Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Is it the bitch?’ asked Lord Marrick casually. Along with the others, I peered below the table and saw the ugliest, most vicious-looking dog I had ever seen. It was a barrel-bodied, bow-legged bulldog with pinky-white jowls and pale unfriendly eyes. It had rested its fat, round head between the legs of the man next to me.

  ‘Push her off, Quentin!’ commanded Lord Marrick good humouredly. ‘She loves the smell of tweeds. She’s an old softie at heart. Just wants to be friendly and affectionate.’ At this point the monster growled and showed a set of impressive teeth. ‘Old softie’, ‘friendly’ and ‘affectionate’ were not words which readily sprang to my mind. The dog peered up with the grey, watery, button eyes of a shark. It then began rumbling like a distant train. The complexion of the man in tweeds had changed miraculously from the soft brown of the russet apple to an unearthly white.

  ‘Come on out of there, Laetitia,’ coaxed Lord Marrick, joining us to peer under the table. The dog continued to stay rooted to the spot, growling and grimacing and eyeing the man in tweeds like some long-lost bone.

  ‘She’s a wonderful dog. English bulldog. Nobly born of impeccable pedigree. She’d let anyone walk straight into the house. Wouldn’t make a sound. Course, they’d not get out again. Teeth like metal man-traps. One snap of those jaws and she’d not let go. Locks on you, see. Couldn’t prise her off with a monkey wrench. Yes, if she grabbed a hand you’d lose a few of your fingers.’ The man in tweeds looked as ifhe had been caught in amber. I don’t think he’s worrying about his hand, I thought to myself. Not a muscle in his body moved. Everyone in close proximity to the dog crossed his legs.

  ‘Laetitia! Will you come out! Heel!’ ordered Lord Marrick. The dog blinked lazily, lifted its fat, round face from between the man’s legs, yawned massively, displaying a set of teeth like tank-traps, and plodded off, still rumbling.

  ‘Now then, you were saying, Mr Phinn,’ said Lord Marrick to the accompaniment of a great release of breath from the man in the tweeds.

  Before the meeting concluded, I agreed to mount a display of children’s poetry and stories based on famous characters from history, approach a couple of schools to ask them to perform some short plays on an historical theme, enlist the help of my colleagues to arrange an exhibition on education down the ages, a gymnastics display and a performance by the County Youth Orchestra. Finally I agreed to organise essay and public speaking competitions on the theme of customs and traditions. That little lot would keep Mrs Savage busy, I thought to myself gleefully.

  Lord Marrick appeared well pleased with how the meeting had gone. I waited until the others had departed before going over to him. He was explaining something to his secretary but looked up as I approached. ‘Quite a successful morning, eh, Mr Phinn?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, indeed, Lord Marrick,’ I replied. ‘I just wanted to apologise for my late arrival but I had a few problems getting up Ribbon Bank. I’m afraid the snow was particularly thick and –’

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘And also for arriving without the papers. I didn’t want you to think that I hadn’t bothered to bring them along. I’m afraid they didn’t arrive at the Education Office. I checked this morning but they definitely weren’t on my desk.’

  ‘Well, that’s strange because I delivered them myself when I was at County Hall last week for the Education Committee. No point wasting money on postage. Gave them to Dr Gore’s secretary. The woman with the red nails and the teeth.’

  ‘Mrs Savage,’ I said slowly.

  ‘That’s the woman. Janet, will you arrange for another set to be sent to Mr Phinn? Thank you.’

  Lord Marrick himself escorted me back to the entrance hall. We stopped beneath the vivid tapestry depicting the classical theme and the woman with a great tangle of hair and piercing eyes. I heard the patter of feet behind me on the white inlaid marble floor and, turning, found behind me not only the wretched bulldog but two exact miniature versions of itself. Both puppies had the grey button eyes, the pinky-white jowls, the rows of sharp teeth, the stumpy tails and both growled and grumbled in unison with their mother.

