The exception was a small, pink-faced girl whose big eyes bulged unblinkingly. She sat right under my nose, expressionless – not reacting in any way at all. As I closed the Bible I asked her, ‘Did you like the story?’ She nodded. ‘Did Goliath frighten you a little bit at the beginning?’ She nodded. ‘And did you feel happy at the end?’ She nodded. I found this pretty hard going.
Then I caught sight of Miss Pilkington at the back of the room, smiling widely. Her expression said: ‘Let the inspector get out of this one.’
It was obvious that this little girl did not find it easy to communicate. She probably lived on an isolated farm and had little opportunity to interact with others. Perhaps she had special educational needs.
I tried again. ‘Did you think Goliath would win?’ She nodded. ‘Have you read any other Bible stories?’ She nodded. ‘Can you think of a word to describe Goliath?’ She nodded. I mouthed the words slowly and deliberately. ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – GOLIATH?’ She stared up at me without blinking. I tried again. ‘AT – THE – BEGINNING – WHAT – WORD,’ I tapped my forehead, ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD?’ She continued to stare. My voice rose an octave. ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – THE – GIANT – AT – THE – BEGINNING – OF – THE – STORY?’
After a thoughtful pause she said in a clear and confident voice: ‘Well, I should say aggressive.’ Then she added, ‘You know my nannan.’
It was Connie’s grand-daughter.
‘You were speaking to the brightest and most prolific reader in the room,’ Miss Pilkington told me later. ‘She’s an absolute delight to teach – but very quiet and thoughtful.’
‘I felt such a fool,’ I confided.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Phinn,’ she replied, ‘you did a lot better than the vicar. When the Reverend Braybrook took the Harvest Festival assembly last autumn, he fared rather worse.’
She told me how the vicar had started his assembly as I had done by asking the children to try and guess what was in his head. He had told them that, as he had walked through the churchyard on his way to the school that morning, he had seen something behind a tree. It had been grey and hairy with a great bushy tail and little darting, black, shiny eyes like beads.
‘And what do you think I’m talking about?’ he had asked the children.
Tom, the large boy with the very fair hair had replied, ‘I know it’s Jesus, vicar, but it sounds like a squirrel to me!’
Towards the end of the school’s afternoon I said goodbye and headed for the Staff Development Centre where I was to direct a course later in the day. It was a glorious drive. The sun was still shining and cloud shadows chased across the fellside. A magpie strutted along a white stone wall and a pigeon flapped across the road just in front of the car. A fox appeared, stepping delicately across the road ahead of me, his brush down and snout up, unafraid, unconcerned. In the fields the sheep grazed lazily; lambs would start to arrive in a month or so. This surely was the best of seasons. Suddenly a large hen pheasant shot straight out in front of the car and I heard a thud as it hit the bumper. I quickly pulled over and jumped from the vehicle to see its prone body in the middle of the road, eyes closed and legs sticking skywards. All around me was silent and still. Not a person to be seen – not even Lord Marrick. I picked up the bird, popped it in the boot of my car and thought of the wonderful roast game I would be having for my Sunday lunch.
At 4.30 that afternoon when I arrived at the Staff Development Centre to prepare for the course, Connie, as usual, was standing like some great Eastern statue in the entrance, watching the comings and goings with a face like a death mask and the eyes of an eagle. She watched as I parked the car – well away from the entrance – and clambered out with an armful of folders before she opened the door to the Centre for me. When I had deposited the folders I headed back to the car to collect some books and equipment from the boot. Connie was still guarding the entrance, and I stopped to talk to her.
‘I saw your grand-daughter today, Connie,’ I said.
‘Did you?’ She perked up immediately and her face brightened. ‘Our Lucy?’
‘She’s a very sharp little girl, isn’t she?’ Connie’s face suffused with colour and she nodded approvingly. ‘Miss Pilkington has very high hopes for her.’
