The Heart of the Dales (8 page)

The headteacher, Mrs Braddock-Smith, a young woman in a very stylish black suit and elaborately frilly white blouse, took me on a tour of the school, proudly telling me about the interesting work the children were undertaking and their apparently considerable achievements. She bubbled with enthusiasm as she tripped along a corridor resplendent with the pupils' paintings, sketches, drawings, poems and stories, all of which were carefully double-mounted and clearly labelled. Shelves held glossy-backed picture books, small tables had vases of bright flowers, corners had little easy chairs and large fat cushions where children could relax and read. Each child we passed said, ‘Hello, miss,' cheerfully, and in all the classrooms I could see busy little people hard at work. What a difference, I thought, from the Junior School!

I explained to Mrs Braddock-Smith that I wished to spend the first part of the afternoon with the top Infants listening to them read, looking through their exercise books and asking them a few questions about their work. Then I would join the youngest children for the remainder of the day, meeting with her after school to report back.

‘Certainly,' trilled the headteacher. ‘I think you will be very impressed with what you see and hear, Mr Phinn. Our standards are extremely high, even if I do say so myself, and this last couple of years have been so very successful that we have attracted a growing number of “G and T” children.'

“G and T” children?' I repeated. Did she mean gin and
tonic? Was this some kind of description of children from middle-class homes?

‘Gifted and talented,' the headteacher explained before babbling on. ‘An increasing number of parents from the professional classes have moved into the executive houses on the new development at Waterfield on the edge of the village, and we have had an influx of very bright and interested children with most supportive and ambitious parents. We're getting quite a reputation. Indeed, there's a long waiting list for places for children who live outside the catchment area. Perhaps I shouldn't blow our own trumpet but we do very well here, very well indeed.'

‘It's a most impressive building,' I said, thinking of the dark brooding grey stone school down the road.

‘We are very lucky,' said the headteacher. ‘The PTA has raised quite a substantial amount of money, while the library has been sponsored and paid for by a parent-governor, and it was his company that built the new housing development. Of course, this being a church school, we get so much help from the vicar. You will be meeting our chairman of governors, Archdeacon Richards, later today. He's calling in to take the assembly.' She didn't pause to take breath or give me the opportunity to get a word in edgeways. ‘I have to say, Mr Phinn,' she warbled, ‘we are so very fortunate here to be blessed with the lovely building, dedicated staff, supportive parents, interested governors and delightful children.' Her enthusiasm was overpowering.

There were twenty bright-eyed six-year-old pupils in the top Infants, in the charge of a plump, red-faced teacher called Mrs Hartley. They listened attentively to her as she finished reading the fairy story of ‘The Princess and the Pea'. She then set them to write about the story she had read them, and to draw pictures to illustrate their work. I sat in the small reading corner and, in the course of the first hour, heard one child after another read to me from his or her own reading book. The headteacher's proud boasts were certainly not unfounded
since all the infants read clearly and accurately and answered my questions politely and with enthusiasm.

When it came to Joshua's turn, he scurried over to sit down next to me, clearly eager to demonstrate his ability. Before I could open my mouth he informed me that he was a ‘free reader' and that he was not on a reading scheme book like the other children in the class.

‘Mrs Hartley lets me choose my own books,' he informed me immediately.

‘Really?'

‘I'm between books at the moment so haven't brought one to read to you.'

‘Don't worry,' I said, ‘we'll pick one from the shelf.'

‘I've just finished a novel.'

‘Have you?'

‘It was by Enid Blyton.'

‘I remember reading Enid Blyton when I was young and I always –'

‘I'm top of the top table, you know,' interrupted the child enthusiastically.

‘My goodness!'

‘I could read before I came to school.'

‘Could you really?'

‘I didn't bother with phonics and reading scheme books.'

‘Really?'

‘And I know all my times tables.'

‘Good gracious!'

‘Do you want me to do the eleven times table? I can if you want.'

‘Not at the moment,' I told him. ‘I would like you to read to me.'

