The Other Side of the Dale (7 page)

‘Pardon, sir,' replied the boy entirely confused by the teacher's response.

Mr Palmer sighed. ‘Yes, come in, Thomas Ashbourne. You
may
come in.' Turning to me he disclosed, ‘Of course, I blame the television and the Americans for the decline in English grammar. I do not possess one myself – a television that is.'

The pupils, who had waited quietly and patiently outside
the door, entered in an orderly manner, sat down, took out their pens and books and prepared for the first lesson of the day. They looked bright eyed and eager and I wondered if any would get a word in during the course of the lesson.

‘Today,' began Mr Palmer, ‘we have a visitor. Mr Phinn, a school inspector no less, will be remaining with us for the duration of this lesson. I hope he will leave suitably impressed.'

‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,' the class chorused.

‘What is the name of a person who steals from another?' asked Mr Palmer suddenly. A hush came over the class. Had someone stolen something? What had gone missing? The pupils looked very apprehensive. The teacher repeated the question. ‘Now come along, what is the name of a person who steals from another?'

‘Thief, sir,' came a tentative reply.

‘Yes, there is “thief”, but are there any others?'

‘Burglar, sir.'

‘Mugger, sir.'

‘No, no, I wasn't thinking of those.'

‘Robber, sir.'

‘Shoplifter, sir.'

‘Well, yes,' said the teacher, ‘but it is not the one I have in mind. They are all words for someone who steals, but none of you has come up with the one I want,' said the teacher. ‘Any others?' At this point I really could not see in which direction this lesson on poetry was going. The interrogation continued during which the class exhausted every possible variation of the word ‘thief', but still the pupils had not guessed the word which was clearly implanted in the teacher's head, the word he wanted to hear.

‘A person who stole from others in bygone days,' the teacher persisted. ‘Now, does that give you a clue?'

There was a forest of hands and an eagerness to answer. ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!'

‘Yes, Thomas?' the teacher asked.

‘Pirate, sir.'

‘I wasn't thinking of a pirate, but you are getting warmer.'

‘Buccaneer, sir,' came a triumphant voice.

‘Not a buccaneer. Any more?' The class was silent.

‘Well, I was thinking,' said the teacher, ‘of a highwayman. And the poem we are going to look at today is called
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes.'

‘Mr Palmer,' I quizzed, after the lesson, ‘what was the point of going laboriously through all the words for “thief” at the beginning of the lesson? What was the rationale for it? Why did you not merely explain the class was to study the poem
The Highwayman,
read it, talk a little about it and get on with the discussion?'

‘Ah, my dear Mr Phinn,' replied the teacher stroking the thinning sandy hair and blinking rapidly, ‘I believe in getting the pupils' ideas and points of view rather than merely expounding my own. One should always value the opinions and ideas of others. Children are not empty vessels to be filled up with a few arid facts, you know. They are delicate plants that need careful and sensitive nurturing.'

I was stumped for an answer and instead watched as he carefully took a small, polished brass box from his waistcoat pocket, tapped it gently and clicked open the lid before asking, ‘Do you take snuff?'

The next English lesson I observed was quite a contrast. The young woman teacher chaired an immensely lively and good-humoured debate on the set examination text of
Macbeth,
with a large group of fifteen-year-olds. She challenged their views, encouraged them to defend their ideas, asked for examples and illustrations and reminded
them of the various stage productions they had been to see. She involved the whole of the group in an animated discussion on the play. It was an immensely impressive lesson. These pupils were certainly not empty vessels filled with a few arid facts but had been stimulated to express their own opinions and have some independence of thought.

At the conclusion of the inspection day at West Challerton High School, I read the first draft of my report to the Headmaster, a large, bluff, outspoken Yorkshireman who nodded thoughtfully throughout.

‘Aye well, Mr Phinn, you've told me a lot that I already know, particularly about Mr Palmer who I agree is past his sell-by date, but you've added a few ideas of your own that I would take issue with.' He then challenged a number of my conclusions. We argued and debated for a while but I stood my ground steadfastly and said I felt the conclusions were fair and based on firm and extensive evidence. I added that the report in general was a very favourable one and the Headmaster should not dwell on the relatively few criticisms. I added that he appeared to be taking them personally.

