At lunch I sat between Thomas and an angelic-looking little girl. The boy surveyed me for a moment. ‘Meat and tatey pie for lunch,’ he said rubbing his hands. ‘My favourite.’ He stared at me for a moment. ‘I reckon you won’t be ‘aving any.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked, intrigued.
‘You’re probably one of those vegetarians. Me granddad doesn’t like vegetarians. He says they take the meat out of his mouth. “There’s nothing better than a good bit o’ beef on your plate or a nice bit o’ pork on your fork.” That’s what my granddad says. He doesn’t like vegetarians, my granddad.’
Woe betide any vegetarian foolish enough to cross his granddad’s land, I thought to myself. They’d end up, along with the moles and the squirrels, hanging up on t’fence.
Before I could inform Thomas that I was not, in fact, a vegetarian, the little angel sitting next to me whispered shyly, ‘I like rabbits.’
‘So do I,’ I replied.
‘My daddy likes rabbits too.’
‘Does he?’
‘And my mummy likes rabbits.’
‘That’s nice.’
She took a mouthful of meat and potato pie before adding quietly, ‘They taste really good with onions.’
I am certain that I learnt more from the children that morning at Highcopse Primary School than they did from me. Heading back to the office after lunch, on that bright autumnal afternoon, along the twisting ribbon of road, I came once more upon the swaying box on wheels with the cut-out hand waving ‘Have a nice day’ in the back window. I glanced again at the driver as I overtook. He gave me his shaky wave. I smiled and waved back. I was in such a good mood that had the extremely dirty-looking individual still been at the side of the road intent on getting to York, I might very well have stopped to give him a lift.
Later that afternoon, on my way back from collecting some guideline documents from the Print Room, I bumped into George Lapping in a corridor in County Hall.
‘Hello,’ he said laconically.
‘What are you doing at County Hall, George?’ I asked. ‘I thought you rarely ventured out of Backwatersthwaite.’
‘I’ve been dragooned,’ he said.
‘Pardon?’
‘Enlisted, press-ganged, selected to sit on one of these advisory committees. I got the sort of invitation you couldn’t refuse from the CEO. It’s on “Key Skills”. Now what do I know about key skills? You’re responsible, putting me in the spotlight and encouraging that HMI to visit me. I knew it would happen.’
‘I meant to give you a ring about the HMI. She’s been then, has she?’
‘Oh, she’s been all right,’ he replied with a wry chuckle.
‘Have you got a minute, George?’ I asked him. ‘Just let’s pop into one of the empty committee rooms and you can fill me in.’
A moment later George was giving me a blow-by-blow account of the visitation of Miss Winifred de la Mare, HMI.
‘For a start,’ began George, ‘I didn’t remember receiving this letter which she said she sent, saying when she would be coming, so it was a real shock when she arrived on my doorstep. I was walking up the path to the school one morning just before half past eight and, as I always do, I paused to admire the view. Anyway, as I approached the entrance a huge brown creature jumped out at me. It gave me the shock of my life. I thought at first it was a grizzly bear. When I had calmed down a bit, I realised it was, in fact, a large woman in thick brown tweeds, heavy brogues and this hat in the shape of a flowerpot.
‘ “You were expecting me!” she snaps.
‘ “Was I?” I replied.
‘ “Yes!” says she.
‘ “Oh!” says I.
‘ “I wrote you a letter,” says she.
‘ “Did you?” says I.
‘ “Did you not get it?” she asks.
‘ “I might have,” I replied.
‘ “It was very important,” says she.
‘ “Was it?” says I.
‘ “Official!” says she. “In a large brown envelope.”
‘ “Really?” says I.
‘ “The name is de la Mare,” says she. “Do you not remember?”
‘ “Can’t say as I do,” says I.’
As George recounted his meeting with the HMI, it brought back memories of his and my first meeting and the verbal badminton we had played for a good few minutes before he had discovered that I was not the man to fix the guttering but a school inspector. I thought to myself that he might have learnt something from that experience. He clearly had not.
