I read the letter. I was stunned.
‘The Prime Minster has asked me to inform you, in strict confidence, that he has in mind, on the occasion of the forthcoming New Year Honours, to submit your name to The Queen with a recommendation that Her Majesty may be graciously pleased to approve that you be appointed a Member of the Order of the British Empire.’
‘Connie, this is no joke,’ I told her, running my finger over the embossed crest and address at the top of the letter. ‘It’s the real thing!’
‘Don’t be so daft!’
‘It is.’
‘And who would want to give a medal to a cleaner?’ she asked.
‘The Queen,’ I said, ‘that’s who.’
‘It’s Mr Clamp’s idea of being funny,’ she said, but there was a hint of doubt now in her voice. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, Connie. This is an authentic letter from 10 Downing Street. You’re getting a medal.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘Not at all.’
‘You mean they want to give me this – what was it?’ she asked. ‘An MBE?’ Connie stood there, shaking her head.
‘This is wonderful,’ I said. ‘Many many congratulations,’ and I planted a little kiss on her cheek.
‘Mr Phinn!’ Connie squeaked, turning bright pink.
‘But it’s got to be kept secret until the Honours List is announced in the New Year,’ I cautioned her. ‘You shouldn’t have told me or anyone – except perhaps Ted – until it’s official. It says in the letter that you have to keep it to yourself, it’s in the strictest confidence, until the announcement.’
‘Well, I didn’t know it was for real,’ she said. She looked flustered and now her face began to drain of colour. ‘You wouldn’t have me on, would you?’ asked Connie, gripping my arm.
‘No, Connie, I’m not having you on.’
‘You mean I’m getting a medal?’ she murmured. ‘You mean, I’m actually getting to meet Her Majesty at Buckingham Palace, that I’ll get to talk to the Queen? I mean, how would the Queen know about me?’
‘I believe she – or more likely the Government – reviews recommendations that are sent in. It’s not only retiring politicians, pop stars or footballers that get medals. You’ll now have the letters MBE after your name,’ I told her.
‘I think I’m going to faint,’ she said, resting her hand on the table and bending over like a broken puppet.
‘Don’t forget – you mustn’t say anything to anybody,’ I warned her as I caught sight of Geraldine and Sidney heading in our direction.
‘Connie, are we going to get a glass of sherry or not?’ asked Sidney. ‘We’ve been here a good half hour and not a sign of any libation. And when can we make a start on that delicious-looking repast which you have so beautifully prepared?’ Connie stared into the middle distance and said nothing. She had a puzzled faraway look on her face. ‘Connie! Are you all right? Did you hear me?’
‘You look ill, Connie,’ said Geraldine taking her arm. ‘Would you like to sit down?’
‘No, I’ll be fine, Dr Mullarkey, thank you very much,’ she replied vacantly. ‘I just feel a bit funny, that’s all. I’d better see to the drinks.’
After she’d left the room Sidney said to me, ‘I don’t know what you were saying to Connie but you appear to have frightened the life out of her. She went out of this room looking like an extra from The Village of the Damned.’
‘I’ll go after her,’ said Geraldine.
‘No, I’ll go,’ I said.
I found Connie in the kitchen. She was sitting behind the hatch crying. ‘Now, now, Connie,’ I said, putting my arm around her shoulder. ‘Why the tears? You should be over the moon.’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she said, sniffing noisily. ‘I’ve come over all unnecessary, as my mother used to say. It’s the shock, I suppose. Meeting the Queen. I thought it was a joke, that it was Mr Clamp playing his usual fun and games.’ She shook her head. ‘To think that anybody would want to give me a medal for cleaning toilets and doing a bit of dusting.’
‘You do more that that Connie,’ I told her, ‘much, much more.’
‘Brave people like my father, they get medals,’ she said. ‘People what make a difference in life. I have Dad’s medals on the sideboard at home. I polish them every week. I don’t know what he’d make of this, I really don’t.’
‘He’d be so proud of you,’ I said. ‘You make a real difference to people’s lives, Connie, and if anybody deserves a medal, it’s you.’
‘I just do my job, that’s all,’ she said, choking back a sob.
