Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘I think the expression is “a plum in her mouth”.’

  ‘With a mouth like hers, it’s definitely a potato. When I think of the times –’

  ‘Did she say what Dr Gore wanted?’ I interrupted. I was feeling rather uneasy about this interview with the CEO so early on in the term. A small cold dread was settling into the pit of my stomach.

  ‘No, I never gave her the chance. I keep all conversations with that woman as short as possible. Anyone would think she was royalty the way she carries on. It might be promotion.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Why Dr Gore wants to see you. You know, a step up. Doubtful though – you’ve only been here a year and a bit. Could be a complaint from a governor or an angry headteacher.’

  ‘That’s all I need the first week back,’ I sighed.

  ‘Then again,’ said Julie, with a mischievous glint in her eye, ‘it could be one of his little jobs.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed. ‘Not one of his little jobs! Please don’t let it be one of his little jobs!’ I was well acquainted with Dr Gore’s little jobs, having been given several in my first year – and they were never ‘little’ jobs. There had been the county-wide reading survey and the full audit of secondary school libraries followed by a detailed report to the Education Committee. There had been the investigation into the teaching of spelling, the production of a series of guideline documents for teachers, and the organising of the visit of the Minister of Education. All this was extra work on the top of the courses, inspections and report writing. I prayed it was not one of Dr Gore’s little jobs.

  Dr Gore, Chief Education Officer for the County of Yorkshire, continued to smile like a hungry vampire as he leaned forward in his chair. He peered over his glasses, his eyes glinting like chips of glass. ‘Well, Gervase,’ he murmured, stroking his brow with a long finger. I just knew what he was going to say. He was going to say, ‘I have a little job for you.’

  ‘I have a little job for you,’ he said.

  Ten minutes later Julie was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. ‘Well?’

  ‘One guess.’

  ‘A little job?’

  ‘Right first time.’

  ‘I’ll put the coffee on.’

  I followed her into the office. ‘Actually it’s not too bad,’ I said cheerfully, rattling the change in my trouser pocket. ‘Dr Gore’s asked me to organise a visit of one of Her Majesty’s Inspectors for later this term. He wants to look at some schools as part of a national information gathering exercise on literacy standards. I just have to nominate a number of schools and arrange things, nothing massively demanding in that. I can ring round the schools this morning and get a letter off to the Ministry. There’s not much else for me to do today. The only fly in the ointment is having to liaise with Mrs Savage.’

  Julie pulled the screwed-up face again and clattered out of the office. ‘Forget the coffee,’ she said, ‘I’ll get the brandy.’

  One bright morning a week later I was looking casually through my post when I came upon a frighteningly official-looking document. On the envelope there was a large royal crest with a lion rampant and rearing unicorn and topped with a crown. The letter inside had a black embossed heading – The Ministry of Education – and ended with a large flourish of a signature. I recognised the name: Miss W. de la Mare.

  Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty’s Principal Divisional Inspector of Schools, had contacted me the previous year when I had been given the ‘little job’ of arranging the visit of the Minister of Education. She had barked down the telephone at Julie that she had wanted to speak to me to discuss the visit and then had promptly hung up. Julie had told me that the speaker ‘was like a grizzly bear with toothache’ and had given a name which sounded like ‘Deadly Stare’. In the event Miss de la Mare’s bark was far worse than her bite. In the letter I had now, she requested that I arrange a series of visits to schools ‘which demonstrate good practice in the teaching of reading and writing’ and which ‘show good breadth, balance and continuity in the curriculum’. She was particularly interested in poetry.

  I knew just the school for her to visit: Backwatersthwaite Primary, the very first school I had called at when I had started in my new career as an inspector a year earlier.

