The Heart of the Dales

For
Harry John Gervase Phinn,
my first grandchild

The author would like to thank Child's Play (International) Ltd for permission to use the extract from
Little Snail's BIG Surprise
, copyright © Carla Dijs, 1999.

The poem ‘A Dalesman to His Son' on page 381 is based on the poem ‘Mother to Son' by the American poet, Langston Hughes.

So –

You are curious to know

What sort of man he was,

What kind of teacher?

Some, I guess, would say that he was unpredictable and loud,

Heavy-handed, hard-headed, proud,

A fiery figure with his froth of wild white hair

And bright all-seeing eyes,

That he talked too much

And listened too little.

Well –

I'll tell you.

He was a teacher

Who lifted history from the dusty page,

Re-fought battles on a chalky wooden board,

A storyteller who painted pictures of the past in vivid colour,

An enthusiast who, with bursts of energy

And eyes gleaming with a quick impassioned fire,

Resurrected shadowy characters of a bygone age:

Fabled kings and tragic queens, pale-faced martyrs and holy monks,

Princes and peasants, tyrants and warriors.

He brought history to life.

I recall

One cold November day,

In a hushed classroom

When he told the story of the sorrowful Scottish queen

Who climbed the scaffold stiffly,

Clad in a gown the colour of dried blood

To meet her fate at Fortheringhay,

And I felt that I was there.

So –

You are curious to know

What sort of man he was,

What kind of teacher?

He was the best.

David Pritchard, the inspector for Mathematics, PE and Games, was in rare good mood that Friday morning. It was during the schools' summer holidays and the two of us had been busily occupied for a good couple of hours packing up all our belongings in our old place of work, ready to take to the school inspectors' new office downstairs. We were having a break from our exertions, much of which entailed sorting through old files and putting papers no longer needed into rubbish bags – in the sure knowledge that we would require something we had thrown away within the first week of term. David, perched on the edge of a desk, was entertaining me with some amusing anecdotes related to his visits to the county's schools the previous term.

‘There was the occasion,' he said, smiling widely at the memory of the incident, ‘when the teacher, in an effort to test the children in their numeracy skills of addition, asked his class of nine-year-olds: “Now, children, if I laid eight eggs over here and nine eggs over there, what would I have?” “A bloody miracle,” had come a muttered voice from the back of the room.'

I hooted with laughter – I just loved the things these young ‘innocents' came out with.

‘Another time,' David continued, ‘a teacher was reprimanding a child who hadn't used a ruler and had drawn a very wobbly line freehand across his exercise book. “Don't you know what the word ‘straight' means?” the teacher asked crossly. “Yes, miss,” had come the reply, “without water”.'

David and I were both laughing uproariously when a figure appeared at the door to the office.

Mrs Brenda Savage, Personal Assistant to Dr Gore, the Chief
Education Officer, stood framed in the doorway with the usual haughty expression on her carefully made-up face. She was dressed in a tailored grey tweed jacket, tight pencil skirt, cream silk blouse with filigree lace collar, black patent leather shoes and, as was her wont, was garlanded in an assortment of expensive-looking jewellery. She looked for the entire world as if she were about to enter the set of one of those glamorous American soap operas. There was not a crease, not a hair out of place. She remained there regarding us with a self-important expression on her face.

‘May I help you, Mrs Savage?' asked my colleague, staring over his spectacles.

‘Mr Pritchard,' she said slowly and deliberately and giving him a decidedly chilly look, ‘I had assumed that by this time the school inspectors would have relocated themselves to the office downstairs.'

‘My dear Mrs Savage,' said David calmly, ‘I have no desire to be impolite, much less disobliging, but we are in the very process of moving.'

‘Well, as far as I can see, Mr Pritchard,' continued Mrs Savage, surveying the room, ‘you haven't got very far. It is now Friday and you have to vacate these premises by today at the very latest so that Mr Reid and the Social Services team can move in at the beginning of next week. It's on my schedule here.' She tapped a long scarlet-painted fingernail on the clipboard she held in front of her. Mrs Savage paused a moment, waiting for a reply but when one was not forthcoming she continued, her voice dripping with condescension. ‘It appears to me that very little has been done.'

‘I am fully aware of what day it is and what needs to be done, Mrs Savage,' replied David, giving her a thin smile that conveyed little more than feigned interest. ‘I will be out of here by the end of the day, you can be quite certain of that. Come Monday, the area of the office which at present I occupy will be as empty as the North York Moors in December.'

