Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  The evening before I had watched a nativity play at St Bartholomew’s Roman Catholic Infant School. The star of the show had been the Innkeeper, played with great gusto by a cheeky-faced little boy of six. In front of the curtains on the makeshift stage there was a bed in which the Innkeeper was sleeping. He was suddenly awoken by Joseph banging loudly on the inn door and asking for a room. Each time the Innkeeper clambered into the bed to go to sleep he was disturbed: by the shepherds looking for the baby, by the Three Kings bearing gifts, by a great flashing star and finally by a host of heavenly angels singing ‘Away in a Manger’ loudly outside his window. Finally, he had had enough and stamped and stormed across the stage. The curtains had opened to reveal a tableau at the centre of which was a little Mary in blue and Joseph in a dressing-gown, white socks and with a towel over his head, held in place by an elastic belt with a snake clasp.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ the Innkeeper had demanded. Mary had held a finger to her lips. ‘You’ll wake the baby,’ she had said. The grumpy Innkeeper had peered angrily into the manger. His face had suddenly changed and a great beaming smile had filled his face. ‘Aaaaaahhhhh, he’s a bobby-dazzler!’ he had exclaimed. ‘What a luvverly little baby.’

  That evening there were tears in many an eye.

  There were only six children in the school production of Anne of Green Gables. Five of them struggled through the tedious, wordy and overly-sentimental episode, delivering their lines as if reading from a shopping list. In contrast, the lead part of Anne, played by a plump, red-faced girl with protuberant blue eyes, was undertaken with great enthusiasm and confidence. Dressed in a bright blue and yellow gingham smock (rather unsuitable for the time of year, I thought) and sporting huge bunches of hair tied in red ribbons, she dominated the stage. She declaimed her lines in a dreadful mock-American drawl at the rate of a Gatling gun and had the irritating habit of waving her hands in front of her as if conducting some imaginary orchestra. I had seen something similar to this performance before.

  The play thankfully came to an end. Soon Christine was surrounded by a knot of excited pupils eager to talk to her. I was content to sit and watch her as she chattered and laughed and ruffled hair, her blue eyes shining and her beautiful face flushed with pleasure. My reverie was shattered with the appearance of Mr Logan, accompanied by the large girl who had played the part of Anne.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Phinn!’ he said. ‘I trust you enjoyed our little performance?’

  ‘Yes, the children did very well,’ I replied, tactfully.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ the Headteacher informed the girl, ‘is a school inspector and he has cast his critical eye over many a school play.’ An expectant expression played about the girl’s large blue eyes.

  ‘You were very confident,’ I said, ‘and did very well to remember all those words.’

  ‘I’m auditioning for the lead role in Annie next week,’ the child informed me. Annie, I thought to myself. Annie – the musical about the wraith-like orphan.

  ‘She goes to drama school every Saturday,’ announced the Headteacher waving his hands in front of him. ‘She’s my youngest daughter, is Leanne.’

  On our way out, Christine and I caught sight of the pale, slight girl who had delivered the opening lines of the play. She would make a perfect Annie, I thought.

  ‘You were excellent,’ I told her.

  ‘You were, Cathy,’ agreed Christine. ‘Really excellent.’

  ‘I only had a few lines, miss,’ replied the child, smiling coyly.

  ‘Ah,’ I said, ‘but you were the first person to speak and it was you who set the scene. We heard every word clearly, didn’t we, Miss Bentley, and if I had an Oscar to award – you know, the prizes that very famous actors and actresses sometimes get – well, I would give it to you.’

  ‘That was a lovely thing to do,’ said Christine, sliding her arm through mine as we walked down the path. ‘And if you only knew what that will do for Cathy’s confidence. She was such a shy little thing when she was with me in the Infants.’

  ‘She deserved an Oscar,’ I said. ‘Anyone who could go on to the stage, before all the other actors, beneath all those bright lights, in front of a hundred people and deliver such ridiculous lines without making one mistake, deserves an Oscar.’

  Under a street light, I consulted my programme. ‘I wrote down the lines. Do you remember what she had to say?’

