Over Hill And Dale Part 20

"Mostly Swaledales but we're thinkin' o' diversifyin'."

"Really?"

"That's why we were at Fettlesham market. Granfether were lookin' at t'Texels."

"I see. So what do Swaledale sheep look like?"

"Tha dun't know owl abaat sheep then?"

"Not a lot."

He s.h.i.+fted in his chair the better to face me. "Well, that can all us spot a Swaledale. It 'as curly 'orns on its 'ead, sort of a black face wi' a white snout, sometimes wi' a bit o' specklin' on and it 'as a fairly light carca.s.s. Now yer Dales-bred sheep are an 'ardy breed and fare well on this sort o' land and in this sort o' weather. It can ger a bit par ky up 'ere and rain fair teems dahn so you need sum mat wi' a bit o' gumption. Sometimes we cross 'em wi' Blue-faced Leicesters to produce a mule breeding sheep. Anyroad, we've 'ad a bit o' trouble wi' sheep dip flu and blow fly this year and we're looking at Texels to see what they can do."

"And what do Texels look like?"

"They're not much to look at bit like a bull terrier, fat white bodies, short wool, legs wide s.p.a.ced but they're pretty docile and give a lot o' milk. They give extra lean meat an' all and there's more fat on t'carca.s.s. They're easy to maintain are Texels. Mi granfether reckons there'll be a sight more of a profit in 'em. Tha sees they have higher kill-out percentage and better conformation and grading than yer Swaledales."

"Do they really?" I had not the first idea what the boy was talking about. I changed the subject. "And you are a Methodist?"

"Aye. Mi granfether's a lay preeacher at t'chapel in Uggle-matters by His sarmons is famous, tha knaws. People c.u.m for miles to 'ear 'im speyk. He says he gives Divil a reight run for his money when he gets gooin. I might ger 'im that book what yer were reading. Astagorritwithi?"

"Pardon?"

"Book. Astagorritwithi, so's I can mek a note on t't.i.tle?"

I took the book from my briefcase and watched as he copied down the t.i.tle in his large, untidy writing. "Champion," he said when he had finished. "It'll do fer Granfether for 'is birthday." Then he inclined his head in the direction of Mandy who was busy scratching away at her scalp on the next table, and whispered, "See that la.s.s, 'er wi' gob on 'er, well she's 'ad nits, tha knaws. By looks in it she's still gorrem. Tha wants to keep a fair distance, otherwise that'll be teckin' 'ome sum mat that niwer bargained fer."

Mr. Sharpies heard my critical preliminary report at the end of the day with the sort of impa.s.sive expression a professional mourner would have spent a lifetime perfecting.

"Firstly, Mr. Sharpies, I have to tell you that the quality of teaching and learning and the standards of attainment in the school are just not high enough. Reading and writing standards are low in relation to the children's ages and the basic skills of spelling are unsatisfactory. The children arrive from the Infants with a reasonable command of language and read soundly enough but their progress from then on is slow." I referred to my notes. "I have seen no enthusiastic and optimistic teachers today and no lesson which I could judge to be good. Indeed, there was no purpose to two of the lessons I observed, no clear objectives or careful planning, and the range of teaching strategies was very narrow. Do you wish to comment on that?"

"No," replied the Headteacher bluntly.

"The exterior of the building is very drab and uninviting something you cannot do much about but the inside is little better."

"What's the state of the building got to do with education?" he asked. "Provided the place is clean and warm, we don't need to turn the place into some exotic showcase."

"Do you not think children work better in a bright, attractive and welcoming environment where their efforts are displayed around them rather than in a series of drab cla.s.srooms containing little to interest or challenge them?"

"I don't place much importance on that sort of thing," he replied dismissively.

"The book stock is poor, there are very few dictionaries in the building and the work as a whole needs to be far better directed. I really feel there needs to be more enjoyment, more excitement and fun in the curriculum, to get the children interested and wanting to learn."

Mr. Sharpies sighed heavily when I had finished, stared at me for a moment with his great doleful eyes, and then remarked:' I became a head teacher Mr. Phinn, as I mentioned to you when you arrived, to educate the young, to teach children, but what do I have to deal with, day in, day out?"

