Up and Down in the Dales

by Gervase Phinn

  I felt like a naughty schoolboy being reprimanded by the headteacher. It did occur to me that the farmer could have considered the possibility that there just might be someone else on the road and that he could have sounded his horn as a warning to other road users or even stopped to check that the road was clear before pulling out, but I did not wish to prolong the conversation. ‘Yes, I’m sorry. I’ll take more care in future.’

  The farmer, scratching his stubble, was clearly not going to let me off so lightly. ‘Mi dog were killed on this rooad a couple o’ years back,’ he announced grimly. ‘Trying to get t’sheep into yonder field. She went back for a lazy yow and were knocked ovver by one of you speedin’ motorists.’ The collie beside him cocked an ear as if listening. ‘Aye, and she were a champion dog were Meg.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I replied feebly. ‘Er… I wonder if you might move your tractor. I do have an appointment and I’m running a little late.’

  ‘Better late than deead,’ he observed.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘Well, tek it easy down t’hill or tha’ll end up in t’watter.’

  He reversed the tractor slowly and laboriously back into the farm entrance, and man and dog watched me as I drove off, at a snail’s pace, down the hill and towards the village.

  I knew what he meant by ending up ‘in t’watter’. Ahead of me lay the clustered village, beyond which a great blue expanse shimmered in the cold afternoon sunlight. The reservoir was bounded by high fells clothed in dark pine woods. What a place to live, I thought.

  I had visited Mertonbeck Primary School three years before to test the children’s reading as part of a survey on standards of literacy. The infant children had joined me one by one to talk a little about their reading interests, read a couple of pages from their books and to complete some word recognition tests. Standards had been exceptionally high and the subsequent report had been glowing.

  That afternoon I was there to see if these standards had been maintained. I had informed the headteacher, a bright and enthusiastic young woman called Jean Potter, that I was particularly interested in the children’s speaking and listening skills.

  Mertonbeck Primary School lay in the very heart of the village, a small stone building with a dark grey slate roof, and enclosed by shiny iron railings. The interior was typical of many small Dales schools: one large square room, a floor of well-worn, polished wooden blocks, a high beamed ceiling and long mullioned windows. Mrs Potter was watching for my arrival and came down the path to greet me.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late, Mrs Potter,’ I said. ‘I had to go slowly because of the treacherous road conditions.’

  As the words came out, I remembered the farmer’s remonstrations and felt a guilty flush creep up my face. Luckily Mrs Potter didn’t notice as she was leading the way into the classroom. ‘I thought that by the afternoon the frost would have gone.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Phinn,’ chuckled the headteacher, ‘you still have a lot to learn about the weather in the Dales, you really do.’

  Sitting quietly with folded arms and straight backs was a class of healthy-looking, bright-eyed children.

  ‘We’ve had quite a few changes since you were last here,’ explained the headteacher. ‘If you recall, we were then all in the one room, infants and juniors together, but our little number has increased so much in the last couple of years that we now have a separate classroom, only temporary, at the back. You won’t know Mrs Cooper. She was appointed last September, on a temporary contract, to teach the infants this year. She came with excellent references and apparently has had a great deal of experience. You’ll be seeing her later.’ I could tell by a slight edge in her voice that the headteacher was not overly impressed with her new colleague.

  Mrs Potter turned to the children who were still sitting motionless and silent, and said in a loud and cheerful voice, ‘Shall we all say a nice big “Good afternoon” to Mr Phinn, children, and make him feel really welcome.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn,’ chanted the boys and girls. This seemed to be a sort of signal for them to relax, for they unfolded their arms and shuffled in their chairs.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ I replied, smiling at them.

  ‘Well, Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Potter, ‘if you would care to make yourself comfortable on my chair, we’ll get started.’ She put her hand on the shoulder of a gangly boy with ears like cup handles, who was twirling his pencil between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Pencil down, please, Darren,’ she said, fixing him with a face which said ‘Beware’. The teacher’s voice was a little sharper in tone. ‘You might like to tell Mr Phinn what we have been doing.’

  The boy turned and gave me a tired look. ‘Legends,’ he announced somewhat unenthusiastically. ‘We’ve been writing about local legends and folklore.’

