At the morning break I went in search of Mr Poppleton who, I was informed by a helpful pupil, taught in a temporary classroom. I discovered an ugly shed balanced on six raised concrete blocks behind the main school building. The exterior of this mournful structure resembled a POW hut: wooden walls the colour of the slime which forms on stagnant ponds, grey asphalt roof, small square windows and a set of dirty brown steps leading up to a plywood door. It was a far cry from Mr Frobisher’s elegant room. As I headed for the hut, the door opened and there appeared, like an actor stepping onto the stage, a small, spherical individual with a smile visible from fifty yards.
Mr Poppleton could have walked straight out of the pages of a Dickens’ novel. His cheeks were as wrinkled as an overripe russet apple and his nose, of a most distinctive claret colour, was as round and heavy as a turnip. Fluffy outcrops of unnaturally bright gingery-red hair sprouted from around his impressive ears. Mr Poppleton was dressed in a loud checked suit (which was a size too small for him), a rust-coloured waistcoat (which had seen better days) and an enormous spotted bow tie. He sported a diamond ring on one fat little finger and a heavy silver chain stretched across his stomach. Mr Poppleton looked more like a circus performer or a music hall comedian than an English master in a prestigious boys’ school.
‘Mr Poppleton?’ I inquired, approaching the rotund little figure who remained standing by the classroom door, like a huge egg on legs.
‘Indeed, it is I,’ he said, beaming. ‘Vernon Poppleton at your service. And you must be the expected Inspector Fish.’
‘Phinn,’ I said. ‘It was a misprint.’
‘What was a misprint?’
‘My name.’
‘You were a misprint? How very unfortunate.’
‘On the letter.’
‘Which letter?’
‘I received a letter from the school,’ I explained, ‘with the name of “Gervase Phiss” instead of “Gervase Phinn” on the envelope.’
Mr Poppleton raised a ginger eyebrow. ‘Ah, the inimitable Mrs Winterton,’ he said knowingly. ‘She is not the most proficient of typists but few would hazard to tell her as much. I recall once she sent a letter out to parents from “The Dead-master”.’ Then he added in an undertone, ‘Not entirely inappropriate if you have met our esteemed leader. I mustn’t be unkind, but dear Mr Nelson does have the touch of death about him. He’s a physicist, you know. On another occasion, when the pipes burst in the outside toilets and the floors were awash, a notice appeared from Mrs Winterton instructing students “not to slide on the frozen water unless passed by the headmaster”. This time, she did, at least, manage to spell the word “passed” correctly but her instruction was still rather unfortunate in its phrasing, don’t you think?’
‘Well, it is easily done,’ I said, smiling.
‘Indeed it is,’ he agreed. ‘Language is a tricky and troublesome thing or, as Homer once observed, “as twisty as a snake”. That is why one shouldn’t be pedantic when the young make mistakes. There, for the grace of God, et cetera’
Obviously this opinion carried little weight with his head of department, I thought to myself, casting my mind back to the first lesson.
Mr Poppleton produced a small silver heart-shaped box from a waistcoat pocket, flipped open the top and took a generous pinch of snuff which he sniffed up his nostril with a flourish.
‘Dirty habit, I know,’ he told me, before a tumultuous sneeze.
I climbed up the steps and, when he had returned the silver snuff box to his pocket and sneezed again, loud enough to wake the dead, I shook the soft, fleshy hand which was extended. ‘Once, when I was left to my own devices,’ I told him, ‘and had to type a letter to a school, I wrote, “Dear Headamster”. Fortunately, the person in question had a sense of humour and replied, “Dear Gerbil”.’
‘Ho, ho,’ he chuckled, ‘very droll! Would that our esteemed leader had been endowed with a sense of humour. He seems to carry the troubles of the world on his shoulders. Mr Nelson is most industrious and well meaning but he is a man of very serious, sober and sombre disposition. I suppose one has to be like that to ascend to the dizzy heights of headship. I don’t suppose I should be telling a school inspector such things, should I?’ He looked about him absent-mindedly. ‘I do think it is an attribute of considerable importance in teaching, don’t you think?’
