long corridor at County Hall one lunchtime, stopped suddenly, retraced his steps, stared at me for a moment and announced, ‘Hello, Gervase, I thought it was you. Come along with me if you have a moment, I’ve something to show you.’
I had been whisked along, with Sidney grasping my arm tightly, striding forward and chattering excitedly. We had arrived at a large room full of paintings, pastel sketches, charcoal drawings, watercolours, sculptures and carvings. Sidney had pulled himself up to his full height with conspicuous pride.
‘It’s the art exhibition of children’s and students’ work,’ he announced with obvious pleasure and satisfaction, waving an arm at all that was before him. ‘At the end of each summer term, I collect a selection of artwork from the schools and colleges and then during the holidays mount it, arrange it and display it for the general public to see, to show the high quality of work that well-taught young people achieve in the visual arts. Here is the result. Magnificent, isn’t it?’
The exhibition had indeed looked magnificent. It had been a mass of brilliant colours and shapes and such a range of work from the bold bright faces painted by the infants to the detailed oil paintings and twisted metal sculptures of the sixth formers. When I had turned to compliment Sidney on the display I found he had gone. I had caught sight of him moving amongst the people meandering between the exhibits, expounding, interpreting, discussing and explaining how the different effects had been created. His eyes had been bright with enthusiasm and ardour, his arms waving in the air like daffodils in the wind. So that had been my first couple of meetings with the renowned Sidney Clamp.
After that first inspectors’ meeting, Sidney and I walked to our cars together.
‘Harold tells me you are in digs,’ Sidney remarked.
‘I was for the first couple of weeks but I’ve found a flat now – above “The Rumbling Tum” café in the high street. I’ve paid the rent for a couple of months, then I hope to buy a place. I don’t want to rush into anything yet. To be honest, I don’t know where to start looking. I’m spoilt for choice.’
‘Well, certainly not Fettlesham. You definitely do not want to live in Fettlesham. You’ll meet the entire working population of County Hall every Saturday. There’s some lovely property – little cottages and converted barns – in some of the surrounding villages. What sort of house have you in mind? Old? New? Large? Small? Cheap? Expensive? In the town? In the country?’
‘I just don’t know, to be frank. I’ve been so busy since I started that my feet don’t seem to have touched the ground and I just haven’t had time to think, never mind look for a house.’
‘When you start looking seriously, I shall take it upon myself to give you my undivided help and assistance. I am something of an expert on properties.’
‘I shall know where to come,’ I replied, smiling. ‘Thank you.’
‘And Julie tells me that you are unattached.’
‘Unattached?’
‘No wife, family, fiancée, partner, girlfriend or children.’
‘Yes, unattached at the moment. I’ve been so busy I haven’t had time to think about that either.’
‘Now that is serious. Never neglect your love life, Gervase. You cannot beat the love of a good woman. Wherever would I be without my Lila – my long-suffering wife of twenty-eight years. When you start looking seriously in the direction of the opposite sex, I shall take it upon myself to give you my undivided help and assistance and introduce you to some eligible young women of my acquaintance. I am something of an expert on women. In fact, come to think of it, I am something of
an expert in most things. You aren’t looking for a car by any chance, are you?’
One bright Monday morning a couple of weeks later, the door of the office was flung open and there stood Sidney, beard bristling, eyes flashing, chest heaving and his face suffused with colour. ‘That woman,’ he boomed, ‘has got to go!’ The name of Mrs Savage immediately came into my mind but before I could inquire into the reason for this outburst, he enlightened me.
‘The caretaker from Hell! That’s what she is!’
‘Who?’ I asked.
‘Connie, the caretaker, site manager or whatever she calls herself. Have you not met her yet?’
‘Ah, Connie!’ I replied. ‘Yes, I have met her.’
Connie was the caretaker of the Staff Development Centre where all the courses and conferences for teachers were held. She was a woman of a certain reputation. In the fourth week of my new job, I had directed my first course at the Centre. I had walked cheerfully into the main hall early one Thursday morning carrying a large armful of books and folders only to drop the lot a moment later. A voice of stentorian proportions had echoed down the corridor seconds later. That was my first experience of Connie.
‘I say,’ she had boomed, ‘I’ve just mopped that floor!’
She had watched my every move that day. I would look up from my lecture notes to see her face grimacing at the door; during the coffee at break I found her hovering behind me. I almost expected to see her, arms folded, face scowling, duster in hand, waiting for me in the men’s toilets. Her presence was everywhere in the building. Far from thinking that she was controlled, managed or directed by us, it was Connie who felt she had the various inspectors under her command when they were on her territory. She was a great democrat in that she had no conception of status, rank or position in the world and treated everyone exactly the same, usually like naughty children.
About to leave the Centre on that Thursday, I had heard her talking on the telephone to a friend, explaining that she had a young, new inspector to break in, and that she had to get him used to her systems.
‘Well, you know what they are like, these clever, artistic folk,’ she had said. ‘They’re full of fancy ideas and, whilst they might be good at creating things, they are hopeless at clearing up after themselves.’ On hearing this I had scurried back to the room in which I had been working, made certain that everything was tidy, positioned the chair neatly behind the desk, checked that all the cups had been returned to the kitchen and the equipment had been safely put away.
Sidney, extrovert, unpredictable, creative, was the sort of man guaranteed to ruffle Connie’s feathers and he had experienced the sharp end of her tongue on many an occasion. On this particular Monday morning he was in a furious bad temper.
