The Heart of the Dales
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The Heart of the Dales
Also by Gervase Phinn
The Other Side of the Dale
Over Hill and Dale
Head Over Heels in the Dales
Up and Down in the Dales
A Wayne in a Manger
Poetry
(published by Puffin)
It Takes One to Know One
The Day Our Teacher Went Batty
Don’t Tell the Teacher
Family Phantoms
THE HEART OF THE DALES
Gervase Phinn
MICHAEL JOSEPH
an imprint of
PENGUIN BOOKS
MICHAEL JOSEPH
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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First published 2007
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Copyright © Gervase Phinn, 2007
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book
EISBN978–0–141–90214–2
For
Harry John Gervase Phinn,
my first grandchild
Acknowledgements
The author would like to thank Child’s Play (International) Ltd for permission to use the extract from Little Snail’s BIG Surprise, copyright © Carla Dijs, 1999.
The poem ‘A Dalesman to His Son’ on page 381 is based on the poem ‘Mother to Son’ by the American poet, Langston Hughes.
Remembering Mr Firth
So –
You are curious to know
What sort of man he was,
What kind of teacher?
Some, I guess, would say that he was unpredictable and loud,
Heavy-handed, hard-headed, proud,
A fiery figure with his froth of wild white hair
And bright all-seeing eyes,
That he talked too much
And listened too little.
Well –
I’ll tell you.
He was a teacher
Who lifted history from the dusty page,
Re-fought battles on a chalky wooden board,
A storyteller who painted pictures of the past in vivid colour,
An enthusiast who, with bursts of energy
And eyes gleaming with a quick impassioned fire,
Resurrected shadowy characters of a bygone age:
Fabled kings and tragic queens, pale-faced martyrs and holy monks,
Princes and peasants, tyrants and warriors.
He brought history to life.
I recall
One cold November day,
In a hushed classroom
When he told the story of the sorrowful Scottish queen
Who climbed the scaffold stiffly,
Clad in a gown the colour of dried blood
To meet her fate at Fortheringhay,
And I felt that I was there.
So –
You are curious to know
What sort of man he was,
What kind of teacher?
He was the best.
1
David Pritchard, the inspector for Mathematics, PE and Games, was in rare good mood that Friday morning. It was during the schools’ summer holidays and the two of us had been busily occupied for a good couple of hours packing up all our belongings in our old place of work, ready to take to the school inspectors’ new office downstairs. We were having a break from our exertions, much of which entailed sorting through old files and putting papers no longer needed into rubbish bags – in the sure knowledge that we would require something we had thrown away within the first week of term. David, perched on the edge of a desk, was entertaining me with some amusing anecdotes related to his visits to the county’s schools the previous term.
‘There was the occasion,’ he said, smiling widely at the memory of the incident, ‘when the teacher, in an effort to test the children in their numeracy skills of addition, asked his class of nine-year-olds: “Now, children, if I laid eight eggs over here and nine eggs over there, what would I have?” “A bloody miracle,” had come a muttered voice from the back of the room.’
I hooted with laughter – I just loved the things these young ‘innocents’ came out with.
‘Another time,’ David continued, ‘a teacher was reprimanding a child who hadn’t used a ruler and had drawn a very wobbly line freehand across his exercise book. “Don’t you know what the word ‘straight’ means?” the teacher asked crossly. “Yes, miss,” had come the reply, “without water”.’
David and I were both laughing uproariously when a figure appeared at the door to the office.
Mrs Brenda Savage, Personal Assistant to Dr Gore, the Chief Education Officer, stood framed in the doorway with the usual haughty expression on her carefully made-up face. She was dressed in a tailored grey tweed jacket, tight pencil skirt, cream silk blouse with filigree lace collar, black patent leather shoes and, as was her wont, was garlanded in an assortment of expensive-looking jewellery. She looked for the entire world as if she were about to enter the set of one of those glamorous American soap operas. There was not a crease, not a hair out of place. She remained there regarding us with a self-important expression on her face.
‘May I help you, Mrs Savage?’ asked my colleague, staring over his spectacles.
‘Mr Pritchard,’ she said slowly and deliberately and giving him a decidedly chilly look, ‘I had assumed that by this time the school inspectors would have relocated themselves to the office downstairs.’
‘My dear Mrs Savage,’ said David calmly, ‘I have no desire to be impolite, much less disobliging, but we are in the very process of moving.’
‘Well, as far as I can see, Mr Pritchard,’ continued Mrs Savage, surveying the room, ‘you haven’t got very far. It is now Friday and you have to vacate these premises by today at the very latest so that Mr Reid and the Social Services team can move in at the beginning of next week. It’s on my schedule here.’ She tapped a long scarlet-painted fingernail on the clipboard she held in front of her. Mrs Savage paused a moment, waiting for a reply but when one was not forthcoming she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. ‘It appears to me that very little has been done.’
