The Heart of the Dales (37 page)

‘No, no. I really must go,' I said for the umpteenth time.

‘It'll only take a minute,' she said, heading for the child. ‘Come along.'

So I traipsed after her. The child stared up at us with a serious expression on his small face as we approached.

‘Hello, Jasper,' said the nun. ‘This is Mr Phinn who is visiting our school today. He's a school inspector.'

The child observed me with no change to his mournful
expression. He was shivering with cold and had a glistening frozen teardrop on his cheek.

‘Aaaaah,' sighed Mrs Webb.

‘Have you been crying, Jasper?' warbled Sister Brendan, bending down and taking his little hand in hers.

The child shook his head, making his golden curls swing.

‘You have, haven't you?' said the nun with the most sympathetic of smiles. ‘You've been crying, poor mite. Here, let me wipe that little teardrop away.' Sister Brendan gently brushed the child's cheek with a finger.

The child stared her straight in the eyes. ‘It's snot,' he told her.

Crompton was a gloomy place. On the outskirts of the town was evidence of its industrial past; tall blackened chimneys, now redundant, rose from a wasteland of derelict buildings, half-demolished houses, boarded-up warehouses and abandoned factories. There was not a tree or a bush or even a square of grass in sight. What a contrast it was to the rolling hills and picturesque landscape of the Dales.

Crompton Primary School was built in the latter part of the nineteenth century to cater for the needs of the children of the factory workers employed in the newly-constructed mills, factories and steel works. It looked more like a Victorian workhouse than a school, with its shiny red-brick exterior, cold grey slate roof, mean little windows and enveloping black iron fencing. Despite the efforts of the headteacher and staff to brighten up the interior with pictures and plants, the place still felt strangely musty and inhospitable.

Mrs Gardiner, the headteacher, a big-boned woman with bobbed silver hair and thin lips, had the no-nonsense look of someone who is very confident of her own abilities. Despite the dismal environment, some very difficult and demanding parents and a relatively large proportion of children one might euphemistically describe as having ‘challenging behaviour', she ran a well-ordered and successful school and was highly respected in the Education Department at County Hall. Mrs
Gardiner was, by her own admission, not one to beat about the bush. She had a startling bluntness and such formidable self-assurance that even the most hard-bitten and awkward parent would never be so foolhardy as to take her on.

‘I say what I have to say, Mr Phinn,' she once told me. ‘I say it how it is. People might not like it, but they know where they stand with me. What you see is what you get.'

Mrs Gardiner was waiting at the entrance to the school to greet me, and looked theatrically at the small gold pendant watch suspended around her neck on a thin gold chain as I walked towards her. She looked as intimidating as the exterior of her school.

‘Overslept?' she asked bluntly, as I hastened into the building.

‘I'm really sorry, Mrs Gardiner,' I explained. ‘I called in at St Bartholomew's and just couldn't get away.'

She gave a small smile. ‘Sister Brendan.'

‘Sister Brendan,' I repeated.

‘You have to be firm with our dear Sister Brendan, Mr Phinn,' said Mrs Gardiner, ‘particularly when she waxes lyrical. She can talk for a good hour without seeming to draw breath. I believe she went on one of these weekend silent retreats and was back in the convent by coffee time of the first day. Just couldn't keep quiet by all accounts. Anyway, now you are here, you are in time for assembly and you can do me a great service this morning.'

‘Oh?' This sounded slightly ominous.

‘I want you to sit at the front with me, and I want you to glower at the boys I have asked to remain behind after the infants and the girls have gone to their lessons.'

‘Glower?'

‘I want you to scowl and look angry,' she said.

‘Why?'

‘All will be explained at the end of the assembly,' said Mrs Gardiner.

The children marched into the hall, heads up, arms swinging, accompanied by stirring martial music played on an old upright
piano with great gusto by a small man who bobbed up and down on the piano stool in time with the beat. Mrs Gardiner took centre stage, legs slightly apart, her large hands clasped before her, eyes ever watchful. I, the visual aid, was placed behind her on a large wooden chair with arms, trying to look solemn. The children lined up in rows like little soldiers, they sang the hymn lustily and said the prayer with downcast eyes and then, at the signal from the headteacher, they sat cross-legged on the floor, looking at Mrs Gardiner expectantly.

