The Other Side of the Dale Page 4

  ‘His teacher,’ I replied.

  That was Carol – Dr Carol Christian. She had long, shoulder-length auburn hair and the most beautiful aquiline face and I fell in love with her on sight.

  ‘She’s a bit of all right, that doctor, sir, isn’t she?’ John remarked as I drove him home.

  ‘Yes, John,’ I replied. ‘I have to agree with you there, she is.’

  I was not too bothered about spending another afternoon in casualty when, a couple of Saturdays later, ‘Little John’ was carried off the pitch again and we made a return visit to the hospital. This time it was a suspected broken toe. I hoped that the radiant Dr Christian would be on duty and sure enough she was. John’s face, like mine, lit up at the sight of her heading in our direction.

  ‘It’s that doctor again,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘I wonder if she’s married. Shall I ask her if she’s married, sir? You could be in with a chance, sir.’

  ‘Do not do anything of the sort,’ I managed to splutter out before the doctor reached us. Dr Christian examined the toe, pronounced it definitely broken and then explained that there was nothing else she could do. It was not medical practice to put a plaster cast on a toe. It would mend in its own good time.

  ‘Provided,’ she said firmly, ‘that you rest it and avoid rugby for a few weeks.’ John’s disappointment was obvious from the expression which clouded his round face.

  ‘But what will I do without my rugby, miss?’ he moaned.

  ‘Couldn’t you take up knitting?’ she asked flippantly.

  ‘No, miss,’ John replied laconically, ‘I’m allergic to wool. It brings me out in a terrible rash.’ He looked bemused when we both began to laugh. As we left the examination room I turned to the boy.

  ‘Haven’t you forgotten to say something to the doctor, John?’

  ‘Forgotten something, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, forgotten to say something to the doctor.’ I wanted him to realize himself that he had not thanked the doctor for her time and trouble. Recognition suddenly illuminated his face.

  ‘Oh, yes, sir,’ he cried, beaming widely. Then he gave a very theatrical wink. With that he had hobbled back into the examination room and I heard him say brightly, and loudly enough for all those on the plastic-covered seats to hear, ‘My teacher thinks you’re a bit of all right, doctor.’

  I had met Carol again at a charity dinner in aid of the children’s hospital and plucked up the courage to ask her out. We suited each other and enjoyed the theatre, music, walking, reading, travelling. But neither of us seemed to want the relationship to get any more serious. We had been going out for a couple of years when new job prospects had come up for both of us at the same time. I was keen to move further north and into the inspectorate, Carol to accept a promotion to a registrar’s position in Chester. So – decisions had to be made. Should we get married? If so, who would do the moving? Which one of us would sacrifice job and career? Our relationship had been a strange one in that we were both so busy in our respective careers that we did not see a great deal of each other. Carol frequently only had one night off a week from the hospital and I was usually occupied at weekends either playing rugby, refereeing, marking books, planning lessons, taking school trips or rehearsing the school play. When we did go to dinner parties together they were not greatly enjoyable occasions. I would meet her colleagues from the hospital and be bored by the constant discussion over the dinner table of ailments and operations, hospital politics and difficult patients. When she met my colleagues from school, Carol was similarly wearied by our endless conversations about the curriculum and examinations, standards of education, and difficult children. I think we both realized that our relationship would never survive the test of time. On our last evening together, we talked about things honestly and without recriminations before each deciding to go our separate ways. So we parted, on very amicable terms, to pursue our own careers.

  The shrill ringing of the telephone made me jump and I snatched up the receiver. This would be the call I was expecting from Mrs Savage.

  ‘Hello?’ I said cheerily.

  ‘Is that free school meals?’ The voice was angry and strident.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Is that free school meals?’

  I cupped my hand over the receiver. ‘Julie!’ I yelled. ‘Julie!’