  It had been the first week of the job. After a frustrating two-hour search up and down the dale, along muddy, twisting roads, across ancient stone bridges, up dirt tracks and through countless picturesque villages, I had eventually discovered Backwatersthwaite School. The Headteacher, Mr Lapping, a tall, lean man with grey, frizzy hair like a pile of wire wool, had not been expecting me but was entirely unperturbed when I informed him that I was a County School Inspector visiting to examine the children’s work and scrutinise the school documentation. I had called at the school again a couple of times during the year and had been immensely impressed by the quality of the education. The children were polite and well-behaved, they answered questions with enthusiasm and perception, read with confidence and expression and wrote the most poignant and vivid poetry.

  I replied promptly to the letter from the Ministry of Education suggesting five schools for Miss de la Mare to visit and offering to accompany her to Backwatersthwaite. I certainly did not want her to spend half the day, as I had done, travelling backwards and forwards through the dale in search of the elusive school.

  A couple of days later a second rather sharp-sounding letter arrived from the Ministry of Education informing me that Miss de la Mare was grateful for the list of suitable schools and for my offer to accompany her on one of the visits, but she would prefer to go alone. I immediately telephoned the headteachers at the chosen schools forewarning them of the HMI’s visitation.

  ‘Well, thank you very much,’ sighed George Lapping down the line. ‘Thank you very much indeed. I know now who my friends really are.’ I could guess from the tone of his voice that he was secretly pleased but he made the pretence of displeasure. ‘I have attempted, Gervase, over the many years I have been a teacher and headteacher in this vast and beautiful county, to avoid the attentions of school inspectors. My school is isolated, difficult to find and subtly disguised to resemble the façade of a private dwelling. I have kept my head down, got on with my teaching and not done too bad a job, even if I say so myself. Now, with your recent arrival in the county, Backwatersthwaite has been put firmly on the map. I guess there will be coaches creeping up the dale full of educationalists and researchers, maybe day trippers and school parties. Now I have an HMI putting me under the microscope.’

  ‘You should be very flattered that I recommended your school, George,’ I replied. ‘It’s a mark of the excellent work which your pupils achieve. As Shakespeare would have it, “Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.” ’

  ‘But I have an HMI thrust upon me. Well, I just hope he has the same difficulty finding the school as you did when you first came here, Gervase. I can’t be doing with visitors. They interrupt my teaching routine with all their questions. Anyway, when is this visit likely to take place?’

  ‘Oh, some time this term,’ I replied. ‘I’m not exactly sure, but I should imagine that you’ll be given very good warning. By the way, George –’ I was about to tell him that the HMI in question would be a woman but he cut me off.

  ‘And I do not intend putting on anything special for him. He’ll just have to take us as he finds us. Anyway, if he intends coming out in November or December, he had better reconsider. It’s like Tibet up here in the winter.’ I tried again to explain that the HMI intending to visit him was not a man but Miss de la Mare, and quite a forceful character at that, but he never gave me the chance. ‘I shall have to go. Break is over and there’s children to teach. I’ll let you know how I get on.’ With that the line went dead.

  As soon as I had replaced the receiver, however, the telephone rang. I snatched it up.

  ‘George,’ I said, assuming it would be the previous speaker, ‘I meant to say that the HMI
–’

  The voice which replied was coldly formal. ‘This is Mrs Savage.’ I jumped as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water down my back. ‘Is that Mr Phinn?’

  ‘Yes, yes, Mrs Savage,’ I said. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ she said primly, ‘it was my understanding that you and I were going to liaise?’

  ‘Going to what?’ I asked.

  ‘Liaise,’ she repeated. ‘I understood from Dr Gore that we were going to liaise over the visit of the HMI.’

  ‘Oh yes, he did sort of mention something about that.’

  ‘Mr Phinn, Dr Gore does not sort of mention something. Dr Gore is always very specific and precise and he clearly informed me that you were going to get in touch to liaise about this intended visit of the HMI. I was to deal with all the administrative arrangements.’

  ‘I see,’ I said lamely.

