The Other Side of the Dale Page 17

  ‘Miss, t’watter in t’hen coops froz up last neight. It were as ’ard as Brimham Rocks.’

  ‘T’calf were born last neight, miss – it’s a really big ‘un. Like a babby helephant, it were. I was up ‘til ten with t’vet!’

  ‘Miss, my mum says it’s cold enough to freeze t’flippers off a penguin this mornin’.’

  ‘Miss, did you see the heronsew on t’bank? Reight big ‘un miss, looking for t’fish in t’stell.’

  ‘Miss, t’pipes in our outside lavvy are frozzen solid. Mi dad couldn’t oppen yat this morning, it were that stiff wi t’cold.’

  I learnt later in the day that a ‘heronsew’ was a heron, a ‘stell’ a large open ditch and a ‘yat’ a gate. When the children caught sight of me, I was surrounded and treated to the same lively chatter, full of the richness of a Dales’ dialect.

  ‘Come on, come on, chatterboxes!’ said Miss Precious, moving into the midst of the children like a great mother hen gathering up her chicks. ‘You will have plenty of time to talk to Mr Phinn later this morning.’ She turned in my direction. ‘Could you start in Mrs Durdon’s class with the infants, please, Mr Phinn, and join us after morning break?’

  Mrs Durdon, despite her trembling and frequent blinking at the start of the lesson, proved to be a very good teacher and she soon relaxed after I had given her a few reassuring smiles and friendly nods. The classroom was neat and tidy and the children’s work was well-displayed. A large bright alphabet and key words for children to learn decorated a wall and an attractive reading-corner contained a range of colourful picture and reading books and simple dictionaries. The standard of reading was high as was the quality of the written work.

  A small rosy-faced child of about seven years old was busy tapping away at the computer in the corner, copying a piece of writing from her book. It was a delightful account and quite poetic in its use of language:

  On Saturday we went for a pizza in Pickerton.

  My brother Timmy had a pizza the size of his head.

  He did not eat much because he sniffed some pepper up his nose.

  He kept on sneezing and crying.

  Mum was mad but my Dad laughed and laughed.

  He said he will not do that in a hurry again.

  At play-time Mrs Durdon donned a thick black coat, heavy scarf, white woolly hat and white boots and, explaining that she was on yard duty that morning, waddled off in the direction of the small playground. As I watched her, I recalled the comment I had heard earlier that morning: ‘Miss, my mum says it’s cold enough to freeze t’flippers off a penguin.’

  A cup of coffee in a fine china cup was awaiting me in the Headteacher’s room.

  ‘Now,’ she said taking two heavy, black leather-bound tomes from the shelf, ‘I want you to have a look at the school log books. They are really fascinating and go back well over a century. We get all these visitors from the university to study the battlefield but these log books, Mr Phinn, contain much more interesting history in my opinion.’

  She opened the first tome and passed it across her desk. The first page had the following entry:

  September 5th, 1898

  Took up my position as Headmaster of Barton Moor Parochial School in the County of York. 24 children on role, all from farming familys. Most of them iliterate.

  ‘Isn’t it just priceless,’ chortled Miss Precious. ‘Can you see how he’s spelled “illiterate” and “families” and “roll” and it gets better.’

  The next entry read:

  September 6th, 1898

  Morning spent on arithmetic, handwriting and scripture. Afternoon spent on rhetoric. I learned them a poem.

  ‘And they say standards have declined,’ said Miss Precious. ‘Now if you look at the page I’ve marked with a piece of paper, you will find the classic entry. It’s the report of the school inspector.’

  December 10th, 1913

  The Inspector’s Report to the School Board as follows: ‘The affairs of this school are ill-managed by a committee of languid, inept amateurs and the school is staffed by two incompetent teachers. To form the minds of children and direct their efforts into beneficial channels, the teachers must at least know more than their charges. The Headmaster is so absorbed in administrative and financial concerns that he neglects the intellectual and spiritual development of the children.’