‘I am fully aware of what day it is and what needs to be done, Mrs Savage,’ replied David, giving her a
thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest. ‘I will be out of here by the end of the day, you can be quite certain of that. Come Monday, the area of the office which at present I occupy will be as empty as the North York Moors in December.’
‘I did send a memorandum,’ Mrs Savage persisted, ‘stating quite clearly that it was imperative that the school inspectors’ office be cleared in good time so that Mr Reid and the Social Services team are able to occupy it at the beginning of next week.’
‘Indeed you did, Mrs Savage, and I read your memorandum with immense interest, as I always do when I receive one of your missives. I will vacate the office by the end of the day.’ He replaced his glasses and returned to sorting through some papers on his desk.
The CEO’s Personal Assistant was as unrelenting as a starving bulldog with a juicy bone and remained at the door standing stiff and straight, looking back at David with a stern expression. Since starting my job as a school inspector some four years before, I had found Mrs Savage, as had my three colleagues, extremely prickly and sometimes downright objectionable. This dramatically good-looking widow of indeterminate age, always immaculately turned out and dressed in the most expensive and elegant of outfits, sadly did not have a personality to match. She could be by turns rude and deferential, depending on the status and position of the person to whom she was talking. And it was patently clear she did not like talking to the school inspectors who she felt had far too much clout and influence. Her dislike of us was obvious and she seemed to go out of her way to be the most irritating, ill-mannered and petty member of the Education Department. Mrs Savage had a frightening reputation, an acid manner and a penchant for burdening us with a snowstorm of memoranda on every conceivable subject.
Getting no further response from David, she now turned her frosty eye in my direction and arched a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘Mr Phinn.’
‘Mrs Savage?’ I said.
‘May I have your assurance that this office will be cleared and available for Mr Reid and the Social Services team by Monday morning?’
‘You have my assurance, Mrs Savage,’ I told her. ‘The day is yet young. All will be removed by the end of this afternoon.’
‘It’s just that there appears to be still so much in here to pack,’ she said, glancing around the room and pulling a face as if there were a bad smell. ‘That corner area looks as if it hasn’t been touched at all.’
‘That’s because it hasn’t,’ said David airily, without looking up from his papers. ‘That’s Mr Clamp’s domain.’
‘And where –’ Mrs Savage began.
‘And he’s away in Italy,’ added David.
‘Away in Italy!’ she exclaimed.
‘On his holidays,’ said David.
‘On his holidays!’ repeated Mrs Savage.
‘Even school inspectors have holidays, Mrs Savage,’ said David, looking up. ‘As the inspector for Visual and Creative Arts, he is spending two creative weeks in Venice, Florence and Rome, where he is collecting material for next term’s art courses. Then he is spending a third week in Sorrento.’
‘But this is a most inconvenient time for him to decide to take a holiday,’ she growled.
‘Mrs Savage,’ said David, ‘you must understand that we school inspectors can only take our holidays when the teachers and pupils take theirs and not in term time.’ He blinked up at her through his spectacles.
‘But Mr Clamp should have kept this week free,’ she said peevishly. ‘My memorandum specifically earmarked this week for the office to be cleared prior to the move next week,’ she continued, relentlessly pursuing her theme. ‘When it was agreed by Dr Gore that the school inspectors should have larger premises downstairs – something about which I had strong reservations, I have to admit – I indicated in a first memorandum that the move would take place during the schools’ summer holidays.’
‘But not exactly when,’ I commented.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She gave me a disdainful glance.
‘You never gave an exact date when you required us to move.’
‘I stated the date specifically in the second memorandum,’ said Mrs Savage sharply, tapping at her clipboard again. ‘It was all carefully planned. I said it in my memorandum quite distinctly, the one that Mr Clamp has clearly ignored.’
David began shuffling papers with more noise than was necessary. I stared out of the window.
‘And when will Mr Clamp be back, may I ask?’ she enquired. ‘Perhaps you can –’
‘Mrs Savage,’ sighed David, raising his hand and, in the process, stopping her mid sentence, ‘I am not my colleague’s keeper. What he does and where he goes is entirely his own concern. Knowing Mr Clamp, as we all do, you will be well aware that, like many a creative person, he is somewhat elusive, unconventional and unpredictable and is certainly not one to be easily directed by others. He is one of the world’s individuals, a maverick.’
‘Well, we will have to see what Dr Gore has to say about it,’ she replied, her face flushing with annoyance.
