The Other Side of the Dale (19 page)

‘The two other spellings are “chian” as in Appalachian, that's a range of mountains in North America, and “chion” as in the word “stanchion” which is an upright bar used as a support. I cannot find any others. I don't know if you know of any, Mr Phinn?'

‘No, no,' I replied quickly.

She looked back at the children. ‘Now the first task this afternoon is to add the spellings and the rule neatly to your word books, spending a little time learning them, and then I would like you to complete the stories you started yesterday. Do use some imaginative words but remember to use a dictionary if you are unsure of a spelling. I shall be spending a little time now with the infants so I would like you to get on quietly. Mr Phinn, perhaps you would like to have a look at what they are doing.' With that, Miss Pilkington moved to the other part of the classroom to teach the infants.

After school I accompanied Miss Pilkington into her small office. ‘Now, Mr Phinn, you wished to ask me some questions about this survey you are conducting?'

‘That's right,' I replied.

‘And what is the focus of the survey?' she asked.

I sighed before answering, ‘The teaching of spelling.'

It was a lovely sunny afternoon when I visited Willingforth Primary School a couple of weeks later. I had to return some of the children's work I had taken to assess. I was also going to take assembly. I stole a few moments when I pulled into a gateway and got out of the car. Leaning on the gate and looking at the peaceful Dales pastures shimmering in
the late winter sun below me, it seemed that spring was just around the corner. But I could not linger long.

As I approached the heavy door of the school a growl of a voice stopped me in my tracks. ‘Tha'are a glutton fo' punishment, thee.'

I turned to see the old farmer I had met in the village inn on my last visit. He leant on his stick at the side of the road and grimaced.

‘Oh,' I smiled, ‘good afternoon.'

‘Tha' not come inspectin' ageean, has tha?'

‘No, no, not today.'

‘Aye, well I reckon she wunt put up wi' a repeat performance.' He laughed before going his way in the direction of the village.

‘I had a very pleasant visit last time,' I called after him. ‘Very pleasant indeed.'

He turned and winked dramatically. ‘Aye, well, tha' wants to watch thi'sen, young man. Appearances can be perceptive. Her bite is worse than her bark.'

One of the poems I had assessed, ‘by Christa aged 10', was exceptionally good. Miss Pilkington had told me that the little girl had already had a poem accepted for publication in a very prestigious national collection of children's writing. The teacher had been delighted for, as she had explained, Christa was a particularly shy and under-confident child who found the work rather demanding and often frustrating. She had a whole host of medical problems and had experienced very little success in her short life. She found reading difficult, number work arduous, while games were her least favourite class. The poem, therefore, was a real triumph and her teacher had told me how delighted little Christa had been to see her poem in print and her name beneath it.

Inside the school, the children's bright, expectant faces were as sunny as the afternoon outside. I was hardly through the door when I heard some very excited welcomes: ‘It's Mr Phinn, miss!' ‘Miss, Mr Phinn's arrived!' ‘He's here, miss!' ‘Hello, Mr Phinn!'

‘Good afternoon everyone,' I said loudly. ‘My goodness, what a welcome!'

‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn,' said Miss Pilkington. ‘Come along in. We are all expecting you. The children are just finishing their spelling corrections and are reading quietly for a moment. Perhaps you would care to have a walk around and see how they are getting on.'

I moved from one highly-polished desk to another until I arrived at Christa's. She was a small, pale-complexioned child with great round eyes. She lowered her head and I could sense her nervousness.

‘This is lovely work,' I commented gently, leafing through her book. ‘You've written such a lot of stories and poems and your writing is coming on a treat.' Her head remained lowered as if in prayer. ‘And what is your name?'

‘Christa Fennick, sir,' she murmured.

‘Not
the
Christa Fennick?' I asked with great surprise in my voice.

‘Pardon, sir?' She looked up.

‘Christa Fennick, the poet?'

‘No, sir,' she whispered.

‘Oh, I thought you might be
the
Christa Fennick who wrote the wonderful poem on autumn which appeared in this book.' I took the anthology of children's poems from my briefcase.

She looked up and smiled ever so slightly. ‘Well, I did write
that
poem.'

