Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘If she gets it!’ he barked.

  ‘Well, I may see you boys later,’ I said moving away.

  ‘Later?’ they exclaimed in unison.

  ‘I thought I’d pop into the Singing class during the lunch-hour,’ I told them.

  ‘Singing!’ the toothless one exclaimed. ‘Singing! We don’t gu to no Singing class! That’s for t’cissies!’ The other boy, putting the finishing touches to his large pink rose, nodded in agreement before echoing his companion’s sentiments: ‘Aye, choir’s for t’cissies and t’lasses. You wunt catch us theer.’

  As I headed to another desk, I heard a plaintive cry from the corner table, ‘Miss, miss, can I have some pink thread, please? We’re clean out ovver ’ere!’

  After lunch, on our way to the Headteacher’s room, Gerry and I paused for a moment at the door of the school hall to watch a little of the Singing class. There was no sign of the two embroiderers. The juniors, conducted by a very expressive young man in a red corduroy suit, great spotted bow-tie and mustard-coloured waistcoat, were singing with great gusto.

  There was an old lady who swallowed a fly.

  I don’t know why she swallowed a fly.

  Perhaps she’ll die.

  On our way out of the school a little later, we came across a very distressed-looking girl standing crying in the corridor. Great tears rolled down her cheeks and her small body was shaking piteously.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Gerry quietly, squatting in front of the weeping child and gently touching her arm.

  ‘I’m going to die!’ wailed the little girl. ‘I’m going to die.’

  ‘No, no,’ comforted Gerry, giving her a cuddle. ‘Whatever makes you think that?’

  ‘I just know it! I’m going to die!’ The child wiped her tears away with small round fists, leaving long streaks across her red cheeks.

  ‘Who says you are going to die?’ asked Gerry gently.

  ‘Everyone!’ exclaimed the child. ‘Everyone! I know I am. I’m going to die!’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I swallowed a fly, that’s why. On the campsite last year in France. I swallowed a fly!’ moaned the child. ‘They were singing in the hall. They said I’d die!’

  Gerry finally managed to reassure the little girl that what she had heard was just a funny song and that she was not going to die. The child departed down the corridor with the mournful words, ‘And I need to swallow a spider to get the fly.’

  We left Sheepcote School, both smiling, and headed further up the dale. My companion said very little, she just stared in wonderment out of the car window at the sweeping panorama, clumps of early primroses sheltering under the hedgerows bright in the afternoon sun, the dark, far-off wooded fells, rough moorland, great stone outcrops and hazy peaks. Gerry was certainly going to fit in well, I thought to myself. She had an easy natural way with children, related well to teachers and was good-humoured and friendly. I just wondered what she would make of the four of us in the Inspectors’ Office, and whether she would be able to cope with the constant verbal badminton between David and Sidney. My leisurely drive was brought to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Stop!’ Gerry suddenly cried.

  ‘Whatever is it?’ I exclaimed, skidding the car to a halt.

  ‘Look.’

  I had seen many animals and birds in my first year travelling around the dales: squirrels dashing suicidally across the road in front of the car to find safety in the trees, the white scuts of rabbits rushing for their burrows, covies of partridges zinging down the headlands, pheasants ambling by the side of the road, so fat one wondered how they could ever get off the ground, the red brush of a fox slipping shadow-like into the bracken, herons flying lazily over wide, rose-grey rivers, and, once, a family of stoats playing in the quiet sunlit lane. Sometimes I would stop the car and lean against a gate to watch the scene in the fields falling away below me: a tractor chugging along a track, lambs twitching their tails and jumping high in spring sunshine, crested lapwings wheeling and plunging in a great empty sky and sometimes, best of all, I would listen to the call of the curlew.

  I had never witnessed, however, what I saw then on that March day. In the field to the side of the road two hares, with long, lean bodies and great erect ears, squared up to each other and began boxing. We watched fascinated as they punched and pummelled each other. The sparring continued until the tired and defeated animal was chased away and the victor rose high on his hind legs, observed us with indifference, and loped away triumphant and unafraid.

  Cragside Primary, our third and final port of call, sat in the shadow of the massive sphinx-like Cawthorne Crag. There was a mouth-watering aroma of baking pastry permeating the building.

