The Heart of the Dales (27 page)

‘I think I had better have a word with your mother, Darlene,' Mrs Smart told her. ‘I can't just change your name like that. Tell your mother that I'll write to her.'

The child continued regardless. ‘But mi mam says you've
got
to change mi name to Darlene Smith from now on cos she's got this new boyfriend called Ron Smith.'

Justin, who had been eavesdropping on the conversation, nodded wisely and remarked, ‘We 'ad 'im – 'e were rubbish!'

Miss Bailey was a handsome young woman with a friendly smile and a lively, cheerful nature. When I observe young teachers, I find I can usually tell within just a few minutes how good he or she really is; it is the way they react to the children. The teacher must, of course, be first and foremost a performer, able to interest and entertain as well as having a sound knowledge of their subject; they must be always in command of the classroom, their stage, and employ the techniques of seasoned actors. I was impressed immediately by Miss Bailey, who had that certain presence. She had a winning smile and a patient and even-tempered manner; it was clear that the six-year-olds in her care liked her enormously. They clustered around her desk, chattering excitedly about what they had been doing over the weekend and several had brought her little presents of flowers and sweets.

‘It's my birthday,' she explained. ‘I think Mrs Smart must have let the cat out the bag.'

‘I suppose the last thing you were expecting on your birthday,' I told her, ‘was a visit from the school inspector.'

‘I could think of a pleasanter present,' she replied good-humouredly.

The classroom was tidy and colourful, and it was obvious Miss Bailey had made a real effort to provide a stimulating environment for the children. If she was nervous about my visit, Miss Bailey certainly didn't show it. I had an idea that the head teacher's assessment of her was spot on.

‘We usually have a story on Monday mornings,' Miss Bailey told me, showing me a large picture book with a collection of colourful animals and birds on the front cover. ‘So if you would like to join us in the reading corner, Mr Phinn, we'll make a start.'

Without being instructed, the children gathered around the teacher on the small square of carpet, with me sitting at the back. Some of the infants yawned widely and rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, two stuck thumbs in their mouths, while another began energetically poking his nose with his index finger. One little shuffer, right at the front, not really on the carpet, looked as if he were polishing the floor with his bottom. I was grateful that I had not been prevailed upon to read a story on this occasion. I had only just got over my experience telling the tale of
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
.

‘We have a visitor this morning, children,' said the teacher, ‘and his name is Mr Phinn.' The children all swivelled round and stared at me. ‘I wonder what letter Mr Phinn's name begins with? What do you think, Daisy?'

The child removed her thumb from her mouth. ‘“F”,' she said.

‘It's a good guess, but it doesn't. The fin on the back of a shark begins with the letter “f” but Mr Phinn's name begins with another letter.' She smiled at the little shuffer who was still restlessly shifting his position. ‘I bet Philip knows.'

‘“D”,' he said.

‘Think of your name, Philip,' said the teacher. ‘What does your name begin with?'

The child's hand shot up in the air. ‘“P” and “h”!' he shouted out.

‘Good boy,' said the teacher. ‘Well, Mr Phinn's name is just like the beginning of your name. I bet Mr Phinn likes stories, don't you, Mr Phinn?'

‘Yes, indeed,' I replied.

‘This morning's story, children,' she began, showing her little audience the cover of the book and pointing to the title, ‘is
The Tale of Chicken Licken
. It's a story that my mother used to read to me when I was a little girl and it's about a rather silly chicken that spreads a foolish rumour.'

‘Miss,' volunteered Philip, ‘we had chicken for dinner this Sunday. I had the parson's nose.'

‘Yuk,' said another. ‘We had sausages and chips.'

‘We went out on Sunday,' volunteered a third, ‘to our Gran's.'

‘I know you've all got lots to tell me,' said the teacher, ‘but if you keep interrupting, I'll never get on with the story. Now, let's all sit up smartly, eyes front and pin back those little ears, and listen.'

As soon as the teacher began reading, in a loud, expressive voice, the children turned their attention to her and listened intently. They were a picture: open-mouthed, wide-eyed, completely still, hanging on every word. She can tell a story rather better than I can, I thought to myself.

