‘It is important, don’t you think, Miss Bronson,’ said Gerry, ‘to have an outside, objective view of things – an external audit if you like – to see how things are going?’ The headmistress looked pensive but did not reply. Gerry continued, ‘We are in a position, since we visit many schools and observe a great deal of good practice, to advise and support teachers and help them improve their teaching.’
The headmistress’s expression remained one of detached interest, like that of a connoisseur glancing down an unfamiliar wine list. ‘I have to be honest, Dr Mullarkey,’ she replied in her quietly commanding voice, ‘and I say this without, I hope, giving any offence, I really do feel that school inspectors would be more usefully employed visiting failing schools and giving the benefit of their advice and support to the unfortunate teachers who have to struggle with recalcitrant and disaffected adolescents, instead of spending their time telling me something which I’m sure I already know.’
‘It is possible, Miss Bronson,’ I said, ‘that the girls here succeed in spite of less than satisfactory teaching.’
The headmistress slowly transferred her stare from Gerry to me. She looked me full in the face, not angrily but with an intense and overpowering gaze. ‘Less than satisfactory teaching?’ she said in her quiet, controlled tone of voice. ‘By that, I imagine you mean poor teaching. I think if you were to say to my Chairman of Governors that there is poor teaching at Lady Cavendish’s, Mr Phinn, it would have a similar effect as announcing that God did not exist in sixteenth-century Spain.’
‘I am not for one minute suggesting that there is poor teaching at this school, Miss Bronson,’ I said, shifting uneasily on the unyielding mahogany chair, ‘but it is quite conceivable to have a weak teacher who gets excellent results because her students are intelligent, motivated and ambitious and come from massively supportive homes.’
Miss Bronson sat for a moment in thoughtful silence and then smiled, displaying her splendid set of very white teeth. She fixed me with a sceptical look. ‘Don’t imagine for a moment that teaching the able pupil is an easy task. The bright gel can be as difficult, awkward and demanding as any other gel, often more so. She has a sharp, enquiring mind and often will argue and present her views quite forcefully. The bright gel does not suffer poor teachers gladly, I can assure you of that. It is also a popular misconception that those who attend a grammar school can be taught by cardboard representations of teachers because they are intelligent, well behaved, keen and committed. Pupils need to be taught whether they are of high academic ability or not.’ I opened my mouth to continue the discussion but caught David’s eye and thought better of it. I gave Miss Bronson my fullest and most charming of smiles. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘We could debate this endlessly, but time is getting on. As a county school I am obliged to grant you entry, so discussion of the rights and wrongs of your visit is merely academic. I just felt I ought to make my views plain. I believe I lead and manage a first-rate staff of teachers and I know their strengths and weaknesses intimately. It would be a poor headteacher who did not.’ Miss Bronson stood and collected some papers and the Bible which were on her desk. ‘My secretary will give you each a programme of lessons for the day. Perhaps you might like to join me for tea at four o’clock to share your deliberations. Now, I am taking assembly and I would very much like you to join me on the stage so I can introduce you to the staff and to the gels.’
With that, the headmistress swept around the desk, her gown billowing and undulating about her ankles, and marched for the door.
The school hall, a vast barn of a room, with a mock hammerbeam roof, a gallery and an imposing stage, was packed from front to back with girls. All were dressed immaculately in identical white blouses, bottle-green pinafore dresses with bright yellow sashes and thick brown stockings. Around the sides of the hall were the sentinel staff wearing black gowns and sober expressions.
The whole congregation stood in complete silence as Miss Bronson, with considerable dignity, strode down the central aisle, her black gown flapping behind her, climbed the steps to the stage and strode purposefully to the large wooden lectern. Gerry, David and I followed her at a cracking pace, down the aisle, up the steps and onto the stage where we stood, somewhat embarrassed, at the side.
‘Good morning, school,’ said the headmistress in a loud, commanding voice.
‘Good morning, Miss Bronson,’ the girls and staff responded equally loudly.
