The Other Side of the Dale (12 page)

‘There now, I knew you inspectors were pretty sharp but I never realized ye were endowed with psychic powers. You see, the four teams from St Ignatius Boys' Catholic Grammar are, at this moment, changing, but one of their teachers – actually, it's the Head of Department, Mr McGrath – has had to return to school with a boy with stomach pains. We can cover three of the matches but I am desperate for someone tae referee the under-twelves. I'm in a real fix, Mr Phinn, and I need your help.'

‘Ah St Ignatius,' I said, desperately trying to change the subject, ‘that's the next school on my list for inspecting, I think.'

‘Outstanding sporting reputation. Jesuits, you see – they're fanatical about rugger. They win the County Shield every time but this year we are in with a chance. Anyhow, we are desperate. I know you've taught games and ΡΕ because you told me so. You've coached rugger and, if I may say so, you're doing a grand job with the inspecting.'

‘I was coming to watch, Mr Auchterloonie, not to referee.'

‘I appreciate that, but ye just couldn't let those youngsters down, now could ye? I know you'll be just masterful. Please say “Yes”!'

‘I don't think I can. I have no kit.'

The tusky smile on the teacher's face seemed to stretch from ear to ear and the small, sharp, clever eyes sparkled. ‘Och, no problem at all, I have a spare one.'

‘But not in my size,' I replied with some desperation in my voice.

‘I think ye'll find that we have.'

So, kitted out in Mr Auchterloonie's spare strip, in boots a size too small and a suspect looking whistle, I jogged out to referee the under-twelves. Earlier that week it had been mild and on occasions quite sunny but by Wednesday the weather had turned bitterly cold. By the Thursday afternoon ragged clouds scudded across an iron-grey sky and thin icy rain like umbrella spokes began to fall.

At the sound of the whistle, there was no stopping the two sides. The youngsters, like nests of frantic rabbits, raced around the field after the ball, moving at a frightening speed. Many of them were felled like trees but would not stay down and jumped up to their feet again, racing and dodging, leaping and weaving. Then the sleet began to fall in earnest. Puddles formed on the pitch, my shorts and socks became sodden and sticky and it was difficult to identify which boy played for which side so caked they were in mud. But the players were undeterred. At the sound of the whistle they formed themselves into a steaming, panting heap for the scrum-down and were soon off again swirling and scuffling, with the ball bobbling muddily in a flurry of grunts and shouts.

It was just after half time that I heard the first roar from the sidelines, after I had made what perhaps was a contentious decision.

‘Oi ref! Where's your glasses?' I glanced to the sidelines to see a tall, thin individual, standing in the rain, in a bright orange tracksuit. I returned to the game, which continued to be as fast-moving, furious and frenetic as ever. The field was becoming a swamp, the ball heavy and slippery and I was dripping wet with rain and sweat. After my next decision, for the boys to play-on after a tackle, the voice from the sidelines was heard again booing, protesting, crowing, jeering, exhorting with a real passion. Dazed by the noise and
mesmerized by the speed of play I could feel myself losing a grip on the game.

When a series of incidents happened in rapid succession, the voice from the sidelines boomed across the field. ‘Come on, ref! You do have a whistle, you know! Is your pea stuck?'

After a number of further comments, I had had quite enough of the orange individual and approached him. He was a thin, chisel-faced man with a long stalk of a neck, bright, glittering blue eyes and scant reddish hair combed in a series of wisps across his balding head.

‘Look here,' I said, ‘I really could do without your running commentary. Would you please refrain from shouting and barracking.'

‘Well, you're making some very dodgy decisions and no mistake. We're playing union, you know, not American football and this is an important match.'

‘I'm perfectly aware what we are playing. Now, I would appreciate it if you would keep quiet.'

He gave me a dark and disapproving glance before heading in the direction of the lower pitch where another game was in progress, mumbling under his breath something about ‘the decline in standards of refereeing'.

After what seemed an eternity the match came to a close with the home side winning by one try. I congratulated both sides on their enthusiasm and behaviour during the match and joined Mr Auchterloonie who I could see heading towards me.

‘Grand decision that, ref, grand decision. What a win!' he boomed. Before I could reply he continued, ‘I see you met Gerry.'

‘Gerry?'

‘In the orange.'

‘Oh, the one with the loud voice and all the answers.'

‘He's Head of Ρ Ε and games at St Ignatius. Bit disappointed was Gerry aboot his team losing. First time in years. He was the one you were standing in for.'

I must have looked like a wet rat as I squelched off the pitch towards the changing-rooms, with Mr Auchterloonie whistling merrily by my side.

