Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘My goodness, you look very debonair, Harold,’ remarked Sidney.

  ‘You look like a game show host with that clipboard,’ added David. ‘So, who have you called for interview then?’

  ‘Well, I can’t stay long because I need to be at the SDC for eight-thirty to meet the candidates but, briefly, there are five up for the post, including, you will be pleased to hear, Sidney, some women. There’s a Mr Carey Price-Williams –’

  ‘Oh, well, he must be all right with a name like that,’ interrupted David.

  ‘Can’t be doing with folk who adopt double-barrelled names,’ said Sidney. ‘In my experience, they are inevitably pompous and self-opinionated people who can’t make up their minds. And one Welshman in this team is quite enough. Get two of you lot together and you start singing “Men of Harlech” and talking in Welsh.’

  ‘Welsh is a most mellifluous language,’ David told us. ‘It ought to be compulsory in schools.’

  ‘The other morning when you were rabbiting on to your wife on the phone, in that guttural, spluttery language of yours, I nearly gave you the kiss of life. I thought you’d got a bone stuck in your throat.’

  ‘Sidney,’ said David in a patient tone of voice, ‘your analogy about my speaking Welsh has become rather hackneyed now. I have heard that little witticism of yours a good few times now.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ cried Harold, trying to suppress a smile, ‘if I may continue. There’s a Mr Thomas Wilson, a Miss – er, Ms Jennifer Black, a Dr Gerry Mullarkey –’

  ‘I bet you any money we get the crusty old doctor,’ sighed Sidney, leaning back expansively in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘I can just picture the old buffer. He’ll be a dry, dusty physicist with glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles and grey frizzy hair sticking up like wire wool and he’ll have as much conversation as a dead sheep –’

  ‘May I remind you, Sidney,’ I said, ‘what you thought I would look like. Didn’t you have a bet on that, with a name like mine, I would be a huge, red-headed Irishman?’

  ‘Exactly,’ began Harold. ‘One cannot judge a person by his or her name –’

  ‘Take the name Clamp, for example,’ interposed David. ‘Now what sort of person does that conjure up? Clamp? Something hard, metallic and with jaws like a shark.’

  ‘And you couldn’t be more mistaken about Dr Mullarkey,’ Harold continued. ‘The application was very impressive. Dr Mullarkey is extremely well qualified, with a range of experience and excellent references.’

  ‘And no sense of humour.’

  ‘Not at all, Sidney,’ began Harold, ‘Dr Mullarkey sounds extremely lively and enthusiastic –’

  ‘Wasn’t Dr Mullarkey a villain in Sherlock Holmes, Gervase?’ asked Sidney suddenly, going off on one of his customary tangents.

  ‘No, that was Professor Moriaty,’ I said.

  ‘I wonder if he really exists. It’s a very strange name is Mullarkey. It sounds a tad suspicious to me. It could be a pseudonym.’

  ‘You said the same thing when Gervase applied, if I remember rightly,’ remarked David, ‘and, despite his name, he’s turned out not too bad.’

  ‘Thank you for those few kind words,’ I said.

  ‘Look,’ interrupted Harold, ‘I came in here for five minutes, not for a detailed analysis of each candidate. I must be off.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, Harold!’ cried Sidney. ‘You have only mentioned four, only one of whom is a woman. Who’s the fifth candidate?’

  Harold consulted his clipboard. ‘A Miss Gloria Goodwood.’

  ‘Now that’s more like it!’ chortled Sidney. ‘Gloria Goodwood. She sounds like the heroine in a romantic novel: young, sylph-like, alluring, with a mass of auburn hair falling like a burnished cascade over her alabaster shoulders. I bet you Gloria would add a little sophistication and glamour to the office. What’s she like?’

  ‘If she is successful,’ replied Harold, his voice non-committal, ‘you will see Miss Goodwood at five-thirty at the Staff Development Centre. I look forward to seeing you all later this afternoon to meet your new colleague.’ With that Harold departed.