  ‘No,’ replied Christine, ‘I was thinking what an ordeal the whole evening was going to be. What did she have to say?’

  I read the lines: ‘ “Is Farmer Hart’s farm far from here?” I can imagine Sidney trying to say those lines after a few Christmas drinks.’

  We laughed and laughed all the way to the car.

  10

  ‘So what was Settle like?’ asked Sidney. It was the first week back after the Christmas break and a particularly cold and windy morning.

  I was certainly not going to elaborate. To do so would have initiated one of his rigorous interrogations about my love life, so I replied curtly, ‘Excellent,’ and continued to sort through the papers on my desk.

  ‘And was it full of ramblers, scramblers and danglers?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Hikers, hill walkers and mountain climbers?’

  ‘We didn’t go out much,’ I replied, putting a file into my briefcase.

  ‘Really? Sounds like you had a very intimate time.’ I did not reply. ‘And the locket?’

  ‘She loved it.’

  ‘Mmmm, and there was I thinking Miss Bentley was a woman of taste. Did she help you choose that frightful attire?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Gervase, are you going deaf? Have the icy gusts and wintry gales of Settle resulted in a hearing problem? I asked about that horrendous suit which you are wearing and whether Miss Bentley helped you select it.’

  ‘No, I bought it yesterday as a matter of fact,’ I replied. ‘Sidney, I really do have to get on. I have an appointment.’

  ‘And you are intending going into schools in it, are you?’

  ‘Of course, I am,’ I replied, looking up from my papers. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because you’ll frighten the teachers and terrify the children, that’s why.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s quite the loudest, ill-fitting and garish piece of apparel I ever did see. You look like a down-at-heel music hall comedian or some impoverished country squire. It’s a dreadful suit, outrageously tasteless and flashy and completely out of character for you.’

  ‘I take it you don’t like it, then?’

  ‘Wherever did you get it?’

  ‘It was in the January sales.’

  ‘I assumed that much,’ said Sidney. ‘I should imagine that it has been in the January sales since Queen Victoria’s time. I asked from where did you purchase the monstrosity?’

  ‘From Fritters of Fettlesham.’

  ‘Fritters of Fettlesham!’ exclaimed my colleague. ‘Fritters of Fettlesham! Are you aware that the only customers who frequent that antique emporium are decrepit old colonels, elderly clergymen and retired schoolmasters? Why didn’t you go to Michael Stewart of Selby or Hoopers of Harrogate and get yourself something more stylish – a tasteful, tailor-made herring-bone, or modest check or pin-stripe?’

  I had to admit to myself that the suit was rather unusual. It was a sort of mustardy brown with a dark-red, dog-tooth pattern, wide curved lapels, heavy cuffs and large leather buttons.

  ‘Are you wearing it for a bet?’ persisted Sidney.

  ‘Look, this suit may not be at the height of fashion but it is incredibly warm and was remarkably cheap. What’s more, the man in Fritters assured me it is the cosiest suit in the shop.’

  ‘Cosiest! Cosiest!’ exclaimed Sidney. ‘You are not a tea-cosy, Gervase.’

  ‘Look, Sidney, I wanted something which will insulate me against the cold and wet this winter, and on mornings like today, this suit is ideal.’ I plucked a label from the large sq
uare pocket. ‘ “This suit,” ’ I began to read, ‘ “has a lining treated by a special process to extend the durability of the item. Most people produce approximately 3,000g of perspiration in a standard day and this lining is made to cope with up to 4,000g a day.” ’

  ‘You’ll lose about two stone in weight wearing that outfit,’ remarked Sidney, stretching across to feel the cloth.

  I continued to read: ‘ “The lining material contains nine billion microscopic pores per square inch, each one 10,000 times smaller than a rain drop.” ’

  ‘Wow!’ cried Sidney, with mock surprise.

  ‘ “These pores will allow perspiration to escape whilst preventing cold from penetrating the material.” ’

  ‘It would take a harpoon to penetrate that fabric.’