‘You do more than that. Now, come on, dry those eyes and I’ll help you with the sherry. And, remember, you must reply to the letter at once telling them you will accept the award or they’ll think you don’t want it. Also, remember, not a word about the letter to anyone.’
When we arrived back in the lounge area, we discovered Dr Gore had made an appearance with Mrs Savage. His PA was dressed in a striking cerise silk dress with a feather boa draped around her shoulders and, as ever, jangled with expensive jewellery. She was never knowingly underdressed was Mrs Savage, and rarely missed an opportunity to show off yet another new outfit. She was in conversation with Miss de la Mare and David as I approached them with the tray of sherry.
‘So is it a quiet Christmas for you this year, Mrs Savage?’ the Chief Inspector was enquiring.
‘Good gracious, no, Miss de la Mare,’ Mrs Savage replied, giving one of her all-too-familiar patronising smiles. ‘Quite the opposite, actually. I’m spending the holiday with a friend in the South of France. The Riviera is quite something at this time of year.’
‘Whereabouts?’ asked David.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Mrs Savage.
‘Whereabouts on the Riviera are you going?’
‘San Tropez,’ Mrs Savage told him. ‘And are you familiar with the French Riviera, Mr Pritchard?’
‘Not at all, never been,’ he replied.
‘Then why do you ask?’ she asked, giving him a withering look.
‘Just interested, that’s all,’ he said, helping himself to a glass of sherry. There was mischief in his eyes. ‘As a matter of fact, our Captain at the Golf Club has a place in the South of France. Now that’s a coincidence isn’t it? And I believe his place is in San Tropez. He always spends Christmas out there.’
‘Really,’ said Mrs Savage, taking a glass from the tray and assuming total disinterest.
‘Of course, you know Tadge – Lord Manston – don’t you, Mrs Savage?’ said David. ‘You did a bit of the old liaising with him over the CEO’s conference.’
‘Our paths have crossed,’ she replied, looking extremely uncomfortable.
‘Perhaps you’ll bump into him in San Trop,’ said David casually.
‘If you will excuse me, Miss de la Mare,’ said Mrs Savage, turning to the Chief Inspector. ‘I think Dr Gore wants a word.’
‘That was very naughty of you, David,’ I said after Mrs Savage had moved away with a jangle of jewellery. ‘You don’t really think she’s spending Christmas with old Tadge, do you?’
‘Very likely,’ replied David. ‘Plenty of other women have stayed with him over the years, from what I’ve heard. I told you he was a bit of a roué.’
‘You never know,’ said Miss de la Mare, chuckling, ‘Mrs Savage might return after Christmas as Lady Manston. Now, that would be interesting.’
‘Perish the thought!’ exclaimed David. ‘Mrs Savage with a title! Lady Brenda! I can’t bear to think about it.’
Sidney gatecrashed the conversation. ‘So what was all that about with Connie?’ he asked me. ‘She was uncharacteristically taciturn.’
‘She’s leaving,’ I told him.
‘Leaving!’ exclaimed Sidney and David together.
‘I didn’t know about this,’ said Miss de la Mare.
‘Nobody did,’ I said, ‘well, apart from Dr Gore. Connie says she wants to go quietly.’
&nbs
p; ‘Go quietly?’ repeated Sidney. ‘Connie?’
‘That’s what she said.’
‘Whatever will we do without her?’ said David.
‘The place just won’t be the same,’ added Sidney.
Our discussion was interrupted by Dr Gore who, tapping a spoon on his glass, called for attention.
‘Colleagues, friends, before we enjoy the Christmas fare that Connie has prepared for us, I guess it is incumbent upon me to say a few words at this convivial occasion.’ He coughed and then slipped with ease into one of his famous monologues. ‘This term has been a particularly successful one. Standards in schools have continued to rise, the Education Department’s budget looks as though it should see us through to the end of the financial year, the school closures – which could very well have been most contentious and time-consuming – were effected with the minimum of complaint and only one or two hiccoughs, and my NACADS Conference was a resounding success. Indeed, Sir Bryan told me as he departed back to the metropolis that he was most impressed with the sterling work we undertake in the county.