‘“Once upon a time there was a little chicken called Chicken Licken. One day an acorn fell from a tree and hit Chicken Licken on the head.”'

‘I bet that hurt,' observed Philip.

‘I'm sure it did,' said the teacher.

‘A conker fell on my head once, miss,' said the child, ‘and it really hurt.'

‘Philip,' said the teacher is a patient voice, ‘I would like you to listen. We can talk about you and your accident with the conker later. “Now, when the acorn fell on Chicken Licken's head, the silly bird thought that the sky was falling down so he ran off to tell the king.”'

‘Miss,' interrupted Philip, ‘Chicken Licken wouldn't be a
he
.'

‘And why's that, Philip?' asked the teacher.

‘Because a chicken would be a
she
. If it was a
he
, it would be a cockerel.'

The teacher smiled and shook her head. ‘Do you know, you're right, Philip. I never thought of that. I shall change it to a
she
.' The teacher continued with the age-old story of the foolish chicken that, on the way to tell the king that the sky was falling down, meets a series of gullible and equally silly fowl that agree to join her on her trek. She is joined by Henny Penny, Cocky Locky, Ducky Lucky, Drakey Lakey, Goosey Loosey, Turkey Lurkey and finally by the wily predator, Foxy Loxy.

Miss Bailey beckoned with a long finger. ‘“I know where the king lives,” growled Foxy Loxy, “follow me and I'll lead you there.”'

‘Miss,' interrupted Philip again, ‘Foxy Loxy wouldn't do that with a finger. Foxes don't have fingers, they have paws.'

The teacher smiled and shook her head again ‘Yes, you're quite right, Philip.' At last she finished the tale where the cunning fox persuades the credulous birds to follow him to his den where they end up as his dinner.

Miss Bailey closed the book, paused and looked up at the children. ‘What a silly chicken she was, children, wasn't she, and what foolish birds to follow her. I wonder,' she pondered, ‘what the wise old king would have said to Chicken Licken when the silly bird told him that the sky was falling down. What do you think he would have said, Philip?'

The little boy had started to shuffe again and I guess the teacher had asked him the question to gain his attention.

‘Pardon, miss?' asked the boy.

‘I said, what do
you
think the wise old king would have said if Chicken Licken had told him that the sky was falling down?' repeated the teacher.

The child thought for a moment and scratched his chin before replying, ‘Bloody hell, a talking chicken!' he said.

At the sound of a spluttering from the back, all the children whirled round and witnessed the school inspector biting his fist in an attempt to stem his laughter.

At morning break, I discussed the lesson with Miss Bailey.

‘I'm glad you saw the funny side,' the young woman said. ‘I always imagined that school inspectors were rather serious-minded people and certainly not given to laughing out loud in class. I was expecting Philip to tell me that the king told the animals not to listen to such a foolish rumour. You just don't know what they will say, do you?'

‘I think you will find, Miss Bailey,' I said, ‘that children are a constant surprise. They frequently say funny things, make amusing mistakes, conscious or otherwise, and very often come out with the most unexpected comments. One of the best pieces of advice given to me when I started as a teacher in Rotherham was from the first head teacher I worked for, a splendid man called Dennis Morgan. “With young people,” he once told me, “always expect the unexpected.” I suppose that is why teaching has got to be the most interesting job in the world – nothing is predictable, every day is different, and you are in the company of children, which tends to keep you young at heart. Expect the unexpected,' I told her, ‘and you'll not go far wrong.'

I had smiled when I saw the children giving Miss Bailey her little birthday gifts. It reminded me of an occasion a couple of years before when I was observing a probationary teacher in the same way as I was now. It was just before Easter and an angelic-looking little girl had presented the teacher with a small bag of sugar-coated chocolate eggs.

‘These are for you, miss,' the child had whispered sweetly, ‘because you are my very favourite teacher.'

The teacher had blushed with embarrassment and obvious pleasure. ‘Oh, what a kind thought,' she had said. ‘A present for the teacher. Thank you so much, Amy.' She had given the child a peck on the cheek. ‘Do you think I might have one now?'

The little girl had nodded and watched as her teacher had popped one of the chocolate eggs in her mouth.

