‘I suppose that’s what makes what we do so different and challenging,’ she said. ‘One day is never the same as another.’
‘So, what’s the little problem with Gavin?’ I asked, reaching for my coffee.
‘Little Gavin, all of seven,’ said the headteacher, ‘arrived at school this morning obviously in some discomfort. He was shuffling away during assembly and I had to tell him to sit still on a couple of occasions. At the end of assembly, I saw him heading out of the hall like a miniature cowboy who had just got off his horse after a hard day in the saddle. He was walking down the corridor bow-legged. I asked his teacher, Miss Graham, to find out why he was behaving in such a strange manner. In the classroom, Gavin produced an absence note from his mother – he’d been away from school for much of last week– explaining, as she put it, that he was ‘a bit sore in the downstairs department’ because he’d been into hospital for an operation. She had written that it was nothing very serious, just that he’d been castrated.’
‘Castrated!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes, castrated,’ said the headteacher. ‘Well, a very red-faced Miss Graham – she’s in her first, probationary year of teaching and is of a rather delicate disposition – brought little Gavin and the note straight along to me. I discovered that he had not, in fact, been castrated – he’d been circumcised. I thought it more appropriate that the deputy headteacher, Mr Johnson, rather than myself, should have a look at it. Les was not at all keen, telling me that he could get thirty years for “looking at it”. Eventually, he was prevailed upon to examine the little boy’s problem but only in the presence of the caretaker as a witness that nothing untoward happened. Les reported back to me that Gavin’s little problem “in the downstairs department” didn’t look that bad and that the child had been sent back to his class. Gavin returned to his classroom and seemed a lot better. Then just before morning break, Miss Graham noticed to her horror that little Gavin, sitting at his desk, had his trousers and pants around his ankles and, to put it euphemistically, had everything on display for the entire world to see. “Whatever are you doing?” she asked him and he replied, “Mr Johnson told me to stick it out for the rest of the day.”’
I spluttered and spilt coffee all down the front of my suit.
One of the delights of working in schools is to hear of, and on occasions witness, such humorous episodes. Children and young people have a wonderful capacity to make us laugh – sometimes consciously but more often than not, unconsciously. Many children, particularly the little ones, are disarmingly naïve and possess the ability for such inventive thought and often use language in a surprisingly and keenly intelligent way.
A short while later, I joined Miss Graham in her classroom. I little thought that I would be taking over her lesson that Monday afternoon but that is what happened.
Miss Graham was indeed, as the headteacher had intimated, of a rather delicate disposition. She was a tall, mousy-haired, pale-faced woman whose dark brown eyes, like those of some small nocturnal tree-climbing creature, were alarmingly magnified behind large round glasses. Despite my reassurances she looked agitated when I joined her in the classroom after lunch.
‘I must tell you, Mr Phinn,’ she said at once, ‘that I’ve never had a school inspector watching me before so I am rather apprehensive.’ There was a slight quiver in her voice. She touched the nervous red rash that had appeared at her throat. ‘When I was at college, I used to get very worked up when the tutor visited the school where I was on teaching practice.’
‘I’m quite harmless, Miss Graham,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure my visit won’t be too much of an ordeal for you.’ I could not help but compare this apparently frail, frightened-looking young woman to Miss Bailey, the probationary teacher at Foxton, with her quiet assurance and disarming personality. I just wondered to myself how Miss Graham would cope in a career where she was very likely to come across some very demanding and difficult children. Perhaps she had been unusually alarmed by the incident with Gavin and ‘his little problem in the downstairs department’, so I did not allude to it and complimented her instead on the splendid classroom displays.
‘Art was my specialist study at college,’ she told me, allowing herself a small self-conscious smile.
‘And where was that?’ I asked.
‘The College of Ripon and York St John,’ she replied.
‘Ah, a very fine college,’ I said. ‘One of the very best teacher-training institutions in the country. You can’t go far wrong if you have studied there.’ I was attempting to boost her confidence and put her at ease since her voice was still trembling noticeably. ‘And how are you getting on in your first year?’ I asked cheerfully.
