And I will have a pond there
And a hive for the honey bees
And live alone in the Yorkshire Dales.
‘Did you write this poem yourself?’ I asked a cheerful-looking youngster with a tangle of ginger curls and a freckled face.
‘Oh yes, mester,’ he replied firmly. ‘Definitely wrote it myself.’
‘It’s just that it reminds me of a poem I have read before – a poem by W. B. Yeats. Do you know it?’
‘Never heard of it,’ replied the youngster smiling innocently.
‘It is very like a poem called “The Lake Isle of Innisfree”,’ I persisted.
‘This Yeats must have got the idea from our Sam,’ interposed an angry-looking man with a face the colour and texture of a walnut. I moved on.
I thought of Marianne, the little farming girl I had met at Hawksrill School, and our conversation about her sheep when I read the third trite little verse. I wondered what that daughter of the Dales, that expert on sheep and lambing, would have made of the mawkish piece mounted on the board and surrounded by little jumping, cartoon lambs and fluffy white sheep:
On their fresh, green grassy banks
The little lambs are at their pranks,
Here the little lambkins bleat,
See them jump on woolly feet.
Oh what joy those lambkins bring
To the world when it is Spring.
If these poems were considered the best, what on earth were the others like, I thought.
Next to the poem stood a tall woman with waist-length, sandy-coloured hair and wearing a long flowered print dress. She stared fixedly at me as if waiting for some kind of recognition. Next to her was a miniature version of her: a tall, gaunt-looking girl of about eleven with waist-length sandy-coloured hair and also attired in a long flowered print dress.
‘Do you live on a farm?’ I asked the little poet.
‘No,’ she replied sullenly.
‘What made you write a poem about lambs?’
‘Don’t know,’ she answered in the same tone of voice.
‘Are they your favourite animals?’
‘No.’
I persevered. ‘Did you see some lambs in a field perhaps and that gave you the idea for your poem?’
‘No.’
I was getting nowhere so, having smiled weakly at mother and daughter, and receiving a pair of cold glances in return, moved on. As I read the poems and asked questions of the little poets, I was conscious of the onlookers watching, listening, hanging on my every word. I finally came to the very last of the ten. It was written in the bold, confident handwriting of a small child and was quite clearly the best – the most truthful and the most arresting:
I love my grannie.
She has hair like silver,
And skin like gold,
Eyes like emeralds,
And teeth like pearls.
She is a very precious person.
My grannie calls me
Her little treasure,
But she is mine.
And I love her very much.
‘What did your grannie say when you showed her your poem?’ I asked the small girl who stood in front of her writing.
She smiled. ‘She said I wouldn’t get much for her if I tried to sell her.’
I chuckled and proceeded to ask the little girl a series of questions about her poem. She answered all my enquiries easily and I had no misgivings that this was her own, unaided work.
I had now completed the circuit and had the five winners fixed in my mind beyond any question of doubt. I stepped out confidently into the middle of the throng, referred to my notes and took a deep breath to announce the results. Before I could utter a word, however, Mrs Pickersgill trotted towards me in short jerky movements as if powered by a faulty battery and guided, or rather propelled me, towards a small dais.
‘Mr Phinn, the Chief Inspector, will now announce the winners of the Poetry Competition – in reverse order!’ she boomed.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ I began, ‘it gives me great pleasure to announce the winners of the Poetry Competition. I must say that it has been an extremely difficult task to select just five from the many excellent poems which I have read and enjoyed this morning. All the children have tried extremely hard and produced some very high quality verse. I know you will want to join me in giving them a hearty round of applause.’ There was a ripple of lukewarm hand-clapping.
‘I wish he’d get on with it!’ said the red-faced little woman with the dark button eyes in a loud whisper.
‘And so, without further ado, these are the winning poems. In reverse order: the fifth prize goes to Simon Wilmot for his poem, “Shep, my Faithful Collie”.’ There was a slight ripple of applause. ‘Fourth prize goes to Jenny Butterfield for her lovely verse “Harvest Time”. Third prize to Debbie Smith for her poem “Milking the Cow” and the second prize to Andrew Baxter for “Forest Flowers”.’ There was a series of light clapping. ‘And the first prize, for a really gentle and carefully written piece of verse, goes to Amy Tunnicliffe for her delightful poem about her grannie.’
