The Other Side of the Dale (17 page)

‘Don't fret on that account, Brian,' she said with nonchalant good humour. ‘It'll look cleaner than a baby's bottom.'

‘Well,' replied Dr Gore, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards uncontrollably, ‘I'll leave you with Mr Phinn to get on with things and I will see you both on Monday.'

‘There is one thing, Brian,' said Connie catching his arm.

‘Yes, Connie, what's that?' he replied amiably.

‘When you come again on Monday, don't park your car in front of the main door. Blocking the entrance constitutes a health and safety hazard.'

‘I'll remember that,' he replied smiling and not a trace irritated.

‘He's a very nice man,' concluded Connie as she watched the departing figure. ‘What exactly does he do?'

On the Monday morning I waited nervously at the entrance of the Centre for the arrival of the important visitor. A large black car pulled in front of the main entrance at exactly 9.00 a.m.

‘The car's here!' I shouted down the building to those assembled, in a voice taut with apprehension.

Through the main entrance came the Chief Education Officer accompanied by the Right Honourable Sir Bryan Holyoake, MP. The Minister of State was a tall, imposing man with a Roman-nosed face and short, carefully-combed silver hair. He was surrounded by a knot of dark-suited, serious-looking men who intermittently whispered things in his ear in response to which he gave a slight nod. Sir Bryan was barely through the door when Connie sidled into sight. A dreadful thought crossed my mind. Connie was going to tackle him about blocking the entrance and causing a health and safety hazard. I intercepted her just before she reached the assembly of dignitaries.

‘Don't mention the car, Connie, for goodness sake,' I hissed. ‘I will tell the driver myself to park away from the door. Please do not mention the car!'

She nodded but as the CEO passed her, smiling benignly, Connie leaned forward. ‘Brian!' she said in a stage whisper.
Dr Gore turned at the sound of his name. ‘Shall I take the coats?'

The CEO smiled gently and mouthed, ‘No, thank you, Connie. We're not staying long.'

The important party moved down the main corridor of the Centre, resplendent with the displays of children's writing and painting, models and artefacts. The Minister paused to read a poem, stare at a picture, scrutinize a piece of design engineering, but maintained an unsmiling taciturnity.

‘Brian!' Connie came into view a second time. The CEO turned again at the sound of his name. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?' He shook his head. ‘Would your friend like one?' she persisted.

He shook his head again before whispering, ‘No, thank you, Connie.'

The Minister and his entourage entered the main hall where an extensive exhibition of models and constructions was arranged. As he wandered around, pursued by the blue-suited minions, he appeared to show little interest in his surroundings and occasionally glanced at the distant hills framed by the window. His companions continued to whisper in his ear and he nodded slightly in response.

‘Brian!' Connie appeared again. ‘Watch the step if you go outside.'

Dr Gore nodded, smiled weakly and took a long breath before motioning for me to join him. ‘Get-rid-of-Connie!' he whispered slowly and distinctly. ‘Take her somewhere and keep her occupied. She keeps on turning up like a bad penny.'

I guided Connie to the entrance where I tried to keep her occupied, but the nervous movement of her head, the
twitching of her lips and the fidgeting fingers betrayed her agitation.

‘I do hope that old gentleman doesn't trip on the step,' she said in a very anxious voice. ‘He didn't look all that good on his feet. In fact, he didn't look too well at all, if you ask me. I bet he could murder a cup of tea. I think I'll just pop down and –'

‘He doesn't drink tea, Connie, really.'

‘Is he
the
important visitor then? Is he royalty?'

‘His name is Sir Bryan Holyoake, Connie,' I replied, ‘and he's the Minister of State for Education and Science and he is
very
important.'

‘He won't be any relation to Ivy Holyoake who owns the tripe shop down Fitzwilliam Road, I don't suppose?'

‘I shouldn't imagine so,' I said smiling.

