Then, one morning, he hears the birds singing and sees the most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall, the children have crept in and they are sitting in the branches of the trees which are now covered in blossoms. Only in one corner is it still winter. There stands a little boy weeping bitterly for he is too small to reach up to the branches of the tree. The Giant’s heart melts. ‘How selfish I have been,’ he says. So he creeps downstairs and into his garden. He takes the little child gently in his hands and puts him in the tree. And the tree bursts into blossom and the birds come and sing in it. The Giant takes a great axe and knocks down the high wall so all the children can come to play in his garden. Every day they come to play but the little boy the Giant loves more than any other, the one he put into the tree, is never with them.
Years pass and the Giant grows very old and feeble. One winter morning he looks from his window to see in the farthest corner of the garden a tree covered in lovely white blossoms. Its branches are golden and silver fruit hangs from them. Underneath stands the little boy he loves. Downstairs runs the Giant with great joy. Across the grass he runs until he comes close to the child. And then his face grows red with anger. ‘Who hath dared to wound thee?’ he cries, for on the palms of the child’s hands are the prints of two nails and the prints of two nails are on the little feet. ‘Tell me,’ roars the Giant, ‘and I will take my big sword and slay him.’
‘Nay,’ answers the child, ‘these are the wounds of love.’
‘Who art thou?’ asks the Giant, and a strange awe falls on him and he kneels before that little child. And the child smiles.
‘You let me play once in your garden. Today you shall come to my garden, which is Paradise.’ And when the children ran into the garden that afternoon to play, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, covered in white blossoms.
I had barely finished the story when a number of hands shot up. This is more like it, I thought. The children are beginning to respond and I can now talk about the story and relate it to the theme of being kind and considerate to others. The owner of one of the hands waving at me was a large, red-cheeked boy with hair the colour of straw.
‘Yes?’ I said, pointing in his direction.
‘I’m a Methodist,’ he announced loudly.
‘Really?’ I replied.
‘And I’m going to Paradise!’
‘I’m sure you are.’
‘Mr Phinn!’ Another boy almost identical to the first in size and colouring shouted from the back, ‘I’m Church of England and I’m goin’ to Paradise an’ all!’
‘I’m certain you will get in as well,’ I replied.
Then a large girl with a chubby face, rounded shoulders and wild, woolly hair rose to her feet and announced dramatically, ‘I’m nowt – but I’m still gerrin’ in!’
‘I’m sure you’ll be the first in the queue, Mandy,’ the Headteacher told her before instructing the children not to call out.
I met Mandy later in her classroom. She was sitting next to a small, sad-looking girl of about ten or eleven with a tight little mouth and bright blonde hair. I guessed that I had met her mother earlier that morning. The two girls stopped talking when I approached and eyed me suspiciously.
‘Would you like to tell me what you’re doing?’ I asked pleasantly.
‘Why?’ demanded the larger child.
‘Well, I would like you to.’
‘But why?’
‘I’m a school inspector,’ I said. ‘Don’t you remember? Mr Sharples mentioned in assembly that I would be coming into classrooms. I’m here to look at your work.’
The girl shrugged, scratched her scalp and pushed her book across the desk. ‘We’re writing,’ she explained.
‘About what?’
‘What we did ovver t’weekend.’
‘I see. Would you like to tell me what you did?’
‘Not particularly,’ she replied, scratching her scalp again.
‘She been weshing her ’air all weekend cos she ’ad nits,’ announced the smaller girl.
‘Shurrup, Crystal!’ cried the larger girl, elbowing her. ‘You don’t ’ave to tell everybody, tha knaws.’
‘Everybody knaws,’ said the other casually. ‘Yer mam broadcast it.’
At the next table sat the youthful Methodist with two other large boys.
‘Could I have a look at what you’re doing?’
‘Aye tha can, if tha likes.’ He pushed his book across the desk in my direction. In large untidy writing was an account of his visit to a Saturday sheep auction with his grandfather.
‘So you live on a farm, do you?’ I asked.
‘Aye, that’s reight.’
‘And you have sheep?’
‘Well, I reckon we wunt be goin’ to a sheep auction if we kept pigs, now would we?’
‘No, I suppose you wouldn’t.’ I had learnt quite a bit about farming in my first year travelling around the Dales’ schools and found that, by engaging children in a discussion about the things they were interested and often expert in, I could break the ice and very soon get them talking. From there I would move on to ask them what they liked doing best in school, talk about their writing, listen to them read and test their spelling. ‘So what breed of sheep do you have?’ I asked.
‘Mostly Swaledales but we’re thinkin’ o’ diversifyin’.’
‘Really?’
‘That’s why we were at Fettlesham market. Granfether were lookin’ at t’Texels.’
‘I see. So what do Swaledale sheep look like?’
‘Tha dun’t know owt abaat sheep then?’
‘Not a lot.’
