Head Over Heels in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  We had had about an hour of what I reckoned to be fairly constructive discussion when he placed his folded hands carefully in front of him, like a priest about to hear confession, and said, ‘I have to say, colleagues, that there seems a great deal to be done. I have been appointed, as you are aware, to take the service forward, to breathe some fresh air into the department and thus changes will be necessary. It is often the case, I have found, that in large education authorities, such as this, which have been relatively successful in retaining high standards and which have rebuffed the pressures to jump on every educational bandwagon that happens to roll up, that a certain complacency develops. There is a general feeling that everything is working well – so why change things? This complacency very often extends from the senior officers right down to the humble cleaner of the Staff Development Centre.’ I could not resist a smile and he pounced on it at once. ‘Is there something which amuses you, Gervase?’ asked Mr Carter, like a teacher talking to a recalcitrant child.

  ‘Yes, there is actually,’ I replied. ‘You have obviously not yet met Connie.’

  ‘Connie?’ he repeated. ‘Who is Connie?’

  ‘She’s the cleaner at the Staff Development Centre and of all the words one could use to describe her, I think “complacent” and “humble” would come near the very bottom of the list.’

  ‘She’s like Attila the Hun with a feather duster,’ added Sidney.

  ‘Ah, I rather think I have met her,’ said Mr Carter without a trace of a smile. ‘There was a woman in a pink overall and with a feather duster who was quite rude and abrupt with me at the interviews. I apparently did something which displeased her – ah, yes, I failed to return my cup to the hatch.’

  ‘That’s Connie,’ said Sidney, nodding.

  ‘Anyway, that is by the by. What I was endeavouring to say,’ he continued, rather thrown by the interruption but not wishing to deviate from his prepared speech, ‘is that there is a tendency for large institutions which have plodded on in the same easygoing manner for many years and failed to move with the times, to become moribund.’

  ‘Moribund?’ murmured David. I could see he was beginning to bristle with irritation.

  ‘Yes, moribund,’ said Mr Carter. ‘Moribund. Rather set in its ways, unmoveable, lacking in vitality and verve.’

  ‘I always thought “moribund” meant on the point of death,’ observed Sidney.

  ‘Well, I’m certainly not saying that the department is at death’s door,’ stated Mr Carter, sounding more conciliatory. ‘It is just that some people, from what I have seen so far, cannot think outside the box, see the big picture, go that extra mile. Now, to be perfectly honest, I am not the sort of person to carry passengers. I want to empower people and put us at the cutting edge. I want a proactive not a reactive team.’

  ‘Don’t you think, Mr Carter,’ said David, ‘that it would be better to wait and see what you find before jumping to conclusions about the department and making changes. The county has outstanding academic results, excellent schools, a teaching force second to none, superb initiatives, a whole range of projects. Now, if that is moribund –’

  ‘Mr Pritchard, David,’ interrupted Mr Carter, ‘of course I appreciate all the hard work and have been most impressed by the splendid activities which have taken place and I would be the last person to denigrate the inspectors’ efforts, but I have read the county documents, guidelines and the school reports emanating from this office, and from other departments at County Hall and there is, to be frank, room for improvement. We must all work from the premise that we can make things better.’

  ‘I’m not saying that everything is perfect,’ started David. ‘What I am saying –’

  ‘What’s wrong with the reports?’ snapped Sidney.

  ‘To be frank,’ said Mr Carter, quietly but firmly, ‘I found the inspectors’ reports on schools certainly informative and, to some extent, useful but they were too wordy, largely lacking in focus and with a tendency to be far too anecdotal. I would like to see them sharper, more incisive. That is one of the reasons why I wished to consult with you before the start of the new term, to try and agree on a better system of reporting on schools.’