‘Oh, it’s not too bad,’ she said, ‘but I have to admit I do find the children very blunt and to the point.’
‘That’s Yorkshire children for you,’ I told her.
‘Yes, and they do tend to speaktheir minds. It’s a very mixed catchment area. A growing number of children come from the estate, some from the village and a large number live on the surrounding farms. The world of the estate children usually centres on what is on the television, and for the farming children it revolves around sheep, cows and pigs.’ She looked wistfully out of the classroom window at the great sweep of the dale outside. ‘Sometimes they come out with things which are quite unexpected.’ I immediately thought of little Gavin and smiled. ‘The farming children will insist on bringing things to school,’ she told me. ‘Sheep’s skulls, dead birds, hedgehogs in boxes, wasps’ nests, newts in jam jars, frog spawn, owl pellets. One day, there was a dreadful smell in the classroom. I discovered that one child had brought his ferret to school and was keeping it in his bag, which he’d rested on the radiator. He insisted on telling me all about catching rabbits with his ferret, putting a net over the entrance to their burrows and flushing out the poor creatures, which he promptly killed.’ Poor nervous Miss Graham looked like a frightened rabbit herself. ‘It’s all very interesting, I’m sure, but I have an aversion to anything like that. I don’t mind cats and small dogs but snakes and spiders and creepy-crawlies just freak me out. Last April Fools’ Day, when I was on teaching practice, one of the children in the class put a plastic spider on my desk.’ She shuddered at the thought. ‘Uuhhhh! I know it was only a silly toy but just the sight of it made me go into a cold sweat. I was not best pleased, I can tell you, and had to sit in the staff room for half an hour to compose myself. I am sure that if my college tutor had been in the classroom at the time I would have gone to pieces.’
‘Well, I promise you, Miss Graham,’ I reassured her, ‘that I haven’t a ferret in my bag and no creepy-crawlies up my sleeve.’
Having listened to this timid and rather anxious young woman, I had to admit that I was not expecting the most riveting of lessons that afternoon but I was pleasantly surprised. As soon as I had been introduced and the children were sitting up smartly at their desks, Miss Graham seemed to come to life. The nervousness she had shown earlier disappeared, and she became animated and encouraging. She had a friendly and supportive manner with the children and they listened attentively and readily responded to her questions. After she had set the children the task of writing a story entitled “A Day to Remember”, Miss Graham moved from table to table, smiling and helping the children with their work. She clearly had forgotten about the man in the darksuit with the notebook who sat inconspicuously in the corner of the classroom watching her.
After a while, I joined a small group of children to talk to them about their work and to look at their books.
‘So what are you writing about?’ I asked one child.
‘My holidays last summer,’ she replied.
‘And where did you go?’
‘Spain.’
‘Do you know the capital of Spain?’ I asked.
‘Course I do,’ she replied. ‘Letter “S”.’
One boy, a large lad with pale eyes and a rather mournful expression, sat staring at the blankpiece of paper before
him.
‘You haven’t started,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Aren’t you going to have a go?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know what to write about,’ he told me, screwing up his nose and scratching his thatch of thick fair hair.
‘A Day to Remember’,’ I said. ‘There must been a special day in your life which stays in your mind.’
‘No.’
‘Something memorable,’ I said. ‘There must have been something that you can recall – a happy memory, an accident, a visit, something like that?’
‘No.’
‘What about your birthday?’
‘I had mumps.’
‘Christmas?’
‘My granddad died.’
‘Where did you go for your summer holidays?’
‘Nowhere.’
‘Well,’ I said giving up, ‘you put on your thinking cap. I’m sure something will occur to you.’
He looked up at me with a lugubrious expression. ‘I wish I knew what to write about,’ he told me again and stared down at the piece of paper, and then turned to gaze out of the window onto the dale, where no doubt he would have preferred to be.
