The Other Side of the Dale (24 page)

As I drove home later that evening, the week had ceased to be so dreadful after all and the problems and pressure which had risen their ugly heads one after the other, were forgotten as I remembered those pupils I had taught so many years ago. The memories had reminded me why I had come into education and why those who teach the young take on the most satisfying, challenging, and perhaps the most important role in society.

‘Lord Marrick is keen to have a county inspector along with him on this visit, Gervase,' explained Dr Gore over the telephone. ‘He takes his responsibility as Vice-Chairman of the Education Committee very seriously.'

‘It will be a pleasure to accompany him, Dr Gore,' I replied.

‘Good, good. You should be very flattered. He asked particularly for you. You must have made quite an impression.'

I collected Lord Marrick from the Small Committee Room at County Hall as arranged. We left the bustle of the market town, the crowded streets, the grumbling noise of the traffic, and headed for the open country. We were soon in the awesome world of the Dales, and the dusty acrid smells of the town were replaced by the sharp freshness of spring. I drove along the twisting empty road, past grey farmhouses and cottages, trees displaying their bright new leaves, long hedgerows of twisted hawthorn, the May blossom not yet out, and fields dotted with sheep and their new-born lambs.

Lord Marrick took a long contemplative breath. ‘The best place in the world, Mr Phinn. The best place in the world. “Oh to be in England now that spring is here,” ' he slightly misquoted, and then looked at me sideways. ‘I can be quite poetic when I want to be, you know. I'm not the blunt old buffer many people take me to be.'

‘I am sure you're not, Lord Marrick,' I replied.

We had an appointment at Pope Pius X Roman Catholic Primary School in the small market town of Ribsdyke, deep in the heart of the Dales. Lord Marrick, apart from being Vice-Chairman of the Education Committee, had recently been appointed an LEA representative governor. He explained that he had asked particularly for a paired visit with an inspector ‘to compare notes' while he learned something about the life and work of the small school. He had visited the school once before but, despite his short acquaintance with the place, he was fiercely defensive of it and made his views known before we clambered from the car.

‘I think this is a cracking good school, Mr Phinn. But I look forward to having your opinions. Your school inspector's eyes may see it in an entirely different light.'

Pope Pius X Roman Catholic Primary School was a long, sombre, featureless edifice, built just after the last war and resembling an army barracks. The walls were dark pebbledash, the windows small, the roof was flat. It looked such an uninspiring, utilitarian sort of building, so unlike the small, solid, stone-built Victorian village schools of the Dales with their high windows and patterned slated roofs or the high and imposing polished red-brick schools in the larger towns.

Had the architect who had designed this construction ever considered the needs of children? I thought to myself. Did he not realize how an attractive, spacious and bright building can make such a difference in their education? Obviously not. Perhaps the stumbling block had been money. Many a post-war Catholic school had been built on a shoestring, as a result of the efforts of the parish priest and the small Catholic community who saved long and hard for a school of their own.

The Headteacher and her staff had tried valiantly to create a warm and welcoming atmosphere in the entrance hall. There were colourful books displayed and photographs of the smiling children, there were paintings and poems, arrangements of bright flowers and a parents' notice board but the plain dark doors, cold stone steps with tubular metal banisters, pale yellow walls and the faint but distinctive smell of disinfectant and floor polish reminded me of a hospital rather than a school.

Mrs Callaghan, the Headteacher, was a handsome woman with bright eyes and light sandy hair tied back to reveal a finely-structured face. As she watched us approach the school entrance, her expression took on the look of an explorer who has just caught sight of the ocean after weeks in the desert. Her smile was wide and welcoming.

‘It's so nice to see you both,' she said in a friendly voice. ‘We are all expecting you.'

We were taken on a tour of the school. Mrs Callaghan stopped at each classroom to tell us about the ‘dedicated teachers' and the ‘lovely children' within, before ushering us inside and introducing us. The children were busy, interested and clearly enjoyed the various activities. I heard them read, looked in their books, tested them on their number work and asked many questions while Lord Marrick discussed the school budget with the Headteacher. I liked the atmosphere of the school.

