Out of the Woods But Not Over the Hill

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Phinn,’ I said. ‘It’s Mr Phinn.’

  ‘This is all very confusing,’ remarked the plain-faced little woman with a pursed mouth. ‘We’ve not even got to the report yet and we’re having differences. We’ll be here all night at this rate. Can we make a start?’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to be too long,’ said a cheerful-looking cleric. ‘I do have another meeting in a couple of hours.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t take that long,’ said another governor, before glowering in my direction. ‘Will it?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the chair of governors, his huge eyebrows twitching, ‘let’s get on. How’s our little school done then?’

  The governing body leaned forward, craned their necks and fixed me with stares which would curdle milk.

  I placed the thick OFSTED handbook in front of me with the various additional updates, guidance booklets, questionnaires and school documents, before arranging piles of various lists, statistics and summaries to pass around. When I looked up, I faced a sea of faces staring at the mountain of paper in disbelief.

  ‘Well, before I begin I would like to talk a little about the context of the inspection . . .’

  I was cut short. ‘I think I was right fust time with OFFSET, Mr Flynn,’ announced the chair of governors. ‘Talk about churning out paper. I reckon when you do your inspections, a forest falls.’

  Eating with the Infants

  I once visited an infant school in a deprived area of the town, with a very elegant education officer. I commented on the long, pale, pink scarf she wore.

  ‘Actually,’ she said, ‘it’s a pashmina.’

  ‘I thought that was a breed of dog,’ I said mischievously.

  She gave a slight smile.

  Being someone who is interested in words, I did a little research at home that evening, and discovered that ‘pashmina’ is a Persian word meaning ‘cashmere’. Pashminas now describe those colourful silk shawls which, for many years, have been draped elegantly over the shoulders of the richest women in the East. Now they have become very popular throughout the world, although I can’t say as I have seen many women walking through Doncaster town centre with pashminas around their shoulders. When I was young, my grandma had a coloured shawl but, rather than elegantly draping it over her shoulders, she knotted it tightly around her neck like a football scarf.

  My colleague and I were asked by the head teacher if we would care to stay for lunch, to which we agreed. We thought perhaps that we were to join her for a sumptuous repast in her room, but we were shown into the school hall, where we were each given a green melamine tray and asked to join the queue of infants.

  The dinner ladies were over-generous with the portions and piled high our trays with whole hands of fish fingers and mountains of baked beans and chips. We were both given sizeable bowls of strawberry yoghurt and small plastic tumblers of water.

  I very much enjoyed watching my colleague’s discomfiture as she sat on a long wooden bench designed for small children, sandwiched between two rather messy little infant eaters who chattered without pausing, liberally spitting out food. She managed to force down half a fish finger and two chips before placing her knife and fork together.

  ‘Are you ’avin’ them fish fingers?’ asked the little girl on her right.

  ‘No, dear, I’m not,’ replied my colleague.

  ‘Can I have ’em?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Are you ’avin’ yer chips?’ asked another child.

  ‘No, dear.’

  ‘Can I ’ave them?’

  ‘Yes, you may.’

  ‘Are you ’avin’ your beans?’ asked a third child.

  ‘No,’ replied my colleague.

  ‘Can I ’ave ’em?’

  ‘Please do.’ The fish fingers, chips and beans were quickly commandeered.

  A small girl sitting directly opposite my colleague asked shyly, ‘Could I have your yoghurt, Miss?’

  ‘Of course, dear,’ came the reply.

  ‘Well,’ said my colleague, ‘if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up.’ She turned to the child who had just scooped out of the bowl a great spoonful of pink yoghurt. ‘Could you tell me, dear, where the staff toilets are?’

  ‘Over there,’ replied the child, waving the spoon in front of her and, in the process, spattering strawberry yoghurt in all directions.

  My colleague bore the brunt of the swinging spoon and the front of her jacket received the lion’s share of the sticky substance. She rose solemnly from the bench with surprising equanimity, stared for a moment at the thin pink line which ran across her pale cream suit, with matching accessories, and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, with a sour smile. ‘Thank you so very much.’ Then, wrapping the pashmina around her to cover the offending stain, she departed for the toilets.