  ‘Sounds very interesting,’ I said.

  ‘Aye,’ said the boy laconically.

  ‘And today we’re reading out our final drafts to the whole class,’ added Mrs Potter, smiling broadly, ‘in a confident, clear and interesting way.’

  The first speaker, a plump girl with a pale, heart-shaped face and large, round spectacles, came to the front clutching a wodge of paper and announced with great assurance, ‘I’m going to tell you about the legend of “The Lost Village”. It is a famous story told to me by my Nanna Harrison.’ Here was a future teacher in the making, I thought, as she looked over the top of her spectacles, cleared her throat, paused for effect and then began.

  ‘Many, many years ago, there was a beautiful village near here. It was set deep in the dale, and all around were rolling green hills. The village had little stone houses, a shop, an old church with a tall, tall spire, and a cobbled market place with a fountain. One day, a beggar came into the village. He had walked a long way and was hungry and thirsty. He went from house to house, asking for something to eat and drink, and shoes for his poor swollen feet. But everyone slammed their doors against him. When the beggar went to drink from the fountain, the people set their dogs on him.

  ‘Just outside the village, halfway up the hill, was an old stone cottage and here a woman called Sarah Merton lived. She took pity on the beggar when she saw him lean over to drink from the muddy stream which ran outside her house, and gave him food and clothes. He thanked her, but before setting off again he turned and pointed down the hill to the beautiful little village.

  “Not one cup of water,

  Not one crust of bread,

  Not one pair of tattered shoes,

  Nor a cot to rest my head.

  I place my curse upon that town;

  Ye waters rise, ye people drown.”

  ‘The next day it began to rain, and for forty days and forty nights rain poured down. Streams burst their banks, gardens were swept away, fields became swamps and the road became a foaming river. When the rain stopped, the beautiful little village had disappeared and in its place was a great lake. The only house for miles around was Sarah Merton’s cottage, and it is still there today.’

  The girl paused for a moment, peered through the large spectacles and said, ‘You may not think that is a true story, but sometimes at dusk, if you listen carefully, you will hear the distant moaning and groaning of the drowned people. Sometimes when it has been very hot, and the streams have shrivelled to a trickle, you might see the top of the church spire rising above the water. And my Nanna says she once heard the muffled clanging of the church bell.’ There was total silence in the classroom. ‘That’s it,’ she said, before folding her sheets of paper and returning to her desk.

  ‘I think a round of applause is in order for that wonderful story,’ said Mrs Potter, vigorously smacking her hands together. ‘Well done, Sandra, that was a splendid effort.’

  The teacher pointed to a sturdy-looking boy with shiny dark hair and large pale eyes. ‘Now, James, your turn next. Let us hear your legend.’

  The boy rather reluctantly made his way to the front of the room and turned to face the class. He shuffled, huffed and puf
fed and began. ‘This is t’legend of Brave Bess. Mi granddad told me this story and I wrote it down.’ He sniffed, rubbed his chin and, with brow furrowed in concentration, began to read.

  ‘It was t’year of t’Great Winter. T’snow began to fall and soon t’land were like a white blanket. Billy Goodwin, who were a bit owlder than me at t’time, set off early one raw morning in a wuthering wind, with ‘is father who were t’shepherd. ‘Is father was a reight big sturdy man, used to t’bitter winters but that winter were one o’ t’worst. Course ‘e didn’t like goin’ out on such a day but ‘e ‘ad to get ‘is sheep in. They took with ‘em Billy’s dog, Bess.’

  ‘I’ve heard this story, miss,’ cried a girl in the front desk. ‘It’s really good.’

  ‘Well, let James finish it, Jade,’ said the teacher. ‘No more interruptions, please.’

