Loxley Chase was typical of a Dales village school: a square and solid stone building enclosed by low, craggy, limestone walls. While we were waiting for the headteacher, Mr Leatherboy, Carlos stood looking out of a window at the magnificent view up to the fells beyond.
Following a tour of the school with Mr Leatherboy, Carlos and I joined a junior class and a group of twenty or so seven-to eleven-year-olds. It was one of the healthiest groups of youngsters I had ever seen: sturdy bodies, rosy-red cheeks, bright eyes and clear complexions. The children obviously came from good farming stock and spent a great deal of the time outdoors.
‘Why do the sheep on the hills have a red colour on their backs?’ asked Carlos of a stocky boy.
‘Tha knaas.’
‘Pardon?’ asked Carlos.
‘I said tha knaas.’
‘Tha knaas?’ repeated my colleague, appearing completely flummoxed. He looked appealingly in my direction. ‘Translate, plees.’
‘He is sure you already know,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid my friend doesn’t know,’ I told the boy, ‘and, for that matter, I don’t either.’
‘Tha does,’ chuckled the boy.
‘No, no, I don’t.’
‘Gerron wi’ thee! Tha does.’
‘Really,’ I laughed. ‘I don’t know.’
The boy looked at me with a wry smile on his face and a twinkle in his brown eyes which were strangely speckled. He then glanced out of the window at the sheep lazily cropping the grass on the hillside beyond. Many of the sheep were splashed with red at the end of their backs. ‘Are tha ‘avin’ me on,’ he asked, ‘or dunt tha reeally knaa?’
‘I’m not joking,’ I told him. ‘I really don’t know. Is it to tell which shepherd they belong to?’
‘Nay,’ said the lad. ‘They all belong to t’same shepherd. They’re ruddled.’
‘Ruddled?’ I repeated.
‘Aye, in some dales they say “raddled” but up ‘ere we says “ruddled”.’
Carlos looked at me and repeated the word slowly, ‘Ruddled. Very interesting.’
I shrugged and turned back to the boy. ‘I’m still in the dark,’ I told him.
‘Well, tha sees,’ began the boy, ‘on yer fells yonder is a goodly number of “yows” – them’s ewes – female sheep, and one or two “tups” – rams, male sheep. Are tha wi’ me so far?’
‘I am.’
‘Reight then. Tha dunt need many tups. Does tha know why?’
‘Yes, I’m still with you. Go on.’
‘Reight then, t’shepherd puts an ‘arness under yer tup’s belly, sooart o’ leather strap affair wi’ a sooart of big red wax crayon in it. It ‘angs down under ‘im. Are tha still wi’ me?’
The scales were falling from my eyes. ‘Yes. I’ve got the picture now, thank you very much. I think I can work the rest out for myself. Shall we have a look at your writing book?’
‘Naa then.’ The boy was not going to be stopped half way through his explanation, so carried on regardless. ‘When ‘e’s served a yow – does tha –’
‘Yes, I know what that means,’ I interrupted.
‘Well, when ‘e’s served a yow, t’tup leaves ‘is mark on ‘er back which means she’s been ruddled. Does tha follow mi drift?’
‘Yes, I’ve got the idea,’ I said.
‘Cooarse, if there’s no colour on ‘er back at all, then tha knaas t’tup’s not been doin’ what Nature’s intended ‘im to do, and ‘e needs a bit o’ encouragin’ like. T’shepherd knaas, tha sees, that she’s not been seen to.’
‘Fascinating,’ I said quickly. ‘So, shall we look at your book?’
‘What language ees thees boy speaking?’ asked Carlos, looking completely dumbfounded. ‘I thought my Engleesh was quite good, but I have not understood a seengle word.’
‘It’s “Yorkshire” – a variation of English,’ I told him. ‘Dialect.’
‘Thees “seen to”,’ he asked, still with a puzzled expression on his round face. ‘Could you explain thees “seen to” for me, plees?’
‘It’s rather complicated,’ I told him. ‘I’ll explain it later.’
‘Now then, during some parts o’ year,’ continued the boy, ‘you don’t want your tup bothering t’yows, so you put ‘er in ‘er winter clouts. They’re sort of triangles of jute sacking which you stitch to your yow’s back end to stop your tup from –’
‘Yes, I’ve got the idea,’ I interrupted. ‘But why doesn’t the shepherd just put the ram in a different field if he wants him away from the ewes?’