  ‘The children learn to cook in this school, Mr Phinn,’ explained the Headteacher. ‘I feel it is important that all children, and particularly boys, should know how to bake a loaf, make a pie, even cook a whole meal. They won’t always have their mothers looking after them. Of course, it used to be called baking-time when I started teaching, then it was cookery class, then home economics and now, I believe, it’s called food technology. It’s all the same in my book. Today, we are trying our hand at pastry and our school cook, or catering manager as the Education Office will insist on calling her, is overseeing our efforts.’

  The school kitchen was a hive of activity. Two boys, smart in white aprons, were helping a large woman with floury hands take their culinary efforts out of the oven. One boy had such a dusting of flour on his face that he looked like Marley’s ghost.

  ‘Do you like tarts?’ he asked as I approached.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Tarts. Do you like tarts?’

  ‘Jam tarts,’ added the woman with the floury hands, winking at me.

  ‘Oh, I’m very partial to tarts.’

  ‘Do you want one of mine?’

  ‘I think our visitor might enjoy one of your tarts, Richard, at afternoon break with his cup of tea.’ There was a look on the woman’s face which recommended me not to eat one of the tarts on offer.

  ‘But I want to know what he thinks,’ the boy told her.

  ‘You have to wait until they are cool, Richard.’

  ‘Tarts are better when they’re hot, miss,’ persisted the boy. He then looked at me with a shining, innocent face. ‘Don’t you think hot tarts are better than cold ones?’

  ‘I do,’ I agreed, ‘and I will have one of your tarts now.’ The cook’s face took on an expression which told me that I had been warned.

  The boy selected the biggest on the baking tray – a large, crusty-looking, misshapen lump of pastry. In the centre was a blob of dark red which I supposed was jam. It looked the most unappetising piece of pastry I had ever seen, but I could not go back now. The boy watched keenly as I took a massive bite.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked the boy eagerly.

  It was extremely difficult to speak as the dried-up confection coated the inside of my mouth. I coughed and sprayed the air with bits of pastry and dried jam. ‘I have never tasted a tart like this in my life,’ I assured him honestly, between splutters.

  A great smile spread across the boy’s face. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘Would you like another?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ I replied quickly, ‘one is quite enough.’

  ‘Does your wife want one?’

  ‘No, thank you, Richard,’ replied Gerry, trying to suppress her laughter. ‘I’ve just had my lunch.’

  At the end of the afternoon, as we were heading for the door, the little chef appeared with a brown paper bag in his hand. ‘I’ve put one of my tarts in here for you, miss,’ he said to Gerry, ‘to have with your tea tonight.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ she said. ‘Thank you very much.’

  ‘And another one for you, sir,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Funny thing is baking, isn’t it?’ the boy pondered, holding out his hands in front of him the better to examine
them. ‘You know, my hands were dead mucky before I started making my tarts and just look how clean they are now.’

  Gerry placed the brown paper bag carefully in her briefcase and smiled.

  A mile or so from the school I pulled off the road. My intention was to discuss the day with Gerry, share our observations and for me to explain a little of what I considered the job of school inspector involved, but she was silent and once more awe-struck by the view, now softened in the late afternoon sun.

  ‘It’s like sitting on the roof of the world,’ she murmured.

  In front of us stretched a grim, primitive, endless land. Nothing broke the silence: no complaining sheep or yapping collie dog, no lusty cock crow or curlew’s fitful cry, no roar or babble of falling water or sighing wind. All was still. Then, high above, a pair of circling buzzards, their great wings outstretched, soared alone in an empty sky.

  ‘I’m going to love this job,’ Gerry said quietly.

  ‘I’m sure you will,’ I replied.

  She looked at me with her dark blue eyes. ‘Do you think I’ll fit in?’

  ‘Oh, yes, definitely.’ She stared out of the window and sighed. ‘However, there’s something very important I’ve got to ask you,’ I said seriously.

  ‘Yes?’ her brow furrowed slightly.

  ‘Would you like your tart now or save it for later?’

  17

  The first school I visited in the Summer term was Ugglemattersby County Junior School where I had agreed to take the assembly and spend the day visiting classes. The school was situated in the very centre of a dark, brooding village, sandwiched between the Masonic Hall, a square and solid box of a building in rusty-red brick, and the public house, built of a slaty limestone turned a greasy grey, with windows like black cold eyes. The overcast sky and slanting April rain made the school and its surroundings even more bleak and unwelcoming. The area circling the village was a strange and desolate land of sweeping grey moors. It was a wet and barren landscape, naked save for a few ancient oaks and a couple of centuries-old farmsteads. A few hardy sheep, nibbling at the wiry grasses as thin as the whistling wind, were watched by a pair of hooded crows perched in the gaunt arms of a dead tree like vultures awaiting a death.

