The Heart of the Dales (25 page)

‘Oh, the bow,' the boy had said. ‘The reason I bent so low was to check the front of my trousers to see if I'd wet myself.'

After my inspection the previous term, I had written a very positive report but I guessed that the chairman of governors, the fearsome-looking Mr Featherstone, would have something to say on this Tuesday afternoon. I had spent a couple of hours in the classrooms, and was now sitting in the headteacher's study, together with the clergyman in question. His thin white hands were clasped before him and darkeyes stared pointedly at me, nodding slowly and solemnly as I talked through my
report and my findings. He looked dramatically tight-lipped and thoughtful. The headteacher, sitting next to him, awaited his response.

The cleric took a deep and audible breath and rubbed his long nose. ‘So,' he said finally, ‘things seem to be very much in order then, Mr Phinn.' He didn't look all that pleased, I thought.

‘Yes, indeed,' I replied chirpily. ‘In fact, Mrs Kipling and her staff should be commended for all their hard work and dedication. This is a very good school with many outstanding features. The children workhard, achieve good results and their behaviour appears to be good. As you have heard, there are only a few minor issues to be addressed.'

‘Very gratifying, I'm sure,' said the chairman of governors sonorously, again stroking his nose. He thought for a moment before continuing. ‘I have to say that I had little doubt that the school would receive a praiseworthy report but it is good to have one's observations reinforced. I was particularly pleased to hear that the children's religious education was satisfactory.' There was another long pause. ‘I think I mentioned to you at our last meeting, Mr Phinn,' he continued, ‘that I am deeply saddened by the children's lackof biblical knowledge generally.'

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘and I think I said that this is certainly the case in many schools I visit, although I have to say that the pupils here do seem to have a better knowledge than most. Children do not, as a rule, know as much about the Bible as they used to do.'

The vicar took a deep breath and stared heavenwards. ‘Very regrettable,' he sighed. ‘I think this school endeavours to create the Christian ethos while considering other people's beliefs, as indeed it should do. But you know, it is all very well children learning about other religions, cultures and ways of life, but we are living in a Christian country and I think first and foremost they should have a good grounding in Holy Scripture and a sound knowledge of Jesus. It is so important that children know about Him and His works. Archdeacon Richards
was only telling me last week that he was addressing an assembly at a school in Fettlesham last Easter and was telling the children that Jesus had risen from the dead and had returned to see His disciples. He asked the children if they knew what words Jesus had spoken when He walked through the door to face His apostles. One child apparently stood up, threw out his arms like a magician and shouted, “Ta-da!”'

‘Oh dear,' I said, biting my lip to hide a smile.

‘Archdeacon Richards also told me about the time,' continued the cleric, ‘he was telling the children the parable of the Feeding of the Five Thousand. He asked the children what important lesson Jesus had taught to the multitude. He was saddened, as I frequently am, by the one answer he received: “Remember to take your litter home with you.”'

I could have added to the cleric's stories. I was once addressing an assembly at a school in Bartondale and asked the children who the Good Shepherd was. One bright sparkhad waved his hand in the air. ‘I know! I know!' he'd cried. ‘It's Jack Farrell. Mi dad reckons 'e's not lost a sheep in fotty years.' In another school, the student teacher had asked if the children could remember the name of the famous King of Babylon mentioned in the Bible whom they'd been reading about the previous week. She persevered for a time, trying to elicit the answer, until one boy told her wearily, ‘Miss, nae bugger can tell ya.' ‘Very good,' she replied, ‘well tried, but try to remember that the name is pronounced Nebuchadnezzar.'

‘It's all very regrettable,' continued Mr Featherstone now, ‘and so very depressing.' It was obvious he was getting well and truly into his stride. ‘I am afraid we live in a secular and affluent society, Mr Phinn, in a world of what I consider quite unsuitable television programmes, loud music, convenience foods and expensive holidays. I may sound a little old-fashioned, but I do sometimes despair at the way things are going.'

‘Times do change,' I murmured.

‘
Omnia mutantur nos et mutamur in illis
,' he intoned.

‘I'm sorry?' said Mrs Kipling.

‘All things change and we change with them,' I said.