  *

  I spent the day working on the plans for those events for which I was responsible at the Feoffees Pageant which was to be held at Manston Hall at the end of May. Schools had provided me with a mountain of children’s poetry and stories based on famous characters from history. I sorted out a good selection and at lunch-time took it over to Willingforth Primary School where the Headteacher and staff had agreed to mount the material on display boards. Pupils from three different schools were to perform some short plays on historical themes, and I spent the afternoon calling into each school to see how things were going. Sidney had arranged for an exhibition of children’s art, David a gymnastics display and the County Youth Orchestra would give a performance on the lawn at Manston Hall so the Education Department would be well represented.

  I was secretly relieved that my efforts to organise the essay and public speaking competitions on the theme of customs and traditions had not been required. I had so much on, I really had not relished organising such a complicated and time-consuming initiative. When headteachers had explained that the students would be up to their eyes in examinations and would not have the time to prepare, I seized the chance to wriggle out of the task.

  All communication with Mrs Savage about the Feoffees Pageant had been undertaken by notes and memoranda. I had been very careful to record all the arrangements we had agreed upon and I had made certain Dr Gore had been sent a copy. My promise to liaise had been kept – even if I had ducked meeting with the Snow Queen in person.

  As instructed, I arrived at the Centre at the appointed time. Connie, wearing her predictably flat expression, was standing as usual in her familiar pose with arms folded in the centre of the entrance hall like some night-club bouncer. She was facing up to Sidney and David who had obviously arrived only seconds before.

  ‘Top o’ the evenin’ to you, Connie,’ Sidney was saying effusively. ‘How are we on this beautiful, mild St David’s Day? And here comes Mr Phinn, look you.’

  ‘I’m very well, thank you. I hope you’ve parked your car well away from the front doors, Mr Clamp, and you as well, Mr Phinn, because it’s a health and safety hazard to block my entrance. Wipe your feet, please, Mr Pritchard, I’ve just done that floor.’

  ‘I would not dream of blocking your entrance, Connie!’ exclaimed Sidney.

  ‘I’ve had to remind you before now. And, if you’re expecting something to drink, you’re out of luck because there’s no milk and I’m all out of biscuits. All those councillors and candidates have gone through four pints of gold top and two boxes of Garibaldis.’

  ‘It’s so good to find you in such a cheerful mood, Connie,’ remarked Sidney, ‘and for us to receive such a hearty welcome on St David’s Day. It warms the cockles of my heart.’ With that, he set off at a hearty speed in the direction of the lounge area.

  ‘Speaking of cockles, Mr Clamp,’ said Connie pursuing him, ‘when are you intending moving them shells, pebbles, dried seaweed and stuffed seagulls you were using on your art course last Christmas? They’re taking up room. It’s like Blackpool beach in-there.’

  ‘I shall remove them this very day,’ replied Sidney, swivelling round with a great beaming smile on his face. ‘Now, what are the candidates like, Connie? Do tell.’

  ‘Well, there’s a big, hairy man who has a lot to say for himself.’ She dipped her head to the side in Sidney’s direction. ‘A bit like you, Mr Clamp, but he’s Welsh.’

  ‘Ever the flatterer, Connie,’ smiled Sidney.

  ‘There’s a nicely spoken woman of about forty-five and a very sour-faced individual in a shiny suit.’

  ‘Dr Mullarkey,’ added Sidney knowingly.

  ‘I don’t know what he’s called,’ continued Connie, ‘but he was very off-hand with me when I asked him to hextinguish his pipe. I can’t see how he could make a very good inspector when he couldn’t read any
of the “No Smoking” signs I have around the Centre. I’ve even got them on the back of the door in the men’s toilets, so he couldn’t miss them. I told him he was a health and safety hazard and he gave me such a look – the sort of look my little grandson used to make when he couldn’t have an ice cream. “A face like a smacked bottom”, as my mother used to say.’

  Sidney threw himself into a chair and sighed heavily.

  ‘And the other candidates?’ I enquired.

  ‘There was a very friendly young woman. The only one to offer to help me dry the dishes. Very chatty and cheerful, with a lot about her. I took to her.’

  ‘That will be Glorious Goodbody,’ purred Sidney.

  ‘And what about the last one?’ asked David.

  ‘Look, Mr Pritchard!’ snapped Connie. ‘I don’t spend all day standing about watching people, you know.’

  ‘Of course, you don’t, Connie,’ sighed Sidney. ‘Perish the thought.’

