The Other Side of the Dale Read online

  ‘Robert,’ asked Miss Isleworth, ‘what was all that about with the arm?’

  ‘I was holding the chip pan up, miss,’ he explained. ‘Didn’t your mum tell you that if hot fat hits water, it can be very dangerous? At your age, I would have thought you’d have known that.’

  Miss Isleworth’s voice came to me through the darkness. ‘I think, Mr Phinn, that is what is called “chancing one’s arm”, is it not?’

  21

  I arrived at Mrs Savage’s office in the County Hall Annexe late one March afternoon. The first draft of the guideline booklet on ‘The Teaching of Spelling’ was ready and I had been asked to call to collect it for its final check before printing. Mrs Savage’s office was palatial compared to mine. It was dominated by a huge mahogany desk behind which was a vast swivel chair – it would have accommodated a baby elephant. There were filing cupboards and cabinets of all sorts, an occasional table, two easy chairs and a state-of-the-art computer area in one corner. From the window there was an uninterrupted view over the market town, busy and bustling at rush hour, and in the far distance were the grey moors and misty peaks.

  I was shown into Mrs Savage’s office and told by the harassed-looking clerk who was just getting ready to go home to make myself comfortable and that Mrs Savage would be along at any moment. It had been a tiring day. I had chaired a lively working group on ‘Raising Pupil Achievement’ that morning, shortlisted for a teaching post over the lunch period, dealt with several contentious telephone calls, visited two schools in the afternoon and delivered a lecture at a twilight session for nursery teachers at four o’clock. I had driven up and down the Dales, missed lunch and was ready for a hot bath and something to eat. The clock on the County Hall bell tower struck six and there was still no sign of Mrs Savage. I had just about decided to call in another day to collect the draft booklet when the door opened and she breezed in. She was in a scarlet and black suit with enormous shoulder pads and great silver buttons. This was ‘power dressing’ taken to extremes.

  ‘Sorry to have kept you waiting. But my little den is quite comfortable, isn’t it?’ she said closing the door behind her.

  ‘Yes, very,’ I replied.

  ‘I cannot work in an environment which isn’t homely. I like a warm, comfortable environment. I just don’t know how you survive in that cramped, musty, dark little office with those noisy, difficult individuals around you. Dr Yeats is pleasant enough – but the other two! I really don’t know how you can stand it.’

  ‘Oh, I enjoy their company,’ I replied, springing to my colleagues’ defence. ‘They’re super people to work with when you get to know them. And we don’t spend all that much time in the office actually. We are mostly in schools during the day. No, I like it. It has character.’

  ‘You are just too good-natured. Mr Clamp is one of life’s mavericks. He just goes his own merry way regardless of others. And as for Mr Pritchard, well – he’s a very prickly individual indeed. We’ve had quite a few cross words about a number of things. It’s his Celtic temperament – terrible temper.’ Before I could reply she moved to her desk. ‘But we don’t want to talk about your colleagues, do we?’ She smiled like a shark. ‘Now, let’s get a cup of coffee organized. I only drink decaffeinated myself. Or you might prefer a herbal tea. Then we can make ourselves comfortable. I’ll ring down and see if someone can arrange it.’

  ‘No, I won’t have anything to drink. Actually, I’m in rather a hurry. I have quite a lot of work to do this evening and I haven’t eaten today.’

  ‘It’s not good to miss a meal, you know.’ She sounded like a school ma’am. ‘And you know what they say about all work and no play.’ The tone of voice changed to a softer lilt. ‘We could always adjourn to “The Rumbling Tum” if you wish. They do a very nice spinach soufflé.’

  ‘No, no,’ I replied hurriedly, ‘I really do have so much work this evening. I only popped in about the guideline document. You said it was ready for its final proof-reading.’

  ‘You know, Gervase,’ said Mrs Savage skirting the desk and moving in my direction, ‘I really feel you and I liaise rather well.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I moved back a step.

  ‘I was only saying to dear Dr Gore this morning that there are some people with whom one can work, can relate to, can co-operate with, establish a close working relationship, and others one cannot. I feel you are one of the former. We do work well together, don’t we? We do have a certain rapport. Do you feel the same about me?’ She fluttered her eyelids.

