Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘I see,’ I mumbled, hardly able to take in what I was hearing.

  ‘So, your report was extremely effective.’ Dr Gore paused and stared again over his glasses. ‘You know, Gervase, when you applied for the Senior Inspector’s post last year, one reservation I did have about you was that you might not have the mettle to be quite as critical as sometimes it is necessary to be. You’re an enthusiastic enough young man, you get on with people, have a pleasant manner, you are hard-working et cetera but I had that nagging doubt whether or not you could be forceful enough to grasp the nettle. Sometimes one has to have a critical word, say the unpalatable. I think you have proved that you can.’

  ‘Thank you, Dr Gore,’ I said. I suppose I should have felt happy and relieved but for some reason I felt even more depressed. My report had been the means to end a teacher’s career.

  ‘Anyhow,’ continued the CEO amiably and smiling widely, ‘it wasn’t about King Henry’s that I wanted to see you.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No,’ he repeated. ‘I have a little job for you.’

  ‘Oh,’ was all I could muster up to say.

  I was well acquainted with Dr Gore’s ‘little jobs’, having been given quite a number of them in my time with the Education Department, and they were never ‘little’.

  ‘You are, no doubt, aware that I sit on several major national committees and working parties. One is the “European Intermediary Education Initiative” – the EIEI.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘EIEI enables teachers and inspectors to visit other European countries to study and compare the education systems there.’

  This didn’t sound too bad, I thought to myself and I quite cheered up. A week in Sweden or Spain or a few days touring the schools in Germany or France sounded a ‘little job’ I could very much enjoy.

  ‘Next term,’ continued Dr Gore, ‘there will be a small group of inspectors from various European countries visiting the county to look at the education we provide. It is all funded by the EIEI.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said again. It was beginning to sound like the chorus to ‘Old Macdonald had a Farm’.

  ‘I would like you to arrange for our foreign colleagues to visit a number of different schools so they may observe some lessons and talk with teachers.’ My hopes of a continental expedition were dashed. ‘In addition, you could perhaps set up a couple of meetings at the Staff Development Centre with invited headteachers and governors to talk about the education system over here and maybe organise an informal evening reception. That sort of thing. You can enlist the help of your colleagues and, of course, Mrs Savage will liaise with you and be on hand to deal with all the administration. The European inspectors will only be with us for a few days and shouldn’t number more than three or four, so it’s not a massive undertaking. Does that sound reasonable?’

  ‘Fine,’ I replied, thinking of all the extra work it would involve just when I knew my mind would be on the forthcoming happy event. Christine would need all the support and help I could give her in the months running up to the birth of the baby.

  ‘Good, good,’ murmured Dr Gore. ‘Well, thank you for coming to see me.’

  Mrs Savage was waiting for me in the outer office. She had a smug expression on her face. ‘It’s just as well you didn’t get the report back after all, isn’t it?’ she drawled, with ill-concealed satisfaction.

  I arrived back at the inspectors’ office to find Sidney regaling Gerry about Connie, the Staff Development Centre and the nude model. His colleague sat trapped behind her desk trying to look interested, her head cupped in her hands. No wonder Gerry avoided the office. Sidney stood before her waving his arms about him, spluttering and shaking his head, as if performing on a stage.

  ‘I intend to speak to Harold about this,’ he was saying. ‘The woman is a cleaner, for goodness sake, not a director of studies. She’s there to polish pipes, scrub floors, dust shelves, clean toilets, not dictate what goes on in the Centre or who visits. She’s a megalomaniac. She’s like Hitler in pink.’ He paused in his diatribe to greet me. ‘Oh hello, Gervase. You will, of course, vouch for what I say. I was telling Gerry here about the fracas at the Staff Development Centre earlier this afternoon. I merely asked Connie to ensure the heating was on next week. As you know, she usually doesn’t start the boiler until mid-November and the first frost. It was so cold there last year I could hear my bones clicking. I certainly don’t want Miriam – she’s my model by the way – turning blue. And what do I get? “Of course, Mr Clamp. I’ll make sure it’s nice and warm for you. No problem at all.” Do I heck! I get accused of opening a brothel.’

