Gervase Phinn
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DALE
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
A Child of the Dales
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PENGUIN BOOKS
THE OTHER SIDE OF THE DALE
Gervase Phinn taught in a range of schools for fourteen years until, in 1984, he became General Adviser for Language Development in Rotherham. Four years later he was appointed Senior General Inspector for English and Drama with North Yorkshire County Council and was subsequently made Principal Adviser for the county. He is now a free-lance lecturer and adviser, and Visiting Professor of Education at the University of Teesside.
He has published collections of his own plays and stories and has contributed to several anthologies. His own anthology of poems, Classroom Creatures, has been published by Puffin in an expanded edition called It Takes One To Know One. Over Hill and Dale and Head over Heels in the Dales, which continue the story of his career as a School Inspector, are also published by Penguin.
Gervase Phinn is widely sought after as a speaker and recently was an immediate star on Esther Rantzen’s television show, Esther, appearing a second time due to public demand. He is married with four children and lives in a village just outside Doncaster.
For Christine and all other dedicated teachers who take on the most important duty in society – the education of the young.
I am extremely grateful to Cynthia Welbourn, Director of Education, and Edna Sutton, Chief Education Adviser, North Yorkshire County Council, for their support in writing this book. I should like to thank Jenny Dereham, my editor, who has been an exceptionally wise and patient guide, and Esther Rantzen who invited me on to her television show ‘Esther’ and encouraged me to tell my stories in print.
A small child was splashing poster paint
On a great grey piece of paper.
‘Do you paint a picture every week?’
Asked the school inspector.
The small child shook his little head.
‘Hardly ever as a rule,
But Miss said we’ve got to paint today –
There’s an important visitor in t’school!’
1
At long last, after a two-hour search up and down the Dale, along muddy twisting roads, across narrow stone bridges, up dirt tracks, past swirling rivers and dribbling streams, and through countless villages in an increasingly desperate search, I had eventually arrived at my destination. At the sight of the highly-polished brass plate on the door bearing the word BACKWATERSTHWAITE SCHOOL, I heaved a great sigh of relief and felt that sort of pioneering triumph which Christopher Columbus, Captain Cook and Scott of the Antarctic must have felt on arriving at their destinations after their difficult journeys.
I had seen no school sign, no traffic triangle warning of a school and children crossing, no playground, playing field, nothing that would identify the austere building as an educational institution. The tall, gaunt edifice deep in the dark valley looked like any other large, sturdy Yorkshire country house and I had passed it unknowingly several times during my vain attempt to discover the elusive school. Beneath the slate roof, greasy grey and edged with a pale purple lichen, tall leaded windows faced the ever-watchful fields. From the grey and white limestone walls gillyflowers and tiny ferns creviced. A little beck trickled alongside as I made my way to the heavy oak door. At long last I had arrived. I lifted the great grey iron knocker in the shape of a ram’s head and let it fall with a heavy echoing thud.
I had arrived at Upperwatersthwaite much earlier in the afternoon assuming, quite foolishly, that it was somewhere near Backwatersthwaite. As soon as I stepped through the door of the small village post office to ask for directions, all conversation ceased and every eye was directed my way. There were two sturdy, middle-aged women in thick brown woollen headscarves which were tied in enormous knots under their chins, a lean old farmer, clutching his pension book, who plucked the ancient pipe from his mouth at the sight of the stranger, and a young woman who jerked her toddler close to her when I made my entrance. I must have looked singularly out of place in the dark grey suit, formal college tie and white shirt. My black briefcase, with an official looking crest emblazoned on the front, was eyed suspiciously by the large, healthy-looking postmistress. She looked over the counter with a deadpan expression on her round red face. I joined what I took to be the end of the queue but was ushered forward by the pensioner.
‘Nay, lad, thee carry on. Tha look as if tha’re in an ’urry. We’re not in any rush, are we ladies?’ His companions, still viewing me like an exhibit in a museum, nodded and moved away from the counter.
‘Thank you,’ I replied smiling and stepping forward.
‘Yes, young man?’ asked the postmistress dourly.
‘I wonder if you could direct me to Backwatersthwaite?’ I asked cheerfully. ‘I seem to have got myself well and truly lost.’ The countenance of the large woman underwent a rapid transformation. She beamed widely and two great dimples appeared on her round rosy cheeks. She gave a long, audible sigh before she replied.
‘Oh, is that all?’ she said. ‘I thowt for a minute you were here for summat else.’ I suppose she had imagined me to be some sort of post office investigator, tax inspector or auditor and, hearing that I was not there to check the books, visibly relaxed. ‘Ee, you’re miles away from Backwatersthwaite, love,’ she chuckled. ‘You want t’other side of t’Dale.’ Then followed a series of detailed instructions on how to get to Backwatersthwaite, punctuated periodically by the other customers in the post office. The journey, described in seemingly endless detail, involved a veritable expedition that took me via Brigg Rock and Hopton Crags to pass by Woppat’s Farm, past the Bull and Heifer Inn at Lowerwatersthwaite, then through Bishopwatersthwaite, Chapelwatersthwaite, and along Stoneybrow Rise, and over Saddleside Edge.