‘It’s not Mr Clamp’s fault,’ I told her. ‘I’m afraid your second memorandum with the dates of the move must have arrived on our desks after Mr Clamp had departed for Italy.’
‘I think not!’ she snapped. ‘I sent that memorandum out a good three weeks ago. It is typical of Mr Clamp to ignore my memoranda. I have had occasion to speak to him about it before.’
‘Well, whatever,’ said David dismissively, ‘he’s not here and no doubt at this very moment he’s lying on the beach in Sorrento.’
‘But what about all his files and folders, his cabinets and cupboards, all these pictures and posters, papers and boxes?’ Mrs Savage asked. ‘They can’t remain here.’
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Savage,’ I said, ‘we’ll move his things for him.’
David gave a hollow laugh. ‘We most certainly will not!’ he cried, emphasising the first word. ‘I do not intend moving them. I’ve got quite enough of my own stuff without lugging all Sidney’s rubbish down two flights of stairs. Not with my bad back, I’m not.’
‘Well, this is most unsatisfactory,’ said Mrs Savage. ‘It is imperative that this room is cleared today for –’
‘Mr Reid and the Social Services team to move in on Monday,’ interrupted David. ‘Yes, Mrs Savage, so you keep saying.’ Then he added mischievously, ‘Perhaps you could arrange for someone to pack Mr Clamp’s stuff? What about Derek from the Post Room?’
‘Certainly not!’ she snapped. ‘I am far too busy to arrange anything of the sort. I have a major conference for Dr Gore to organise, quite apart from all my other urgent administrative duties within the department.’
‘My, my, what a busy bee you are, Mrs Savage,’ observed David.
She ignored the sarcasm. ‘And, in any case,’ she continued, ‘it is the inspectors’ responsibility to move their own files and materials and to clear their desks.’ She glanced at the only area of the room that was empty of everything apart from the cleared desk. ‘It’s a pity that all the inspectors aren’t as efficient and well organised as Dr Mullarkey. I notice that she has moved everything of hers.’
‘We can’t all be as efficient and well organised as the inspector for Science and Technology,’ said David.
‘More’s the pity,’ she muttered.
‘Mrs Savage –’ began David in a voice threatening to brim over with fury.
‘Don’t worry, Mrs Savage,’ I interrupted, ‘the room will be cleared by the end of the day.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ she said, her mouth drawn together.
‘Is there anything else, Mrs Savage?’ asked David. ‘It’s just that we are rather busy at the moment and we do wish to make a start moving into our new offices downstairs.’ He peered over his glasses. ‘We certainly wouldn’t want Mr Reid and the Social Services team to be inconvenienced, now, would we?’
Mrs Savage gave him a look like the sweep of a scythe and made a loud clucking noise with her tongue. ‘I shall be having words w
ith Dr Gore,’ she threatened.
‘Please do that,’ Mrs Savage,’ said David. ‘In fact, perhaps he might like to give us a hand moving.’
The Personal Assistant of the Chief Education Officer departed angrily in a whiff of Chanel Number 5.
‘In all my years in education,’ said David, removing his spectacles, ‘I have never, never met such a pettifogging, tactless, infuriating and interfering person as Mrs Savage. Who does she think she is, swanning over here, speaking to us like an infants head teacher telling off some naughty children? It’s a pity she hasn’t anything better to do with her time. ‘I have a major conference for Dr Gore to organise,’ she says. Who does she think she’s kidding? When was the last time the CEO held a conference?’
‘She just likes to appear important,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t let her wind you up so much. You’ll give yourself a coronary getting so angry.’
‘Gervase,’ said David, ‘if the woman had, like any normal person given the job of organising an office move, enquired in a pleasant and good-humoured way how things were going, I wouldn’t have got all wound up. Goodness knows how such a tactless, talentless and tyrannical person like Mrs Savage has managed to get the position she has, and how in heaven’s name Dr Gore puts up with her is beyond belief.’
‘She does have some abilities,’ I said. ‘She’s quite efficient in her own way. It’s just her manner.’
‘The only ability that virago is blessed with,’ said David, ‘is to appear very busy whilst actually avoiding work of any kind. “Major conference for Dr Gore”, my foot! And what are all these urgent administrative duties within the department? She delegates everything she’s given. I don’t recall seeing Mrs Savage in her tight skirt and high heels ever risk breaking her nails taking so much as a pile of files from her office to one of the committee rooms. I’ve a good mind –’
David’s diatribe was interrupted by the appearance at the door of Julie, the inspectors’ secretary. ‘Has she gone?’ she asked in hushed voice.
‘She has,’ I told her.