Connie and I were still near the entrance when the entourage passed by. The Minister paused for a moment to speak to one of his minions so Dr Gore took the opportunity of whispering in Connie's ear.

‘Connie,' he said, ‘I would just like to say how spotless the Centre looks. It's a real credit to you and I am most grateful.'

Colour suffused Connie's face. ‘Well, thanks very much, Brian,' she replied, clearly very touched by the generous comments. ‘It's very nice to be appreciated, I'm sure.'

Sir Bryan and his party were moving for the exit so the CEO joined the Minister. When they reached the door a stentorian voice carried over everyone's heads. It was Connie.

‘Ta-ra, Brian!' she boomed after the CEO. The silence could have been cut with a knife. Then the Right Honourable Sir Bryan Holyoake, MP, the Minister of State for
Education and Science, turned and gave Connie the most charming of smiles.

‘Oh, goodbye, Connie,' he replied.

I was once told by a grizzled old farmer that the county of Yorkshire is bigger than Israel and covers more acres than words in the Bible. It may be something of an exaggeration, although Yorkshire folk are not prone to embellishing, but the county is certainly large. It is in winter, when the strings of caravans and crowds of ‘off-comed-uns' have disappeared and only a few hardy, red-faced ramblers can be seen striding the fells, that the vastness and beauty of the great Dales fill me with that real sense of wonder. You can travel mile after mile, along a narrow grey ribbon of road, without seeing a soul – just the tumbling acres of green or the rolling empty tracts of rusty brown to either side of the car, or the grim, silent moors stretching ahead of you to the purple hills in the far distance.

It was on one such cold, raw January day, when the sky was an empty, steely grey and the air so icy it almost burnt your cheeks and ears, that I visited Bartondale. The drive from the nearby market town was uphill all the way along a narrow, twisting, slippery road. Barton Moor Parochial School, an austere building of dark grey stone and mean little windows, was surrounded by the bleakest of country. It was set high up above a panorama of dark green hills flecked with snow, deep valleys with long grey farmhouses and a meandering river. Nearby there was a little cluster of houses and an ancient squat church, all surrounded by a fleecy mist. This was the hamlet of Barton Moor.

The inside of the school was as warm and welcoming as the Headteacher, a large woman with the wonderfully-Dickensian name of Miss Sally Precious. She bubbled with enthusiasm when she saw me walk through the entrance.

‘It's so good to meet you, Mr Phinn,' she said, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘I'm so pleased to see that you have arrived safely. The roads are quite treacherous at this time of year. We get so few visitors up here. You see it's
so
isolated and
so
very bleak in winter that it's such an effort. We get the occasional historian in the summertime looking at Barton Moor, of course, but that's about it really.'

I opened my mouth to say, ‘Good morning,' but Miss Precious gushed on excitedly. ‘When I received your letter saying that you would like to spend a morning with us, it was like winning the Lottery. Everyone's
so
excited.'

This was not the reception school inspectors are generally used to. We generally fill teachers with a certain amount of fear and dread.

‘Well, I'm delighted to be here, Miss Precious,' I replied, when at last I got the chance to respond. ‘I thought I would arrive a little early before the children, to have a look around the school and discuss a few things with you.'

She nodded enthusiastically.

I was taken on a tour of the small school which took less than fifteen minutes. Miss Precious chatted on amiably, describing how she organized the curriculum, the methods she used to teach reading, how she developed handwriting skills and the strategies she employed to help the gifted children.

‘I've put all the various policies, guidelines and test results in my room for you to look through later,' she concluded triumphantly. ‘I also want you to see the old school log
books which make very interesting reading and to talk about a particular pupil of rare ability and get some advice on the best sort of education for him.'

There were only two classrooms: one for the infants and one for the juniors. Both were long square rooms with high beamed ceilings, both very bright and showing clear evidence of a range of high-quality work. In the infant classroom I met a small nervous-looking woman busy arranging a spray of flowers and ferns. She smiled weakly and introduced herself as Mrs Durdon, ‘the teacher of the little ones'. Her hand trembled slightly and she blinked rapidly as she introduced herself.