  ‘Those are her pups,’ Lord Marrick told me proudly. ‘Lucretia and Caesare. She’s showing them off, you see. I’m hopeful they will win me a blue ribbon for Best of Breed at the Fettlesham Show in a few years’ time.’ He bent down and stroked the fat little heads. Both puppies stared up with a lofty disdain. Then Laetitia nosed Lord Marrick’s hand away and growled before moving in my direction and rubbing her body against my legs.

  ‘She likes you, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Really,’ I managed to whisper.

  ‘Do you know she can be the most wilful, bad-tempered, moody creature imaginable and certainly not one to lock jaws with, but when she takes a liking to someone, she’ll stick to him like glue and be his bosom friend for life.’ The dog began to whimper. ‘You’ve made a great impression,’ continued Lord Marrick beaming widely. ‘You will have a job to get rid of her.’

  I don’t know why, but at that moment I thought of Mrs Savage and I made a mental note to give her a wide berth in the coming weeks.

  8

  Over the summer, when the schools were on holiday, we inspectors had the long and onerous task of analysing all the school reports from the previous academic year and writing an extensive commentary for submission to Dr Gore and the Education Committee. Although this exercise was one of the most tedious and time-consuming aspects of our work, it was invaluable in giving us a clear and detailed picture of how well, or otherwise, schools in the county were doing, what were the issues which needed to be addressed and whether standards, particularly in literacy and numeracy, were rising or falling. The analysis was also useful in helping us plan the in-service training of the teachers and offer a programme of courses, conferences and workshops which focused on their particular needs.

  It was with a great sense of relief that my commentary on the state of English teaching in the county turned out to be positive. Most teachers clearly spent a great deal of time and effort teaching children to read and write and encouraging them to turn to books for pleasure and for information. There was, however, one area of the English curriculum which seemed to be neglected. Mrs Peterson and Mrs Dunn at Highcopse Primary School were clearly not alone in spending little time on poetry. In report after report I noted that this subject was often consigned to the margins of the serious business of study and that some children had little experience of appreciating and writing verse. I decided, therefore, to mount a series of weekend courses to help teachers develop their expertise, offer ideas and strategies and give them greater confidence in teaching this important area of English.

  The first course was planned to take place in early December. I wanted to get it out of the way before the end of term events, when schools would be immersed in carol concerts, parties, presentation evenings, nativity plays and all the other activities which come with the festival. I knew from my experiences the previous year that this would be my busiest time and I would be out in schools every day and most evenings as well. I was not, however, prepared for the response to attend the poetry course. When the deadline came for final applications, my in-tray was piled high with over fifty requests.

  ‘You should be pleased, instead of pulling a face like a bulldog which has just swallowed a wasp,’ commented Sidney, staring at his own meagre pile of applications. ‘I’ve got a miserable ten people for my December art course.’

  ‘I am pleased,’ I responded, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the mention of bulldogs. ‘It’s just that it’s rather more than I anticipated.’

  ‘Well, there’s a simple remedy. Write to half of them saying the course is full and tell them there’s space on a really exciting art course planned to take place at the same time.’

  I pondered Sidney’s suggestion but decided to go ahead with the large number. The various contributors to the course were delighted with the interest from so many teachers and had no worries about working with such a big group. Th
e Staff Development Centre had been booked well in advance but I rang Connie to let her know that there would be more teachers attending than anticipated. Then I steamed ahead and ordered the materials, arranged for the course programme to be printed, and despatched letters of acceptance to the applicants.