‘Then tha’ best ask ageean,’ the postmistress concluded. Her customers nodded in agreement. I thanked her, looked at my watch and made hastily for the door. ‘And tha wants to slow down, love!’ she shouted after me. ‘It’ll still be theer when thy arrives – it’s not goin’ anyweer.’ Her words were accompanied by several grunts from the others.
Having negotiated Brigg Rock and passed by Hopton Crags at great speed with no sight of Woppat’s Farm, I whizzed through a couple of small villages and arrived at Chapelwatersthwaite. The hamlet was a cluster of barns and cottages, a tall redbrick primitive Methodist Chapel and one small country inn: The Marrick Arms. In the centre of the village the road forked and I stopped the car at the side of the road for the umpteenth time that day to find my bearings. I cursed myself for forgetting to bring a map with me. I had been told at the office that the school was easy to find: just head down the Dale, follow the signs and you cannot miss it. As I sat there wondering in which direction to go, I noticed I had an observer. Standing in front of the hostelry and leaning on his walking stick, was an extremely old, wrinkled individual with a long gloomy face. He regarded me, as stern and motionless as a judge might observe a condemned prisoner
in the dock. I was tempted to ask for further directions but dreaded another long, laborious set of instructions, so I decided on the wider of the two roads – the one named Old Stoneybrow Ridge that twisted north. I smiled genially at the ancient, and raised my hand in greeting. He stared back at me and nodded. The road twisted and turned for half a mile, then narrowed to a single track, then became a dirt track and finally came to a dead end at a gate on which was printed CRABTREE FARM – PRIVATE PROPERTY. I reversed angrily until I could find a gate to turn in, and made my way back to The Marrick Arms. The ancient was still standing and staring impassively. I wound down the car window to ask wearily for directions but before I could say a word he smiled, winked and shouted, ‘I thowt tha’d be back!’ He then pointed to a road sign partly concealed by the overgrown hedge which read: ‘No Through Road’. Controlling my impatience, I asked him for directions.
‘Backwatersthwaite!’ he snapped as if I had said something blasphemous. ‘What’s tha’ goin’ up to Backwatersthwaite fer? There’s nowt theer.’ I explained that I had an appointment at the school. ‘Scoil?’ he repeated. ‘Scoil! Nay, lad, they closed t’scoil in nineteen fotty!’ I assured him that I had an appointment with the Headteacher of the school that very afternoon and that he would be expecting me about now.
The old man regarded me with a grave expression. ‘Well I nivver did. They’ve gone an oppened it up ageean. There must be another family up t’Dale.’ He peered up at the cold, grey sky and the scudding clouds. ‘So tha’ wants Backwatersthwaite, does tha’? Well, it’s not a good day to go up theer, I can tell thee that. Not a good day at all.’ He sighed. ‘’Tis bleak and treacherous over Saddleside Edge this time o’ year. Them gret, green marshes what border t’road ovver t’tops can be treacherous when t’mist comes down. Drive off t’road and tha’ll end up, up to thee neck in peaty slime that’ll drag thee to thy death inch by inch. Whole flocks o’sheep have disappeared up theer, tha knaws.’ He shook his head and grimaced before adding, ‘And t’shepherd were nivver seen ageean neither.’ The Prophet of Doom paused and sucked his teeth thoughtfully. ‘No, not a good time to go visitin’ Backwatersthwaite.’
Hot and flustered and late for my appointment I persisted. ‘I really must get there this afternoon so if you could …’
‘Tha’ wants to slow down, young man,’ said the farmer. ‘Not be in such a rush. Enjoy t’view. It’s a grand sight ovver Saddleside Edge when t’mist clears. Backwatersthwaite’s been theer since time o’ Vikings. It’ll still be theer when thee finds it – if tha’ finds it! Anyroad, t’Headmaster won’t be expecting thee on a day like this.’
I convinced him finally that I fully intended visiting Backwatersthwaite that very afternoon and drew from him a series of detailed instructions on how to get to the school. As I sped off in the direction of his bony finger I glanced in the rear view mirror to see the old man staring after me and shaking his head ruefully.
And so it was that an hour later I was standing outside the gaunt, grey building staring with relief at the highly-polished brass plate on the door bearing the words BACKWATERSTHWAITE SCHOOL.
I lifted the great grey iron knocker in the shape of a ram’s head and let it fall again with an equally heavy echoing thud. I heard slow footsteps and a few seconds later the door was opened by a lean, stooping man with grey frizzy hair like a mass of wire-wool and a most pallid complexion. The figure looked as if he had survived the Electric Chair.
‘Yes?’
‘Mr Lapping?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think you were expecting me.’
‘Was I?’
‘Yes, I wrote you a letter.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’
‘Do you remember?’
‘I might do.’
‘I said I would be calling this afternoon.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes I did!’ I replied in an exasperated voice and getting rather tired of this verbal badinage. ‘My name is Phinn.’
‘Are you the man who does the guttering repairs?’
‘No I am not!’ I replied sharply. ‘I am the man who does the school inspections.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m the newly-appointed County Inspector of Schools for this area.’