The boy shook his head. ‘We’re talkin’ Swaledales, mester. Your hardy, black-faced Swaledales are at hooam on t’fells and moorland. You don’t fence ‘em in. They dooan’t stop in t’fields all year round, tha knaas. They wander free and yer yows are only brought down to t’valley at lambing time to give birth in t’fields near t’farm buildings. Then they’re driven back on t’hills. Now, with yer winter clouts –’
I thought it appropriate at this point to try and change the subject again. ‘Do you do much poetry in class?’ I asked.
‘Poetry?’ repeated the boy. ‘Aye, we do some poetry. But I was tellin’ you about t’winter clouts.’
‘Perhaps another time,’ I said.
‘Waay,’ said the boy, a flash of anger in his eyes, ‘it were your pal what brought it up. I were only anwerin’ ‘im, when ‘e asked about sheep bein’ “ruddled”.’ With that, he shook his head again and got on with his work.
At morning break, while Carlos quizzed Mr Leatherboy about the English education system, I strolled around the front of the school, breathing in the fresh air and marvelling at the panorama before me.
‘Admirin’ t’view?’
I turned to find a small man with a huge hawk-like nose and the small down-turned mouth of a peevish child. He was attired in a grey overall and carried two long-handled spades.
‘Yes, it’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Are you the school caretaker?’
‘Site manager,’ he corrected me.
‘Doing a bit of gardening?’
‘I’m bloody not!’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve got enough on looking after t’building wi’out goin’ searchin’ for work. I’m after t’rabbits this mornin’. There’s ‘undreds of ‘em. I trap ‘em, net ‘em, gas ‘em, poison ‘em, block up their warrens. I’ve ‘ad mi ferrets down their ‘oles, mi Jack Russell catching ‘em but they go on breedin’ like… like…’
‘Rabbits?’ I ventured.
‘Aye, they do. I’m after t’diseased uns today, them wi’ myxomytosis. I don’t like rabbits, but it’s a terrible sight to see ‘em all deformed and crippled. I wait until t’kiddies are in school, then come out wi’ mi spades to dispose of ‘em.’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Look, there’s a couple of ‘em ovver by t’wall. Can you see ‘em?’ The creatures he pointed out looked pathetic indeed, hunched up with their pale grey eyes seeing nothing. ‘Only ‘umane thing to do is to put ‘em out of their misery. One short, sharp smack wi’ mi spade and then I bury ‘em in t’field yonder. If you leave ‘em, they die a long and lingering death. Terrible disease is myxomytosis. I wouldn’t wish it on any creature, even on rabbits.’ He looked around conspiratorially. ‘Of course, I ‘ave to be very discreet about it. I don’t want t’children peering out of t’classroom windows to see me flattening a rabbit wi’ a spade. It’d give ‘em nightmares. So I wait till they’re all in t’playground at t’other side of t’school and then I do what ‘as to be done. You see, if I don’t dispose of ‘em, kiddies might go up and touch ‘em and we can’t be ‘avin’ that, now can we?’
‘No, we can’t,’ I agreed.
Then, before I could protest, he thrust a spade into my hand. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You can ‘elp me.’
‘No, no, ‘I said, ‘I really couldn’t.’
‘I’ll do t’disposin’, you just make sure they don’t go back to their ‘oles. Not that they look as if they’re goin’ anywhere.’
I followed him charily towards
the poor creatures and watched the executioner raise his instrument of death high above his head. He took a deep breath and was about to bring the spade down with a sickening thud onto a shivering little creature, when Carlos and a group of chattering children appeared from around the side of the school. The small group froze in amazement.
With great presence of mind, the caretaker skipped towards me and tapped my spade handle with his. ‘Pretend we’re morris dancin’,’ he said, out of the corner of his mouth.
I was dismayed to learn from the headteacher later that morning that Mrs Savage was to make an appearance. No doubt she wanted to check up on things and make her presence felt.
‘There’s a very nice little pub in the village,’ Mr Leatherboy told me. ‘I expect the three of you will want to go out for something to eat so you can discuss things.’