  ‘Oh come on, Sidney,’ I said, ‘you know perfectly well what Connie’s like.’

  ‘Yes, I do indeed know what Connie is like and I don’t like it. It’s about time somebody told the woman what’s what.’

  ‘What?’ asked Gerry.

  ‘What’s what, that’s what!’ exclaimed Sidney.

  ‘She needs humouring, that’s all,’ I said. ‘You just seem to wind her up.’

  ‘I wind her up,’ he cried. ‘The woman does not need humouring, as you put it. She needs sacking, that’s what she needs,’ retorted Sidney.

  ‘Sidney,’ said Gerry gently, ‘don’t get in such a state about it. Try and keep calm and don’t get all worked up –’

  ‘Keep calm!’ he exploded. ‘I am incapable of keeping calm in the face of such naked aggression, if you will excuse the unintended pun. I shall see Harold about this. He needs to have a strong word with her and remind her of her role. He needs to put the cards on the table. She either toes the line or she goes. She’s getting far above her station. Au dessus de sa gare, as one might say.’

  ‘I think poor Harold has quite enough on his plate at the moment,’ I observed thoughtfully, ‘without another problem winging its way. The new term had barely started and you began bombarding him with a problem. First West Challerton High School –’

  ‘What’s been the problem there?’ asked Gerry. ‘I wish someone would tell me.’

  ‘Don’t ask!’ snapped Sidney.

  ‘The science and technology departments certainly need sorting out,’ she said, ‘but one thing I am pleased about is that the headmaster has, at last, agreed to allocate more time for physics and chemistry.’

  ‘Don’t get me started on that,’ warned Sidney. ‘Please don’t get me started on that.’

  ‘Having sorted out the problem at West Challerton,’ I continued, ‘you now want Harold to sort out Connie. No wonder he’s ready to retire.’

  ‘Gervase,’ said Sidney petulantly, ‘that is Harold’s job. He is, after all, the Senior Inspector. He is paid more than we – pittance that it is – to deal with these problems. It is his role to sort things out. As David’s old Welsh grandmother would no doubt be moved to say: “He who collects the honey and the roses must bear the stings and the thorns.” Should you take over from him, then you will be in the hot seat, fire-fighting for us.’

  ‘That’s if I apply,’ I said.

  ‘Of course you’re going to apply. Just because you were unsuccessful before and didn’t even get on the shortlist doesn’t mean they’ll reject you again.’ Sidney was nothing, if not blunt. ‘They’re probably thinking “better the devil you know” after the last fiasco.’

  ‘Thanks, Sidney,’ I said. ‘You have such a way of making people feel better.’

  ‘I agree with Sidney,’ said Gerry. ‘I think you have a fair chance of getting the job this time.’

  ‘That’s if I want it, this time,’ I replied.

  10

  I spent a fairly uncomfortable weekend with the knowledge that Hawksrill School might be closing but decided I was not in a position to pass on the news which Harold had given me in confidence. Christine and the village would know soon enough.

  On the following Tuesday, I arrived at the Staff Development Centre early. I had received a memorandum from Mrs Savage the day before asking me to meet her to discuss the EIEI initiativ
e. ‘It is imperative,’ she had written, ‘that we put our heads together ASAP so that wheels can be put in motion.’ She had noted, having looked though my engagement sheet for the week, that I was to visit St Helen’s Church of England Primary that morning, a school just a few miles from the SDC and therefore, ‘it would not greatly inconvenience you to meet me at 0815’. Such was the tone of sharp command in the memo that I was minded to ignore it or reply that I was far too busy, but then I thought that it would be better to get the meeting over and done with. In any case, I wanted to make a start on this ‘little job’. There was a lot to do. I replied, therefore, that I would be at the SDC at the designated time.

