The Other Side of the Dale (16 page)

‘It went really well,' I said.

‘Thanks,' she replied, shaking my cold hand. ‘It's nice to
see you again.' Then she caught sight of the plate full of coins. ‘I see you've had a collection.'

‘Quite by accident, I assure you. Our old plate came in handy. If you want a really worthy charity to donate this to, I know a very persuasive nun who will take it off your hands.'

‘Sister Brendan?' she laughed. ‘I know her.'

‘Well, I must be off. One blue chipped, cracked patterned plate of doubtful provenance,' I announced and presented it into her hands.

‘Oh it's lovely,' she replied. ‘It's really unusual. Thank you so much for bidding for it. It was sweet of you. I think we got a real bargain here, don't you think?'

‘Yes,' I replied thinking the very opposite and remembering the full price I had paid. All that money for a piece of ugly, cracked pottery that I would have consigned to the dustbin.

‘And you got my cheque?'

‘Yes, yes, thank you and the lovely card.' This was followed by a rather embarrassed silence. I changed the subject. ‘And what are you doing over Christmas?' I said, trying to adopt what I thought to be a casual tone of voice. ‘Are you going away?'

‘Yes,' she replied, ‘we are off to Austria, skiing. Miles is a first-class skier. He was an army champion. Do you ski at all?'

‘No, but I sledge.'

She laughed. ‘And what are you doing for Christmas?'

‘Nothing at all special,' I replied. ‘I'm spending a quiet Christmas with my brother and his family.' I sounded deadly dull and dreary again. ‘Well, I must make tracks. Thank you for asking me to the nativity, Christine. Goodnight and a happy Christmas.'

I walked out into the cold night. Army champion! Well, of course, he would be, I thought. The white moon lit up the landscape, luminous and still. Cars growled along the road through the soft snow, throwing cascades of slush in their wake. Lights twinkled and flickered in windows and there was the smell of pine in the air. It was the magic atmosphere of Christmas.

‘And I hope he breaks his bloody leg!' I said aloud.

Julie bustled into the office balancing a potted plant in one hand and a wire tray full of letters in the other.

‘So what sort of Christmas did you have?' she asked, placing the tray of mail on my desk and the potted plant on the filing cabinet. Before I could reply, she continued, ‘I've brought the spider plant to brighten up your office. This place looks like a crypt with books.'

‘I spent Christmas with my brother's family, nice and quiet. I slept for most of the time in front of the great log fire. It was quite a shock coming back to my cold and damp flat in Fettlesham. It was like a morgue. I really must make an effort to find somewhere when the weather gets a bit better. I will start to look seriously in the spring. A little country cottage would suit me, if you happen to hear of anything. What was your Christmas like?'

‘About as quiet as the D-Day landings. Arguments about the presents which didn't suit, screaming, overfed children who never stopped whingeing, family feuds over the Christmas dinner, quarrels about which television programmes to watch. It was four days of disagreement, dissension, squabble and strife. Whoever said that Christmas was a time of peace and goodwill to all men should have spent it with us. I'm glad to be back, to be honest. There's a message from Dr Gore somewhere in that pile of papers, by the way, asking you to call him urgently.' As she headed for the door Julie
turned and smiled impishly. ‘Probably heard about your secret liaisons with all those women.'

Julie was typical of many ‘a Yorkshire lass' – cheerful, good-humoured and, on occasion, blunt to the point of rudeness. Several people had complained about her outspoken manner, constant chatter and clever comments but she was such a big-hearted, self-effacing young woman and an excellent secretary – efficient, organized and ready to stay late at a moment's notice – that I found it very difficult to criticize her. I did once take her aside and ask for a little more restraint and deference when she dealt with callers. It was prompted by a particularly patronizing and rather pompous headteacher who wrote a letter of complaint about Julie's ‘very familiar manner' and ‘bluntness' down the telephone.

‘Oh her,' said Julie dismissively, when I mentioned the name. ‘Like my old mum says: “All fur coat and no knickers!” ' I saw this particular headteacher some weeks later when I visited her school. She approached me across a crowded playground in heavy sheepskin coat with a wide wool collar. I had to suppress a smile as the grim face came into view.

Dr Gore stared at me across the desk with a smile like Dracula before he sinks his teeth into a victim.

‘I've a little job for you, Gervase,' he said.