  4

  Dr Harold J. Yeats, Senior County Inspector, stood six feet three inches in height. With his great broad shoulders, arched chest, heavy bulldog jaw and large pale eyes set wide apart, he looked more like an all-in wrestler than a school inspector. I found him waiting for me in the office the following Monday morning. I had imagined him to be a diminutive, academic, retiring man so it came as something of a surprise to be greeted by this giant with the great tombstone teeth and hands the size of spades. He smiled warmly and shook my hand vigorously.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he cried. ‘I must say when I saw the name Gervase Phinn on your application form, I imagined a rather lean, sophisticated, Oscar Wilde-like figure.’

  ‘And Julie told me you thought I would be just an ordinary-looking sort of chap,’ I replied, looking up into the large pale eyes.

  He roared with laughter. ‘Ah, but that was after I had seen you. You see, Gervase, I had the advantage of having you pointed out to me by the Chief Education Officer just after the interview. I went to see him about the outcome and observed you from his room which overlooks the front of the building. You were talking to the gardener at the time, I recall. I had to admit to Dr Gore that it was something of a relief to find that – even with that name – you were just an ordinary, pleasant-looking chap. We could do with an injection of common sense and sanity in the office. Of course, you haven’t met the other inspectors yet, have you? Sidney Clamp and David Pritchard are wonderful colleagues to work with, immensely generous and talented individuals, but are, like many clever and creative people, far from the ordinary – as you will find out.’ Before I could respond he continued with good humour. ‘Now you must tell me all about yourself. Gervase Phinn is such an unusual and literary sort of name, isn’t it? I could see a Gervase Phinn in a Dickens or Trollope novel – the darkly-handsome but fiercely-ambitious young politician on his way to the top, or the brooding, calculating cleric who has his eye on the bishop’s see. Now that the schools have heard about your appointment via the county newsletter, I should imagine there will be a fair bit of speculation as to what you look like. I know when I was appointed, way back in the Dark Ages, the teachers never imagined that I would look like this.’ He smiled widely, showing a strong set of overlapping teeth. ‘In fact, most people, when they meet me, don’t believe I’m a school inspector so I wouldn’t worry too much. In fact, if I had a penny for every time someone says when they meet me, “You don’t look like a school inspector”, I’d be a millionaire by now.’

  Harold spent the morning going through the duties of a school inspector. I had joined a small team of inspectors responsible for different subjects in the curriculum. The main part of the job was to visit schools to check on standards and on the quality of the education and to give advice on how things might be improved. Sometimes the entire team would descend on a school for a week to carry out a full inspection. On other occasions it might be a single or paired visit to examine a subject or aspect. In addition to reporting to the Education Committee on the teaching and learning, accommodation and resources, management and finance, the inspectors had an advisory role which involved running courses, carrying out surveys, speaking at conferences, attending headship interviews, supervising young teachers in their first year of teaching and disseminating information from the Ministry of Education.

  ‘My job this week and the next,’ explained Harold cheerfully as we headed for lunch in the County Hall canteen, ‘is to help you settle in and get to know the ropes. You’ll meet a whole range of colleagues and support staff this week and learn about procedures and so forth. Next week I’ll take you with me to some meetings and we’ll visit a few s
chools. Then, dear boy, you are on your own. But if there is anything you need to know, anything at all, do please ask.’ I felt as I looked into those large pale eyes that there would be many, many questions I would be asking in the first few weeks. ‘And, of course, there’s Julie,’ he added. ‘That young woman should not be underestimated. There is nothing Julie does not know about the workings of the school inspectorate. She’s an absolute treasure.’

  I must have looked very serious for Harold continued, ‘You look rather pensive, Gervase, there’s nothing wrong is there?’

  ‘It’s just the enormity of the job, Harold,’ I said. ‘There seems so much to do. I just hope I’m up to it.’

  ‘Of course you’re up to it, dear boy, you will fit in wonderfully well and be a great success. I have no doubts, no doubts at all about that.’

  I just hope I prove him right, I thought to myself.