‘Before I begin this morning’s assembly, gels, I should like to introduce three important visitors to our school.’ She turned in our direction and gestured with a wave of her hand. ‘This is Dr Mullarkey, Mr Pritchard and Mr Phinn. They are inspectors.’ She paused for effect. ‘They are school inspectors and they will be with us for the day, joining lessons, talking to you about your work and scrutinising your books, I would like them to depart…’ she paused, ‘with a very favourable impression of the students of the Lady Cavendish High School, which has a deserved reputation for high academic standards, outstanding sporting achievements and excellent dramatic productions.’ She had to get that in, I thought to myself. Miss Bronson gave a smug smile; she was obviously feeling quite pleased with herself. She continued: ‘Should the inspectors ask you anything, I am certain that you will answer them in your usual clear, confident and courteous manner, befitting the students at Lady Cavendish’s, and should they look lost she paused again, ‘I am sure you will be able to tell them where to go.’ Just what sort of day were we in for? I thought. ‘You may sit,’ ordered the headmistress.
The girls, as if some invisible lever had been pulled, sat in one perfect synchronised movement. The three of us remained standing prominently at the edge of the stage like spare parts, not knowing what to do with our hands or where to look. The eyes of the entire school were focused on us.
‘I feel as if I’m part of some school production standing here,’ whispered David out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Could we get off the stage, do you think?’
Before I could respond, Miss Bronson shuffled her papers and opened the Bible. ‘Now, our assembly this morning…’ she began, and then caught sight of the three of us standing like totem poles.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Could we have three chairs for the school inspectors?’
Her request was followed immediately by three hearty cheers of ‘Hip, hip, hooray!’
The first lesson of the day I attended was with Miss Bridges, the Head of the English Faculty, who was taking the fifth form for poetry. From the earlier conversation with the headmistress, I was rather expecting a frosty welcome but found the very opposite. Miss Bridges, a woman not dissimilar to the headteacher in looks and bearing, welcomed me like a long-lost friend and shook my hand vigorously as soon I was through the door to her classroom.
‘Now, girls,’ she said to the class with jovial earnestness, ‘we are very fortunate to have with us this morning Mr Phinn, whom you will remember seeing on the stage earlier and who is something of an expert on English.’ She turned and beamed at me. ‘It is a real pleasure to have you with us, Mr Phinn, and we do hope that you will join in our discussions of the poems we are studying.’
‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘I’ll sit at the back, if I may.’
‘Wherever suits you, Mr Phinn,’ said the teacher. ‘Go whither you wish. Just make yourself comfortable. It will be most interesting, will it not, girls, to have a male perspective on our reflections?’
‘Yes, Miss Bridges,’ chorused the class.
‘Now,’ said the teacher brightly, ‘Rebecca, perhaps you could give Mr Phinn a précis of what we have been doing.’
A tall girl with long dark brown locks tied back neatly in a pony-tail, turned to face me. ‘Over the year, we have been reading and discussing the poems in the anthology which we have to study for our exam this coming June. We have covered sections on “Childhood”, “Friendship”, “Hopes and Dreams”, “Sons and Daughters” and now we are on the final section called “Reminiscences”.’
‘Thank you, Rebecca,’ said Miss Bridges. ‘Take over please, Ruth.’
Another smart young woman turned to face me. ‘We have all been asked by Miss Bridges to select one of the poems from the last section and do a presentation on it. We have read all the poems through in class and, with one or two exceptions, we all found them very dull and dreary. Most of them are about death. Miss Bridges said she has seen more’ life and laughter at a state funeral, didn’t you, miss?’
The teacher gave a small embarrassed smile.
‘I suppose the examiners think that such poems will encourage deeper study and greater discussion than lighter verse,’ I hazarded. ‘More to get your teeth into.’
‘Amusing poems can have depth and lead to interesting discussions,’ retorted the girl. ‘Don’t you think?’