‘Good morning, children,' said the headteacher, loudly and clearly.

‘Good morning, Mrs Gardiner,' chanted the children. ‘Good morning, everyone.'

‘I think I must be going deaf,' said Mrs Gardiner. ‘Shall we try that again and this time with a bit more enthusiasm.'

‘Good morning, Mrs Gardiner,' shouted the children. ‘Good morning, everyone.'

‘That's much better,' announced the headteacher. ‘Now, sit up smartly, children. I would like to introduce our special visitor, someone very important from the Education Office. This is Mr Phinn, a school inspector.'

‘Good morning, Mr Phinn, a school inspector,' chorused the children loudly.

‘Good morning, children,' I said seriously. I felt like a king, enthroned in my heavy wooden chair, set high on the stage.

There followed a small homily from Mrs Gardiner about good manners and consideration for others and then the children, with the exception of the upper junior boys, were dismissed.

Mrs Gardiner turned to face me and, in a hushed voice, said, ‘Now, Mr Phinn, I want you to look really angry and scowling.' She turned to the pupils and placed her hands firmly on her hips. ‘Down to the front, you boys!' ordered the head-teacher. A nervous group of pupils lined up before her. The children could see by her body language that Mrs Gardiner was angry about something. ‘You are a group of dirty, dirty, dirty little boys, do you know that?' Mrs Gardiner enunciated
each word clearly and slowly. A sea of faces stared back at her. Some of the younger pupils shuffled uneasily, others bit their lips and one boy looked like a terrified rabbit caught in a trap. ‘You might well look shame faced and sheepish. You are dirty, disgusting little boys and you know what you have done and why you have been asked to remain behind.'

‘Miss, is it because –' began a boy.

‘Be quiet!' snapped the headteacher. She paused for effect and scanned the faces. ‘Last night, when Mrs Garbutt – who keeps this school so clean and tidy – went into the boys' toilets, she was disgusted.
Disgusted!
She came straight away to find me and when I saw the floor and the walls in the boys' toilets and the mess you had made, I too was disgusted. The floor was awash – and I do not mean with water!' She stabbed the air with a finger. ‘I know full well what you have been up to. You've been seeing who can get highest up the wall.' I suppressed a smirk quickly, and continued to glower. ‘Oh, yes,' continued Mrs Gardiner, ‘I know what you've been doing. You have been having a competition to see who can reach highest up the wall, you dirty little boys.'

At this point, all the boys stared at a small lad with spiky black hair and a very embarrassed expression on his face. He was clearly the winner of the contest. Mrs Gardiner's furious gaze settled on him. The boy rubbed his eyes and began to sniffle.

‘The waterworks won't wash with me, Jimmy Sedgewick, so don't bother with the crocodile tears. It is not Mrs Garbutt's job to clean puddles up after you. And let me tell you this,' Mrs Gardiner shook a finger at the boys, ‘if there is so much as a drop or a drip, a splash or a smidgen on the floor today, you will all get down on your hands and knees and clean it up. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, Mrs Gardiner,' replied the children in subdued voices.

‘Mr Phinn,' continued the headteacher, pointing in my direction, ‘is a very important school inspector sent especially from the Education Office about the toilets, and he was appalled, appalled, when I told him what you have been up to. Just look at his face. See how disgusted he is.'

All eyes focused on me as I sat on my throne. I pulled a particularly gruesome face. There was a laboured pause before the headteacher continued and, when she did, I could not, in all my wildest dreams, have imagined what she would say next. I was, to use the old Yorkshire expression, ‘gobsmacked'.

‘When Mr Phinn goes to the toilet,' said Mrs Gardiner – I looked at her in horror, dreading what was to follow – ‘he doesn't flip it about like a fireman's hose. Do you, Mr Phinn?'

‘N… no,' I replied feebly with an even more woebegone expression on my face.

