When Geraldine had finally found the opportunity to get a word in, she had told Mr Pannet that her son liked school, was happy in his class and seemed to be coping with the work very well. For her, that was all that mattered at this stage in his education. ‘That’s such a sensible attitude,’ Mr Pannet had told her, smiling sympathetically and again patting her arm. ‘I just wish all parents were like you, Ms Mullarkey.’
When Jamie had arrived at school the next morning, Mr Pannet had told him that he had had a most interesting little talk with his mother, and asked what she did in her office in Fettlesham.
‘She goes out in the morning with a black bag,’ the little boy had told his teacher, ‘and comes in late with a black bag.’
‘Is she a doctor?’ Mr Pannet had asked.
‘She is,’ the child had replied, ‘but not a real one. She’s a school inspector.’
When Geraldine had opened Jamie’s reading book that evening, she discovered an envelope addressed to Dr Mullarkey. It was from Mr Pannet and all it contained was a scrap of paper on which was written in large letters: ‘Ha! Ha! Bloody ha!’
15
The Chief Education officer’s headquarters, a large oakpanelled room in the main building at County Hall, smelt of lavender furniture polish and seasoned wood. It was a sumptuous room with a thick-pile maroon carpet, heavy mahogany chairs upholstered in dark green simulated leather with the county crest emblazoned in gold on their backs. Glass-fronted bookcases stocked with red leather-bound tomes lined one wall, and framed paintings by some of the county’s most talented children were displayed on the other. A large picture window looked out over Fettlesham and up to the moors beyond.
The Chief Education officer for the county of Yorkshire sat at a huge partners’ desk set in the middle of the room, resting his elbows on the highly-polished surface and steepling his fingers before him. Dr Gore was a tall man with deep-set, earnest eyes and the unabashed gaze of one who knows his position in the world. Next to him, straight-backed and severe, sat his Personal Assistant, the redoubtable Mrs Brenda Savage, dressed in an expensive dark tailored suit with small gold buttons, a lilac silk scarf at her throat and wearing an assortment of expensive-looking jewellery. As always she looked immaculate.
‘Do sit down, will you, Gervase,’ said Dr Gore, indicating a chair facing his desk. ‘Thank you for coming to see me. I know how very busy you are, especially at this time of the year.’
‘As indeed we all are, Dr Gore,’ observed Mrs Savage, cocking her head in a somewhat arrogant fashion.
‘Quite,’ said the CEO, nodding and giving her a cursory glance. ‘Now, Gervase, I have a little job for you.’
I might have guessed as much, I thought to myself. Over the four years I had been a school inspector in the county, I had been summoned to ‘the holy of holies’, as Julie termed the CEO’s office, about nine or ten times and on every occasion I had left the room with one of Dr Gore’s ‘little jobs’. I had been asked to conduct a countywide reading survey, undertake an audit of the secondary school libraries, investigate standards of spelling, chair working parties, accompany members of the Education Committee, foreign inspectors and important visitors around schools, compile discussion papers and organise a poetry festival. And they were never ever ‘little jobs’.
‘I have had a word with Miss de la Mare,’ continued the CEO, unsteepling his fingers and tilting back in his large swivel chair, ‘and she agrees with me that you are the person best placed to take on this particular little job.’ He smiled like a basking shark and fixed me with the dark, heavy-lidded eyes. ‘Strictly speaking, it doesn’t fall into your bailiwick, but you have had the experience of organising conferences and events and such – very successfully, too, I may add. I am sure that this little job will not take up too much of your time. Mrs Savage will, of course, be working closely with you to deal with all the administration and to keep me fully informed of developments.’
‘So, it’s a conference you wish me organise, is it, Dr Gore?’ I asked.
‘Not as such,’ said the CEO. ‘Much of the work was done early last term when I selected the speakers and discussed the topics for their lectures. I just want you to deal with one or two aspects. You’ll be pleased to hear it’s not a massive undertaking. Now,’ he said, leaning forward again, ‘you may or may not be aware that I have been elected the President of NACADS for this academic year.’
‘NACADS,’ I repeated.
