‘And upon what do you base these observations about the state of our language?’ enquired Sidney. ‘Have you done some sort of detailed research?’
‘I don’t need to do any detailed research,’ replied David. ‘You only have to look around to see how the use of English has declined. People don’t seem able to spell or punctuate or express themselves any more. Julie, for example, is forever misplacing a participle.’
‘She always was very forgetful,’ remarked Sidney. ‘I do hope she found it.’
‘And splitting her infinitives,’ continued David.
‘Oooh, that sounds painful,’ said Sidney, screwing up his face dramatically.
David was in full flow by this time and not to be stopped. ‘And when we had young Frank doing the letters, his spellings were patently bizarre. He was a nice enough young man, but his English! I really don’t know what they will make of him in Financial Services. I hope he’s better with numbers than he is with words. Julie tries her best and I know she is overworked but I have to check everything she writes.’
‘Come on, David,’ I said. ‘It’s not that bad.’
‘Then there’s Connie,’ continued my colleague.
‘Don’t mention that woman,’ spluttered Sidney.
‘She is a prime example of how not to use English. She mangles and murders the language with malapropisms and non sequiturs. I arrived at the SDC last week and there was a notice outside the Gents: “Attention! Wet floor! This is not an instruction!” I mean, what do visitors think?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, David,’ I said. ‘Connie is a cleaner, and a damn good cleaner as well, not a professor of linguistics. She doesn’t need to have a perfect command of the English language to polish and dust and clean the toilets.’
‘And that is exactly what she should do,’ said Sidney, ‘polish and dust and clean the toilets. I couldn’t care less how she speaks, it’s what she says that makes my blood boil.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I say, does that make sense? Anyway, you know what I mean – it’s her attitude.’
‘Then there’s Mrs Savage with her management gobbledegook,’ David continued, unabashed. ‘Let’s hope these foreign inspectors don’t meet either of them. They’ll be utterly confused by the one and totally confounded by the other. At that wretched “Health and Safety” meeting, it was as if Mrs Savage was – were,’ he hastily corrected himself, ‘speaking a foreign language, flagging things up, getting up to speed, thinking outside the box, climbing aboard, having thought showers, finding windows in diaries. Even Dr Gore is not guiltless. “The Education Committee have decided…” he wrote in the last memorandum. It should be, “The Education Committee has decided”.’
‘Does it really matter?’ sighed Sidney. ‘I mean, aren’t there more important things to occupy your time than spotting the odd split infinitive and misplaced participle? In the whole scheme of things, does it really, really matter?’
‘Of course it matters!’ snapped David. ‘It’s just a sloppy use of the language. It’s part and parcel of the decline in standards. I was in a school last week and a teacher had not only misspelt “parallelogram” on the mathematics examination paper but had informed the students that “This option is compulsory”. I mean, how can an option be compulsory?’
‘Oh, don’t be so pedantic, David,’ said Sidney. ‘You are an old misery-guts, moaning and complaining. You should be rejoicing. Miss de la Mare is taking over. Surely that should bring a smile to that little wizened Welsh face of yours.’
‘I am trying to have a serious discussion here, Sidney,’ said David. ‘I think Gervase might run a few courses for education employees on the effective use of English.’
‘No chance!’ I spluttered. ‘I have enough on at the moment, thank you very much.’
‘Well, I despair at the flagrant misuse of the language,’ said David.
‘We all make mistakes,’ I said. ‘Are you telling us, David, that you never ever make an error with your own writing?’
‘Of course not, but not in every other word.’
‘English is a very tricky and troublesome language,’ I commented. ‘It is full of minefields. You tell me a rule of spelling, David, and I’ll find you an exception. Anyway, I find those double meanings are rather amusing. I remember a history essay we were asked to do at school: “Trace the events leading up to the birth of Henry VIII”.’
