Over Hill And Dale Part 13

"Is," I corrected.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is," I repeated. "This cla.s.s r'5 the weakest in the year, "cla.s.s" being a collective noun and taking the singular form of the verb."

"If you will excuse me," he said, as if he hadn't heard me, 'it is lunch-time." With that he walked out of the cla.s.sroom.

Towards the end of the lunch break I returned to the Headteacher's room feeling most depressed and wondering how Mr. Fenton would react to the d.a.m.ning report I would, no doubt, be presenting to him at the end of the day.

There was a broad, tweed-suited individual with Mr. Fenton. I recognised, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, the thick neck, florid face and s.h.i.+ny mop of hair of Councillor George Peterson.

The visitor grinned like a frog on seeing me enter the room. "Ah, so it's Mester Phinn, is it!" he exclaimed. "We meet again."

"Good afternoon, Councillor Peterson," I said, holding out a hand.

"I see you know each other," said Mr. Fenton, indicating a chair. "Do sit down, Mr. Phinn. I wondered where you had got to. I got you a sandwich. I hope you like ham. Councillor Peterson is one of our governors and also an old boy of the school."

"He went to see the wife's school last term," Councillor Peterson told Mr. Fenton, 'and then we were interviewing for t'cla.s.sics job ower t'town at t'grammar. That were a rum do, and no mistake." He paused to scratch his mop of hair. "So what you doing in Sunny Grove today, then?"

"Observing lessons and a.s.sessing the quality of the teaching and learning," I explained before taking a bite of the sandwich.

"My wife were abaat as 'appy as a legless donkey when she got 'ome after your inspection visit toer school. I 'ad to get mi own tea, she was in such a state. I don't know what yer said, because she wouldn't tell me, but it dint gu down too well, I can tell thee that."

"I'm sorry about that, Councillor."

"Nay, don't thee go apologisin', Mester Phinn. Tha's got nowt to be sorry abaat. Thy 'as a job o' work to do. I said to my wife, I said, that's what inspectors do pick spots, see what's goin' on, check that everythin's as it should be and find out what's up. That's what they do go round schools inspectin'. I said toer, it's like blamin' traffic wardens for clampin' yer car on a double yella line or a dentist sayin' you need a tooth out. That's what they're paid for, not to tell thee that every think in t'garden's rosy. That dint gu down too well, neither."

"I'm sorry that Mrs. Peterson took my report so badly," I told him. "It really was pretty positive."

"That's human nature, I'm afraid," said the Headteacher. "However much praise is given, it's the niggling little negatives which we tend to remember."

Again, I wondered how he would respond to my report. There would be no 'niggling little negatives'.

"She soon changed 'er mind after you'd gone in and spent a bit o' time with the children," continued the councillor. "Teachin' 'em poetry, wasn't it?"

"That's right."

"Aye, she come home well pleased after that."

"I'm very relieved," I said, and indeed I was.

"Don't see t'point of poetry myself, Mester Phinn. Like Latin and Greek. I don't see the relevance. Never could. Poetry's not going to get these lads a job, is it? They need to be able to write decent letters of application and add up." I did not respond but saw in Mr. Fenton's eyes a weary look of resignation. I prayed that Councillor Peterson would not be remaining in the school to hear my report. "So, how's this morning gone?"

"It's been very interesting," I said diplomatically.

"Aye, well it's a good school, this. Course, the lads aren't going to break any records when it comes to exams but they come out of this school a grand set of young men. Don't they, Alfred?"

"I would like to think so, George," said the Headteacher. "I'm very proud of them."

"I've been most impressed with the pupils," I said.

"So, what teachers 'ave you seen so far?" Councillor Peterson asked, sticking out a formidable bottom jaw and fixing me with his large pale eyes.

"I observed Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Swan this morning," I told him.

"He used to teach me, did Mester Swan when I was 'ere, back in t'dim and distant past. By G.o.d, is 'e still going?"