‘Are you indeed?’
‘And I am making a number of initial visits to all the schools in this part of the county. Yours is one of the first schools I have on my list.’
‘Is it indeed? I am most flattered.’
‘Do you not remember, Mr Lapping? I wrote earlier last week saying I would be calling today?’
The tall figure scratched the growth of frizzy hair, but remained in the doorway, showing no sign of letting me enter the building. ‘I do remember receiving a letter now I come to think of it,’ he said. ‘Official looking, in a brown envelope. Yes, I believe I did receive something of the sort. Actually I’ve been so very busy that I have not got round to dealing with all the mail. I’m a teaching headteacher you see and I have to deal with letters and such when I can.’ Then he glanced at his watch. ‘But you are a little late for visiting, Mr Flynn. The children go home at three thirty and it’s getting on for half past four.’
‘Yes, I am sorry about the delay. I had some difficulty finding the school.’
‘Most people do,’ replied the Headteacher, smiling and nodding sagely.
‘Never mind,’ I shrugged. ‘It was you I wished to speak to, Mr Lapping. Perhaps now that I know how to get here, I could arrange a further visit to see the children at work?’ He made no move to welcome me inside. ‘Do you think I might come in?’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ he said with sudden eagerness. ‘How very remiss of me, keeping you standing on the doorstep. Do, do come in, Mr Flynn.’ I entered a large, bright classroom. Children’s paintings, collages and beautifully-written poems covered the walls, while various savage-looking stuffed animals glared down from the shelves.
‘We don’t get many visitors up here once the summer holidays are over. I must admit I was quite surprised to see you at the door. And as for coming to see the children at work,’ he continued amiably, ‘that would be very nice, very nice indeed. We always enjoy visitors. Now I feel sure you would enjoy a cup of tea before you head off back down the Dale.’
‘Yes, please, thank you,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t intend to leave just yet. I would like to examine the school documentation to put me in the picture before I go.’
‘School documentation?’ He looked at me quizzically.
‘Yes, reading test results, mathematics scores, school prospectus, parents’ brochure, curriculum policies, guidelines and, of course, your School Development Plan.’
‘My what?’ he asked.
‘Your School Development Plan. The document which sets out your aims, objectives, targets and forward planning initiatives.’
‘I haven’t got one.’ He gave a wan smile.
‘Oh, I see,’ I murmured. ‘Well, every school should have one.’
‘I don’t think I’d recognize one if it flew in through the window and that’s the truth of it, Mr Flynn.’
‘It’s Phinn actually,’ I said.
‘You better tell me about this School Development Plan of yours over this cup of tea I promised to make.’
So we sat in the small schoolroom by a window through which we looked upon great dark hills which rose all around and I outlined what the writing of a School Development Plan involved.
When I had finished the schoolmaster sighed. ‘You know, Mr Phinn, I’ve been a teacher in this school for near on forty years. I came here as a boy, taught all the children’s parents and went to school with most of their grandparents. This school is a part of me. I live and breathe it. Look around. Outside is one of the most magnificent views in the world. Inside is a richness and a range and quality of work which speaks for itself. Every child in this school can read and write well, every child knows his or her tables, can paint and
dance and sing and they all get on as you’ll see on your next visit.’ As I looked around me I knew these were no idle boasts. ‘I would never leave this place,’ he continued. ‘When I visit the town I see all the people rushing about, with appointments to keep, no time to stop for a moment, to see the hills rising around them or the colours in the sky.’ He paused. ‘You town dwellers have a lot to learn about us country folk. It’s a different way of life. It took fifty years for the Reformation to reach us up here in the Dale, Mr Phinn. I’ll do my best, of course, but I reckon it’ll be a while before you get your School Development Plan.’
I returned a month later. The drive along the cold grey roads was more leisurely and thoughtful. I skirted Brigg Rock and Hopton Crags, sheer and black and surrounded by tall ancient trees, through a deserted Chapelwatersthwaite and along Stoneybrow Rise where the banks were peppered with a dusting of hoarfrost, over the grim and silent Saddleside Edge to discover again the small school. It stood grim and secure in the deep grey valley where a wide unhurried river, brown with recent rain, flowed gently beneath the arches of the slender bridge.
The morning I spent with the children was memorable. They sat open-mouthed as their teacher read a story in a soft and captivating voice, they answered questions with enthusiasm and unusual perception, and they wrote the most moving and vivid poetry. Before I left, Daniel, a small nine-year-old with wide, unblinking eyes and hair as thick and bright as the bracken that covered the distant hills, approached me.
‘Are thar t’scoil inspector?’ he asked, his small face creasing into a serious expression.
‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘I am.’
‘Well, can I tell thee summat?’
‘Of course.’
‘I just wanted to tell you thee he’s all reight is Mester Lapping. He’s a reight good teacher, tha knaws.’ I looked into the innocent eyes and smiled. ‘Aren’t tha’ goin’ to write it down in tha’ big black book?’ he continued. ‘It’s just that tha’ might forget.’
The Other Side of the Dale Page 1