It was towards the end of the lesson that things went wrong for Miss Graham. She went into the storeroom for some exercise books and emerged a moment later carrying a little toy bat, blackwith rubbery wings and a furry body – the sort children buy in joke shops at Halloween.
She held the toy between her finger and thumb. ‘Now, this is very silly, children,’ she said. ‘Firstly, you know I don’t allow anyone in my storeroom. Secondly, you all know I don’t like creepy-crawlies and, thirdly, you know I warned you about playing tricks. I don’t find it at all funny, and I’m sure that Mr Phinn, the school inspector’ – all eyes turned in my direction – ‘is not very impressed with this kind of behaviour, are you,
Mr Phinn?’
What could I say but, ‘No, I’m not’?
‘Now,’ continued Miss Graham, ‘who does this toy bat belong to?’
The question was greeted with complete silence and blank stares. ‘Come along, whose is it?’ Still there was no response. ‘Well, if the person who brought it to school doesn’t own up, then I shall put it in the waste-paper basket and it will stay there.’ Just as she was about to deposit the toy in the basket, the thing she held moved. It was a real bat. It had probably found its way into the storeroom through a skylight. The little creature turned its head and squeaked. Miss Graham went rigid. The children stared dumbstruck. I could see by the teacher’s expression that she was having some difficulty in maintaining a measure of perpendicularity so, dropping my notebook and grabbing the blackboard duster, I rushed to her assistance. Taking the small trembling creature from her, I cradled it in the soft material. Miss Graham remained frozen to the spot.
‘You go to the staff room,’ I whispered in the teacher’s ear, ‘and make yourself a cup of hot strong sweet tea. I’ll deal with the little visitor.’ Miss Graham, ashen-faced, headed for the door without a word, as if in a trance.
Having deposited the bat in a small box and quietened down the now very excited and voluble class, I told the children to get on with their stories.
The taciturn boy with the pale eyes who had spent his time until then contemplating the blankpiece of paper on his desk, suddenly came to life. He waved his hand madly in the air like a poplar in a high wind. ‘Sir, please, sir!’ he cried. ‘I want to tell you something.’
‘Whatever is it?’ I asked.
‘I’ve got something to write about now, sir,’ he said with a great beaming smile. ‘“The Day our Teacher went Batty!”’
I had to go back to the office before going home that evening, and I found David and Geraldine already there. David was lounging at his desk and Geraldine was pushing files into her briefcase. They were laughing at something as I walked in.
‘You two seem in good moods,’ I commented, dumping my own bulging briefcase on my desk. ‘Had a good day?’
‘I was just telling Gerry about something that happened at Highcopse Primary that I visited today,’ said David. ‘The children were doing fractions and I thought I’d test them. I said, “If there are four children in a family sitting down for a meal and there are only three potatoes between them, how would you divide the potatoes equally between them?” The answer, of course, is give each of them three-quarters of a potato. One bright spark called out, “That’s easy,” he said. “I’d mash the potatoes.”’
I laughed out loud. That was exactly the sort of unpredictable comment that I had been trying to explain to frightened little Miss Graham that afternoon.
‘I think that’s a very sensible answer,’ remarked Geraldine. ‘Mash would go much further with lots of lovely butter mixed in.’
‘That’s not the point, and well you know it,’ responded David crossly.
Geraldine laughed and closed her briefcase with a sharp click. ‘Bye, you two, I’m off. See you tomorrow.’
‘What a waste of a pretty woman,’ sighed David after Geraldine had left the office. ‘It would be so nice if she would join in a bit more. Perhaps have an evening drink, or something – just occasionally.’ He looked morosely at his rather full in-tray. ‘I think I’ve had enough myself today. Are you in a rush, too, Gervase, or do you fancy a quick drink?’
I glanced at my watch. There wasn’t enough time to start on the notes of the English course I was due to give soon, and I thought a drink would be nice, so the pair of us walked down into Fettlesham High Street to a small pub that we sometimes used. Once we were ensconced comfortably, with pints in our hands, David returned to the theme of the things children come out with.
