‘He upset Mrs Savage?’ demanded David in mock horror. ‘Well, if he upset Mrs Savage then he just has to go.’
‘It was quite a dramatic confrontation, I hear,’ explained Harold, ‘and the corridors of County Hall were echoing with their voices. Evidently Mr Carter got on pretty well with Mrs Savage at their first meeting but, having looked a little bit more thoroughly into her role and responsibilities and having Studied all the various questionnaires, reports and Circulars which she has produced for the inspectors, he found that there was room for improvement and for some “organisational realignment”. Although it was hardly in his remit, he began to quiz her about her administrative duties, told her she spent far too much time on inessential tasks and then when he cast his covetous eye on that plush office of hers she evidently, in colloquial parlance, “lost it”. She threatened him with Dr Gore and he threatened her with “downsizing”.’
‘Downsizing Mrs Savage!’ I exclaimed. ‘He certainly picked the wrong person to attempt to downsize.’
‘Blowing up, yes,’ added David, ‘but downsizing, oh no. The thought is inconceivable!’
‘Evidently he wanted to streamline everything,’ chuckled Harold.
‘I would have just loved to have been a fly on the wall,’ said Sidney, leaning back in his chair. ‘Simon Carter and Brenda Savage slugging it out in the long corridor at County Hall. What a sight that must have been. I am tempted to feel sorry for Mrs Savage but I will resist the temptation and just enjoy a small gloat.’
‘So he’s definitely not coming?’ I asked.
‘No, Gervase, for the umpteenth time, he’s definitely not coming,’ replied Harold. Then he added, ‘And due to his late withdrawal, you are stuck with me for the time being.’
The whole room erupted into wild laughter.
‘Is it something I said?’ asked Harold, totally perplexed.
18
I thought Harold had been exaggerating when, one day during my first year as a school inspector, he had told me about the day of the Fettlesham Show. ‘From nine o’clock in the morning until seven o’clock that evening, I am at the mercy of a queue of difficult and demanding parents, teachers, governors and whatever pressure groups have decided to make my life a misery. I am bombarded with a battery of unanswerable questions about the state of schools and schooling, I am asked to sort out impossible problems, have instant advice on all manner of things educational at my fingertips and all with a smile on my face.’
I have to admit that I had taken what Harold had said with a pinch of salt until the day of the Fettlesham Show, when I saw the poor man facing alone a phalanx of disgruntled people.
My duties at the show that first year sounded as though they would be pretty straightforward: I had been deputed to judge the children’s poetry competition. All I was supposedly required to do was judge the poems, say a few words, smile pleasantly and present the book tokens and rosettes to the five winners.
‘It’s a job of minimal duties, so you will be able to spend a very pleasant, uneventful day out,’ Harold had informed me – and Harold had been wrong. The judging of the poetry competition had been a nightmare. My decision to award the first prize to a child who had written a delightful poem – albeit a non-rhyming one – about her grannie had seemingly been greeted with disbelief by everyone save for the winner’s parents. The Dales poetess, Philomena Phillpots, a woman of apparently outstanding poetic talent and immense experience, felt that a piece of writing was not a poem unless it rhymed.
At the beginning of the summer term, Harold had called the inspectors together for another meeting to discuss the plans for this year’s Fettlesham Show. We had sat there, glumly, waiting to be told what our duties would be.
I had hardly dared ask. ‘Am I judging the poetry again?’
‘No, no,’ Harold had replied. ‘Philomena Phillpots has been persuaded to take that on, much, I guess, to your relief
‘Phew! Yes, that is a great burden lifted.’
‘However,’ Harold had continued, pausing momentarily to give me a great, wide smile displaying his impressive set of tombstone teeth, ‘you have been nominated to adjudicate the children’s verse-speaking competition.’
‘The what!’ I had exclaimed.
‘Now, don’t get all flustered and difficult. It is the competition where youngsters recite their favourite poems. It’s pretty straightforward and much easier, I should imagine, than judging the quality of a piece of poetry. Much more straightforward and less contentious and not subject to personal preference.’
