Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Ah, Dr Yeats,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Savage,’ said Harold, giving her a great toothy grin. ‘It is good of you to join us. Do take a seat. Would you like some coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she replied loftily. ‘I only drink herbal tea.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think Connie runs to that at the Centre. Shall we make a start then?’ We all sat at the large square table with Harold alone on one side. He smoothed his hair, shuffled some papers and took out his pen. ‘Right, well, the first item on the agenda this afternoon is —’

  ‘Before we begin, Dr Yeats,’ said Mrs Savage, picking up a large brown envelope that was on the table in front of her, ‘I have brought with me the short-list for the post of Senior Inspector. The CEO and the Sub-Committee have whittled down the large and very impressive number of applicants for the post to ten and Dr Gore has asked if you would cast your eye over them and give him your views before he makes the final selection. We will be calling five for interview in the New Year.’ She was careful to avoid looking at me.

  There had been no need for Mrs Savage to have brought along the applications and to make such a public show of the whole thing. She could have easily given them to Harold much more discreetly but I knew her little game. She was no doubt aware that I had applied for the post and was wanting me to know that it had attracted a wide and high-quality field and that I stood little chance. After a lot of soul-searching and late-night conversations with Christine, I had decided to go ahead and put in an application.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Savage,’ said Harold, reaching over and plucking the envelope from her hand. I could see that he was far from pleased with her little ploy.

  ‘And I don’t need to impress upon you, Dr Yeats, that the contents of that envelope are strictly private and confidential.’

  Harold stared at her for a moment with his large watery blue eyes before replying.

  ‘No, Mrs Savage, you do not have to impress that upon me. I am fully aware of the procedures regarding the appointment of staff. Now, let us look at the first item on the agenda – secretarial support.’ His gaze remained on Mrs Savage. ‘As you are aware, Dr Mullarkey swelled our ranks last term and this has resulted in a great deal of additional paper work for Julie to deal with. It has added an extra and unacceptably heavy load on our secretary and –’

  ‘May I stop you there one moment, Dr Yeats,’ said Mrs Savage, swivelling a large ring round one of her fingers. ‘The young woman in your office is not designated as a secretary. She is a clerical assistant.’

  ‘No matter what you call her, we refer to her as our secretary,’ said Harold firmly. ‘For all intents and purposes, Julie does the work of a secretary – and more. Anyway, we did, as you know, have some temporary help initially from an agency but the young woman secured a permanent post and we are now in need of someone else to help out.’

  Mrs Savage smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. ‘I am afraid the on-going strategic situation in the education department, Dr Yeats, is that we have, at present, a serious clerical personnel establishment shortfall.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Sidney, sitting bolt upright in his chair.

  ‘I said,’ repeated Mrs Savage, speaking slowly and distinctly, ‘a serious clerical personnel establishment shortfall.’

  ‘Not enough staff,’ explained David.

  ‘This was the direct result of necessary downsizing some years ago.’

  ‘Downsizing?’ said Sidney.

  ‘Sacking,’ explained David.

  ‘We are now looking to enhance our staffing complement.’

  ‘Employ some more people,’ said David.

  ‘So, what you are saying, Mrs Savage,’ I said, trying not to laugh, ‘is that you recognise that we are understaffed and you are going to sort out another secretary for us.’

  ‘Clerical assistant,’ corrected Mrs Savage.

  ‘You can call the person whatever you like, Mrs Savage,’ said David. ‘All we need is someone to help Julie type reports, deal with the post, arrange appointments, deal with the telephone queries, photocopy materials for our courses, do the filing and make the odd cup of coffee.’

  ‘I think you have made your point, Mr Pritchard,’ said Mrs Savage. ‘I shall see what I can do.’

  ‘It is pretty urgent, Mrs Savage,’ said David.

  ‘I cannot, at this stage, promise anything, Mr Pritchard,’ replied Mrs Savage casually. ‘As I have just said, I shall see what I can do.’

  ‘Well, is it possible for you to do it sooner rather than later?’ I said. ‘Julie has a real backlog which none of us wants carried on into the new term.’