‘She’s a wonderful teacher, that Miss Pilkington,’ said Connie with great emphasis. ‘And she keeps that school a picture. It always looks nice but you wait until summer. She has all these window boxes and stone troughs and wooden tubs full of the most wonderful colourful enemas, and inside it’s all matching like in one of these smart fashion mags. You could eat your food off the floor in that school, it’s so clean and the toilets, you have never seen toilets like –’
‘You’ll be seeing Miss Pilkington later on, Connie, so you can tell her yourself. She’s coming to the writing course at the end of the afternoon.’
‘That’s nice,’ said Connie, heading for the kitchen. ‘I shall go and put some of my special Garibaldi biscuits out to have with the tea.’
Mine wasn’t quite such ‘a nice surprise’ a few moments later. I returned to my car and opened the boot to take the books and equipment into the Centre – only to find everything a complete jumble. In the very middle of the mess crouched the pheasant I had run over and had assumed was dead. It was, to my amazement, very much alive and kicking. Connie returned to the entrance just in time to see something squawking and pecking and fluttering its wings madly. I had stunned the creature, not killed it; now fully recovered, it was not at all pleased to have been incarcerated in the cramped dark boot of a car for a couple of hours, bumping along mile after mile.
‘Shoo!’ I cried, trying to encourage the bird to leave the boot, but every time my hand came within pecking range it lunged at me. ‘Shoo! Shoo!’ I exclaimed again. Then, turning, I realized I had attracted a crowd of interested teachers who stood in a half circle with Connie, watching proceedings.
‘Not wild animals now,’ wailed Connie. ‘You know I can’t stand the stuffed variety that Mr Clamp brings into the Centre, never mind savage beasts!’
‘Is it a visual aid?’ asked one teacher mischievously.
‘No, it is not!’ I snapped.
‘Are we going to write bird poems,’ asked another teacher chuckling, ‘from first-hand experience?’
‘No, we are not!’ came my angry reply.
‘Well, I don’t want it in the Centre,’ said Connie. ‘I’m not cleaning up after that. I have enough trouble with the stuffed heron.’
‘It’s not going in the Centre, Connie,’ I said getting as flustered as the bird. The bird made another loud, plaintive squawk and beat its wings and thrashed its tail.
‘What sort of bird is it?’ asked Connie peering through the dusky evening light.
Before I could answer, Miss Pilkington, who was now amongst the amused onlookers, responded. ‘Oh, I should say aggressive,’ she said with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Wouldn’t you, Mr Phinn?’
19
‘Hello, Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School.’
‘Miss Bentley … er … Christine?’ There was that tell-tale nervousness in my voice again.
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Gervase Phinn here. You left a message for me to ring you.’
‘Oh yes, thanks. I must see you. Can you call in sometime?’
‘Yes, of course. You mentioned it was urgent.’
‘It is urgent in a way,’ she replied. ‘I can’t really explain over the telephone, but I would very much like to see you, there’s something I need to discuss with you. It’s not to do with school, it’s a personal matter.’
My heart began to beat nineteen to the dozen. ‘I can call in later today after school, if that’s convenient, but it would be about six o’clock.’
‘That will be fine. I usually stay late on a Monday. I look forward to seeing you then.’
Whatever could she want? I thought. Why was it urgent? What was the personal matter about? What was there to discuss? Did she really say that she would very much like to see me? I racked my brains to think of what it could be about. Well, by the end of the day, I would know – and predictably spent the day clock-watching.
Just before six I arrived at Winnery Nook. The school looked deserted. On my first visit, when I had arrived at morning playtime, it had been teeming with tiny children, squealing and shrieking delightedly, laughing and playing, and everything had seemed so bright and sunny. On my second visit, to attend the Nativity play, the place had been throbbing with parents, teachers and governors and there had been a Christmassy atmosphere in the frosty air. Through the car window the honey-coloured brick building with its orange pantile roof and large picture windows now appeared strangely silent and prison-like in the early evening.