‘I am glad you know a little Latin, Mr Phinn,' said the vicar. ‘That is another of my regrets – the decline in the teaching of the classics in schools.'

‘I recall that we had a conversation about christenings the last time we met, Mr Featherstone,' I reminded the cleric. ‘About all the unusual names that parents give their children.'

‘Indeed,' he said stroking his long nose again. ‘So many children these days are named after pop stars, footballers and television personalities. It's the cult of the celebrity. The old biblical names seem to be fast disappearing – Samuel and Simon, Mary and Michael, Joseph and James are now replaced by Dean and Darren, Carlie and Crystal, Shane and Sharlene. And some parents give little thought to the fact that their children, when they arrive at school, have to cope with some quite bizarre names. I've even had a request to christen a child Kipper! Kipper, I ask you? I really think it very unkind to saddle a child with such an unusual name.'

‘I have come across some very unusual names, too,' I said. ‘I've met children called Walter Wall, Duncan Biscuit, Teresa Green, Brent Willey, Rose Bush, and one child with the surname Pipe who was burdened with a first name of Duane.'

‘Dear me,' sighed the clergyman. ‘Do you recall, Mrs Kipling, when we had the Smout children here?'

‘I do,' replied the headteacher. ‘There was Paris Smout, Vienna Smout, Seville Smout. It is just as well the parents didn't go on a City Break to Brussels.' She chortled gently.

‘Indeed,' sighed Mr Featherstone, without the trace of a smile.

‘I have a pet theory about first names,' said Mrs Kipling. ‘Over the many years I have been in education, I have come to the conclusion that Shakespeare got it wrong when he said that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet”. I learned very early on that boys called Richard tend to be well behaved, quiet children who workhard, Matthews are very polite and thoughtful, Dominics are little charmers, Damiens have far too much to say for themselves and Kevins are accident-prone.
Penelopes tend to be lively and interested, Traceys too big for their boots and Elizabeths little darlings.'

‘And what about me?' I asked. ‘What are little boys like with a name such as mine?'

Mr Featherstone looked in my direction. ‘I don't think I know your Christian name, Mr Phinn,' he said.

‘Gervase,' I told him, smiling.

‘Really?' he murmured. ‘How very droll.'

When the vicar had departed, I went through the school report in greater detail with the headteacher.

‘Your chairman of governors does have a bit of a bee in his bonnet about the lack of religion in people's lives and the decline in the teaching of scripture in schools,' I observed. ‘I guess he can be rather difficult at times.'

‘He's actually a very caring and committed priest,' said Mrs Kipling, springing to the cleric's defence. ‘He spends a deal of time in the school, and he encourages the children to visit the church. He might look a little severe, Mr Phinn, but appearances can be deceptive. Remember the parable of the Good Samaritan? Underneath that rather hard shell, Mr Featherstone is a very kindly man and has been most supportive of me personally. You might be surprised to hear that his church is full on Sundays and people come a fair distance to hear him preach.'

‘Really?' I said with some amazement.

‘We had a wonderful Harvest Festival at St Margaret's church the Sunday before last, and every elderly person in the village received a hamper of food delivered by the children and then a visit from Mr Featherstone. He also raises a great deal of money for the Children's Society. When I started as headteacher here, I took the children over to the church. The little ones, much to the teachers' embarrassment, were rather boisterous and noisy and we were about to take them out when Mr Featherstone stopped us. I was quite taken with what he said. “Please don't worry about a bit of noise,” he told me. “To me, there is nothing like the sound of little children's voices.” Yes,' she concluded, ‘I consider myself very fortunate
to have someone so actively interested in the life and work of the school.'

‘Well, I'm very pleased to hear it, Mrs Kipling,' I said. ‘To be honest, I would never have guessed, from listening to him, that your chairman of governors was so supportive and positive. He seems somewhat dour to me.'

‘He's a most thoughtful and gentle-natured man, is Mr Featherstone,' she said, ‘a man of high principles and uncompromising views. He's also chairman of governors at St Cuthbert's High School, you know, and last summer was asked by the headmaster to act as Solomon in the case of the cricket nets.'

‘That sounds intriguing,' I said.