  Good gracious, I thought panic-stricken, this cannot be happening. ‘Well … er … I do think we managed to work well together on the Minister’s visit,’ I managed to mouth, ‘but on a strictly professional and –’

  ‘Exactly! Exactly!’ She moved closer, breathing heavily. ‘That’s just what I mean. We sort of clicked, didn’t we?’

  ‘Clicked?’ I repeated.

  ‘It’s so nice when two people get on so well together, isn’t it?’

  ‘Er … now about the guidelines …’

  ‘You know, Gervase, when we first met, I thought this man will be like all the others up in that ivory inspectors’ tower but I was wrong. That offhand secretary of yours quite got up my nose. Do you remember we had a little contretemps about extension numbers. Merely a small mix up but she made such a drama of it.’ She smiled almost coyly. ‘Having worked with you on a number of initiatives, Gervase, I know that you are different.’

  ‘I am?’

  ‘We relate. We talk the same language. We sing from the same hymn sheet, we dance to the same music’ I moved back another step. ‘Do you like dancing, Gervase?’ she asked.

  I was lost for words. ‘Well, I … I …’

  ‘You certainly look like a good mover to me.’

  ‘Well, I … I …’

  ‘There’s the County Ball at the end of the month.’

  ‘Really, the County Ball?’

  ‘I’ve been asked, in my capacity as the PA to the CEO to distribute the tickets.’

  ‘Have you indeed?’ I simpered.

  ‘And Dr Gore always makes two available for me for all my hard work and as a little appreciation. Now I was wondering –’

  I predicted how this sentence was going to end so made a pre-emptive strike. ‘You know, I have always wanted to be able to dance but this leg of mine gives me so much trouble. It takes me all my time to get up the stairs at County Hall. An old rugby accident, a nasty break, never been quite right, you know. I have to have an operation when they can fit me in.’

  ‘My mother always told me to beware of people with operations,’ she replied moving closer. ‘They always want to show you their scars.’

  ‘Well, I certainly don’t!’ I snapped, taking another reverse step. Not much room, I hazarded, before my back would be up against the door.

  ‘The County Ball is not an occasion for wild jigs and rowdy reels. The dancing is very often slow and stately – like the “Anniversary Waltz” – where couples move slowly together around the floor in each other’s arms. I should imagine that you need to exercise your leg.’

  ‘About the guidelines, Mrs Savage …’

  ‘It’s quite a wonderful occasion, the County Ball. The highlight of the year. Exquisite food, beautiful music, everybody who is anybody will be there.’

  Well, I certainly won’t, I thought to myself.

  ‘I used to go every year to the County Ball when Conrad was alive.’

  ‘Conrad?’

  ‘My dear departed. You knew I was a widow, didn’t you, Gervase? That I live all on my own. You live alone, don’t you?’

  ‘I do yes but I like living alone. I really like living alone. I do enjoy the peace and quiet after a hard day’s work.’

  ‘We had such a short time together.’

  ‘Who did?’

  ‘Conrad and I – before his untimely death.’

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ I said.

  ‘He didn’t suffer.’

  ‘I’m glad but
about the guidelines –’

  ‘Now, Gervase, I was wondering if you might like –’

  I made a second pre-emptive strike. ‘My goodness!’ I suddenly exclaimed, pulling at the door, ‘I quite forgot. I said I was meeting Sidney Clamp a little after six and just look at the time. I must make tracks.’ Before she could answer I gabbled on. ‘I’ll collect the guidelines another time. Must rush. Bye!’ and made as fast an exit as I could.

  ‘Could you ask Mrs Savage to send over the draft copy of the spelling guidelines?’ I asked Julie the next morning before sallying forth into schools.

  ‘She left a note asking you to call over for them.’

  ‘Yes, I saw it, but I haven’t the time today, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well you could pop over now. The Annexe is on your way out. It isn’t at the other side of the world, you know.’

  ‘Julie, I have not the time to go over now. I have just said. Please give Mrs Savage a ring and ask her to send them over.’