‘He directs it where it should go. And that is what you boys will do in the future. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, Mrs Gardiner,' replied the boys.

‘Have you anything to add, Mr Phinn?' asked the head-teacher.

‘No, nothing,' I murmured, attempting to take in what I had just heard. ‘Nothing at all.'

Later in her room, Mrs Gardiner sat behind her desk and remarked, ‘I think we made our point, don't you think, Mr Phinn?'

I still had nothing to add.

I was not looking forward to my afternoon in Ugglemattersby. The meeting, held a short time earlier with the parents of the children who attended the two schools, could not have gone better. The gathering, held in the village hall, had been very well attended, and the general feeling was that the amalgamation was an excellent idea. The parents of the Juniors, especially, no doubt liked the idea of the modern, attractive premises. The two teachers from the Junior School, Mrs Battersby and Mrs Sidebottom, had sat at the back like stone statues, hands knotted tightly in their laps; it was clear that they were not in favour of the proposal and had simmered in angry silence.

Councillor Sidebottom, who had got up from his sickbed, determined to make this meeting, had soon discovered that the parents were vociferously in favour of the proposal. With an eye to the next county elections, he had obviously felt it
prudent not to exacerbate his voters and had been remarkably restrained. He had explained that he was in an invidious position and could not speak freely, but had added that he did want to register his opposition. It would have been interesting to have been a fly on the wall in the Sidebottom home after the meeting. The evening had ended with the parents voting in favour of the change. I had even received some applause at the end of my presentation.

After this meeting, I had written to the two headteachers explaining my purpose for wanting to see them, and had enclosed copies of the proposals from the Education Committee. These two meetings were likely to be difficult since I anticipated that both Mr Harrison and Mrs Braddock-Smith would expect to take on the role of the new headteacher. I decided to see them separately to explain the situation and to sound out their views. Now, driving out of gloomy Crompton and into open countryside, I rehearsed what I would say.

The closure of a school, as I knew from personal as well as professional experience, often proved to be a highly contentious affair. Two of my colleagues had already found the process extremely stressful, as Miss de la Mare had predicted it would be. In the schools destined for closure that David and Geraldine had visited, parents, governors, local residents, former pupils and members of staff had objected strongly and that was only the beginning. Pressure groups were being formed, petitions raised, local councillors and even Members of Parliament were becoming involved, columns of newspaper articles were appearing, and there were interminable and acrimonious meetings. If a school closure went ahead, there would be redeployments and redundancies accompanied by another set of disagreeable meetings and interviews.

Sidney, of course, could run through a minefield and emerge unscathed; his discussions, as he was at great pains to tell us, had gone ‘swimmingly'.

To my surprise and relief, Mrs Braddock-Smith had seemed veritably elated when, a few weeks before at the governors' meeting, I had explained that the proposal was to close the
Junior School and relocate the children on her premises. Now I was meeting with her to discuss the amalgamation in more detail.

‘Well, I think,' she said with obvious self-satisfaction, ‘it's the only course of action. There's plenty of room on this site and, let's face it, the Junior School is in decline.' She sounded somewhat smug. ‘As you are aware, Mr Phinn, many of the children in the village, after an excellent start here in the Infants, are being sent by their parents to other primary schools and even to preparatory schools. It is a sad fact but true that the Junior School does not provide the sort of education these upwardly mobile, professional parents are looking for. Now, I don't want to appear unprincipled, but Mr Harrison has not been an unmitigated success at the Juniors, has he? Sadly, for whatever reason, he has had his share of problems, and parents in the community just don't have any confidence in the school. After all, at the recent meeting, the parents of the Juniors were in complete support for the merger, as were my parents. In my considered opinion, it's a very appropriate move on the part of the county to close the Juniors and for the children to be educated at my school. I feel fully confident I can take on the headship of the amalgamated school and –'

‘It's not quite as simple as that, Mrs Braddock-Smith,' I told her, irritated by her smugness.

‘Oh?'

‘The schools will amalgamate, as you rightly say. It is proposed that the current Junior School will close and two temporary classrooms will be erected on this site to house the Junior children, until an extension is built.'