  ‘And what form will this take, or rather what form do you feel it should take?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘Well, let me explain, Geraldine,’ he said, becoming genuinely enthusiastic for the first time that morning. ‘In addition to your school-visit reports, in which you will continue to outline the school’s strengths and weaknesses and issues for action, I would like more reliable objective data recorded. I would like to set up some benchmarks. The work that Mrs Savage does for you – all those questionnaires and surveys – are of little practical use.’ Sidney gave David a knowing look. I could tell what he was thinking. ‘What I want to introduce is a teacher-effectiveness inventory, a pupil-attitude questionnaire, a classroom-climate assessment and a resources and materials audit. That sort of thing. These are the objective tools which will help us create, an extensive database of information and assist the schools in improving their performance. From this information a league table can then be devised –’

  ‘Sounds like the football pools to me,’ said David. ‘Will we have premier schools, first division schools, second division schools? Will schools be relegated? Will schools be able to buy teachers as a football team buys players? Can headteachers be sacked like football managers?’

  ‘No, no, don’t be facile,’ said Mr Carter, ‘but there will be an educational league table to encourage schools which are failing to try that bit harder, to go that extra mile. If they are compared with more successful schools, placed in competition, so to speak, with others, the poor schools will strive to improve their performance, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, not really,’ replied David. ‘I think it is more likely to be divisive. It seems to me pretty self-evident that Sir Cosmo’s Grammar will always come near the top of the league and Crompton Secondary School will always be lingering near the bottom. The pupils are of very differing abilities. It doesn’t mean that one school is better than the other. They are just different.’

  ‘I think you are rather missing the point,’ said Mr Carter irritably. ‘What I was endeavouring to explain –’

  ‘Mr Carter, Simon,’ said Sidney, interrupting, ‘we are, in addition to being inspectors, also advisers, counsellors, critical friends, Course providers, curriculum developers and many more things. Don’t you think that doing all these objective tests and assessments will take us away from one of our main tasks – that of helping and supporting teachers? Are we not in danger of spending too much time weighing the pig and not enough time feeding it?’

  Mr Carter sighed. ‘It is early days, Sidney. I am sure that when I am in post and in a position to explain my vision more clearly, you will become convinced of the value of these changes.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Well, I think this has been a most productive meeting, don’t you, but I must be on my way. I have a session with Mrs Savage in a moment.’ A number of eyebrows were raised at this declaration. ‘I’m going to touch base with her and talk through my game plan.’

  ‘That should prove very interesting,’ muttered David, undoubtedly still smarting at being told he was ‘facile’.

  And that was that. Mr Carter told us how much he was looking forward to working with us, wished us goodbye and departed.

  When Julie entered the office a moment later she found the four of us sitting at our desks, stunned into silence.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

  ‘Please don’t say anything, Geraldine,’ said Sidney as his colleague opened her mouth to speak. ‘Just don’t say a word.’

  Towards the end of that afternoon, I had a meeting with Miss de la Mare, HMI, at the Staff Development Centre to discuss the ‘Language and Literacy for Learning’ initiative. She was wearing a bright crimson silk shirt and looked terrific. To think how nervous we had all been when she first took on our area for the Ministry. We sat now in th
e small staff room and she took me through my report, staring fixedly at the page on one point, occasionally grunting with approval or nodding vigorously at other times.

  ‘Very thorough, Gervase,’ she said at last, closing the file. ‘A very thorough and well-written document which will be extremely useful when we put together the national framework. Thank you so much for taking all this trouble and spending so much time.’ So much for Mr Carter’s comments about our reports being ‘too wordy and largely lacking in focus’. I was beginning to feel better already.

  ‘Actually I found it very useful and interesting,’ I said. ‘I don’t usually have the opportunity of observing science and maths lessons. It was really instructive and, do you know, some of the very best oral work was in the art and technology lessons and some of the best written material was in history and geography. It doesn’t always take place in English which was quite a surprise.’

  ‘Well, I hope we will be able to use a couple of these reports as case studies. What I really like is the examples you quote and the enthusiasm for the really good lessons. It makes an otherwise rather serious and detailed text that bit more readable and interesting. The RE chappie sounds splendid.’