  ‘Shall I ask her to drop them in to you here?’

  ‘No!’ I snapped.

  ‘I don’t blame you not wanting to enter the spider’s parlour, Gervase,’ commented David looking up from his work. ‘I gather she has taken quite a shine to you. Connie was commenting how well you two get on and I heard Mrs Savage singing your praises to Dr Gore, about how well you relate to each other. I believe the term she used was “clicked”. Thank goodness this little fly is too old and crusty to be of any interest to her. You do know she has a man-mad disposition, Mrs Savage, don’t you? Had two husbands already so I am reliably informed.’

  ‘Two!’ I exclaimed. ‘But she can’t be more than forty.’

  ‘A strikingly attractive woman, Mrs Savage,’ added Stanley. ‘Goes through husbands like a dose of salts. Always on the look out for an unattached man of adequate means and submissive personality so popular rumour would have it. I would watch out if I were you.’

  ‘Well thank you very much for warning me, Stanley,’ I said. ‘As for my pen-portrait – “of adequate means and submissive personality” – that’s highly flattering!’

  ‘Shall I give Mrs Savage a ring,’ asked Julie mischievously, ‘and say you are popping over then?’

  ‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘And should Mrs Savage call, I am NOT in.’ With that I left the office.

  Over the next few weeks I avoided Mrs Savage sedulously. If I saw a glimpse of a red dress on the top corridor of County Hall I scurried into the gents’. If I heard a sharp voice emanating from a room I was passing, I hurried on like an Olympic walker. If I heard the click, clicking of high heels on the marble floor of the main corridor I shot behind a pillar. If the telephone rang I picked it up gingerly, hoping it wasn’t the famous black widow herself. It was inevitable that we should meet again – and it was at Castlesnelling High School that our paths crossed.

  I had been asked to write a report on the state of the library and had arrived at the school to be shown into a bare, cold, featureless room with a few ancient tomes and dog-eared textbooks scattered along the high wooden bookcases. The atmosphere carried a warm pervasive smell of dust, and the grey walls did not help. This was Castlesnelling High School library, the supposed central learning resource, the foundation of the curriculum, the place of academic study, reading and research. The books on the shelf bore witness to the fact that there had not been a full audit or clear-out of the old and inappropriate material for some time. There were books entitled Wireless Studies for Beginners, Life in the Belgian Congo, Harmless Scientific Experiments for Girls, and Our King: George VI. The newly-appointed Head of Library and Resources, Mr Townson, gestured with upturned hands as we surveyed the room.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you can see what needs doing.’ He was a young, eager-faced, dapper man in his early thirties who was obviously keen to change things as soon as possible. ‘The Head wants me to develop the library and has persuaded the Governors to release some capital to improve things but I would be so grateful for any advice and support you could give.’

  I wrote a full report with recommendations, secured some funding for improvements and, a few weeks later, returned to the school to deliver the good news that the county would refurbish the room and replace the furniture, help stock it with a good balance of appropriate and interesting texts suitable for teenagers and install some modern computers. I entered the library to find Mrs Savage in a powder-blue suit with shoulder pads which would not have disgraced an American footballer. She was firmly ensconced in the one easy chair, basking in a pale ray of sunlight which cut across the room and which made her earrings sparkle. Her eyes bulged with disapproval. My heart sank.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Savage?’ Mr Townson asked innocently.

  ‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ I replied. ‘Good morning.’

  She gave me a cold look, the look of a woman spurned, and nodded. ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ she replied. Her voice sounded hollow and distant.

  ‘Brenda has been so very helpful,’ explained the Head of Library and Resources enthusiastically. ‘We’ve been re-vamping the school library prospectus and various other documents. She’s been a real gem.’ He turned and smiled warmly at the seated figure.

  ‘It’s nice to be appreciated,’ she commented caustically. ‘Quite often people take you for granted.’ She caught my eye with an icy glance. I felt it politic not to say anything.

  ‘Mrs Savage is helping me to sort out the library,’ continued Mr Townson.

  Mrs Savage made a sort of humming noise before looking at her watch, as if entirely bored by this conversation.