"He's filling in for the time being," explained the Head-teacher, 'doing some supply work during Mrs. Simkins' absence. I must say, Mr. Swan is finding it rather different from when you were at the school."

"emustbegettin' abitlongint'toothbynow," continued Councillor Peterson. "I reckon 'e were a fair old age when I was at school because 'is 'air were grey then. He were a good teacher was Mester Swan. One of told school."

"But times have changed, Councillor," I said and, taking a deep breath, continued, 'and a lot of the old school methods and ideas are inappropriate in this day and age. I'm afraid I did not find Mr. Swan a good teacher and shall be describing his very poor lesson in some detail in my report."

"Oh dear," I heard Mr. Fenton murmur.

Councillor Peterson's jaw dropped. "By the 'eck, Mester Phinn," he chuckled, 'that' dun't mince words. Thar a regular Yorks.h.i.+reman and no mistake. I can see what mi wife means."

The first lesson of the afternoon was a great improvement on the morning's. The teach era bubbly, enthusiastic young woman called Miss Mullane, had prepared a lesson based on a novel set at the time of the Second World War which the second-year pupils were reading. She used well-chosen ill.u.s.trations and probing questions to develop understanding of ideas and motives. "What do you think it was like for the evacuee children?" "How would you react to leaving home to stay in a stranger's house in the country?" "What would you miss most?" "How would the parents feel?" "Can you predict what might happen next?" She encouraged the boys to explore character in greater depth, whilst sensitively supporting the less able, helping them to stay interested and involved by the use of questions matched to their abilities and interests. She required them to justify a point of view, refer to the text, relate to their own experiences and examine the use of language.

The atmosphere in the cla.s.sroom was warm and supportive, and the boys responded well to the teacher, clearly enjoying her touches of humour. Miss Mullane had a real empathy with, and respect for, the pupils and, unlike Mr. Swan, had high expectations of their success. She encouraged, directed, suggested, questioned, challenged and developed the pupils' understanding in an atmosphere of good humour and enjoyment.

The cla.s.sroom environment was wonderfully bright and attractive with appropriate displays of posters, photographs and artefacts which gave the pupils a feel for the period in which the novel was set. Children had talked to their grandmothers and grandfathers about their war memories and there were poems, stories, commentaries, descriptions, letters, diary entries and anecdotes a whole range of writing related to the Second World War.

As usual, I spent part of the lesson examining the pupils' exercise books. The work was varied and well presented and carefully marked in pencil. One pupil, imagining he had just arrived at his new home, had written his piece in the form of a diary entry. Another was composing a letter home describing his experiences. A third boy was busy with a play script based on a conversation between the billeting officer and a villager who refused to take an evacuee.

"What are you writing?" I asked a cheerful-looking boy scribbling away at the front desk.

"It's an account based on the novel we're reading. I'm this evacuee, you see, sent from the city into the country to stay with this old couple who are not used to children. I'm writing my story of the journey and my fears and hopes and feelings." I looked at the neat, clear writing and nodded. "This is very good," I said. "You really describe things well. Some good details in here. You seem to know a lot about the war."

"Thank you," said the boy smiling. He stared at me for a moment before asking, "Were you an evacuee, sir?"

"No, I was born just after the war. My brother was, though, and we have a photograph of him on the station platform at Sheffield in his uniform, with his gas mask in a cardboard box and his little leather suitcase. He looked really sad to be going."

"Why was he in uniform, sir? Was he a soldier?"

"No, no, but all the children had to wear their uniform. They looked very smart."

"Was he in the Hitler Youth, then?"

"School uniform," I said laughing.

Things are looking up, I thought to myself, as I headed for the final lesson of the day. I entered the school hall to find two groups of large, aggressive-looking boys facing each other like street gangs ready for a fight. There was no sign of a teacher. I stood frozen to the spot.