  I looked up smiling. ‘The inspectors could be pretty savage in those days, couldn’t they?’

  ‘Of course, the Headmaster was sacked,’ continued Miss Precious. ‘He seems to have just upped and gone following the inspector’s visit. Just after the First World War the new Headmaster arrived, a Mr MacMillan. He is still remembered by some of the very old inhabitants in the village. He was known as Captain Mac, and was prone to ranting and raving and was a demon with the cane. Evidently he had seen action in the trenches and suffered terrible wounds, mental and physical, and wanted a quiet, untroubled life in Bartondale.’ She flicked the pages. ‘Captain Mac was a man of few words and stern disposition.’

  The entries read:

  Monday, December 9th

  Heavy snow. Eight children absent. Direful day.

  Tuesday, December 10th

  More snow. Twelve children absent. Frozen pipes in boys’ lavatory. Awful day.

  Wednesday, December 11th

  Still more snow. Only three children present. Frozen pipes in girls’ lavatory. Appalling day.

  Thursday, December 12th

  Thaw sets in. Two absentees. School full of mud and water. Horrible day.

  Friday, December 13th

  Full complement of children. Burst pipes, flooded toilets. School inspector, Mr Thoroughgood, visited. Calamitous day!

  ‘This is really interesting,’ I said. ‘Have you thought of writing a short history of the school and including all this material? It would make an excellent piece of action-research for the children.’

  ‘We’ve done it,’ she replied proudly. ‘The children researched the history of Barton Moor Parochial School, collected photographs and old maps, made copies of parish records and interviewed parents and grandparents. We discovered a host of fascinating characters from the past: eccentric parsons, dyed-in-the wool farmers, hedgers and ditchers, colourful landlords of the local inn, a footpad who was hanged at York and the Lord of the Manor who ran off with a serving maid. We amassed a great deal of information and Joseph put it all together. I think you met Joseph Barclay earlier this morning. He’s the young man I wanted to pick your brains about. It was Joseph who produced a short but very readable account of the school’s history.’ She reached up and plucked a booklet from the shelf. The chronicle was word-processed in bold clear lettering and written in a style unusually mature for an eleven-year-old. It was illustrated by small line drawings, carefully executed maps and well mounted photographs.

  ‘It’s good, isn’t it?’ Miss Precious said. ‘You’ll see Joseph’s other work next lesson. I would be very interested to know what you think of it and then I would really welcome some advice on his education. He’s a very unusual little boy is Joseph Barclay, very unusual indeed.’

  The very person we were talking about was in the classroom when I arrived at the end of morning break. He was busily tidying the books in the small corner library.

  ‘Hello, Mr Phinn,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t you been out to play, Joseph?’ I asked.

  ‘No, sir. I had a few jobs to do in the classroom. I keep things ship-shape.’

  ‘It’s good to blow a few cobwebs away, you know, get a breath of fresh air, have a run around in the morning.’

  ‘Oh, I get enough fresh air. I walk a mile to school each morning and a mile home in the afternoon. That keeps me hale and hearty.’ I smiled at the old-fashioned turn of phrase.

  When the children had settled at their desks after the morning break, Miss Precious began her lesson.

  ‘Now children,’ she said, ‘Emily’s mother has been gardening again.’ There was loud, good-humoured laughter and a
few children groaned, ‘Oh no!’

  ‘And she found something.’ Miss Precious turned to the corner of the classroom where I sat watching with interest. ‘I should explain, Mr Phinn, that Emily, like most of the children in the class, lives close to Barton Moor and her garden goes right up to the site of the battlefield. Emily’s mother has found some really interesting things in her garden, hasn’t she, Emily?’ A bright-faced little girl nodded. ‘Tell us what your mother found yesterday.’

  ‘Well,’ began Emily, ‘it’s a sort of buckle. It’s maybe from a belt or a bag. It’s all rusted up but there is a little silver rose in the middle. My mum was pulling up some dead flowers and there it was.’

  ‘We’ll add that to our collection, shall we, Emily, and when someone comes up from the university in the better weather we can find out exactly what it is.’