Nits and knickers, I thought to myself, recalling the earlier conversation.

"Difficult parents, interfering governors and critical school inspectors, that's what. They are the very bane of my life. I'm just not allowed to get on with my job in peace and quiet. It's very easy to sit in judgement for a day, Mr. Phinn, but I have to be here day in and day out." He made his chosen profession sound like a prison sentence. "This job gets more and more difficult. The stresses and strains, the pressures and problems I have to cope with. People just don't realise. They have no idea. You've seen the children who attend this school. If I had the raw material then I might be able to get the results you say I should be getting. But look at where these children come from. I mean, what can you expect?"

"Mr. Sharpies," I said slowly, 'surely that is what good teachers do they have high expectations. They expect the moon. Now I appreciate the many pressures and stresses in education at the moment, but anyone who becomes a head teacher must realise that dealing with difficult parents, interfering governors and critical school inspectors is part and parcel of the job. I will, of course, be sending a detailed written report to the school, outlining the issues you need to address and giving suggestions on how you might improve. I shall also be arranging to make a further series of visits."

"So I take it you are not entirely happy with what you have seen?" said the Headteacher wearily, studying his fingernails.

"No, Mr. Sharpies, I am not. I would not be doing my job if I told you that everything in the garden was rosy."

The Headteacher looked up at this point and glowered. "Well, speaking of gardens, Mr. Phinn, that story you read to us at a.s.sembly about a giant who dropped dead under a tree did not exactly put us all in a good-humoured mood, did it? It certainly didn't bring a smile to my face." He got to his feet. "I don't have to listen to any more of this," he said. "Just put in your official report. And now, if you don't mind, I've had a very hard day."

With that, he walked across his office and held open the door, clearly indicating that the inspection was over.

Cold wind and slanting rain swept about the car as I left the dark, brooding village. The overcast sky, dark desolate moors and great looming fells made me feel extraordinarily depressed. I never liked giving a poor report but sometimes it was needed. A few sheep were still nibbling at the wiry gra.s.s, and the hooded crows perched in the branches of the dead oak did not look as though they had moved all day. One of the sheep looked up as I drove slowly past. It was a fat ram with curly horns, a black face with a white snout and great doleful eyes. It stared impa.s.sively and reminded me so much of the Headteacher of Ugglemattersby County Junior School.

Mrs. Savage appeared very much at home in the entrance hall of Lord Marrick's stately home and blended in beautifully with the pale colours of the room. She was dressed in an elegant cream coat beneath which she wore a flowing blue chiffon dress and her fingers, wrists, ears and neck had a generous a.s.sortment of showy gold jewellery. Standing before the huge and magnificently carved chimney-piece and below the oil painting of some military ancestor of Lord Marrick's, she looked like the Lady of the Manor waiting for a photograph to be taken, with her imperious expression and hands clasped formally before her.

"Ah, Mr. Phinn," she said, advancing and clicking noisily with her heels on the white inlaid marble floor. "You are here at last."

I glanced at my watch. "It's only just gone eight," I replied. "I didn't want to get here too early."

"As you know," she replied haughtily, "I like things to be done efficiently and thoroughly and not leave anything to chance. I want to make certain that every final detail has been taken on board."

It was the Sat.u.r.day of the Feoffees Pageant and the weather was perfect, the sky a cloudless blue and it was warm for the end of May. Marquees and multi-coloured tents were scattered on the green sward of parkland to the front of Manston Hall. The event was to start at 11.00 am when the Feoffees would process in full regalia and Lord Marrick would officially open proceedings. Already the area around the hall was a hive of activity. The police bandsmen had arrived and were busy setting up their chairs and music stands near a small stone obelisk, an officious army sergeant with a bristling moustache was berating a squad of young soldiers beside three huge, s.h.i.+ny tanks and a.s.sorted army vehicles, and an R.A.F dog handler was putting his savage-looking beasts through their paces. A juggler, in a colourful patchwork outfit, was entertaining a knot of little boys in surplices, red ca.s.socks and stiff white collars. Stallholders were busy arranging their wares, jewellery, pottery, cakes, books, bras sware and all manner of items on long trestle tables.