  It was a particularly cold morning with what they call in Yorkshire ‘a cheeky wind’ as I drove along the twisting road from Hawksrill in the direction of Fettlesham. I stared in wonderment at the endless green and grey landscape wrinkled with rocks which stretched ahead of me. The views in the Dales are stunning and never cease to fill me with awe. I love travelling in this vast sprawling county with its soft green valleys and soaring fells, stately cathedrals and dramatic ruins, dark pine forests and vast, empty moors, flooded with bright purple heather in autumn. Every journey is different and every scene has a unique beauty. I slowed down to watch a formation of geese flying overhead, honking noisily as they went. Off to their wintering grounds, no doubt. What a place to work, I thought.

  The Staff Development Centre was eerily quiet that morning. I was used to Connie standing sentinel in the entrance hall. She would arrive well before anyone else and watch from her vantage point in the kitchen, eagle-eyed and stony-faced. Then, at the sight of visitors, she would scurry down the corridor to greet them. Perhaps ‘greet’ was not the most appropriate word to use, for Connie would stand there, statuesque, feather duster poised, a shimmering pink apparition with a facial expression which could curdle milk.

  I discovered Mrs Osbaldiston in the kitchen scrutinising a wodge of papers and shaking her head thoughtfully. She was a lean, elderly woman with tightly curled, silver-white hair, a small thin-lipped mouth and an amazingly wrinkled in-drawn face. A multi-coloured apron, depicting some large and gaudy flowers, enveloped her small frame. She was wearing slippers. As I approached I detected a curiously pervasive smell of mothballs.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said cheerfully. ‘You must be Mrs Osbaldiston.’

  She looked up from the papers and maintained a carefully blank expression. ‘Are you Mr Camp?’

  ‘No, I’m Gervase Phinn, the English inspector,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh, I was expecting Mr Camp, the art man.’

  ‘It’s Clamp.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘The name of the art man. It’s Clamp, not Camp. He’ll be along later.’

  ‘I thought he was Camp.’

  ‘No, no, Clamp, as in clasp, vice, fastener.’

  ‘And who did you say you were?’ she asked, screwing up her eyes.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ I replied, extending a hand. She raised a small cold hand and placed it in mine as a queen might to a courtier.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said, with an anxious look. ‘There’s been telephone calls for you this morning. I arrived well before eight o’clock and that phone started ringing as soon as I’d got through the door and it’s never stopped. I thought I was here to clean, not answer calls.’

  I explained to Mrs Osbaldiston that Julie, the inspectors’ secretary, would phone through the numbers if there was anything urgent or ask callers to get in touch with me directly at the Centre.

  ‘I’ve made a note of them on a pad in the office. I’ve not touched a thing yet, and it’s already five minutes past.’

  ‘Well, I’ll go and make the calls and leave you to it. Have you everything you need?’ I should not have asked.

  The old lady huffed, tutted and then shook her head. ‘Ee, what I need, young man, is a cup of strong sweet tea and a long sit down, that’s what I need.’ The poor woman looked as if the troubles of the world had been heaped on her small round shoulders. Then she turned her attention to the papers. ‘There’s nothing on this list what Connie left me about answering telephone calls or about any English courses here today. She never said you was to be in this morning, just that Mr Camp. I don’t think I could cope with anything else, I really don’t.’

  ‘No, there isn’t an English course on today,’ I reassured her. ‘I’m here to meet someone.’

  ‘Connie’s left this list of instructions as long as my arm,’ Mrs Osbaldiston told me, with the expression of one suffering from chronic constipation. ‘I just don’t know where to begin, I really don’t. There’s so much to do. I mean, I only said I’d do a bit of dusting and wiping and keep things tidy and ship-shape to help out, but my goodness just look what she’s left me.’ She prodded the papers. ‘I clean at the High School but I’m not expected to do all this. It’d take an army of cleaners to do this little lot that Connie’s left me.’ She flourished the list. ‘I can’t stretch, what with my bad back. There’s no question of my bending what with the legs, and I can’t over-exert myself what with my angina. Connie knows I’m allergic to bleach, and floor polish brings me out in a rash.’