  ‘So other things have been found, have they?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ announced a boy waving his hand and arm in the air as if hailing a taxi. ‘My grandad found some lead musket balls and three brass buttons when he was mending a gate.’

  ‘My dad found a sort of spear thing,’ chimed in another. ‘It was under the foundations when we built the extension. It’s at the museum now. What was it called?’ he said, turning to Joseph. ‘You know that spear thing that my dad found. Can you remember what it was called?’

  ‘It was a halberd,’ replied Joseph, ‘a sort of hatchet with a spike on the top which would have been mounted on a long wooden pole and used by the pikemen during the battle.’

  ‘That’s it!’ shouted the boy. ‘A halberd.’

  ‘Has anyone else found anything in their gardens?’ I asked.

  ‘I found a dead cat, sir!’ announced a large boy with a big placid face. This was received with some kindly laughter but I noticed that it failed to bring a smile to Joseph’s lips. He sat sober-faced at the front desk like the receptionist at a funeral parlour.

  ‘I don’t think somehow that a dead cat, Ben,’ chuckled the teacher, ‘dates back to the Battle of Barton Moor. Soldiers were not in the habit of taking their pets into battle with them. I should think –’

  ‘Excuse me, miss,’ interrupted Joseph, ‘some of the commanders did take their pets into battle with them. Prince Rupert had a dog – it was a toy poodle – called Boy which he sat on his saddle and he took everywhere with him, even into the thick of the fighting.’

  ‘Do you know, Mr Phinn,’ said Miss Precious amiably, ‘Joseph has more history in his little finger than I’ve got in my entire head.’

  I spent the remainder of the morning listening to the children read confidently and clearly and examining their written work.

  When it came to Joseph’s turn he collected his reading book and several folders and arranged them on the desk before me. His record of the books he had read over the year was wide and challenging, and mostly historical in theme. He had listed the title of each book neatly with the author’s name, date and brief comments about how interesting or otherwise he had found the book. When I asked him to read a paragraph or two to me, his reading was slow but deliberate and without any stumblings or hesitations at the difficult words. His writing was beautifully presented and accurate but entirely serious in theme. There were no amusing poems, entertaining stories or lively, funny accounts. It was all solemn and pensive. One poem, in particular, I read several times. I had never come across such a melancholy and poignant piece of writing from a child before.

  When I was little I thought that God was like Santa Claus,

  A smiling, wrinkled face, a great white beard, a gentle voice.

  Now I am older I think that God is like an old man

  With a tired, lined face and furrowed brow

  Who weeps to see the world he has made.

  ‘So what did you make of our Joseph?’ asked Miss Precious at lunchtime. ‘He’s a most remarkable boy, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s one of the brightest children I have ever met,’ I replied. ‘A highly intelligent, articulate and, for his age, immensely knowledgeable boy, very polite but …’ I paused for a moment to try to think of the most appropriate word, ‘I find him a melancholy, a quite disconcerting child. That’s my opinion, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘You are very perceptive, Mr Phinn. He’s such a pleasant boy is Joseph, always helpful and courteous. He produces wonderful work and has never been an iota of trouble but he has such a mournful, pessimistic nature and is so very old for his years, too old. The other boys come in from the playground with scraped knees and grubby hands, their hair like haystacks and shirts hanging out, but Joseph appears pristine – not a hair out of place. I just wish sometimes he’d run in panting and laughing like the others as if he’d been pulled through a hedge backwards – but he never does.’

  ‘Is he bullied?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh good gracious, no, the other children tolerate him remarkably well. You saw that in the lesson. They just accept him for what he is. The boys tried at first to involve him in their games but he prefers to be alone. I wish he would kick a football around with the others or play conkers or climb trees as boys do, but he prefers his own company. In summer he can be seen sitting quietly reading on the bench in the playground like an old man enjoying his retirement. In winter he potters about the classroom tidying up, cleaning the blackboard, sharpening the pencils.’