‘The National Association of Chief Administrators and Directors of Schools,’ explained Mrs Savage.
‘Thank you, Mrs Savage,’ said the CEO, holding up a hand to stop her speaking, ‘I am sure Mr Phinn has heard of NACADS.’
Mr Phinn had not heard of NACADS but, if he had, he might very well have suggested a more suitable acronym.
‘It is the only occasion in the history of the association,’ said Mrs Savage, ‘when a member of council has been elected a second time. Dr Gore was the president some twelve years ago and has been prevailed upon to serve again. It is quite a feather in the cap for Dr Gore and, indeed, for the county.’
‘Be that as it may,’ said Dr Gore, giving a thin-lipped smile which conveyed little more than a slight interest in what his PA was saying, ‘in my capacity as the President of NACADS, it falls upon me to host the annual weekend conference. It will begin on the Friday evening and conclude at Sunday lunch-time, so it’s nothing prolonged.’
‘It is an opportunity for delegates to hear the very best national speakers and for chief administrators and directors of schools and colleges to network,’ said Mrs Savage, adding that ‘Sir Bryan Holyoake, the Minister of Education and Science, has already intimated that he might be present.’
Dr Gore sighed and drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘Mrs Savage,’ he said, turning to face her and removing his spectacles, ‘I should be very much obliged if you would refrain from intervening. Time is of the essence. As you have pointed out, we are all very busy people.’ He replaced his spectacles.
Mrs Savage, having been put firmly in her place, pursed her lips and examined one of her long painted nails.
‘Where is the conference to be held?’ I asked.
‘Ah,’ said Dr Gore, ‘thereby hangs a story. It was to be held in the Broddington Hall Conference Centre but, as you may have read, it recently suffered a great deal of damage following a fire. I believe it won’t be open again for several months. We have had to find another venue.’
‘That sounds serious. Have you managed to find an alternative?’ I asked, knowing how difficult it was to get conference facilities at short notice.
Dr Gore beamed at me, with obvious satisfaction. ‘We have been fortunate, most fortunate indeed with the venue. Lord Marrick, in his capacity as Chairman of the Education Com mittee, has very kindly offered his own country residence, Manston Hall, as the venue for the conference. It is a quite superb Regency house and ideally suited to our purposes.’
‘Actually, Dr Gore,’ interposed Mrs Savage, unable to keep quiet for very long, ‘I believe Manston Hall was built some time earlier.’
The CEO made a small dismissive gesture. ‘The age of the building is of no consequence, Mrs Savage,’ he said testily. ‘It is an ideal venue for my conference.’ His PA leaned forward and was about to respond but thought better of it. ‘What I would like you to do, Gervase, is organise things from the school side, while Mrs Savage deals with all the administration. I was thinking that it would be appropriate to have a display of children’s work, a performance from a school choir or ensemble, perhaps a small piece of drama, an art exhibition, that sort of thing. I want the delegates to leave the county with a very good impression.’
‘If I might be allowed to say something, Dr Gore,’ said Mrs Savage.
‘Yes, of course,’ sighed the CEO.
‘I just wish to impress on Mr Phinn that he needs to liaise closely with me and keep me fully up to speed on everything that he intends to do.’ Her voice dripped with condescension. ‘It is essential
that he touches base with me before organising anything and keeps me in the loop so I can see the big picture.’
‘I am sure Mr Phinn is aware of that,’ said the CEO.
Mrs Savage, as was her wont, persisted. ‘It is just that on previous occasions, as Mr Phinn well knows, there have been – how shall I put it – certain crossed wires and misunderstandings when we have been liaising and –’
‘Be assured, Mrs Savage,’ I told her smiling, ‘I will fill you in.’
‘That’s settled, then,’ said Dr Gore. ‘I look forward to hearing about how things are progressing.’
‘There is just one other thing, Dr Gore,’ I said. ‘What are the dates for this conference? Some time next term, I assume?’
‘No, no,’ replied the CEO, ‘the end of next month.’