When we arrived at the small library I spotted a girl, about nine or ten years of age, tapping away industriously at the computer. Lord Marrick and the Headteacher were busy in discussion about problems with the fabric of the building and examining some hairline cracks on the yellow walls, so I approached the child.

‘Hello,' I said brightly.

The little girl looked up and beamed. Her hair was raven-black and she had the bluest eyes I had ever seen – large, open, honest eyes, with long, dark lashes.

‘How you doin'?' she asked in the lightest of Irish lilts.

‘I'm doing all right,' I replied. ‘And how about you?'

‘I'm doin' fine. I'm composing a poem about horses. Do you want to see it?'

Lord Marrick's ears pricked up like those of one of his hunters when he heard the word ‘horses', and he joined us.

‘Horses, eh?' He peered at the computer screen. ‘That's very good, very good indeed. When you've finished composing your poem, young lady, perhaps you'd write it out neatly and let me have a copy. I'll pop it on the wall in my study.'

‘If you wait one moment, I'll give you a print out,' she replied with a tilt of the head and a disarming smile.

We were moving away when the small girl took Mrs Callaghan's hand and whispered, ‘It's still there, Miss – in the girls' toilets.'

‘Is it, Bernadette?' replied the Headteacher calmly.

‘It is so and it's got bigger.'

‘Well, I shouldn't worry about it too much. It won't hurt you.'

‘But it's got great curved claws and gigantic jagged jaws and it's turned a mouldy green.'

Mrs Callaghan smiled. ‘It can't harm you, Bernadette.'

‘But, Miss, it puts the very fear of God into me every time I looks at it.'

‘Well don't look at it then.'

‘Sure aren't your eyes just drawn to it?'

I could not restrain myself. ‘What is it?' I asked, fascinated by this exchange.

‘Sure isn't it a monster, a great, dark, green, frightening
monster with popping eyes and sharp teeth,' said the girl without seeming to draw breath.

‘A monster!' I exclaimed.

‘In the girls' toilets,' she added.

‘A monster in the toilets?' I repeated.

She patted my arm. ‘Sure it's not a real monster,' she chuckled. ‘It's a great dark stain from water leaking through the roof but it gives me the shivers right enough just to look at it.'

The Headteacher explained that the flat roof always leaked after heavy rain and that the water had left a ugly stain on the walls of the girls' toilets. It had grown in size.

‘Is it a very bad leak?' asked Lord Marrick.

Before Mrs Callaghan could respond, the small girl piped up: ‘A bad leak? Sure it'd baptize you!'

Bernadette was from a travellers' family. She had moved around in the white caravan for most of her young life, attended a range of different schools and this had developed in her a great confidence and an outgoing and lively personality. She was a clever child with an astute grasp of life, a vivid imagination and a great gift for conversation.

‘She must have kissed the Blarney Stone a good few times,' confided Mrs Callaghan. ‘Bernadette could talk the hind legs off a donkey.'

The tour ended with a scrutiny of the dark stain in the girls' toilet.

‘I must admit,' I said, staring at the dark outline, ‘it does look rather like a monster.'

‘It may look like a monster, Mr Phinn,' spluttered Lord Marrick, ‘but it can't be doing the kiddies any good, can it? These flat roofs are the very devil.'

‘They are indeed,' agreed Mrs Callaghan. ‘One section is repaired after one dousing of heavy rain and then the
leaks appear in another part of the roof the next downpour. It's one repair after another.'

‘I must check to see what the Education Department is doing about it,' said Lord Marrick briskly. ‘The governors, from what I have read of the minutes of their meetings, have brought the poor state of the fabric to the attention of the Premises and Maintenance Department on a number of occasions, and still the school has leaks and cracks and I don't know what! Children cannot be expected to work in a damp, unattractive environment. Don't you agree, Mr Phinn?' Before I could reply, he continued. ‘Well, I am determined to get things
done.'
He fixed me with a stern eye. ‘I mean, Mr Phinn, aren't you inspectors supposed to comment on the poor state of buildings and the effects upon the children's education?'

