‘For whom the bell tolls,’ interrupted Sidney, ‘it tolls for me to get on home. Seven o’clock and I might, with any luck, have missed the traffic. Oh, and Harold, I do hope the Feoffees have ensured that the roads are in good repair, that Hawksrill Bridge is still standing and there are not too many crowding around the pillories or in the stocks. I need to get back in good time for the football tonight.’
4
I headed for the office one splendidly bright autumnal Friday afternoon, tired and road-weary. The mild weather had brought the caravaners out in force and I, at the back of a queue of five or six other frustrated car drivers, followed a dangerously swaying box on wheels for three miles as it meandered at 20 mph along the twisting narrow country roads. When at last I became the car directly behind the caravan, I noticed stuck on the back window a little cut-out hand which waved as the caravan teetered. Its message read ‘Have a nice day’ and next to it was a large yellow circle with the injunction in bold black capital letters: STAY BACK! BABY ON BOARD! I would have a much nicer day, I thought to myself irritably, if the driver of this creeping death-trap would pull over and let me pass.
When I finally managed to overtake, I noticed that various other messages and signs had been plastered on the side window, including a bright red rectangle with the information: ‘I’ve been down The Black Hole at Alton Towers.’ Who actually would be interested in this piece of totally fatuous information, I asked myself. I caught sight of the driver: he was an exceptionally old man, and incongruously sported a bright orange baseball cap. He beamed through the window and gave me a shaky wave. There was certainly no possibility of this geriatric having a baby on board, and as for a journey down The Black Hole at Alton Towers…
I was not in the best of moods as I raced towards the main road. On the grassy verge stood an extremely dirty-looking individual with a tangle of hair and dressed in a filthy raincoat. He was holding aloft a large piece of cardboard on which was written: ‘I am going to York’. Not in this car, mate, you’re not, I thought to myself, speeding up.
Sidney and David were busy at their desks as I pushed through the door a short while later and collapsed into a chair.
‘I met the ever-ebullient Mrs Peterson on my art course yesterday,’ observed Sidney, looking up from his work, ‘and she was not best pleased with your report on her school.’
Before I could answer, David, placing his pen down carefully and smiling beatifically, added, ‘Makes a change from all those adoring women who are constantly telephoning him and writing little billets-doux and singing his praises.’
‘What did she say?’ I asked Sidney, deciding to ignore David’s comment.
‘That your report was full of criticisms,’ Sidney told me blithely.
‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I said glumly, looking through the mail on my desk.
‘She said that you said the reading wasn’t up to much at Highcopse County Primary School,’ continued Sidney casually.
‘I never said anything of the sort!’
‘That the writing was pretty ordinary, the children didn’t speak much and the teachers didn’t bother at all with any poetry.’
‘Sounds pretty damning to me,’ commented David, still smiling like a cat with the cream.
‘It would be if I had, in fact, said it,’ I replied bristling. ‘My report judged the school to be sound enough but there needs to be more challenge and variety in the work. It was pretty positive overall but I suggested that –’
‘She also said you were not very impressed with Mrs Dunn.’
‘Not very impressed with Mrs Dunn!’ I exclaimed. ‘Not very impressed with Mrs Dunn?’
‘That is what she said.’
‘An unusual woman, Mrs Dunn!’ exclaimed David suddenly. ‘I remember first meeting her on one of my mathematics courses, with that dour expression of hers, wild-looking hair and hooded eyes. She was, I have to admit, a deeply unimpressive woman. She sat in the front row with a face like a death mask until I asked the teachers to break into groups for the activities. Then she looked as if I had asked her to take all her clothes off and do a tap dance on the table. I recall saying to Mrs Peterson, when she said what a good teacher she was, that Mrs Dunn was such a sombre and serious person and that she didn’t sparkle for me. “I don’t employ Christmas tree fairies, Mr Pritchard,” she replied tartly. “I employ teachers.” ’
‘She never smiled the whole lesson,’ I said, still stinging at the criticism of my report. I tore open a letter so savagely that I nearly ripped it in half.
