Over Hill and Dale

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Is there anything else?’

  ‘No, no, that’s all,’ I said, paying for the items before beating a hasty retreat.

  Most of the weekend was spent washing and showering and scrubbing and combing and by Monday my visitors had gone. I arrived at the office to find my colleagues in very high spirits.

  ‘I could hear the noise from the bottom of the stairs,’ I said as I entered.

  ‘You sound just like Mrs Savage,’ Sidney told me with tears in his eyes, and that set everybody off into paroxysms of laughter.

  ‘Don’t come in!’ shouted David. ‘Stay at the door.’

  ‘Oh no, no, you can’t come in yet, Gervase,’ commanded Sidney.

  ‘Whatever is going on?’ I asked from the doorway.

  ‘Oh, do tell him, Sidney!’ cried David. ‘Do tell him!’

  ‘Tell me what?’ I demanded.

  ‘They couldn’t have found a more deserving home,’ chuckled David.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, getting irritated.

  ‘For goodness sake, let him in,’ said Harold.

  ‘I think you should tell him, David, and savour the moment,’ said Sidney.

  There was a great gasping in-drawing of breath and then David, trying to keep a straight face, announced: ‘Mrs Savage has got nits!’

  ‘What?’ I cried.

  ‘She sent over one of her bits of coloured paper this morning,’ explained Julie with smears of mascara down her cheeks.

  ‘Known from this day on as Form NIT 1,’ said David. ‘And on it she says –’

  ‘No! No, wait a minute, let me read it!’ cried Sidney, plucking a pink sheet of paper from his in-tray. Then he read the memo in a mock-serious tone. ‘ “Members of staff should note that there has been an outbreak of head lice in the Education Department at County Hall. Employees should take the necessary precautions, check their hair and scalp and, should they discover any infestation, remain off work, use the appropriate medicated hair treatment from a chemist and only return to duty when clear. Head lice, Pedicus humanus, are small insects and feed by sucking blood through the scalp.” Julie, will you stop laughing, I’m trying to read this. “Lice find it difficult to escape wet hair when combed because it is slippery and they can’t get a grip so –” ’ By now everyone was bent double in paroxysms of laughter. ‘Oh, I give up!’ roared Sidney.

  ‘Julie phoned Marlene on the main switchboard,’ spluttered David, ‘and found out that Mrs Savage has been infested along with most of the top corridor. Everyone reckons she’s the carrier. She was seen scratching her way into the CEO’s room first thing this morning. Evidently Dr Gore has now banished her until she’s got rid of them.’

  ‘I do think you are all being a little unkind to Mrs Savage,’ said Harold, attempting to suppress his laughter. ‘I’m sure that she is not as bad as she is painted. She can be quite charming and it can’t be nice to have lice.’

  ‘I must remember that little phrase the next time she comes over here with her silly bits of paper,’ said David. ‘It can’t be nice to have lice.’

  ‘And before you can enter here, dear boy,’ said Sidney to me, holding up his hand like a crossing patrol warden, ‘you have to be thoroughly checked. We have our own resident expert on insects, minibeasts, parasites and wildlife. I give you Dr Geraldine Mullarkey.’

  Gerry jumped up from her desk, directed me to a chair, tilted back my head and peered at my scalp. She moved a few strands of hair with her long fingers. ‘All clear,’ she announced. ‘Cleanest hair I’ve seen in months.’

  ‘Ah, Gervase,’ sighed Sidney, leaning back in his chair and putting his hands behind his head. ‘What a way to start the week – to have a beautiful young woman run her soft fingers through your hair. It’s worth having nits for.’

  I turned very very red – and prayed that my colleagues would think the blush emanated from being so close to the enchanting Dr Mullarkey rather than for the real reason. As I fiddled with some papers on my desk, I recalled that in the middle of the previous week I had been across to the Annexe to discuss my second visit to Ugglemattersby with Dr Gore and that I had had to wait for some time in Mrs Savage’s office until he could see me. I now had a very nasty suspicion that I had been the original carrier of the little lodgers to the top floor.

