I did not meet Matty again until after lunch when I joined the infant class. Sometimes when I visited schools I would read the children a story. This was a good opportunity for me to assess the children’s confidence and proficiency as speakers and how attentive they were as listeners. I could also test them on their knowledge of words and spellings.
I gathered the small children in a half circle around me in the Reading Corner, the grandiose name for a square of carpet, a couple of large coloured cushions and an easy chair. The infants’ teacher, Mrs Prentice, sat at the back. My story was about Lazy Tom, a fat ginger cat with green eyes who slept for most of the day but got up to all sorts of adventures by night. I had just started the lively account when a large child with a plump face, frizzy hair in huge bunches and great wide eyes interrupted loudly.
‘We ‘ad a cat!’ she shouted out.
‘Did you?’ I replied.
“E were really, really ‘orrible. ‘Ee killed birds.’
‘I’m afraid all cats do that,’ I told her. I then endeavoured to continue with the story. “Now, one bright sunny summer’s day, Lazy Tom —”’
‘And ‘e killed mice, an’ all!’ the child shouted out. “E used to bring ‘em in t’house and play wi’ em on t’carpet and then ett ‘em up. ‘E used to bite their ‘eads off an’ all and –’
‘What’s your name?’ I asked the child.
‘Tequila,’ she replied. ‘I’m named after a drink.’
‘Tequila Sunrise,’ I murmured.
‘No,’ pouted the child. ‘Tequila Braithwaite.’
‘Well, Tequila,’ I said, ‘I want you to listen to the story very, very quietly. You are spoiling it for everyone else. You can tell me all about –’
‘But I were tellin’ you about mi cat,’ interrupted the girl.
‘Well tell me later,’ I said rather more sharply.
‘Can’t I tell you now?’
‘No,’ I replied, fixing her with the look only teachers use.
I managed to continue for a couple of pages, aware of Mrs Prentice, with the folded arms, sitting smugly at the back of the classroom and clearly enjoying my discomfiture. Anyone who thinks that a class of thirty lively infants is easy to handle, I thought to myself at that moment, should try reading them a story. There is always a Tequila. It wasn’t long before the child was shouting out again.
‘Our cat were called Max and ‘e were really, really smelly and ‘e scratched and hissed an’ all.’
‘Well, Lazy Tom was not like that,’ I told her. ‘He was a nice cat. “Now, one cold, dark night Lazy Tom crept down the garden path —” ’
‘’E were run ovver by a bus,’ announced Tequila.
‘Who was?’ I asked.
‘Max.’
‘Well, I am very sorry to hear it. “Now, Lazy Tom —” ’
‘My granny wasn’t sorry,’ said the child. ‘She said it were good riddance. My granny dribbles in ‘er knickers.’
The teacher came to my aid. ‘Tequila!’ she snapped. ‘Listen to the story!’
I managed to finish the account of Lazy Tom. The children listened, even Tequila, with mouths open and eyes (as we say in Yorkshire) like chapel hat pegs. Matty was the exception. He sat a little away from the other children, a small pathetic figure with his head down.
‘And here’s a picture of Lazy Tom,’ I said, turning the picture book around so the children could see the fat cat with the bright ginger fur and large green eyes. Matty glanced up.
‘My gran’s gorra fur coat just like that,’ remarked Tequila. ‘But it ‘ant gorra an ‘ead on it.’
‘Now children,’ I said, deciding to ignore Tequila’s latest snippet, ‘I would like to ask you a few questions about the story.’
‘Ask me! Ask me!’ cried Tequila waving her hand in the air like a daffodil in the wind. ‘I like questions.’
‘No, I’m going to give someone else a chance,’ I told her firmly. ‘You’ve had quite a lot to say this afternoon, Tequila, and now it’s somebody else’s turn to speak to me. Now, just listen.’ I smiled in the direction of a small girl with long plaits and a serious face who had listened to the story without a sound or a movement. ‘What about you?’ I said.
‘She’s shy,’ Tequila told me. ‘She dunt say owt.’
‘She might, given the chance,’ I said, breathing out heavily in exasperation.
‘She won’t, she’s dead shy.’
