Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘No, not at all,’ I hastily reassured her, ‘please go on.’

  ‘His foster parents don’t want him to go to one of these schools that deals with disruptive pupils. They are very busy people – she’s a doctor in West Challerton, and he’s got an office of some sort there, too – and they would have to drive Terry in the opposite direction to the special school in Crompton if he were to go there, and then collect him again later. In any case, they feel he should feel part of this small community and be treated as just a normal little boy. Now, that is all very well, Mr Phinn,’ continued Miss Pilkington, a nervous rash creeping up her neck, ‘but he is not just a normal little boy and I have the other children to think about. I have already had a number of parents complaining about his behaviour and two have threatened to take their children away from Willingforth unless I… well, to be blunt, get rid of him.’ Miss Pilkington sat back down on her chair, twisting a handkerchief nervously in her hands. ‘The Chair of Governors, Canon Shepherd, is calling in to see me at lunch-time with one of the parent-governors who has asked for the boy’s removal. We have an extraordinary governors’ meeting this evening to decide what to do. The canon is all for giving the child a chance but the other governor, who represents the majority view on the Governing Body, is determined that Terry should go.’ She paused to get a breath and looked down at her lap. When our eyes met again, I saw tears. ‘I’ve been a teacher for many years, Mr Phinn, and I think it is fair to say that I have been dedicated to this profession. I’ve always believed that children deserve the very best we adults have to give, all children, even the very difficult ones. That’s why I became a teacher. The boy’s file made me weep. It is a catalogue of neglect, mistreatment and deprivation. I had such an advantaged life myself, with parents who loved and cherished me and expected a great deal of me. My father never raised his voice to me, let alone his hand. Terry has had a dreadful life, a cruel life, but he is so very, very difficult and, as I said, I do have the other children to think about. Oh dear, I just do not know what to do.’ She fell silent at last.

  I took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ I sighed, ‘it sounds feeble, I know, Miss Pilkington, but I really don’t know what to advise for the best. It would be easy for me to tell you to struggle on, that things will get better and then walk out of the door. I don’t have to teach him. Like you, I don’t believe that any child should be put on the scrap heap, written off. We have a duty to help all children. When I started teaching, I remember the words of Sir Alec Clegg, the CEO for the West Riding of Yorkshire speaking to us at Woolley Hall College. “However damaged, ill-favoured or repellent a child is,” he told us young teachers, “you have a duty to educate him.” What is certain is that there is no miracle cure, no simple solution which will change Terry overnight. It sounds, however, as though the child does need some specialist help, maybe a special school, like the one in Crompton, where teachers are well equipped to deal with children like this boy. I’ve visited several such schools and, with a great deal of time and patience, children like Terry do get better. On the other hand, if he stays here, we could arrange for some classroom support, maybe an assistant or additional teacher.’

  ‘You are only putting into words what I feel, I suppose,’ said Miss Pilkington. ‘I certainly need some help. The other teacher, Miss Bates, is away ill – I think it’s stress to be frank – and I have all the children together for the time being so it’s very tiring and demanding.’

  ‘Well, I am certain we can arrange a supply teacher and get some additional help. I’ll have a word with Miss Kinvara, the educational psychologist, and ask her to make a visit. She knows a great deal more than I about children with challenging behaviour.’

  ‘Thank you, that sounds very helpful, but would it be possible, Mr Phinn, for you to stay for the morning so you can see the way Terry behaves, speak to him and then stay for the meeting at lunch-time with the governors to help us decide what to do. Will you do that?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, thinking to myself that I would probably be no earthly use whatsoever.

  Miss Pilkington picked up the crumpled handkerchief from her lap, dabbed her nose and sniffed. At the noise of excited chatter outside, however, her back visibly straightened. ‘If you’ll excuse me a moment, Mr Phinn, I can hear the children arriving. I do like to welcome them each morning.’ With that she left the room.

  When the children had taken off their coats and changed into their indoor shoes, they sat at their desks ready for the register to be called. All, that is, except one child. He was a sharp-faced boy of about nine or ten with a scattering of freckles, wavy red hair and a tight little mouth which curved downwards. This, I guessed, was Terry.