‘It was excellent and I really enjoyed reading it. I wonder if you would do me a great favour, Christa?'

‘Yes, sir?'

‘Would you sign your poem for me, please?' I said. ‘I don't often meet many published poets.'

Miss Pilkington, who had been watching this exchange, said nothing but nodded and smiled as Christa wrote her name in the book in a spidery hand.

It was soon time for assembly and I had agreed to talk about stories and storytelling. All the children gathered around. ‘One of the greatest storytellers that ever lived,' I began, ‘changed people's lives with his wonderful stories. He never wrote them down, they were never put in a book during his lifetime and we have to depend upon his friends who heard him to know what he said. They weren't adventure stories or mysteries, horror stories or funny ones, but everyone who heard them just had to listen. We know that this storyteller was a wonderful speaker, that hundreds of people would come to listen to him and to his fascinating tales, and we know that his stories told us how to treat others and how to live good lives. Does anyone know who I am talking about?'

‘Jesus!' chorused the children.

‘That's right. Now Jesus told stories like The Good Samaritan and –'

‘Parables,' interrupted a large boy with very blond hair. ‘Those sort of stories are called parables.'

‘That's right they are and Jesus told many parables to teach us how to live better lives. In the Old Testament of the Bible there are many exciting stories and I am going to read one to you today.'

I then read the story of David and Goliath, how the young shepherd boy with only a sling and a pebble defeated
the champion of the Philistines. All the children, with the exception of just one, listened in rapt attention, their eyes widening at the part where Goliath, in his bronze armour and with his great spear roared at David: ‘I will give your body to the birds and animals to eat!' Their facial expressions changed with the story and there was an audible sigh at the end when the Israelites cheered their champion who had killed the giant and saved his people.

The exception was a small, pink-faced girl whose big eyes bulged unblinkingly. She sat right under my nose, expressionless – not reacting in any way at all. As I closed the Bible I asked her, ‘Did you like the story?' She nodded. ‘Did Goliath frighten you a little bit at the beginning?' She nodded. ‘And did you feel happy at the end?' She nodded. I found this pretty hard going.

Then I caught sight of Miss Pilkington at the back of the room, smiling widely. Her expression said: ‘Let the inspector get out of this one.'

It was obvious that this little girl did not find it easy to communicate. She probably lived on an isolated farm and had little opportunity to interact with others. Perhaps she had special educational needs.

I tried again. ‘Did you think Goliath would win?' She nodded. ‘Have you read any other Bible stories?' She nodded. ‘Can you think of a word to describe Goliath?' She nodded. I mouthed the words slowly and deliberately. ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – GOLIATH?' She stared up at me without blinking. I tried again. ‘AT – THE – BEGINNING – WHAT – WORD,' I tapped my forehead, ‘WHAT – WORD – COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD?' She continued to stare. My voice rose an octave. ‘WHAT – WORD –
COMES – INTO – YOUR – HEAD – WHEN – YOU – THINK – OF – THE – GIANT – AT – THE – BEGINNING – OF – THE – STORY?'

After a thoughtful pause she said in a clear and confident voice: ‘Well, I should say aggressive.' Then she added, ‘You know my nannan.'

It was Connie's grand-daughter.

‘You were speaking to the brightest and most prolific reader in the room,' Miss Pilkington told me later. ‘She's an absolute delight to teach – but very quiet and thoughtful.'

‘I felt such a fool,' I confided.

‘Don't worry, Mr Phinn,' she replied, ‘you did a lot better than the vicar. When the Reverend Braybrook took the Harvest Festival assembly last autumn, he fared rather worse.'

She told me how the vicar had started his assembly as I had done by asking the children to try and guess what was in his head. He had told them that, as he had walked through the churchyard on his way to the school that morning, he had seen something behind a tree. It had been grey and hairy with a great bushy tail and little darting, black, shiny eyes like beads.

‘And what do you think I'm talking about?' he had asked the children.

Tom, the large boy with the very fair hair had replied, ‘I know it's Jesus, vicar, but it sounds like a squirrel to me!'