  ‘ “This treatment gives a very special feel to the material providing the wearer with protection and comfort –” ’

  ‘I get the idea, Gervase,’ said Sidney interrupting, ‘but it’s still the ugliest suit I have ever clapped my eyes on. Anyway, what are you going to be doing this morning? Fell walking, sheep shearing, climbing Pen-y-ghent, exploring the caves at Ingleton, trekking across the Pennines?’

  ‘This morning, if you must know, I am going to Sir Cosmo Cavendish Boys’ Grammar School to join the interview panel for the Head of Classics post. The last time I was at that draughty dungeon of a place I was frozen to the bone. The interviews lasted all morning and most of the afternoon with a gang of garrulous governors arguing about everything and nothing. I do not intend to sit in that ice box of a conference room for three or four hours today, slowly freezing to death. This suit may not be particularly stylish, Sidney, but I’ll be as snug as a bug in a rug.’

  ‘That’s because it very probably was a rug before someone, with a bizarre sense of humour, turned it into a suit.’

  ‘Sidney, I do not intend to spend any more time arguing with you about what I wear. The last time I visited the school I ended up with the most dreadful running cold and racking cough. I didn’t stop sneezing and wheezing for a good week. On this occasion I will be well prepared.’

  ‘Ah,’ sighed Sidney, ‘but is the school prepared for you?’ At this point Julie bustled in with the morning mail. ‘And what is your opinion of Gervase’s attire, Julie, my dear?’ he asked.

  ‘He looks like my Uncle Cyril,’ she informed us casually, moving from one desk to the other filling the in-trays.

  ‘Was he the doctor?’ I asked.

  ‘No, the bookie!’ she replied. ‘He was the bigamist who ended up in prison.’

  ‘I’m off,’ I said, heading for the door, not wishing to prolong the conversation a moment longer.

  ‘And don’t go near the cliffs, will you, Gervase?’ shouted Sidney after me. ‘You’d be a hazard to shipping in that suit!’

  Sir Cosmo Cavendish Boys’ Grammar School was built at the turn of the century, paid for by the wealthy wool manufacturer and philanthropist from whom the school had taken its name. It was a huge, ornate, ostentatious pile of a building with squat, black turreted towers and mullioned windows, long cold corridors and dark cramped classrooms. I had only been a school inspector for eight weeks when I had been dragooned by Harold into undertaking the inspection of PE and games at the school, in place of David Pritchard who had broken his leg by tripping over a raised paving slab at the Golf Club. The inspection itself had gone pretty well but I had been dragooned a second time – on this occasion by the Head of Department, a broad, solid, hard-looking Scotsman called Mr Auchterloonie – into refereeing a rugby match after school when the official referee had failed to arrive. It had been disastrous.

  My second visit had been to attend the interview panel for the appointment of the Head of English, and the day was spent in a refrigerated box euphemistically known as the Conference Room. I had sat there shivering uncontrollably and endeavouring to stop my teeth from chattering. Never again, I had thought.

  I now parked the car in the spot reserved for visitors at the front of the school and collected the various papers I would need from my briefcase. I felt beautifully warm as I clambered from the car into the cold morning air and ambled past the great bronze statue of the school’s founder which dominated the main entrance. Sir Cosmo stood on a large plinth, hands on hips, legs apart and chin jutting out like a mastiff about to pounce.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’ It was a small boy wrapped up like an Eskimo: thick brown and yellow scarf, leather gloves, fur-trimmed anorak and woollen hat pulled down over his ears. He had a bright, open face. ‘Are you here for the interviews, sir?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied.

  ‘Would you like to follow me, sir, and I’ll take you to the administration block.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied.

  ‘Have you travelled far, sir?’

  ‘Just from Fettlesham.’

  ‘Roads icy, sir?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘You have to take it easy in this sort of weather, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘You do indeed.’ What joy to find such politeness, I thought to myself.

  ‘I can’t say that I like the snow and ice, sir,’ said the boy, scuttling along ahead of me.

  ‘Neither can I, and it is particularly bitter this morning, isn’t it?’

  The round face beneath the thick woolly hat, now pink with cold, smiled, ‘Well, sir, never mind, you look pretty warm in your winter coat.’ That made me sound distinctly like a sheep.