Under no circumstances was I having lunch with Mrs Savage. ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I always eat with the children when I visit schools. It’s an excellent opportunity to meet them informally and I always find they are far more relaxed and talkative over the dinner table. We’ll have school lunch here, if that is all right.’
‘Of course,’ replied the headteacher, ‘it’s fish fingers today.’
Mrs Savage, resplendent in her early spring ensemble – a pale cream suit and matching accessories – was all smiles and jangling jewellery when she sailed past the school secretary and through the headteacher’s door.
‘Buenos días,’ she said, holding out a manicured hand to the Spanish inspector.
‘Ah, buenos días, señora,’ replied Carlos.
‘I’m afraid “Buenos días” is about the extent of my Spanish, Señor Itturiaga,’ said Mrs Savage, giving him the most charming of smiles. ‘I do so love Spain. The sunshine, the colours, the people, the wine. I am Brenda Savage, Personal Assistant to Dr Gore, the Chief Education Officer, by the way. You’ll be meeting the CEO tomorrow evening, Señor Itturiaga, at our little reception.’
‘Carlos, plees.’
‘Carlos,’ she said somewhat breathlessly.
If was as if the headteacher and I were invisible.
‘This is Mr Leatherboy, the headteacher,’ I said stiffly. ‘This is Mrs Savage.’
‘Good morning,’ said the headteacher. I could see he was rather put out by this woman swanning into his office without a word to him.
‘I’ve just popped in to see how things are going,’ said Mrs Savage, as if she were in complete charge of the whole undertaking.
‘Things are going very well,’ I said. ‘You needn’t have troubled yourself.’
‘Oh, it’s really no trouble. As you are aware, Dr Gore is particularly keen that this visit from our European friends should go well.’
‘Well, things are going extremely well,’ said the headteacher. ‘In fact –’
‘I’m very pleased to hear it.’ She looked at me. ‘And have you lunched?’ she asked.
‘We were just about to eat,’ I said, ‘if you would care to join us.’
‘Very much,’ she trilled. ‘There’s a very quaint and typically English country inn in the village, The Marquis of Granby, quite famous for its seafood, I hear.’
I cut her short. ‘We’re eating with the children, Mrs Savage,’ I said. ‘We always do when we visit schools. I’m sure you have no objection.’
‘Oh,’ she replied, making a face. ‘Actually eating with the children?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I said, suppressing a smile.
‘That would be very nice,’ she lied.
‘And, as it so happens, it’s a seafood delicacy today,’ I told her, giving the headteacher a sideways glance.
‘Really?’
‘Yes, fish fingers.’
I very much enjoyed watching Mrs Savage’s discomfiture as she sat on a long wooden bench designed for small children, sandwiched between two rather messy little infant eaters who chattered without pausing, liberally spitting out food. Mrs Savage managed to force down half a fish finger and two chips before placing her knife and fork together.
‘Are you ‘avin’ them fish fingers?’ asked the little girl on her right.
‘No, dear, I’m not,’ replied Mrs Savage.
‘Can I have ‘em?’
‘Please do.’
‘Are you ‘avin’ yer chips?’
‘No, dear.’
‘Can I ‘ave them, an’ all?’
‘Yes, you may.’
‘Are you ‘avin’ your yoghurt?’ asked the child on her left.
‘No.’
‘Can I ‘ave it?’
‘Please do.’ The fish fingers, chips and the yoghurt were quickly commandeered. ‘Well,’ said Mrs Savage, ‘if you will excuse me, I need to freshen up.’ She turned to the child who had just scooped out a great spoonful of pink yoghurt. ‘Could you tell me, dear, where the staff toilets are?’
‘Over theer,’ replied the child, waving the spoon in front of her and, in the process, spattering Mrs Savage with strawberry yoghurt.
Mrs Savage rose solemnly from the bench with surprising equanimity, stared for a moment at the thin pink line which ran across her pale cream suit with matching accessories, and took a deep breath. ‘Thank you, dear,’ she said, with a sour smile. ‘Thank you so very much.’
Carlos and I visited four schools during the two days and my colleague seemed immensely impressed with the high standard of work, the excellent teaching, the rich and challenging environments and the friendly children, but he had some reservations when it came to the education of the small children.
