We had just settled down to our work again when the telephone rang. Harold snatched up the receiver with a great paw.
‘Hello, Harold Yeats here. Yes, yes, he’s sitting next to me. I’ll pass you over.’ He slapped a large hand over the receiver which he passed in my direction. ‘Gervase, it’s for you. Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook.’
Sidney and David both turned to stare at me with expectant looks on their faces.
‘Now,’ exclaimed Sidney, ‘all will be revealed!’
‘Hello,’ I answered. ‘Yes, yes, he did mention it to me. No, no, that’s quite all right. Yes, yes, I have meant to call in with it but have been so very busy. Yes, yes, well, that would be very nice. I should enjoy that. Yes, of course. I will see you tomorrow then. Goodbye.’ I put down the receiver carefully. I then returned to my letter.
‘Well?’ asked Sidney.
‘Well what?’
‘Do tell, Gervase,’ pleaded David. ‘Put us out of our misery.’
‘You don’t need to look at me with those silly expressions,’ I said. ‘I’ve only been invited to a nativity plate – I mean play, tomorrow evening.’
‘Invited to the nativity play by Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook,’ sighed David, ‘and the only one in the office to receive an advent calendar from Sister Brendan and a Christmas card from Mrs Savage. My goodness, Gervase, just what is your secret with the opposite sex?’
‘Gentlemen,’ growled Harold, ‘please!’
Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School looked very different from when I had last visited it early in the autumn. The surrounding fields and rocky outcrops were now hidden under a smattering of snow, and the friendly belt of pines had a fine dusting of white. The air was icy fresh. The snow had fallen softly overnight and the whole area around the small school was a vast white silent sea.
I entered the brightness and warmth of the school clutching the blue cracked plate and looking for Christine. A member of staff informed me that she was backstage getting the little ones ready for the play but that a seat had been reserved for me in the front row.
‘Shall I take the plate?’ asked the teacher, eyeing the piece of pottery.
‘No, that’s all right, thank you.’ I managed a weak smile.
Mums and dads, grannies and grampas, aunties and uncles, neighbours and friends filled the school hall for the nativity play, the highlight of the school year. I found my seat just as the lights dimmed and a spotlight lit up the small stage.
This was the fifth infant nativity play I had seen this year. At the first, I had approached the school to find all the children heading for home. I had stopped a small boy loaded down with Christmas cards, calendars, decorations, presents and all manner of boxes and bags as he tried to negotiate the narrow gate.
‘Where’s everyone going?’ I had asked. ‘There’s a nativity play here this afternoon, isn’t there?’
He had stopped for the amount of time it took to tell me bluntly, ‘It’s off!’
‘It’s off?’ I had repeated.
‘Aye,’ he had replied. ‘T’Virgin Mary’s got nits!’
The second nativity play I had seen had not started off all that well. The seven-year-old introducing the Christmas play had announced, after a number of unsuccessful attempts, ‘Welcome to our Harvest Festival.’ I learnt later that she could not pronounce the word ‘nativity’. Things had improved after this initial hiccup until the little girl with the lead part of Mary had begun to find that the thick robe and headdress made her more and more hot and sticky as the play progressed. As the Magi had presented her with their gifts she had sighed and thrust the large doll representing the baby Jesus with a fair bit of force onto the lap of Joseph, saying in a loud stage whisper as she did, ‘You have him a bit, he’s getting heavy.’
At the third nativity play I had overheard a conversation at the side of the stage between two cherubic six-year-olds dressed in white silk trimmed with silver and speckled with sequins. It was an exchange not meant for the audience’s ears. One child had remarked, ‘I feel a right twit in this, don’t you, Gavin?’ His companion had agreed, nodding vigorously, ‘And if she thinks I’m being a flipping snowflake next year she’s got another think coming!’
The little actor in the fourth nativity play I watched had looked very disgruntled. I heard later that the lead part of Joseph had been given to another child and he had not been too pleased. He had argued with his teacher to no avail and had been given the role of the innkeeper. On the night of the performance Mary and Joseph had arrived at the inn and had knocked loudly on the door. The innkeeper, who had remained grumpy all through the rehearsals, had opened the door with a great beaming smile.