‘But, colleagues, friends, I cannot let this occasion pass without mentioning one particular individual, someone who has been a stalwart in the Education Department – loyal, reliable, hard-working and never stinting in the work she has undertaken for the many years I have known her. She has been a great asset to the Education Department and I would like to acknowledge that this evening.’
Mrs Savage, standing to the right of Dr Gore, gave a slight smile of appreciation. She reminded me of a film star waiting to receive an Academy Award.
The CEO continued. ‘I have discovered that in life there are four kinds of people. There are the wishbones and they are the dreamers. There are the jawbones and they are the talkers. There are the knucklebones and they are the critics. And then there are the backbones and they are the ones who carry the load and do the work. The person to whom I am referring has been the very backbone of the Education Department. I speak, of course, of Connie.’
I was watching Mrs Savage, and her face was a picture. She looked like a startled ostrich. In contrast, the colour drained again from Connie’s face and she looked ashen and deeply uncomfortable. Fortunately, I was holding the tray of sherry or, had she been dispensing it, it would undoubtedly have clattered to the floor.
‘Connie wrote to me at the beginning of this month,’ continued Dr Gore, ‘tendering her resignation and saying she wished to leave at the end of this term. She wanted no fuss, no leaving celebration, nothing special. She wished to retire quietly. Well, for once, Connie, you are not getting your own way.’ Dr Gore reached behind him for a large box wrapped in silver paper. ‘I should like to present you, on behalf of all in the Education Department who have so valued your good offices, with this gift, in appreciation of your loyal and devoted service over the last forty years.’ There was a round of enthusiastic applause. ‘And, you know, Connie,’ said the CEO, raising a hand, ‘if it were up to me, I’d give you a medal.’ I knew then who had recommended her for the award. ‘Perhaps Miss de la Mare, you might like to say a few words.’
‘Thank you, Dr Gore’ said the Chief Inspector, moving forward. ‘I should just like to echo your comments. None of us, with the exception of your self, had any idea Connie was leaving us. She will be greatly missed. To repeat one of my colleagues, the place won’t be the same without her. I speak for everyone here, Connie, when I say thank you for all you have done and may I wish you a very happy, restful and well-deserved retirement.’
‘Hear, hear!’ said Sidney, not very sotto voce.
‘And I should also like to put on record my own appreciation for all the hard work everyone has put in this year, and for the welcome you have given me as Head of Department. I came to this great county of rolling fells and trickling becks, austere moorland and soft green dales, twisting roads and endless limestone walls, and felt immediately at home. It is a vast and beautiful landscape, God’s own country, but it is the people in Yorkshire who make it so special – their warmth, hospitality, blunt honesty and cheerful good humour. So thank you, thank you so much for making me feel so very welcome. Now,’ she said, turning to Connie who was standing in front of her, clutching the large silver box, ‘perhaps you would like to open your present.’
Connie took the box to the table and loosened the paper from around it. She lifted the lid off the box, and peered inside. ‘Oh, goodness me, how l… lovely!’ she said, and drew out a large ugly shiny gold clock.
26
During the final few weeks of term, teachers and pupils everywhere had been preparing for Christmas. Highly-decorated fir trees in large tubs stood in entrance halls, wreaths of holly and laurel hung on doors, cribs with brightly-coloured figures had been taken from storeroom shelves, dusted down and arranged in classrooms, walls had been decorated with Christmas scenes, and nativity plays had been rehearsed and then staged throughout the county. I have always loved the weeks leading up to the year’s most celebrated festival, both now and when I had been a child myself.
I was not aware of it at the time but, looking back, I realised I had had a charmed childhood and the very best life could offer – the combination of loving parents and dedicated teachers. I had assumed that all children, like myself, had parents who were, like the weather, always there – parents who never missed the opportunity of celebrating anything good that I did, however small; parents who told me stories and read to me every night; and parents who expected a great deal of me yet convinced me that I was as good as any of the other children. I think my parents believed that their first duty was to make me happy.