  20

  There was a sharp rap on the glass. A large, round, red-faced policeman peered into the car and gestured for me to wind down the window.

  ‘May I help you, officer?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir, I think you can,’ was the reply. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

  ‘Pardon?’ I was quite taken aback by the sharpness of his manner.

  ‘I asked you what exactly are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied. Help! Was my tax disc out of date or were my tyres worn down to an illegal state? ‘Is there something wrong?’

  ‘We have had a number of calls from several concerned residents in this vicinity, and from a teacher reporting a suspicious-looking character parked outside the school and watching the children as they enter. And, furthermore,’ he emphasised the words, ‘making notes in a black book.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I sighed with relief. ‘I can explain.’

  ‘I hope you can, sir. Would you mind stepping out of the car?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  ‘I have been observing you for the last five minutes and your behaviour does give rise to a number of questions.’ He took out his notebook and flicked it open. ‘Now, sir…’

  ‘I’m a school inspector,’ I explained.

  ‘I see,’ he said, looking decidedly unconvinced. ‘School inspector.’ He wrote it down. ‘And you have some means of identification, do you, sir?’

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, reaching for my wallet and producing my County Hall identity card which was promptly plucked from my hand. He then carefully scrutinized the photograph, looked earnestly at me, copied down the details and snapped the book shut.

  ‘Is everything in order, officer?’ I asked.

  ‘It appears to be, sir, but if I may say so, it is unwise to sit outside a school watching the children go in and out. It does lend itself to speculation. Much better to go in and make your presence known to the Headteacher.’

  ‘Yes, officer, quite right,’ I answered sheepishly. ‘It won’t happen again. It’s just that I arrived rather early for my appointment. I shall, of course, take your advice in future. It just never occurred to me.’ The policeman nodded seriously but made no effort to move. ‘So, if that’s all –?’

  ‘I’ll accompany you on to the premises, sir, if I may.’

  So I was escorted across the road, down the school path and to the entrance of Tupton Road Primary School, watched with interest by assorted children, a gaggle of whispering parents and a large, solemn-faced crossing patrol warden who held her STOP! CHILDREN CROSSING! sign like some Wagnerian operatic heroine wielding a spear.

  I was greeted at the door of the school by a lean middle-aged woman with a pale, indrawn face. Behind her stood her small, nervous-looking companion who clutched an umbrella like a defensive weapon. The taller of the two had large dark eyes which looked even darker nestling as they were in heavy black make-up. The pale face and black eyes gave her the appearance of a racoon.

  ‘Is there something wrong, officer?’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Are you the Headteacher?’ asked the policeman.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she replied in an anxious voice. ‘Mrs Daphne Wilson. Has there been an accident?’

  The policeman ignored the question. ‘Do you know this gentleman, madam?’

  ‘Never seen him before in my life,’ she said, staring intently at me.

  ‘He was the man in the car outside the school, Mrs Wilson. The one I telephoned the police about,’ added the small woman with the umbrella.

  ‘Oh, was he?’ said the Headteacher.

  My heart sank. The school secretary emerged from her office and scru
tinized me as if trying to put a name to a familiar face. A moment later the caretaker appeared from the school hall, armed with a sweeping brush, and glared at me as if I had walked across his wet floor. ‘I’m Gervase Phinn!’ I announced to the knot of observers. ‘The school inspector.’ My audience continued to gape. ‘From the Education Office in Fettlesham. I have an appointment.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said the Headteacher, reddening with embarrassment. She turned to the policeman, who was flicking open his notebook again, and said, ‘It’s quite all right, officer. I am expecting an inspector, but I never imagined that he would come with a police escort.’

  The secretary and the caretaker disappeared and the policeman, having satisfied himself of my identity, departed, pausing at the gates of the school to reassure the group of anxious onlookers.

