For the remainder of the day I watched one excellent English lesson after another. I saw Shakespeare acted with confidence and vitality by the younger pupils, I listened with rapt interest as the third form pupils debated the pros and cons of fox-hunting – and, considering the countryside which lay not far from the school, wasn’t at all surprised when the pro lobby won by a large margin – and I joined in a lively discussion with the sixth form on changes in the English language. Just before the end of the school day, I visited the library to inspect the range of books there. The wood-panelled room, with cosy alcoves where the older students were working quietly, was crammed with tomes from floor to ceiling.
‘May I ask what you are doing?’ I asked three girls almost hidden behind a tower of books.
‘Yes, of course,’ one of the students replied. She was a round, jolly-looking girl with curly red hair. ‘You’re the inspector, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed,’ I replied.
‘We’re working on an ‘A’ level history essay about Marie Antoinette,’ the student told me. ‘I don’t know whether you know anything about her?’
‘Not a great deal,’ I admitted. ‘Only that she was reputed to have said, when she heard the people were without bread, “Let them eat cake.” She was quite a cruel woman by the sound of her.’
‘I think she has been misjudged,’ the girl informed me, smiling. ‘It’s rather sad to be remembered for that comment which she probably never said anyway. We have been reading her last letter to her sister, Elizabeth, just before her execution and it paints a very different picture. It tells of someone who was very brave, resigned to her fate, a loving mother. You know, I think that at the end she achieves true greatness. Her life changed overnight from incredible luxury and power to poverty and degradation. I suppose it was far worse for her to be locked up away from her children, without food, water or clean clothes because she had had so much.’
‘I never knew she was imprisoned,’ I said. ‘I thought she went to the guillotine with her husband.’
‘No, no, they humiliated her first, locked her up, mocked her, treated her dreadfully but she was proud and courageous, right to the end when she climbed the steps to the guillotine. She was paraded through the streets of Paris in a cart to be beheaded – a quite pathetic figure in a dirty starched bonnet with a shaven head and red cheeks.’
‘What does she say in the letter?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘She is writing to her sister, asking her to take care of her children, pleading with her to remind her son to always remember their father’s last words about not seeking to avenge their deaths. She comes across so unlike the callous woman who was supposed to have said, “Let them eat cake.” As I said, I suspect she never said that anyway. The main themes in the letter, and it’s true for all the other aristocrats in prison waiting to be executed, are concern for her family, asking forgiveness from God for past sins and pleas for her not to be forgotten.’
‘You like history, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ replied the girl. ‘I think it’s because Miss Johnson, our teacher, brings it to life. We learn not just about people’s lives but about their feelings, thoughts, motives, often through what they wrote.’
‘So what is the point of studying history, would you say?’
‘They say the best way of predicting the future is to study the past.’
‘And what lessons do you think we learn from history?’ I asked.
‘That people haven’t changed,’ the girl replied without a second thought.
‘And what about the school? Do you feel you are receiving a good education?’
‘It’s a brilliant school,’ replied the girl simply. ‘I’m sure you’ve discovered that today.’
Miss Bronson sat behind her large roll-top desk with David, Gerry and myself facing her on the hard chairs. We must have looked like the three monkeys – hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil. It was four o’clock and we were there to give the headmistress the benefit of our ‘deliberations’.
‘Well, Miss Bronson,’ David began, peering through his spectacles at his small black notebook, ‘in summary, the mathematics faculty is highly successful, achieves excellent results and covers the examination syllabuses well. There is a need for more up-to-date text books and the rooms are somewhat drab but generally things are in a very good state.’
‘And the teaching?’ enquired the headmistress.
‘Excellent,’ replied David simply.
‘The science faculty, too, is highly successful and achieves first-rate results,’ said Gerry. ‘It is well managed and the teachers work well as a team. There is, however, a need for extra resources, particularly on the technology side and the laboratories need some modernisation.’
‘And the teaching?’ enquired the headmistress again.
‘Excellent,’ said Gerry.
‘The English faculty is also highly successful and achieves very good results,’ I said. I saw the corner of the headmistress’s mouth twist into a slight smile. ‘And before you enquire, Miss Bronson, the teaching is also excellent.’
‘Well, that is all very reassuring. The staff, from what I have heard, tell me that you have been most pleasant and professional and the gels, I gather, have found you friendly and interested. I am sure there are areas which we need to improve – one always strives to be even better – and I look forward to receiving your full and detailed written reports. I cannot guarantee that your recommendations, if they involve a deal of money, can be implemented but we shall certainly consider them. Of course, if the county were able to finance new mathematics text books and extra resources in science…’ She left the sentence unfinished and showed her set of magnificent white teeth.
On my way down the path to the car park a short while later, I paused for a moment beneath the towering statue of Sir Cosmo. The fat pigeon I had observed earlier on the monumental head pecking at a piece of bread, now had a mate. The two birds sat gently cooing and preening on the shoulders of the imposing figure. Poor Sir Cosmo, he looked rather more of a pigeon fancier or a circus performer than a powerful magnate. As I looked up at him, I thought of Miss Bridges’ words: ‘I suppose, in one sense, we all would like to be remembered.’ Miss Wainwright and Miss Bridges might not have had poems written about them or statues erected in their memory, but they would live on in the hearts and the minds of those whom they had taught.
