The Heart of the Dales (12 page)

I found Miss de la Mare at a large table in the meeting room scribbling some notes on a vast pad of paper. The whole of the surface around her was covered in papers and booklets, folders and files. Dressed in a substantial and rather loud red and green tweed suit, she looked more like the Madam Chairman of the Yorkshire Countrywomen's Association than the Chief Inspector of Schools.

‘Good morning,' I said, feeling my stomach churning.

‘Oh, good morning, Gervase,' she replied, looking over the
top of her rimless half-moon spectacles. ‘You're bright and early.'

‘Yes,' I said. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you before the meeting.'

‘That's a coincidence,' she replied, putting her pen down, removing her spectacles and turning to face me. ‘I was hoping to have a word with you, too.'

‘Really?'

‘Yes, about something – how shall I put it – of a somewhat delicate nature.'

‘That sounds ominous,' I said.

‘Well, it might blow up into something very serious if it's not handled carefully. Dr Gore has asked for it to be dealt with as a matter of some urgency.'

‘And it concerns me?' I asked.

‘Yes, it does,' she replied.

‘I had better sit down.'

‘This is not something that is going to take a few minutes, Gervase,' she told me. ‘I need to speak to you at some length about this particular matter. It concerns a school report you wrote some time ago.' My heart sankinto my shoes. Surely no one could have spoken to her about Ugglemattersby Junior School so soon. Then I recalled Mrs Sidebottom's words that her husband was a colleague of Councillor Peterson, an important member of the Education Committee and Mr Sidebottom had probably been on the phone to his chum who, in turn, had most surely been on to Dr Gore straight after my visit the day before.

‘So,' said Miss de la Mare, ‘are you able to remain behind after the meeting?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said, feeling the stirrings of tension and dread building up inside of me. ‘My first appointment this afternoon is at one thirty.'

‘Well, you may have to cancel that,' she said, placing the spectacles back on her nose and picking up her pen. ‘Now, if you'll excuse me, I really don't wish to appear rude but I have to finish the agenda for this morning's meeting. There is quite a deal for us to get through.'

I joined Connie in the kitchen.

‘There's no Garibaldis,' she said bluntly, pouring boiling water into a mug. ‘It might be a pigment of my imagination but I could swear blind there was a full two packets of biscuits at the beginning of this week. They consume Garibaldis in this place like there's no tomorrow. I've an idea it's Mr Clamp who's the culprit. He's always got his hands in my biscuit barrel, nibbling away like a half-starved squirrel.'

‘Don't mention squirrels,' I said.

‘Why, what's wrong with squirrels?'

‘Don't ask,' I told her.

‘Anyway,' said Connie, ‘there are only custard creams and a couple of ginger nuts, though I dare say it's a bit early for biscuits.'

‘Did you have a nice holiday?' I asked, trying to take my mind off the impending interview with the Chief Inspector.

‘No, I didn't!' she replied, pulling open the fridge door and taking out a jug of milk. She swirled it around and then sniffed at it. ‘You know, that new milkman must think I was born yesterday trying to palm me off with old milk. I always order three bottles, all semi-skimmed. This morning I gets two full cream and neither are fresh.' She slid the jug across to me. ‘I could swear it's on the turn.'

‘What was wrong with your holiday?' I asked, pouring some milk in my coffee and perching on a stool. ‘I thought you usually take your grandchildren to your caravan.'

I knew from experience that once I moved the conversation on to the topic of her grandchildren, Connie's apparently sharp and offhand manner would immediately evaporate for she doted on little Damien and Lucy. At the mention of them, the thin line of her mouth would disappear, the arms that had been tightly folded under her bosom would relax and her eyes would sparkle. There was nothing she liked better than talking about her grandchildren.

‘We did take them on holiday with us,' Connie told me, ‘but it rained cats and dogs for most of the week. Torrential it was and the winds were wicked and nearly blew us into the
bay. We hardly got on the beach. Poor little mites were as good as gold-dust but we never had a chance to build sandcastles or go on the donkeys or take a stroll along the prom. We did go out on a boat trip but if I vomited once I vomited five times. Up and down went that boat like a fiddler's elbow. We spent most of the holiday in a caff on the front or in the amusements.'