  Some weeks later, I met my colleague in a corridor at the Education Office. She was beautifully dressed, this time with a gossamer-like shawl around her shoulders. I could not help but smile at the memory of our school visit.

  ‘Another pashmina?’ I commented.

  ‘Actually,’ she told me, coolly, ‘it’s a shatoosh.’

  I didn’t say anything.

  The Vicar’s Story

  When the school leaving age was raised in the 1970s, and the youngsters who had looked forward to starting work at fifteen now had to stay on for an extra year, there was a deal of anger and resentment. They had had quite enough of school and wanted to get out into the world.

  In an effort to make the curriculum of the ROSLA (raising of school leaving age) group in the school I was teaching in at the time that bit more interesting and relevant, I invited a range of people into school to speak about their lives and work. The pupils were involved in the selection but were somewhat ambitious in their choices of pop stars, fashion designers, film directors, footballers and television personalities, none of whom replied to their letters of invitation. Over the year, there were visits from, among others, a member of parliament, a MEP, a doctor, a woodcarver, a woman police officer, a soldier, a fire-fighter, a farmer, an environmentalist and a vicar. The vicar was the least popular when I suggested him but, following his visit, he emerged as the most entertaining and the most memorable.

  He recounted the story of a farmer who was so large that a special coffin was made for him and the gravediggers paid extra because of the size of the hole they had to dig. The coffin was lowered into its final resting place, and the words of interment intoned, before the undertaker hissed: ‘It will have to come up, vicar. I’ve dropped my glasses down the hole and they’re on top of the coffin.’ The coffin was heaved half way up, and then lowered again as the pall bearers failed to lift it. There were several more unsuccessful attempts and only after more help was enlisted was the coffin finally raised sufficiently high enough for the glasses to be retrieved. At the funeral tea, the widow approached the vicar. ‘I thought nothing to that,’ she said, tight-lipped. ‘My husband was up and down like a ruddy yo-yo.’

  In a primary school assembly I attended, a young curate related the parable of the Prodigal Son. He described how the younger son had squandered all his father’s money and then had returned home penniless, ashamed and repentant, with his head held low. He told them how the father, with great happiness in his heart and tears of joy in his eyes, had run to meet his son, and how he had put his finest robe around his shoulders, sent his servant for his best sandals and ordered the fatted calf to be killed for a splendid feast to celebrate his son’s homecoming. When the elder son heard the sound of the music and laughter and the news that his brother had returned, he was not pleased, and would not enter the house. ‘I have worked like a slave all these years for you, yet you have never even offered me as much as a goat for a feast with my friends. Now my good-for-nothing brother, who has spent all your money, turns up and you kill the fatted calf for him.’

  ‘Now, children,’ said the curate, ‘who do you think was the happiest of all?’ There was a forest o
f hands. He picked a small girl in the front row.

  ‘The father!’ she cried.

  ‘That’s right, and who do you think was the saddest and most disappointed about the son’s return?’

  Before he could pick anyone, a boy at the back shouted out, ‘Well, I reckon t’fatted calf can’t ’ave been too ’appy.’

  The Good Little Reader

  I discovered Esther, aged six, in the reading corner at the infant school. Her teacher had described the little girl as a gifted child, with a reading age well above her actual age. ‘Quite the best little reader I have ever come across,’ she had informed me. I have heard many a child described thus, only to discover that the boy or girl in question is bright, but rarely gifted.

  ‘Hello,’ I said to Esther.

  The child looked up and examined me as one might view a strange object in a museum case. ‘Are you the school inspector?’ she asked.

  ‘I am,’ I replied, smiling.

  ‘Mrs Smith said you would probably want to have a word with me.’

  ‘Your teacher tells me you are a very good reader,’ I said.

  ‘I am,’ she replied.

  ‘Would you like to read to me?’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I like reading. I have lots and lots of books at home. I have my own library in my bedroom.’