  Everything was going like clockwork – and then I received the letter. My heart gave a jump when I came across the frighteningly official envelope with the large royal crest and the heavy black lettering: The Ministry of Education. It was from the formidable Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty’s Principal Divisional Inspector of Schools. She said she had been impressed with some of the creative writing she had observed in the few schools she had recently visited in the county and mentioned her visit to Backwatersthwaite and the poetry lessons of the ‘inspirational Mr Lapping’. She said that, as I was no doubt aware, she was compiling a national report on the teaching of the arts in primary schools and wished to discuss certain matters with me. Then she had noticed, as she was looking through the county in-service handbook for teachers, that I was running a series of weekend poetry courses and thought how useful it would be if she attended one. She concluded her letter: ‘I have followed the normal protocol and contacted Dr Gore and he is happy for me to join you. I trust there will be no objection on your part?’

  ‘No objection!’ exclaimed Sidney with a hollow laugh, when I read him the letter. ‘ “No objection on your part”, she says. As if you are in any position to object. It would be like a prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition saying to his torturer: “I say, senor, I would rather you didn’t do that with the old thumbscrews”, or a French aristocrat informing the man on the guillotine, “Not today, monsieur, thank you very much”. You have no choice in the matter, whatsoever. The question is merely rhetorical. She’s cleared it with the CEO, so you’ve no option. You are well and truly lumbered with her. Fancy having the HMI version of a rottweiler watching you for two days. That will cramp your style and no mistake. And by the description of her provided by poor George Lapping, she makes Mrs Savage sound like Florence Nightingale and Connie like Mother Teresa. She’ll be watching your every move with those little beady eyes and noting things down and filing away all this information about you at the Ministry of Education.’

  ‘And everything was going so smoothly,’ I sighed. ‘I could have well done without this.’

  ‘Oh, that’s the way of things,’ said David in his Prophet of Doom voice. ‘Always something or somebody who goes and has to spoil one’s equilibrium. I don’t think I’ve ever run a course without a mishap or a problem. Everything is going fine and then – disaster! You are cycling along the country lane on a bright, balmy day with the sun shining on your face and the fresh wind blowing through your hair and suddenly somebody pushes a thundering great stick through your spokes and you’re over the handlebars and flat on your face.’ At this point he removed his reading glasses, placed them neatly on the desk in front of him and leaned back in his chair. We knew we were in for one of his monologues. ‘No, I have yet to run a course free from some hitch or another. There’s the course member who has been sent by the headteacher who doesn’t want to be there in the first place and thinks the thing is a total waste of time. She sits there, on the front row – to continue Sidney’s metaphor – like Madame Defarge knitting, as if waiting for the great blade to descend and your head to roll into the basket before her.’ He brought his hand down in a sharp chopping movement.

  ‘They are the worst,’ I agreed, nodding. ‘The front row cynic who has nothing to learn.’

  ‘Then there’s the teacher who turns out to be verbally aggressive,’ continued David, ‘because he’s been passed over for promotion and, of course, he blames you because you were on his interviewing panel. And the expert who has been on every blessed course and conference in the in-service handbook and knows it all and tells you so.’

  ‘I think I might have a few of those on this poetry course,’ I said, glancing through the applications.

  ‘Or the outside speaker who fails to turn up and you are left facing a hostile audience, feeling like the first Christian to be thrown to the lions. Then there’s the occasion when you and thirty teachers turn up all bright-eyed and bushytailed one Saturday morning to find the Staff Development Centre all locked up and Connie away in Mablethorpe in her caravan for the weekend.’

  ‘Ah, now that won’t happen,’ I told him, ‘I’ve checked the date with Connie.’

  ‘My goodness, I’ve had my fair share of disastrous courses,’ said David morosely. ‘Mind you, I’ve never been scrutinized by an HMI. Now that is deeply worrying. At least my disasters went unobserved.’

  ‘I am sure that Gervase is greatly heartened and encouraged by all that,’ remarked Sidney. ‘I should imagine that he won’t get a wink of sleep contemplating all the potential calamities.’

  ‘Hang on a minute,’ exclaimed David. ‘It was you who started all this off with your gloomy predictions about this rottweiler of an HMI cramping his style and watching every move with her little beady eyes. I hardly think your comments are likely to re-assure him.’