I had spent the previous morning with Mrs. Savage, no longer being able to avoid a face-to-face meeting. Her brief had been merely to deal with the administration but, true to form, she had expanded her role and had insisted on marching around the park, checking items off against a large clipboard of notes held officiously in front of her. She had made certain that the Exhibition marquee was absolutely as ordered, that the staging had been correctly a.s.sembled for the drama productions, that the covered area for the gymnastics area conformed to all the safety regulations, and that the Orangery was properly set up for the Youth Orchestra. The various group organisers were obviously well in control and regarded Mrs. Savage with a mixture of irritation and amus.e.m.e.nt.

"I may be something of a stickler, Mr. Phinn," said Mrs. Savage now, 'but I do like everything to be She stopped mid-sentence when a barrel-bodied, bow-legged bulldog with pinky-white jowls and pale unfriendly eyes appeared from the direction of the library. "What a remarkably ugly-looking creature," she said. The dog made a low rumbling noise and displayed a set of sharp teeth. Mrs. Savage strode towards it. "Shoo!" she snapped. The dog stared at her with its cold grey b.u.t.ton eyes. "Shoo!" she repeated, smacking her hands together sharply, her heavy jewellery jangling.

The dog hesitated for a moment in disbelief, then slunk away whining. Laet.i.tia had met her match.

I followed Mrs. Savage's rapid progress down the stone steps of the hall and towards a large marquee, outside which was a big sign announcing education exhibition. We were just about to enter the tent when a small man in a blue boiler suit approached. He addressed Mrs. Savage. "I've been looking for you."

She gave him one of her famous condescending looks. "Really?"

"Where do you want it, love?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your tent?"

"Tent?" She arched an eyebrow.

"Your tent," he repeated. "Where do you want it putting?"

"What are you talking about?" she said irritably. "I don't know anything about a tent."

"Where you're doing your fortune-telling."

"Do I look remotely like a fortune teller?" she asked in a sharp and strident tone of voice, her eyes s.h.i.+ning with intensity.

"I was told to look for a woman in blue and yella wi' lots o' bangles and beads."

With a clash of bracelets, she pointed in the opposite direction. "Well, I suggest you look elsewhere. I am certainly not Gypsy Rose Lee."

"Sorry, I'm sure," said the man as Mrs. Savage disappeared into the marquee.

The art exhibition was magnificent. Sidney had worked hard the afternoon before and produced a dazzling display of work. There were delicate watercolours, bold oil paintings, detailed line drawings, portraits in chalk and charcoals, rural scenes in inks, sculptures, embroideries, tapestries and collages. It was a ma.s.s of colour. On large boards a range of poetry and tidy handwritten accounts of historical events had been displayed. Behind the Education marquee, teachers were preparing for the drama production, going over final details with their young charges, while a troop of junior gymnasts was practising on large blue mats. In the Orangery members of the Youth Orchestra were rehearsing for their performance which would take place later that morning.

"Well," said Mrs. Savage, smiling uncharacteristically, as we headed back towards the hall, "I think everything is in order."

I had to hand it to the woman. Things had been organised extremely well. She had contacted schools and arranged for the children's work to be collected for my exhibition. I had done very little, apart from suggesting the various activities and inviting teachers to take part.

"Yes," I said. "You've worked very hard."

She stared at me for a moment. "Thank you," she said. "I think we both deserve a cup of coffee." She gestured in the direction of the Refreshment Tent. "Shall we?"

The Feoffees Pageant went like clockwork. At eleven o'clock on the dot, Lord Marrick, as Greave and Chief Lord of the Feoffees, dressed in a long scarlet gown and heavy gold chain, followed the Mace Bearer and led a line of largely elderly men in dark suits and bowler hats. They processed up the steps of Manston Hall where Lord Marrick made a speech and officially opened the pageant to celebrate the Feoffees' five hundredth anniversary.

The police band struck up a rousing tune and the park was soon full of people, pus.h.i.+ng and jostling through the exhibitions, watching the performances, listening to the music or just sitting relaxing in the warm suns.h.i.+ne.