  ‘I’m sure you have,’ I said, ‘and I bet you have a bedtime story every night, as well.’

  ‘I do. Daddy and Mummy take it in turns. I have a cuddle and a bedtime story every night. Daddy says stories are very good for children.’

  ‘Your daddy’s right,’ I told her.

  ‘Daddies always are,’ she told me, pertly. ‘Shall I get my reading book?’

  ‘No,’ I said, ‘perhaps you would read one of mine.’

  I carry around with me in my briefcase various documents and books: standardised reading tests, non-verbal assessment sheets, word recognition lists and also a few books of varying difficulty to test children’s reading ability. The reading scheme books, with which the children learn to read, have familiar characters and settings, and repeated words and phrases to give children confidence and security, but the good reader is able to be confronted with an unknown text and read and understand it. I presented little Esther with a book suitable for a seven-year-old.

  ‘This looks too easy,’ she told me, examining the cover and flicking through the pages.

  ‘Easy?’ I repeated. ‘I’ll be very surprised if you manage to read it.’

  The child gave me the kind of melancholy smile a Mother Superior might bestow upon an erring novice. ‘May I have a harder book, please?’

  ‘OK,’ I said, reaching into my briefcase, ‘let’s try another one.’ I selected a book suitable for a nine-year-old. ‘Now, if you find this a bit hard, don’t worry. It’s a book for older children.’

  She stared at the cover for a moment. ‘Shall I start from the beginning?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘From the very beginning?’

  ‘From the very beginning,’ I repeated.

  The child tilted her head, stared at the large black stamped box at the very top of the cover page and then read: ‘Property of the West Riding of Yorkshire County Council, Education Department, Libraries, Archives and Resources.’

  I shook my head and smiled.

  Speech Day

  I received a letter from the new head teacher of a grammar school, asking me if I would be willing to speak and present prizes and certificates at the school’s awards evening the following December. At a time when children get such a bad press, it is important to know and to recognise that there are many young people from caring and supportive homes, who are taught by dedicated and enthusiastic teachers. It is always a pleasure to be part of such an event which celebrates the achievements and the talents of the young.

  I have attended some memorable speech days over the years. Rather than just shaking hands with the recipient of each award, I do like to have a few words, particularly with those who have done exceptionally well or have persevered and achieved against the odds. At a girls’ high school, one young woman gained a remarkable five top grades at ‘A’ level. I congratulated her and asked to which university she was going. She was a chatty and articulate young woman, and our conversation continued. The headmistress, a formidable and striking-looking woman, in a most colourful academic gown, indicated discreetly with a small nod of her head and a knowing look that I should move on. Mischievously, I continued chatting to the student, much to the amusement of the audience. Later the chairman of governors remarked, tongue in cheek, that it was the first time in the history of the school that a speaker had ignored the headmistress on her own stage.

  At one speech day, the chairman of governors informed the assembled parents and students that, over the previous year, the school had experienced its share of problems, not least the somewhat critical school inspectors’ report. ‘We are,’ he informed the audience, ‘on the edge of a precipice but, with the appointment of the new head teacher, we are now moving forward with confidence.’

  One rather pompous headmaster informed the parents at speech day that he was like the captain of a ship, standing proudly on the bridge, scanning the horizon, heading for the land of opportunity and the harbour of success. ‘Sometimes,’ he said, ‘we are buffeted by the stormy gusts of educational change. Sometimes we are carried off course by the cold currents of government policy. Sometimes we face the hurricanes and gales of school inspection. Sometimes a heavy downpour of yet more documents from the Ministry of Education inundates us. Sometimes we are becalmed by the shortage of the necessary resources. Yet we always keep a steady course, with a firm hand on the tiller, for the land of opportunity and the harbour of success.’ The headmaster paused to sweep his hand before him. ‘You know well, students,’ he said, ‘the name of this, our ship, a name that stands for history, for tradition and for the highest possible standards. What is the name of this, our ship, I ask?’ The headmaster’s eyes came to rest on a small boy in the front row who stared up from behind thick-lensed glasses. ‘Yes, you, boy,’ the headmaster commanded. ‘Tell us the name of this ship of ours.’