‘Well, what can I do, Mr Phinn, but take them personally? I am, after all, in charge of the school and when the school is attacked it's the Headteacher who bleeds.'

We parted on amicable terms and he escorted me to the entrance. ‘Is it Welsh?' he asked.

‘Pardon?'

‘Your name? Is it a Welsh name?'

‘I've had this conversation before with your Head of English,' I replied. ‘No, it's French actually. French-Norman. St Gervase was a Roman martyr put to death under the Emperor Nero. It was a popular name in medieval times. I believe William the Conqueror had several knights
of that name with him when he invaded. The name literally means “spear carrier”.'

The Headmaster gave a wry smile. ‘ “Spear carrier” eh? Well, that's very appropriate for a school inspector.'

‘Yes, I suppose it is,' I replied. ‘I always seem to be on the sharp end of things in this line of work.'

‘I wasn't meaning that,' said the Headmaster. ‘I have always been of the opinion that school inspectors are like cross-eyed javelin throwers. They hurl a lot of spears in the direction of schools, missing the point most of the time, but occasionally, and by sheer accident, they happen to hit the right target. Good afternoon to you, Mr Phinn.'

‘I must say when I heard the name Gervase Phinn, I had visions of a huge, red-headed, hot-tempered Irishman,' murmured the tall, bearded, larger-than-life character who sat next to me. ‘Gervase Phinn,' he repeated. ‘It is such a wonderfully esoteric and imaginative name. It has a sort of ring to it.
The Collected Poems of Gervase Phinn.
Mmmmm. Now take my name – Sidney Clamp. Not much of a ring to that, is there?
A Retrospective Exhibition of the Contemporary Watercolour Paintings of Sidney Clamp.
Doesn't quite sound the same, does it? It's not the sort of name to appear in the annals of Art History: Leonardo da Vinci, Pablo Picasso, Claude Monet, Vincent van Gogh, Salvador Dali and – Sidney Clamp!'

‘You could always change your name,' I suggested.

‘Too late, too late,' he lamented, and gave me a mournful look. ‘Too late for many things now.' It was early evening and I was sitting next to the renowned inspector of creative and visual arts, waiting for the first inspectors' meeting of the new term to start.

‘Of course, it could be worse,' he said suddenly. ‘I once knew a teacher called Death and he looked like death as well: thin and grey and bent like the Grim Reaper. He used to add an apostrophe and pronounce it De'Ath. It made not the slightest difference, of course. All the children referred to him as Mr Death. Then there was a Mrs Onions. She taught drama at West Challerton High School – did
the same and insisted on being referred to as Mrs O'nions. You can imagine the hilarity amongst the students when the new member of staff arrived, a Ms Garlick. My suggestion that they should present a dramatization of
The Lady of Shallot
for the next school production was not well received.' He laughed loudly. ‘You know, I've never agreed with old Shakespeare: “What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” I go along with Oscar Wilde: “Names are everything!” I think you can tell a great deal by a person's name. Have you met Mrs Savage yet by the way?'

I had met Sidney very, very briefly in my first week. He had rushed into the office, puffing and panting, snatched his pile of letters, thrust some documents into Julie's hands for typing, hurriedly shook my hand and disappeared.

‘Whoever was that?' I had gasped.

‘That,' Julie had replied, sighing dramatically, ‘is Mr Clamp. He appears like the genie from the lamp and then disappears into thin air.'

A week later, Sidney had bolted past me on the long corridor at County Hall one lunchtime, stopped suddenly, retraced his steps, stared at me for a moment and announced, ‘Hello, Gervase, I thought it was you. Come along with me if you have a moment, I've something to show you.'

I had been whisked along, with Sidney grasping my arm tightly, striding forward and chattering excitedly. We had arrived at a large room full of paintings, pastel sketches, charcoal drawings, watercolours, sculptures and carvings. Sidney had pulled himself up to his full height with conspicuous pride.