"Splendid! Splendid!" said Dr. Gore later that morning as he entered the marquee where the children's work was displayed. He was dressed in a charcoal grey suit with his bowler hat perched rakishly on the side of his head. I suppressed a smile. "It really does look impressive in here. Wonderful work. Quite delightful. The Youth Orchestra are going great guns in the Orangery and the gymnastics are about to begin so I must pop back and see those. I just wanted to call in to say how well everyone has done. I think we can say that the Education Department has held its own, eh?" Before I could respond, he strode off, rubbing his hands and repeating enthusiastically, "Splendid! Splendid!"

"I think the old man's pleased," remarked Sidney phlegmatically.

Mrs. Savage stood at the door to the office, dressed in a wildly striped multi-coloured smock, long cream silk scarf, pale grey boots and the usual a.s.sortment of heavy clanking jewellery. Her hair was curled up in long tendrils on her head and held in place by a great silver clasp in the shape of a spider. It was well before nine o'clock on the first morning of the following week. Mrs. Savage rarely ventured into the Inspectors' Office at the best of times and to see her at the crack of dawn was entirely unexpected, not to say disconcerting.

"I could hear the noise from the bottom of the stairs," she said to no one in particular, in that sharp, disapproving voice of hers.

"We were laughing," said Sidney, smiling in such an exaggerated fas.h.i.+on that he looked quite manic. "We were sharing an amusing story, a funny little anecdote, a whimsical moment, an engaging little account." He was rather labouring the point. "Schools are funny places, you know, my dear Mrs. Savage."

"Really?" replied our visitor, retaining her sour expression and clearly irritated by Sidney's exaggerated good humour.

"Mr. Pritchard was telling us about his recent visit to an infant school," Harold told her. "Weren't you, David?" His colleague nodded slightly and it was clear he was not going to relate the story for the benefit of Mrs. Savage, of whom he had an abiding dislike. "Yes," continued Harold amiably, 'it was a most entertaining little tale. Mr. Pritchard had asked this small boy if he had been anywhere interesting over the Easter holiday and the little chap told him he had been to Scarborough for the day. "And did you go on a donkey?" Mr. Pritchard asked him. "Oh no," the child replied, "I went in my dad's car." Harold chuckled. "The things children say nowadays."

"Yes, well I'm sure that's all very amusing, Dr. Yeats," said Mrs. Savage, without the trace of a smile.

"And how may we help you?" enquired Harold.

"I have called over for two reasons. Firstly, Dr. Gore, to whom I spoke on Sunday, was very pleased with everyone's efforts with regard to the Feoffees Pageant and asked me to convey his appreciation. He will be writing to you formally to express his thanks. Things went extremely well and Lord Marrick was particularly grateful for all the hard work that had been expended."

"That is very good to hear, Mrs. Savage," Harold told her.

Mrs. Savage turned in my direction. "I would appreciate it, Mr. Phinn, if you could come across and see me some time." I heard Sidney stifle a laugh. She gave him a quick glance. "We need to put our heads together to compile a report on the Feoffees Pageant for Dr. Gore's annual report to the Education Committee."

"Yes," I said, "I'll give you a ring."

"It would be more convenient for me if we could do it now. Have you a window in your diary?"

"I'll have a look," I said.

While I was flicking through the pages in my diary, she turned her attention to Harold. "The second and more important reason for my visit, Dr. Yeats, concerns a much less pleasant matter." David rolled his eyes and Sidney adopted his usual pose, placing his hands behind his head, leaning back in his chair and fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Mrs. Savage continued undeterred. "I've come up especially early before you all disappear off on school visits. I need to talk to you all together."

David drew in a long weary breath, sighed dramatically and shook his head. Sidney continued to look heavenwards. Mrs. Savage fixed them with a venomous stare.

"That sounds ominous," said Harold in the most pleasant of voices and no doubt hoping to defuse a potentially explosive situation. "Do enlighten us, Mrs. Savage."

David looked abstractedly out of the window, Sidney didn't move a muscle and I feigned interest in a diary entry, so she had no one except Harold on whom to focus her icy stare.

"As you will be aware, Dr. Yeats, part of my remit is to record all the weekly forecasts that the inspectors complete when they are sent to me each Friday afternoon. This procedure is so Dr. Gore knows where all the inspectors are during the following week. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that."