‘Well, shall we ask her?’ I asked.
‘I’m tellin’ you, she never says owt. She never does,’ persisted the child.
‘Tequila!’ exhorted Mrs Prentice.
The little girl at the centre of the discussion looked down coyly. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her gently.
‘’Er name’s Eleanor,’ Tequila told me, ‘and she’s dead shy. She never says owt. I’ll tell you about ‘er.’
‘No, you won’t!’ I cried.
‘But she won’t say owt,’ retorted the girl.
Then a loud and angry voice came from the side of the room. It was Matty. ‘For God’s sake, woman, shut yer gob!’
Tequila looked startled and never said another word that lesson.
When the bell rang for afternoon break, the children changed into their outdoor shoes, put on their coats and gloves. Tequila, I noticed, had recovered and was regaling the teacher with a story about her mother hoovering up a mouse the day before and then flushing it down the toilet. She wrapped herself up in a bright red coat with matching accessories. It looked as if butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. When she saw me she made a beeline in my direction.
‘My teacher tells better stories than you,’ she told me bluntly. ‘I din’t like that story of yours about that cat.’
‘I think it’s playtime, Tequila,’ I told her. ‘Why don’t you go outside and get some fresh air.’
‘I like my teacher,’ she said. ‘I heard ‘er tellin’ Mrs Gardiner I was “a right little madam”.’ With that she skipped off in the direction of the playground.
Matty took off his soiled plimsolls wearily and pulled on a pair of scuffed shoes and an old anorak with a ripped sleeve. Poor sad little scrap, I thought.
As I was heading for the staff room with the teacher, I noticed little Eleanor hovering outside the classroom door.
‘Hello, Eleanor,’ I said cheerfully.
‘Can I tell you something?’ she whispered.
‘Of course. What do you want to tell me?’ I asked, bending down and looking into the small dark eyes.
‘My Auntie Rachel’s got sixty-five roses.’
‘Sixty-five roses?’ I said. ‘She’s very lucky your Auntie Rachel, isn’t she?’
The child shook her head. ‘No, she’s not. It’s not nice having sixty-five roses.’
‘I thought your auntie would really like so many beautiful coloured flowers with their lovely smell.’
‘It’s not nice having sixty-five roses,’ she persisted quietly.
And then it dawned upon me. Her auntie had just died. These were the flowers at her funeral.
‘Has your auntie died?’ I asked gently.
‘No,’ said the child in a voice deep with indignation. ‘She’s got sixty-five roses!’
Mrs Prentice, hearing the exchange, and seeing my puzzlement and the child’s, explained with a wry smile, ‘She means cystic fibrosis, Mr Phinn.’
Driving back to the office that afternoon, I began to think of the children I had met during the last couple of weeks: John and Russell, Hugo and Alexander, Kirit and Roisin. All of them, I guessed, came from homes where there was justice and honesty, joy and grace, compassion and love. And then there was Matty, that sad little boy with the grubby face and the tight little mouth. I thought about our own unborn child, and promised myself that I would make him or her as happy a child as possible. Christine and I had discussed names for our baby. If it were a boy, we thought we might call him Matthew. The name means Gift of God.
8
I arrived at the office one l
unchtime a week later in rather a sombre mood. I still had little Matty on my mind and Mrs Gardiner’s words ‘Whatever will become of him?’ kept interrupting my thoughts. Just what future lay in store for that sad little boy? Mr Frobisher had also reared his head again and the whole sorry business at King Henry’s was still preying on my mind. The very last thing I wanted to hear was Julie’s resounding laughter coming down the stairs.
‘Someone’s in a good mood,’ I said gloomily, as I entered the room.
‘And someone’s obviously not,’ came back Julie’s quick riposte. She was perched on the end of a desk in a ridiculously short denim skirt and tight-fitting pink jumper, sharing something presumably very amusing with Geraldine. ‘Why aren’t you at West Challerton?’ she asked bluntly. ‘You’re supposed to be running a course there this afternoon, aren’t you?’
‘Not until four o’clock,’ I told her, heading for my desk. ‘It’s an after-school session. In any case, I’m not running the course until next month. This is a planning meeting and it’s the last thing I want today, I can tell you. Mr Pennington-Smith is not my favourite headteacher.’