‘I imagined it would be pretty straightforward when I judged the poetry two years ago and it turned out to be an experience I would rather forget,’ I had said.
‘You’ll be fine this time because you will have a couple of other judges to help you reach a decision so it won’t all fall on your shoulders.’
‘This sounds like another hot potato,’ I had murmured.
‘No, no, Gervase, not at all. It will be a piece of cake.’
‘Who are the other judges?’ I had asked warily.
‘Well, there’s Lord Marrick and Mrs Cleaver-Canning, both of whom I know you get on very well with. It will be like a day out. Like meeting old friends. Take Christine and enjoy yourself
One morning, a week after he had given us the welcome news that he would be continuing pro tem as Senior Inspector following the resignation of Simon Carter, Harold came into the main office. I was, in fact, the only inspector present so he sat himself down at David’s desk opposite mine.
‘Do you know, Gervase,’ he said, ‘the Fettlesham Show is imminent and for the first time since I have been involved, I’m rather looking forward to it.’
For the past few days, Harold had been a new man. I believe that he too had been worried by the appointment but since he had not been directly involved in it was unable to do anything more than try to ensure that he left his job as free from problems as possible.
‘Oh, Harold,’ I groaned, ‘the Fettlesham Show. I can hardly bear to think about it. Do I really have to do that judging?’
‘Yes, of course you do. To use the terminology of our late departed Senior Inspector designate, we all have to “run that extra mile, get on board, pull in the same direction, give it our best shot”.’
‘Don’t you dare start on that gobbledegook!’ I exclaimed.
‘Well, you can’t be the only one on the team to take his bat home.’
I aimed a ball of paper at him, which missed by a mile, and he laughed, ‘Sorry, it just slipped out. But, to be serious, Gervase, Sidney will be judging the art competition as usual, David is organising the children’s sports as he always does and Gerry has kindly agreed to arrange a children’s modelling and craft competition and in addition mount a science display. She is really looking forward to it.’
‘First-year fervour!’ I snorted. ‘She’ll learn.’
‘What about me,’ Harold continued, ‘stuck in that beastly hot Education Tent the whole day? At least this year Dr Gore has agreed to join me for part of the day and I shall have Mrs Savage by my side the whole time.’
‘Huh, well,’ I grumbled, ‘perhaps I’ve got off pretty lightly after all. The thought of a day behind a desk with Mrs Savage is an even more nightmarish scenario than the verse-speaking competition.’
‘Splendid!’ cried Harold. ‘You know, I think you are all rather hard on Mrs Savage. She will be invaluable in deflecting the difficult customer and dealing with contentious issues. Evidently she has become quite popular, in fact, something of a cult figure, at County Hall since her clash with Simon Carter. She does have her faults, I will admit, but when the chips are down I would prefer to have Mrs Savage in my corner rather than the opponent’s.’
And so it was that early on a bright and windless July Saturday, before the gates were opened to the general public, I made my way across the Fettlesham showground in search of the tent where the children’s verse-speaking competition was to take place. Under normal circumstances I
would have been extremely apprehensive and wishing that the whole thing were over, but that morning I was head over heels. I was walking on clouds. Nothing could possibly ruin the incredibly good mood I was in. The birds were chirping, the sun was shining, there was a spring in my step and all was right with the world – and it was not just because schools had gone on holiday the day before and we wouldn’t have to see any more of the little darlings for weeks.
‘Good morning!’ I called to everyone I saw. ‘Lovely morning, isn’t it?’
The reason for this elation was that the night before I had heard the most wonderful news. Christine and I had been snuggled on the old sofa in the partially-decorated sitting-room at Peewit Cottage when she whispered in my ear, ‘I think we will have to get the spare room decorated pretty quickly.’
‘Why?’ I had asked. ‘I thought we’d agreed not to have anyone to stay quite yet, not while the place is such a mess. Are you telling me that we are expecting visitors?’