  ‘Clearly you do not see, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I have not heard a thing,’ she said tartly. When I did not respond she continued. ‘I did telephone earlier in the week but your secretary – who is not the easiest person to deal with I have to say – was in rather a tetchy mood. Something had obviously got under her skin that morning.’ At the mention of ‘skin’ and Julie I recalled the earlier conversation about Mrs Savage’s plastic surgery. I winced and held my breath to keep from laughing.

  ‘Are you still there?’ came a strident voice down the line.

  ‘Yes, yes, I am.’

  ‘And then this morning, as I was dealing with Dr Gore’s correspondence, I came across a letter from the Ministry of Education informing him that the visits have already been arranged.’

  ‘The thing is, it was a pretty simple task, Mrs Savage,’ I said. ‘I saw no reason to bother you about it.’

  I heard a sort of clucking noise down the telephone. ‘So I take it that you have contacted the schools, arranged the visits and organised everything else as well?’ I could imagine the stiffening of the shoulders, the hawk-like countenance and the flashing eyes.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘I see. Well perhaps you will do me the courtesy, next time we are asked to liaise, of letting me know that you intend to do it all yourself.’

  ‘As I said, Mrs Savage, it was not an onerous task and –’

  ‘I shall, of course, be informing Dr Gore of the situation. I expect you have sent him all the details?’

  ‘It is in draft now,’ I said, pulling a clean pad of paper towards me, ‘and he will have it in the morning.’

  There was an embarrassed silence followed by the clucking noise again. ‘Well, there seems little more to say.’ With that she replaced the receiver.

  I took a deep, deep breath, turned to the window and exhaled noisily. The morning had started off so well. How things can change in a matter of hours, I thought to myself. I prayed that I would see little of Mrs Savage in the term ahead. As things turned out, my prayers were not answered.

  2

  ‘Miss, who’s that funny man at the back of the classroom?’ The speaker was a small, stocky boy of about nine or ten with a shock of thick, red hair.

  ‘That’s not a funny man, Oliver,’ replied the teacher smiling and colouring a little, ‘that’s Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Well, who is he, miss?’ asked the child.

  ‘He’s a visitor, come to see how well we are getting on.’

  ‘But what does he do, miss?’ persisted the little boy staring intently at me with clear quizzical eyes. ‘He’s just sitting there not doing anything.’

  ‘That’s because he’s an inspector –’

  ‘A policeman!’ whispered the child excitedly.

  ‘No, Oliver. Mr Phinn’s not a police inspector. He’s a school inspector and –’

  ‘And he just sits and watches people then does he, miss?’

  ‘Well, yes, he does, but he has lots of other things to do.’ Mrs Peterson took a slow, deep breath. ‘Mr Phinn listens to children read, for example.’

  ‘Listens to children read?’ Oliver repeated shrilly. ‘And does he get paid for it, miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied the teacher wearily, ‘he does get paid for it, Oliver, but come along now, settle down, there’s a good boy.’

  Oliver returned to his desk, all the while staring intently in my direction. He then shook his head like an old man despairing at the excesses of youth, before commenting, ‘Nice little number that.’

  I was sitting in the junior classroom of Highcopse County Primary School, the second week into the new school term, watching the children settle at their tables, wriggling to get comfortable on the hard chairs.

  It was a gloriously sunny September morning and through the open classroom window I could see a great rolling sweep of green, dotted with lazy sheep, rise to the austere, grey-purple fells beyond. An old stone farmhouse crouched against the lower slopes, tiny wisps of smoke curling from the squat chimney into the clear blue sky. A kestrel hovered in the warm air. I could hear the trickling of the small stream outside as it dribbled amongst the white limestone rocks and smell the fresh peaty tang of the countryside. It was idyllic. The boy was right – it was a ‘nice little number’.