‘What is?’ I asked.
‘Why, a sense of humour. Sadly, education for some is such a deadly serious business, and yet young people are naturally very funny and do enjoy sharing a joke or listening to an amusing story. Humour, in my opinion, is highly related to learning and adds inestimably to our quality of life.’ Obviously this opinion, too, carried little weight with his head of department. ‘I do apologise for pontificating on the steps like a preacher of old. Do come along in, Mr Phinn. My little kingdom is not the most tasteful, architecturally speaking, but it is home and I can make as much noise as I like without disturbing others. Of course, it heats up like the Gobi Desert in summer and cools down like the polar ice cap in winter so I sincerely hope you are going to be warm enough. I am thermally insulated and, as you may observe, wear a suit like a shag-pile carpet. I get my suits from Fritters of Fettlesham.’
I had to smile. I had a suit, not dissimilar, from that ancient emporium, bought in the January sales at an incredibly knockdown price. It was a sort of mustardy-brown with a dog-tooth pattern in dark red; it had unfashionable wide curved lapels and large leather buttons. I had joined the interview panel at a grammar school in a cramped room as hot as a sauna. The heavy suit had stuck to my body and I had nearly fainted with the heat. I vowed never to wear the wretched garment again. In fact, I didn’t have a chance since Christine had given the jacket to a local farmer for his sheepdog to lie on, and had cut up the trousers for polishing cloths.
As I followed him into the room, Mr Poppleton remarked, ‘I was under the impression that you were to join me for the first lesson.’
‘Yes, but as I explained to Mr Frobisher,’ I told him, ‘I prefer to work to my own programme.’
‘And wander whither and whence you wish.’
‘Indeed. In fact, I joined the head of department and the fourth form for the first period,’ I said.
‘Ho, ho!’ chortled Mr Poppleton, again raising a ginger eyebrow. ‘He would not have been best pleased with that little ploy.’
‘No, I don’t think he was,’ I said.
‘I should imagine you put the very fear of the Almighty into him. I know that when we had a visitation a few years back from an HMI called Ball – a very singular man, as I remember – he did not endear himself to Mr Frobisher. Actually, Mr Ball and I got on rather well. In his report he described me as “a successful deviant”. I took it as a compliment.’
‘I’m sure it was intended to be so,’ I told him.
‘However, you are now here to watch me and it is my turn to feel the frenzied flutter of fright. The first period, which I was told you would be observing, was rigorously planned, carefully prepared and enthusiastically taught and, though I say so myself, it was quite a tour de force. This next lesson will, I fear, be rather lacklustre by comparison.’
‘I’m not really interested, Mr Poppleton,’ I told him, ‘in carefully planned lessons or rehearsed performances. The reason I don’t tell teachers when I am visiting their classrooms is to try and ensure that nothing special is prepared. I just want to see a typical lesson.’
‘You certainly won’t find my lessons typical, Mr Phinn,’ replied the teacher with mock horror. ‘Every lesson of mine is a unique experience. Now, this morning, my “little ones” –these are the first-year pupils who have just joined us from the junior and preparatory schools – are completing a poem. I do hope you like poetry.’
‘Yes, I do,’ I replied. ‘Actually, it’s an essential component of the English curriculum.’
‘That sounds dreadfully pompous,’ he observed.
‘I didn’t mean it to sound like that,’ I replied quickly.
‘I just meant it was important to teach.’
‘I fear that Mr Nelson would take issue with you on that one. He has a much more utilitarian view of language.’ Then, as if hurling an insult, he said, ‘He’s a scientist, you know.’
‘Yes, you did say.’
‘Well, I am so glad you enjoy poetry,’ continued Mr Poppleton. ‘I am always deeply suspicious of those who do not enjoy it. Poetry is not merely “an essential component of the English curriculum”, as you put it, poetry, in a sense, defines the world, it deals with the deepest emotions, it is language at its most precise, creative and vivid, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I replied.