  Mrs Savage eyed me acidly. ‘Mr Phinn,’ she said, ‘I shall endeavour, as I keep saying, to see what I can do.’

  ‘Let’s move on,’ said Harold. The smile had disappeared from his face. ‘The next item on the agenda is the Fettlesham Show.’ There was a series of audible sighs and groans from around the table. ‘Yes, yes, I know, but it is fast coming around again and we all have to pull our weight.’

  ‘Harold,’ said Sidney, ‘the Fettlesham Show is an opportunity for farmers, landowners, local shopkeepers and craftsmen, and all manner of people involved in rural life to spend a week mounting displays and exhibitions, but why do we, as educationalists, have to be a part of this? It is nothing whatsoever to do with inspecting schools.’

  ‘We go through the reasons every year, Sidney,’ began Harold wearily but was, once more, interrupted by Mrs Savage.

  ‘If I may, Dr Yeats,’ interposed Mrs Savage. ‘Dr Gore is very keen that the Education Department is represented at the show, as it has been for many years now. Education is always in the public eye and it gives us an opportunity to set out our stall, tell the general public what we are about, answer questions and give information about the schools and colleges in the county. It is an excellent public relations exercise for us.’

  ‘Do you know, Mrs Savage,’ said David, ‘you have mentioned the words “us” and “we” several times, but I should point out that it is this team which has to do all the work. Dr Yeats has to man that wretched Education Tent all day, and I and my colleagues have all the exhibitions to mount.’

  ‘May I remind you, Mr Pritchard,’ said Mrs Savage tartly, ‘that there are some of us who work extremely hard behind the scenes dealing with all the administration.’

  ‘And what administration would this be?’ enquired Sidney.

  ‘Look, this is getting us nowhere,’ broke in Harold. ‘I asked Gervase to collect together a few initial suggestions, Mrs Savage, and you will be pleased to hear that we will be organising the various exhibitions of children’s work. However, I cannot, at this stage, promise very much more.’

  ‘Dr Gore is particularly keen,’ said Mrs Savage as if she had not heard, ‘that this year we have a significant presence. Last year, it was a very small-scale contribution on our part compared with previous years. The art competition was, for some unaccountable reason, cancelled.’

  ‘I can account for that, Mrs Savage, if you have five hours,’ remarked Sidney.

  ‘The sports events did not take place,’ she continued blithely.

  ‘With good reason,’ said David.

  ‘And the poetry competition was judged by some local poet rather than you, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Which can be fully explained,’ I said.

  ‘Now this year, Dr Gore hopes that all the activities of previous years, and indeed more, will be up and running, in addition of course to our advisory desk in the Education Tent. I shall, of course, be co-ordinating everything and if Dr Gore is in agreement, I should be only too happy to join you, Dr Yeats, in the tent on the day and give what help and support I can.’ I smothered a grin as I saw Harold wince. ‘I am sure that Dr Gore and I can rely on the inspectors to give this matter their full and immediate attention.’ Mrs Savage sat back in her chair, apparently finished.

  Harold thought for a moment, stroked his chin and nodded sagaciously. ‘The competition judging has always
proved to be a little contentious. However, we will discuss it.’ He thought for a moment. ‘As you are aware, Mrs Savage, we have a vast amount of work on at the moment and there is, of course, the extra and unacceptably heavy load on our secretary.’ He smiled, displaying his set of large white teeth. ‘We shall have to see what we can do.’

  The remainder of the afternoon, in which we discussed a whole range of tedious matters, seemed to drag interminably.

  At six o’clock, Connie popped her head around the door. She had abandoned her pink nylon overall in favour of a large grey duffel coat with fur-trimmed hood, thick woollen scarf tied in an enormous knot under her chin and short green boots. She looked like an Eskimo. ‘How long are you going to be?’ she asked bluntly.

  ‘Nearly finished, Connie,’ said Harold.

  ‘I’m locking up in ten minutes,’ she told him. ‘I’m just doing my rounds.’

  ‘We won’t be long now, Connie,’ said Harold.