The leader of one group thrust his face forward, curled his lip and spat out the words, "So, are ya looking for a fight then? Because if ya are .. ." Those behind him shouted encouragement, gestured and pulled faces. The leader of the other group moved forward slowly and threateningly, maintaining a carefully blank expression on his face.

"No, I 'm not looking for a fight," he mouthed deliberately, stressing each word, 'but, if I was, I could sort you out. I could spit on ya and drown ya. So, if you fancy your chances His supporters jumped up and down, jeering and roaring with laughter, taunting the other group with gestures and silly faces. One small boy, with large gla.s.ses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to intervene.

"Look!" he shouted. "Stop! You shouldn't be doing this! There's bound to be trouble. We've been told not to fight again. You've got to stop!"

A lad as large as a bear, with close-cropped hair and hands like spades, grabbed him by his coat and pushed him away. He mimicked his voice. "Oh stop, you'll get into trouble." He then pulled what looked like a knife from his jacket and waved it in the air, his face ballooning with anger. "Why waste time with words?" he roared. "Let's kill 'em!"

That's when I entered the fray. "Stop!" I yelled. "Stop immediately! Whatever's going on? What are you boys doing?" I could feel myself trembling. Remarkably, the whole cla.s.s froze and stared uncomprehendingly in my direction. "Where's your teacher?" I demanded.

"I'm here," came a soft, calm voice from behind me. At the back of the hall and out of my view stood a small, prim-looking woman with spectacles on the end of her nose. She observed me over her gla.s.ses as if looking at some poor unfortunate sitting on the corner of the street begging for change a face full of distant pity.

"Whatever's going on?" I asked again. I could feel my heart thudding away in my chest.

"Shakespeare," she replied smiling and clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Act i, Scene i. The boys are trying to get to grips with the meaning of the text in Romeo and Juliet by acting it out in everyday language. It's the part where the servants of the Montagues meet the Capulets in the city square and start facing up to each other for the fight. I'm sure you know it well. All right, boys, relax a moment." She walked slowly in my direction and extended a small hand. A faint waft of sandalwood soap floated up to me. "I'm Jan Darlington, the drama teacher and you must be Mr. Phinn."

"That's right," I said, attempting a smile. "I'm most awfully sorry about the interruption. I feel so embarra.s.sed but I really thought'

"Please don't worry about it." She turned to her cla.s.s, laughing. "Don't just stand there with your mouths open. Sit down for a moment." The cla.s.s obeyed instantly. "If you convinced Mr. Phinn that this was the real thing, I think you'll convince your audience next week. There was some real aggression and tension in that scene, your words fair crackled with energy. There was plenty of convincing body language and facial expressions as well. Now, we want that sort of acting when we get back to the text. Remember to keep that deadpan face, Wayne, it really makes you look far more intimidating, and Paul, even more of a dramatic pause before you say that last line. Really s.p.a.ce it out to get maximum effect. It's all to do with timing, you see." The teacher turned to me. "Do take a seat, Mr. Phinn, and we'll try the scene out on you, as Shakespeare wrote it. We would all really appreciate an objective view."

I sat for half an hour and watched the most gripping opening of Romeo and Juliet I had ever seen. Two boys ambled down the side of the hall's stage, chewing and looking bored. Two more boys walked slowly down the opposite side. They eyed each other like fighting dogs.

"My naked weapon is out," whispered one, standing discreetly behind his companion and drawing a wooden dagger from his belt. "Quarrel, I will back thee."

"How turn and run?" enquired the other, with a cynical curl of the lip.

"Fear me not."

"No, marry," sneered the other. "I fear thee!" The other two boys swaggered forward with their hands in their pockets. Their eyes were like slits and there were cold expressions on their faces.

"I will bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them if they bear it," whispered one.

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?" asked the other articulating every word.

