‘Mr Phinn,’ said Dr Gore quietly, ‘could you return to the Council Chamber, please?’
‘Me?’ I replied, startled.
‘If you would be so kind.’
I was walking on clouds as I followed Dr Gore back down the long corridor to the interview room.
‘We would like to offer you the position of County Inspector of Schools,’ said the solid, ruddy-faced individual in the thick tweed suit. I was speechless. ‘We liked your answers and thought they were very sensible and honest and to-the-point. We think you’ll get on with the children and the teachers and be a real asset to the county. We’re a plain-speaking people in this part of the country, Mr Phinn, and we can’t be doing with folk who think they are God’s own gift to education. No disrespect to some of the other candidates but we don’t put people on pedestals in Yorkshire – they nobbut want dustin’.’ I was still unable to say a word so surprised was I at being offered the post. ‘Well, young man, has the cat got your tongue? Have you got an answer for us or do we take it that your silence is a “no”?’
‘Y … yes,’ I stuttered,’ I mean n … no, I mean I would very much like to accept the position,’ and I shook the large hand that was extended in my direction heartily.
When I returned to the anteroom after a brief conversation with Dr Gore, all but one of the candidates had departed. The primary school headteacher was waiting to congratulate me and she shook my hand warmly.
‘Well done,’ she said. ‘I am sure they made the right choice. You’re a bit of a dark horse, aren’t you? You didn’t give very much away about yourself. I must say it’s a bit of a relief, to be honest, that I wasn’t successful. I wasn’t too sure whether I wanted the post or whether I could actually do it. I’m sure you will be a great success.’
‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘that’s very kind of you.’
‘And it may be that you’ll be inspecting my school one of these days,’ she added smiling.
As I made my way down the neat gravel path to the car park with a definite jaunty spring in my step, I met the gardener who was wheeling his bicycle towards the front gate, his trouser bottoms neatly encased in shining clips.
‘How did you get on?’ he asked.
‘I got the job,’ I replied laughing. ‘I actually got the job.’
‘I thought you would,’ he said. ‘I’m a pretty good judge of character. I had my money on you from the start.’
3
‘Hello!’ I called hesitantly through the open door. There was no reply. ‘Hello!’ I called again, a little louder. ‘Hello! Is there anyone there?’ There was still no answer so I popped my head around the door and peered into a small cluttered office.
There were five heavy oak desks with brass-handled drawers, five ancient wooden swivel chairs, five tall grey metal filing cabinets and a wall-length of dark heavy bookcases crammed with books and journals, magazines and files. In the corner a computer hummed away on a small table. There was a half-drunk mug of tea on one desk, a half-eaten biscuit on a plate, a shopping basket, handbag, a woman’s scarf and a set of keys. It looked as if someone had left in a hurry. Four of the desks were piled high with papers and folders so I assumed the fifth with just two empty wire ‘IN’ and ‘OUT’ trays would be mine and sat on the chair behind it, wondering what to do next. I had written to the Office saying I would be calling in that morning and, since I had received no reply, assumed it would be convenient. However, it was clear that no one seemed to be expecting me. The computer hummed and the clock on the wall ticked and the room looked like a cabin in the Marie Celeste. Perhaps they hadn’t received my letter. I was just about to do a little exploration when the shrill ringing of the telephone made me jump up from the chair. I waited a few moments before lifting the receiver.
‘Hello?’ I asked charily.
‘Is that free school meals?’ The voice was angry and strident.
‘Pardon?’
‘Free school meals. I want free school meals!’
‘You have the wrong department,’ I replied.
‘I’ve got this letter saying that my Kimberley can’t have free school meals!’ I tried to interrupt but to no avail. ‘Well, Cherise, Mrs Simmonite’s daughter, she’s got them. Now, I can’t see for the life of me why my Kimberley can’t have free school meals when Mrs Simmonite’s daughter can. It’s just not fair.’
‘If I could –’
‘Well, do you think it’s fair?’ There was an expectant pause at the other end of the line.