‘Well, yes, we are,’ she had said. ‘Well, one anyway.’
‘Who?’
She had run the flat of her hand over her stomach and smiled enigmatically at me.
‘You don’t mean…?’ I had stuttered.
‘Yes, I’m pregnant.’
Our nearest neighbour, Harry Cotton, must have fallen out of his bed with the noise that I had made. I had run around the cottage like a whirling dervish, whooping and screaming and jumping in the air. It was the best news I had had since – well, since Christine had said she would marry me.
My lovely wife was going to join me around one o’clock when we intended to treat ourselves to a bottle of champagne, a leisurely lunch and then spend the afternoon looking around the exhibitions and stalls. Christine was busy with someone else that morning. While Gerry was organising the modelling and craft competition, Christine had offered to look after Jamie since the regular child-minder was on holiday. ‘We’re having a baby! We’re having a baby!’ I wanted to call out to anyone I met as I made my way across the showground. ‘I’m going to be a father! Me! I’m going to be a daddy!’ I wanted to run around the showground and yell the news at the top of my voice.
‘Don’t tell anyone just yet,’ Christine had said quietly the evening before. ‘Not until I know for sure that the baby is at home here.’ She gently stroked her stomach again. So we agreed to wait a couple of weeks before announcing it.
On my way across the showground, I passed the Education Tent and decided to call in briefly to say hello to Harold. I would have loved to have told him our amazing news. To my surprise, I found Mrs Savage seated, as stiff and haughty as ever, behind a large desk in the very centre of the tent, the desk almost disappearing under a bank of potted plants and flowers. All around were display boards and exhibition tables giving details of the Education Department. Mrs Savage was dressed for the occasion in her ‘ideal countrywoman’s summer ensemble’: bright yellow cotton jacket, wheat-coloured roll-top sweater, cream slacks, lime green silk scarf and expensive pale green boots. She was also bedecked in her usual assortment of heavy metal jewellery. As I would have expected, her make-up was faultless, her long nails were impeccably manicured and not a hair on her head was out of place.
‘Ah, good morning, Mrs Savage,’ I exclaimed, with the exaggerated good humour of a game show host. I was so happy I could have kissed even her. ‘And how are you on this bright and sunny morning?’
‘I’m very well, thank you, Mr Phinn,’ she replied formally. ‘If you are looking for Dr Yeats, he has gone in search of a cup of tea. We have already been here a good half hour and no one has seen fit to bring any refreshments around.’
‘It’s such good news, isn’t it, that Dr Yeats will be staying on for the time being?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ she replied in a non-committal tone of voice. She was clearly not wanting to prolong this topic of conversation. But I was.
‘And so unfortunate that Mr Carter felt unable to join us.’
She looked me straight in the eyes and twitched slightly but merely replied, ‘That is a moot point.’
My next comment seemed to wind her up like a clock-work toy. ‘And he had such great plans for the department,’ I remarked casually.
‘Huh, he had great plans, all right,’ she said malevolently and with a curl of the lip. ‘The least said about Mr Carter the better, as far as I am concerned. I have never seen Dr Gore so angry in the whole of the time I have been his PA. He’s such a calm, rational and even-tempered man but he was apoplectic when Mr Carter went back on his word. He had to take two aspirins and sit in a darkened room until he calmed down.’ Mrs Savage was clearly unaware that Harold had already informed me of Dr Gore’s delight when Mr Carter had reneged. Mrs Savage continued, ‘All the time I spent sending out letters and application forms, all the time spent short-listing and convening the appointment panel, a full day interviewing on top of that and then, as large as life, he informs Dr Gore he wanted something more challenging. More challenging! And what a rude and insensitive man he turned out to be!’ Her face was flushed with anger and she breathed out heavily. I had clearly touched an extremely raw nerve and I was enjoying the spectacle.
‘I thought you rather took to him,’ I commented, winding her up again.