‘You know, Gervase,’ he said to me as we drove back to Fettlesham at the end of the second afternoon, ‘I do have to say that I think the children start their formal education in England too early. Small children should be allowed to play. Everything in the world ees new and exciting for small children. We should let them enjoy. Of course, reading and writing and the mathematics are important, but so are art and music and drama and playing with sand and water and everything that little ones so love to do. I just wonder whether thees young children ever get those little hands of theirs red with paint or covered in sticky clay, or if they ever build castles in the sand and fill up jars with water and go fishing for leetle feeshes. It ees just a thought.’
Carlos’s thoughts about early education stayed with me many weeks after he had returned to Spain.
One thing that greatly impressed Carlos was the quality of the education in the small schools. He had expected the curriculum to be rather narrow and unadventurous and that the standards would be lower than in the larger schools. In fact, he found the opposite and became very animated.
‘The small schools are quite exceptiónal,’ he told me on the way back to Fettlesham. ‘I am very much in favour of the small schools. They are like families.’
I thought immediately of Hawksrill. ‘You might share your observations with Dr Gore at the reception this evening,’ I said. ‘I am sure he would be very interested to hear your views on the quality of small rural schools.’
The Staff Development Centre was at its burnished best the evening of the reception for the foreign inspectors. Connie had surpassed herself and the whole place sparkled. For the guests’ arrival, she had abandoned the pink overall and feather duster in favour of a bright floral print dress and lemon-coloured cardigan, enhanced by a rope of large orange beads and an extremely colourful brooch in the shape of a parrot. Her hair had been recently permed and coloured bright copper.
‘I didn’t recognise you without your feather duster, Connie,’ remarked Sidney as he walked with David and me into the entrance where she was standing sentinel.
‘To what are you alluring?’ asked Connie.
‘I was merely observing how very nice you look this evening,’ burbled Sidney.
‘That’s as may be. Anyway, there’s that Semen woman looking for you,’ she told him.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘The French inspector, Semen.’
‘Her name, Connie, is
Simone,’ Sidney informed her.
‘Semen, Simone, whatever. I don’t know why these foreigners have such funny names.’ She huffed and turned to me. ‘I’ve put the food in the lounge area as per instructed but there’s no frogs’ legs, snails, smelly French cheeses and the like and there’s no fancy bagatelles, just plain Yorkshire baps. It’s good simple English food what I’ve done. As I say, nothing fancy.’
‘Spotted Dick?’ enquired David mischievously.
‘What?’ asked Connie.
‘Good plain English fare. Spotted Dick? Jam roly-poly? Yorkshire pudding? Tripe and onions? Fish and chips?’
‘It’s a buffet,’ Connie told him, pronouncing it ‘buff-it’, ‘not a five-course meal.’ Then, scowling at David, she said, ‘You’re getting as bad as him.’
‘Ignore them, Connie,’ I said. ‘It sounds splendid.’
At this point Dr Gore, accompanied by Mrs Savage, joined us. Mrs Savage had certainly gone to town with her outfit. She wore a close-fitting mulberry-coloured wool suit, pale lilac chemise and matching silk scarf and court shoes. The heavy silver jewellery she was wont to wear had been abandoned in favour of delicate peridot earrings and matching pendant. She also wore a spectacular ring set with the pale green stones. She was, as always, impeccably made up.
‘Good evening, good evening, everyone,’ said the CEO, smiling and rubbing his hands together.
Connie, who had treated everyone in the same blunt manner, moved forward to welcome him. He was now on her territory and she did the greetings here.
‘Hello, Brian,’ she said.
I saw Mrs Savage wince. No one in the office referred to the Chief Education Officer by his first name. It just was not done. It was always Dr Gore or ‘sir’.
However, Connie’s familiarity never seemed to bother Dr Gore. He continued smiling and rubbing his hands. ‘And a good evening to you, Connie,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I was very sorry to have heard about the death of your father.’
‘Yes, well, he had a good life. By the way, thank you for your letter of convalescence. It was much appreciated.’
I cast Mrs Savage a sideways glance. She had pulled a familiar disapproving face.
Up and Down in the Dales Page 34