  ‘I was going on to say,’ said Sidney, ‘before you started on your running commentary of all your failed courses, that I will be directing my art course at the very same time as our young colleague and will be there at the Staff Development Centre to give him the benefit of my advice and guidance, as well as my undivided support and succour.’

  ‘Huh!’ snapped David. ‘You’ll not have any time to be giving him any undivided support and succour. You’ll be too busy arguing with Connie as you always do.’

  Before Sidney could respond, I stood up, walked behind him as he sat at his desk, put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘That is really very kind of you, Sidney. I might just ask Miss de la Mare to pop into a few of your sessions. After all, she is interested in the arts in school which covers your subject as well.’

  ‘Ha, ha!’ laughed David, throwing up his hands in the air. ‘That’s taken the smug expression off his face.’

  A week before the course, I double-checked that all the arrangements were in place. Connie was fully briefed, the speakers had the dates in their diaries and all the details, course members and Miss de la Mare had received the programme, and the books and materials I was to use had been delivered. On the Friday evening before the course commenced, a bitterly cold night, I drove out to the Staff Development Centre to set out the tables and chairs, put up the exhibition of children’s work and to make certain all the equipment was working. I expected to see a dark and deserted building but, as I pulled into the car park, I noticed that every room seemed to be lit up. Connie, in her predictable pose, with arms folded and the death-mask expression, stood in the entrance like some Eastern statue.

  She made a sort of clucking noise as I entered. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘I’ve come to set up the rooms for tomorrow’s poetry course,’ I replied.

  ‘You’ll be lucky. I say you’ll be lucky,’ she snapped, giving a twisted smile. ‘The place is as full as bingo night at the Empire. Everyone, bar the Queen and members of the royal family are in here tonight. It’s bedlam. There’s the vicar, him with the jeans and the motor bike, rehearsing his pantomime because the church hall’s heating’s off. There’s the Brownies at the back like a hoard of wild dervishes and a whole load of senior citizens in cowboy hats and great big boots line dancing in the reception area because the village hall’s boiler’s broke down too. Some of them can hardly stand up never mind trying to leap about to cowboy music. I’ve seen three of them with zimmers. I mean that floor’s slippery – I only polished it this morning. But would they listen? They shouldn’t be out on a night like this. It’s bitter. Do you want a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please, Connie.’ I followed her down the corridor to the kitchen and, to be fair to her, there was a great cacophony of noise issuing from every room in the Centre. I took two cups and saucers from the cupboard and watched her as she filled the
kettle.

  ‘Mr Clamp has just gone after setting up his artery course for tomorrow, leaving behind him the usual trail of destruction and debris. You might as well get back in your car and have a quiet Friday night in – something which I was intending to do before I got the call from that dreadful Mrs Savage at County Hall telling me to allow all these people in. “As this is a time of peace and goodwill,” she says in that posh voice of hers and as if butter wouldn’t melt, “we are making the premises available for the church drama group, the Brownies and the senior citizens’ dance club, since their pipes are frozen up and they are desperate. I’m sure we can help out.” I said to her, “What’s with the ‘we’? It’s all very well making the premises available but it’s me what has to stay and supervise and give up my Friday night as well.” I said to her, “It’s not you who’ll be having to deal with the trendy vicar, an unco-operative Brown Owl and a posse of geriatric line dancers – and Mr Clamp to boot.” She had no answer to that I can tell you!’ She opened a tin of biscuits. ‘Mind you, I’m on double time. Do you want a Garibaldi?’

  I had a sinking feeling that David’s prophecies about doomed courses were about to come true. ‘So, I can’t set up my rooms for tomorrow, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Not unless you want to negotiate with the Brownies and the OAP line dancers, you can’t.’

  ‘What time will they be finished, do you think?’

  ‘Well, this place is being locked up at nine, come hell or high water.’