‘I did send a memorandum,' Mrs Savage persisted, ‘stating quite clearly that it was imperative that the school inspectors'
office be cleared in good time so that Mr Reid and the Social Services team are able to occupy it at the beginning of next week.'

‘Indeed you did, Mrs Savage, and I read your memorandum with immense interest, as I always do when I receive one of your missives. I will vacate the office by the end of the day.' He replaced his glasses and returned to sorting through some papers on his desk.

The CEO's Personal Assistant was as unrelenting as a starving bulldog with a juicy bone and remained at the door standing stiff and straight, looking back at David with a stern expression. Since starting my job as a school inspector some four years before, I had found Mrs Savage, as had my three colleagues, extremely prickly and sometimes downright objectionable. This dramatically good-looking widow of indeterminate age, always immaculately turned out and dressed in the most expensive and elegant of outfits, sadly did not have a personality to match. She could be by turns rude and deferential, depending on the status and position of the person to whom she was talking. And it was patently clear she did not like talking to the school inspectors who she felt had far too much clout and influence. Her dislike of us was obvious and she seemed to go out of her way to be the most irritating, ill-mannered and petty member of the Education Department. Mrs Savage had a frightening reputation, an acid manner and a penchant for burdening us with a snowstorm of memoranda on every conceivable subject.

Getting no further response from David, she now turned her frosty eye in my direction and arched a carefully plucked eyebrow. ‘Mr Phinn.'

‘Mrs Savage?' I said.

‘May I have
your
assurance that this office will be cleared and available for Mr Reid and the Social Services team by Monday morning?'

‘You have my assurance, Mrs Savage,' I told her. ‘The day is yet young. All will be removed by the end of this afternoon.'

‘It's just that there appears to be still so much in here to
pack,' she said, glancing around the room and pulling a face as if there were a bad smell. ‘That corner area looks as if it hasn't been touched at all.'

‘That's because it hasn't,' said David airily, without looking up from his papers. ‘That's Mr Clamp's domain.'

‘And where –' Mrs Savage began.

‘And he's away in Italy,' added David.

‘Away in Italy!' she exclaimed.

‘On his holidays,' said David.

‘On his holidays!' repeated Mrs Savage.

‘Even school inspectors have holidays, Mrs Savage,' said David, looking up. ‘As the inspector for Visual and Creative Arts, he is spending two
creative
weeks in Venice, Florence and Rome, where he is collecting material for next term's art courses. Then he is spending a third week in Sorrento.'

‘But this is a
most
inconvenient time for him to decide to take a holiday,' she growled.

‘Mrs Savage,' said David, ‘you must understand that we school inspectors can only take our holidays when the teachers and pupils take theirs and not in term time.' He blinked up at her through his spectacles.

‘But Mr Clamp should have kept this week free,' she said peevishly. ‘My memorandum specifically earmarked this week for the office to be cleared prior to the move next week,' she continued, relentlessly pursuing her theme. ‘When it was agreed by Dr Gore that the school inspectors should have larger premises downstairs – something about which I had strong reservations, I have to admit – I indicated in a first memorandum that the move would take place during the schools' summer holidays.'

‘But not exactly when,' I commented.

‘I beg your pardon?' She gave me a disdainful glance.

‘You never gave an exact date when you required us to move.'

‘I stated the date specifically in the second memorandum,' said Mrs Savage sharply, tapping at her clipboard again. ‘It was all carefully planned. I said it in my memorandum quite distinctly, the one that Mr Clamp has clearly ignored.'

David began shuffling papers with more noise than was necessary. I stared out of the window.

‘And when will Mr Clamp be back, may I ask?' she enquired. ‘Perhaps you can –'

‘Mrs Savage,' sighed David, raising his hand and, in the process, stopping her mid sentence, ‘I am not my colleague's keeper. What he does and where he goes is entirely his own concern. Knowing Mr Clamp, as we all do, you will be well aware that, like many a creative person, he is somewhat elusive, unconventional and unpredictable and is certainly not one to be easily directed by others. He is one of the world's individuals, a maverick.'

‘Well, we will have to see what Dr Gore has to say about it,' she replied, her face flushing with annoyance.

‘It's not Mr Clamp's fault,' I told her. ‘I'm afraid your second memorandum with the dates of the move must have arrived on our desks after Mr Clamp had departed for Italy.'

‘I think not!' she snapped. ‘I sent that memorandum out a good three weeks ago. It is typical of Mr Clamp to ignore my memoranda. I have had occasion to speak to him about it before.'