‘Last Friday,’ Sidney snarled, throwing himself into his chair, ‘I directed a highly successful course for infant teachers at the Staff Development Centre on the theme of “Creative Modelling in the Infant Classroom”. I set the course members a practical task, to build a mythical creature, which I have to say they did with immense enthusiasm and inventiveness – and you will never guess what’s happened? What do you think that dictator in the pink overall did? That virago with the feather duster! That tyrant with the teapot! The caretaker from Hell.’
I put down my pen, turned in his direction and prepared myself for a long account of the disaster.
Sidney told me he had provided the infant teachers on the course with a variety of household waste material: kitchen rolls, plastic containers, tin foil trays, milk bottle tops, bits of fabric, brown paper bags, toilet tissues, tin cans and sheets of newsprint, and from this detritus emerged a huge dragon which was later proudly displayed near the entrance to the Centre. This morning, armed with his camera, Sidney had returned to the Centre to take photographs of this truly stunning creation only to find it had mysteriously disappeared. He had searched everywhere without success and had finally run Connie to earth to ask if she had seen the dragon.
‘Dragon? No, I can’t say that I have,’ she had replied. Sidney, in a calm, controlled sort of voice had told Connie that she must have seen it, that there had been a four-foot dragon near the entrance – a long, snake-like, fierce-faced creature constructed of waste material.
‘Oh that!’ Connie had replied casually. ‘I put it in the bin.’
Sidney had exploded.
‘Can you believe that, Gervase?’ he demanded. ‘She had put it in the bin, she had disposed of that wonderful, multi-coloured dragon that had taken all day to construct! She had consigned it to the rubbish tip! I said to her, “Connie,” I said, “it was a work of art!” and do you know what she replied? Do you know what she replied?’
‘No, Sidney, I don’t,’ I said. ‘But I feel certain that you are going to tell me.’
‘She looked at me, without the least trace of remorse, regret or contrition, and she said, “Well, you should have written on it then –‘This is a work of art and not a load of old rubbish’ – then I would have known not to throw it out.” I was completely lost for words. With hindsight I should have replied, “Well, I should think of all people you would recognize a dragon!” ’
Sidney and I were at the Staff Development Centre the following week to direct a series of Expressive and Creative Art courses for secondary teachers. We were in the small staffroom having a cup of tea, before the arrival of the course members when Connie entered.
‘Don’t forget to wash your cups up, please, when you’ve finished,’ she said, her eyes scanning the room for untidiness. ‘And could you make certain you break for coffee promptly at half past ten because I’ve a lot of people in the Centre this morning, including one of Mr Pritchard’s Ρ Ε courses.’ She headed for the door but turned back. ‘Oh, and another thing, whose are those dreadful stuffed animals cluttering up the entrance?’ Sidney, who had retained a simmering silence throughout Connie’s harangue, looked up and smiled disdainfully before replying.
‘They are mine, Connie,’ he said. ‘And they are not dreadful stuffed animals, they are the next best thing to first-hand experience.’
‘Well, they’re a health and safety hazard stuck there. People could fall over them. It could give an old person quite a shock coming face to face with a fox or those big black birds with sharp beaks.’
‘The course today is not for short-sighted pensioners, Connie, it’s for relatively young, agile teachers,’ Sidney replied. ‘And I am certain a few stuffed animals and birds will not shock anyone.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised if they have fleas,’ said Connie, trying another tack.
‘Very clean young teachers,’ retorted Sidney. ‘Quite flealess.’
‘I am talking about those animals!’
‘Really?’ replied Sidney.
‘What are they doing here anyway?’ she asked bluntly.
‘The teachers, the fleas or the animals?’
‘The stuffed animals.’
‘Those, Connie,’ he replied gently, ‘those wonderful, carefully preserved creatures will form the focus for today’s course on Wildlife Drawing for Non-specialist Secondary School Art Teachers.’
‘Well, they don’t look very wild to me,’ she fired back. ‘They’re dead.’
‘I know they are dead, Connie, they are stuffed, but they are the best alternative to the real thing and I don’t want them interfered with.’
‘Huh!’ Connie threw back her head and screwed up her face. ‘There’ll be no interference, I can assure you of that. I wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. They give me the creeps.’
‘Well that’s fine,’ replied Sidney. ‘If you stay away from them, they will stay away from you.’
‘How long are they going to be here?’
‘They’ll be collected tomorrow morning by the Museum Service. Oh, and Connie,’ he continued pointedly, ‘I do hope that you will resist the temptation to consign anything we create today to the dustbin.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Leave everything alone.’
Sidney spent the next half hour arranging the various creatures in the rather overgrown area to the rear of the Centre. The snarling fox glared menacingly through the bushes, the black raven perched on the stone wall, the two hedgehogs could be seen snuffling in the dry leaves underneath the dark trees, the fat badger stared around a tussock of tall grass and the heron peered into the murky waters of the pond as if looking for fish. Connie observed from the window.
Following a practical morning during which Sidney, in particularly enthusiastic mood, taught the teachers some of the skills of pencil and chalk sketching, the teachers moved outside with their sketchpads to draw the animals ‘in their natural habitat’. Looking over the shoulders of some of the industrious teachers, Connie had to admit that the results were very impressive and much to be preferred to the ‘dustbin dragon’ as she called it.
At four o’clock, the sketches were displayed to good effect on the Centre’s walls, the stuffed animals and birds were gathered together in the entrance ready for collection the next morning, the teachers departed and Sidney left for a meeting at the Education Office.
‘I must say,’ admitted Connie as we both admired the sketches and drawings, ‘they are more my cup of tea than great big dragons made of litter and junk. Mind you, I don’t like having those stuffed animals all over the place. I shall be glad to see the back of them. They make me feel very uncomfortable.’
As we headed down the corridor, Connie suddenly peered out of the window. ‘What are they up to?’ she asked.
The Other Side of the Dale Page 7