  ‘Come along, please, Terry,’ said Miss Pilkington firmly, ‘take your seat.’

  ‘Who’s he, then?’ asked the child, pointing in my direction.

  ‘That’s Mr Phinn, and please don’t point, it’s rude.’

  ‘Is he a copper?’

  ‘Just take a seat will you, please, Terry,’ said the teacher.

  ‘He looks like a copper. Are you a copper?’

  ‘Terry, will you take a seat,’ repeated the teacher firmly.

  ‘I can smell coppers a mile off.’ The child slumped into a chair. ‘He’s either a copper or a probation officer.’

  ‘And take what you are chewing out of your mouth, please, Terry,’ said Miss Pilkington.

  ‘Haven’t finished it yet.’ He looked back at me. ‘I bet he is a copper.’

  ‘Put what you are chewing in here, please, Terry,’ said the teacher firmly, holding up a waste-paper basket.

  The boy ambled to the front and dropped a bullet of chewing gum in the bin.

  What a contrast this morning was compared to previous visits. The last time I had visited Willingforth School I had sat on that very same chair watching with great admiration an outstanding teacher. Miss Pilkington had outlined clearly to a very attentive and interested class the writing task to be undertaken and the children had got on with their work quietly and with genuine enthusiasm. Now the lesson was dominated by Terry who would not sit still, would not do as he was told nor get on with his work. The other children seemed amazingly tolerant of this demanding and disruptive child and mostly ignored him, although there were one or two who spent more time watching him than doing their own work.

  When he had finally been prevailed upon to sit and put something on paper, I approached the child who looked up with an aggressive expression on his small face.

  ‘What?’ he asked, tossing back a head of wavy curls.

  ‘May I look at your work?’

  ‘What for?’ He stared coldly at me, like a serpent.

  ‘Because that’s what I do for a living.’

  ‘What do you do, then?’

  ‘I’m an inspector.’

  A triumphant expression came to his small face. ‘I knew it! I knew you was a copper.’

  ‘School inspector, not a police inspector.’

  He made a clucking sort of noise and pushed over the paper on which he had been writing. ‘It’s crap,’ he told me.

  ‘Don’t use that word,’ I told him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I say so,’ I said, looking him straight in the eye. I then began reading what he had written.

  ‘I don’t know why you’re lookin’,’ he said. ‘It’s no good.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad,’ I replied, continuing to read.

  ‘It is. Wait till you read it. I’m rubbish at writing.’ He pushed out his lower lip and clenched his eyebrows. ‘Anyone can see it’s crap.’ I looked up. ‘Rubbish,’ he said.

  I tried to decipher the cramped, spidery scrawl. ‘What’s this word?’ I asked.

  ‘“Buggered”. It says, “I felt buggered.”’

  ‘I think the word you want is “jiggered”,’ I told him.

  ‘No, I don’t. I want “buggered”.’

  ‘Well, I am sure you can think of a much better word than that.’


  ‘Why?’ he asked, defiantly.

  ‘That word is not a very nice word to use.’

  ‘Mi mam uses it. What about “knackered” then?’

  ‘That’s as bad,’ I said.

  ‘Mi mam – mi real mam, that is – she uses that an’ all.’

  ‘Well, it’s not really a very nice word for a boy to use,’ I said feebly.

  ‘Well, come on then, what word should I use?’

  ‘Well, you could say that you were very tired or exhausted.’

  The boy gave a wry smile. ‘Aye, I could I suppose, but it wouldn’t sound as good as “buggered” though, would it?’ He read his scrawl in a sing-song sort of voice following each word with grubby finger. ‘“I got home and flopped onto t’bed. I felt tired and exhausted.” That’s no good, useless. “Buggered” sounds much better.’

  I sighed. ‘Perhaps, but it’s not a word a child should use.’

  ‘You think I’m daft, don’t you?’ he said suddenly. ‘You think I’m thick.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I assured him. ‘I think you are a bright lad but you need to behave better and not swear nor answer back.’