The verbal confrontation was electric, full of curses and threats, bravado and threatening gestures. And then the fight began. This was mimed and every action was slow and accentuated. When both sides were locked together, their arms and legs knotted in a violent embrace, the small boy playing Benvolio, with large gla.s.ses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to intervene.

"Part, fools!" he cried. "Put up your swords; you know not what you do!"

The large lad, Tybalt, gripped him by his coat and pushed him away. "What, drawn, and talk of peace!" he roared. "I hate the word as I hate h.e.l.l, all Montagues, and thee." He plucked a wooden knife from his jacket and stabbed the air, his face ballooning with anger. "Have at thee, coward!"

"Let's stop there for a moment," interrupted the teacher. "Make the fight scene even slower and more exaggerated. Curve your arm, Simon, in a great arc when you are throwing the punch and, Peter, make that kick slower and more deliberate and show the intense fury in your expression. Remember there should be no physical contact. This part is mimed. You also need to remember that you are thugs spoiling for a fight. It's hot, dusty, you are feeling sticky, there is a tension in the air. Try and capture that. You kept that deadpan face really well, Wayne, well done, and, Paul, even more of a dramatic pause at the end of the line: "Do you bite your thumb at us sir?" The word "sir" is not a sign of respect. It is said as an insult so stress it."

Miss Darlington then turned to me. "Well, let's ask our theatre critic what he thought of the scene."

I only had one word to offer: "Superb."

The bell sounded for the end of school. The pupils, without being told, packed away the props and stacked the chairs before putting on their jackets and shouting their 'goodbyes' to Miss Darlington. I spent ten minutes talking through the lesson with her before setting off, in much better spirits, to deliver an oral report to the Headteacher.

Mr. Fenton listened to my preliminary report in silence. I concluded by saying that whilst I had observed some outstanding lessons from Miss Darlington and Miss Mullane, there were significant weaknesses in the teaching of Mr. Armstrong. As for Mr. Swan, I was of the strongest opinion that he should return to retirement as soon as possible. I referred to the Headteacher's earlier comments about building up the pupils' self-esteem and self-confidence, the need for challenge, pace and strong teacher support and encouragement. "These pupils are not empty vessels to be filled up with a few arid facts about collective nouns. They deserve better," I said. "Now it's my turn to sound pompous. I don't mean to be but, like you, I do feel strongly about pupils who think they are failures."

"That's quite all right, Mr. Phinn," the Headteacher replied. "I, too, enjoy listening to someone else holding forth about education. And you are correct, of course. The purpose of education is to change an empty mind into an open one. Mr. Armstrong has been with us for a long time and it's very difficult to get a leopard to change its spots. He has attended course after course but with little apparent benefit. His lessons are still exceptionally tedious, I have to admit. He is a well-meaning man and hard working and the boys do have a certain affection for him, but I think the time has come for me to have a stronger word with him about his methods. The other teacher concerned, as you are aware, is covering Mrs. Simkins' maternity leave. We had an excellent teacher lined up but she secured a full-time post and pulled out at the last minute. I'm afraid I just could not get anyone else at such short notice. I have to agree, however, the pupils do deserve better. I shall most certainly act on your advice and do everything I can to find a different teacher to fill in before Mrs. Simkins returns."

I nodded, pleased that Mr. Fenton was prepared to deal with the problem quickly.

"As for Miss Mullane and Miss Darlington," he continued, 'your a.s.sessment of them comes as no surprise either and I am delighted that you found their teaching so refres.h.i.+ng. When I was a lad, we plodded through the text in maximum, pleasure-destroying detail. That was the reason, I suppose, that I never took to Shakespeare, not, that is, until I came across Jan Darlington. She brings the words to life, as you quite rightly observe. You know, Mr. Phinn, you should pay us another visit for the performance next week. Performing Romeo and Juliet in an all boys secondary modern school is quite a challenge, I can tell you."

"I would very much enjoy that, Mr. Fenton."