‘I reckon your history teacher received some very interesting answers to that question,’ smirked Sidney. ‘And talking ofdouble entendres, have you seen that priceless sign outside the new Dales Visitors’ Centre: “Please Leave Heather For All To Enjoy”. I suggested to the man at the desk that poor Heather must have been feeling rather the worse for wear. He didn’t appreciate the witticism, I’m afraid.’
‘Christine found some priceless advertisements for jobs last week in the Fettlesham Gazette,’ I said. ‘She always cuts them out for me.’ I extracted the little clippings from my notebook. ‘One said: “An opportunity to join an expanding contracting company”. Another, “Are you going places in aluminium foil?” Then there was “Street lighting engineers – two posts”.’
‘Quite a little treasure trove you have there,’ remarked Sidney. ‘What on earth do you keep them for?’
‘They are very useful to lighten the atmosphere at some of the dinners I am asked to speak at,’ I replied. ‘Or should I say, at which I am asked to speak.’ I glanced over in David’s direction. ‘Here’s a headline from a couple of weeks ago,’ I said, reading from another clipping: ‘“Man battered in fish shop”.’
‘Ah, well they do that deliberately,’ said Sidney, laughing. ‘The secret of a catchy headline is to convey the greatest ambiguity in the fewest words. Here’s some more that you can add to your collection, Gervase: “General Montgomery flies back to front”. “Captain Fuchs off to Antarctica”. “Body in garden is a plant, says woman”.’
‘You are making my point precisely,’ said David. ‘Newspapers are some of the worst offenders. The Fettlesham Gazette is a prime example of sloppy English. They should be setting a good example. It is something I feel very strongly about.’
‘About which I feel very strongly,’ said Sidney and then, ignoring David’s angry glare, continued: ‘I’ve told Julie to go very carefully with that lipstick she’s using at present. She could be severely incapacitated should she follow the instructions printed on the side.’
‘What does it say?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘“Take off cap and push up bottom”.’
Sidney and I cackled with laughter.
David gave us a pitying look. ‘It’s no use trying to have a serious conversation with you two schoolboys. I could have predicted your response, Sidney, but I have to say, Gervase, I rather expected a little more support from the English inspector. Well, I’m off.’
‘Yes, I thought I could detect a strange, rather fishy smell,’ remarked Sidney as David strode for the door.
‘You know,’ said David, pausing at the door, ‘things will change when Miss de la Mare takes over, I can tell you. I bet she’s a stickler for correct English.’
When David had gone I turned to Sidney. ‘You shouldn’t rib him so much.’
‘Well, he’s so serious these days. I should have thought with the appointment of Miss de la Mare, he would be walking on clouds. We could have been landed with that odious Mr Carter and his management speak.’ As was his wont, Sidney leaned back expansively on his chair. ‘Yes, indeed, I’m so much looking forward to working with dear Winifred. I love Harold dearly and will miss him greatly, but Winifred will bring a breath of fresh air with her. We have so much in common.’ He caught sight of the expression on my face. ‘What are you grinning at?’
So much in common, I thought: the one a totally unpredictable, larger than life, mercurial bear of a man; the other, a precise, highly-organised woman with a mind as sharp as a razor. It would be very interesting to see what our new Senior Inspector made of the Inspector for Creative and Visual
Arts.
‘Nothing, Sidney,’ I said. ‘Nothing at all.’
We worked on our reports and correspondence for the next hour in relative silence. When the clock on the County Hall tower struck six o’clock, Sidney stretched and sighed. ‘Governors’ meeting for me tonight at High Ruston-cum-Riddleswade Junior and Infant School, right out in the sticks. I do hope it doesn’t go on and on. That Mrs Dingle-Smith and her side-kick, the tiresome Mrs Powell (pronounced Pole), never shut up. Like chattering monkeys. Of course, they’ll be delighted that their school, which was on the list for closure, has been reprieved. I suppose that will be high on the agenda and it will be after ten before I get home. This is the third late night this week. Oh, by the way, your Christine needs to be congratulated on her efforts to keep the small schools from closing.’