‘It's the art exhibition of children's and students' work,' he announced with obvious pleasure and satisfaction, waving
an arm at all that was before him. ‘At the end of each summer term, I collect a selection of artwork from the schools and colleges and then during the holidays mount it, arrange it and display it for the general public to see, to show the high quality of work that well-taught young people achieve in the visual arts. Here is the result. Magnificent, isn't it?'

The exhibition had indeed looked magnificent. It had been a mass of brilliant colours and shapes and such a range of work from the bold bright faces painted by the infants to the detailed oil paintings and twisted metal sculptures of the sixth formers. When I had turned to compliment Sidney on the display I found he had gone. I had caught sight of him moving amongst the people meandering between the exhibits, expounding, interpreting, discussing and explaining how the different effects had been created. His eyes had been bright with enthusiasm and ardour, his arms waving in the air like daffodils in the wind. So that had been my first couple of meetings with the renowned Sidney Clamp.

After that first inspectors' meeting, Sidney and I walked to our cars together.

‘Harold tells me you are in digs,' Sidney remarked.

‘I was for the first couple of weeks but I've found a flat now – above “The Rumbling Tum” café in the high street. I've paid the rent for a couple of months, then I hope to buy a place. I don't want to rush into anything yet. To be honest, I don't know where to start looking. I'm spoilt for choice.'

‘Well, certainly not Fettlesham. You definitely do not want to live in Fettlesham. You'll meet the entire working population of County Hall every Saturday. There's some lovely property – little cottages and converted barns – in
some of the surrounding villages. What sort of house have you in mind? Old? New? Large? Small? Cheap? Expensive? In the town? In the country?'

‘I just don't know, to be frank. I've been so busy since I started that my feet don't seem to have touched the ground and I just haven't had time to think, never mind look for a house.'

‘When you start looking seriously, I shall take it upon myself to give you my undivided help and assistance. I am something of an expert on properties.'

‘I shall know where to come,' I replied, smiling. ‘Thank you.'

‘And Julie tells me that you are unattached.'

‘Unattached?'

‘No wife, family, fiancée, partner, girlfriend or children.'

‘Yes, unattached at the moment. I've been so busy I haven't had time to think about that either.'

‘Now that
is
serious. Never neglect your love life, Gervase. You cannot beat the love of a good woman. Wherever would I be without my Lila – my long-suffering wife of twenty-eight years. When you start looking seriously in the direction of the opposite sex, I shall take it upon myself to give you my undivided help and assistance and introduce you to some eligible young women of my acquaintance. I am something of an expert on women. In fact, come to think of it, I am something of an expert in most things. You aren't looking for a car by any chance, are you?'

One bright Monday morning a couple of weeks later, the door of the office was flung open and there stood Sidney, beard bristling, eyes flashing, chest heaving and his face suffused with colour. ‘That woman,' he boomed, ‘has got to go!' The name of Mrs Savage immediately came into
my mind but before I could inquire into the reason for this outburst, he enlightened me.

‘The caretaker from Hell! That's what she is!'

‘Who?' I asked.

‘Connie, the caretaker, site manager or whatever she calls herself. Have you not met her yet?'

‘Ah, Connie!' I replied. ‘Yes, I have met her.'

Connie was the caretaker of the Staff Development Centre where all the courses and conferences for teachers were held. She was a woman of a certain reputation. In the fourth week of my new job, I had directed my first course at the Centre. I had walked cheerfully into the main hall early one Thursday morning carrying a large armful of books and folders only to drop the lot a moment later. A voice of stentorian proportions had echoed down the corridor seconds later. That was my first experience of Connie.

‘I say,' she had boomed, ‘I've just mopped that floor!'

She had watched my every move that day. I would look up from my lecture notes to see her face grimacing at the door; during the coffee at break I found her hovering behind me. I almost expected to see her, arms folded, face scowling, duster in hand, waiting for me in the men's toilets. Her presence was everywhere in the building. Far from thinking that she was controlled, managed or directed by us, it was Connie who felt she had the various inspectors under her command when they were on her territory. She was a great democrat in that she had no conception of status, rank or position in the world and treated everyone exactly the same, usually like naughty children.

About to leave the Centre on that Thursday, I had heard her talking on the telephone to a friend, explaining that she had a young, new inspector to break in, and that she had to get him used to her systems.

