This was going to be such an ordeal, I thought to myself.
At this moment, Mr Pennington-Smith was waylaid by a teacher, no doubt attempting to give his excuses for not staying for my talk, so I had a minute or two to recall Sidney’s reminiscences which he had imparted that afternoon in the office prior to my departure for West Challerton.
‘You will find, Gervase,’ he had said, ‘that there are some teachers who derive a perverse satisfaction from trying to wind up anyone who attempts to train them. There’s the very noisy one who arrives just after you’ve started your lecture, who bustles into the room, apologising profusely for being late, drops his papers, makes a real fuss finding a seat and finally decides on a chair at the very front right under your nose. He will then shuffle and yawn and grunt and sigh deeply during your presentation and make frequent comments behind his hand to the person sitting next to him. Occasionally, he will distract others who are attempting to listen by passing little notes along the row, chuckling and watching for their reaction. Then there’s the one who, when asked if there are any questions, enquires when we are breaking for lunch or who asks if anyone has a spare pencil, and the one with verbal diarrhoea whom you can’t shut up and rambles endlessly off the subject to everyone’s annoyance.’
At this point in Sidney’s outpourings, I had pushed away the notes I had been attempting to read through, and gave myself up to listening to him until he ran out of steam. ‘There’s the one who looks as if he’s in a coma, who stares at you unnervingly, without the trace of a smile, and who, when you explain the exercise you wish them to tackle, informs everybody in a loud weary voice that he has done it before and it doesn’t work. Of course, there’s the one who falls asleep and the one who ignores the “No Smoking” sign and the one who has a digital watch which goes off at regular intervals. Then there’s the downright rude person. Once I was half way through making a point when some individual from the back shouted out “Bullshit!” I had the presence of mind to reply, “Yes, I got the name, but what was the question?” Oh yes,’ Sidney had told me, ‘I’ve seen them all.’
Not all, as I was soon to find out.
Mr Pennington-Smith, having finished his conversation with the teacher, motioned me forward to the door of the school hall. Inside, I was greeted by Miss Mullane.
‘It is really good of you to come,’ she said brightly. ‘We’re all so much looking forward to your talk.’
From a quick look at the assembled teachers, nothing could have been further from the truth. They appeared about as interested as waxwork exhibits and sat in rows facing the stage, arms folded and faces like death masks. I predicted that my talk would not be rapturously well received.
The headmaster called for attention and introduced me. In the front row was a woman sipping noisily from a large mug and wearing a T-shirt on the front of which was emblazoned in large red letters the slogan: ‘Give a man an inch and he thinks he’s a ruler!’ Her neighbour was knitting furiously and looking at me as she might her former husband who had deserted her for another woman, leaving her to bring up the ten children. My introduction was followed immediately by a few whispers, assorted sighs and a sea of icy stares from the assembled staff.
Then, in a feeble attempt to start the proceedings off on a light-hearted note, the headmaster started with a joke. ‘What’s the difference between an inspector and a sperm?’ he asked no one in particular. None, least of all myself, bothered to respond, so he provided the answer. ‘A sperm has a two million to one chance of being human.’ There was not a titter. At this point, a man in a tracksuit covered in bright badges opened a newspaper with a flourish and someone sitting at the end of a row slithered out.
It was time for me to start which I did as cheerfully as I could, outlining what I intended doing during the hour-long session. The clacking of the knitting needles, the sipping of the tea and the rustling of someone’s newspaper were soon accompanied by further sighs and tuttings.
‘Education these days,’ I began enthusiastically, ‘is rather akin to the opening lines of a favourite novel of mine: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” These are the opening words of the novel, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.’ I stared pointedly at Madame Defarge in the front row but she clacked on regardless.
The afternoon, needless to say, was not a great success. I had felt like a Christian in an arena full of lions. I declined the headmaster’s invitation to join the few remaining staff for a cup of tea and prepared to depart.
‘Our speaker next week is a Miss de la Mare,’ Mr Pennington-Smith informed me as he escorted me down the corridor to the exit. ‘She’s one of her Majesty’s Inspectors, you know. Very high up at the Ministry of Education, I’m reliably informed.’