*
‘So what was your little tête-à-tête with the good Dr Gore about?’ asked Sidney when I arrived back at the inspectors’ office at lunchtime. He was leaning back precariously in his chair, with his feet on the desk and a mug of steaming coffee in his hand.
‘He’s given me another of his little jobs,’ I grumbled, flop-ping down in my chair.
‘You shouldn’t be so industrious and malleable,’ said my colleague, taking a huge and noisy gulp from his mug. ‘You should have told him you were far too busy and stressed.’
‘Well, I am busy,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know about being stressed.’
‘I have to say, my dear friend,’ said Sidney, ‘that I have perceived that you have recently been without your usual joie de vivre. There is a certain froideur about you, a lassitude and earnestness which is quite outré. You are positively neurasthenic.’
‘Hark at Dr Freud,’ said David, looking up from his papers. ‘Sidney, you are the last person in the world to counsel anybody. You would drive the most carefree, well-adjusted soul to suicide. You may recall that when you went on one of those stress-management courses, the tutor told you that you didn’t suffer from stress, you were more of a carrier. And, anyway, what’s with all this French? You spent your summer holidays in Italy but now you are spattering all your conversation with silly French phrases.’
‘I am a man of the world,’ said Sidney, spreading his arms expansively.
‘Give me strength,’ said David. ‘The man gets worse.’
‘It’s just that things are a bit heavy-going at the moment,’ I told them.
‘Tell me about it,’ said David. ‘These school closures are highly contentious and I have had to brave two acrimonious meetings with governors when insults and recriminations were thrown about like confetti. I am dreading speaking to the parents’ association next week.’
‘Actually, my meetings on that subject have gone pretty smoothly,’ said Sidney. ‘I merely told the audience of aggrieved governors and parents not to shoot the messenger. I was merely an unwilling conduit, a harbinger sent from County Hall to present the unwelcome news and had no power to prevent the closures. I said I fully sympathised with their concerns, agreed with their comments and would take back their views to the powers that be. They seemed quite satisfied with that. Anyway, Gervase, with regard to Dr Gore and his wretched little jobs, you must tell him No. You are far too easily persuaded, dear boy. You should have told him that you were suffering from mental, physical and emotional strain and couldn’t possibly take on anything else at the moment.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed. ‘Tell Dr Gore that? I’d have got the sack.’
‘Nonsense!’ cried Sidney. ‘You could have wrung your hands, sighed and shuffed in your chair, wiped your fevered brow and told him it was all becoming too too much for you. It would have been a coup de mâtre,’ said Sidney.
‘If you continue talking like a French phrase-book, Sidney,’ said David, ‘I’m off.’
‘Of course,’ continued his colleague unabashed, ‘I put it down to post-natal depression.’
‘Post-natal depression?’ I repeated.
‘Oh yes,’ said Sidney. ‘It doesn’t just affect mothers, you know. Fathers are susceptible too and you seem to me like a classic case. You look tired, overworked and ill-at-ease.’
‘Well, that should cheer the man up and no mistake,’ said David.
‘It happened to me when my daughter, Tanya, was born,’ said Sidney. ‘After all the euphoria of the birth and holding the little bundle in my arms, the despondency and dejection set in. I couldn’t put paintbrush to canvas for a whole year. I had sleepless night after sleepless night. I would doze off and then be woken up in the early hours to feed this wrinkled, little piggy-faced whelp, squawking and squealing and wriggling about. It was like listening to a bat being nailed to a door. And then having to change her and get her off to sleep again.
It was a waking nightmare. The next morning I would struggle downstairs, and I can promise you that there’s nothing more guaranteed to bring on nausea than having to face a bucket full of dirty nappies first thing.’
‘My dear departed Welsh grandmother had thirteen children and brought them up in a terraced house with only one tin bath,’ said David. ‘You never heard her complain. You want to count yourself lucky.’
‘Sweet angels of mercy!’ cried Sidney, ‘Please, oh please, spare us from the dear departed Welsh grandmother.’
‘Actually I don’t mind changing the baby,’ I told Sidney, ‘and since Christine is breast-feeding, I don’t have to get up in the middle of the night, so it’s certainly nothing to do with that.’