‘Innkeeper, innkeeper,’ Joseph had begun, ‘we have travelled many miles in the darkness and the cold. May we come in?’
‘She can come in,’ he had said, pointing to Mary, ‘but you can push off!’
I was now about to watch the fifth version of one of the most famous and powerful stories of all time, and wondered what gem might be produced tonight. The curtain opened to reveal the outlines of various Eastern-looking houses painted on a backdrop and two rather forlorn palm trees made out of papier mâché and green crêpe paper which drooped in the centre of the stage. The little boy, playing the lead as Joseph, entered wearing a brightly-coloured towel over his head and held in place by an elastic belt with metal snake fastener. He took centre stage without a trace of nerves, stared at the audience and then beckoned a particularly worried-looking Mary who entered pulling a large cardboard and polystyrene donkey.
‘Come on!’ urged Joseph. ‘Hurry up!’ He banged on the door of one of the houses. ‘Open up! Open up!’ he shouted loudly.
The innkeeper, with a face like a death mask, threw open the door. ‘What?’ he barked.
‘Have you any room?’
‘No!’
‘You have!’
‘I haven’t!’
‘You have, I saw t’light on.’
‘I haven’t.’
‘Look, we’ve travelled all night up and down those sand-dunes, through dusty towns, over hills, in and out of rivers. We’re fit to drop.’
‘Can’t help that, there’s no room,’ replied the innkeeper.
‘And I’ve got t’wife out here on t’donkey.’ Joseph gestured in the direction of a very glum-looking Mary who was staring at the audience, her face completely expressionless.
The innkeeper remained unmoved. ‘And you can’t leave that donkey there. You’ll have to move it!’
‘Well give us a room.’
‘There is no room in the inn. How many more times do I have to tell you?’
‘She’s having babby, tha knaws.’
‘Well, I can’t help that, it’s nowt to do with me.’
‘I know,’ replied Joseph sighing as he turned to the audience, ‘and it’s nowt to do with me neither.’
To the surprise of the children there were great roars of laughter from the audience. And so the play progressed until the final magic moment. Little rosy-faced angels in white with cardboard wings and tinsel halos, shepherds with towels over their heads and cotton-wool beards, the three wise men in coloured robes and shiny paper hats gathered around Mary and Joseph on the cramped stage to sing ‘Away in a Manger’ and bring a tear to every eye.
Following the performance, I went in search of the elusive Miss Bentley but, just as I was passing the main door, I was stopped by a mother who wanted to talk to me about her daughter. I put the plate down on a nearby table, and forgot to pick it up again when I moved across the hall to discuss the problem with the child’s teacher. When I finally extracted myself, I returned to the entrance to collect the plate.
I looked down in astonishment: the plate was full of coins and even a £5 note. The audience, as they had left the hall, must have thought a collection was being taken. And then I saw Christine heading my way, her face flushed with excitement.
‘It went really well,’ I said.
‘Thanks,�
�� she replied, shaking my cold hand. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’ Then she caught sight of the plate full of coins. ‘I see you’ve had a collection.’
‘Quite by accident, I assure you. Our old plate came in handy. If you want a really worthy charity to donate this to, I know a very persuasive nun who will take it off your hands.’
‘Sister Brendan?’ she laughed. ‘I know her.’
‘Well, I must be off. One blue chipped, cracked patterned plate of doubtful provenance,’ I announced and presented it into her hands.
‘Oh it’s lovely,’ she replied. ‘It’s really unusual. Thank you so much for bidding for it. It was sweet of you. I think we got a real bargain here, don’t you think?’
‘Yes,’ I replied thinking the very opposite and remembering the full price I had paid. All that money for a piece of ugly, cracked pottery that I would have consigned to the dustbin.
‘And you got my cheque?’
‘Yes, yes, thank you and the lovely card.’ This was followed by a rather embarrassed silence. I changed the subject. ‘And what are you doing over Christmas?’ I said, trying to adopt what I thought to be a casual tone of voice. ‘Are you going away?’
‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘we are off to Austria, skiing. Miles is a first-class skier. He was an army champion. Do you ski at all?’
‘No, but I sledge.’
She laughed. ‘And what are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Nothing at all special,’ I replied. ‘I’m spending a quiet Christmas with my brother and his family.’ I sounded deadly dull and dreary again. ‘Well, I must make tracks. Thank you for asking me to the nativity, Christine. Goodnight and a happy Christmas.’
I walked out into the cold night. Army champion! Well, of course, he would be, I thought. The white moon lit up the landscape, luminous and still. Cars growled along the road through the soft snow, throwing cascades of slush in their wake. Lights twinkled and flickered in windows and there was the smell of pine in the air. It was the magic atmosphere of Christmas.
‘And I hope he breaks his bloody leg!’ I said aloud.
16
Julie bustled into the office balancing a potted plant in one hand and a wire tray full of letters in the other.
‘So what sort of Christmas did you have?’ she asked, placing the tray of mail on my desk and the potted plant on the filing cabinet. Before I could reply, she continued, ‘I’ve brought the spider plant to brighten up your office. This place looks like a crypt with books.’
‘I spent Christmas with my brother’s family, nice and quiet. I slept for most of the time in front of the great log fire. It was quite a shock coming back to my cold and damp flat in Fettlesham. It was like a morgue. I really must make an effort to find somewhere when the weather gets a bit better. I will start to look seriously in the spring. A little country cottage would suit me, if you happen to hear of anything. What was your Christmas like?’
‘About as quiet as the D-Day landings. Arguments about the presents which didn’t suit, screaming, overfed children who never stopped whingeing, family feuds over the Christmas dinner, quarrels about which television programmes to watch. It was four days of disagreement, dissension, squabble and strife. Whoever said that Christmas was a time of peace and goodwill to all men should have spent it with us. I’m glad to be back, to be honest. There’s a message from Dr Gore somewhere in that pile of papers, by the way, asking you to call him urgently.’ As she headed for the door Julie turned and smiled impishly. ‘Probably heard about your secret liaisons with all those women.’
Julie was typical of many ‘a Yorkshire lass’ – cheerful, good-humoured and, on occasion, blunt to the point of rudeness. Several people had complained about her outspoken manner, constant chatter and clever comments but she was such a big-hearted, self-effacing young woman and an excellent secretary – efficient, organized and ready to stay late at a moment’s notice – that I found it very difficult to criticize her. I did once take her aside and ask for a little more restraint and deference when she dealt with callers. It was prompted by a particularly patronizing and rather pompous headteacher who wrote a letter of complaint about Julie’s ‘very familiar manner’ and ‘bluntness’ down the telephone.
‘Oh her,’ said Julie dismissively, when I mentioned the name. ‘Like my old mum says: “All fur coat and no knickers!” ’ I saw this particular headteacher some weeks later when I visited her school. She approached me across a crowded playground in heavy sheepskin coat with a wide wool collar. I had to suppress a smile as the grim face came into view.
Dr Gore stared at me across the desk with a smile like Dracula before he sinks his teeth into a victim.
‘I’ve a little job for you, Gervase,’ he said.
I glanced at him despairingly. I had been an inspector in the county a little over four months but knew Dr Gore’s ‘little jobs’: a county-wide reading survey, an audit of the secondary school libraries, chairing a working group on gifted children, accompanying members of the Education Committee around schools, compiling a discussion paper on the state of drama teaching, organizing a poetry festival. They were never ‘little jobs’.
‘Now don’t look so worried,’ he murmured languidly. ‘It is a little job – well, relatively little.’ When I did not reply but continued to stare at him morosely, he carried on. ‘Under normal circumstances I would have asked a more experienced inspector to take on this sort of thing but David Pritchard is still not a hundred per cent with that leg of his and, as you know, Sidney Clamp is directing the Arts in School Conferences for the next couple of weeks, so it falls to you.’ This was beginning to sound less and less like a little job. ‘I’ve received a letter from the Department of Education and Science asking if it would be convenient for the Minister of State for Education and Science to visit the county. Being newish to the job, he’s trying to get a feel for things before he puts together a White Paper. He wants to learn something about the education system at ground level up here in the north.’