‘I sympathise,’ said Geraldine.
It was a rare occurrence for the super-efficient Dr Mullarkey to be in the office. She would write up her reports at home, having put her young son, Jamie, to bed, and she tended to hide herself away in the Staff Development Centre at lunchtimes in order to catch up with the office paperwork without interruptions. She was a bit of a mystery was this pretty, slender young woman with raven-black hair and great blue eyes. We knew very little about her past and I had to admit that I, along with my colleagues, was intrigued to know who was the father of her child. Sidney – of course it had to be Sidney – had once brought up the matter of her little boy’s parentage and received short shrift.
‘My private life is my private life, Sidney,’ Geraldine had told him sharply. ‘I do not wish to discuss it.’ And that was the end of the matter, but we still longed to know. ‘So, what is your course about?’ Gerry now asked me.
‘Language and learning,’ I told her, pulling a face, ‘and I am not looking forward to it at all.’
‘I never feel comfortable in Mr Pennington-Smith’s company,’ she said. ‘He’s forever blowing his own trumpet and criticising the former headteacher. You should be flattered he’s asked you to run a course for him, Gervase. He doesn’t strike me as the sort of man to listen to advice.’
‘Tell Sidney about it,’ I said, recalling his difference with the headmaster about the place of art and design in the curriculum.
‘What happened with Sidney?’ asked Geraldine.
‘Don’t ask,’ said Julie. ‘Get Mr Clamp on to that particular subject and you’ll be here till the cows come home.’
‘Julie’s right, it’s a long, long story,’ I told her. ‘Anyway, it’s not Mr Pennington-Smith who has asked me. It’s a newly-appointed English teacher who has been given the responsibility of arranging some training for the staff.’
‘From what I have seen of the science department,’ said Gerry, ‘they need it. To describe them as moribund would be an understatement. Mind you, Mr Pennington-Smith is giving more time on the timetable for the sciences this year. That’s one good thing.’
I could have described Sidney’s reaction to this initiative but I had a lot to do so resisted the temptation.
‘Well, I’d better get on with this little lot.’ I picked up the heap of papers in my in-tray. ‘Oh, by the way, Julie, I was hoping to have a word with Harold, if he’s in.’ I needed to talk to him about the Frobisher situation.
‘He’s been in since seven this morning,’Julie informed me. ‘But he’s not to be disturbed this afternoon for at least another hour. He’s had Dr Gore, Councillor Peterson, Lord Marrick, various governors, everyone bar the Queen, on his phone all day. Something’s going on at County Hall by the sound of it. All very hush-hush.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ I said.
‘There’s been comings and goings all week,’ said Julie con-spiratorially. ‘I’ve never seen County Hall so busy. It’s been a beehive of activity. People buzzing about all over the place. The last time it was so hectic was when that headteacher ran off to Scarborough with the school secretary and the school fund. I was over in the Post Room early yesterday morning picking up your mail and that Derek – you know, the gangly lad with the spectacles and big ears – said he’d heard a real barny going on in Committee Room Two, Monday afternoon. Raised voices, slamming doors and banging on tables. And then Marlene on the switchboard said her hands were red raw putting calls through to Dr Gore. Of course, she wouldn’t tell us what about, but something’s afoot, you mark my words. Then I saw the Savage woman – the Queen Bee herself – buzzing about like somebody not right in the head, swirling about in her fancy outfit, jangling her jewellery and pretending to be somebody important.’
‘I guess we’ll hear soon enough,’ I sighed, starting to sort through the papers.
‘Are you all right, Gervase?’ asked Geraldine.
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I replied. ‘Just a bit preoccupied at the moment. What’s this?’
I had come upon a bright yellow sheet of paper with ‘URGENT’ printed in large black block capitals at the top.
‘That’s what we were laughing at,’ said Geraldine. ‘It’s Mrs Savage’s latest memorandum. You know she’s been named as the ‘Health and Safety’ contact in the Education Department?’
‘Huh!’ grunted Julie.