‘Three girls in the sixth form,' continued Mrs Kipling, ‘were up before the headmaster for vandalism. They had taken a pair of scissors and had cut holes in the new and expensive cricket nets. The headmaster, a passionate cricketer himself, was not well pleased, as you might imagine, discovering his precious nets wilfully damaged. Mr Featherstone was asked to arbitrate, and he took the side of the students.'

‘If you were to ask me, it seems a pretty open and shut case,' I told Mrs Kipling. ‘There seems to be no excuse for hacking holes in brand new cricket nets.'

‘Well, it's not as simple as that,' the headteacher told me, a small smile playing on her lips. ‘You see, the girls who were on their way across the school fields and were passing the cricket square came on a squirrel entangled in the nets.'

‘A squirrel?' I mouthed. When, I thought to myself, will I be free from mention of the pesky little tree rats?

‘It was trying desperately to extricate itself, poor, exhausted creature, but with no success and the more it tried to untangle itself, the more it became enmeshed. So the girls cut away the netting and freed it.'

‘They freed it?' I repeated.

‘Mr Featherstone was very impressed with their actions and reminded us of the hymn “All things bright and beautiful, all
creatures great and small” etc. He considered it to be a very noble act.' Mrs Kipling paused. ‘I mean, Mr Phinn, who would want to see a little squirrel harmed?'

‘Who indeed,' I murmured.

The Staff Development Centre looked particularly clean and bright when I arrived there later that afternoon to prepare for a course I was to direct the following day. Since I had last been in the Centre, everything – the walls, ceiling, window frames, shelving and cupboards – had been painted a startling white, which gave the building the appearance of a hospital. It had a most unfriendly atmosphere. As I headed for the kitchen area to make my presence known to Connie, I passed a veritable gallery of new and very conspicuous signs, written in large red lettering:
STRICTLY NO SMOKING! THIS DOOR MUST NOT BE USED AS AN ENTRANCE OR AN EXIT. DO NOT BLOCK THE FIRE DOORS. RETURN ALL CROCKERY TO THE KITCHEN AFTER USE. NO FOOD TO BE CONSUMED IN THE MEETING ROOMS.

Calling in at the Gents, I found another selection of strident instructions:
NOW WASH YOUR HANDS! DO NOT DEPOSIT FOREIGN BODIES DOWN THE TOILET! TURN OFF TAPS AFTER USE!
And on each of the toilet doors the somewhat ambiguous injunction:
IN CASE OF FIRE EVACUATE IMMEDIATELY!

I found Connie, in her regulation pinkoverall, up her stepladder scraping paint off a window with a vicious-looking kitchen knife. Her face, beneath an ocean of copper-coloured curls, was red with exertion. ‘If you want a cup of anything, you'll have to get it yourself,' she told me bluntly. ‘I'm busy.'

‘So I see,' I said.

‘I spent all day Monday on my hands and knees and I'm still not finished. The mess those decorators have left behind!' she complained, attacking a particularly stubborn bit of paint. ‘More like defecators than decorators. They were worse than Mr Clamp on a bad day, and that's saying something. Only lads by the look of them, and I reckon the last time they had
a paintbrush in their hands they were in the infant school. I had to tell them to do my pelmets again and touch up the skirting boards. There's paint everywhere. More on the floor than on the walls.'

‘Well, the Centre looks a lot better,' I said.

Connie stopped scraping, swivelled round and peered down at me. ‘Does it?' she snapped.

‘Well, it's cleaner and brighter for one thing.'

‘Mr Phinn,' she said looking down from the stepladder and wielding the knife like Lady Macbeth on the battlements of Glamis Castle, ‘what are you incinerating? I'll have you know, this Centre is
always
clean and bright. I makes sure of that. You'll have all on to find so much as a speckof dust, a marked wall or a scuffed floor in the building.'

‘Of course,' I said quickly. ‘I didn't mean it was dirty or anything like that. You always keep the Centre pristine.'

‘Prissy-what?'

‘Spotless, in an excellent state of cleanliness and care.'

‘Well, what did you mean then when you said it looked a lot better?' she asked sharply, in no way mollified.

‘I meant it looks…' I struggled for the right word. ‘It looks… whiter.'