The announcement was greeted with one or two slow measured claps and an assortment of grunts, whispers and tut-tutting. By the time I had presented the rosettes, the book tokens and shaken the prize-winners’ hands, the crowd had dispersed. A few people, mainly parents of the competitors, remained behind mumbling and shaking their heads.
‘Not a popular choice,’ announced Mrs Pickersgill, peering through her thick lenses. I had had just about enough of Mrs Pickersgill.
‘It may not be the most popular choice, Mrs Pickersgill,’ I retorted, ‘but in my considered opinion the poem is far and away the best.’
‘It doesn’t rhyme though, and is on the short side,’ she growled.
‘The quality of a poem doesn’t depend on its length any more than on its rhymes.’
‘Philomena Phillpots, the Dales poetess, felt that a piece of writing wasn’t a poem unless it rhymed.’
‘Well, I would beg to differ with Philomena Phillpots, the Dales poetess.’
‘But she has had her poems published,’ persisted Mrs Pickersgill, clearly unimpressed and unconvinced by my argument. ‘She has poems on the inside of birthday cards!’
‘Yes, well, perhaps next year, Mrs Pickersgill, you might feel it more appropriate to ask Philomena Phillpots, the Dales poetess, to judge the competition. To be honest, listening to your obvious admiration for her I would have thought she would have been here this year.’
‘Oh, but she is,’ cried Mrs Pickersgill quite undaunted by the sharpness in my voice. ‘It’s just that she couldn’t judge the poems because her daughter Pollyanna submitted an entry. She had to declare an interest.’ She gestured with a sweep of the hand to two figures with waist-length sandy-coloured hair and both wearing long flowered print dresses. They glared across the tent at me. ‘It was Pollyanna’s poem about the lovely little lambkins.’
For the remainder of the afternoon I tried to enjoy myself but as I moved from stall to stall, event to event, I kept hearing mention of the result of the Poetry Competition wherever I went.
‘You tell me what a policeman knows about poetry. They had a chief inspector judging this year! They should be out catching criminals not judging poetry!’
‘He must know the mother, that’s all I can think. I mean, it didn’t even rhyme.’
‘He wasn’t a patch on Philomena Phillpots. Now she’s a proper poet.’
‘This is supposed to be an agricultural show and what poem wins – one about a grannie! I ask you!’
‘That poem about the cow brought tears to my eyes. That should have won.’
As I headed for the Education Tent to seek out Harold, I caught sight of Lord Marrick, sporting a large straw fedora hat. He had seen me too, and was striding towards me.
‘Now then, Gervase!’ he boomed. ‘Come and let me buy you a drink, then I’ll show you Caesar, my prize Belgian blue. He’s just won the silver cup for best
bull at the show. I’m as pleased as Punch.’ Before I could argue, his arm was through mine and we were heading for the Beer Tent. When I emerged a good hour later, feeling much more at peace with the world, I bumped into Harold who was just making his way into the tent. He was looking extremely hot and flustered, and was clearly ready for some cooling refreshment.
‘Ah, Gervase!’ he gasped, taking my arm. ‘I’m panting for a stiff drink. You will not believe the time I’ve had.’
‘But, Harold —’ I tried to explain, but to no avail.
It was nearly three o’clock when I finally extracted myself from the Beer Tent and as I left, somewhat unsteady on my feet, who should I walk slap into but Mrs Pickersgill and her lean companion. They stood observing me with displeasure. I smiled warmly as I passed them, and caught a snippet of their conversation.
‘I just knew he’d been drinking,’ snorted Mrs Pickersgill. ‘No better than that newspaperman last time.’
‘I thought he smelt like a brewery when he came into the tent,’ replied her companion. ‘Probably had difficulty reading the poems through that cloud of alcohol, never mind judging them.’