  I was brought back from my reverie by the teacher’s voice. ‘Now, is everyone ready?’ she asked. ‘Will you all face the front, and pay attention? Do stop shuffling your feet, Penny, and Oliver, don’t do that with your pencil, please. You know what happened last time. Thank you. It will not have escaped your notice, children, that we have a very special visitor in school today.’ Those children who were not busy clearing away looked warily in my direction. My smile was greeted by a sea of solemn faces. ‘Our special visitor is called Mr Phinn, and he will be with us all morning. I hope you will have a good view of proceedings from the back, Mr Phinn?’

  ‘I’m sure I will, thank you,’ I replied smiling.

  ‘I wouldn’t want you to miss anything.’ I detected a hint of sarcasm in the teacher’s voice.

  ‘I can see everything very well, thank you, Mrs Peterson.’

  ‘And you are not too uncomfortable on the small chair?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ I repeated, still smiling.

  ‘Let’s give Mr Phinn a really nice warm welcome, shall we, children, with a cheerful “Good Morning”?’

  The children chanted half-heartedly: ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Good morning, children,’ I replied cheerily, still smiling widely.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ continued the teacher, ‘will be hearing some of you read, looking at your writing and having a little chat about the work which you have been doing. That’s right, Mr Phinn, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ I replied, with the fixed smile beginning to make my cheeks ache.

  ‘Oliver!’ snapped Mrs Peterson, her eyes becoming suddenly cat-like, ‘will you stop doing that with your pencil, please? I have told you once and I don’t want to have to tell you again. We do not want a repetition of last term and the incident with the wax crayon, do we?’

  ‘No, miss,’ answered the child brightly.

  ‘Oliver managed to get a piece of wax crayon lodged in his ear, Mr Phinn, and we had the devil’s own job to get it out, didn’t we, Oliver?’

  ‘Yes, miss.’ There was no trace of contrition in the cheerful voice.

  ‘Peter, turn round please, dear, and pay attention. And do you know, Mr Phinn, Oliver always has an opinion or an answer. I do encourage the children to ask questions and express their views but sometimes they do need to listen, don’t they?’

  ‘They do indeed,’ I agreed, wishing that she would not include me at every turn.

  ‘And if Oliver listened a little more and talked a little less he wouldn’t have all these mishaps, would you, Oliver?’ The subject of the teacher’s comments understood that this was an occasion for listening and he stared back silently with wide eyes. ‘When I asked him what he was doing pushing a wax crayon in his ear, do you know what he replied,
Mr Phinn?’ I shook my head. ‘He replied, “To see if it fitted.” ’ The teacher pursed her lips and a pair of hard, glittery eyes rested on the child. ‘Now then, Oliver, you can perhaps remember what I said Mr Phinn does for a living?’

  ‘Not a lot by the sound of it, miss,’ replied the child seriously.

  The teacher sighed. ‘Can you remember what I said his job was called?’ she asked sharply.

  ‘Yes, miss. He’s a suspecter.’

  Mrs Peterson shook her head, shrugged and mouthed in my direction, ‘There’s always one!’

  I knew exactly what she meant. In the twelve months that I had been a County Inspector of Schools, I had come across countless little Olivers: lively, inquisitive children who were full of questions (and answers) and, like Julie, bluntly honest and outspoken.

  ‘Mr Phinn is a school inspector,’ the teacher corrected, mouthing the words slowly, ‘and it’s lovely to have you with us, Mr Phinn.’ Judging by her expression and body language, I was not convinced of the sincerity of this statement. Mrs Peterson held out her hand suddenly in a dramatic gesture. ‘Oliver, bring that pencil to me, please.’ The little boy trudged to the front of the room and placed the pencil on the teacher’s palm. ‘Thank you.’ She glowered at him as he returned to his seat before turning her attention back to the class. ‘Now this morning, because it is a Monday, we start the day as we normally do with “Newstime”. And we love “Newstime”, don’t we?’ The class remained impassive. Mrs Peterson turned in my direction. ‘It’s an opportunity, Mr Phinn, for the children to tell us what they have been doing over the weekend. I don’t know whether it’s considered good practice or not these days. Things in education seem to shift like the sands of time.’