However, it worried me that Sidney had noticed I was under something of a strain. There was no doubt that the problems at Ugglemattersby were still preying on my mind. I would shortly be attending a meeting of the parents of the children at both schools, something I was not looking forward to at all.
‘Lucky you,’ said Sidney. ‘My wife had cracked nipples and, as I recall, I came out in sympathy. Lila couldn’t wear anything tight-fitting for a month. She had to express the breast milk using this peculiar-looking rubber-nozzled gadget given to her by the health visitor. Now, she was a Gorgon if ever there was. I gave her the nom de guerre of Sister Enema since she constantly asked about the baby’s stools. “My dear woman,” I told her, “the baby cannot sit up yet, never mind coping with a stool.” She was not amused.’
‘I’m not at all surprised,’ said David. ‘Very feeble. Anyway, do we have to hear all this?’ he asked. ‘If we have to talk about something, couldn’t it at least be a pleasanter topic than cracked nipples and stools?’
Sidney, however, was not in the mood to be stopped. ‘You’ll have far more important things to worry about raising a child, Gervase, than cracked nipples and stools. When that cuddly little bundle of joy gets to adolescence, shaves all his hair off, comes home sporting tattoos on his chest, answers you in grunts and lives in squalor in his room, when he wants to roam the streets at night because all his mates’ parents allow them to, and when he hogs both the telephone and the bathroom, then you will have something to worry about.’
‘What an optimistic view of adolescence,’ observed David.
‘And, later,’ Sidney went on, ‘when he embarks on a twenty-six-year-long art course at university in London, you will have to pay through the nose for his lodgings and upkeep. Then you will question whether it is worth being a father.’
‘Can you imagine having Sidney for a father?’ sighed David.
‘I’m a splendid father, I’ll have you know,’ exclaimed Sidney, ‘and always have been. I was both a model husband and father. Before work, I would take Lila her morning tea, then breakfast in bed, newspaper and the baby, all changed, washed and scrubbed. Our first Christmas with Tanya, just for a bit of a wheeze, I wrapped the turkey in the baby’s shawl and took that up instead of the baby. Lila opened the shawl to find this turkey looking up at her. Well, of course, it didn’t actually look up at her. It was plucked. “Where’s the baby?” screamed Lila. “Oh gosh!” I said. “I must have put her in the oven.”’
‘Sidney!’ I exclaimed. ‘That’s dreadful.’<
br />
‘That’s what Sister Enema said,’ Sidney continued, ‘when Lila told her about it. She said I could have dried her milkup.’ He tipped his chair forward from its perilous position, and put his elbows on his desk. ‘You know, I came in early this morning, hoping to finish some reports. It is always the same when you two are in the office together. I can never get a thing done.’
David and I looked at each other but didn’t say anything.
After a minute’s blissful silence, David asked, ‘So what’s this little job that Dr Gore has given you, Gervase?’
‘He’s asked me to help organise a conference,’ I said. ‘Our esteemed leader is this year’s president of some high-powered association called NACADS.’
‘NACADS!’ exclaimed Sidney.
‘No! No!’ exclaimed David. ‘He can’t be. You have to work in the mines to be a member of that. Dr Gore wouldn’t recognise a pit if he had one at the bottom of his garden.’
‘Mining?’ I asked puzzled. ‘What’s mining got to do with it?’
‘Ours is a strong mining family,’ David told me. ‘Generations have worked down the pit.’
‘I can see her now,’ said Sidney, ‘that old Welsh grandmother of yours, in pit boots and helmet and carrying her lamp, emerging black as the ace of spades from the mine, having shovelled nutty slack all day and wending her weary way home to prepare tea for her thirteen hungry children. It brings a tear to the eye.’
‘If you must know –’ began David.
‘Actually, we really don’t need to know,’ interrupted his colleague, leaning lazily back in his chair and looking at David with humorous idleness.
‘If you must know,’ continued David, ignoring Sidney, ‘my father was an offcial in that association. He rose up the ranks from miner to deputy. Forty-five years my father worked down the pit. Forty-five years and never missed a day.’
The Heart of the Dales Page 22