Mrs Callaghan came to my rescue. ‘To be honest, Lord Marrick, I think everything is being done that can. Mr Davies from Premises and Maintenance has been really very helpful. He always seems to be here. We joke about giving him an office here, he's that frequent a visitor.'

‘It's no joking matter, Mrs Callaghan,' said Lord Marrick staring at the ceiling and shaking his head.

‘No, it's not, I agree,' replied the Headteacher. ‘It's just that one problem follows another and if I didn't smile, Lord Marrick, I think I would weep. Last winter it was the faulty boiler, then the dreadful condensation. Then the cracks appeared down the walls in the hall and in the corridors. Then we discovered the exterior wood facings were rotting and found rising damp in Reception. I really can't fault the support and help Mr Davies has given me but the problems just seem endless.'

‘Well this Mr Davies doesn't appear to be all that effective judging from the state of the premises,' growled Lord
Marrick. ‘It seems to me that the whole place wants pulling down and re-building. I'll give Dr Gore a ring to see if we can't do something about it. I mean, this thing wants sorting out once and for all.'

In the Headteacher's room later, during the morning break, we discussed the school curriculum, looked together at the various policies and guidelines, and studied the reading and mathematics test results. Mrs Callaghan's smile was now rather a nervous one as she asked, ‘I hope everything is in order?'

‘Most certainly. I think this is a cracking good school, Mrs Callaghan,' I said, choosing Lord Marrick's earlier phrase. ‘The teachers work hard, the children are well-behaved and achieve good results and you manage the school extremely well.'

The broad smile returned and she sighed in satisfaction.

Lord Marrick nodded in agreement, his eyes twinkling: ‘Couldn't have put it better myself.' Then he added with a louring look at me: ‘And I take it you are going to mention the flat roof, the rising damp, the condensation, the cracks and the leak!'

Following a knock on the door and the Headteacher's call to ‘Come in,' the school secretary entered pushing a trolley on which were china cups and saucers, a large teapot and an array of biscuits. Behind her was Bernadette, clutching a sheet of paper.

‘I have my poem about the horse,' she said. ‘I've printed it out and done a little drawing.' She passed it to Lord Marrick who read it, nodding and smiling.

‘Splendid! Splendid! Thank you very much, my dear, I shall treasure it. Now just you sign your name at the bottom.'

As she did so, Mrs Callaghan poured the tea and passed the cups around.

‘Now this is what I call a cup of tea, Mrs Callaghan,' remarked Lord Marrick staring at the rich, dark-brown liquid. ‘I cannot abide weak tea. You know my grandmother, the old dowager, lived until her one hundred and first birthday she did. She always insisted the tea was good and strong. She would shout out in fury if it wasn't. She used to say it had to be so strong that she could stand a spoon up in it.'

The Headteacher was just on the point of replying when Bernadette, passing the signed poem to Lord Marrick, piped up, ‘My mother's just the same, so she is,' she nodded folding her arms across her chest, ‘but not quite as old. She likes her tea so strong you could trot a mouse across it.'

That evening, at home in my small, dark, dank flat, and with a glass of Irish whiskey in my hand, I thought about Bernadette. Her facility with language was much more than an ability ‘to talk the hind legs off a donkey'. She had a real and natural gift for oral language, a rich, persuasive, entertaining way of speaking so typical of the Irish. Hers was the language of Jonathan Swift and Oliver Goldsmith, W. B. Yeats and George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde and James Joyce.

Some weeks later I met Lord Marrick again when we literally bumped into each other in a corridor at County Hall. He was striding along lustily in my direction as I, trying to balance two large box files full of papers, was not looking where I was going. We collided.