I caught sight of Dr Trollop and the President of the Yorkshire Rugby Union snug in heavy overcoats and sheltering from the sleet and wind in the entrance to the games and Ρ Ε block. I was freezing cold, aching all over, exhausted and ready for a hot bath.

‘I must congratulate you, Mr Phinn,' said the President as I approached, obviously trying to suppress his laughter, ‘on your very individual, indeed your highly-creative style of refereeing. It was quite an experience to watch. What you clearly lacked in knowledge of the game, you amply compensated for by your irrepressible zeal, enthusiasm and commitment. I've never seen a game quite like that one.' He patted me heartily on the back and turned to Mr Auchterloonie. ‘Well done, Gus, the boys did you proud.'

Dr Trollop glowed with pleasure. Gone were the great gloomy eyes and the solemn face. ‘Yes, indeed,' he added brightly. ‘A rather nice retirement present for you to beat St Ignatius.'

As the Headmaster and the President headed in the direction of the school, an orange apparition materialised out of the gloom of the late afternoon, the thin, chiselled face red and glowering, and the wisps of wet hair hanging limp like rats' tails.

‘Ah, Gerry,' chortled Mr Auchterloonie.

‘I want a word with your ref, if I may, Gus,' the man blustered. ‘I was not best pleased, not best pleased at all,
with the way he refereed the match.' The shrill voice chittered with a rising inflexion of annoyance, and the glittering blue eyes flashed in anger. He turned to me and pointed a bony finger pistol-like at my chest. ‘I just cannot believe some of the decisions that you made, I just cannot believe them. I really think it's about time you hung up your boots. In all my years of –'

‘Let me introduce you, Gerry,' interrupted Mr Auchterloonie in a quiet voice and giving a great tusky grin. ‘Gerry McGrath meet Mr Gervase Phinn, oor school inspector, who kindly stepped in tae the breech and helped oot in your unavoidable absence. He's also filling in for Mr Pritchard, his colleague, and is inspecting all the Ρ Ε and games in the county at the moment. Is that not right, Mr Phinn?' There was a deathly silence. Mr Auchterloonie continued merrily, ‘I should think you'll be seeing quite a lot of Mr Phinn, Gerry, in the coming weeks. I believe he's at your school for an inspection in the not too distant future.' Mr Auchterloonie, trying to suppress his amusement by sucking the corners of his moustache, carried on relentlessly. ‘I should imagine that Mr Phinn will be watching you teach Ρ Ε and, of course, games when he visits St Ignatius.'

Mr McGrath smiled weakly, a smile which was less a mark of pleasure than discomfort, as if he were wincing at the pinching of boots which were too tight for his feet. He held out a limp hand.

I smiled a very friendly smile and shook his hand vigorously. ‘I very much look forward to seeing you in the near future, Mr McGrath,' I said. ‘And I will remember to bring my glasses.'

‘By the way, Gervase,' said Sidney one Friday morning before the monthly Inspectors' Meeting, ‘I saw the delectable Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook yesterday.'

‘Oh, did you?' I replied, trying to sound casual.

‘You didn't waste much time getting in there, did you?'

‘I really don't know what you mean.'

‘When I mentioned our new dynamic inspector, she said she had already met you. I believe hers was one of the first schools you visited.'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘And what was the excuse for visiting the most desirable, unmarried woman in the whole county?'

‘I was invited.'

‘This is getting more and more interesting, nay intriguing.'

‘If you must know, I received a welcoming letter from Miss Bentley and some poems from the children, and thought I'd call in to thank them.'

‘And what did you think of the comely Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook?'

‘She seems very nice.'

‘Very nice? Very nice?' Sidney spluttered. ‘You are supposed to be our county inspector and resident expert on the English language, someone who has a flair in using one of the richest, most descriptive, most beautiful and powerful languages in the entire world and all you can come up with
is “Very nice”. She's absolutely gorgeous, dear boy. Miss Bentley is a veritable vision! A Nordic beauty! If I were not a happily married man, I should be in there like a tom cat with its tail on fire.'

‘For someone who has just berated me, Sidney, about my choice of words and about the wonders of one of the richest, most descriptive, most beautiful and powerful languages in the entire world, your choice of simile leaves a lot to be desired.'

‘Oh but Gervase, don't you think Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook is something to be desired? Don't you think she's just exquisite – like some pale porcelain figurine?'

‘I visited in my professional capacity. That sort of thing just never entered my head,' I lied.

‘Ah! Good grief! You do sound an old stuffed shirt. “That sort of thing just never entered my head,” ' he mimicked. ‘I mean, how old are you, for goodness sake – ninety-five?'

‘Thirty-one.'

‘Thirty-one, attractive, educated, desirable, generous, good-natured and, more importantly, single and unattached –'

‘Please don't go on, Sidney.'