In the junior classroom the small high-set windows had been removed and replaced by a large picture window which gave an uninterrupted and quite magnificent view across the moor and down into the valley.

‘I had this window put in a few years ago,' said Miss Precious proudly. ‘When the school was built, a hundred and fifty or so years ago, I expect the teachers thought the view would be a distraction for the children, but it seemed to me we were missing so much beauty. Here we were in this plain little box surrounded by high walls and tiny windows and outside was one of the finest views in the county. When the frames began to rot and the stonework needed repair, I nagged the governors to put in the larger window. We had the devil's own job to get permission. You see, the school is a listed building. When the school finances allow, and I can convince my governors and the various heritage groups, I want another window on the world for the infants.' She smiled mischievously. ‘I do believe in preserving what is good from the past but not to be a slave to history. We must also look to the future. You might wish to comment in your report on the educational
value for the children of having the benefit of such a view, Mr Phinn.'

From the classroom window, the cold bleak moor stretched before us, strange and desolate. A light grey mist hung low to the hard ground and the few dark skeletal trees, blackthorns and dwarf scrub, twisted skywards as if writhing in agony. No wind stirred, no birds sang. All was still and silent. It was a grim and gloomy picture but, at the same time, quite awesome.

‘It's very beautiful in its own way, isn't it?' commented the Headteacher.

‘It is,' I agreed. ‘It must be fascinating to see how the seasons change from this classroom window.'

‘Yes,' she sighed, ‘we are very fortunate.' The noise of excited chatter outside interrupted our reverie. ‘If you'll excuse me for a moment, Mr Phinn,' said Miss Precious, ‘I can hear the first children arriving. Mrs Durdon and I like to welcome them each morning and say a few words to the parents.'

I was left alone and was still staring from the window when a small serious-faced boy with thick-lensed glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles entered and came across to me.

‘Good morning,' he said. ‘You must be the school inspector.'

‘That's right,' I replied.

‘Miss Precious said you would be coming today. Did you have a pleasant journey?'

‘Yes, thank you.'

‘We don't generally get visitors up here.'

‘You are a bit out of the way, certainly.'

‘I'm Joseph Richard Barclay.' He held out a small hand which I shook.

‘And I'm Mr Phinn.'

‘I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Phinn,' he said. ‘Were you looking at the moor?'

‘Yes. It really is a desolate scene. I don't think I've seen such a bleak and barren view quite like this one.'

‘There was a famous battle there, you know, over four hundred years ago, between the Roundheads and the Cavaliers. A lot of men perished on that moor. They say the ground was red with blood.'

‘Really?'

‘It was called the Battle of Barton Moor but it was really only a skirmish. It wasn't your proper full-scale battle like Marston Moor or Naseby. The Cavaliers were pursued by the Roundheads up the valley but made a stand at Barton Moor. We sometimes get people visiting from the university.'

‘You're quite the expert, aren't you, Joseph?'

The boy nodded seriously. ‘I do like history. If you walk across the moor in the late afternoon, it's full of shadows and shapes and some say the ghosts of the dead soldiers wander about.'

I stared for a moment at my companion. He was a strangely old-fashioned looking boy of about eleven, with a curiously old-fashioned way of speaking. Eleven-year-olds generally do not use words like ‘perished' and ‘skirmish' and ‘pursued'. His hair was of the short-back-and-sides variety, a style that I had sported when I had been his age and he wore long grey trousers, a hand-knitted grey pullover, long grey stockings and sensible shoes. He could have been a schoolboy of the 1950s. Miss Precious's precocious pupil, no doubt.

‘Well,' he said suddenly, ‘I must get on. I have to collect the register. If you'll excuse me.'

The school, which had been silent a few moments ago, was now full of business-like noise and bustle. One real pleasure in my job is to hear the animated conversations, lively exchanges and uninhibited laughter of young children as they arrive at school in the morning. Through the classroom door I heard a hubbub of excited children obviously clustering around their teachers as they hung up their coats and changed into their indoor shoes.