‘Doesn’t make her a poor teacher,’ said David. ‘We had a classics master at grammar school called “Smiler” Jones. He always had a smile on his face. Terrified of him, we were. He was always leering and grinning from the front. He had these tiny, shining eyes and a big hooked nose and always wore a tattered black academic gown. He was like some great dusty crow. Fearful teacher was “Smiler” Jones. Now, I wouldn’t consider him a good teacher.’
‘That might explain why you are rather dodgy on the Greek myths,’ remarked Sidney.
I shook my head and sighed heavily. ‘I merely wrote that the teacher of the infants could be a little more lively and enthusiastic.’
‘You know, Gervase,’ said David, ‘you of all people, being in charge of English, should know that one should never judge a book by its cover or, as they say in this part of the world, “Never judge a blade by its heft”. I’ve seen Mrs Dunn teach, and whilst I have to admit she is not the most dynamic and inspirational of teachers in the world and unlikely to win the “Teacher of the Year Award”, she is a good, solid, reliable classroom practitioner, well-intentioned, dedicated and willing to learn. She improves with knowing, does Mrs Dunn.’
‘And Mrs Peterson said that you said the children were unusually quiet,’ continued Sidney, leaning back on his chair and obviously enjoying imparting this next piece of information.
‘Well, they were. There was only one child who got a word in.’
‘That was because, as Mrs Peterson said, you frightened them.’
‘What?’
‘She said you sat at the back with your big black clipboard like someone about to take the measurements for a coffin.’
‘I was of the opinion, Sidney, that that is what school inspectors do – sit at the back of classrooms and observe lessons.’
‘She said your constant smiling put the children off.’
‘I don’t believe it,’ I sighed.
‘Of course that’s what “Smiler” Jones used to do,’ remarked David. ‘His smile was quite unnerving. He put the fear of God into us with his funereal expression.’
‘She said that when you had gone,’ continued Sidney, ‘one of the juniors asked if that funny man with the smile like the shark was coming back?’
‘You seem to have taken an unusually thorough interest in my visit to Highcopse School, Sidney. It appears you have gone through the report with Mrs Peterson in some detail.’
‘Just forewarning you, old boy, that’s all.’
‘Oh heck, I’ll give her a ring later and sort it out.’
‘Might be a wise move,’ added David, nodding sagely, ‘bearing in mind who her husband is.’
‘And who is her husband?’ I asked.
‘County Councillor George Peterson. He’s on the Education Committee. One of the most vociferous, self-opinionated and tiresome members. Rambles on for hours, does old George.’
‘What an end to the week,’ I sighed.
‘I have had a most enjoyable week, actually,’ said Sidney mischievously, clearly enjoying my discomfiture. ‘The art course was a great success, all schools visited, reports completed, letters written, documents filed.’
‘And pigs fed and ready to fly,’ added David.
‘I shall choose to disregard that remark, David,’ retorted Sidney. ‘I feel on top of everything at the moment and, being Friday, I am in the very best of moods. Nothing and nobody will interfere with my good humour and well being today. It has
been such glorious weather for this time of year, I might just take the caravan out this weekend. You can join us if you like, Gervase. It might cheer you up.’
I did not respond.
The following Monday I telephoned the school.
‘Hello,’ came a loud, confident voice down the line, ‘Highcopse County Primary School. Mrs Peterson, Headteacher, speaking.’
‘Hello, Mrs Peterson, it’s Gervase Phinn here.’
‘Oh, hello Mr Phinn. How are you?’ She certainly did not sound upset or angry, quite the reverse in fact.
‘I’m very well, thank you. Now, er, Mrs Peterson, my colleague Sidney Clamp has had a word with me. He tells me that you are rather upset about the report I wrote after my visit.’
‘I wasn’t upset, Mr Phinn,’ she said sweetly, ‘just a little disappointed, that’s all.’
‘Would you like me to call in and discuss it with you?’ I asked.