‘So, what –' I began.

‘Our little Damien was no trouble at all but then he went and lost his purse with all his holiday money in it. At the police station, the sergeant was about as much use as a grave robber at a crematorium. “Can you remember where you lost it, sonny?” he asks him. I said, “If he knew where he lost it we'd be there looking for it, wouldn't we, and not wasting police time?” People say the daftest things. Anyway we never did find the purse. I said to Ted, I said, “Well, we can kiss that down the drain.” I bought him a stick of rock to cheer him up – Damien, that is, not Ted – and he went and dropped that in a puddle and roared his little eyes out for the rest of the day. No, Mr Phinn, the holiday was not a success. It was catastrophical.'

‘You ought to be on the stage Connie,' I said, laughing. I was feeling much better already.

‘What's that supposed to mean?' she asked.

‘Just that you can tell a very entertaining story. Anyway, your grandchildren are back at school this week.' I took a sip of the coffee and pulled a face. The milk was indeed sour. ‘I do think this milk–' I started.

Connie was now in full flight and, once on the topic of her grandchildren, was not to be diverted. ‘Keen as mustard to get back to school, they were. You should have seen the school report from their head teacher what they brought home at the end of last term. At the confrontation meeting, Miss Pilkington told my daughter that they are a delight to teach and both doing really well. As sharp as buttons they are and very good little readers. Top table material, she said. I wouldn't say they were child progenies or anything like that but they certainly weren't at the back of the queue when the brains was given out.'

‘I'm glad they like reading,' I said. ‘You know, if every parent in the country read with their children every night for just half an hour it would make so much difference.'

‘Oh, they get a story every night and when they're on their own they never have their noses out of a book,' said Connie. ‘It was our Damien's birthday over the summer and his grand-dad bought him this picture book about a crocodile, which came with a glove puppet. I said to Ted that I thought it was a bit frightening myself. Big green thing this puppet was, with huge yellow eyes and rubber teeth and a long scaly tail. Put the wind up me, I don't mind saying. Ted, daft as a brush, kept chasing me round the bedroom with this crocodile. I don't know what the neighbours must have thought hearing me shouting at him, “Put it away, it's horrible.” Anyhow, he got Damien on his knee and kept snapping the creature's jaws together. There were these two pieces of wood under the fabric and they clacked really loudly every time he snapped them together.'

‘It's just the sort of thing children love,' I said.

‘Any road,' continued Connie, ‘in the crocodile's mouth was a small fish, little coloured plastic thing. Ted opened the jaws wide and asked young Damien, “Would you like to take the fish out of the crocodile's mouth?” He looks up at his granddad with these big eyes and do you know what he replied?'

I shook my head. ‘You tell me, Connie.'

‘He said, “Dream on!”' Connie laughed, and repeated, ‘“Dream on!” Can you beat it!' Then her smile went. ‘But, if you was to ask me, I think that my daughter – Tricia, that is – tends to spoil Lucy when it comes to food. Damien eats like there's no tomorrow. Damien Dustbin his granddad calls him but Lucy's very fernickity. She wants all this fancy stuff, wholemeal bread and high-fibre cereals. Won't touch butter. Has to have this margarine with that monoglutinous sodomite. I told her, I said that when I was a girl, I'd have given my right arm for a bit of butter and you ate what you were given. There was no choice and if you didn't clean your plate then there was no pudding. I said there are lots of people starving in Africa
who would be glad of what she's turning her nose up at. There were no burgers and chips and chicken nuggets and ice creams and sweets when I was a girl. None of this decaffeinicated coffee and orgasmic vegetables. They were lean years in the nineteen-thirties and forties, and you ate what you got. I remember my mother boiling up a sheep's head to make soup and it lasted for a fortnight. We went berserk at the sight of an orange, and I remember my first banana. You couldn't get them during the war, unless you was pregnant, which of course I wasn't.'

I glanced surreptitiously at my watch and wished I had never started this conversation. ‘Well, I had better make a move,' I said.