  The foyer of the administration block was spartan and draughty. I pressed the buzzer on the reception desk and, as if on some sort of trigger, the frosted glass slid back immediately and I was confronted with a pinch-faced woman with half-moon glasses perched on the end of her nose. She stared at me for a moment with her small eyes. ‘Yes?’ she asked sharply. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I am expected.’

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. This woman, I thought, could take a few lessons in manners and common courtesy from the pupil whom I had just met and who had returned to his vigil by the front door. ‘Are you from Fosters Floor Coverings?’ she asked, not giving me the chance to reply. ‘To fit the carpet in the Drama Studio?’

  I was tempted to enquire if I looked like a carpet fitter but resisted the urge. ‘No, I’m here for the interviews,’ I replied equally coldly. ‘My name is Phinn.’ She ran a long finger down a sheet in front of her. ‘It’s spelt with a “ph”.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘My name: P–h–i–n–n.’

  ‘There’s no one on the list of that name.’

  I sighed heavily. ‘There’s no “f” in Phinn.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Has it been spelt with an “f”?’

  ‘Whether it’s a “p” or an “f” there is no one called Phinn on this list. Did you receive an invitation from the Chairman of Governors to attend for interview?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, there you are then.’

  ‘That is because I am on the Interview Panel. The Headmaster asked me to join him. I am not one of the candidates. I am from the Education Office.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Well, I do wish you had said so earlier.’ She ran her finger down another list. ‘Yes, here you are. Jarface Phinn.’ I didn’t bother correcting her. ‘The Panel is convening in the Conference Room. I’ll arrange for a pupil to take you down.’

  ‘Please don’t bother,’ I told her loftily. ‘I do know my way. I’ve been here before.’

  The glass abruptly slid shut in front of my eyes.

  The Headmaster greeted me at the door of the Conference Room. Dr Trollop was a tall, cadaverous man with unhealthy-looking, greyish skin. He was dressed in a dark suit, dark tie and was draped in a long black gown; his mournful countenance immediately reminded me of an undertaker.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ he intoned, surveying me morosely and without a flicker of a smile. ‘It’s good of you to join us.’ To match his appearance, Dr Trollop had the soft, vaguely ecclesiastical-sounding to
ne of voice of a funeral director about to give his condolences to bereaved relatives. I was ushered into the Conference Room to join the Chairman of Governors, Canon Williams, and the other members of the Panel.

  A broad individual with an exceptionally thick neck, vast florid face and sporting a mop of unnaturally shiny, jet black hair was in loud conversation with Canon Williams, a thin cleric wearing steel-rimmed spectacles. Already seated at a long mahogany table was Mr Mortimer, the know-it-all parent-governor, who was flicking eagerly through a pile of papers. On my last visit to the school for the interviews for the Head of English post, he had drawn out the discussions when I had asked a candidate about the importance of students reading the great writers of literature. All he had seemed bothered about was whether the students could spell and punctuate and write ‘a decent letter of application’. The final member of the Panel was a quietly spoken and nervous-looking foundation-governor, Mr Wright, who smiled weakly at me as I entered. All were dressed soberly, which made me stand out all the more in my suit of many colours. I surmised that these interviews were going to be as long and as tedious as on the previous occasion.

  ‘I must say,’ said the man with the vast florid face when we had taken our seats behind the large table, ‘it’s a damn sight warmer in ’ere than t’last time I were in t’school. I were frozzen to deeath. It’s pretty parky on t’tops where I farm so I know all about bleak weather but, by ’eck, t’room were icy. I were fair starved. It took me a couple o’brandies and a gret rooaring farmhouse fire to thaw me out when I got back.’

  ‘Yes, I agree,’ said the canon, ‘it was decidedly chilly. Of course, I’m quite used to the cold. I can never get the church heating, such as it is, to work and the rectory rarely gets warm. I often wear a body-warmer under my cassock. I get them from Fritters of Fettlesham, you know.’ He smiled in my direction. ‘However, I think we will be comfortable enough this morning as the Headmaster has kindly agreed to provide some heating for us.’ He gestured to a vast metal box of a heater in the corner of the room, which was blowing out great gusts of hot air noisily and at an incredible rate.