I glanced at him despairingly. I had been an inspector in the county a little over four months but knew Dr Gore's ‘little jobs': a county-wide reading survey, an audit of the secondary school libraries, chairing a working group on gifted children, accompanying members of the Education Committee around schools, compiling a discussion paper
on the state of drama teaching, organizing a poetry festival. They were never ‘little jobs'.

‘Now don't look so worried,' he murmured languidly. ‘It
is
a little job – well, relatively little.' When I did not reply but continued to stare at him morosely, he carried on. ‘Under normal circumstances I would have asked a more experienced inspector to take on this sort of thing but David Pritchard is still not a hundred per cent with that leg of his and, as you know, Sidney Clamp is directing the Arts in School Conferences for the next couple of weeks, so it falls to you.' This was beginning to sound less and less like a little job. ‘I've received a letter from the Department of Education and Science asking if it would be convenient for the Minister of State for Education and Science to visit the county. Being newish to the job, he's trying to get a feel for things before he puts together a White Paper. He wants to learn something about the education system at ground level up here in the north.'

I sighed and gave the CEO a mirthless smile. I predicted what was coming next.

‘He'll be with us in five weeks' time and I would like you to manage the visit and arrange an itinerary. Harold Yeats felt, and I must say I agreed immediately, that you would be able to cope admirably with the responsibility for making the visit run smoothly.' He performed his Dracula smile again.

‘Thank you, that's very gratifying,' I replied. ‘Of course, I'll do my best.'

‘Good, good,' said Dr Gore enthusiastically. ‘Now the Minister will only be here for the morning and I want him to leave with a favourable impression. Your task will be to present him with a picture of the life and work in our schools. You know the sort of thing – organize a display of
children's and students' work at the Staff Development Centre, get a few headteachers and teachers together to meet him, produce an explanatory booklet for him to take away. Mrs Savage will help you co-ordinate things. There will be one of the Minister's assistants, probably one of Her Majesty's Inspectors, contacting you shortly to discuss arrangements.' He beamed across his desk. ‘Now do keep me fully informed of the progress of the visit, won't you, Gervase.'

‘Of course.'

‘See – quite painless. I think you will find this little job most enjoyable.'

The task, I had to admit, promised to be a most interesting and challenging one and I set about it with gusto. First of all, I dropped a memo to Mrs Savage asking for her help in producing a programme of events and received a prompt reply in which she said it would be a pleasure. I booked the Staff Development Centre, asked colleagues to call in the best displays of work they had seen recently during inspections, and arranged for a representative group of people to meet the Minister.

‘There's been another woman wanting to speak to you!' shouted Julie from the outer office two days later. ‘With a funny name! Sounded like Miss Deadly Stare.'

‘Did you get a number?' I asked.

‘I got the number but not the name. She sort of growled down the telephone like a grizzly, something like Deadly Stare. Said she wanted to speak to you about some visit you're organizing and left her number. Then she hung up. She'd get on really well with Mrs Savage – peas out of the same pod, by the sound of her.'

I rang the number which was a London one, and asked
for a Miss D. L. Stare. I thought it was a reasonable guess.

‘De la Mare,' corrected the receptionist in high-pitched, artificial tones. ‘Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty's Principal Divisional Inspector of Schools. I'll put you through.'

‘De la Mare,' came a loud and strident voice down the line. I explained who I was. ‘Right, now I am arranging things this end for the visit of the Minister of State and, of course, we all want things to go as smooth as clockwork, don't we?'

‘Oh yes, indeed,' I spluttered, ‘as smooth as clockwork.'

Miss de la Mare then barked various instructions and requirements down the telephone. The Minister, Sir Bryan Holyoake, I was told, was a man of few words and strong views, and was a perfectionist. He did not like a deal of fuss, drank only mineral water, liked to see the detailed itinerary before his visit and was punctilious about keeping to schedule. The information filled me with a silent dread.

I spent a full day at the Staff Development Centre the week before the visit making certain everything was in readiness for the Minister's visit. There were colourful and varied exhibitions in each room, and the walls were covered in displays of children's work.

Connie watched my every move like some manic guard dog. ‘I can't see what all this fuss is about anyway,' she remarked pursuing me from room to room and along the corridors as I checked the details. ‘Anyone would think the Queen herself was visiting the Centre.'