  ‘Is it the Titanic, sir?’ enquired the boy.

  The most memorable speech day took place in a large inner-city comprehensive school. The Lady Mayor was the guest of honour and was charged with presenting the prizes and giving a short address. She was a large jolly woman in a tight-fitting, powder blue suit, her magnificent golden chain draped around her ample bosom. As she bent to pick up a silver cup, she broke wind extremely loudly. The young people and teaching staff tried valiantly to suppress their mirth. The Lady Mayor smiled widely, approached the microphone and announced, ‘Hark at me,’ and then joined in with the uproarious laughter.

  The Musician

  I was once dragooned into inspecting music in a secondary school. The lead inspector, an HMI (Her Majesty’s Inspector) with a science background, asked me if I would take on the task, explaining that our music specialist colleague was ill and could not join us, and there was no one else on the team sufficiently confident or capable enough to inspect the music department.

  ‘Neither am I,’ I told him.

  ‘But you play the piano.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘And you have directed musicals in schools.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘And have performed yourself in comic operas.’

  ‘I know, but –’

  ‘And enjoy classical music.’

  ‘That does not mean –’

  ‘The thing is, Gervase,’ he explained, ‘I did tell the head teacher that there was no music specialist on the team, and she said the head of department would be very disappointed that no one would be observing his lessons. It is his last term and he so wanted to be inspected before he retired.’

  Well, that is a rarity, I thought – a teacher actually wishing to be inspected.

  The lead inspector continued
: ‘Clearly, the head of music is a very able man, a very popular and committed teacher and the students perform really well in the examinations. He’s been in the school all his professional life. The head teacher feels that his is one of the best departments in the school and it would be a pity if some mention was not made in the final report. And, of course, it would be good for the head of music to retire with a confirmation from OFSTED of his excellent teaching – to leave on a high, so to speak.’

  Reluctantly, I agreed and, having studied the section on music in the Framework for Inspection, the following morning I observed the first music lesson of the week. The classroom was bright, orderly and well equipped, the students were attentive and knowledgeable, and the teaching was excellent. I had no reservations in assessing the lesson as one of the very best.

  ‘I am so pleased I got someone who knew what he was talking about,’ the head of music told me later in the staff room. ‘You hear all these stories of school inspectors with little or no idea of the subjects they are inspecting.’ I smiled weakly. ‘Were you at the Royal College of Music, by the way?’ he asked. ‘That’s where I studied.’ I shook my head. I felt it politic not to inform him that my expertise in his subject was gleaned from a Grade 3 pianoforte examination and from the fact that I could play any tune in the key of D. I also knew four chords on the ukulele and, at a pinch, could play ‘When I’m Cleaning Windows’.

  The team of inspectors attended the head of music’s final concert, a rousing and an emotional affair. Prior to the performance, we were detained by the head teacher until the school hall was full with parents, staff and students, and the instrumentalists had assembled on stage. Then, as we were led by her down the central aisle to the front, to sit on the front row, the band struck up with ‘Colonel Bogie’. The head of the music department glanced in my direction and smiled. I have an idea the march was in the key of D.

  Behind the Staff Room Door

  The head teacher asked me to wait in the staff room.

  ‘I need to see a parent,’ she explained, ‘but I will be with you directly.’

  I was at the large inner-city primary school to collect various documents to read over the weekend, prior to my inspecting the school the following week. The staff room was uncomfortably warm and cluttered, the walls full of various dog-eared charts, posters and guidelines. Unwashed crockery filled a bowl in the corner sink, above which hissed and bubbled an old geyser. There was an assortment of shabby hard-backed chairs arranged around a coffee table, the top of which was hidden beneath an untidy pile of exercise books, magazines and folders. A larger table, free of clutter, occupied a space near the window. My first impressions were not good ones. I sat in a threadbare armchair.