  ‘What do his mother and father say?’ I asked. ‘Are they worried about him?’

  ‘Well, that’s part of the problem, I feel,’ sighed the Headteacher. ‘He lives with his grandparents. I won’t go into the reasons why he doesn’t live with his mother and father, it’s very sad and also confidential. His grandparents are well meaning and caring and they try their best with him. They send him to school spotless and attend parents’ meetings without fail but they are like many older people, they’ve slowed down and want a quiet, unhurried life.’

  ‘Well I have to say, Miss Precious, that I don’t think he could be in a better school than this. There is a spirit of happiness and endeavour here. The children talk freely and knowledgeably about their work and most write with excellent fluency. The work Joseph undertakes is certainly challenging enough and he seems, in his own way, a contented child. I will, however, have a word with the educational psychologist and see if she can be of any help. Mrs Richards is much better equipped than I to advise in this sort of thing. Joseph’s a very unusual young man and I guess we’ll all be hearing a great deal about him in the future.’

  Before I set off for my appointment at the next school, I said goodbye to the teachers and children.

  ‘I do hope you will mention the window in your report, Mr Phinn. It would certainly give me ammunition with my governors,’ smiled Miss Precious. Then she added: ‘Joseph, perhaps you would care to show Mr Phinn out and put the catch on the door after him. Do have a safe journey, Mr Phinn, and thank you so much for coming.’

  As we walked towards the entrance, Joseph asked, ‘Are you writing a report on this school?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I replied.

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion, I think this is a very good school with many positive features. Miss Precious really tries her best and works very hard.’ It sounded like the comments from one of my own reports. ‘I hope you’ll put that in to your account of the school.’

  ‘I shall certainly consider doing so, Joseph,’ I said. At the door he held out a small hand and stared up at me through the thick lenses of his glasses.

  ‘Well, I must get back to my work,’ he said as I shook his hand. ‘ “Time waits for no man” as my grandfather says. Have a safe journey. Goodbye, Mr Phinn.’

  ‘Goodbye, Joseph,’ I said.

  I arrived home late that evening when all was still and silent and the air misty and cold. The lights of the shops and houses lit up the high street, casting bright bars of yellow across the road. My flat above ‘The Rumbling Tum’ café was in darkness. I let myself in but paused for a moment before I turned on the light. I could not stop thin
king of a lonely little boy with thick-lensed glasses walking home along the narrow path that bordered the vast and friendless Barton Moor.

  18

  Connie was washing the cups and saucers in the small kitchen at the Staff Development Centre. I heard the clinking and clanking of crockery from way down the corridor so guessed she was not in the best of moods.

  ‘Good morning, Connie,’ I greeted her breezily, popping my head through the serving hatch.

  ‘Oh!’ she jumped. ‘You gave me quite a start. I was miles away.’

  ‘Yes, I could see that. Is everything all right?’

  ‘No, everything’s not all right, if you must know! I’ve just had one of Mr Pritchard’s ΡΕ courses – great big gallumping games teachers in track suits, jumping up and down and running all about like whirling dervishes, and trailing mud right into the Centre all over the carpets. I had a mercifully quiet time when Mr Pritchard broke his leg – apart from the marks he made all over the floor with his crutches. Now he’s back with a vengeance. You will never believe the amount of tea they consumed – it would sink the Titanic! And,’ she stressed the word, ‘I’ve got another of those art courses in the offing. All those stuffed animals and paint everywhere. It takes me a full week to recover from one of Mr Clamp’s in-service sessions.’ She glowered and shook her head.

  I changed the subject. ‘Harold was telling me you have a grandson, Connie.’

  The transformation in Connie was nothing short of miraculous. The tight lips relaxed, she smiled coyly and her eyes took on a sparkling gleam of pleasure. She ceased clinking and clunking the crockery, dried her hands and emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘Oh, he’s a bobby dazzler, Gerv,’ she began. ‘The things that little lad says never cease to amaze me. He’s the spit-and-image of his grandad is little Damien. His expressions are exactly like my Ted’s.’