"Sadly, Miss Mullane will not be with us much longer. She's joining the English Department at West Challerton High School next term as second in charge. I shall be very sorry to see her leave."

"I will send a full written report, Mr. Fenton," I said, making ready to go. "Now, if there is nothing else?"

"It's been a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Phinn," said the Headteacher, walking with me to the door. "It's very rea.s.suring to have inspectors who are so keen about children. I do really believe, you know, that those of us in education can really make a difference, particularly in the lives of less fortunate children, those who are labelled failures."

"I know that, Mr. Fenton," I said, shaking his hand and looking into the dark, sincere eyes. "I know that."

"My father was a miner, Mr. Phinn, and I remember him returning from the pit in Maltby where I was brought up, weary and caked in black coal dust but always smiling and good-humoured. He had no degrees or diplomas but he was a well-read and intelligent man and always wanted me to do well at school. He'd never had the chance, you see. My mother was a school cleaner and she too gave me every bit of support and encouragement. She worked hard and long to buy me the grammar school blazer and everything else I had to have, and to keep me on at school. I try to make Sunny Grove like the good home that I was brought up in, a place where there is work and laughter, honesty and fairness. I think I owe it to my parents."

As I walked across the playground towards the dingy rows of terraced houses, shabby factory premises and derelict land, I looked back at the grim, towering, blackened building with high brick walls. I thought of Mr. Fenton and his missionary zeal, and the words of Blake's poem came again to mind: I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand, Till we have built Jerusalem, In England's green and pleasant land.

"Excellent news, gentlemen!" Harold Yeats crashed through the door making the three of us shoot up from our chairs as if given a sharp electric shock.

"For goodness sake, Harold!" cried Sidney, retrieving the bundle of papers which he had scattered across the office floor in his alarm. "I wish you wouldn't do that exploding into the room like some maniacal genie from the magic lamp and nearly giving everyone a heart attack!"

"It's just that I have some really wonderful news!" exclaimed Harold, showing his mouthful of teeth and vigorously rubbing his large hands.

"Is it a pay rise?" asked David lugubriously. "It's about time we had an increase in our miserable salaries. We ought to get a raise when the teachers do. Four years it is since my income'

"No, not a pay rise, David, but it is something which will, I have no doubt, bring a smile to that austere Welsh countenance of yours."

"Mrs. Savage has been given the sack?" announced David gleefully. "Now that would bring a smile to my face. When I think of that woman, I genuinely warm to Lucretia Borgia."

"No, no." Harold rumpled his hair, frowned, sighed and shook his head.

"We're moving into a new office?" I suggested.

"No, we are not moving into a new office."

"Connie is retiring?" ventured Sidney, leaning back in his chair, placing his long fingers behind his head and staring at the ceiling. "That would bring a smile to my lips."

"If you three would just listen for a moment and let me get a word in, I'll tell you. Dr. Gore has agreed, with the Education Committee's approval, for us to expand!"

"Expand!" exclaimed David.

"Appoint another inspector, one to cover science and technology."

"Oh, be still my dancing feet!" exclaimed David. "You mean I will no longer be responsible for science and technology?"

"I thought that would please you," said Harold, again showing his set of tombstone teeth.

"It is absolutely superb news, Harold," chortled David. "Of course, it's about time too. I've had to cover science and technology for far too long. It will be a blessed relief to pa.s.s on all that work in physics and chemistry to some bright young thing. When will he start?"

"It will be after Easter," announced Harold pleasantly. "Some time after the start of the Summer term. The advertis.e.m.e.nt goes into the Education Supplement next Monday, then there will be the usual few weeks to receive applications and references. Then, of course, there will be the interviews and the successful candidate will have to give a couple of months' notice to his employer."

"He! His!" exclaimed Sidney. "Don't you two think, in this age of equal opportunities, that it may very well be a woman who is appointed? Why is there an a.s.sumption that the new inspector will be a man?"