Towards the end of the school's afternoon I said goodbye and headed for the Staff Development Centre where I was to direct a course later in the day. It was a glorious drive. The sun was still shining and cloud shadows chased across the fellside. A magpie strutted along a white stone wall and a pigeon flapped across the road just in front of the car. A fox appeared, stepping delicately across the road ahead of
me, his brush down and snout up, unafraid, unconcerned. In the fields the sheep grazed lazily; lambs would start to arrive in a month or so. This surely was the best of seasons. Suddenly a large hen pheasant shot straight out in front of the car and I heard a thud as it hit the bumper. I quickly pulled over and jumped from the vehicle to see its prone body in the middle of the road, eyes closed and legs sticking skywards. All around me was silent and still. Not a person to be seen – not even Lord Marrick. I picked up the bird, popped it in the boot of my car and thought of the wonderful roast game I would be having for my Sunday lunch.

At 4.30 that afternoon when I arrived at the Staff Development Centre to prepare for the course, Connie, as usual, was standing like some great Eastern statue in the entrance, watching the comings and goings with a face like a death mask and the eyes of an eagle. She watched as I parked the car – well away from the entrance – and clambered out with an armful of folders before she opened the door to the Centre for me. When I had deposited the folders I headed back to the car to collect some books and equipment from the boot. Connie was still guarding the entrance, and I stopped to talk to her.

‘I saw your grand-daughter today, Connie,' I said.

‘Did you?' She perked up immediately and her face brightened. ‘Our Lucy?'

‘She's a very sharp little girl, isn't she?' Connie's face suffused with colour and she nodded approvingly. ‘Miss Pilkington has very high hopes for her.'

‘She's a wonderful teacher, that Miss Pilkington,' said Connie with great emphasis. ‘And she keeps that school a picture. It always looks nice but you wait until summer. She has all these window boxes and stone troughs and wooden tubs full of the most wonderful colourful enemas,
and inside it's all matching like in one of these smart fashion mags. You could eat your food off the floor in that school, it's so clean and the toilets, you have never seen toilets like –'

‘You'll be seeing Miss Pilkington later on, Connie, so you can tell her yourself. She's coming to the writing course at the end of the afternoon.'

‘That's nice,' said Connie, heading for the kitchen. ‘I shall go and put some of my special Garibaldi biscuits out to have with the tea.'

Mine wasn't quite such ‘a nice surprise' a few moments later. I returned to my car and opened the boot to take the books and equipment into the Centre – only to find everything a complete jumble. In the very middle of the mess crouched the pheasant I had run over and had assumed was dead. It was, to my amazement, very much alive and kicking. Connie returned to the entrance just in time to see something squawking and pecking and fluttering its wings madly. I had stunned the creature, not killed it; now fully recovered, it was not at all pleased to have been incarcerated in the cramped dark boot of a car for a couple of hours, bumping along mile after mile.

‘Shoo!' I cried, trying to encourage the bird to leave the boot, but every time my hand came within pecking range it lunged at me. ‘Shoo! Shoo!' I exclaimed again. Then, turning, I realized I had attracted a crowd of interested teachers who stood in a half circle with Connie, watching proceedings.

‘Not wild animals now,' wailed Connie. ‘You know I can't stand the stuffed variety that Mr Clamp brings into the Centre, never mind savage beasts!'

‘Is it a visual aid?' asked one teacher mischievously.

‘No, it is not!' I snapped.

‘Are we going to write bird poems,' asked another teacher chuckling, ‘from first-hand experience?'

‘No, we are not!' came my angry reply.

‘Well, I don't want it in the Centre,' said Connie. ‘I'm not cleaning up after that. I have enough trouble with the stuffed heron.'

‘It's not going in the Centre, Connie,' I said getting as flustered as the bird. The bird made another loud, plaintive squawk and beat its wings and thrashed its tail.

‘What sort of bird is it?' asked Connie peering through the dusky evening light.

Before I could answer, Miss Pilkington, who was now amongst the amused onlookers, responded. ‘Oh, I should say aggressive,' she said with a twinkle in her eyes. ‘Wouldn't you, Mr Phinn?'