A small boy had then approached the teacher's desk, with a little egg in the palm of his hand. ‘This is for you, miss,' he had told her.

‘My goodness,' the teacher had said, ‘another present. Thank you so much.' She had popped that egg in her mouth – just as the small boy announced proudly, ‘Our budgie laid it this morning.'

That had been a time when the school inspector had had to take charge as the horrified teacher had bolted from the classroom with a hand slapped over her mouth.

It had taken all my powers of persuasion later in the staff room to convince the poor young woman that these things did sometimes happen in the classroom and that she should be prepared for many more in the years ahead. She had brightened up when I had reassured her that I had judged her teaching to be very good and that I would be recommending that she passed her probationary year with flying colours. I was pleased to give Miss Bailey the very same reassurance, telling her I fully endorsed the head teacher's opinion of her; she was an excellent teacher.

Driving back to the office, little Philip's blunt observation about Chicken Licken brought to mind an occasion when something similar had happened to me.

I had been telling a group of infant children at Crompton Primary School the story of
The Three Little Pigs
. I had reached that part of the story where the wolf knocked on the cottage door of the second little pig, the one who had built his house of sticks.

‘All the second little pig wanted to do was sleep and play,' I had told them. ‘He built his stick house quickly and went inside to have a sleep but he was woken up by the deep, growling voice outside.

‘“Who's there?” called the second little pig.

‘“It's the Big Bad Wolf,” said the Big Bad Wolf, “and if you don't let me in, then by the hair on my chinny, chin chin, I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll puff and I'll huff and I'll blow your house in!”

‘“No,” squealed the little pig, “I will not let you in.”

‘“Then by the hair of my chinny, chin, chin, I will blow
your house in.” And so the Big Bad Wolf huffed and he puffed and he puffed and he huffed and he blew the house in and he gobbled up the little pig.'

‘The bastard!' had come a voice from the back.

It took me a good hour and a half to get to Hawthwaite. For several miles along a twisting narrow snake of a road, I was stuck behind a large caravan as it meandered and swayed at a leisurely pace. I became increasingly frustrated as the vehicle teetered along, the driver no doubt taking in the magnificent views across the panorama of rolling green dales and entirely oblivious of the driver behind him. When I finally managed to overtake, the driver and his passenger, both extremely elderly people, gave me a nonchalant wave and smiled happily. I sped past only to be slowed down again when a tractor pulled out of a field in front of me. He might have waited, I growled to myself: the English disease, pulling out in front of cars. I managed to get past eventually, only to come round a bend and find a herd of young bullocks blocking my path. The creatures filled the entire road, pushing and bumping each other, and lowing in complaint as the farmer and his collie dog chivvied them along. When the creatures turned into a field half a mile further on, the herdsman also gave me a casual wave and a cheery smile as I drove past. It was no wonder that I arrived in Hawthwaite in a ferment.

Hawthwaite Infant School was in the centre of one of these picturesque Dales villages so common in the heart of the National Park. It was sandwiched between a row of carefully-maintained grey stone cottages with mullioned windows and blue slate roofs and the imposing Victorian vicarage. The village had everything for those who desired a country life in idyllic surroundings and was therefore extremely popular with commuters wealthy enough to afford the inflated house prices, or weekenders who had the funds for a second home. Hawthwaite had an elegant Norman church, a traditional country inn, a village store, and an immaculately kept village green in the centre of which stood an impressive stone monu
ment built in honour of a past lord of the manor. On a mound a little out of the village were the ruins of a medieval castle.

I was looking forward to sitting in on the class of Mr Pannet, who was in his second year of teaching at Hawthwaite School, because Geraldine's little boy, Jamie, was in his class and my colleague had spoken very highly of this particular young man. When Jamie had started school, the usually unflappable Dr Mullarkey had apparently been in a highly-agitated state. She had described tearfully to Julie how Jamie had clung on to her pathetically when she had tried to leave him, and then he had begun screaming and shouting, tugging and writhing, begging to be taken home. She had worried all day about him but, not wishing to be the over-anxious parent, resisted the temptation to call the school to see how he was. We heard later that when Geraldine had gone to collect Jamie at the end of the school day, she had found a happy smiling little boy who didn't want to go home.