‘Well, she seems to be taking her new role very seriously,’ said Geraldine.
‘She’ll be in combat outfit next,’ added Julie, ‘going on courses for bomb disposal.’
‘Listen to this.’ Geraldine cleared her throat and read from her copy of the yellow piece of paper: ‘“Urgent! Health and Safety Circular Number 1: Suspicious Packages. Should you discover a package, parcel, box, bundle, envelope, container or any other suspect receptacle” – Mrs Savage never uses one word when five will suffice – “with protruding wires and/or stains and/or powdery substances and/or residues which might be emitting unusual noises and/or has a strange odour, do not attempt to touch, loosen, open, move, shake or interfere with it, and under no circumstances must it be immersed in water. This constitutes a suspicious package.” ’
‘You don’t say,’ said Julie sarcastically. ‘I would never have guessed.’
Geraldine read on. ‘“Should you find such an item, contact the County Council Civil Protection Unit (the CCCPU) immediately on extension 2222 and inform the designated Heath and Safety Education Liaison Officer, Mrs B. Savage, on extension 6666.”’
‘She must think our brains are made of porridge,’ said Julie. She turned to Gerry. ‘I mean, who in their right mind is going to pick up a ticking box that smells and start shaking it? Just read him the next lot.’
‘Well,’ said Gerry, ‘she then has a series of other important pieces of information. Listen to this. “The County now has its own nuclear fall-out shelter at Collington. The facility, for use by senior county council members” – that presumably doesn’t include us – “in the case of nuclear holocaust or a national emergency, is situated to the rear of Roper’s Salesroom, Furnival’s Funeral Parlour and Kwik Cutz Hairdressing Salon. The official opening by Councillor George Peterson, Chair of the Planning and Development Control Committee, scheduled for December, has been postponed for the time being due to vandals damaging the shelter.” It could survive a nuclear attack,’ chuckled Gerry, ‘but not the activities of the Collington vandals.’
‘I remember once,’ said Julie, laughing, ‘when Mrs Savage sent a staffing bulletin round County Hall with an advert in it for a children’s crossing patrol warden and added that application forms were also available in Braille.’ She looked pointedly in my direction. ‘And speaking of staffing bulletins, I notice that Dr Yeats’s job is in the Staff Vacancy Bulletin this week.’
‘So I believe,’ I said casually.
The previous academic year Harold
had informed the team of his intention to retire early. He had had enough, he told us. The pressures of the job, the late nights, the increasing workload were getting him down so he had tendered his resignation. Spurred by my colleagues in the office, but not by Christine who thought I had quite enough on my plate with a new wife and a new house, I had applied. I had not even been short-listed, never mind interviewed. I had, of course, been disappointed but had been reassured by both Harold and Dr Gore that they would look favourably on an application some time in the future when I had had more experience.
A new Senior Inspector, one Simon Carter, had been appointed. Even before he had taken up the post he had managed to alienate everyone at County Hall with whom he came in contact. The initial meetings (‘to get to know each other’) convinced us that he was a systems freak, a know-all and a singularly unpleasant piece of work. Mrs Savage, who initially had taken quite a shine to him, very soon changed her mind when she came under his spotlight and he began questioning her role, criticising her correspondence to schools and indicating that he would be reviewing all her work. He also informed her that she would, if he had his way, be moving out of her plush office. The confrontation between the two adversaries had reached a wonderfully dramatic climax in the top corridor of County Hall. Everyone was greatly relieved when Mr Simon Carter gave back-word and decided to take his considerable expertise and extensive experience elsewhere. Harold had been prevailed upon to remain in post until his replacement, still to be appointed, took up his position which would be at the beginning of the Summer term. The advertisement for the position was now in County Hall’s Staff Vacancy Bulletin and would be placed in the educational journals and newspapers the following week. I therefore had a decision to make and it was not an easy one, not an easy one at all.
‘You are going to apply, aren’t you?’ asked Julie, breaking into my thoughts.
‘I’ve not decided yet,’ I replied.
‘You ought to,’ said Gerry. ‘I reckon you’d have a really good chance this time round.’
‘Well, we’ll see,’ I told her, starting to open my letters.
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