  ‘If it’s not convenient,’ I began, ‘I can call –’

  ‘No, no!’ snapped Mrs Savage rising to her feet. ‘I was about to go.’ She swept for the door but turned on her high heels. ‘I will be in touch, Simon,’ she said sweetly. Then she nodded in my direction before saying in an icy voice, ‘Goodbye, Mister Phinn.’ Then she was gone and I inwardly gave a great sigh of relief.

  ‘An absolutely delightful woman,’ enthused the young Mr Townson rubbing his hands. ‘She’s been so supportive and sympathetic. Cannot do enough for me.’

  I ran my finger along a shelf on which were a number of books on the art of ballroom dancing.

  ‘Do you dance by any chance, Mr Townson?’ I asked casually, plucking a tome from the shelf.

  ‘Yes, I do, as a matter of fact. Why?’

  ‘Oh nothing,’ I replied. ‘Nothing at all.’

  22

  It was Thursday and I was thankful the end of a dreadful week was in sight. Problem after problem, pressure after pressure, had risen their ugly heads one after the other. On Monday Dr Gore had asked the whereabouts of a committee report I had promised to write, and which I had completely forgotten about, and Harold Yeats had left a note on my desk saying he was still awaiting answers to a number of important queries. My attempts to respond were dashed when an overworked and overstressed headteacher had poured out his woes over the telephone and I had agreed to call in and be of what help I could. In his room, later in the day, I spilt a cup of coffee over the chair, the carpet, the coffee table and the school secretary.

  On Tuesday, the course which I had carefully planned and directed for thirty teachers had not been the roaring success I had hoped it would be, judging by the appraisal sheets. The various comments –‘quite interesting’, ‘of some use’, ‘helpful handouts’ and ‘satisfactory’ – damned me with faint praise. On Wednesday I had a dreadful toothache, a difficult school visit and Mrs Savage had telephoned three times asking me to return some papers she had sent to me to look over. It was now Thursday and I still had letters to write, the summer term’s courses to plan, reports to complete and three schools to visit. In addition, that evening I had agreed to talk to a group of parents about reading development.

  I was feeling weary, full of the troubles of the world and very sorry for myself, therefore, when I arrived at the first school that morning. A small boy, of about seven or eight, stood in the entrance hall feed
ing a tank full of tropical fish.

  ‘Hello,’ he said brightly.

  ‘Hello,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m the fish monitor.’

  ‘Yes, I can see,’ I said peering into the tank at the colourful creatures scooping up the floating food with open mouths. ‘What sort are they?’

  ‘Hermaphrodites.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Hermaphrodites. They’re neither one thing nor t’other.’ There followed a small lecture on the life of the fish. ‘I do the frogs and toads as well,’ he added. ‘We’ve got a tank down here where they live. You can have a look if you like. We collected the frogspawn from the pond last weekend. We’ll hatch it out and look after the tadpoles until they’ve grown into frogs big enough to fend for themselves. You see, when they’ve just turned from being tadpoles into little frogs and toads they’re … now, what’s the word miss said … er?’

  ‘Tiny?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Weak?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Delicate?’

  ‘Vulnerable, that’s what they are, vulnerable.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ I replied, ‘vulnerable.’ I was feeling pretty vulnerable by this time.

  ‘You see, hundreds of tadpoles hatch out and most get eaten by fish or birds and the weaker ones die.’

  ‘Well, that can’t be helped, I suppose.’

  ‘Unless it’s a maternity toad. Now you take the maternity toad. That’s a funny creature and no mistake. She keeps her tadpoles in her mouth where they are safe and sound. Normally frogs and toads don’t do that but inside the maternity toad’s mouth the tadpoles are protected. She’s got a really big mouth that she can blow out, sort of inflate like this.’ He puffed out his cheeks to demonstrate. ‘I’ve got a picture of the maternity toad if you want to see it.’

  ‘So she keeps all her tadpoles in her mouth, does she? It must be uncomfortable for her but I suppose they are safe from any harm.’

  ‘Aye,’ said the little boy and then added with a short laugh, ‘unless, of course, she sneezes!’ He continued to chatter on as he checked the temperature of the water.