  The first school we visited on the following Tuesday morning was a small, grey, stone primary school, high on the moors. It was in a folded hollow beneath tall sheltering oak trees and set high above a vast panorama dotted with isolated farms and hillside barns.

  ‘And we get paid for this, Gervase,’ sighed Harold with a great in-drawing of breath. ‘It’s like being on top of the world up here, isn’t it? Beautiful, beautiful.’

  When we arrived, Harold informed the secretary that he was a school inspector with a colleague and that we were expected. The secretary, a fussy, frail-looking woman with thick round glasses which made her eyes look unusually large and staring, peered up at the towering figure with the great broad shoulders and arched chest, the heavy bulldog jaw and round boxer’s nose, with an expression of some incredulity.

  ‘An inspector?’ she asked blinking nervously behind the great spherical frames. ‘A school inspector, did you say?’

  ‘That is correct,’ Harold replied, showing his set of great tombstone teeth. The secretary asked us to wait, and then scurried off down the corridor in search of the Headteacher. Harold explained that it was usual to have a word with the Headteacher at the beginning of any visit.

  ‘She only started at the beginning of last term so I’ve not actually met her but I’ve heard very good reports that she has settled in well and is making some necessary changes. After our discussion with her, we’ll then look at the policies and other documents, observe some lessons, share our observations and write a joint report.’

  Harold was holding forth about good primary education when the Headteacher, a tall woman with a round red face and tiny, very dark eyes appeared. She was closely followed by the secretary. As they came closer, I noticed the dubious looks on both their faces.

  ‘I wonder if I might see some means of identification?’ began the Headteacher, gazing fixedly up at Harold. ‘You can’t be too sure these days,’ she said. ‘I mean, you could be anybody!’

  ‘Anybody!’ echoed the secretary, peeping apprehensively from behind the taller woman.

  Harold gave me a long, lugubrious look before sighing and reaching in his pocket to produce a visiting card.

  ‘Do you see what I mean, Gervase?’ he said, as we walked to the car. ‘People have a picture in their minds of the typical school inspector, and it’s not someone like me.’

  The reception at the next school we visited could not have been more different. We were greeted by a beaming caretaker.

  ‘You’re from the Education Office, are you?’ he asked with a bright and expectant look in the small eyes.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Harold. ‘From the Education Office. I think the Headteacher is expecting us.’

  ‘Oh, oh, come this way, come this way,’ said the overalled figure, dwarfed by Harold’s great frame. ‘We’ve all been expecting you. It’s so good to see you.’ The caretaker, poking his head around the school office door, announced with great enthusiasm to the school secretary, ‘They’re here, Mrs Higginbottom! The men from the Education. They’re here! They’ve arrived!’

  The secretary jumped up excitedly. ‘Oh, good morning,’ she beamed. ‘It’s so good to see you. The Headteacher will be over the moon.’

  We were overwhelmed by such a warm welcome. Harold wore the face of the Prodigal Son.

  ‘It’s another recently-appointed headteacher here,’ he whispered confidentially. ‘The new ones always tend to be very keen for inspectors to visit early on, to offer advice and tell them a little about the county. Our reception at the last school was far from typical.’

  ‘It’s so good to see you,’ enthused the secretary.

  ‘Well, we’re very pleased to be here,’ Harold replied.

  ‘I’ll just tell the Headteacher you’ve arrived.’ She paused and patted Harold affectionately on the arm. ‘I can’t tell you how delighted we all are to see you.’ The caretaker nodded enthusiastically in agreement. I smiled, Harold beamed and everything seemed right with the world.

  The Headteacher, a tall, horsy-faced woman, strode into the room a moment later and greeted Harold with a vigorous handshake.

  ‘At last!’ she cried. ‘We’ve all been expecting you. I cannot tell you how pleased we are to see you here! You will have a cup of tea and a biscuit before you start, won’t you – that’s if you have the time.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ replied Harold, ‘that would be very acceptable.’