‘So what happened?’ I asked.
‘I told her that I received lots of letters but, because I was a teaching head, I had to deal with correspondence and such when I could find the time. She followed me into the school, peering around her as if it were a museum, declined a cup of tea, plonked herself down on my chair, took the flowerpot off her head and got out this thick wedge of paper from her big black bag.
‘ “I’m ready to commence,” says she.
‘ “Are you?” says I.
‘ “I am,” says she.
‘I pointed out to her that the children had not yet arrived so there was not much point in “commencing” anything, but at nine o’clock after the register she could get started. I asked her if she wanted to begin with the infants and work up or with the juniors and work down.
‘ “I wish to start with you, Mr Lapping,” she says, fixing me with those gimlet eyes of hers. “I want to discuss the teaching of spelling, grammar and punctuation, approaches to poetry, drama and story writing, standards of literacy, the handwriting policy, reading in the early years and the level of comprehension.” It was like an educational shopping list.
‘ “Hang on, Miss Mare,” I says.
‘ “De la,” says she, “it’s de la Mare.” ’
I shut my eyes and groaned inwardly – I could guess what was coming.
‘ “OK, Della,” I says, “I don’t have all that information at my fingertips, you know.” ’
Bingo!
‘ “Well, don’t you think you ought to, Mr Lapping?” says she.
‘ “What?” says I.
‘ “Have that information at your fingertips. After all you are the Headteacher!”
‘I tried to explain to her that document after document arrived at the school like the plagues of Egypt, that I’d got a broken boiler, faulty pipes, toilets which wouldn’t flush, a leaking roof, three children with chicken pox and a member of staff suffering from stress who, having just returned from one of Mr Clamp’s art courses, was ready to chuck herself down a pothole at Hopton Crags.
‘ “Nevertheless, Mr Lapping,” says she, “it would be helpful to have some information on all these matters.”
‘ “Well, it’s a new one to me,” says I. “It’s the first time in nearly forty years of teaching that the nit nurse has wanted that sort of information from me.” ’
I winced. ‘You thought she was the school nurse?’
‘Well, of course I did. How was I to know she was one of these HMIs? I’ve only ever met one in the whole of my career and he was an old man in a suit, with a hangdog expression and about as happy as a jockey with haemorrhoids. I was certainly not expecting a strapping great woman in tweeds. I mean, she looked like the nit nurse.’
‘How did she react?’ I hardly dared ask.
‘She stared at me for a moment with a sort of glazed expression and then she smiled.
‘ “Let’s start again, Mr Lapping,” she said. “My name is Winifred de la Mare, HMI.”
‘We got on like a house on fire after that, particularly when she had met the children and read their poetry and stories. She liked what she saw so much she’s coming back in the spring.’
‘I really am delighted,’ I said. ‘Maybe I could come out to meet her when she returns?’
‘Oh, you’ll be meeting her all right, Gervase,’ George Lapping replied. ‘She was very interested in the creative writing we were doing, said it was very innovativ
e, so I told her I got the ideas from one of your literacy courses and I suggested that she might care to join you on the next one you direct. Those little gimlet eyes of hers lit up at the thought. She said it was an excellent suggestion and that she will, no doubt, be getting in touch with you.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ I replied.
‘You should be very flattered,’ he told me, with a mischievous ring in his voice. ‘It’s a mark of the excellent in-service you provide that I have recommended you.’ With that, he made for the door, waved his hand dramatically and departed with the words: ‘ “Some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them.” ’
5
There was a witch waiting for me outside the school. The hideous creature had long, knotted black hair which cascaded from beneath a pointed hat, a pale green-tinged face and crimson slit of a mouth, and she was shrouded in a flowing black cape. As I approached, the red-rimmed eyes fixed me with a glare and a long white-fingered hand with sharp red nails reached out like the talon of some great bird of prey and beckoned. The ghastly crone smiled widely to reveal a mouthful of blackened teeth.