  So much for Mr Carter’s comments about our reports having ‘a tendency to be far too anecdotal’.

  ‘Mr Griffith?’ I said. ‘He was one in a million.’

  ‘Well, I’ll get working on this next week when the other reports come in and let you see the draft before we go to print. I think we’ll be able to produce a very practical and helpful document.’

  ‘Much as I enjoyed working on this,’ I told Miss de la Mare, ‘I could do without another of Dr Gore’s “little jobs” – for the time being anyway.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Gervase,’ she chuckled. ‘I’ll make certain nothing else comes your way. After all, you need to spend time with that new wife of yours. A little bird, in the form of Dr Yeats, told me you got married recently.’

  That’s right.’

  ‘To that delightful young headteacher of Winnery Nook, I believe. You are a lucky man.’

  ‘Don’t I know it!’

  ‘Well, congratulations. I hope you’ll be very happy together.’

  ‘Thanks! There have been real changes in my life over the past few months and, of course, there are likely to be more with the retirement of Harold Yeats.’

  ‘Ah yes, indeed,’ said Miss de la Mare. ‘He will be greatly missed. A true gentleman, Dr Yeats.’

  ‘And we have Mr Simon Carter stepping into his shoes next term.’

  ‘So I believe.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she replied, I know Mr Carter. Our paths have crossed on a number of occasions. Dr Yeats will be greatly missed.’

  Miss de la Mare was obviously not going to elaborate about our new SI, for she began packing her papers away in her briefcase. She knows more, I thought, and decided to engage in a little subtle probing. ‘I understand Mr Carter is very well qualified and experienced.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ replied Miss de la Mare. ‘He has amassed a great many qualifications over the years and packed a lot in. His career had been very varied.’

  ‘From what he said at our meeting with him this morning, I think he is intent on making a great many changes.’

  ‘Oh, he is a great one for changes, is Mr Carter.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Change is all very well, Gervase, but change for change’s sake can be very destructive.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If something is working well, why change it? Sometimes it is best to leave well alone.’

  ‘Has Mr Carter a reputation for changing things for the worse, then?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve said too much already. What I will say to you is that Mr Simon Carter is a very different kettle of fish from Dr Yeats. Well, I must be off, Gervase. Many thanks again for all your hard work.’

  Having been buoyed up by Miss de la Mare’s praise, I was now back in the doldrums. The scenario for the inspectors looked somewhat bleak. I stayed on for a while in the staff room and thought about the day. How one’s life and career could change so dramatically, I thought. Everything had been so perfect: getting married to the most wonderful woman in the world, finding the cottage of our dreams, working with interesting and friendly colleagues in a job I really enjoyed – the future was filled with promise. Now, suddenly, the future looked distinctly wobbly. Having sat through the meeting that morning and listened to his plans for change, I knew that I wasn’t going to get on with Simon Carter. I just knew it.

  ‘Are you going to be long?’ It was Connie standing at the door, brandishing the largest bottle of bleach I had ever seen. ‘I’ve done my surfaces and just have the Gents to do, and then I want to get off. It’s my bingo night tonight. I like everything to be ship-shape and Bristol fashion before I knock off.’

  ‘I won’t be long, Connie,’ I said.

  ‘I would have thought you would have been off long ago, you being newly married and all.’

  ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘I try not to,’ Connie said. ‘It only causes you to worry and whittle, does thinking. I went through my father’s papers last week and I couldn’t stop thinking. I put all the papers in a box when we cleared his house and I just couldn’t bear to touch them. Ted took all his clothes down to the Oxfam shop and his bits and pieces have been shared between my sisters and myself. He didn’t have much to show for all his years in the army and his time down the pit. Anyway, Ted said we ought to sort his papers out soon or we’d never do it. Looking through all the old photos and letters got me to thinking. Thinking about things I never said to him and wished I had, thinking about things I did say to him and wished I hadn’t, thinking about the times we had when me and my sisters were little and Dad used to take us down the park or up the clough. And I remembered what he said to Ted when I brought him home for the first time. “There’ll be no hanky panky,” he told him. “She’s a good lass is my Constance and she’s been brought up proper.” It did upset me, seeing all those photos and looking through all them letters and papers.’ Connie put down the bottle of bleach, and wiped a tear away with a tissue brought out of the pocket of her pink nylon overall. ‘We found this little orange wallet with the address of the War Office on the front. It was his sustificate for employment for when he came out of the army. He was wounded twice, was Dad, lost two fingers and was hospitalisationed for two months and he won medals. His colonel – Dad was in the Fourth Battalion, Duke of Wellington’s West Riding Regiment – had to give a character reference and he’d written on it, “Lance Corporal Wood is sober and honest (as far as I know)”. “As far as I know”, I ask you! He deserved better than that, did Dad. I was crying half the night.’

  ‘Well, Connie, you have many happy memories and a father to be proud of.’

  ‘I do and I am.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to finish off here, Connie,’ I said. ‘I hope you haven’t missed your bingo.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’ll bother to go now. It’s not that I ever win anything. Oh, before you go, I saw that nun last week at the bus stop and she asked to be remembered to you. That Sister Brenda.’

  ‘Sister Brendan.’

  ‘And do you know, she was dressed like a nun for once. All in black and white like a big magpie, she was. I didn’t recognise her at first because every time she’s been here for one of your courses or meetings, she’s been in a suit like the ones that air hostesses wear. I mean, I never knew she was a nun until you said. Skirt was nearly up to her knees and she had nothing on her head save for a bit of a scarf. Anyway, she was there at the bus stop in full rig, with a big bunch of gladioli under her arm. We got chatting and she said she was off to St Walburga’s to do the altar flowers. I used to do the flowers at our church, you know, but the new young vicar gets hay fever something terrible so it’s all teasels and dried twigs now. What was I saying?’

  ‘About the nun at the bus stop,’ I prompted her.

&n
bsp; ‘Oh yes. Well, while we was standing there at the bus stop this tramp comes up. He looked as if he’d been dragged through a hedge backwards and then thrown in the canal before being left to dry in the sun. And smell! He bypasses all the others in the queue and makes straight for the nun. So he asks Sister Brenda if she could spare a few old coppers for a poor gentleman of the road. She gave him short shift, I can tell you. Course, seeing a nun, I suppose he must have thought he was on to a soft touch and made a beeline for her. Anyhow, she tells him he was getting no old coppers from her because he would only spend it on the drink. Well, you would not believe the language that came out of his mouth and in front of a nun as well. “Standing there, holier than thou,” he shouts, “dressed in yer so and so nun’s habit with your so and so gladioli stuck under your so and so arm.” It would have made a stevedore blush. It caused me to colour up, I can tell you, and I’ve heard some foul language in my time, specially when I was on the cashews when I worked at the roasted nut factory. Sister Brenda didn’t blink an eyelid. She held on to her gladioli and just told him to be on his way and stop using profantities. Well, he started on again at her, cursing and swearing and heffing and blinding and telling her she ought to be ashamed of wearing a nun’s habit, looking all innocent with those so and so gladioli stuck under her arm. She was supposed to be walking in the footsteps of Jesus, he tells her. “If you don’t move on,” she told him, “I’ll be walking all the way down to the police station to get you arrested. If you want something to eat and a warm drink,” she tells him, “you come down the convent, but you are not getting any money from me to spend on alcohol.” Well, that stopped him. Just then the bus arrived and we thought we’d seen the back of him but when we climbed on, he was right there behind us. Well, I nearly died. He stands there at the end of the aisle and shouts the full length of the bus. “I can see you sitting there on yer holy so and so,” he says to the nun and then he starts quoting scripture. “You came into this world naked, sister,” he shouts, “and you’ll go out of this world naked, but you’ll still have them bloody gladioli tucked under your arm.” I mean, we all had to laugh and the loudest was Sister Brenda herself. I never knew that nuns had a sense of humour.’