‘Yes, I do know her,’ I said. ‘She’s an excellent speaker and has a formidable intellect. I am sure she will go down a bomb.’
‘She’s addressing the staff on the topic “Creating a Vibrant Curriculum”.’
‘That should be fun,’ I replied, pitying the poor woman.
‘I hope so,’ replied the headmaster, smiling widely and showing me to the door. ‘I do hope so.’
I arrived home later that evening, after a particularly tiresome governors’ meeting, tired, hungry and not in the best of moods. I found Christine sitting at the kitchen table, seemingly awaiting my arrival.
Before I could even say hello she flourished a newspaper and asked, ‘Have you seen this?’
I could see it was a copy of the Fettlesham Gazette so guessed at the contents.
‘No,’ I replied, taking off my coat and throwing my briefcase on the table. ‘I need a whisky.’
‘They’re closing the village school.’
I took a deep breath, poured myself a generous measure of whisky, took a gulp and replied. ‘Yes, I know.’
‘You know!’ she gasped.
‘Yes.’
‘How long have you known?’
‘About a week,’ I told her, taking a sip from the glass.
‘Why didn’t you say anything?’
‘Christine, you know I can’t discuss office matters at home.’
‘Even when it affects us so personally?’
‘Look, Chris,’ I sighed, ‘I didn’t say anything because, well it was said to me in confidence and, anyway, I knew how you would react. I felt exactly the same when Harold dropped the bombshell but, as he explained, there’s got to be real savings in the education budget next year and Hawksrill is one of the county’s smallest and most uneconomic schools and –’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing such claptrap.’ I had never seen her quite so angry.
‘I felt exactly the same as you, and I told Harold that, but there is really nothing we can do. Both Mrs Beighton and Mrs Brown are retiring soon, so closing Hawksrill means they will not have to pay redundancies or re-deploy anyone.’ I could hear myself echoing Harold’s words.
‘Hell’s teeth! All you government people can think of are your costs. Saving redundancy here, killing off jobs there. What about the children? What about our child? How can you just sit back and let them close the school? The school your child would go to?’
‘There’s nothing I can do,’ I said, draining the glass. ‘If I could wave a magic wand and keep the school open, I would, but the decision has been made and that’s that.’
‘That’s a defeatist attitude if ever I heard one,’ Christine said angrily. ‘Well, I do not intend to let a bunch of miserable councillors, pathetic education officers and petty officials at County Hall close the school without a fight.’ She thumped the kitchen table so hard my glass fell over. ‘There are such things as appeals, protests, demonstrations, sit-ins and pressure groups.’
‘I can’t be part of any pressure group,’ I told her, picking up my glass and pouring myself another whisky.
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m on the other side of the fence, that’s why.’
‘It seems to me that you’re sitting on t
he fence, not the other side of it.’
‘Look, I’m one of those pathetic education officers and petty officials at County Hall to whom you’ve just referred. I’m an officer of the County. There’s no way I can be part of a pressure group, can I?’
‘Even if your child’s future is at stake?’
‘That’s not very fair, Christine. If there were anything I could do –’
‘Well, there’s no point in discussing it any further. I think you’ve made your feelings perfectly clear. There’s the remains of a cottage pie in the oven. I’m going to bed.’
‘Christine,’ I sighed, ‘can’t we talk about this?’
‘There’s nothing to talk about. By the way, Harry Cotton called earlier.’ Harry was our nearest neighbour and could be a real pain in the neck.
‘What did he want?’
‘Rats.’
‘Rats?’ I repeated.
‘We’ve got rats at the back of the house. He’s seen them running along the fence. Good night.’
*
Christine had been asleep when I went to bed, and we had got up in silence. Now, at breakfast, we stared at each other sheepishly across the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ Christine said, ‘I was just so shocked. I did rather overreact.’
‘I should have told you,’ I replied. ‘You were right.’