‘Well, it doesn’t seem fair on the face of it, but I’m not really in a position to –’
‘And don’t you tell me it’s because Mrs Simmonite’s worse off than me because if you tell me that, then how come she can afford double glazing – upstairs and down I might add – if she’s worse off than me? And how come she flits off on them foreign holidays if she’s so badly off as well, because – ’
‘Hang on!’ I snapped. ‘I’m sure that – ’
‘So what I want to know,’ the caller continued blithely, quite oblivious to the sharpness in my reply, ‘is what are you going to do about it?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it,’ I replied.
‘As I said, I want to – What?’ The torrent momentarily faltered. ‘Why can’t you do anything about it?’
‘Because you are through to the wrong department,’ I answered when, thankfully, I could finally get a word in.
‘Well, why didn’t you tell me? Letting me ramble on.’
‘I have been attempting to,’ I replied, trying to remain calm.
‘Don’t take that tone with me, young man. I’m only trying to get what’s right for my Kimberley.’
‘I am sure that you are but I can’t help you because I do not deal with free school meals. You need another department.’
‘Well, who am I through to then?’
‘The Inspectors’ Division.’
‘I don’t want the police! Why did they put me through to the police? I asked for the education! I mean, I’m not made of money, feeding this telephone like an ’ungry piggy bank. I wanted the education –’
‘This is the education,’ I attempted another explanation, ‘but – ’
‘Well, why did you tell me it was the police?’
‘I didn’t say it was the police!’
‘Yes, you did.’
‘Now, look, madam, this is getting us nowhere.’
‘That’s the first sensible thing I’ve heard you say, young man!’
‘If you would just listen to me for a moment – ’
‘You said I was through to the inspectors.’
‘It’s the inspectorate, the education inspectorate.’ This was getting out of hand.
‘And you don’t deal with free school meals?’
‘No, I don’t deal with free school meals,’ I sighed. ‘I deal with school inspections!’
‘Well, who does then?’
‘What?’
‘Deal with free school meals?’
‘I don’t know. I’m new.’
‘Oh, isn’t that just typical.’ The verbal badminton ceased for a moment and the caller’s voice took on a slow and sarcastic tone. ‘Typical that is! Nobody ever knows. Everybody’s new. Just passed on from pillow to post while my Kimberley has to do without her free school meals.’
‘If you would like to leave your name and number –’
‘I’m in a telephone box!’
‘Well if you could just hold the line for one moment – ’
‘There’s a queue.’
‘… I will find out who may be able to help you.’
‘Huh! Hang about in a drafty telephone booth that smells like a public lavatory while you traipse off to find someone who will probably be about as much help as you. And you’re about as useful as a chocolate teapot! My brains aren’t made of porridge, you know!’
‘Well, if you leave your name and address, I promise that I will –’ The telephone went dead. ‘Oh dear,’ I si
ghed, ‘I hope this is not a flavour of things to come.’
‘Mr Phinn?’ I turned to find a young woman with bubbly blonde hair, long metal earrings and a bright open smile, framed in the doorway. ‘Is it Mr Phinn?’
‘That’s right,’ I replied.
‘I’m Julie,’ she said. ‘The inspectors’ clerk. I’ve been looking all over the office for you. I thought you might have come and gone. I was late because the traffic in Fettlesham was dreadful this morning. Being market day, the roads are a nightmare. You must have come up the back stairs.’
I rose and shook a long, red-nailed hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Julie,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, I assumed the entrance was around the side.’