25
It was July, and I was staring out of the window of Back-watersthwaite Parochial School, remembering my very first visit. As a newly-appointed county inspector, I was unused to the small rural schools, hidden from the world, and had searched for hours for that elusive place. Since I had arrived so late, all the children had gone home and I had only met the remarkable headteacher, Mr Lapping. He had courteously invited me to return soon after so I could meet the children.
The big window drew me like a magnet because the view from it was so stunning. A great rolling expanse stretched along the yawning valley to the far away purple moors. The peaty waters of the beck raced and spumed, glistening in the bright sunlight. A grey snake of a road twisted and turned through dark green fields full of grazing sheep. Birdsong joined the honeyed hum of summer. As I stood there now, gazing at the wonderful landscape, a small boy, his round polished face peppered with freckles, joined me.
‘Does tha know owt abaat silage then, mester?’ he asked. I admitted my ignorance and the child departed shaking his head and, almost as an aside, remarked to an equally healthy-looking companion, ‘Off-comed-un!’
I have been called this a number of times on my visits to schools – off-comed-un – someone from out of the dale, a foreigner, and I always smile when I hear the phrase.
Later that morning I came upon the same boy, Andrew. He was sitting by the window poring over his book, his brow furrowed in concentration. As I approached he closed the book and placed a hand firmly on top.
‘May I look at your work?’ I asked, smiling.
‘No,’ came the blunt reply.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because it’s not any good, that’s why. When Mr Lapping says, “Today, we are doing writing”, I don’t feel all that well. I have problems with me writing, you see. Me spelling’s not up to much and me handwriting’s all over t’place.’
‘I’d still like to see,’ I said.
‘Well, tha not.’ He kept a firm hand over his book so I could not verify his comments. ‘Can’t read reight well, either,’ he added. ‘I have trouble wi’ words.’
‘I see,’ I replied gently.
‘I’ve got what’s called special educational needs, tha knows.’
‘And what does that mean?’ I asked.
‘Not much good at owt.’
‘Everyone’s good at something,’ I said.
He just shook his head in a resigned sort of way and stared out of the window to the distant hills.
‘Tha not from round ’ere then?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m from the other side of the dale.’
‘Aye, I thowt you were an off-comed-un.’
‘Yes, an off-comed-un,’ I repeated.
‘Are tha married?’ He was nothing if not forthright.
‘No.’
‘Cooartin’?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, thinking about my dinner date with Christine that very evening. ‘I’m cooartin’.’ I hoped, by changing the subject, I might eventually prevail upon him to show me his work and answer a few questions so I asked, ‘Where do you live?’
‘Reight up theer.’ He pointed through the window to the far off hills. ‘I live on a farm up theer – at t’top of t’dale.’
‘What a lucky boy you are,’ I murmured. ‘You must have one of the finest views in the world.’
‘It’s all reight,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘What time were you up this mornin’ then, mester?’
‘Early,’ I replied. ‘Half past six.’
‘I was up at six helpin’ me dad deliver a calf.’
‘Really?’
‘And it were dead. It would’ve been a good milker an’ all, wide solid rear and good udder texture. We got ratchet on –’
‘Ratchet?’ I interrupted.
‘Aye, you put yer ratchet up against cow, it’s a sort of metal gadget like. Yer tie yer ropes round yer calf’s back legs and yer turn yer ratchet every time there’s a contraction. Helping cow along a bit.’ He paused. ‘Does tha know what a contraction is?’
‘I do,’ I replied.
‘Aye, it were dead all reight. So we’ve ’ad a month of it, I can tell thee,’ continued Andrew, fixing his eyes on a flock of sheep meandering between the grey limestone walls. He sighed and was quiet for a moment. ‘Them’s ours,’ he then remarked casually, ‘them sheep. We’ve got an ’undred yows and two jocks.’
‘Jocks?’ I asked. ‘Are they Scottish sheep?’
He shook his head and dusty mop of hair. ‘No, no, jocks are rams, moor sheep. Does tha know why we has all them yows and only the two jocks?’