‘No, you were right. If something is told to you in confidence you shouldn’t be discussing it. I don’t talk about the children at my school with you so why should I expect you to talk about confidential matters with me. And it was unfair of me to say you were sitting on the fence. I’ve had time to sleep on it and you are quite right. You can’t be seen to be favouring one school just because your child is to attend it. That would be unfair on the others. No, you have to keep well and truly out of it.’
‘I’m glad you see that, Christine,’ I said. ‘You see, if Hawksrill were the only one to be reprieved, it would smack of my pulling a few strings, using my influence for personal advantage.’
‘I know that,’ she told me. ‘I’m agreeing with you. You really don’t need to justify yourself
‘Well, I’m glad that’s sorted out,’ I said.
‘Of course, that doesn’t stop me from getting involved, does it?’ said my dear wife, looking at me directly with her large blue eyes. ‘I really meant what I said last night. I do not intend to let them close the school without a fight.’
There was nothing I could say, but I sensed dark storm clouds forming on the horizon.
12
The following Saturday morning found me at the Staff Development Centre. Christine hadn’t mentioned the proposed closure of the school in Hawksrill since we had talked across the breakfast table but I knew, from what my colleagues in the office had said, that things were moving forward at a dramatic pace.
I could hear Connie clunking and clanking behind the hatch in the kitchen. The volume was such that I knew she was not in the best of tempers. I took a deep breath, popped my head charily around the door and said, ‘Morning, Connie.’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she replied, looking up glumly before returning to her furious attack on the dishes in the sink. ‘Why are you here today?’ she asked. ‘It’s Saturday. I thought I had the place to myself for once.’
‘I wanted to sort out the room for next week’s course,’ I told her, ‘and put up a book display while the place is quiet. Anyway, you’re a one to talk. What are you doing here? You should be in your caravan at Mablethorpe this weekend, not slaving away on a Saturday. I would have thought you see enough of this place.’
‘You’re right. You wouldn’t get me in here on a weekend normally but you should have seen the state of this building when I came in yesterday. Three days away from the place and it’s like a tip. Do you know, I’m having to wash all these cups and saucers again. Filthy they were. They couldn’t have seen a drop of hot water. Just rinsed and put back in the cupboard, they were. Dried sugar in the bottom, tea and coffee stains round the rims. And the state of my floors and toilets! She was less than useless, Mrs Osbaldiston. I should never have asked her to fill in for me. When I walked through that door yesterday I thought a tornado had hit the place. I’ve had to work all day Friday to get the floors and toilets shipshape. Today is the kitchen’s turn. I want everything right for Monday.’
I quickly changed the subject. ‘How was France?’
She drew her lips together into a tight thin line and glared at me. ‘Don’t ask,’ she said.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Not too good then?’
‘Not too good?’ she repeated. ‘Not too good? It was a nightmare from beginning to end.’ She withdrew her hands from the soapsuds and wiped them vigorously on a towel. ‘We got on the ferry at Dover and the sea started to heave. Up and down, up and down, like a rollercoaster. Mountainous it was. I thought I was going to die. If I vomited once, I vomited ten times. It was worse than that trip to Ireland a couple of years back. It was awful. When we finally arrived in Calais, you would not believe what happened.’
‘Wouldn’t I?’
‘No, you would not.’
‘What did happen?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘I was intercepted, that’s what.’
‘Intercepted?’