Over the last few months I had seen Christine very briefly at a couple of courses, and had bumped into her in Fettlesham one Saturday morning when we exchanged a few pleasantries. I had received the lovely card with an enclosed cheque for the plate but I had had no chance to see her for any length of time since before Christmas. She had certainly been in my thoughts. I sat in the car now day-dreaming, wondering what could be so urgent – and personal.
There was a sudden tap on the window which made me jump like someone who has just sat on a firecracker. ‘Are you going to sit out here all evening?’ It was Christine smiling through the side window of the car. Flustered and embarrassed, I clambered from the vehicle. ‘I’ve been watching you from my room,’ she said, ‘sitting there motionless like a corpse. You can come inside, you know, I don’t bite.’
I followed her into the school and down the corridor to her room. She sauntered ahead in that languid easy grace, leaving an alluring whiff of perfume in her wake.
‘I’ve had a tiring day,’ I said, in a feeble attempt to explain the odd behaviour. ‘I was just sort of unwinding and then I got to thinking.’
‘What about?’ she asked.
‘Oh just this and that. Nothing of any importance.’
‘I thought at one point, you’d died at the wheel,’ she chuckled. ‘You looked so still and serious. Anyway, you’re here now and I will explain the mystery and why I just had to see you.’
This sounded ominous. I wondered if Sidney had said something flippantly to her about my liking her, or whether David had indiscreetly linked my name with hers in the company of some gossipy teacher. They had both been teasing me for several weeks about asking her out and clearly guessed that I was attracted to her, despite my protest to the contrary and the constant retort that she had a boyfriend already. Maybe she wanted to see me to ask me to put a stop to the rumours. We arrived at her room and she motioned for me to take a seat.
‘Are you still enjoying the job?’ she asked.
‘Oh yes, very much,’ I replied but I could not cope with pleasantries, I just had to know why she wanted to see me. ‘What is it … er … you wanted to speak to me about?’
‘It’s that plate!’ she exclaimed.
‘Pardon?’
‘The plate, the “blue patterned plate of unknown provenance” as the catalogue said. The one you bought for me at Roper’s Saleroom in Collington.’
‘This is all about the plate?’
‘Yes.’
‘You wanted to see me so urgently about the plate?’ I was thoroughly puzzled.
‘The plate, yes. Look, let me explain. We had a school fund-raising event a week ago when parents, friends, governors and members of staff all brought in old items of interest to a social evening. We ran it on the lines of the television programme when people bring paintings, glass and china and other family heirlooms which are talked about by the experts and valued. They have to be small and antique and interesting – the items, that is, not the experts.’ She laughed softly. ‘We arranged for a valuer from Burton’s Fine Arts in Fettlesham to come and talk about the different objects and estimate how much they were worth. Well, I brought the “blue patterned plate of unknown provenance”. Mr Burton commented on a few objects on the table until he saw the plate. Then he went really quiet, picked it up and asked to whom it belonged. He asked me how much I had it insured for. He said later that when he first saw it, he nearly swooned. That plate, Gervase, is a Delft blue patterned plate, probably made in Lowestoft at the end of the seventeenth century and will fetch, according to the valuer, over six hundred pounds at auction.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed.
‘Over six hundred pounds. I nearly fainted.’
‘That old chipped plate? But it had a crack right the way down it!’
‘That’s a kiln crack according to Mr Burton and will not affect the value all that much.’
‘Well, that’s incredible.’
‘So you see my dilemma,’ sighed Christine.
‘You mean, whether to sell it or not?’
‘No, I shan’t sell it but I feel I ought to give you some money. After all, you bought it. Without you I wouldn’t have it at all.’
‘Well, neither would I for that matter. I only bid for it – you wanted it.’
‘Yes but –’
‘And I wouldn’t have looked twice at it had I been on my own.’