  ‘Shall I go on, miss?’ asked the boy. The teacher nodded. ‘Snow was falling fast and t’icy wind began to blow more fiercely. They wanted t’sheep in safely afore a blizzard set in. By lunchtime they ‘ad gathered all t’flock and were ‘eading for ‘ome when a swirling mist come down. As they got lower down t’fell out o’ t’mist, they noticed some sheep ‘ad strayed. Billy whistled for Bess and sent ‘er back up t’fell into t’mist after t’lost sheep. After a short while, some sheep could be seen joining t’flock, but there were no sign of Bess. Billy whistled and whistled but Bess were nowhere to be seen. They carried on down t’fellside until they were back at t’farm. When they counted t’flock, they ‘ad every last sheep, but there were still no Bess. “’Ow can this be?” asked t’shepherd. They waited and waited for Bess but she nivver did come back. Nivver! That were t’last Billy Goodwin’s father saw of ‘er.’

  The child paused dramatically and from the back of the classroom came a faint sob. ‘But that’s not t’end of t’story,’ said James hurriedly. ‘Not by a long chalk. Many years later, and I’m talkin’ ovver fifty or sixty, Billy Goodwin was again up on t’fell on a raw winter’s day just like t’one before, when t’snow was falling thick and fast and an icy wind were blowing. Anyroad, ‘e told ‘is son to hurry on down wi’ t’sheep and ‘e’d follow on behind as fast as ‘e could, but ‘e were an old man now and couldn’t move so fast across t’rough ground. Before ‘e ‘ad gone far, a thick mist suddenly come down just like it’d done when ‘e were a lad. ‘E got completely lost, not knowing whether to go right nor left. Soon, very cold and shiverin’, ‘e ‘uddled into a little rocky hollow out of t’bitter wind and decided to wait for t’mist to clear. ‘E ‘ad ‘ardly been crouched there for a minute when ‘e saw ‘er. It were Bess, ‘is sheepdog from long ago. ‘E stood up and went towards ‘er but she moved away from ‘im. “‘Ere, girl,” ‘e called to ‘er but she kept moving on, just ahead of ‘im. Following ‘er through t’thick mist, ‘e made ‘is way down t’fell. When ‘e dropped below t’mist, Billy found ‘imself just above t’farm but there were no sign of Bess. She ‘ad disappeared again. Billy realised that she’d come to show ‘im t’way ‘ome, that she ‘ad saved ‘im. And does tha know what?’

  ‘No,’ chorused the class, transfixed.

  ‘When ‘e looked into snow, there were ‘is footprints, as big as owt, but there weren’t a sign of any paw prints, not one.’

  Later, I found the opportunity to speak to James.

  ‘That was a remarkable legend,’ I told him.

  ‘Aye, it’s not bad, is it?’ he said.

  ‘Do you live on a farm?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘With lots of sheep?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I reckon you know quite a lot about sheep.’

  ‘Aye, I reckon I do.’

  ‘And sheepdogs.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Not a very chatty lad, I thought, but I persevered. ‘And have you got a dog, like the boy in the legend?’

  ‘No, but mi dad ‘as.’

  ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Mi dad or t’dog’s?’

  ‘The dog’s name. What’s he called?’

  ‘She. It’s a bitch called Jess. Five-year-old. Won quite a few trials afore she were two-year.’ I was about to ask another question when James continued. ‘Bitches are better than dogs, tha knaas, when it comes to managing sheep, that is.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’

  ‘Why is that, then?’ I asked, staring into the large pale eyes.

  ‘They listen better, work harder and are quieter. Mi grandma reckons it’s t’same with ‘umans but mi granddad wunt agree.’

  The boy chewed his thumb for a moment and stared out of the window. He was in no hurry to continue. I remembered what Harold had said to me early on in my career about giving children breathing space, not being too quick to come in with another question, so I paused and took in the view. We sat there together staring at the expanse of frosted greens, the distant hills capped in grey clouds.

  ‘Grand i’n’t it?’ observed the boy. ‘Aye, you need a quiet dog. Can’t ‘ave an animal that goes snappin’ and yappin’ and barkin’ and chasin’ after t’sheep, otherwise they spook ‘em. You need a dog who can see well and listen well and be able to “eye” t’sheep.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked. ‘To “eye” a sheep?’

  ‘Well, keep ‘em together, not let ‘em wander off. Now, mi dad’s dog, Jess, she can “eye” champion. She can manage a large flock or a few strays and pick out a sheep belonging to another farm as easy as owt. Aye, there’s not much she can’t fettle. She can find a sheep buried deep down in t’snow.’