I was reminded of the headmistress’s earlier words about the students having sharp, enquiring minds and their predilection for arguing and presenting their views quite forcefully. ‘Yes, indeed they can,’ I conceded and decided to keep a low profile from then on.
‘So most of the poems we have looked at,’ continued the pupil, flicking through the book on her desk, ‘are pretty depressing. There’s “Come not when I am dead”, a really morbid poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, a rather overrated poet in our opinion. Then there’s “Death of a Recluse” by George Darley, for whom death seems to be a way of life. “Lament for the Death of Thomas Davis” by Samuel Ferguson, an Irish writer who succeeds in lowering our spirits to the point of suicide. And “A Poison Tree” by William Blake. Not a barrel of laughs. None of us have picked these because they were universally unpopular.’
‘“Has picked”, Ruth. Don’t forget “none” takes the singular,’ chided Miss Bridges.
‘Sorry, miss,’ said Ruth.
‘All the poems, with the exception of four, were written by men, all of whom are dead,’ said the girl at the next desk. ‘I don’t understand why examiners choose such depressing writers. Why can’t they put in some funny poems, like Ruth said, by poets who are still alive? People of our age enjoy amusing poems. Death is the last thing on your minds when you are sixteen.’
‘Young people have aspirations,’ said Miss Bridges philosophically, ‘old people have memories. The young have dreams, the old have visions. It has been ever thus.’
‘Young people never think about death, though, Miss Bridges,’ said another pupil. ‘Old people think about little else. My grandma is forever talking about the fact she’s well past her three score years and ten.’
‘Tell Mr Phinn, Sarah, what we are doing today,’ prompted the teacher. I could tell that she felt the discussion was leading us away from the point of the lesson.
‘We have all chosen a poem that we liked and we have been asked to learn it,’ continued the girl. ‘We have to say why we chose it, what we like about it, what parts we did not understand and then be prepared to answer some questions.’
‘Do you feel that is a reasonable activity, Mr Phinn?’ asked the teacher.
‘Yes, certainly I do,’ I replied, genuinely looking forward to what promised to be a most interesting lesson. So often I sit at the back of a classroom listening to the teacher dominating the lesson with a very passive group of pupils not confident enough to challenge a view or offer a personal opinion. It would be quite a change, I thought to myself, to hear the students doing the lion’s share of the talking and, from what I had heard so far, I imagined that they would have quite a bit to say. I could tell that these pupils would, as the Yorkshire saying goes, ‘not be backwards in coming forwards’.
‘Now, Bethany,’ said Miss Bridges, ‘I think it is your turn, so if you would like to tell us all about the poem you have chosen?’
A small girl, sandy-haired with saucer eyes behind green-framed glasses went to the front of the room. ‘Well it’s one of the more depressing ones, Miss Bridges, I’m afraid, but I really like it. Actually, it made me cry. It’s called “Requies-cat” and it’s simple and poignant, has a gentle rhythm and very effective rhymes. It’s by Oscar Wilde.’
‘Most people think of Oscar Wilde as a very flamboyant figure,’ said the teacher, ‘with his fancy clothes and green carnation in his buttonhole, the author of witty plays like The Importance of Being Earnest, but he could write some very melancholy poems and this is one. Off you go then, Bethany.’
‘I suppose some people might think this poem is very sentimental,’ said the girl, ‘but Oscar Wilde wrote it when he was only thirteen years old, just after his little sister, Isola, had died of a fever. So, here goes. “Requiescat” by Oscar Wilde.’ The girl then recited the poem in a slow, soft tone of voice, ending, a few moments later, with:
Peace, peace, she cannot hear
Lyre or sonnet,
All my life’s buried here,
Heap earth upon it.
There followed an animated and intelligent discussion of the poem, in which the whole class joined, the teacher occasionally interrupting to clarify a point, ask a probing question, challenge a view or offer a comment. She was positive, encouraging, good humoured and moved the discussion along at a good pace.