‘You're love's young dream, dear boy!'

‘Hardly.'

‘You want to get in there. Ask the divine Miss Bentley out to the theatre.'

‘It wouldn't be right. I mean, it could compromise a professional relationship. It's not ethical.'

‘Thirty-one and acting as if he's in his dotage.' He mimicked my earnest voice again: ‘ “It could compromise a professional relationship. It's not ethical.” '

‘Would you mind not parroting everything I say, please?' I retorted tartly but before he could reply our discussion
was curtailed when the giant frame of Harold Yeats appeared through the door.

‘Colleagues,' he boomed, ‘shall we begin the meeting?'

The conversation about Christine Bentley did start a train of thought which I could not get out of my head. I mean, Winnery Nook was not a school for which I had any specific responsibility and it would be very unlikely that I would ever be in a position to inspect it formally, so why shouldn't I ask her out. Then again, she might have a boyfriend or be engaged and I would make a fool of myself. But I could, of course, make a few discreet enquiries on that count. Then again, if I did ask her out and she declined, it would go around the county like wild fire. ‘That's the inspector who asked Miss Bentley out!' I just did not know what to do.

The situation was resolved, or so I thought, the following Sunday. I read in the local newspaper that at an auction at Roper's Saleroom in Collington, the next door town, there would be some early editions of children's books for sale. I had quite a collection of children's stories, picture books, and poetry anthologies and I thought I would see if there was anything of interest. At least it would get me out of the dark, damp flat for a couple of hours.

The auction room was a long, elegant building set back from the road. I browsed around, passed great polished oak dressers and ornate satinwood cabinets, carved mahogany bookcases and walnut balloon-backed chairs, grandfather clocks and inlaid rosewood tables, display cases full of
objets d'art,
porcelain figures, china plates and tea-sets, silver cutlery, lamps and glassware. As I headed for a table piled with books, I caught sight of Christine Bentley gently stroking the top of a highly-polished mahogany table. She did indeed look like a vision. I watched her move around the room
with a languid easy grace and felt borne upon a stream of most powerful emotion. She must have sensed that someone was watching for she looked up, saw me staring, waved and then came over.

‘Hello,' she said, giving me a stunning smile. ‘I thought it was you.'

‘Hello,' I managed to reply in a hoarse whisper, looking into the dark blue eyes.

‘So you are interested in antiques, are you?'

‘Well, no, not really. I came to look at some children's books. I collect early editions.'

‘And have you seen anything you fancy?' she asked.

‘I beg your pardon?' I spluttered.

‘Any books which interest you?'

‘Well there's a first edition of
Un Drôle de Chien
but I guess it will be out of my price range.' I realized my voice sounded rather wavery, pure nerves.

She smiled and was just about to reply when a tall, fair, good-looking man approached.

‘Not much here, I'm afraid. Did you see anything, Chris?' he asked, ignoring me.

‘There's a nice Georgian birdcage table, not too big, which would probably fit into the study. Oh Miles, this is Gervase Phinn. He's an inspector.'

The pale young man glanced in my direction observing the jeans and baggy jumper. ‘Plain clothes?' he asked.

‘Not a police inspector, silly,' chuckled Christine. ‘He's a school inspector.'

‘Really? You're that man that puts the fear of God into the poor teachers, are you?' commented her suave companion, brushing back a strand of blond hair like a male model and catching sight of himself in an ornate gilt mirror.

‘Not really,' I replied.

‘It must be dreadfully dull sitting at the back of classrooms ticking little checklists and writing endless reports all day. And those beastly noisy little children everywhere. Still, each to his own. What are you interested in?' he added in a weary tone of voice.

I looked at Christine and thought I detected a slight smile on her lips as she looked back at me.

‘Interested in?' I enquired.

‘At the auction. Are you here for a particular piece of furniture?'

‘No, no,' I replied. ‘I'm looking at some old books?'

‘Really? Old books?'

‘I collect early editions of children's books but I think the ones on sale today are going to be a little too pricey for me. I was just saying, I …' My voice trailed off. I could see he was not the slightest bit interested.

He gave me a patronizing smile. ‘Well, we must make tracks.' He took Christine's arm and began to lead her away. ‘There's nothing I like, Chris, so we might as well go and get something to eat. There's that nice old pub near Hawksrill I thought we'd try. There wasn't anything you wanted, was there?'

‘Yes, there was, as a matter of fact,' she said, releasing herself and flicking through the catalogue. ‘There's a Cope-land china plate, lot 229, a Hammersley bone china plate with cobalt blue borders and gilding, and an early Davenport blue plate.' She looked up and smiled in my direction. ‘I collect blue plates. Miles says I have enough crockery to cover the fields of his farm.'