If the Queen were to walk through the door at that very moment, I thought to myself, Connie would be calling her ‘luv' in next to no time. The caretaker had not the slightest conception of rank, status or position and treated everyone in the same blunt manner.

‘And I hope you're going to take all those staples out
when you've finished,' she said, staring intently as I made some small adjustments to the children's poems and paintings. ‘They are the devil's own job to pull out and they clog up the vacuum cleaner.'

‘Of course, Connie,' I replied.

‘It's just that I like things to be left as people find them.'

‘Of course, Connie,' I repeated.

‘I've seen how you inspectors leave this place after your courses. That Mr Clamp, with the coloured suits and fancy ties, left a trail of destruction and debris behind him last week after one of his art courses. I had to have a word. And Mr Pritchard has made marks on the polished floor with those crutches of his.'

‘There will be no destruction and debris, Connie,' I replied. ‘You can be certain of that.'

‘Mmmm,' she murmured sceptically. ‘And I've heard that one before as well.'

I had completed the last of the displays and was admiring the final effect with great satisfaction when Mrs Savage arrived. She was dressed in a cardinal red suit with matching accessories. Over the week prior to the visit she had telephoned and met me a number of times to tie up the loose ends and we had got to know each other well, so much so that we were now on first-name terms.

‘This looks very impressive, Gervase,' she said scanning the walls. ‘I have a feeling that this visit is going to be a great success. Here are the programmes and the itinerary for you to look over.'

‘That's very kind, Brenda. It's saved me a trip into the office. Thank you very much. I think everything's in order and –'

‘Is that your car?' Connie appeared from nowhere. ‘That blue car – is it yours?'

‘Yes, it is,' replied Mrs Savage brusquely and swivelling on her high heels to face the questioner. ‘Why?'

‘You're blocking the main entrance. You'll have to move it. It's a health and safety hazard. If there was a fire it would prevent people from getting out.'

‘I hardly think so,' replied Mrs Savage in a patronizing voice. ‘There appears to be only three or four people in the entire Centre at the moment. I hardly imagine one small car, parked against the wall, would constitute a health and safety hazard.'

‘Yes it would!' snapped Connie.

‘Perhaps you could then explain,' responded Mrs Savage with a slight curl of the lip, ‘how a small car, parked well away from the door, could possibly impede the exit of a handful of people.'

‘Rules are rules!' replied Connie curtly. ‘So would you move it – please?'

‘I have only popped in to deliver some papers,' explained Mrs Savage giving Connie a very condescending look. ‘I shall be going in one moment. Now if you wouldn't mind –'

The formidable Mrs Savage, however, had met her match in Connie, who clearly did mind and she persisted with all the tenacity of a Yorkshire terrier.

‘There's a sign which says: “Do not block this entrance.” It is there so people do not park their cars in front of the main door and cause a health and safety hazard.'

‘Oh for goodness sake!' cried Mrs Savage thrusting the programme and itinerary into my hands and scrabbling for the car keys in her handbag. ‘I shall move the wretched car.' She gave Connie a look of undiluted venom.

‘Well, just so long as you do,' replied Connie, quite undaunted, before strutting off down the corridor, holding her feather duster like a field-marshal's baton.

‘I hope you will have a few well-chosen words with that Connie!' exclaimed Mrs Savage, her face the colour of her suit. ‘Give me a ring if there are any problems with the programme.'

Several minutes after Mrs Savage's hasty departure, Dr Gore arrived. ‘Splendid! Splendid!' he said striding cheerfully through the entrance and rubbing his hands together. ‘It really does look good. I've just called in to see if everything is in order for Monday.' As I assured him that all was in readiness for the Minister's visit, Connie approached and hovered within hearing distance.

‘Ah, Connie,' I said waving her forward, ‘I am sure you know the Chief Education Officer. He's just popped in to see how things are progressing.'

Dr Gore held out a hand. ‘Very pleased to see you again, Connie,' he said. ‘It's quite some time since I visited the Staff Development Centre. It looks as spick and span as usual.'

‘And I'm very pleased to meet you again too, Brian,' replied Connie. No one in the office referred to the Chief Education Officer by his first name. It just was not done. It was always Dr Gore or ‘sir'. As he chatted amiably with Connie there was no trace of irritation on his face; in fact, quite the opposite.

‘Now, Connie,' he was saying, ‘this visit on Monday is an important one and we want the Centre to look really good – bright, sparkling, the best it's ever looked.'