‘Yes but –’
‘There are no “buts”. The plate is yours. I merely bought it on your behalf and you have paid me for it.’
‘You really are kind, Gervase,’ she said. ‘I must do something to thank you.’
‘You can treat me to a meal sometime,’ I answered, chancing my arm.
She gave such a disarming smile and then replied, ‘Yes, I’ll do that. I would like that very much. What fun!’
‘I was speaking to a young teacher yesterday,’ remarked Sidney casually the next day. ‘Said she had been on one of your courses.’
‘Really?’ I replied, only half listening.
‘Said how much she enjoyed it and what a wonderful lecture you gave.’
‘Really?’
‘Quite taken with you, she was. Said you were quite inspirational. Are you listening to me, Gervase? You won’t receive exactly an avalanche of admiration and accolade as a school inspector so when a small amount comes your way, relish it, dear boy, delight in it, bask in the sunshine of the praise and recognition but don’t just mumble and murmur “Really”.’
‘Sidney,’ I replied, ‘can you not see the mountain of paper on my desk? I am trying to work. I am very pleased this person found the course useful and I am delighted that my lecture in particular was well received – but I really must get on.’
‘It is lunchtime, you know, Gervase. You are not obliged to work every hour of the day. You are allowed to stop for a few minutes for some sustenance. Even the workaholic Dr Gore has a cup of coffee occasionally.’ I sighed, put down my pen and gave him my undivided attention. ‘That’s better. Now this young teacher said you were encouraging them to chance their arms, to experiment, to have a go and that you said that few advances are made in life unless one takes a few measured risks.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ I replied. ‘Is there some sort of a problem with that?’
‘Not at all, not at all. I thoroughly approve and endorse such a view. After all, where would the art world be if painters like Van Gogh and Manet, Dali and Picasso had failed to experiment and try something different.’
‘Sidney,’ I said, getting rather irritated by what appeared to be a quite meaningless exchange, ‘is this conversation leading somewhere? Is there something you want to say to me?’
‘Well, now you come to mention it, there is. Doctor heal thyself.’
‘What?’
‘Take your own advice, dear boy. Chance your own arm, go for it, take a measured risk, grab the bull by the horns.’
‘I still haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘I’m talking about the heavenly headteacher of Winnery Nook, the delectable Miss Bentley.’
‘Oh, don’t start again, Sidney. You really are getting tiresome. I am not going to ask her out.’
‘Now, come along, Gervase,’ he said. ‘You know you like her, I know you like her and I should imagine she herself knows you like her. She’s always ringing you up. She’s attractive, educated and unmarried. Why, for goodness sake, don’t you ask her out?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘Why should I be joking?’
‘As I’ve already told you, she’s got a boyfriend already. He drives a fast sports car, lives in a huge house, owns half of the county and seems to have money to burn. He’s young, handsome, well-connected and successful, speaks with the right accent and jets around the world. I could go on and on with numerous other reasons but I would only be repeating myself.’
‘I have to admit,’ said Sidney thoughtfully, ‘you do sound somewhat insignificant compared with Prince Charming. Money, looks and property are weighty factors.’
‘So do you think we could let the matter drop?’
‘But if you don’t chance your arm,’ persisted Sidney, ‘you will never know.’
‘I’ll think about it – and now may I be allowed to return to my work?’ I buried my head in the mound of paper on my desk and attempted to continue with the report I was half way through writing but had just settled down to completing the first paragraph when Sidney started again.
‘Just thinking about it is no use. “Faint heart never won fair maiden”, as Shakespeare or somebody or other once said. You need to take action, dear boy. Anyway, you shouldn’t denigrate yourself. You’re young, well relatively so, still in your prime, personable, intelligent, reasonably good-looking, have your own hair, full set of teeth and a good, secure job with plenty of prospects. You keep saying you are looking for a nice country cottage. In fact, in an ideal position from which to launch yourself into married life.’
The Other Side of the Dale Page 19