The next student had picked an equally melancholy piece of verse, ‘Requiem’ by Robert Louis Stevenson. She recited it with superb timing:
Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This is the verse you grave for me:
‘Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.’
‘And what do you understand by that line, “And I laid me down with a will”?’ asked the teacher. ‘A bit tricky, that. Any ideas?’
A very studious-looking young woman at the front raised a hand. ‘The line is ambiguous, isn’t it, Miss Bridges?’ she said.
‘I think I would agree there, Daisy,’ said the teacher. ‘Would you like to hazard a guess as to its meaning?’
‘It could mean that he had a determination to die, an intention to give up, in a way welcoming death after an interesting and fulfilling life. Some people when they get old and tired feel that they are ready to die. I remember my great-grandmother reached ninety just after my great-grandpa had died. She just lost the will to live after that, and a couple of weeks later died herself. She told my mother that she was going to see George – that was my grandpa’s name – turned her face to the wall and just closed her eyes. She never feared death. There was nothing medically wrong with her – she just felt it was time for her to go. She “laid herself down with a will”. It might mean this. It might, on the other hand, have a literal meaning, that he was actually buried with his will, with his last will and testament placed in the coffin with him. Perhaps he had a sense of humour and by taking the will with him had the last laugh on those hoping to inherit all his money.’
‘It’s an original speculation, certainly, Daisy,’ remarked the teacher.
‘It would mean, Miss Bridges,’ added the girl, ‘that he died intestate.’
The girl at the next desk to me pulled a face, leaned over in my direction and remarked, ‘Don’t they have horrible names for men’s diseases?’
I was busy trying to suppress my laughter when I heard my name mentioned and sat up smartly like a chastised schoolboy. ‘I don’t think we can let Mr Phinn leave,’ said Miss Bridges with a twinkle in her dark eyes, ‘without reading a poem himself or perhaps reciting one he has learnt by heart. Have you a favourite poem, Mr Phinn, one that you could share with us and tell us why you like it?’
‘I do have a favourite poem,’ I replied, ‘but I am afraid it’s another sad one. When I recall it, I remember my old English teacher, Miss Wainwright. It was her favourite poem and she introduced us to it in the sixth form.’ All faces turned in my direction as I recited ‘She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways’ by Wordsworth.
‘Beaut
ifully spoken, Mr Phinn, if I may say so. I wonder if someone told you that Wordsworth is my very favourite poet, too. I was telling the girls that good poetry is so wonderful to read and listen to and write themselves but it tends to have very bad press. When I was at school it was drummed into our unwilling heads and we never related it to the real world. It was about elves and daffodils and written by rather insipid lank-haired men in velvet jackets, dying consumptive deaths on chaises longues. It was only when I met a remarkable teacher in the sixth form, Miss Ruddock, who sounds rather like your Miss Wainwright, Mr Phinn, that the magic door of poetry was opened for me. Yes, hearing Wordsworth impresses upon us that the real world was his concern and he described it more accurately and more powerfully than most other poets.’
Miss Bridges glanced at her watch. ‘Well, we near the end of our lesson, so I need to give you some notes to add to those of your own and set the homework. One thing that comes through very clearly in all these poems, for me, is the need for these poets to tell those who come afterwards about a much-loved person, whether it be little Isola with her “bright golden hair” or Lucy “whom there were none to praise”. They have in a sense immortalised them. They will live forever and be read about for many years to come.’ She paused for a moment and then said rather wistfully, ‘I suppose, in one sense, we all would like to be remembered.’
Listening to that diminutive woman in the long brown skirt and white blouse that bright February morning with the sunlight streaming though the small window, I was back in the classroom of my own English teacher, remembering her warmth, intelligence and commitment. It had been my unquestionable good fortune to have been taught by Miss Wainwright, I thought to myself, to have had my mind stretched, my aspirations raised and my love of poetry developed. In thinking of her at that moment and recalling all the things she did for me, she was in a sense in that classroom with us.
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 16