Of the many children I have met in the course of teaching and inspecting schools, some had been lucky and, like me, had had the very best; the world, to use one of Connie’s expressions, was ‘their lobster’. Some like Michael, with disabilities, had mountains to climb, but they often possessed the determination and strength of character to get to the top. Others like Miranda would feel the pressure of excessively self-assertive and overly ambitious parents who won’t allow them to have a carefree and happy childhood. And then there were children like Terry – angry, lonely, mixed up, troublesome – who have a hard time of it growing up. Before he was taken into care, there was nothing in Terry’s home except anger and unhappiness; there were no kind words of encouragement, no saving moments of fun; there was nothing to look forward to, nothing to strive for. He, of all children, deserved to have the very best teachers, teachers like Miss Bailey and Mr Hornchurch, who were enthusiastic, respectful, good-humoured, and who brought compassion, respect and laughter into the lives of the children they taught.
Wandering round Fettlesham on a cold, damp Saturday afternoon, a couple of weeks into my job as a school inspector, I had come on a second-hand bookshop down a narrow alleyway. I already had quite a collection of old books that I used to use in class when I was teaching – traditional fairy stories and fables, poetry anthologies, old-fashioned picture books, even defunct reading schemes. I had decided to go into the shop to see if there was anything of interest on the shelves.
The interior of the shop was as cold and damp as the world outside, and was deserted save for an elderly man who sat behind the counter, his nose in a small book. He looked up briefly at the sound of the tinkling bell but then returned to his reading and left me alone to browse. Some time later, I returned to the counter with the two books I had decided to buy.
The first book was a tattered specimen with a faded red leather binding but with what must have once been finely-tooled lettering; its pages were creased and discoloured. The book, written over a century before, by one Thomas Cobden-Sanderson, was about childhood. In it, I read later, he wrote of the qualities he hoped to inculcate in Richard, his five year-old son. Of course, I never thought at the time that one day I would have a son of that name, too. The qualities that Thomas Cobden-Sanderson listed seemed to me to sum up what the good parent should endeavour to instil in the young: politeness, kindness, obedience, patienc
e, unselfishness, fortitude, courage, truthfulness, self-control, application, modesty and reverence. I remember wondering at the time just what young Richard Cobden-Sanderson had made of himself in the world with such a start in life.
The proprietor handled the second tome with great reverence, stroking the covers with long fingers. It was clear he was reluctant to sell it. The book had a sturdy rust-coloured cover and was called Dale Folk, Character Sketches in Prose and Verse and had been written by Dorothy Una Ratcliffe over fifty years earlier. It was a treasure chest of anecdotes and stories, verses and memories and illustrated with detailed line drawings and delicate sketches.
‘I shall be very sorry to see this one go,’ he had told me sadly. ‘I often used to take it off the shelf and read from it. And it’s still in very good condition.’ He had looked at me for a moment before adding, ‘But I feel certain you will give it a good home.’
‘How do you know that?’ I’d asked, intrigued.
‘Young man,’ he’d said, ‘you have spent the best part of an hour browsing the shelves, handling the books, turning the pages. You lost track of time. I can tell you are a lover of books.’ Despite my protestations he would only take two pounds.
That night, in my cramped flat above The Rumbling Tum café, I had read Dale Folk from cover to cover, learning much about the people of the Dales who would soon become so special to me. It was a work of considerable poignancy and beauty, shrewdly observant, with a genuine flavour of the humour, plain-speaking, generosity and occasional dourness of this unspoilt rural people.
I had recently picked the book off the shelf at Peewit Cottage and re-read some of the chapters. Before shutting it, I had turned to the note printed near the front as a sort of dedication. ‘The people in this book you will find anywhere so long as you really wish to meet them.’ Having now spent over four years as a school inspector in the magnificent county of Yorkshire, I had indeed met a veritable cast of them: Harry Cotton, George Hemmings, Thomas Umpleby, Hezekiah Longton, Maurice Hinderwell, Lord Marrick, Andy – gamekeepers and gardeners, shepherds and lords of the manor, pest control officers and lollipop ladies, not to mention the many teachers and the wonderful children of the Dales.
The Heart of the Dales Page 39