‘I was a student at University College, Oxford, you know, and every day I would pass the marble sculpture of Shelley reclining naked on his plinth. I am a great fan of Shelley. The sculpture was destined for the Protestant Cemetery in Rome but it was too big so they gave it to his old college. Mind you, he very nearly got me rusticated, did Shelley.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Sent down. One night, a little worse for drink, I scrambled over the iron grill protecting the mausoleum and painted part of dear old Shelley a delightful shade of red.’ I was about to respond but was not quite fast enough. ‘And do you write poetry yourself, Mr Phinn?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘Splendid,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you might share one of your poems with us.’
‘I think not,’ I said.
‘Pity. Well, do feel free to look around.’
Mr Poppleton’s room was as colourful, unusual and overpowering as the man himself. Every conceivable wall space was covered with posters, prints, portraits, paintings, photographs, articles, letters and pupils’ work. It was a riot of shape and colour. From the ceiling dangled multicoloured mobiles – squares, circles, diamonds, triangles – with a few verses written on each. The windowsills were crammed with plants, some of which had given up the ghost weeks ago, feathers in jars, clay figures, carved boxes, animal skulls, fragments of pottery and glass and all manner of strange objects and artefacts. Dominating the room was an ancient oak desk of considerable proportions and remarkable ugliness with heavy brass fittings and numerous drawers. The top was entirely covered with a clutter of dog-eared folders and files, exercise books, teaching texts, thick dictionaries and numerous books of poems. Facing the monstrosity were rows of tables and hard-backed chairs for the pupils.
As the teacher busied himself rummaging through the volumes on the desk, I made my way to a shabby but comfortable-looking armchair positioned in the corner of the room. I presumed this was for me to sit in and observe the lesson. To the accompaniment of creaking wood and twanging springs, I lowered myself charily into its sagging seat, creating a small cloud of dust in the process.
Presently the pupils entered the room, went quietly to their desks and placed their bags and satchels beside them on the floor and stood facing the front.
‘Good morning, boys!’ trumpeted Mr Poppleton, with a theatrical wave of his hand.
‘Good morning, sir,’ they replied.
‘You sound positively funereal this morning,’ said the teacher. ‘A reprise, please, with a great deal more gusto. Good morning, boys!’
The response was much louder and more good-humoured.
‘Much better. Do sit down, please.’
By the door stood the boy I had met with his mother earlier that morning. He stared with wide disbelieving eyes and an open mouth at the small fat figure before him. He looked like a child who had just had his lollipop snatched from his sticky little hand.
‘Ah,’ said Mr Poppleton, displaying a set of impressive teeth. ‘A new boy. And what is your name, young man?’
‘John B… B… Brown, sir,’ stuttered the boy, twiddling his hair nervously.
‘John Brown, eh? A name in a million. Well, John Brown, you are very welcome, but you are late, nine days late to be precise.’
‘I w… w… was ill, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘I had gl… glandular fever.’
‘How very inconvenient for you, and not a little painful, I should imagine. Well, you are here now, John Brown, and glad we are to have you with us.’ He gestured to an empty seat. ‘Take a pew and Simon Morgan, who will be your neighbour from now on, will explain all there is to know about KHC. I will be with you in a moment to tell you what work we are undertaking. Now, boys,’ said the teacher, addressing the entire class, ‘we have another new face in the classroom this morning. The gentleman in the corner is Mr Phinn, a school inspector, here to see how well we are doing. I hope he leaves us with a good impression, boys. Do you think he will?’
‘Yes, sir,’ they replied.
‘Shall we say a hearty good morning to Mr Phinn?’
‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ chorused the class.
‘Good morning,’ I replied, sinking lower in the armchair.
‘Now, you know what you have to do, boys,’ continued Mr Poppleton. ‘Today I would like you to continue with the poems you started last lesson. Mr Phinn is an aficionado of poetry, as I am, and might care to tour the classroom, talk with you about your poems and read some of them.’
So while Mr Poppleton furnished the new boy with the necessary books and equipment and explained the work he was to complete, I levered myself out of the armchair to look at the pupils’ books. The boys were keen to show me what they had written and talk about their work.