‘Rather took to him?’ she repeated slowly. ‘Rather took to him? He was an odious little man and, as you said, it is very good news indeed that Dr Yeats will be remaining with us.’ Her voice suddenly softened. ‘I have always found Dr Yeats a perfect gentleman and very easy to work with.’ Then, a slight smile played on her lips and she looked again into my eyes ‘It will be a big man, or woman, who tries to fill his shoes, Mr Phinn.’
Touché, Mrs Savage, I thought to myself.
At that moment, the subject of our conversation padded heavily into the tent carrying two plastic cups of tea. Of all the characters in the showground that morning, Harold looked the least like a school inspector. With his huge frame, great broad shoulders and hands like spades and dressed as he was in a rather loud black and white striped suit he looked more like a Mafia enforcer.
‘Hello, Gervase. Good to see you,’ he said genially. ‘Here we are, Brenda, one cup of tea.’ He placed the plastic cup down before her. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t get that herbal stuff you usually drink but this is warm and wet and better than nothing.’
‘It will be most acceptable, Harold,’ simpered Mrs Savage, giving him a charming smile. ‘And thank you for taking the trouble to fetch me one.’ She then reached into a pale canvas bag beside her chair and produced a china mug into which she poured the contents of the plastic cup. ‘I cannot bear to drink out of plastic,’ she told us. ‘And, of course, you never know what germs you can pick up using a receptacle someone else has used.’ She took a sip and nodded. ‘Most acceptable.’
It occurred to me that there would be little danger of contracting anything dreadful from a disposable plastic cup but I didn’t say anything. Anyway, I was intrigued by their use of first names. I had never heard either of them address each other like that before.
‘I can nip back and get you a cup if you would like one, Gervase,’ said Harold pleasantly.
‘No, thanks. The verse-speaking competition is scheduled for eleven-thirty, nice and early, thank goodness, so I can get it over and done with and then relax for the rest of the day. I’m on my way to check things are organised, and just called in to say hello.’
‘Mrs Savage was telling me earlier, Gervase, that the CEO was well pleased with the “Literacy and Learning” initiative. I’m sure he will have a word with you when he arrives. I’m expecting him to join us later this morning.’
‘Really?’ I said, smiling as I realised that the pair of them reverted to formal names when it came to business. Well, why not? They had worked with each other for a good number of years.
‘Yes, he was very pleased,’ said Mrs Savage, looking at me over the rim of her mug as she took another sip of the tea. ‘Dr Gore will be sending you a memorandum thanking you and
your colleagues for your hard work with the initiative. He received some very complimentary letters from the headteachers of the schools involved who said they found the visit most valuable and informative.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear, Mrs Savage,’ I said, smiling smugly, and then rather wickedly decided to twist the knife another few turns. ‘I think everything went like clockwork. It’s good to know that Dr Gore is back to his calm, rational and even-tempered self after all the trouble with Mr Carter.’
‘Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Savage, placing the mug down firmly on the desk, ‘I am here to help Dr Yeats deal with enquiries from the general public about education and not to discuss Mr Carter whom you have an unpleasant habit of bringing up.’ She was looking quite hot and flustered again. ‘I admit I found Mr Carter a rude and detestable little man and we are well rid of him. And that, Mr Phinn, is my last word on the matter.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said meekly, and then returning to the exaggerated good humour of the quiz show host, I bid them both farewell. ‘Have a nice day!’ I called as I made for the exit.
I had only gone a few more yards in the direction of the bright red and yellow marquee where the verse-speaking competition was to take place when a husky voice boomed behind me, a voice with which I was very familiar, ‘Now then, Gervase!’ I turned to find Lord Marrick in a bright striped blazer which had seen better days, a ridiculously large coloured bow-tie and sporting a rather battered, wide-brimmed straw hat. He carried a walking stick with a fox-head handle. ‘Good to see you,’ he said, holding out a hand. ‘How are things?’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 30