He shifted in his chair the better to face me. ‘Well, tha can allus spot a Swaledale. It ’as curly ’orns on its ’ead, sort of a black face wi’ a white snout, sometimes wi’ a bit o’ specklin’ on and it ’as a fairly light carcass. Now yer Dales-bred sheep are an ’ardy breed and fare well on this sort o’ land and in this sort o’ weather. It can ger a bit parky up ’ere and rain fair teems dahn so you need summat wi’ a bit o’ gumption. Sometimes we cross ’em wi’ Blue-faced Leicesters to produce a mule breeding sheep. Anyroad, we’ve ’ad a bit o’ trouble wi’ sheep dip flu and blow fly this year and we’re looking at Texels to see what they can do.’
‘And what do Texels look like?’
‘They’re not much to look at – bit like a bull terrier, fat white bodies, short wool, legs wide spaced but they’re pretty docile and give a lot o’ milk. They give extra lean meat an’ all and there’s more fat on t’ carcass. They’re easy to maintain are Texels. Mi granfether reckons there’ll be a sight more of a profit in ’em. Tha sees they have higher kill-out percentage and better conformation and grading than yer Swaledales.’
‘Do they really?’ I had not the first idea what the boy was talking about. I changed the subject. ‘And you are a Methodist?’
‘Aye. Mi granfether’s a lay preeacher at t’chapel in Ugglemattersby. His sarmons is famous, tha knaws. People cum for miles to ’ear ’im speyk. He says he gives Divil a reight run for his money when he gets gooin. I might ger ’im that book what yer were reading. Astagorritwithi?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Book. Astagorritwithi, so’s I can mek a note on t’title?’
I took the book from my briefcase and watched as he copied down the title in his large, untidy writing. ‘Champion,’ he said when he had finished. ‘It’ll do fer Granfether for ’is birthday.’ Then he inclined his head in the direction of Mandy who was busy scratching away at her scalp on the next table, and whispered, ‘See that lass, ’er wi’ gob on ’er, well she’s ’ad nits, tha knaws. By looks in it she’s still gorrem. Tha wants to keep a fair distance, otherwise tha’ll be teckin’ ’ome summat tha nivver bargained fer.’
Mr Sharples heard my critical preliminary report at the end of the day with the sort of impassive expression a professional mourner would have spent a lifetime perfecting.
‘Firstly, Mr Sharples, I have to tell you that the quality of
teaching and learning and the standards of attainment in the school are just not high enough. Reading and writing standards are low in relation to the children’s ages and the basic skills of spelling are unsatisfactory. The children arrive from the Infants with a reasonable command of language and read soundly enough but their progress from then on is slow.’ I referred to my notes. ‘I have seen no enthusiastic and optimistic teachers today and no lesson which I could judge to be good. Indeed, there was no purpose to two of the lessons I observed, no clear objectives or careful planning, and the range of teaching strategies was very narrow. Do you wish to comment on that?’
‘No,’ replied the Headteacher bluntly.
‘The exterior of the building is very drab and uninviting – something you cannot do much about – but the inside is little better.’
‘What’s the state of the building got to do with education?’ he asked. ‘Provided the place is clean and warm, we don’t need to turn the place into some exotic showcase.’
‘Do you not think children work better in a bright, attractive and welcoming environment where their efforts are displayed around them rather than in a series of drab classrooms containing little to interest or challenge them?’
‘I don’t place much importance on that sort of thing,’ he replied dismissively.
‘The book stock is poor, there are very few dictionaries in the building and the work as a whole needs to be far better directed. I really feel there needs to be more enjoyment, more excitement and fun in the curriculum, to get the children interested and wanting to learn.’
Mr Sharples sighed heavily when I had finished, stared at me for a moment with his great doleful eyes, and then remarked: ‘I became a headteacher, Mr Phinn, as I mentioned to you when you arrived, to educate the young, to teach children, but what do I have to deal with, day in, day out?’
Nits and knickers, I thought to myself, recalling the earlier conversation.
‘Difficult parents, interfering governors and critical school inspectors, that’s what. They are the very bane of my life. I’m just not allowed to get on with my job in peace and quiet. It’s very easy to sit in judgement for a day, Mr Phinn, but I have to be here day in and day out.’ He made his chosen profession sound like a prison sentence. ‘This job gets more and more difficult. The stresses and strains, the pressures and problems I have to cope with. People just don’t realise. They have no idea. You’ve seen the children who attend this school. If I had the raw material then I might be able to get the results you say I should be getting. But look at where these children come from. I mean, what can you expect?’
‘Mr Sharples,’ I said slowly, ‘surely that is what good teachers do – they have high expectations. They expect the moon. Now I appreciate the many pressures and stresses in education at the moment, but anyone who becomes a headteacher must realise that dealing with difficult parents, interfering governors and critical school inspectors is part and parcel of the job. I will, of course, be sending a detailed written report to the school, outlining the issues you need to address and giving suggestions on how you might improve. I shall also be arranging to make a further series of visits.’
‘So I take it you are not entirely happy with what you have seen?’ said the Headteacher wearily, studying his fingernails.