  There were two women in the drab entrance hall of the school. One was large, with a pale, perfectly spherical face, crimson adhesive lipstick and heavy rounded shoulders. The other was a stern, disagreeable-looking woman with small deep-set eyes, a tight little mouth and bright peroxide hair which stuck up like a brush – not an agreeable combination. They stopped talking when I entered and eyed me suspiciously.

  ‘Good morning,’ I greeted them cheerfully.

  ‘Mornin’,’ they replied in unison.

  ‘Dreadful weather, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dreadful,’ they replied together.

  I was about to press the buzzer on the small reception desk when the larger of the two addressed me. ‘If you’re ’ere to complain, get to t’back o’ t’queue.’

  ‘No, I’m not here to complain. I have an appointment with the Headteacher.’ I pressed the buzzer and a moment later a small, harassed-looking woman scurried out. Before she could ask who I was and what I wanted, the large woman pushed forward menacingly.

  ‘Have you told ’im we’re ’ere?’ she barked.

  ‘I have, Mrs Wilmott. Mr Sharples will be with you in one moment.’

  ‘I’ve been stood ’ere the best part o’ ten minutes.’

  ‘And me, an’ all,’ added the smaller of the two women.

  ‘I’ll be purrin roots down if I wait ’ere much longer.’

  ‘I appreciate that, Mrs Wilmott, but it is always very hectic on a Monday, and it is always best to make an appointment to be certain that the Headteacher is available. Mr Sharples is busy at the moment –’

  ‘He’s always busy when I come into school. Well, I’m not goin’ until I’ve seen ’im.’

  ‘If you could just bear with me for one moment, Mrs Wilmott, until I find out what this gentleman wants –’

  ‘He wants to see Mr Sharples,’ announced the large woman.

  ‘He’s got an appointment with ’im,’ added the other.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ I said, smiling at the small receptionist. ‘I think the Headteacher is expecting me.’

  ‘Are you the book representative?’

  ‘No. Mr Sharples will know who I am when you tell him.’ I thought it best to keep my identity secret from my two aggressive companions. The receptionist hurried away without a word and was back in quick time, accompanied by an exceptionally thin and sallow-complexioned man in a shiny suit and highly polished shoes. When he caught sight of the large woman and her companion with the bright hair, the Headteacher smiled the resigned smile of a martyr about to face the stake.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn. I will be with you in one moment.’ He turned to the women. ‘Now then, Mrs Wilmott, Mrs Leech, what can I do for you both?’

  ‘It’s our Mandy!’ snapped the large woman.

  ‘I guessed it would be,’ replied the Headteacher wearily. ‘What is it this time?’

  ‘She come home Friday with nits – and they’re not ’ers!’

  ‘Not hers?’ repeated the Headteacher.

  ‘Not ’ers! She must ’ave gor ’em from somebody in this school because there’s no nits in our ’ouse.’

  ‘Well, I am most grateful that you have pointed that out to me, Mrs Wilmott. I will alert the other parents.’

  ‘She shouldn’t be comin’ ’ome with nits which aren’t ’ers,’ continued the large woman.

  ‘Indeed no,’ replied Mr Sharples, retaining his concerned countenance.

  ‘I’ve brought ’er in this mornin’ and I don’t want ’er comin’ ’ome with another ’eadful of nits tonight!’

  ‘I take it you have been to the chemist for a specially treated shampoo for head lice?’ asked the Headteacher.

  ‘Yes, I ’ave! She’s ’ad three good dousin’s.’

  ‘Very wise. I will write to all parents asking them to check their children’s hair and ensure that they send them to school with clean scalps.’

  ‘Well, I ’opes that’s the end of it! She shouldn’t be comin’ ’ome with nits what aren’t ’ers.’

  ‘I did send a copy of the leaflet concerning the prevention and treatment of head lice to each parent or guardian last term, if you recall, Mrs Wilmott. It recommended the use of a fine-tooth comb on wet hair and specially prepared lotions or rinses obtainable from the pharmacist.’