‘Intercepted by this little French customs official. Ignoranus he was. Out of all the people going through, he picks on me. I mean, I ask you, do I look like a terrorist or gun-runner? Rootles through my bag, he did, probing and prying, laying everything out without a by-your-leave. All my personal accoutrements exposed to the world. “And what’s this?” he asks me, holding up the urn. “That is my father,” I told him. Course he didn’t understand, did he? Well, they don’t these foreigners. “What is in the pot?” he asks. “It is not a pot, it’s an urn, and it contains the remains of my dear departed father,” I tells him. He takes the lid off, looks inside, pokes his big nose in and starts to sniff. “What is in this pot?” he asks again. “It is my father,” I tells him, “and kindly stop sniffing him, he’s not that pope puree stuff.” “I shall have to take a sample,” he says. “Over my dead body,” I tells him. At this point a nice old priest in a black hassock comes to my assistance. He was leading some sort of pilgrimage to a weeping virgin in Brittany with a group of old ladies in tow. Anyway, he starts jabbering on in the lingo to the horrible little man in the black uniform. “He thinks it might be an illegal substance,” he tells me at last. “That’s no illegal substance,” I says, “it’s my father in there and kindly ask him to stop interfering with him.” “He thinks it might be drugs,” says the priest. “Drugs!” I says. “Do I look like a drug-runner?” “He wants to take a specimen,” says the priest, and I says, “Tell him that if he lays so much as a finger on my father, I’ll be across that counter. And tell him I’m here to scatter my father’s ashes at Dunkirk. And,” I adds, “tell him if it wasn’t for the likes of men like my father defending his country from the Nazis in the last war, extinguishing himself on the battlefields of Europe, Adolf’s lot would be goose-stepping up and down Calais, instead of him.” ’
‘Oh dear,’ I sighed.
‘I don’t think the priest told him that though.’
‘I guess not,’ I murmured.
‘The priest said not to make the horrid little man angry or be obstructive or he might insist on a strip-search. Well, that was the last straw. I asked the priest to tell him to hand back my father or there would be fireworks.’
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
‘He just sort of smiled did the priest, the way that they do. Anyroad, he gets my father off of the Frenchman. They’re very persuasive are clerics, aren’t they? He blesses my father, which was very nice of him, and me and Ted go on our way – and not before time.’
‘So you managed to scatter your father’s ashes after all,’ I said.
‘No, I didn’t. I was so hot and flushed after that run-in with the customs man and loaded down as I was with bags and duty free and I don’t know what else, I
only dropped the urn, didn’t I?’
‘Oh no, Connie!’ I gasped.
‘Just slipped clean out of my hands on the sea-front, smashed to smithereens before my eyes and Dad was blown out to sea. He was there one minute, gone the next. So I never did get to leave him with his pals at Dunkirk after all. Wasted journey, it was.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation,’ I told her, ‘there are many people who ask for their ashes to be scattered on the water, to be washed out by the sea, carried forever in the currents of time.’
It was clear from her expression that Connie was far from reassured. ‘Well, it isn’t any consolation. I didn’t want Dad flushed out to sea on the currents of time. It wouldn’t have suited my father at all. He hated water, couldn’t swim and was sick on the boating lake at Scarborough.’
‘Well, you’re back now, Connie.’
‘Oh, I’m back all right!’ she exclaimed. ‘And what do I come back to? Scuffs on my floor, chips out of my plates, dirty cups, dust on my shelves, marks on my walls and my toilets – well, I could have wept. She was about as much use as a chocolate teapot, Mrs Osbaldiston. Didn’t do a hand’s turn, as far as I could tell, all the time I was away.’
‘Well, she is getting on a bit, Connie,’ I told her, ‘and she does have a lot of ailments.’
‘The only ailment Mrs Osbaldiston has is a dose of idleitis. She never lifted a mop. Of course, it’s like the old saying: “When the cat’s away —” ’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Mr Clamp’s filled all the walls with rude pictures of his nudes and very ugly and off-putting they are as well. And then I had the shock of my life.’ Connie sucked and blew and pursed her lips. ‘Near the art room, staring at me from the wall, smiling like a Chester cat is Mrs Osbaldiston. He only used her as a model as well. Mrs Osbaldiston! No wonder she got no work done. Sitting there she is, like the Queen of Sheba.’
‘Mrs Osbaldiston, a nude model?’ I exclaimed.
‘No, no, she’s a Primitive Methodist. She wouldn’t do anything like that. No, she was fully compost mentis in a floral overall and holding my feather duster, as large as life.’ Connie plunged her hands back into the soapsuds. ‘Anyway, I took her down and put her in the ladies’ toilets. Best place for her.’
Up and Down in the Dales Page 17