  ‘Anyway, I hope they’re not going to be much longer. I’ve got to do the toilets before I finish. And would you three move into the staff room? I have the carpet to vacuum in here yet. It’s those councillors leaving all them crumbs.’

  As the hand on the Centre clock ticked towards six, Sidney, David and I were still huddled in the small staff room, getting increasingly impatient.

  ‘You would think that after nine hours of interrogation, they would have picked someone by now,’ complained Sidney. ‘I have the annual general meeting of the West Challerton Artists’ Society at seven-thirty and I need to get home, have a shower, make something to eat and go through my report.’

  ‘And I don’t intend staying much longer,’ said David. ‘I’ve got a committee meeting at the Golf Club tonight and I want to raise the matter, yet again, of uneven paving slabs. After the meeting – it being St David’s Day – I am introducing the Cwmbran Male Voice Choir and I need to be there in good time.’

  ‘And I am speaking to the Parent–Teacher Association at Brindcliffe,’ I added.

  ‘The appointment is a foregone conclusion anyway,’ remarked Sidney casually. ‘I could tell by the way Harold was so depressingly enthusiastic when he got the applications. His little black eyes lit up like a ferret with a cornered rabbit when a certain candidate was mentioned. I bet you a pound to a penny we get the dry old stick with the funny name.’

  ‘I think you may very well be right, Sidney,’ agreed David, looking at his watch and shaking his head. ‘He said more about that Mullarkey fellow than all the others put together.’

  ‘You don’t think you two are pre-judging this poor person a little?’ I chimed in. ‘He’s probably a very decent sort. Just because he’s got an unusual name doesn’t mean –’

  ‘I suppose so,’ agreed Sidney wearily, ‘but it would have been rather nice to have Glorious Goodbody at the next desk.’

  ‘It’s nearly six o’clock, you know,’ David announced. ‘I have to get home and change.’

  ‘Well, that settles it then,’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘We shall depart and find out tomorrow who was appointed.’

  As we all stood to go, Harold Yeats crashed through the door, making the three of us jump back as if hit in the stomach.

  ‘For goodness sake, Harold!’ cried Sidney. ‘I do wish you wouldn’t do that – bursting into the room like some jealous husband in a Whitehall farce.’

  ‘It’s just that I have some news!’ exclaimed Harold. ‘We have appointed.’

  ‘I suppose it’s Professor Moriaty?’ sighed Sidney.

  ‘As a matter of fact, it is Dr Gerry Mullarkey,’ replied Harold, ‘who is, at this very moment, looking forward to meeting you all. If you would care to make your way down to the lounge area while I de-brief the unsuccessful candidates, you can congratulate Dr Mullarkey and introduce yourselves.’

  ‘I just hope you have picked someone who is going to fit in, Harold,’ said David mournfully. ‘I hope he has a sense of humour.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can assure you of that on both counts,’ replied Harold, showing a mouthful of teeth and vigorously rubbing his large hands together. ‘In fact, I think getting on with you lot is almost as important as having the right academic qualifications.’

  There was no sign of Dr Mullarkey in the lounge. Behind the kitchen hatch Connie could be heard banging pans with such force that they sounded like the clanging of discordant gongs. The room was empty save for an extremely pretty, slender young woman with short raven-black hair, a pale, delicately boned face and great blue eyes with long lashes.

  ‘Excuse me, we are looking for a Dr Mullarkey,’ announced David. ‘We were told he was in here.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ replied the young woman, turning and smiling broadly at him.

  ‘Are you by any chance Miss Goodwood?’ enquired Sidney, approaching her eagerly.

  ‘No, you’ve just missed her.’

  ‘Have you seen him by any chance?’ I asked. ‘Dr Mullarkey, that is?’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  ‘Well, he’s middle-aged, I guess, greying hair, serious sort of chap, probably in a dark suit. Smokes a pipe. Actually, I’ve not even met the man. I’m just going on what others have said.’

  ‘There was a Mr Wilson here for interview, who fits that description, but I think he’s speaking to Dr Yeats at the moment,’ said the young woman.

  ‘That’s very strange,’ said Sidney, turning to me and frowning. ‘I did say when I first heard the name mentioned that I had serious doubts whether this person existed. I said it sounded suspicious.’

  ‘I wonder if he’s already left,’ suggested David, ‘but it seems odd that he should just up and go.’