  ‘I know all that!’ snapped the woman. ‘But my Mandy has short ’air and it’s kept clean and combed regular.’

  ‘Head lice are not fussy about hair length or condition of the hair, Mrs Wilmott,’ explained Mr Sharples. ‘Clean hair is no protection.’ The Headteacher then turned his attention to the other woman. ‘And have you come about head lice, Mrs Leech?’ he asked the smaller woman in an excessively patient tone of voice. ‘Or is it something else?’

  ‘I’ve come about knickers!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Crystal’s come home wearing knickers what aren’t ’ers!’

  ‘I see,’ sighed the Headteacher. He turned to me and displayed his martyr’s smile. ‘Do go on into my room, Mr Phinn.’ He gestured before him. ‘I have a feeling this will take a little time.’

  Through the open door I heard him attempting to pacify the two mothers. Ten minutes later he entered the room, lowered himself into his chair, sighed heavily, stared at me for a moment with great doleful eyes and then remarked, ‘I became a headteacher, Mr Phinn, to educate the young, to teach children, but what do I have to deal with, day in and day out? Nits and knickers, that’s what. Those two women are the very bane of my life. They spend more time in the school than the teachers whom they pursue with the relentless fervour of two hungry foxhounds. When I sent the forms out for the new intake of children, under the section where she had to write her husband’s name, Mrs Wilmott entered: “Father not yet known”.
I had a dreadful premonition when I read it that Mandy’s mother would not be the easiest of parents to deal with.’ He shook his head and grimaced. ‘And as for Mrs Leech –’

  ‘Mr Sharples,’ I interrupted, glancing at my watch, ‘I think it may be about time for the assembly.’

  ‘Oh, good gracious me, so it is, so it is. Do come this way, Mr Phinn.’

  The junior children were all waiting quietly in a plain, dark school hall with heavy brown drapes framing long windows which looked out upon the cold and lonely moor. Row after row of children, with serious faces, sat quietly, cross-legged on the hard wooden floor, watched by their serious-faced teachers who stood, arms folded, around the sides.

  ‘Good morning, children,’ said the Headteacher.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sharples, good morning, everyone,’ they replied with little enthusiasm.

  ‘We will start with the hymn “All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small”,’ the Headteacher told them solemnly. The tired-looking teacher at the piano, who had been watching him with a glum expression on her long pale face, struck up the tune in such a slow and laboured way that the joyous hymn sounded like a funeral dirge. There was little verve or volume in the singing and no effort on the part of the teachers to encourage the pupils by singing themselves. I thought of the children at St Bartholomew’s who had sung so lustily and in such a heartfelt way, almost competing with the booming rhythms of Miss Fenoughty plonking away on the piano.

  ‘This morning,’ said Mr Sharples, when the hymn had finally ground to a halt, ‘we have a guest in school. I am sure it will not have escaped your notice that there is a gentleman with us.’ All eyes focused upon me. ‘Mr Phinn is a school inspector and he is going to take our assembly before joining you in the classrooms for the day. If Mr Phinn asks you anything, answer him in your usual polite manner and should he look lost I am sure you will be able to tell him where to go.’ With that, the Headteacher joined his colleagues at the side of the hall and folded his arms.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said and began the assembly. I attempted to get a response by asking the children about Easter – what had they done over the holidays, had they been anywhere interesting, had they received any Easter eggs? – questions which usually stimulate lively responses. In this case little was forthcoming. Clearly, assemblies in this school involved listening and not contributing. The only movement I noticed amongst the solemn rows of children was random scratchings at scalps. Rows of serious faces observed me quietly as if waiting for a performance to begin so I pressed on. I read them the very poignant children’s story, The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde, which concerns the mean-minded Giant who owns a large and lovely garden with soft green grass, beautiful flowers like stars, and peach trees covered in delicate blossoms of pink and pearl. One day he finds small children playing in his garden and angrily chases them away. ‘My own garden is my own garden,’ he says and he builds a high wall so none can enter. When spring arrives, the Giant’s garden is empty of birds, the trees have forgotten to blossom, snow covers the grass with a great white cloak, and frost paints the trees silver. The Giant sits sadly at his window and looks down on his garden which is in perpetual winter and he wonders why the spring did not return.