‘Come on, Chris, we don't want to spend all day here just for a couple of plates. It will take ages to reach that part of the sale. If you're really interested in even more plates and Mr Glynn here is staying on to bid for his old books,
perhaps he could bid for the plates. We could reimburse him later.'

‘I should be delighted,' I replied. ‘As Miles says, I will be waiting around for the old books to come up so I might as well.'

‘Oh could you?' cried Christine. ‘That is kind. But don't go above thirty pounds, will you. There's two plates I'm interested in: the Copeland and the Davenport. The Hammersley will fetch too high a price so leave that one. It's lots 229 and 237 I think, but I'll just check.' She ran a long delicate finger down a page in the catalogue. ‘Yes, that's right. There's also “a blue plate of unknown provenance”, lot 239. You could go to twenty pounds for that.'

‘If you manage to buy the plates, you could pop round with them sometime. There'll be coffee and a biscuit waiting.' Her eyes twinkled as she mentioned the biscuit.

‘Oh, do come on, Chris,' urged Miles, tugging at her arm. With that, they left chattering, no doubt including comments about the strange inspector who collected old books. I must have seemed deadly dull.

The book I was interested in, lot 198, fetched a price way above that which I was prepared to pay. There was nothing else I was interested in and could have left the auction room there and then – goodness knows I had enough to do. But I stayed to bid for the plates, and sat thinking about Christine and feeling a strange dull ache deep in the pit of my stomach. I had never felt like this about anybody before. If I bought the plates that would give me the ideal opportunity of calling in to see her again. Perhaps then I could …

My thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the auctioneer's announcement: ‘Lot 238: a Davenport toy tea-set
painted with Pratt coloured decoration, comprising four cups and saucers, a slop bowl and sugar bowl and cover with an impressed mark on the base. Can we start the bidding at two hundred pounds.'

Oh Lord, I had missed the two plates I had been asked to bid for. My mind had been on quite other things. Then I heard the auctioneer announce the next item: ‘Lot 239, an attractive pale blue patterned plate of unknown provenance.'

Right, I thought, I'll bid for this and not go away empty-handed. A big, purple-faced individual raised a finger as fat as a sausage when the auctioneer started the bidding at twenty pounds. I raised my hand.

‘Twenty-five pounds!' shouted the auctioneer, pointing in my direction.

‘Thirty!' barked the purple-faced individual.

‘Thirty-five!' I called out.

‘Forty!'

‘Forty-five!' I was determined to buy the plate. Before I knew it, the bidding was up to fifty pounds. The fat, purple face was now more of a crimson colour.

‘Fifty-five pounds!' he roared.

‘Sixty!' I shouted with a defiant ring to my voice.

At last, old purple face shook his head and looked down at the catalogue.

‘Any other bids, ladies and gentlemen?' called the auctioneer. ‘Going once, going twice. Any more for this delightful, blue patterned plate? No? Sold to the gentleman in the jumper and jeans.'

As I signed the cheque for the plate, the purple-faced individual sidled up. ‘Nice plate,' he said. ‘Very nice plate. Unusual figures. Nice bit of patterning as well.'

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘I'm sure my friend will like it.'

‘Pity about the crack,' he grunted, before pushing his way through the throng.

That evening I sat looking at the plate wondering what to do. In my opinion, it was a very ugly piece of pottery. The three stiff Chinese figures looked quite out of proportion, the perspective of the bridge was all wrong and the depiction of the trees and vegetation was crude to say the least. The picture looked like one executed by a small child. Worst of all, there was a long hairline crack right across the centre. I could imagine the gloating Miles turning it over in his hands with the comment, ‘Fancy buying a plate with a crack in it!'

I telephoned Miss Bentley the following Monday.

‘Hello, Winnery Nook nursery and infant school.'

‘Miss Bentley?' There was that tell-tale nervousness in my voice again.

‘Speaking.'

‘It's Gervase Phinn here. I'm afraid I missed the two plates you were interested in. They fetched quite a high price.'

‘Oh, not to worry,' she replied.

‘But I did get the other plate. The one of unknown provenance.'

‘Oh excellent,' she said. ‘How much did you pay for it?'

‘As you said, twenty pounds.'

‘I'm delighted. Thank you so much for taking the trouble.'

‘No trouble,' I replied. ‘It was a pleasure.'

‘And did you buy anything?'

‘I'm afraid not. Everything was out of my price range.'

‘I'm sorry. There's no rush to get the plate to me but when you are passing, drop in. The coffee – and biscuit –
are waiting. Now don't forget, when you are passing.'