‘Hello, Gervase,’ she crooned, ‘how nice to see you.’
Before me stood the woman I was pretty sure I loved. Beneath the green and red make-up, the tangle of hair and the cloak of black was Miss Christine Bentley, Headteacher of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School. That particular morning I had agreed to visit the school as part of the Children’s Reading Day celebrations to take the school assembly, talk to the children about stories and reading, and judge the competition for the best fancy-dressed characters out of literature. I had looked forward immensely to seeing Christine again and, even dressed as a witch, thought she looked wonderful.
I had arrived at the Education Office earlier in the day feeling on top of the world.
‘You’re looking pretty chipper, Gervase,’ remarked Sidney as I entered the room, humming.
‘I am feeling pretty chipper actually, Sidney,’ I replied cheerfully.
‘Certainly a lot more buoyant than a couple of weeks ago,’ remarked David, looking up from his papers and removing his spectacles. ‘I take it you have placated Mrs Peterson and have dear little Mrs Dunn eating out of your hand following your latest visit to Highcopse School?’
‘Yes, things went well, thank you, David. You were quite right, she is a dedicated teacher and perhaps I was a little hard on her.’
‘And is the Bride of Frankenstein leaving you in peace?’
‘Things have gone blissfully quiet in that direction,’ I said brightly. ‘Not a memo or a message or a telephone call all week from Mrs Savage.’
‘There’s a definite spring in your step,’ continued Sidney, ‘an eagerness in your eye and rather a smug little smile playing about your lips. I could hear you whistling up the stairs like a blackbird with the early morning worm.’
‘It would hardly be whistling, this blackbird of yours,’ observed David, putting down his pen, ‘if it had a beak full of worms.’
‘Oh, don’t be so pedantic,’ retorted Sidney. ‘I didn’t say the blackbird had the worm in its beak, did I?’
‘Well, where would it have the worm then, if it’s not in its beak – tucked under its wing? In a shopping basket?’
‘Look, the worm is immaterial –’ began Sidney.
‘Is this conversation leading anywhere?’ I interrupted. I had heard quite enough about worms recently – enough to last me a lifetime. Sidney ignored me.
‘What I meant, David, is that Gervase looks like the cat that has caught the mouse. Now is that comparison acceptable to you?’
I had heard enough about mice as well. ‘When you two have quite finished –’ I attempted to get a word in but had no success.
‘Not really,’ continued David. ‘That’s a cliché, that is. What about: like a proud, powerful lion surveying his jungle kingdom. Much more original, precise and descriptive, don’t you think?’
‘Now I wonder why our young colleague here is looking so very pleased with himself this bright morning?’ remarked Sidney, swivelling around on his chair to face me. ‘It has rather more to it than having a successful visit to Highcopse School, I’ll wager.’
‘Possibly because today is Children’s Reading Day,’ I suggested, ‘and for most of the time I shall be doing what I really enjoy – touring schools encouraging children to read.’
‘Or could it, by any chance, be because you are about to see the woman of your dreams, the Venus of Fettlesham, the Aphrodite of the education world, the delectable Miss Christine Bentley of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School?’
‘How do you know I am visiting Winnery Nook this morning?’
‘You can’t keep anything from me, dear boy. Julie mentioned that you had the visit on your engagement sheet for this week. Now do tell us, how are things going with that Nordic beauty of yours?’
Before I could reply, David looked up again from his papers. ‘She’s a real cracker is that Miss Bentley,’ he said. ‘As my grandfather – he was the one who had the sheep farm near Builth Wells – used to say, “Fyddai hi yn berffaith petai hi yn Gymraes.” ’
‘I could not have expressed it better myself,’ remarked Sidney. ‘And what in heaven’s name does that mouthful of gutteral gibberish mean? Whenever you start spouting Welsh I always think you’re choking on a bone.’