  ‘What you gonna do, then, if I don’t? Lock me up?’ His expression was one of defiance.

  ‘No, I’m not going to lock you up.’

  ‘Just ‘cos I speaks like this don’t mean that I’m daft, you know.’

  ‘I never said you were daft,’ I told him. And he certainly was not daft. If only his obvious intelligence and quick wit could be channelled into something worthwhile, I thought to myself. ‘What I can’t understand is why you don’t try and behave yourself?’

  ‘Dunno really. Can’t help mi’self.’

  ‘You’d get on a lot better with people if you behaved.’

  ‘S’pose I don’t want to get on better wi’ people?’ he said, more ruminatively this time.

  I abandoned the line of questioning. ‘Shall we go through your writing and see if we can make it neater and clearer.’

  ‘What’s with the “we”. Are you gonna do it for me, then?’

  ‘I’m going to try and help you with it.’

  ‘Well, I don’t need no help. You’ll go changing all mi words.’

  The child was indeed exhausting. I tried another tack. ‘Do you like reading?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Music?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘What do you like?’

  ‘You asks a bloody lot of questions, don’t you?’ Before I could respond, he said, mimicking my voice, ‘That’s another not very nice word for a little boy to use.’

  I shook my head but persevered. ‘I hear you like animals.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  A little bird told me,’ I replied.

  ‘I’ll kill that bleeding bird. That’s another word I’m not supposed to use, isn’t it?’

  He was clearly aiming to shock, to get a reaction, but I wasn’t going to play his little game. This child would surely try the patience of a saint.

  ‘So, you do like animals?’ I asked again.

  ‘S’pose so.’

  ‘Why do you like animals?’

  He didn’t answer immediately but seemed to be lost in thought. ‘Because you know where you are wi’ animals. They don’t mess you around. They like you for what you are. Not like people. And animals don’t ask a lot of bloody stupid questions either.’

  ‘And what are you going to do when you leave school?’

  ‘I’m going home. What are you gonna do?’

  ‘Do you miss your last school?’

  ‘Naw, it were crap. I was always in trouble. They picked on me.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘All of them – teachers, kids, caretaker, lollipop woman, dinner ladies. They sent me to a shrink, bit like you, in a black suit and creaky shoes, who asked a lot of bloody stupid questions. Why this and why that? And would I like to talk about it?’ He stared at me with an impudent look on his face. ‘He couldn’t deal with me neither. Grown ups alius pretend. They say they’re your friends, only trying to help you, they’re all nice and kind and then they… well… Haven’t you got owt better to do?’

  ‘No, not really,’ I replied. ‘And what about here, Terry?’

  ‘What about here?’

  ‘Do you think they pick on you here?’

  He thought for a moment, twisting his mouth to one side and cocking his head. ‘Not as much,’ he conceded, ‘not as much.’ Then as if brought out of a reverie he sat up and screwed up his writing into a tight little ball. ‘That’s crap.’

  At lunchtime Canon Shepherd arrived accompanied by a whey-faced individual with a long nose, flared nostrils and a drooping Stalin-like moustache. The vicar was a small, cheerful little man, with tousled hair and flabby cheeks.

  ‘It is very good of you to join our deliberations, Mr Phinn,’ said the cleric, offering me a fleshy hand. ‘I expect Miss Pilkington has explained our dilemma.’

  ‘Not much of a dilemma as far as I’m concerned,’ said his companion. ‘The lad’s a bad ‘un and no mistake.’ This man clearly did not mince his words. ‘He should be put where he won’t harm himself and others.’

  ‘That’s just what we’re here to discuss, Mr Gardner,’ said the vicar sharply. ‘I am well aware of your views.’

  ‘And I’m well aware of yours, vicar,’ retorted his companion, stroking his moustache.

  ‘I would like to have the benefit of Mr Phinn’s expertise and his advice before we make any decisions as to the future of the child.’ The vicar looked expectantly in my direction and nodded. His companion regarded me seriously and continued to stroke his moustache.