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘she caused a few waves.’
‘Waves!’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘It was a veritable tidal deluge.’
‘She did very well,’ I said.
‘Wonderful woman. You’re a lucky man, Gervase.’
‘I know.’
‘So, where are you tonight then?’ Sidney asked.
‘It’s Christine’s leaving do at Winnery Nook. You were invited but –’
‘Governors’ meeting,’ he sighed. ‘I know. In fact,’ he exclaimed, swinging his chair back into an upright position with a clatter, ‘that will be a perfect excuse to leave early, and then I will come on to the party.’
‘Excellent! She’d love to see you. Anyway, I must make tracks,’ I told him. ‘I said I’d pick Connie up before seven.’
‘Connie’s going?’
‘Of course she’s going. She’s not that bad, you know, Sidney. Her heart is in the right place, and she’s always had a soft spot for Christine.’
‘The right place for Connie’s heart is on a kebab,’ said Sidney, violently jabbing a pile of paper on his desk with his paper-knife. ‘The woman’s an interfering, bad-tempered, entirely unreasonable menace. I shall be having words with our new Senior Inspector. She’s just the person to put Connie in her place. She forgets that I am a senior member of the Education Department. Connie speaks to me as if I were a naughty schoolboy.’
‘You sound just like Mrs Savage, Sidney,’ I said. ‘Apparently she doesn’t think Connie knows who she is. I also remember her saying to Mrs Osbaldiston, the time she was mistaken for your nude model, “Do you know who I am?” ’
‘Oh, well, I would never say that,’ protested Sidney. ‘In fact, I cannot abide people who say that. “Do you know who I am?” No, no, I would never say that. I remember reading once about this extremely rude and aggressive individual dressed in a bright checked jacket and dangling camera who pushed his way to the front of the queue at the airport and demanded attention. He informed the airline attendant that he had to be checked through first since he was on the next flight. The attendant asked him very politely to wait his turn. No doubt, she told him, he could see there was a long queue of other passengers ahead of him. Anyway, the man banged his fist on the counter, waved his business class ticket in front of her face and shouted for all to hear, those ridiculous words: “Do you know who I am?” The attendant stared at him for a moment before picking up the public address microphone and announcing calmly: “May I have your attention, please. There is a passenger in a rather loud jacket who does not know who he is. Could anyone who may be able to identify him please come to desk 9.”’
‘I remember the occasion when I was sitting for my finals,’ I said, reminded of an incident similar to Sidney’s. ‘The invigilator was insistent that we stop writing immediately when he told us to do so. He made a point of repeating a number of times that if anyone still had a pen in his hand after he had told us “Pens down”, then the paper would be invalidated. Anyhow, this pal of mine, Dermot Monaghan his name was, was writing his name on the top of his paper when the invigilator, or perhaps more appropriately as it turned out, the invalidator, called “Pens down”. Dermot carried on writing and when he came to hand in his paper he was told it wouldn’t be accepted.’
‘That was rather petty and mean-minded,’ said Sidney. ‘He sounds like a male version of Mrs Savage with her rules and procedures.’
‘So Dermot explained he was only writing his name, but the invigilator still would not accept the paper and started stacking this massive pile of examination papers on his desk. Dermot pleaded with him but to no avail. “You heard what I said,” the invigilator told him. “I cannot accept it.” Dermot drew himself up and looked the invigilator straight in the eye. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a really pompous tone of voice. “No,” said the invigilator, “I have no idea who you are and telling me anyway will not have the slightest effect.” “So you don’t know who I am?” Dermot asked again. “No,” replied the invigilator. “That’s good,” said Dermot and, as fast as lightning, stuffed the paper right into the centre of the pile.’
‘I never know whether to believe your stories, Gervase,’ said Sidney, laughing.
‘That’s ripe coming from you,’ I said.
‘It’s good that you can laugh,’ said Sidney. ‘I would have thought that you had little to find amusing at the moment.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You must be feeling pretty awful about demolishing that old Quaker meeting house, the one those Americans want to restore.’
