The Other Side of the Dale (13 page)

‘I'll look forward to that,' I replied before placing the receiver down carefully. ‘I really will look forward to that.'

‘There has been a veritable harem wishing to speak to you today, dear boy,' said Sidney when I arrived at the office late one afternoon. ‘Is that not so, David?' David Pritchard looked up from his papers and nodded. His leg, with the most enormous plaster cast upon it, was thrust out before him.

‘I would like to know,' continued Sidney, with mock melancholy, ‘your secret with the opposite sex, Gervase. Women seem to be queueing up to speak to you.'

I was ready with a riposte, for both colleagues had been teasing me good-humouredly over the past few weeks about finding ‘a good woman' and ‘settling down' and giving up my ‘lonely bachelor life', but before I could open my mouth Julie bustled in. She held a batch of telephone message sheets which she proceeded to read out, much to the amusement of my two colleagues.

‘The phone has not stopped ringing all afternoon for you,' she announced. ‘It's been like the switchboard at a dating agency. You've had Mrs “I could turn you to stone with my stare” Savage asking if you were in. She intends to “catch you” later on. You've had Mrs Beighton of Hawksrill School wanting you to get in touch. You've had Mrs Powell (pronounced Pole) about the St Philip's Church fête. You've had Connie from over the way thanking you for the box of chocolates – what are you sucking up there for? You've had Sister Brendan on, asking you to take part
in her Victorian Day. You've had Miss – or Miz Isleworth about the drama seminar. And – you've had Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook saying a cheque is in the post. There,' sighed Julie, ‘all done. You sound like the Casanova of the Education Department.'

‘What it is to be so popular,' sniggered Sidney snatching up his briefcase and breezing out of the office but not before adding, ‘and in such urgent demand by the delightful Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook as well.'

‘I thought you were finishing that report for me to type before you went?' Julie said to his departing back.

Sidney stopped in the doorway, and said with deadly emphasis, ‘Julie, if Mrs Savage is on her way over here I am departing post haste. I'm just not up to seeing her this afternoon.' His words were followed by a clattering of high-heeled shoes on the stairs and jangling of heavy jewellery. Sidney gave a great sigh and pulled a grotesque face. ‘Here she comes.' With that he shot out of the door. ‘Prepare for the entrance of the Queen of Sheba.'

‘If it wasn't for this leg,' sighed David rubbing the plaster cast, ‘I'd have been down those stairs with him.'

Mrs Savage swept into the office with all the appearance of assuming she was the most important person there.

‘Was that Mr Clamp I saw scurrying down the back staircase? I wanted a word with him.' She did not wait for a reply. ‘Ah, Mr Phinn, just the man I want.'

David looked up and arched an eyebrow.

‘Oh … er … Mrs Savage, good afternoon. I can't stay to talk, I'm afraid. I'm attending a governors' meeting at West Challerton High School at five-thirty and am late already. I said I would be there for –' She held up a hand as if stopping traffic. ‘It will only take a moment. Firstly, here is the full statistical breakdown of the reading test scores
which you asked for, and the results of the survey on reading interests.' She plucked a wad of papers from a large red file. ‘They look most impressive, I must say. I hope you will be pleased with the result.' She cast a glance at David who had returned to his report, head down and pen scratching. ‘I just wish some of your colleagues were as prompt and adept at getting the material to me,' she said casually. ‘It would make my life a whole lot easier.'

David was either too involved in his report, assumed the criticism was not addressed to him or merely chose not to hear the barbed comment, for he carried on scribbling away at his desk.

‘You also need these.' Mrs Savage thrust a bright yellow badge and plastic covered card into my hands. ‘The identity card had to go back to printing to be re-set, that's why it's a little late.'

‘Did you spell his name wrong again, then?' asked David with feigned innocence.

Mrs Savage saw fit to ignore the remark and continued unabashed. ‘And here's your badge to be worn at all times when on county business. Your colleagues should all have theirs by now.'

I stared for a moment at my identity card complete with name, title, county crest and photograph, and at the large yellow badge.

‘It's a damn silly idea, if you ask me,' grumbled David looking up suddenly. ‘Having to wear these wretched psychedelic badges. I don't mind the identity cards but great big, bright, plastic lapel badges, like the ones travel couriers wear, go against the grain – particularly when you have an enormous badge like mine. It's virtually the width of my body. And look at the size of the letters. Whoever designed these monstrosities?'

‘I did,' retorted Mrs Savage scowling. ‘And if you wish me to convey to the CEO that you think his introduction of identity badges is “a damned silly idea”, then I shall be only too pleased to oblige, Mr Pritchard.'

‘I have already expressed my views, Mrs Savage, thank you very much. If we have to wear badges, then I think they ought to be smaller, more subdued and certainly less conspicuous than these luminous objects. We will be wielding great red and yellow signs next, like the crossing patrol people, with “Stop, School Inspector”.'

‘It is not a question of “if”, Mr Pritchard,' Mrs Savage replied calmly. ‘You are obliged to wear a badge. It is Dr Gore's directive. Anyway, I don't hear Mr Phinn complaining.' She gave me a broad smile.

‘Well, if I
have
to wear the thing, why can't I have
Inspector
written on the badge instead of
Mr DAVID R. S. PRITCHARD
and why do we have to have the county crest on?'

‘Because –' began Mrs Savage.

‘And why is my first name written in full? I'll have all the children calling me Uncle Dave at this rate. And another thing about these badges –'

‘Look, I'm sorry but I must go,' I interrupted and rushed from the room, thankfully leaving the altercation behind me.

The next morning Harold was waiting for me in the foyer to the Conference Hall in Fettlesham, a large Georgian-style building with a high-domed ceiling, long elegant windows and great white pillars. We had been asked by Dr Gore to attend a symposium on the theme of ‘The Education of Children in a Hospital Environment' and each of us was to chair a discussion group.