‘When we arrived,’ said the first pupil I spoke to, ‘we had to write a short autobiography so “Poppo” – I mean, Mr Poppleton – could learn a bit about us.’ He opened his book to reveal a neat and informative account of his short life, together with illustrations and photographs. The work had been carefully and constructively marked in pencil. At the bottom was a long useful comment from the teacher with ideas for improvement.
‘And how do you like English?’ I asked.
‘It’s great. At prep school, I didn’t enjoy it much. We did lots of boring exercises and copying but here it’s really good. Mr Poppleton’s a bit out of the ordinary but he’s a really good teacher.’ The boy thought for a moment before adding. ‘He didn’t tell me to say that, you know.’
‘I’m sure he didn’t,’ I said, smiling. ‘So what is your poem about?’
‘We’ve been asked to write about somebody who is very special in our lives. It could be a parent or a friend, a brother or sister. I chose my Gran.’
‘Why your Gran?’
‘Well, grandparents are different from parents, aren’t they? They’re more fun, they don’t tell you off as much as parents and they give you money. Do you want to read my poem?’
‘Why don’t you read it to me,’ I said.
The boy turned a page, took a breath and read :
I like my Gran.
She’s round and wrinkly and powdery
And smells of flowers and soap.
She’s as comfy as a cushion to sit on.
When my mum shouts at me,
I go to my Gran,
And she says, ‘Never you mind, love,
Your mum was like that when she was your age,
A real grumpybum!
Beneath the poem was a small sketch in black ink of a smiling old lady with sparkling eyes and curly hair. There were tiny dots scattered on her upper lip.
‘She has a lot of spots, your Gran,’ I observed.
‘No, they’re not spots, Mr Phinn,’ the boy told me. ‘She’s got a moustache.’
The next pupil, a bright-eyed Indian boy with a ready smile, shook my hand formally. ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ he said. ‘My name is Kirit Patel.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you, Kirit,’ I replied.
I talked to the boy for a while about his reading interests, tested him on some spellings and his knowledge of grammar and punctuation and was most impressed.
‘May I look at your poem?’ I asked finally.
‘Of course,’ he said, opening his book and then waiting expectantly for me to comment. His poem, entitled
‘Shruti’, was about his mischievous younger sister and was delightfully descriptive and amusing.
‘Is it all right, sir?’ he asked eventually.
‘It’s splendid,’ I said.
‘I’ve tried to put in some colourful words,’ he told me seriously. ‘I think it makes it more interesting, don’t you? And there’s some alliteration – that’s when words in a sentence begin with the same letter. Mr Poppleton is very keen on alliteration.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said, grinning.
I eventually found my way to the back corner desk where a small boy was putting the final touches to a poem about his father.
‘Finished,’ he said, with a sigh of satisfaction.
‘May I look?’ I asked.
He passed across his book, carefully backed in shiny brown paper and with his name, ‘Russell Davis, Class 1A’, written in large, neat letters on the front. I read the first few pages of his book – the potted autobiography. It was an immensely poignant account about his young life. He informed the reader in a matter-of-fact way that he was an only child and lived with his father in a ‘pretty ordinary’ redbrick terraced house close to the town centre. There was a small bedroom where he slept, a larger one for his father, a kitchen and living room, and a back yard with a shed where he kept his bicycle. There was not a great deal of money and they rarely went on holiday. Then his description became much more thoughtful and personal. His mother, he wrote, had left when he was small and he saw her infrequently. He saw nothing of his maternal grandparents. He felt sad about this and found it difficult to understand. However, he said he was happy living with a father who was as much a friend as a parent. The poem which followed was about a father whom he described as ‘an ordinary-looking sort of man, a bit bald and overweight, the kind of man who wears shiny trousers, baggy cardigans and old slippers’, but it went on to tell how special he was and how much he loved him.
‘Your autobiography is a very honest account, Russell,’ I told him. ‘Do you not mind sharing such personal details with other people?’
Up and Down in the Dales Page 6