  ‘It’s getting very icy tonight so be careful on the path. I’ve put some salt and sand down but it’s still very slippery. It’s cold enough to freeze the flippers off an Arctic penguin out there.’ Connie disappeared only to return a moment later. ‘Oh, and whose is that fancy red sports car out the front?’ She knew very well who the owner of the sports car was since she had asked the owner to remove it on many occasions.

  ‘It’s mine,’ said Mrs Savage coldly. ‘You may recall that you asked me earlier to park it well away from your entrance which I did. Is there something else?’

  ‘Well, you’ve left your lights on,’ said Connie.

  ‘I sincerely hope you haven’t got a flat battery, Mrs Savage,’ said Sidney with mock concern in his voice. ‘That would spoil your evening.’

  8

  It was the first week back after the Christmas break and the office was unusually quiet. Sidney was directing an art course at the Staff Development Centre, David was on a conference for mathematics inspectors, Harold was closeted with Dr Gore, no doubt discussing arrangements for the interviews for the Senior Inspector’s post, and Julie was nowhere to be seen. So there was only Gerry and me in the office. I had not seen her alone since I had heard the news about her extended family at the golf club dinner before Christmas.

  ‘So what sort of Christmas did you have?’ she asked, looking up from her papers.

  ‘Oh, rather more hectic than last year,’ I replied. ‘I spent a few days with Christine’s parents in Collington, meeting all the relations and doing the rounds of friends and neighbours, before going to my parents for Boxing Day and then we had a weekend to ourselves in Settle. We went to the same excellent hotel as we went to last Christmas – it is really comfortable and has marvellous food so we decided to go back. We walked for miles and spent hours discussing weddings and honeymoons and houses.’

  ‘Of course, it’s only a few months to go now before the big day, isn’t it? Have you decided where you’re going to live yet?’

  ‘Well, Christine lives at home at the moment and I’m still in that poky little flat here in Fettlesham above The Rumbling Tum. I certainly won’t miss the smell of chips wafting up the stairs every day and the noise of lorries off-loading in the High Street late at night and in the early hours of the morning. We really want somewhere in easy reach of both her school and County Hall. Ribsdyke is quite nice, Willingforth is lovely but expensive, Mertonbeck is a possibility but a bit out of the way. I really like Totterdale where you live but the houses are expensive and hard to come by. When the weather improves, we intend looking seriously.’

  ‘What sort of house have you in mind?’

  ‘Ideally, we’d like that small country cottage in honey-coloured stone with roses around the door, the one you see on postcards, with uninterrupted views of open countryside. Everybody else wants it, too, I’m afraid. We’ve got a mass of brochures from the estate agents and just love one particular cottage in Hawksrill but it is being sold at auction and one never knows what they will fetch. I expect we’ll end up in a modern box on an estate in Fettlesham. I think that’s the only place we’ll be able to afford.’

  ‘What about the job, have you heard anything about that? If you got the Senior Inspector’s job, you would be able to afford more.’

  ‘Not a thing. Harold says that the CEO will be sending out the letters inviting candidates for interview this week, so I should know before Friday. I don’t hold out a lot of hope after what Mrs Savage said. Of course, Harold hasn’t said a word, just keeps staring at me inscrutably. In fact, the main reason for calling in this morning was to see if there was any news.’

  When I saw that Gerry had not returned to her work, but was staring pensively out of the window, I asked, ‘What about you, did you have a nice Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, I did, thanks. Pretty quiet but very pleasant.’ As usual, she wasn’t giving much away.

  ‘Did you go back to Ireland?’

  ‘No, I stayed here.’

  ‘By yourself?’

  ‘Yes, well, no, I had friends round and… I had some family over. Gervase, you haven’t seen the note Harold sent around about the Fettlesham Show, have you? I’ve put it down somewhere and can’t lay my hands on it.’

  ‘It’s right there under your nose,’ I said, pointing to the green memorandum that could not be missed.

  ‘Oh, yes. I’m actually looking forward to taking part in the Fettlesham Show. I thought I’d get a group of students to demonstrate some practical technology work, perhaps mount an exhibition of children’s writing and drawings on wildlife, animal conservation, that sort of thing. What do you think?’