  ‘Well, Canon, he is without doubt a very difficult boy –’ I began.

  ‘We know that,’ interposed the parent-governor aggressively. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to suss that out. We don’t need experts from County Hall to tell us the blindingly bloody obvious. Tell us something we don’t know.’

  Miss Pilkington raised a hand. ‘Please let Mr Phinn finish, Mr Gardner. He saw Terry in class this morning and I would like to hear his opinion.’

  ‘He’s a disturbed child, attention-seeking with a very low self-esteem and tends to react to people with this bravado. He’s deeply suspicious of adults, probably because he’s been let down so many times –’

  ‘Look,’ said Mr Gardner, ‘I do have a business to run. We can sit here all afternoon listening to this psychobabble, about how he came from a terrible background, how he’s had an awful childhood and that it’s not his fault but society’s, etcetera etcetera. It’s that sort of liberal hogwash that lets football hooligans –’

  ‘Mr Gardner!’ said the canon in a hard and emphatic voice. ‘May I remind you that this is a church school. Our vision, our ethos, the very bedrock of our philosophy are the words of Jesus Christ, who talked about compassion, love, understanding and generosity of heart. I don’t hear much of that coming from your lips this afternoon. Do you think Jesus would reject this child, turn his back on him? I think not.’

  ‘That’s all very well, vicar,’ sneered Mr Gardner, his mouth tight, his face white with displeasure, ‘but you don’t have a child in the school. My Jill has to put up with this little demon and have her learning interrupted. I’m not bothered about the boy. I’m bothered about my daughter and her education, and I’ll tell you this, my telephone has been hot with calls from parents who think as I do.’ His voice suddenly softened. ‘Now look, Canon, we on the Governing Body have a responsibility for the education of all the children in this school. If we decide to let this boy remain and disrupt –’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Phinn had quite finished, Mr Gardener,’ interrupted the vicar coldly.

  ‘There are two clear alternatives,’ I continued quickly. ‘One is for the boy to go to a special school for children with emotional and behavioural needs, like the one in Crompton. It is an excellent school and staffed with teachers who have a particular specialism in dealing with young people of
this kind –’

  ‘Now we are talking,’ muttered the parent-governor.

  ‘Alternatively,’ I continued, ‘you could see if things get better over the next few weeks. I believe his foster parents would like him, if at all possible, to remain in the school. With support, perhaps some extra staffing and an environment where there is some stability and consistency of treatment – as he will undoubtedly get here – he may very well settle down and improve.’

  The body language of the parent-governor indicated that he was about to launch into another outburst so Miss Pilkington stepped in smartly. ‘I think we have to keep trying for the time being,’ she said calmly. ‘See how things go.’

  ‘You mean let him stay?’ demanded Mr Gardner, his moustache bristling with displeasure.

  ‘I mean let him stay,’ said Miss Pilkington. ‘I am not yet prepared to be defeated.’

  ‘Mr Phinn?’ The canon turned his face in my direction.

  ‘It is, of course, a very courageous decision,’ I replied quietly, ‘but if you want a personal opinion, I think it is the right one.’

  One of the most important parts of a school inspector’s job is to follow up a situation after a school visit; indeed, sometimes the visit is only the beginning of a succession of actions often involving many people. The day following my meeting at Willingforth School, I had telephoned Kath Kinvara.

  Kath was one of the county educational psychologists who had worked with me on a number of courses and conferences. She always seemed to wear the same outfit: tight-fitting brown sweater, crumpled brown tweed skirt, solid brown shoes. Her thick brown hair was tied back untidily, and there was not a trace of make-up or jewellery, save for the single rope of pearls which I always felt to be totally contrary to the rest of the ensemble. She was a level-headed, down-to-earth and very amusing woman whom I had frequently consulted about children with learning difficulties, special educational needs and behavioural problems. I had spoken to her about the situation at Willingforth Primary School and she had gone there to meet Miss Pilkington and the child himself and had suggested some practical ideas and strategies in an effort to help.