‘To be honest, it came as a bit of a surprise that first banana,' she said, smiling at the memory.

I was now intrigued. ‘In what way?' I asked.

‘Well, I don't know whether I should tell you,' she said, still smiling.

‘Go on,' I coaxed.

‘No, I'll tell you another time,' she said. ‘They'll be here for the meeting in a minute.' Connie picked up the jug of milk, sniffed it again, harrumphed and poured the contents down the sink. ‘I thought this milk had gone off. It'll be dried milk or black coffee for you inspectors this morning.'

I was now desperate to know. ‘I'm not moving until you tell me.'

‘Tell you what?'

‘About the bananas.'

‘Well, Ted and me were on our first date. I've probably told you that my father was very strict with us girls. I had to tell him where I was going and who I was meeting and how I was getting home. I had to be in by a certain time or there'd be fireworks. Once I was only down the road at my friend's house and Dad came and collected me. I was sixteen and felt so embarrassed. I don't know what he thought I would be getting up to. I was very natïve. I mean, I didn't even know what a homosexual was until I met Ted.'

‘What's this got to do with the bananas?' I asked, stifling my laughter.

‘I'm coming to that. My mother was like my father and was forever warning me about boys and what they would like to get up to.' She lowered her voice in case there was anyone in the vicinity eavesdropping, and mouthed. ‘You know, hokey-pokey – that sort of carry on. She'd say, “Boys are only after one thing, Constance. Just remember that your name means faithful and dependable so don't go sitting on a boy's knee but if you do find yourself in that position always have a telephone directory between the pair of you.” I don't for the life of me know where you'd get hold of a telephone directory at a dance.' Connie vigorously wiped down the already pristine stainless steel draining board. ‘She wouldn't let me wear patent leather shoes in case they reflected my knickers. Anyway, Dad wanted to meet Ted to give him the once over and warn him to watch his step. He was very protectionist was my father. He insisted Ted should see me back home after the film, ten thirty at the latest. I mean, you'd laugh about it now when youngsters stay out all hours and get up to all sorts. And it wasn't as if I was a slip of girl or anything, I was getting on for thirty when Ted first took me out. In those days the Tivoli Cinema – we called it the flea pit – in the High Street had these double seats at the back for courting couples where it's all dark and secluded. There were no arm rests separating so some of them were having a right old kiss and canoodle and a whole lot more if truth be told.'

‘And the bananas?' I prompted.

‘I'm about to tell you,' said Connie. ‘We were halfway through
Brief Encounter
and Ted had his arm around me, as they do, and he says, “I've got a surprise for you.” Oooh, I thought, a box of chocolates or a pair of silk stockings or something of that sort. Then Ted thrusts this banana into my hand. Course, it was pitch black so I couldn't see what it was. “Here you are,” he whispers, “get hold of that.” I screamed blue murder, the film stopped, the manager came running down the aisle and we were asked to leave the cinema.'

‘Connie!' I said in a mock-outraged voice. ‘I'm shocked!'

‘Go on with you! You're a married man with a kiddie. Mind you, I'd been married for twenty-five years before I told Dad about it. How he laughed. I remember the tears rolling down his cheeks. And I always remembers that time if anyone mentions bananas.'

Following my chat with Connie, I was certainly feeling a whole lot better than I had been when, ten minutes later, two of my colleagues arrived for the meeting. David Pritchard and Sidney Clamp were arguing as usual as they entered the building.

‘The Welsh are not stand-offish at all, Sidney,' David was saying angrily. I could hear him down the corridor.

‘As soon as you go into a shop in Wales they all stop talking English and break into that spluttery incomprehensible language of yours,' Sidney replied. ‘They do it deliberately. I find it infuriating.'

They arrived at the hatch to the kitchen and I moved out of the kitchen to meet them. ‘Good morning,' I said.

‘Gervase,' said Sidney, not returning my greeting, ‘is it not a fact that the Welsh are less than friendly, in particular when it comes to the English?'

‘Not at all,' I replied. ‘I have always found the Welsh a most agreeable race. Most of the masters when I was at school were Welsh, and they were very friendly and pleasant.'