‘That’s all right. It’s a bit of a maze in this building. Anyway, the important thing is that you have found us.’ She looked down at her hand and sighed dramatically.‘Gone and snagged a nail. Here, let me move all my things out of the way.’ She collected the shopping basket, handbag, scarf and keys and dumped them on a chair, continuing her chatter as she did so. ‘I’ve been working in this office this week. It’s got more space than my room down the corridor. Well, I say “room”, but it’s got about as much space as a cubicle in a ladies’ lav. There’s no one in the office today except me since it’s still the school holidays. The other inspectors are all on leave, I’m afraid, so you won’t see them until next week at the beginning of term. Most usually take off the last two weeks of the summer holidays just before the schools start but they’ll be back bright-eyed and bushy-tailed next Monday and then you can get to know everybody. The first week of term is pretty quiet on the whole. There’s no visits for a few days.’ She dug into her handbag, extracted a long nail-file and proceeded to saw away at the broken nail. ‘It gives the children a chance to settle in.’ Julie waved in the direction of the desks. ‘That’s when all these mountains of paper are cleared.’
‘I see. I just thought I’d spend a few days up here before the school term starts, find some digs, settle in and see if there is anything urgent I need to do or any documents to read.’ I turned in the direction of the empty desk. ‘But I see there is nothing for me.’
‘Oh, but there is,’ replied Julie laughing, and pointed with the long nail-file to a large desk in the corner piled high with papers. ‘That’s your desk over there. The mountain started to grow as soon as everyone heard you’d been appointed. Mrs Young, the last English inspector, used to sit there. She’s sunning herself in Spain at this moment, happily retired. She’s sent you a postcard from the Costa somewhere-or-other, wishing you all the best, by the way. It’s buried beneath that mound of paper.’ Before I could reply and say how kind it was of Mrs Young, Julie chattered on blithely. ‘Now, let me show you where everyone else sits. Mr Clamp, the creative and visual arts inspector is by the window next to Mr Pritchard who covers mathematics, Ρ Ε and games. Dr Yeats, he’s the Senior Inspector, looks after history, geography and modern foreign languages and that’s his large desk in the middle.’
‘I see,’ I replied, not sure I’d remember any of this.
‘Now, if you want to make a start on the paper mountain, I’ll make us a cup of tea. I’ve prepared you a folder with some information about this and that, which you’ll find in the top drawer. It has your travel claim forms and engagement sheets which have to be filled in on Fridays so I know where you are during the following week. That’s in case I need to contact you urgently. You can leave those for the time being. There’s also a full school list, education personnel handbook and your diary – all the things you need. Dr Yeats has organized a programme for the second week to take you around some schools with him and introduce you to various people. He also wants you to join him at some meetings and see how things work. You’ll find details of that as well. He’s really nice is Dr Yeats. In fact, they all are in this office. Now is that everything? Oh, yes, there’s also a message for you from Mrs Savage.’ Julie’s voice took on a harder edge, her mouth twisted slightly and I saw a sudden glint in her eyes. ‘She’s Dr Gore’s personal assistant. Not a person I warm to, Mrs Savage. I thought it wouldn’t be long before Mrs High-and-Mighty got in touch.’
Before I could ask what Mrs Savage might want, Julie headed for the door. ‘Well, I’ll let you get on with things. Give me a shout if you need anything. My cubby-hole is down the corridor, by the way. I’ll be through with the tea in a minute.’ Then she was gone.
I looked around the cluttered office in something of a daze wondering where to start. The computer hummed and the clock on the wall ticked. A moment later Julie popped her head back around the door. ‘I forgot to say – it’s nice having you with us.’
I spent the entire day wading through letters, reports, questionnaires, publishers’ catalogues, requests for references, conference papers, county documents, minutes of meetings, agendas and details of teachers’ courses. I just did not know where it was going to end.
‘And it gets worse,’ said Julie bringing me the fourth mug of tea that day.
‘I’ve never seen so much paper in one place in all my life,’ I groaned, stretching my arms in the air.
‘You haven’t seen anything yet! Wait until the inspection reports come in. Piles and piles of paper, reams and reams of records, heaps of files, mounds of mail, stacks of documents. Sometimes I think that you inspectors ought to take saplings around in the boots of your cars.’
‘Saplings?’