  Perhaps she is in the wrong line of work, I thought to myself. ‘I really wouldn’t worry, Mrs Osbaldiston,’ I told her, ‘Connie’s a perfectionist.’

  ‘Tell me about it,’ she said. ‘I lives next door to her. Inside her house is like Buckingham Palace and her garden, you should see her garden! The lawn’s like a billiard table. There’s not a flower out of place and she uses scissors on the Virginia creeper.’ Mrs Osbaldiston clearly looked distressed. ‘Then there’s this Mr Camp. Connie’s warned me about him and his goings-on. She said he wants watching.’

  ‘Oh, he’s not that bad.’

  ‘Connie says he leaves a trail of debris and destruction wherever he goes and now he’s got these naked women coming in. I really wish I hadn’t agreed to do this but Connie’s so… what’s the word?’

  ‘Persuasive,’ I suggested.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Well, there are no naked ladies, just one artists’ model and when Mr Clamp arrives, which shouldn’t be too long now, he will deal with that.’ I smiled and patted her arm. ‘So don’t worry, Mrs Osbaldiston. You make yourself that nice strong cup of tea.’

  This proposal resulted in a remarkable transformation, as I guessed it would. The old lady visibly mellowed and a small smile came to her thin lips. It is a known fact that in Yorkshire, whatever the problem, the prospect of a cup of tea seems to have a remarkably calming effect. One might be dragged out from under the wheels of a ten-ton juggernaut, emerge half-drowned from a flash flood, stagger smouldering from a burning building, and a cup of tea is the first thing suggested.

  ‘That would be very acceptable,’ said Mrs Osbaldiston, sounding a whole lot happier. ‘I think I might just do that.’

  ‘By the way, have you put the water urn on yet?’ I asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t.’ She glanced at the papers in her hand. ‘Oh dear, here it is, look, at the top of Connie’s “To Do List”. I should have put the water on at eight. She says here that people will be wanting a cup of tea or coffee when they arrive. First thing she asks me to do and I gets it wrong.’

  ‘Well, you put out the cups and saucers in the lounge area and I’ll see to the water before I make the calls and don’t worry, Mrs Osbaldiston, everything will be fine.’ She left the kitchen, mumbling to herself, to arrange the crockery in the lounge.

  I filled the huge metal urn with water, switched it on and headed for the office. On the desk was a list of scrawled numbers: no name, no message, just the numbers. Connie’s practice was to write neatly and legibly in the ‘Messages’ book the date, the time of the call, the number, the speaker’s name, the subject of the call and any other relevant details. She was meticulous. All I had before me now was a list of five or six scribbled numbers, some of which were indecipherable. I sighed. Come back Connie, I said to myself as I rang the first
number.

  ‘Hello,’ came a voice down the line.

  ‘Oh hello, my name is Gervase Phinn. I believe someone on your number has telephoned to speak to me this morning.’

  ‘Do you know who?’

  ‘I don’t, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Was it Miss Precious, the headteacher?’

  ‘Ah, is that Barton Moor Parochial School?’ I asked.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been Miss Precious.’

  A moment later the headteacher’s voice came on the line. ‘Hello, Mr Phinn. This is a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Did you not call me this morning, Miss Precious?’

  ‘No, I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘I think someone called me from your number,’ I told her.

  ‘There’s a mystery,’ she said. ‘I wonder if it was Mrs Durdon.’ I doubted very much if it would be Miss Precious’s assistant, a small mousy, nervous little woman into whom I seemed, for some reason, to put the fear of God. It would be hardly likely that she would be contacting me early in the morning. ‘I’ll ask her if you like,’ said Miss Precious. ‘She’s only down the corridor.’

  ‘No, no, don’t bother her, Miss Precious. I’m sure the person will ring back.’