‘Oh no, there’s no need for that. I do know how busy you inspectors are. Of course, we in schools are busy people too. Mrs Dunn and I do try very hard, Mr Phinn, but there’s only so many hours in the day and there’s so much to cover on the curriculum these days. I do appreciate your comments about poetry, although I have to say we were somewhat surprised with the extent of the criticisms in the report, but you see it’s not one of Mrs Dunn’s strong points. Not mine either, if I’m truthful. She is very good at the things she feels confident with but when it comes to poetry and –’
I interrupted the monologue. ‘Mrs Peterson, I really would be happy to call in to talk about the report and suggest various approaches and offer some ideas.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you have lots of suggested approaches and ideas, Mr Phinn.’ That same hint of sarcasm was in her voice which I had detected when I had observed her lesson. ‘What would be useful, rather than just talking about the report and suggesting what we should be doing, would be for you to come and show us just what you mean.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, could you take the children for a poetry lesson? Do a demonstration?’
I have walked straight into that little trap, I thought. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I could,’ I replied.
‘Next week?’ came the smug voice down the telephone.
I flicked through my diary. ‘Thursday morning?’
‘Splendid. I look forward to seeing you then. Mrs Dunn will be so excited.’ The Headteacher rang off. I could imagine Mrs Dunn’s reaction at the thought of my taking her class for poetry and the word ‘excitement’ did not spring readily to mind. It would probably be a shrug of the shoulders, a shake of the head and a weary look of resignation.
*
I arrived at Highcopse School the following week on another bright, clear morning to take the children for poetry writing. I paused for a moment before entering the building, breathed in the fresh air and surveyed the swath of green rising to the misty fellside, dotted with browsing sheep. I could see rabbits cropping the grass at the edge of a nearby field, and a fat pheasant strutted along the craggy limestone wall bordering the school. A squirrel ran up the trunk of an ancient tree by the road and then peered at me between the yellowing leaves. High above in a vast and dove-grey sky, the rooks screeched and circled. Here was poetry indeed.
The junior class was ready and waiting, paper in front of them, pencils poised. I spent the first part of the morning encouraging the children to write poetry based on several large prints of paintings by famous artists which depicted figures and faces. I asked them to concentrate on the shapes, colours, distinctive features, dress, facial expressions and surroundings, prompting them through questions: ‘Who is this person? Where does she live? Is she feeling happy or sad, angry or thoughtful? How would you describe the expression?’ In a relatively short time the range of responses and ideas covered the blackboard and helped the children compose some impressive pieces of writing. Mrs Peterson was quite taken aback when she read Porsche’s poem which was based on the large colour print of Mary Cassatt’s ‘Child with a Red Hat’.
It looks as if her head’s on fire.
Great flaming hat as red as a furnace.
Tongues of yellow in the golden hair,
Like burning corn.
Simon’s effort was also very descriptive. His poem was based on ‘The Ironers’ by Degas.
She yawns with a mouth like a gaping cave,
In a face as fat as a football.
She has the fists of a boxer
And arms as thick as tree trunks.
It must be all that ironing.
Mrs Peterson took me aside. ‘They are most striking pieces of writing, Mr Phinn. The children have written such lovely poems. I must say you have certainly brought out their creativity.’
I was feeling confident and pleased with myself when I appeared after morning playtime in the classroom of Mrs Dunn. I gathered the small children around me on the carpet in the Reading Corner and we talked about several large colour photographs of various animals which I had brought with me. I explained that we were going to write some little descriptive poems about the different creatures which included a mole, rabbit, squirrel and dormouse. We were to look at each picture in turn and it was my intention to encourage the children to talk about the colours and shapes. I did not, however, get very far. When I held up the large photograph of the mole, one of the older children, a large round child called Thomas, remarked casually that his granddad killed moles.
‘Does he really?’ I replied equally casually and attempted to move on. ‘Now look at his little fat black body. He’s an unusual little creature, the mole. Can you see his big flat paws like pink spades and the sharp claws? Can anyone tell me what –’
‘They dig and dig wi’ them claws, deep underground they go and chuck up reight big mounds of soil,’ explained Thomas to no one in particular. ‘Do a lot o’ damage to a field, do moles. They’re a real pest my granddad says. Some farmers put down poison but me granddad traps ’em and hangs up their bodies on t’fence.’