"No, Mrs. Savage, you do not have to tell us that," echoed David in a weary voice. "I have been filling in those engagement sheets for time immemorial."

"Well," she continued, unperturbed by the interruption, "I have to say that some of the weekly programmes from this office, sent to me last term, were of times incomplete, sometimes inaccurate, frequently illegible and, on a growing number of occasions' she paused and tried to gain Sidney's attention by glaring pointedly in his direction "I have received no programmes at all. Now, it is essential that Dr. Gore knows exactly where all the inspectors are during the week."

"Why?" asked David, suddenly turning from the window.

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Pritchard?"

"Why exactly does Dr. Gore need to know where we all are every minute of the day?"

"Because he may wish to contact you in an emergency."

Sidney suppressed a snort rather ineffectually. "We are school inspectors, Mrs. Savage, not the air-sea rescue."

"Nevertheless, he needs to know where you are."

"In all my twenty-odd years as a school inspector," David said, 'there has been not one, single occasion when any sort of emergency has arisen which demanded my immediate and undivided attention and there has been nothing so very important that it could not wait until the next day."

"Suppose a member of the Education Committee requires an urgent answer to a query?" She was certainly persistent.

"He or she should be able to wait until the following morning, surely," stated Harold with amused detachment.

"It is our business to respond promptly and effectively," continued Mrs. Savage with lofty disdain, 'and to make the system more efficient, I have, with Dr. Gore's full approval, decided on a new procedure."

"Oh dear, oh dear," groaned David, 'not another ma.s.s of paperwork and more wretched forms to fill in?"

"What about next Thursday?" I suggested, hoping to curtail the lively and increasingly belligerent exchange.

"Pardon?" asked Mrs. Savage.

"For me to come across to see you. At about five o'clock?"

"Yes, yes, that sounds fine. Now about these new procedures. Dr. Gore has asked me to get you up to speed," announced Mrs. Savage, adjusting the silk scarf as she caught sight of her reflection in the gla.s.s of the door.

"Get us up to what?" demanded Sidney.

"Up to speed," repeated Mrs. Savage, slowly and deliberately. "Fully conversant with the changes."

Over the past few months Mrs. Savage had been attending a course for education officers. Returning from her weekly lectures and seminars and filled with new ideas and concepts, she had initiated a number of changes in the administration of the Education Department. The module she had undertaken on selection procedures, for example, had resulted in new and complicated procedures for appointing staff. Gerry Mullarkey had been the first on the receiving end of that. Another transformation was in Mrs. Savage's vocabulary. She had adopted a completely new language, a language full of jargon, psychobabble and gobbledygook. A foreigner with a good grasp of English, on meeting Mrs. Savage, would a.s.sume that she was from another planet, such was the incomprehensible nature of her language. David had entertained us one afternoon with an account of the recent meeting of the standing committee concerned with pupils who had been expelled from school, which he chaired. Mrs. Savage had been 'deputed', as she informed him, 'to act as rapporteur'.

"She managed to translate perfectly clear, readable and succinct comments into the most meaningless twaddle that I have ever heard. There was one lad, who had been expelled from school for answering back and shouting at the teachers. He was a d.a.m.n nuisance, that's what he was, and needed a few days off school to cool off- or more likely, "a good, tidy slap", as my old Welsh grandmother used to say. In the minutes, Mrs. Savage, who is now, after her DIY education course, something of an expert on difficult children, as well as every other blessed thing, had it recorded in a sort of gibberish." He had reached across his desk and plucked a piece of paper from his out-tray. "Here, listen to this for complete and utter nonsense: "One behaviour ally challenged student with ADHD (attention-deficit-hyperactive-disorder) and ODS op positional-defiance-syndrome) came from a multi-delinquent family with siblings high on the incarceration index." In simple English it means he was loud-mouthed and troublesome and his brothers were behind bars. When I enquired of our "rapporteur" if she were now our resident psychologist, she gave me that look which would turn you to stone. The woman's going off the rails or, as she might term it, she has "manic episode stress-inducing disorder" or, as I might describe it, "pain in the neck syndrome"."