‘No, Mr Sharples, I am not. I would not be doing my job if I told you that everything in the garden was rosy.’
The Headteacher looked up at this point and glowered. ‘Well, speaking of gardens, Mr Phinn, that story you read to us at assembly about a giant who dropped dead under a tree did not exactly put us all in a good-humoured mood, did it? It certainly didn’t bring a smile to my face.’ He got to his feet. ‘I don’t have to listen to any more of this,’ he said. ‘Just put in your official report. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a very hard day.’
With that, he walked across his office and held open the door, clearly indicating that the inspection was over.
Cold wind and slanting rain swept about the car as I left the dark, brooding village. The overcast sky, dark desolate moors and great looming fells made me feel extraordinarily depressed. I never liked giving a poor report but sometimes it was needed. A few sheep were still nibbling at the wiry grass, and the hooded crows perched in the branches of the dead oak did not look as though they had moved all day. One of the sheep looked up as I drove slowly past. It was a fat ram with curly horns, a black face with a white snout and great doleful eyes. It stared impassively and reminded me so much of the Headteacher of Ugglemattersby County Junior School.
18
Mrs Savage appeared very much at home in the entrance hall of Lord Marrick’s stately home and blended in beautifully with the pale colours of the room. She was dressed in an elegant cream coat beneath which she wore a flowing blue chiffon dress and her fingers, wrists, ears and neck had a generous assortment of showy gold jewellery. Standing before the huge and magnificently carved chimney-piece and below the oil painting of some military ancestor of Lord Marrick’s, she looked like the Lady of the Manor waiting for a photograph to be taken, with her imperious expression and hands clasped formally before her.
‘Ah, Mr Phinn,’ she said, advancing and clicking noisily with her heels on the white inlaid marble floor. ‘You are here at last.’
I glanced at my watch. ‘It’s only just gone eight,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t want to get here too early.’
‘As you know,’ she replied haughtily, ‘I like things to be done efficiently and thoroughly and not leave anything to chance. I want to make certain that every final detail has been taken on board.’
It was the Saturday of the Feoffees Pageant and the weather was perfect, the sky a cloudless blue and it was warm for the end of May. Marquees and multi-coloured tents were scattered on the green sward of parkland to the front of Manston Hall. The event was to start at 11.00 am when the Feoffees would process in full regalia and Lord Marrick would officially open proceedings. Already the area around the hall was a hive of activity. The police bandsmen had arrived and were busy setting up their chairs and music stands near a small stone obelisk, an officious army sergeant with a bristling moustache was berating a squad of young soldiers beside three huge, shiny tanks and assorted army vehicles, and an RAF dog handler was putting his savage-looking beasts through their paces. A juggler, in a colourful patchwork outfit, was entertaining a knot of little boys in surplices, red cassocks and stiff white collars. Stallholders were busy arranging their wares, jewellery, pottery, cakes, books, brassware and all manner of items on long trestle tables.
I had spent the previous morning with Mrs Savage, no longer being able to avoid a face-to-face meeting. Her brief had been merely to deal with the administration but, true to form, she had expanded her role and had insisted on marching around the park, checking items off against a large clipboard of notes held officiously in front of her. She had made certain that the Exhibition marquee was absolutely as ordered, that the staging had been correctly assembled for the drama productions, that the covered area for the gymnastics area conformed to all the safety regulations, and that the Orangery was properly set up for the Youth Orchestra. The various group organisers were obviously well in control and regarded Mrs Savage with a mixture of irritation and amusement.
‘I may be something of a stickler, Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Savage now, ‘but I do like everything to be –’ She stopped mid-sentence when a barrel-bodied, bow-legged bulldog with pinky-white jowls and pale unfriendly eyes appeared from the direction of the library. ‘What a remarkably ugly-looking creature,’ she said. The dog made a low rumbling noise and displayed a set of sharp teeth. Mrs Savage strode towards it. ‘Shoo!’ she snapped. The dog stared at her with its cold grey button eyes. ‘Shoo!’ she repeated, smacking her hands together sharply, her heavy jewellery jangling. The dog hesitated for a moment in disbelief, then slunk away whining. Laetitia had met her match.
I followed Mrs Savage’s rapid progress down the stone steps of the hall and towards a large m
arquee, outside which was a big sign announcing EDUCATION EXHIBITION. We were just about to enter the tent when a small man in a blue boiler suit approached. He addressed Mrs Savage. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
She gave him one of her famous condescending looks. ‘Really?’
‘Where do you want it, love?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your tent?’
‘Tent?’ She arched an eyebrow.
‘Your tent,’ he repeated. ‘Where do you want it putting?’
‘What are you talking about?’ she said irritably. ‘I don’t know anything about a tent.’
‘Where you’re doing your fortune-telling.’
‘Do I look remotely like a fortune teller?’ she asked in a sharp and strident tone of voice, her eyes shining with intensity.
‘I was told to look for a woman in blue and yella wi’ lots o’ bangles and beads.’
Over Hill and Dale Page 23