10
When the call arrived from Mrs Savage summoning me to Dr Gore’s office, I had a shrewd idea what the meeting would be about. Following my conversation with Harold concerning the appointment of the new Senior Inspector, I had rather expected to be called to see the Chief Education Officer but it had been so long in coming I had begun to think that it would never happen.
Mrs Savage got up from behind her large computer-covered desk as I entered her domain. She was wearing another expensive outfit in reds and greens, was liberally bedecked in an assortment of heavy jewellery and her hair was gathered up on top of her head in carefully arranged curls, held in place by a metal comb. She looked positively biblical.
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn. Dr Gore is expecting you,’ she said, and crossed the room to open the door into the CEO’s office. She gestured me to enter Dr Gore’s large office with the great glass-fronted bookcase full of leather-bound tomes, comfortable chairs and the director’s huge mahogany desk.
‘Come along in, Gervase,’ said the CEO. Mrs Savage stood back but remained in the room, looking expectantly at Dr Gore. ‘That will be all, Brenda, thank you,’ said the CEO. ‘And I don’t wish to be disturbed.’
‘What about the telephone call you are expecting from Councillor Peterson?’ enquired Mrs Savage.
‘If he calls, tell him I shall ring him later.’
‘And remember you must get in touch with Lord Marrick regarding tomorrow’s interviews. I did say that you would —’
The CEO cut her short. ‘Brenda,’ he said slowly and distinctly as if speaking to a naughty child,
‘I do not want to be disturbed.’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Savage, sweeping out of the room with a swirl of multicoloured silk and a jangle of jewellery.
Dr Gore waited until the door was closed before confiding, ‘She is very well meaning but sometimes a trifle overzealous.’ I could think of many words to describe Mrs Savage, I thought to myself, but ‘well meaning’ did not readily spring to mind. ‘Do sit down, Gervase.’ The CEO smiled a rather unnerving, thin-lipped smile and stared intently at me for a moment over the top of his gold-framed spectacles. I shuffled nervously in my chair. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. First of all, how is Miss Bentley? What an ideal couple you will make. When is the happy day?’
‘Christine is well, thank you,’ I replied, ‘and our wedding is on April 15th.’
‘Good, good,’ he murmured. ‘Nothing nicer than a spring wedding. Not long to go now.’
‘No,’ I replied, wishing he would get to the point.
‘And have you got yourselves fixed up with a house yet?’
‘No, not yet. We’ve seen a cottage in Hawksrill but I think it’s a bit out of our price range. It comes up for auction soon but I fear it will go for far more than the asking price.’
‘Well, you never know. Nice part of the world up there. Very picturesque.’
‘Yes, it’s very pleasant.’
Polite conversation over with, the CEO leaned forward, steepled his long fingers and rested his elbows on the desk. ‘Now, I have asked you to pop in because there is something I would like to talk to you about.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I had an idea you might.’
‘Tomorrow, Dr Yeats’s successor will be appointed and I wanted to have a word with you about your unsuccessful application. I intended speaking to you before now but life is so frenetic, isn’t it, and we have all been so very busy, haven’t we? However, I know that Dr Yeats has had a word with you.’
‘Yes, he has,’ I replied.
‘I am sure that you must be very disappointed but, you know, both Dr Yeats and I feel it was a little soon for you to put in for such a post. We both feel that you lack the necessary experience and expertise at present to take on the role of team leader. In time, I have no doubt you will become a senior inspector and, should a vacancy arise in a few years’ time, I would most certainly welcome an application.’
‘I see,’ I replied. ‘Well, thank you for explaining things, Dr Gore. I am very grateful.’
I really did not want to go over my unsuccessful application yet again. I had had post-mortems with Christine and Harold and Sidney and David and my parents and countless others who had heard the news. I heartily wished I had listened to Christine in the first place and not put in for the wretched job. I just wanted to get on with my life and put the whole sorry business behind me.
‘Perhaps it would have been sensible if you had had a word With me before you submitted an application, I would like to think I am approachable enough for that.’
‘Yes, of course you are,’ I replied, wishing that the interview would reach a speedy conclusion.
Dr Gore stroked his chin and leaned further back in his chair. ‘I want staff in the Education Department to feel they can come and talk to me at any time. That if they ever want to have a little chat about anything, anything at all, they know where I am.’
‘Yes, I appreciate that, Dr Gore.’ When would either of us, I thought, bearing in mind the ‘frenetic’ and ‘busy’ lives we both led, have the time for ‘a little chat’? Apart from anything, there was the small matter of getting past Mrs Savage without an appointment; it would be harder than getting past a scrap-yard Rottweiler.