  Gerry clearly wanted to keep off the subject of what she had done over Christmas so I decided to probe no more. ‘Sounds good,’ I said, ‘but I would go easy on the animal conservation bit. This is a fox-hunting and grouse-shooting county, you know, and there’s some wildlife many of the locals are not very keen on preserving – pigeons and rooks, moles and rats, for example. I once made the great mistake of reading a Beatrix Potter story to group of infants most of whom lived on farms. “What a pity it would be if Mr McGregor caught poor little Peter Rabbit,” I told them. It went down like a lead balloon. “Rabbits!” said one little lad. “We shoot ‘em!”’

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ said Gerry, laughing.

  The clattering on the stairs signalled the imminent arrival of Julie. She entered a moment later with such a broad smile on her face that she resembled some manic clown.

  ‘I could kiss that darling man!’ she exclaimed. ‘I could squeeze him to death. I don’t know what he said to Mrs Savage but Dr Yeats is a miracle worker.’

  ‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ said Gerry.

  ‘That’s because I’ve got an assistant to help me with all the paperwork and, wait for it – it’s a he, a chap! He can type, file, do everything.’

  ‘Wow!’ laughed Gerry. ‘A man!’

  ‘Yes, there are more and more male secretaries, you know. I’ve not got him all to myself, mind. He’s spending half his time with the psychologists downstairs and half his time with me up here. His name’s Frank. You know, of all the people who have dealings with that dreadful woman, Dr Yeats is the best. He has her eating out of his hands.’

  ‘It’s called charm and patience,’ said Gerry. ‘Usually a highly successful formula.’

  ‘I don’t care what it’s called. He’s got me an assistant. Now, who’s for a cup of coffee?’

  ‘No, thanks, Julie,’ I said, rising to go, ‘I have a full day in schools today so must be off. Actually, I only called in to see if there was any news on the interviews and to shift some of the paperwork. I’ll be in tomorrow early. There’s that course outline to finish, if you can get around to it today. It is pretty urgent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘No worries,’ replied Julie. ‘I shall give it to Frank.’

  Sister Brendan saw my car pull up outside her office window and moments later was at the entrance waiting to greet me.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ she said
cheerfully, ushering me into the school.

  ‘Good morning, Sister.’

  ‘And have you had a restful Christmas?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, and what about you?’

  ‘Lovely. Now, I’ve put you with Mrs Webb and the juniors first thing. Then after morning playtime, you’re with me and the little ones. Is that acceptable to you?’

  ‘That’s fine. And how is Mrs Webb?’

  The last time I had inspected St Bartholomew’s Roman Catholic Infant School in industrial Crompton, Mrs Webb had been absent. She had been on a guided tour of the Holy Land, called ‘Walking in the Footsteps of Jesus’, when she had fallen down a pothole and broken a leg. Monsignor Leonard had remarked to Sister later that had Mrs Webb been sensible and worn sandals, such as Jesus might have worn, she would not have found herself hospitalised in Jerusalem.

  ‘I’m afraid her leg is still not right,’ said Sister, ‘but I have to say that Mrs Webb is a woman of great faith and fortitude. She is going on another pilgrimage this year, to Lourdes. She’s not only a woman of great faith and fortitude, you know, Mr Phinn, she’s also something of a martyr. Miss Fenoughty has signed up for the trip as well and Mrs Webb has agreed to sit next to her on the coach. I cannot imagine a worse penance than spending a long coach journey through France with deaf Miss Fenoughty at my side. I know it sounds uncharitable, but Miss Fenoughty would try the patience of a saint.’

  Mrs Webb was waiting for me: she was a prim, red-faced woman with small quizzical eyes and sported a thick brown elastic stocking on one leg. Her classroom was bright and cheerful, the walls covered with glossy travel posters. In pride of place, on a small table at the front of the room, stood two plaster statues with small vases of fresh flowers before them. One statue was of the Virgin Mary, draped in a pale blue cloak and wearing a golden crown. She had large blue eyes and a gentle smile. The other was of Jesus who I noticed wore very substantial footwear, the sort of sandals that would stand up to the potholes of the Holy Land.