  ‘How does she do that then?’

  ‘Well, she stops dead still as soon as she scents owt. It’s called “settin’”. She just freezes, yelps a little bit, and then we dig. Sheep can be as much as ten or fifteen feet down but a good dog will find it.’

  ‘She sounds a remarkable animal,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, took after ‘er mother. Meg were just t’same. Killed she was at top o’rooad by a right stupid speedin’ driver.’

  Later I joined Mrs Cooper in the temporary infant classroom at the back of the little school. The classroom was an unattractive barn of a place and entirely out of keeping with the rest of the neat stone building. Perched on six large concrete blocks and constructed of dark panelled wood the colour of gravy, it looked like an old shed. The only difference was that this ugly construction had huge square windows on all sides.

  Mrs Cooper, a good-looking, middle-aged woman with a hennish bosom and brassy blonde hair, had made little effort to make the interior of the hut bright and cheerful. There were no displays of large, coloured paintings, no glossy posters, no children’s work on the wall space that existed, just a few lists of words and rules of the classroom.

  ‘I wish you could do something about this hut, Mr Phinn,’ she told me as we waited for the children to come in after afternoon playtime. ‘It’s like a furnace in summer and a freezer in winter. What we need is a proper extension in keeping with the character of the school.’

  ‘I agree, Mrs Cooper,’ I said, ‘but, as in most things, it comes down to money. The county has to make big cuts in the budget next year. For some schools that means closure. With your increase in numbers there’s no threat of that hanging over you but, you are right, an extension is needed.’ I looked out of the window. ‘And at least you’ve got the view.’

  She glanced fleetingly at the magnificent landscape which lay beyond. At this point, I noticed that her desk was positioned so it faced not the awesome panorama but a muddy track leading to some dilapidated farm building which effectively blocked out any view.

  ‘Why don’t you have your desk facing the fells?’ I asked.

  The teacher seemed rather taken aback. ‘Well… because I prefer it where it is.’

  ‘But you could look out on such beauty every day,’ I foolishly continued, ‘rather than onto a somewhat depressing scene.’

  ‘I really don’t think it’s part of my job, Mr Phinn, to stare idly at the view all day
. I have children to teach. I like my desk where it is. Now, I believe this afternoon you are particularly interested in the children’s speaking and listening skills. Well, I think you’ll find we have no problems in the speaking area. The listening is quite another matter. It’s sometimes difficult to shut them up. I might be old-fashioned, Mr Phinn, but I think there is a time for children to speak and a time for them to sit still and be quiet.’

  I spent the first part of the lesson listening to the children read, talking to them and looking at their books and I was not impressed. When the teacher announced it was time for the story, I positioned myself in the corner to watch the lesson. Mrs Cooper introduced me without any fuss and then settled the children down in a circle before her on a square of carpet.

  ‘It’s story-time, Mr Phinn,’ she told me. ‘I feel it is important that children learn to sit still, concentrate and listen, don’t you agree? David, will you stop wriggling about as if you have ants in your pants and, Gemma, use your handkerchief, please. It’s not very ladylike to wipe your nose where you are wiping it. You haven’t got a handkerchief? Well, get a tissue from my desk. As I was saying, Mr Phinn, story-time develops the children’s concentration and listening skills and, of course, introduces them to new words and interesting phrases.’

  I felt that Mrs Cooper should get on with the story and leave the justification of what she was doing until later. The children were getting restless. David had shuffled off the carpet and was polishing the floor with his bottom. Gemma had returned to wiping her nose on the sleeve of her cardigan. ‘Now, before I start,’ said Mrs Cooper, ‘can we all sit up nicely. Straight backs, please. All eyes this way. Onto the carpet, please, David. Gemma, I won’t tell you again! Have you got a tissue? Well, will you use it, please? John, I did not say lie on your back as if you’re sunbathing. Sit up. Right, I think we are all ready.’ The teacher paused for effect and began to read the story from a rather shabby-looking picture book. ‘Once upon a time, children, long long ago there lived a –’