  The Headteacher nodded to the secretary who departed to get the tea. ‘It’s just that I appreciate that your time is very precious and you may wish to make a start at once. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Well, we’re here for the remainder of the afternoon,’ replied Harold. ‘May I introduce my colleague, Mr Phinn.’

  The Headteacher shook my hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Phinn,’ she said quickly before returning her attention to Harold. ‘Won’t it take longer than the afternoon?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ replied Harold, smiling. ‘It really depends on what we find.’

  ‘Well, I think you’ll find quite a lot needs doing,’ she said, her words accompanied by grunts of agreement from the caretaker and the secretary who appeared at the door with two cups of tea. ‘They are just not working and try as we might we can’t get them to work. We’ve had such a lot of trouble this week.’

  ‘I’ve tried my best to get them to work but it’s no good,’ added the caretaker shaking his head. ‘They just won’t work!’

  ‘This does sound serious,’ said Harold lifting the small china cup between large thumb and finger and sipping. ‘From the look of the school as we entered, it appeared to be a very bright and welcoming place, and the quality of the children’s work on the walls seemed to me to be of a high standard. And you say they just won’t work. Why is that?’

  ‘Well, the weather might have had something to do with it, of course. They were frozen solid last winter.’

  Harold replaced his cup on the saucer with a tinkle of china. ‘Frozen solid?’ he repeated. ‘They were frozen solid?’

  ‘We thawed them out but they just froze again,’ replied the Headteacher. ‘Anyway, that’s what you are here for, Mr Davies, to tell us why they won’t work. And I must say this school will be a lot brighter and more welcoming when you’ve finished.’

  ‘Yeats,’ said Harold.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘It’s Yeats, Harold Yeats.’

  ‘Aren’t you Mr Davies from the Education Office – Premises and Maintenance – to see to the problem of the boys’ lavatories?’ asked the Headteacher with a rather alarmed look on her face. ‘We are going out of our minds with the smell.’

  ‘No, no,’ replied Harold. ‘I’m Dr Harold Yeats, Senior School Inspector, to see about the curriculum. I wrote saying I would be calling with a colleague.’ The Headteacher looked crestfallen. Her face took on the long, gloomy expression of a saint who is approaching certain martyrdom. The eyes of the school secretary looked pebble-hard behind the heavy frames of her spectacles and the caretaker looked singularly menacing.

  The Headte
acher cheered up a little when Harold delivered a glowing report at the end of the afternoon and she became positively jaunty and light-headed when he promised to take up the cause of the boys’ lavatories back at County Hall, as a matter of urgency.

  ‘You will find in education, Gervase,’ he observed as we headed for the car, ‘that sometimes lavatories take precedence over learning.’

  On the Thursday of that week, Harold asked me to accompany him on a junior school class visit to the local sewage works. ‘It appears that we cannot get away from lavatories this week, Gervase,’ he said, chuckling. ‘The one thing about this job is that you keep on learning. When you finish today you’ll be a veritable expert in the process of sanitation.’

  Harold then explained that the purpose of the visit out of school was for the children to use the environment as the focus for their work. They would be making notes, asking questions, and later be writing a report – as well as a letter of thanks. ‘It can be a most productive and valuable experience for the children,’ he said. ‘All manner of talk and writing is stimulated by such visits.’

  We arranged to meet the teacher with her class at the sewage works at 9.30 am, join them for the tour and observe the follow-up work the children undertook. On the morning of the visit we arrived rather early, met the engineer in charge and waited for the teacher and children at the entrance. The class arrived and the teacher ushered her charges off the bus and, seeing Harold standing near the entrance, asked the children to wait with the tall gentleman at the gates. Harold was immediately drawn into animated conversation with the children.

  ‘What’s all that water for?’ asked one child. Harold did his best to explain that the water cleansed and purified the waste products.

  ‘Where do those pipes go?’ asked another. Harold attempted to explain. Then the questions came fast and furious:

  ‘What do those wheels do?’

  ‘Where does all the sewage come from?’