‘You see, Gervase, I don’t want people to think I’m this remote figure up here in my ivory tower, out of touch with people. I want everyone in the Education Department, this team of ours – and that’s what I think we are, a team working together with a shared vision and core values – to feel that they can share their ideas, concerns and aspirations with me and that their contributions are valued. That is what good leadership and management is all about.’ I smiled to myself. Dr Gore had clearly been on a management course in the not-too-distant past. ‘So, if in future there are things you want to discuss, well, my office has an open door.’
‘Thank you, Dr Gore,’ I said, ‘I’ll remember that.’ I prayed that this would be the end of his homily.
‘Good, good,’ he said, smiling like a hungry vampire about to sink its teeth into a helpless victim. ‘You will appreciate also that we do need some fresh blood.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘We need someone to take us forward, meet the constant challenges facing us in education and manage a talented, if rather unusual and sometimes a little prickly, team of school inspectors. So, I hope you are not too disappointed with our decision not to call you for interview and understand the reasons for rejecting your application.’
‘No, not at all. I mean, yes. I mean, no, I’m not too devastated and, yes, I understand your decision.’
‘Good, good,’ he murmured. I got up to go, desperate to get out of the office, but he continued: ‘Now, there is another matter with which I hope you are in a position to help out.’
I sat down again. I just knew what was coming next. I could tell by the way he smiled, steepled his fingers again and stared over his glasses.
‘Now, Gervase, I have a little job for you.’
The interviews for the Senior Inspector post were held the following day. All the inspectors were in early and gathered in the larger office for a cup of coffee. Harold was looking very smart in a charcoal-grey suit, white shirt, highly-polished shoes and carrying a black, leather-covered clipboard. He looked as nervous as a candidate for the job, pacing up and down the office like a caged animal.
‘Harold,’ sighed Sidney, ‘I would be most grateful if you would refrain from wandering around like a lost soul or, if you must, do it in your own office. You are putting us all on edge. And I wish you would dispense with that ridiculous black clipboard – you look as if you are about to measure someone up for a coffin.’
Harold was clearly not taking much notice. He stopped pacing, however, and glanced at his wristwatch, rubbed his chin and looked abstractedly into the middle distance.
‘What time are the candidates arriving, Harold?’ I asked.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Harold, ‘did you say something, Gervase?’
‘What time are the candidates arriving?’ I repeated.
‘Oh, not until nine. Interviews begin at nine-thirty. I think I’ll drive up to the SDC, though, to make sure everything is ready.’
‘But it’s not eight o’ clock yet,’ said Sidney. ‘Connie will still be buffing up her brasses, swabbing her floors, wiping her surfaces and poking into every conceivable orifice with that fearsome feather duster of hers.’
‘Someone might arrive a bit early,’ said Harold thoughtfully. ‘I’d better go, just to be on the safe side.’
‘What are the candidates like?’ I asked.
‘Well, it’s a little difficult to say, really. Of the five up for interview, three are men and two are women. All are very well qualified and in senior positions already in the educational world. It’s an excellent field.’
‘What are they like as people though, Harold?’ asked David. ‘Are they personable, pleasant, congenial, easy to get along with? Have they a sense of humour? Are they people people or systems people?’
‘I’m not psychic, David,’ replied Harold, chuckling. ‘I haven’t met any of them yet. I’m only going on what was on their application forms which seemed to me to be first rate. Of course, I cannot go into details contained in their references.’
‘But you must have got a feel for them,’ said Sidney. ‘A gut reaction.’
‘Look, I am not on the interview panel, so it is irrelevant what I think or feel. My function today is merely to make sure things go smoothly. I’m not directly involved.’
‘You were when I was interviewed,’ observed
Gerry.
‘Ah, yes, but because this is for my replacement, Dr Gore feels that it would not be appropriate for me to attend. He has consulted me, of course, and I had a say in the shortlisting. The full Education Sub-Committee will be present at the interviews so I think there are quite enough people involved.’
‘Will they have to go through what I had to endure?’ asked Gerry. ‘The formal presentation, interviews, sociometric, psychological and personality tests, informal conversations with all sorts of people? It really was a nightmare.’
‘Yes, they will, I’m afraid. It is a long and rigorous process but we do want to get the best person for the post, don’t we?’ Harold glanced self-consciously in my direction and coloured a little before continuing. ‘Now, I hope that you will all be at the SDC at about five-thirty when we should know who my successor is and you will have the opportunity of meeting him or her.’
I had an early appointment some way away so I walked with Harold to the cars. ‘It will be strange not having you around,’ I said. ‘I hope your successor will be as helpful and supportive as you have been.’
‘Oh, I’m sure he or she will be. Did Dr Gore have a word with you, by the way?’
‘Yes, he did,’ I replied, recalling the conversation I had had with the CEO the previous day and wondering if the new Senior Inspector would be someone with whom we could ‘share our ideas, concerns and aspirations’. As I strolled with Harold across the formal gardens in front of County Hall I had a feeling that things would not be quite as happy in the office when he had retired. I would find out soon enough whether my premonition would turn out to be true or not.
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 17