‘Yes,’ I replied smiling, ‘I think so.’
‘Bought another from Fettlesham t’market last week. It’d only been wi’ us three days and it dropped down dead – even before it had done any tuppin’,’ he continued. ‘Me dad were none too pleased.’ He paused fractionally and gave a low whistle between his teeth. ‘Does tha know what tuppin’ means?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘We’d trouble week afore wi’ oggits.’
‘Hoggits? Little pigs?’ I ventured.
He shook his head again. ‘No, no, your ’oggits are sheep of an age between your lamb and your ewe. Sort of teenage sheep. Does tha know what a drape is?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied. Then added in a whisper, ‘When it comes to sheep, I have special educational needs, tha knows.’
He looked at me thoughtfully and a smile formed on his lips for the first time that morning. ‘I don’t know owt abaat that but tha’re an off-comed-un and no mistake.’
‘I am,’ I admitted. Then, like a sensitive and patient teacher, the child who was ‘nowt much good at owt’, who ‘had trouble wi’ words’ invited the off-comed-un, the school inspector who had his own ‘special educational needs’, into his world of hoggits and shearlings, stots and stirks, wethers and tups, tegs and hogs, becoming animated as he realized the extent of his companion’s ignorance, surprised that there were people who couldn’t tell a Blue-faced Leicester from a Texel or a Masham from a Swaledale.
‘We’ve a sheepdog what’s going blind and t’last straw were this calf. It would’ve been a reight good milker an’ all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about all your troubles.’ My reply sounded feeble.
‘Me dad’s got a word for it.’ At that point I felt it wise to move on but he reassured me. ‘Oh it’s not rude. It’s a word which describes a yow when she’s heavy pregnant, so heavy you see, she falls over on her back and just can’t move, she’s helpless. Sticks her legs in t’air and just can’t shift. It’s called “rigged”, proper word is “riggwelted”. Me dad comes in from t’fields and flops on t’settee and says, “I’m fair riggwelted.”’
At the end of a busy morning inspecting Backwatersthwaite school, I went and found Mr Lapping to bid h
im farewell and a restful summer holiday.
‘Thank you indeed,’ he replied, ‘and I hope you have a pleasant break yourself. Now tell me, has your first year as a school inspector been as you expected?’
‘In many ways, yes,’ I replied, ‘but I’ve still got a lot to learn and there’s been a good few surprises for me over the year – most of them very pleasant surprises. And it’s been exhausting. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard. I’m really looking forward to the long summer break because I have to admit to being somewhat “riggwelted”.’
‘Ah-ha!’ laughed Mr Lapping. ‘Something tells me you’ve been talking to young Andrew.’
Although, as is the way of the Dales folk, I expect I will always be considered an ‘off-comed-un’, I do feel such a part of the great county and have learnt so much about it from the many children and teachers, parents and colleagues that I have met on my travels. I know about the birds and wild animals (the unstuffed variety), the farming methods and the weather, the dialect and folklore, the history and geography and the people who inhabit a county the size of Israel. In that short time I have come to regard the Yorkshire Dales with that same deep sense of wonder and reverence as Lord Marrick does, and have come to love the warmth of spirit, kindness and courage of the Dales folk and their shrewd, down-to-earth insight into human nature.
On that bright summer day close to the end of term, I looked across the fresh flowing green of the fells, beyond the old stone farmhouses crouching against the lower slopes to the hazy blue of the sky, and sighed with contentment. The profession of school inspector is not a glamorous or particularly well-paid one, but I knew in my heart it was the job for me. I thought of the dedicated teachers it had been my privilege to advise and encourage over the past months. I thought of the delightful, unpredictable and ever-friendly children it had been my pleasure to meet. I thought of the talented and supportive colleagues who had such a deep interest in the needs of children however damaged, ill-favoured or deprived those children might be. And I thought of one very special Yorkshire lass who I intended to get to know a whole lot better in the coming months.
The Other Side of the Dale Page 24