‘You know, little trees – to plant in place of all the trees cut down to produce the tons of paper you go through. Somebody once told Mr Clamp on one of his art courses that every time he spoke a forest fell.’ She smiled and continued to chatter on. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not that bad. It’s just that a lot of things have piled up over the weeks. It’s always like this after the summer holidays. You’ll soon have it cleared.’
‘Do you think I should give Mrs Savage a ring?’ I asked. ‘It might be important.’
‘If it was that important she’d have been over in person. No, it’ll just be to fix a time to see Dr Gore to talk over a few things.’ Julie paused and stared at me for a moment before adding, ‘I didn’t imagine that you’d look as you do. Your name sort of conjures up a very different picture. I imagined you’d be sort of French looking – dark and swarthy with an accent.’
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’ I laughed.
‘Mr Clamp thought you would be a huge, red-headed Irishman and Mr Pritchard, a little, shy, bearded person. They had a bet on what you would look like.’
‘And who won?’ I asked.
‘Dr Yeats. He said you would be just an ordinary, pleasant, agreeable chap.’
‘Damned with faint praise, eh?’
‘Actually, I reckon he’d seen you at the interview and had inside information. Anyway I’m sure you will settle in here. It’s a very happy office. If there is anything else, Mr Phinn, anything at all, just ask.’
‘You’ve been really helpful, Julie,’ I replied. ‘Thank you. I think you must have covered just about everything.’
‘Did you find some digs, by the way?’
‘Yes, on Richmond Road. I’ll stay there until I find a flat to rent. I’m not in any hurry to buy at the moment. I want to look around a bit before buying a place up here.’
‘And is there a Mrs Phinn and lots of little Phinns?’ she asked.
‘No, there’s no Mrs Phinn and no little Phinns,’ I replied.
‘Foot loose and fancy free, eh? “The world’s your lobster”, as my mother would say. Well, I’ll let you get on.’ With that, Julie disappeared.
There nearly had been a Mrs Phinn. I had met Carol at the Rotherwood Royal Infirmary when I took a pupil to the casualty department after his collision with a large opponent on the rugby field. I had been helping out teaching games at the time, coaching the under-thirteens. This particular game had been fast and furious and there had been quite a few knocks, grazes, cuts and collisions during the course of the match. The ground had been rock-like that Saturday
and, had I been refereeing the match, I would have cancelled the game or, at the very least, abandoned it when the hailstones began to fall like bullets from the sky. Added to the bitter cold of the day, the icy wind and the hail, the opposing team had been much better than ours and arrogant with it and had thrashed us sixty points to nine.
I was not in the best of moods, therefore, as I sat impatiently with ‘Little John’, as we called him, on an uncomfortable, plastic-covered seat in the casualty department waiting for attention. John was very big for his age: a large, solid, amiable, easy-going boy and rugby was his life. In lessons he was quiet, amenable and slow in his work but when he was on the rugby pitch he transformed into a raging bull. He threw himself unrestrained into the game, metaphorically and literally, and often ended up concussed or cut, bruised or bloody, but always finished the match with a great friendly smile on his wide open face. It was his hard luck that he met an even larger and tougher opponent that Saturday. The hospital was crowded, noisy and smelly, and we were sandwiched between a groaning nosebleed on one side and a garrulous industrial burn on the other. As we waited, John, cradling his suspected broken arm in his lap, and looking around with fascination at the collection of casualties in bandages and splints, on crutches and stretchers, remarked cheerfully, ‘It’s quite interesting here, sir, isn’t it?’ Before I could respond, however, a young, bright-eyed female doctor appeared through the mayhem and racket, like some vision in white, and motioned us through to an examination room.
‘You men want locking up,’ she said in a not-too-serious tone of voice when she had heard it was a rugby accident. ‘Big silly boys, the lot of you, chasing a ball up and down a field and ending up with broken bones in the process.’
‘Is it broken then, miss?’ asked John, with a doleful expression.
‘No, I don’t think it is, but we’ll send you for an X-ray to be on the safe side.’ Then she turned to me. ‘And who are you?’
The Other Side of the Dale Page 3