I decided to look at another picture. ‘Here we have a grey squirrel. I saw a squirrel this morning peeping from between the branches of the tree outside. Look at his large black eyes and long bushy tail. Can anyone tell me what –’
‘Tree vermin,’ commented the same boy. ‘My granddad shoots them an’ all. Ruin trees, they do. My granddad says squirrels are a damn nuisance. They eat all t’corn put out for t’hens. Rats wi’ bushy tails, that’s what squirrels are. My granddad goes out in t’morning with his shotgun, shoots ’em and hangs up their bodies on t’fence.’
‘Just listen a moment, will you, Thomas,’ I said, catching sight of Mrs Dunn sitting at the back of the room with a self-satisfied smile on her face. She seemed to be quite enjoying my discomfort. ‘We can perhaps talk about that later on. Now I want us all to look very carefully at this picture of the rabbit. I saw quite a few rabbits this morning as I –’
‘My granddad kills them an’ all,’ said Thomas. ‘He pegs a little string net ovver t’rabbit warren holes and lets one of his jills down.’
‘Jills?’ I asked.
‘His ferret. He keeps her half fed to make her keen. If he underfeeds her, she eats t’rabbit and won’t come up out of t’ ole. If he overfeeds her she won’t go down at all. He lets her down t’hole and she chases t’rabbits out into t’net. Then my granddad breaks their necks. He’s reight good at that.’
‘Really,’ I said feebly. ‘Well perhaps later on we could hear all about that, Thomas, but for the moment let’s look at the picture and think of the shapes and colours in it.’ I selected the final large photograph of a dormouse and decided on a pre-emptive strike. ‘And what about dormice, Thomas? Does your granddad kill those as well and hang them up on the fence?’
‘No, he quite likes dormice. They don’t really do any harm.’
Thank goodness for that, I thought. ‘Right then,’ I said cheerfully, ‘let’s all look at this shy little dormouse, clinging to a stalk of wheat. Look carefully at the
colour of his fur and his large round eyes which –’
‘Sheba kills dormice, though,’ said Thomas in his flat, matter-of-fact voice.
‘Sheba?’ I sighed.
‘Our farm cat. She catches ’em in t’fields, carries ’em into t’kitchen and plays with ’em before killing ’em. We try to get ’em off of ’er but she runs off.’
‘I see,’ I said wearily.
‘And sometimes she brings shrews into t’kitchen an’ all, and bites their ’eads off and –’
‘Is there anyone else who would like to say anything about animals?’ I interrupted, in the hope of changing the subject. A small, pixie-faced little boy sitting right under my nose raised his hand eagerly.
‘Yes?’ I said pleasantly, looking into the keen little face. ‘What have you to tell me?’
‘I’ve got frogs on my underpants,’ he announced proudly.
By the end of the morning the children had produced some short, interesting poems about the animals. Most were not about little, soft-furred moles, adorable little dormice, gambolling rabbits or playful squirrels but were blunt, realistic descriptions of the animals that they knew so much about – far more than I ever would. They clearly did not need a set of large photographs to prompt them. There were images of ‘fierce, sharp-toothed badgers’, ‘crows which picked at the dead animals on the road’, ‘fat, black rats that hid in the hay’ and ‘red foxes creeping behind the hen coop’. Thomas’s effort was quite clearly the best:
On a frosty morning, my granddad
Takes his jill to catch rabbits.
She has a little blue collar and a silver bell,
Tiny red eyes and creamy fur,
And she trembles in his hands.
‘Thomas lives on the farm at the top of the dale,’ explained Mrs Dunn as we headed in the direction of the school hall for lunch. She was quite animated and talkative. ‘Like most farming children, he’s been brought up to be unsentimental about animals. They are on the farm for a purpose, not as pets, and any creature which affects their livelihood is regarded as a pest. You should hear what he’s got to say about foxes.’ She paused for a moment before adding, ‘Thomas has a great deal to say for himself, hasn’t he? You might have guessed, Mr Phinn, he’s Oliver’s younger brother.’
Over Hill and Dale Page 5