I sighed and gave the CEO a mirthless smile. I predicted what was coming next.
‘He’ll be with us in five weeks’ time and I would like you to manage the visit and arrange an itinerary. Harold Yeats felt, and I must say I agreed immediately, that you would be able to cope admirably with the responsibility for making the visit run smoothly.’ He performed his Dracula smile again.
‘Thank you, that’s very gratifying,’ I replied. ‘Of course, I’ll do my best.’
‘Good, good,’ said Dr Gore enthusiastically. ‘Now the Minister will only be here for the morning and I want him to leave with a favourable impression. Your task will be to present him with a picture of the life and work in our schools. You know the sort of thing – organize a display of children’s and students’ work at the Staff Development Centre, get a few headteachers and teachers together to meet him, produce an explanatory booklet for him to take away. Mrs Savage will help you co-ordinate things. There will be one of the Minister’s assistants, probably one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors, contacting you shortly to discuss arrangements.’ He beamed across his desk. ‘Now do keep me fully informed of the progress of the visit, won’t you, Gervase.’
‘Of course.’
‘See – quite painless. I think you will find this little job most enjoyable.’
The task, I had to admit, promised to be a most interesting and challenging one and I set about it with gusto. First of all, I dropped a memo to Mrs Savage asking for her help in producing a programme of events and received a prompt reply in which she said it would be a pleasure. I booked the Staff Development Centre, asked colleagues to call in the best displays of work they had seen recently during inspections, and arranged for a representative group of people to meet the Minister.
‘There’s been another woman wanting to speak to you!’ shouted Julie from the outer office two days later. ‘With a funny name! Sounded like Miss Deadly Stare.’
‘Did you get a number?’ I asked.
‘I got the number b
ut not the name. She sort of growled down the telephone like a grizzly, something like Deadly Stare. Said she wanted to speak to you about some visit you’re organizing and left her number. Then she hung up. She’d get on really well with Mrs Savage – peas out of the same pod, by the sound of her.’
I rang the number which was a London one, and asked for a Miss D. L. Stare. I thought it was a reasonable guess.
‘De la Mare,’ corrected the receptionist in high-pitched, artificial tones. ‘Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty’s Principal Divisional Inspector of Schools. I’ll put you through.’
‘De la Mare,’ came a loud and strident voice down the line. I explained who I was. ‘Right, now I am arranging things this end for the visit of the Minister of State and, of course, we all want things to go as smooth as clockwork, don’t we?’
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ I spluttered, ‘as smooth as clockwork.’
Miss de la Mare then barked various instructions and requirements down the telephone. The Minister, Sir Bryan Holyoake, I was told, was a man of few words and strong views, and was a perfectionist. He did not like a deal of fuss, drank only mineral water, liked to see the detailed itinerary before his visit and was punctilious about keeping to schedule. The information filled me with a silent dread.
I spent a full day at the Staff Development Centre the week before the visit making certain everything was in readiness for the Minister’s visit. There were colourful and varied exhibitions in each room, and the walls were covered in displays of children’s work.
Connie watched my every move like some manic guard dog. ‘I can’t see what all this fuss is about anyway,’ she remarked pursuing me from room to room and along the corridors as I checked the details. ‘Anyone would think the Queen herself was visiting the Centre.’
If the Queen were to walk through the door at that very moment, I thought to myself, Connie would be calling her ‘luv’ in next to no time. The caretaker had not the slightest conception of rank, status or position and treated everyone in the same blunt manner.
‘And I hope you’re going to take all those staples out when you’ve finished,’ she said, staring intently as I made some small adjustments to the children’s poems and paintings. ‘They are the devil’s own job to pull out and they clog up the vacuum cleaner.’
The Other Side of the Dale Page 15