  ‘Mr Phinn,’ said Mrs Wilson holding out her hand and smiling to cover her discomfiture, ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’

  ‘I am terribly sorry, Mrs Wilson…’ I began and then attempted to explain that I always gave myself plenty of time to find the schools I visited and that if I arrived early I sat in the car – but that this was something I would never do again.

  ‘It’s not you who should be sorry, Mr Phinn,’ said the Headteacher, turning in the direction of her colleague and glowering. ‘I do wish you had consulted me, Marion, before telephoning the police. This is a very unfortunate start to the day. I cannot begin to imagine what Mr Phinn must be thinking.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry, Mrs Wilson, I’m sure,’ the second woman replied, clearly stung by the rebuke, ‘but I thought he might be a child molester. One has to be very vigilant these days.’

  ‘This is Mrs Thickett,’ said the Headteacher somewhat coldly. ‘She’s in charge of the junior class.’

  ‘How do you do,’ I said, attempting a smile.

  ‘I mean, you can’t be too careful,’ said the infant teacher, twisting the ring on her finger nervously. ‘Not where vulnerable little children are concerned. You read all the time in the papers about these abusers, sex offenders and child molesters. There was a terrible programme on the television last week about –’

  ‘Mr Phinn hardly looks like a child molester, Marion,’ interrupted the Headteacher sharply, still glaring at her.

  ‘Oh, they don’t all wear dirty raincoats, you know, Mrs Wilson. Some of them come in suits.’

  ‘Well, there’s no harm done.’ I smiled reassuringly at Mrs Thickett. ‘Mistakes do happen. Anyway, I was at fault not coming into school as soon as I arrived. Perhaps now that things have been cleared up…’ I endeavoured to move the conversation on by beginning to explain what I wished to do during the morning visit but the little woman would not let it lie.

  ‘You have to be so careful when it comes to the small ones. You hear all these dreadful stories of children being dragged into cars and driven off. It’s a terrible world we live in, a terrible world.’

  Oh dear, I thought, this does not bode well.

  I eventually managed to have ten minutes alone with the Headteacher to explain the focus of my visit. I was there to monitor the teaching and learning of English and agreed to start the morning in her infant class.

  Mrs Wilson’s classroom was clean, orderly and decorated with bright posters and paintings. A few pieces of young children’s first writing attempts were pinned alongside lists of key words, the alphabet and various arithmetical tables. Ranks of small melamine-topped tables were grouped together, each with a tray containing pencils, rulers, crayons and scissors. There was a small Reading Corner with a square of carpet, two large cushions and a bookcase full of assorted books, also a play area – the Home Corner – which had been set out as a café with a counter, plastic till, a table and a chair. The room smelt of bleach and lavender floor polish. I positioned myself at the rear of the classroom and watched as the children entered. They eyed me suspiciously as they filed past and took their seats.

  When they were all settled and facing the teacher, Mrs Wilson began. ‘Good morning, children,’ she said jovially.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Wilson, good morning, everyone,’ the children chorused.

  ‘This morning, children, we have a special visitor.’

  ‘It’s the man in the car,’ chirped up a cheeky-faced youngster swivelling round to get a better look at me. ‘My mum phoned the bobbies about him.’ Oh dear, oh dear! I thought, this little incident is not going to go away. All eyes were now trained on me. I smiled wearily.

  ‘That was because your mother thought that Mr Phinn was a bad man, Shane,’ said the teacher in a simpering voice. ‘But Mr Phinn is not a bad man. He’s a nice man.’ I winced.

  ‘Why did my mum phone the bobbies then, miss?’ persisted the child, glancing again in my direction.

  ‘Because she thought that Mr Phinn was somebody else.’

  ‘A kidnapper, miss?’

  ‘No, not a kidnapper.’

  ‘A murderer?’ The child’s voice rose in excitement.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Shane. She thought Mr Phinn was a stranger and just to be on the safe side telephoned the police. Remember that parents and teachers tell you not to talk to strangers so you all have to be very careful. But Mr Phinn is not a stranger because I know him.’

  ‘But I don’t know him, miss,’ said the child.