‘On one occasion – I think it might have been at St Helen’s –’ he said, ‘the chairman of governors was addressing the children in a primary school assembly. He was a rather pompous man, an accountant by profession, and told the children that he had been particularly good at mathematics when he was a child. “We had mental arithmetic every morning,” he informed the children, “and I was taught to calculate very quickly in my head. I can add up the bill in my head at the supermarket check-out faster than the person on the till can do it using the cash register. I wonder how many young people today, for example,” he continued, “could multiply eight hundred and eighty-eight by eighty-eight?” As quick as a flash, a voice from the back of the hall called out: “Seventy-eight thousand, one hundred and forty-four.” The pompous fool was most surprised. “That’s correct!’ he spluttered. “Well, well!” On leaving the school, he complimented Mrs Smith, the headteacher, on the outstanding mathematical ability of the child. Mrs Smith – who told me the story – had apparently observed the incident from the side of the hall, and decided not to mention that she had seen the mathematical genius using the calculator on his wristwatch.’
‘Clever clogs!’ I remarked. ‘I had a nice one the other day. A child informed his teacher that the boy sitting next to him kept “pissing” in his ear.’
‘Nasty habit, that,’ chortled David.
‘The bemused teacher,’ I continued, ‘asked him what he meant. ‘He keeps on going ‘Pssst! Pssst!’ in my ear when I am trying to get on with my work,’ the child explained.’
It was turning into one of those occasions when one silly story led to another.
David then told me about one student PE teacher, jogging with a class of fourteen-year-old students on the school fields, who had told his young charges to start running. ‘“Where to?” one boy asked. “Anywhere,” the teacher replied. The class promptly ran home, leaving behind one very cross PE teacher – I bet he didn’t make that mistake again.’ He laughed. ‘Children are so unpredictable.’
‘And yet so innocent,’ I added. ‘I heard the other day about a child who told her teacher that she knew a naughty word beginning with the letter “F”. “Well, I hope I don’t hear you using it,” the teacher said. And the child replied primly, “Oh, I don’t, miss. I always say ‘trump’.”’
I chuckled with laughter. ‘Time I made a move. I’ve got a feeling I’m on cooking duty this evening,’ I said, draining my beer mug.
17
I made my way towards the main entrance of Castlesnelling High School for the rehearsal of The Dame of Sark. It was the last thing I wanted on a Friday evening but Raymond, the producer, had phoned the office earlier that day and had very nearly burst into tears when I had told him that it was going to be very difficult for me to attend.
‘No, no!’ he had moaned, when I explained that I had a meeting that evening, which might go on until quite late. ‘But, Gervase, you have only made one or two of the rehearsals so far, and tonight is when I go through the play’s dénouement. Granted yours may only be a smidgen of a part but it is a cameo.’
My character appeared at the end of the very last act and it was true that I had only attended a couple of rehearsals. I was thankful for that and determined that never again would I be persuaded to get involved in amateur dramatics. So far it had been something of a stressful experience and was likely to continue to be so.
‘Very well,’ I had told him resignedly. ‘I’ll be there.’
Raymond was a frenetic little man with cropped dyed blond hair and a round, pixie-like face; he invariably wore a pair of extremely tight jeans and a close-fitting T-shirt, usually with some suggestive motif emblazoned on the front. He seemed to live constantly on his nerves and certainly got on everybody else’s. Rehearsals were lively affairs with him rushing around the stage, pointing, shouting, prancing, pulling faces, jumping up and down and waving his hands in the air. It was a bravura performance in itself. If someone fluffed a line or missed a cue, he would utter a sort of strangled cry before calling out in an irritatingly high-pitched, piercing voice, ‘No, no, no, no, no!’ Then he would add, brushing his brow dramatically with the back of his hand, ‘Why, oh why, do I have to work with amateurs?’
The Heart of the Dales Page 24