I had become quite accustomed to precocious young children on my travels around the county schools. I was tickled by their serious humour, impressed by their exuding confidence, intrigued by their responses to my questions and amused by their sharp observations on life. But on a few rare occasions,
like this one, I was somewhat lost for words. Clearly here was one of the headteacher's ‘G and T' pupils.

‘Now, let's see,' I said, ‘what we have on the shelf, shall we?'

‘I'd rather not have a fairy tale, if you don't mind. I've read all those and I don't like stories about princes and princesses. I think they're very soppy and you always know how they are going to end. Everyone always lives happily ever after.'

The boy started busily rummaging through the bookcase behind him in search of a book to his liking. ‘May I have this one with the snail on the front?' he asked. ‘I like snails.'

He presented me with a brightly coloured pop-up picture book called
Little Snail's BIG Surprise.

‘This looks interesting,' I said.

‘Snails are called gastropods, you know,' he told me seriously. ‘That's a sort of mollusc with a shell. I learnt that at the Natural History Museum in London. I went there with my father during the summer holidays.'

The boy opened the book and began to read with gusto.

‘“Sandy Snail lived in a beautiful garden filled with delicious plants. One day Daddy Snail said, ‘Go to your Mother. She has a big surprise for you! Go straight there. Look both ways. And don't talk to strangers!'” You're not supposed to start a sentence with “and”, are you, Mr Phinn?' he asked, looking up at me with wide, inquisitive eyes behind the glasses.

‘Some writers do,' I told him.

‘Mrs Hartley told us never to start a sentence with “and”,' he persisted.

‘Would you like to continue, Joshua?' I said, not wishing to engage in a debate about the technicalities of the English language with a six-year-old.

The boy read on: ‘Sandy raced off. Let's follow his tracks.' He stopped again, his finger beneath the sentence he had just read. ‘Mr Phinn, snails can't race. They're very slow creatures.'

‘It's supposed to be funny,' I told him. ‘The writer knows snails move slowly and has used “raced” to make us smile.'

‘Oh,' said Joshua, his small brow furrowing. He was clearly
not amused. He shrugged and continued reading: ‘“Good morning, Mrs Dragonfly. I can't stop now. I'm so excited! Mother has a big surprise for me!” “Lucky you!” whirred the Dragonfly. “Maybe it's a munchy mosquito.”' Joshua paused again. ‘This writer uses a lot of exclamation marks, doesn't he, Mr Phinn?'

‘He does,' I agreed.

‘Mrs Hartley says we shouldn't use too many exclamation marks.'

‘Does she? Well, let's not worry too much about that at the moment, Joshua. Shall we get on with the story?'

And so the saga of Sandy Snail continued with our little slimy friend meeting a whole host of interesting mini-beast characters in the course of his travels, including Mr Caterpillar who chomped his way through the juicy cabbage leaf, and Mrs Bee who had a liking for poppy flowers filled with nectar.

‘I don't think bees like poppies that much,' said Joshua, looking up from the book. ‘They much prefer foxgloves.'

‘I wonder what creature Sandy will meet next?' I asked, anxious to change the subject. I wasn't very informed about bees.

‘It better not be a Frenchman,' he said.

I was intrigued. ‘Why not a Frenchman?' I asked.

He looked at me as if I were simple-minded. ‘Because they
eat
snails,' he said, shaking his head. ‘Didn't you know that? When we went to a
gîte
in France last year, my father ate some snails. They're called
escargots
in French. Disgusting!'

The child read on until he came to the final page where Sandy Snail meets his mother. ‘“Here I am. Where's my BIG surprise? Can I have it now, please? I'm so excited!” “See if you can find it!” said Mother Snail. Two little snails, one with a blue shell and the other with a pinkshell, popped up from behind a leaf. “We're your big surprise, your new brother and sister!”'

Joshua snapped shut the book and shookhis head.

‘You read that very well, Joshua,' I told the boy. ‘You're an excellent reader. And wasn't it a delightful story?'

He scowled. ‘I didn't think much of it.'

‘Why is that?' I asked.

‘Well, for a start, snails don't have blue and pink shells. They are more of a greeny-brown colour. And for another thing, snails and those other creatures can't talk.'