  ‘Well, you soon will,’ replied the teacher, with a sharper ring to her voice. ‘Now, let’s hear no more about it. Mr Phinn’s a school inspector, here this morning to see how well you are doing and to look at all the lovely work you do. So, don’t be afraid to speak to him and answer his questions. He’s very friendly.’ I didn’t feel at all friendly.

  ‘My mummy says I haven’t to speak to strangers,’ announced a frightened-looking little girl at the front desk.

  ‘Mr Phinn is not a stranger, Melanie,’ Mrs Wilson said slowly and deliberately. ‘I know him, Mrs Thickett knows him and I say it is all right to talk to him.’

  Following the morning’s unfortunate episode, I rather expected a quiet, nervous group of young children when I started my tour around the classroom but the contrary was true. During the course of the morning, I moved from desk to desk speaking to the children about their stories, examining their work and listening to them read. I found them lively and interested and full of questions. Things seemed to be taking a turn for the better.

  In the Home Corner, set out as Fred’s Café, I met a stocky, six-year-old boy dressed in a large blue apron. He was playing the part of Fred, the proprietor. All around him were notices and signs: NO DOGS ALLOWED, SPECIAL OF THE WEEK, COD ’N’ CHIPS, NO SMOKING! WAITER SERVICE. I seated myself at the small table and looked at a blank piece of paper at the top of which was written in bold lettering: MENU. The little boy sidled up and stared at me intently. I looked up.

  ‘What’s it to be?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, taking on the role of a customer, ‘I think I’ll just have something to drink.’

  ‘Anything to eat?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘So you just want a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘What about some fish ’n’ chips?’

  ‘No, I’m really not that hungry.’

  ‘Just a drink?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  The boy disappeared and returned a moment later with a small, empty plastic beaker which he placed before me. Then he watched intently as I drank the imaginary liquid, licked my lips and exclaimed, ‘That was the nicest cup of tea I have had in a long while.’

  ‘It’s an ’arf o’ bitter,’ he told me bluntly and walked off.

  On my tours of schools, I have visited many Home Corners: doctors’ surgeries, opticians, banks, fish and chip shops, Victorian schoolrooms, dentists, florists, libraries, garages, corner shops, travel agents, clothes shops, strange planets and secret caves – a whole range of imaginary places where the small children enter make-believe worlds and where their language is often at its richest and most creative
. I have seen infant children taking on a whole host of roles, imitating mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, teachers and other adults with whom they come in contact.

  On one occasion I visited a Home Corner set out as an estate agents. Rachel, the six-year-old receptionist, was sitting behind a desk on which had been arranged pens, pencils, a tape measure, a calculator, a plastic telephone and a toy cash dispenser. She had a name card bearing the name ‘Miss R. Prentice’ pinned to her dress and a pair of large spectacle frames on the tip of her nose. On a small table a range of brochures had been arranged, some made by the pupils themselves.

  ‘Good morning,’ she said cheerfully when I entered. ‘May I help you?’

  ‘I’m looking for a house,’ I said, ‘a big one.’

  She pointed to the small table. ‘There are lots to choose from,’ she said confidently. ‘Have a browse.’

  ‘I like the look of this house,’ I said, pointing to a photograph of the largest and the most expensive.

  The girl shook her head. ‘Sold,’ she replied, ‘subject to contract.’

  ‘What about this one?’ I said, picking up a photograph of another large residence. It had turrets and big bay windows, a great sweeping drive and tall iron gates.

  She leaned forward and in a confidential voice informed me that ‘Big houses cost a lot of money, you know. Why don’t you buy a little one?’ She thrust a picture of a small red-bricked terraced house into my hand. She clearly thought that big houses were way out of my league. ‘This one should do you.’

  I recall the time during my first year as an inspector when I had found a Home Corner set out as a baby clinic and a small girl clutching a large doll to her chest. She had been surrounded by scales, towels, feeding bottles, a plastic bath and a toy cot.

  As I approached she had looked up alarmed. ‘Go away!’ she had cried. ‘I’m breast feeding!’