‘Well, you know what they are like, these clever, artistic folk,' she had said. ‘They're full of fancy ideas and, whilst they might be good at creating things, they are hopeless at clearing up after themselves.' On hearing this I had scurried back to the room in which I had been working, made certain that everything was tidy, positioned the chair neatly behind the desk, checked that all the cups had been returned to the kitchen and the equipment had been safely put away.

Sidney, extrovert, unpredictable, creative, was the sort of man guaranteed to ruffle Connie's feathers and he had experienced the sharp end of her tongue on many an occasion. On this particular Monday morning he was in a furious bad temper.

‘Last Friday,' Sidney snarled, throwing himself into his chair, ‘I directed a highly successful course for infant teachers at the Staff Development Centre on the theme of “Creative Modelling in the Infant Classroom”. I set the course members a practical task, to build a mythical creature, which I have to say they did with immense enthusiasm and inventiveness – and you will never guess what's happened? What do you think that dictator in the pink overall did? That virago with the feather duster! That tyrant with the teapot! The caretaker from Hell.'

I put down my pen, turned in his direction and prepared myself for a long account of the disaster.

Sidney told me he had provided the infant teachers on the course with a variety of household waste material: kitchen rolls, plastic containers, tin foil trays, milk bottle tops, bits of fabric, brown paper bags, toilet tissues, tin cans and sheets of newsprint, and from this detritus emerged a huge dragon which was later proudly displayed near the entrance to the Centre. This morning, armed with his camera, Sidney had returned to the Centre to take photographs
of this truly stunning creation only to find it had mysteriously disappeared. He had searched everywhere without success and had finally run Connie to earth to ask if she had seen the dragon.

‘Dragon? No, I can't say that I have,' she had replied. Sidney, in a calm, controlled sort of voice had told Connie that she
must
have seen it, that there had been a four-foot dragon near the entrance – a long, snake-like, fierce-faced creature constructed of waste material.

‘Oh that!' Connie had replied casually. ‘I put it in the bin.'

Sidney had exploded.

‘Can you believe that, Gervase?' he demanded. ‘She had put it in the bin, she had disposed of that wonderful, multi-coloured dragon that had taken all day to construct! She had consigned it to the rubbish tip! I said to her, “Connie,” I said, “it was a work of art!” and do you know what she replied? Do you know what she replied?'

‘No, Sidney, I don't,' I said. ‘But I feel certain that you are going to tell me.'

‘She looked at me, without the least trace of remorse, regret or contrition, and she said, “Well, you should have written on it then –‘This is a work of art and not a load of old rubbish' – then I would have known not to throw it out.” I was completely lost for words. With hindsight I should have replied, “Well, I should think of all people you would recognize a dragon!” '

Sidney and I were at the Staff Development Centre the following week to direct a series of Expressive and Creative Art courses for secondary teachers. We were in the small staffroom having a cup of tea, before the arrival of the course members when Connie entered.

‘Don't forget to wash your cups up, please, when you've finished,' she said, her eyes scanning the room for untidiness. ‘And could you make certain you break for coffee promptly at half past ten because I've a lot of people in the Centre this morning, including one of Mr Pritchard's Ρ Ε courses.' She headed for the door but turned back. ‘Oh, and another thing, whose are those dreadful stuffed animals cluttering up the entrance?' Sidney, who had retained a simmering silence throughout Connie's harangue, looked up and smiled disdainfully before replying.

‘They are mine, Connie,' he said. ‘And they are not dreadful stuffed animals, they are the next best thing to first-hand experience.'

‘Well, they're a health and safety hazard stuck there. People could fall over them. It could give an old person quite a shock coming face to face with a fox or those big black birds with sharp beaks.'

‘The course today is not for short-sighted pensioners, Connie, it's for relatively young, agile teachers,' Sidney replied. ‘And I am certain a few stuffed animals and birds will not shock anyone.'

‘I shouldn't be surprised if they have fleas,' said Connie, trying another tack.

‘Very clean young teachers,' retorted Sidney. ‘Quite flealess.'

‘I am talking about those animals!'