  ‘He’s a figment of Harold’s imagination,’ concluded Sidney. ‘I don’t think there is a Dr Mullarkey.’

  ‘Oh but there is,’ said the young woman. We all looked at the beautiful smiling face. ‘I’m Dr Mullarkey, Geraldine Mullarkey, but most people call me Gerry. I assume you gentlemen are my new colleagues?’

  Our mouths fell open and we stared wide-eyed and speechless.

  ‘Oh, I say,’ murmured Sidney, staring into the blue eyes. ‘Oh, I say. Good gracious, my goodness. I thought you were a man. I mean I thought Dr Mullarkey was a man, not a woman like you. I mean… oh, I don’t know what I mean.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said David formally, stepping forward and offering his hand. ‘I’m David Pritchard, Inspector for Mathematics, PE and Games. The hairy, inarticulate, rambling one is Sidney Clamp, the Inspector for Visual and Creative Arts and our self-appointed spokesperson on equal opportunities. The lifeless, open-mouthed colleague, incapable of speech and who looks, at this moment, as if the hamster is dead but the wheel is still turning, is Gervase Phinn, the Inspector for English and Drama. It is good to have you with us, Gerry. May I congratulate you on getting the job. I am sure you will fit in superbly.’

  ‘Oh, I say,’ said Sidney, quaveringly. ‘Oh, I say.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said, taking her small cold hand in mine. ‘It’s er… splendid to, er… have you join us.’

  ‘And if there is anything we can do for you, please ask,’ said David.

  ‘There is something, actually,’ replied our new colleague. ‘I have to catch a train from Fettlesham at just after seven. I wonder if one of you could give me a lift to the station – that’s if it’s not too far out of your way.’

  ‘No problem,’ said David, ‘I can easily drop you off’

  ‘Nonsense!’ cried Sidney, who had just about gained his composure. ‘You’re going in the opposite direction, and anyway, you have your Celtic knees-up this evening, if you remember. I can easily drop Geraldine off at the station.’

  ‘I thought you had your artists’ meeting tonight?’ responded David tartly.

  ‘It would be much easier for me to drop Gerry off,’ I interrupted. ‘My talk this evening is at Brindcliffe Primary School, which is directly opposite the station.’

  ‘Well, that’s settled,’ said Dr Mullarkey, collecting her han
dbag and briefcase. ‘I’m sorry to have to rush. I’m really looking forward to working with you all.’ She gave me a stunning smile. ‘Shall we go, Gervase?’

  14

  ‘Well, I would have thought the idea was to keep them quiet and knuckling down to their reading and writing, and not encouraging them to spend their time talking.’

  I was in the kitchen at the Staff Development Centre helping Connie dry the cups and saucers. We were clearing up after the day’s course I had been directing on ‘Encouraging Talk in the Classroom’. Connie, as was her wont, was giving me the benefit of her views.

  ‘When I was a girl you only spoke when you were spoken to. Youngsters have far too much to say for themselves these days, in my opinion. They’ve got an answer for everything.’ Connie was a woman who did not mince her words and was, as they say in Yorkshire, ‘not backwards in coming forwards’.

  ‘Children learn a great deal by talking things through, Connie,’ I endeavoured to explain. ‘They sort out all the complex ideas they have in their heads, share their views, try out their opinions on others, discuss difficult concepts. Talking is very important in learning.’

  ‘Mm,’ she mouthed, entirely unconvinced. ‘Well, I think they’d be better off keeping their opinions and ideas to themselves. In my day, children were seen and not heard. If I so much as opened my mouth at school without Miss Pearson’s permission, she’d have that leather strap out of her drawer as soon as look at you. And if anyone dared to ask her a question, woe betide them. She didn’t encourage children to ask questions. Miss Pearson liked them to listen, keep quiet and get on with their work.’

  ‘Times have changed, Connie,’ I said, putting the last of the cups in the cupboard.

  ‘More’s the pity,’ she replied. ‘Now, take my sister’s grandson, Robbie. Always in trouble at school, always got something to say for himself, always answering his parents back. They don’t know they’re born, young people, these days. They want a spell in the army. I said to my sister, I said, “Your grandson wants a damn good hiding, cheeking his parents like that.” ’