‘Miss, t'watter in t'hen coops froz up last neight. It were as 'ard as Brimham Rocks.'

‘T'calf were born last neight, miss – it's a really big ‘un. Like a babby helephant, it were. I was up ‘til ten with t'vet!'

‘Miss, my mum says it's cold enough to freeze t'flippers off a penguin this mornin'.'

‘Miss, did you see the heronsew on t'bank? Reight big ‘un miss, looking for t'fish in t'stell.'

‘Miss, t'pipes in our outside lavvy are frozzen solid. Mi dad couldn't oppen yat this morning, it were that stiff wi t'cold.'

I learnt later in the day that a ‘heronsew' was a heron, a ‘stell' a large open ditch and a ‘yat' a gate. When the children caught sight of me, I was surrounded and treated to the same lively chatter, full of the richness of a Dales' dialect.

‘Come on, come on, chatterboxes!' said Miss Precious, moving into the midst of the children like a great mother hen gathering up her chicks. ‘You will have plenty of time to talk to Mr Phinn later this morning.' She turned in my direction. ‘Could you start in Mrs Durdon's class with the infants, please, Mr Phinn, and join us after morning break?'

Mrs Durdon, despite her trembling and frequent blinking at the start of the lesson, proved to be a very good teacher and she soon relaxed after I had given her a few reassuring
smiles and friendly nods. The classroom was neat and tidy and the children's work was well-displayed. A large bright alphabet and key words for children to learn decorated a wall and an attractive reading-corner contained a range of colourful picture and reading books and simple dictionaries. The standard of reading was high as was the quality of the written work.

A small rosy-faced child of about seven years old was busy tapping away at the computer in the corner, copying a piece of writing from her book. It was a delightful account and quite poetic in its use of language:

On Saturday we went for a pizza in Pickerton.

My brother Timmy had a pizza the size of his head.

He did not eat much because he sniffed some pepper up his nose.

He kept on sneezing and crying.

Mum was mad but my Dad laughed and laughed.

He said he will not do that in a hurry again.

At play-time Mrs Durdon donned a thick black coat, heavy scarf, white woolly hat and white boots and, explaining that she was on yard duty that morning, waddled off in the direction of the small playground. As I watched her, I recalled the comment I had heard earlier that morning: ‘Miss, my mum says it's cold enough to freeze t'flippers off a penguin.'

A cup of coffee in a fine china cup was awaiting me in the Headteacher's room.

‘Now,' she said taking two heavy, black leather-bound tomes from the shelf, ‘I want you to have a look at the school log books. They are really fascinating and go back well over a century. We get all these visitors from the university to study the battlefield but these log books,
Mr Phinn, contain much more interesting history in my opinion.'

She opened the first tome and passed it across her desk. The first page had the following entry:

September 5th, 1898

Took up my position as Headmaster of Barton Moor Parochial School in the County of York. 24 children on role, all from farming familys. Most of them iliterate.

‘Isn't it just priceless,' chortled Miss Precious. ‘Can you see how he's spelled “illiterate” and “families” and “roll” and it gets better.'

The next entry read:

September 6th, 1898

Morning spent on arithmetic, handwriting and scripture. Afternoon spent on rhetoric. I learned them a poem.

‘And they say standards have declined,' said Miss Precious. ‘Now if you look at the page I've marked with a piece of paper, you will find the classic entry. It's the report of the school inspector.'

December 10th, 1913

The Inspector's Report to the School Board as follows: ‘The affairs of this school are ill-managed by a committee of languid, inept amateurs and the school is staffed by two incompetent teachers. To form the minds of children and direct their efforts into beneficial channels, the teachers must at least know more than their charges. The Headmaster is so absorbed in administrative and financial concerns that he neglects the intellectual and spiritual development of the children.'