‘It means, “If she were Welsh, she’d be perfect”!’ replied David. ‘And I’ll tell you this, if I was fancy-free, with a bit more hair on my head and less of a spare tyre around the tummy, I’d be after her like a rat up a drainpipe.’
‘ “Like a rat up a drainpipe”!’ Sidney repeated, snorting. ‘What a wonderful way with words you Welsh have! “Like a rat up a drainpipe.” Most original and descriptive. I don’t know how you have the brass neck to criticise my choice of words when you use that sort of hackneyed expression.’
I had begun to sort through the papers on my desk to check that there was nothing urgent to deal with, trying not to get involved in the endless badinage between Sidney and David. It was impossible, however, not to listen. They were like a comedy duo. One would set off on a line of thought and then the other would respond with a witticism or a clever riposte, each trying to outdo the other. It was like playing verbal ping-pong.
After a moment’s silence, when I thought my two colleagues had returned to their work, Sidney jumped up from his desk, hurried over to where I was standing, put his arm around my shoulder and looked at me with an intense expression upon his face and a gleam in his eye.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Now come along, Gervase, you have been particularly elusive when a certain young enchantress is mentioned. How are things going with you and the delightful Headteacher of Winnery Nook?’
‘Oh, all right,’ I replied, shuffling my papers.
‘Another master wordsmith. “Oh, all right”,’ Sidney snorted again. ‘Ever the master of understatement. You are supposed to be an inspector for English, for goodness sake. Can’t you do better than “Oh, all right”? What about splendid, fantastic, magnificent, marvellous, amazing, incredible, miraculous, phenomenal, spectacular –’
‘All right! All right! Things are going pretty well. I just don’t want to tempt fate.’
‘So we can assume that you are, in Harold’s quaintly old-fashioned words, “walking out” with Miss Bentley, or in Julie’s more down-to-earth description “cooartin” and that wedding bells will soon be in the air?’
‘No, you certainly cannot assume any such thing. I have taken her out a few times. There’s nothing serious at the moment.’ I was feeling rather embarrassed and irritated by the way the conversation was going. ‘Have you completed this form on school resources yet?’ I asked holding up a yellow sheet of paper, endeavouring to change the subject.
‘Oh, you won’t get out of answering quite so easily as that,’ Sidney told me, plucking the paper from my hand and returning it to the pile on my
desk. ‘Now do tell. Are things developing satisfactorily in that direction?’
‘Look, Sidney,’ I groaned, ‘I would rather not talk about it. It’s gone eight thirty and I have to be in a school in fifteen minutes.’
‘Well, you want to go for it, Gervase,’ remarked David, leaving his desk to join us. ‘You are only young once. And as my grandfather used to say –’
‘Oh dear, here we go,’ sighed Sidney. ‘More Welsh wisdom. At least, it’s a change from your old grandmother.’
‘ “Live for the moment, for time runs away like the wild horses in the wind.” Very imaginative was my old grandfather. One of the Welsh bards he was. He had a very poetical turn of phrase. You know, I think about that little saying of his more and more these days. I feel as if time is running away with me like the horses in the wind.’ He turned to the window and stared out in the direction of County Hall. ‘I’ve felt decidedly past it recently, I can tell you. Last week a child asked me if I wore knickerbockers when I was a boy, and then the games teacher at St Walburga’s wondered if I might care for a chair while I watched the rugby match. Then I got this memorandum from Mrs Savage outlining the advantages of early retirement. People will be standing up for me on buses next and helping me cross the road.’ He sighed, turned to face me and rested a hand on my shoulder, ‘But about Miss Bentley…’
As the conversation was now developing into an in-depth analysis of my love life, I decided to leave. Snatching up my mail, I crammed it into my briefcase and headed for the door, nearly knocking Julie over in the process as she entered with three mugs of coffee.
‘Somebody’s in a hurry!’ she exclaimed. ‘Rushing around like a rabbit with the runs.’
Over Hill and Dale Page 6