‘I've saved us a couple of seats down at the front of the lecture theatre,' said Harold, taking my arm and guiding me through the throng. ‘If we are chairing the discussions we need to hear every word.'

‘I see you are wearing the new official county identity badge,' I remarked, looking at the rectangle of bright yellow plastic pinned to his lapel and bearing the words, in bold capitals:
DR HAROLD J. YEATS.

‘Excellent idea having a badge. We should have had these years ago.'

‘I don't think David would agree,' I replied and regaled him with the lively difference of opinion I had witnessed in the office the day before.

‘Well, I'm all for them. A little bright and garish maybe, but necessary. They will save so much confusion. Do you know, if I had a penny for every time someone says when they meet me: “Well you don't look like a school inspector to me!” I'd be a millionaire by now. I shall just point to the badge, flash my identity card and Bob's your uncle.'

We had just settled in our seats awaiting the arrival on the podium of the distinguished speaker when the elderly woman sitting next to Harold, having glanced at the impressive-looking badge on his lapel, held out her hand in front of his face. Three fingers were joined together like the webbed foot of a duck.

‘What do you make of that then, doctor?' she asked.

‘Pardon?' replied Harold startled.

‘My hand. Have you seen anything like that before?'

‘No, I can't say that I have. It's … er … very unusual.'

‘It's baffled lots of doctors has that hand. There's not one doctor I have asked could tell me how my hand came to be like this. It's not congenital, you know. I wasn't born with my hand like this.'

‘So it was an accident,' remarked Harold.

‘Yes, though it happened years ago. Are you a surgeon or a general practitioner?' asked the woman. Before Harold could explain that he was not, in fact, a doctor of medicine, the woman proceeded to explain how, as a child, she had caught her hand in her mother's old washing mangle. There then followed a detailed and gruesome description of the various operations she had undergone, with Harold nodding sympathetically. When she began to talk about a rather more personal ailment, Harold coughed, clearly embarrassed at the way the conversation was proceeding, and gestured to the podium with some relief.

‘Ah,' he said, ‘I see the speaker is ready to begin.'

During the break for lunch, we were sitting in the foyer when the elderly lady, in quite an agitated state approached, accompanied by a worried-looking attendant and several of the delegates.

‘Here he is!' she exclaimed. ‘This gentleman's a doctor.'

‘Excuse me, doctor,' began the attendant, ‘I'm sorry to disturb you but we have a lady who has fainted and the manager wonders if you might take a look at her?'

‘No, no, I don't know anything about medicine!' Harold cried to the group of concerned onlookers. ‘I'm a doctor of medieval history.'

I saw the woman with the splayed hand scowling as she heard this, and then chattering at her companions. I just caught the words ‘that bogus doctor' as she stalked off.

‘This badge has got to go,' grunted Harold removing the offending rectangle of plastic from his lapel.

Not long after, I noticed the badge had been amended to read:
H. J. YEATS, Inspector.

‘That should avoid any further confusion,' said Harold confidently. He was mistaken, as he recounted to us later that week.

‘You're not wearing your badge, Harold,' chided David one lunch-time. ‘Don't let the wicked witch of the west see you without it or she'll put a spell on you.'

‘The badge has had to go,' sighed Harold. ‘It's been more trouble than it was worth.' Then he gave us a blow-by-blow account of his skirmish the evening before. ‘I'd just finished reporting back to the governors about an inspection at St Hilda's. It was late, I was tired and I wanted to get home. I got to the car and it was all iced up. I looked in the boot. No de-icer, no scraper. I have a very efficient de-mister in the Volvo, so I put it on full blast, cleaned a bit of the front window, enough to see ahead of me, and turned out of the school gates. I'd only gone a couple of hundred yards when I heard a siren and saw flashing lights behind me. I pulled over and wound down a window. There was this young policeman. “Are you able to see out of your rear window, sir?” he asked me. I admitted that I couldn't. “Are you able to see clearly what is behind you through your side mirrors, sir?” I admitted that I couldn't. “Do you realize, sir, that it is an offence to be driving a vehicle when your view is restricted in this way?” I admitted that I was aware of the fact. I tried to explain that I usually clean the windows before driving but had no de-icer or scraper. Then he asked me to get out of the car, and was reaching for his notebook. I'm in for it, I thought as I climbed out. He stared up at me and then his eyes moved to the wretched badge which I had forgotten to take off, the one with
H. J. YEATS
, Inspector on it. “That will be all right, sir,” the bobby said suddenly. He pushed his notebook into his pocket and saluted me. Then he turned to the other policeman in the
car and I heard him mutter “CID.” Then they just drove away. Phew, what a let off.'

I had my own problems with my badge. I had made a morning visit to a school in the centre of Collington and over lunch decided to call into Kepple's department store and look for a large bright rug to brighten up my dreary flat. I had completely forgotten about the badge on my lapel and was browsing between the rows of rolled floor coverings and fabrics when an elderly lady approached and tugged at my arm.

‘Is this Axminster?' she asked. The large sign above, which she had clearly missed, indicated that it was.

‘Yes,' I replied, moving down the row.

‘Is it hard wearing?' The elderly lady was at my side.

‘Well, Axminster has a reputation, I believe, for being a very hard-wearing carpet.'

‘Don't you know?'

‘Well, I can't claim to be an expert on carpets,' I replied.

‘What's the price of this one?'

‘I've no idea,' I replied moving further along the row.

‘You're not very helpful, young man,' said the woman.

‘I'm sorry but, as I said, I'm not an expert on carpets.'

‘Can you tell me about the linoleum and cushion flooring then.'