‘No, but then neither can Peter Rabbit, nor Mole and Ratty in
The Wind in the Willows
, or Mickey Mouse or some of Enid Blyton's animals. It's only a story.'

‘And another thing,' said Joshua, not really listening to me, ‘you can't have boy and girl snails.'

‘Why not?' I asked innocently.

‘Because everyone knows that snails are hermaphrodites,' he said.

I smiled but said nothing; I thought of the words of Oscar Wilde who once observed that a child ‘has a disgusting appetite for facts'.

At afternoon break, the teacher told me that Joshua was a mine of information on natural history. ‘Of course, you would expect as much,' she told me, ‘his father being a professor of biology.'

The Chairman of the School Governors, Archdeacon Richards, a cheerful little cleric with a round red face and white bushy eyebrows which curled like question marks below a shiny pate, was in the headteacher's room when I arrived there at afternoon break.

‘I believe you know Mr Phinn, Archdeacon,' said the head-teacher as I entered the room.

‘Yes, indeed,' chortled the Chairman of the School Governors, extending a small plump hand. ‘We met at Manston Hall a few years ago, did we not, Mr Phinn?' He turned to the headteacher to explain. ‘We were on a planning committee chaired by Lord Marrick, set up to organise the event to mark the five hundred years of the establishment of the Feoffees.' The archdeacon spoke with the same lilting, birdlike trill as the headteacher.

‘Freebies?' exclaimed Mrs Braddock-Smith, her eyes lighting
up at the thought, no doubt, of more funding that might come her way. ‘Did you say freebies?'

‘No, no, Barbara,' chuckled the cleric. ‘The Feoffees. I won't bore you with the details but suffice it to say that the Feoffees are of ancient provenance, founded in the reign of Henry VII, the first of the Tudor monarchs, to maintain law and order.'

‘I can't say that I have ever heard of them,' said the head-teacher, making a small dismissive gesture.

‘They were very important in their day,' announced the archdeacon, preparing to do the very thing he proclaimed he would not do – bore us with the details. ‘The Feoffees were typically composed of a group of local gentry, important landowners and civic worthies, men who held high rank or –'

Mrs Braddock-Smith interrupted the archdeacon. ‘Well, I can't say that I have ever heard of them,' she said.

The archdeacon faltered momentarily but then continued. ‘I am a Feoffee myself,' he said proudly and proceeded to give us the full benefit of his knowledge of this arcane institution.

The headteacher was patient for about a minute then she gently interrupted the archdeacon a second time. ‘Perhaps you could tell me all about it another time. In fact, we could discuss it at the next governors' meeting, Archdeacon,' she said. ‘I thinkthe school is a very worthy cause, and if the Feoffees are a charitable group, perhaps they could send a bit of money our way. Some extra funding for the new play area we have planned would be very welcome.'

‘Maybe,' Archdeacon Richards replied and swiftly changed the subject. ‘And what do you make of our school, then, Mr Phinn?'

‘I've only been in the building for a little over an hour,' I told him, ‘but I am impressed with what I have seen so far.'

‘I hope you feel the same after my assembly,' said the clergyman. ‘I must own that I do feel a trifle nervous at the thought of a school inspector sitting at the back of the hall with his little black book.'

‘Oh, I feel certain that Mr Phinn will not find anything
amiss,' the headteacher said quickly. ‘I was telling him about our outstanding results. I don't think he'll find better readers in the whole county and I should hazard to say that the written work is well above that of children in many schools.'

‘It is true we are justifiably proud,' said the archdeacon softly.

‘Mr Phinn visited the Junior School this morning,' observed Mrs Braddock-Smith, giving the chairman of governors a knowing look. I had suspected that it would not be long before the situation at Ugglemattersby Juniors was raised.

‘Really?' said the archdeacon.

‘Yes, I did,' I replied simply.

‘And how is Mr Harrison?' he asked in the most solicitous of voices.

‘He's very well,' I lied. There's no way, I thought to myself, that I was going to discuss the problems of the headteacher of another school with Mrs Braddock-Smith and her chairman of governors, particularly in a village where the jungle telegraph was so obviously finely developed.