‘Who told you about the American Quakers?’ I asked.
‘I took a call for you yesterday. Delightful man. What was his name? Brewster, was it? He was wanting to get in touch with you again. He said he’ll ring you at home tonight. He wants to discuss the plans for the restoration.’
‘Oh heavens! You didn’t tell him I’d knocked it down, did you?’
‘Of course not.’
‘This is a nightmare,’ I said. ‘Perhaps I ought to go and see Jasper Perkins. Get his advice.’
‘Old Perkins is on holiday. The Americans tried to see him but they were told he won’t be back for a week. There’s a stroke of luck for you.’
‘Oh dear me,’ I sighed. ‘Whatever am I going to do?’
‘I’ve told you, old boy,’ said Sidney, patting me on the shoulder, ‘blame it on the vandals.’
23
Señor Carlos Itturiaga was a small, plump, jolly man with typically dark Spanish eyes, a friendly face and black lustrous hair slicked back in rippling waves. Wearing a crumpled linen suit and clutching a giant multicoloured umbrella, he was waiting with his companions in the hotel lobby. With him were Signor Toria, a very tall and thin inspector from Florence, most amiable-looking and, her curves somewhere between the two, a stunning Brigitte Bardot look-alike from Tours called Simone.
The foreign inspectors had arrived late the previous evening and gone straight to the hotel where they were staying. Sidney, David and I now arrived early the next morning at the hotel to collect them and take them round the selected schools. Over the next two days, they would observe some teaching, talk to teachers and learn a little about the English education system. Of course, it was Sidney who made a bee-line for the divine Simone and whisked her off before we could discuss who was accompanying whom. It ended up with David Pritchard taking tall, thin Signor Toria, and me with the plump, little Spaniard.
Carlos Itturiaga talked all the way to the car like a revolving door: round and round he went, chattering, commenting, laughing and asking questions and all the while shrugging, gesticulating, rolling his eyes and waving his plump-fingered hands in every direction. I had imagined that the initial conversations with our foreign visitors would be rather stilted and formal and therefore I was greatly relieved to find such a bubbly and uninhibited companion. By the time we arrived at the first school on our itinerary I had learnt all about Vigo, the city where he lived, his family, his interests, and I was pretty well conversant with the whole of the Spanish education system and his own views on teaching and learning.
From Fettlesham, I took the scenic route to the first school and wound my way, in low
gear, up a track which twisted and turned like a coiled spring. I had travelled this narrow road many times before and knew what an amazing panorama we would see when we reached the brow of the very steepest hill. Presently, I pulled over into a small lay-by so my companion could view the serene beauty of the scene which lay below the bare lonely hills, largely treeless and austere, the craggy outcrops of rock sticking up out of the dead bracken.
Señor Itturiaga immediately ceased his constant chatter and stared out of the car window. ‘It ees very beautiful,’ he said. ‘Not at all as I expected. I was told England ees very green, very flat, lots of trees and plenty of water.’
‘You are in Yorkshire, Carlos,’ I told him. ‘There is nothing quite like Yorkshire. It’s called God’s own country.’
‘And it ees cold,’ he observed. ‘It ees very cold for me at thees time of the year.’
‘Now in Yorkshire we would say you were “nesh”.’
‘Nesh?’ He tilted his head quizzically.
‘Rather sensitive to the cold.’
‘Nesh,’ he repeated. ‘Nesh. Very interesting.’
Below us stretched a vast canvas of empty grey moorland, scattered with great jags of rock. It was a rugged and primitive landscape, naked save for a few hardy, grubby-looking sheep which were foraging for food, and a small copse of skeletal trees clawing for the sky. In the far distance, pale purple hills shrouded in a smoky mist rose majestically to a pale blue sky. It was an awesome sight. Returning to the car, we dropped down into the village huddled round the old church in the bottom of the valley.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 33