Over Hill And Dale Part 24

"Well, what word should I use then?"

"Just say you've got dirt on your shoe."

"But it's not dirt, is it? It's s.h.i.+t."

Oh dear, I thought for the umpteenth time that day, another fine mess I have got myself into.

Mrs. Wilson, who had obviously been privy to this exchange, suddenly appeared at my side and whispered in my ear, "Perhaps he could say "excrement on his sole" or "faeces on his feet" or "poo on his shoe". I feel certain it will be somewhere in that inspectors' handbook of yours, Mr. Phinn." There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

I decided to persevere and turned back to Sam. "What does your mum say if you have it on your shoe?"

"Have what on mi shoe?"

"You know what." I pointed to his feet.

"She makes me tek mi shoes off."

"Well, take them off, Sam, get your reading book and come into the Reading Corner with me."

When I had finally prevailed upon him to come on the carpet, he stood close to me with an expressionless face. "Yes?" he asked.

"Would you like to read to me?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I would really like you to."

Sam took a bl.u.s.tering breath. "No, I don't think so. I've bin heard reading already today by Mrs. Wilson and I'm not in t'mood for another session at t'moment. Mebbe later on."

With that he walked away, retrieved his shoes, examined the soles critically and returned to his desk.

Just before lunch Sam arrived with a rather dog-eared reading book with a grey cover. It was called Dan and Nan have Fun.

"I'll read to you now if you want," he announced. "But I'm not reight good. I'm a slow reader that knaws and I'm still on the Reading Scheme books. Most others in t'cla.s.s are free readers. I don't know why, but I just don't seem to tek to reading."

"Don't worry about that, Sam," I said, pleased to see him, 'just try your best."

"I'll come on t'carpet an all, cos I've seen to mi shoes."

"Right," I said.

"Mrs. Wilson let me sc.r.a.pe off all the sh-"

I jumped in as quick as a sudden crack of a whip. "That's all right, then."

His book was one in a series called the Funtime Reading Scheme. Judging by the cover, it did not appear to justify its t.i.tle. There were other books in the series about pirates and princesses, gypsies and wizards, fairs and picnics, holidays and festivals. Perhaps the dreary cover of Dan and Nan have Fun belied a fast-moving story of adventure and excitement, but I strongly doubted it. When Sam, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g up his eyes and furrowing his brow, started to bark out the words, I realised that the grey cover reflected the contents accurately. He read the text with steady determination, quickly flicking through the pages without pausing to look at the pictures in an effort to get it over with.

Here is Dan. Dan is a boy. Here is Nan. Nan is a girl. , Dan is a boy.

Nan is a girl.

Dan is Nan's brother.

Nan is Dan's sister.

They have fun.

Here is a house.

Dan and Nan live in the house.

They live near a river.

They have fun.

Dan has a canoe.

Dan and Nan go in the canoe.

They go on the river.

Dan paddles the canoe.

They have fun.

Nan sings a song.

Dan catches a fish.

Dan chops some wood.

Dan lights a fire.

Nan cooks the fish.

They eat the fish.

They have fun.

The pictures depicted a sparklingly clean little boy dressed in his school blazer and cap. He wore a spotless white s.h.i.+rt, neatly knotted tie, highly polished shoes and knee-length socks rather inappropriate attire for a fis.h.i.+ng trip in a canoe, one would have thought. He was beaming from the page. Nan, too, was gleaming, dressed in a colourful floral frock, bright blue shoes, dazzling white stockings and she was sporting great red ribbons in her long blonde plaits. She, like her brother, looked ecstatically happy.

"You read that very well, Sam," I said when he had finished.

"Aye, I try," he replied philosophically.

"Yes. You do try very hard," I said, but thinking to myself what a pity that the material was so dry and dreary.

"What do you think of the story?" I asked.

"b.l.o.o.d.y stupid!" I was just about to repeat the earlier exchange of' Don say that word' but thought better of it. The book was 'b.l.o.o.d.y stupid'. He could not have described it better. He shook his head before continuing. "I mean going in a canoe on a fast-flowing river is asking for trouble. And you'd never catch a carp in them waters wi that rod. He wunt catch a cold wit hat And as for chopping wood up with that gret axe. He could have taken his fingers off. I wouldn't let 'im loose wi penknife never mind a ruddy gret 'atchet. And another thing, that should never light fires near a forest. They wants to get some work done them two instead of prat ting abaat all day havin' fun. I have to collect eggs on our farm, feed sows, fill troughs and coop up hens afore mi tea." He paused and looked around him and sniffed the air. "Can that smell owl, Mester Phinn?" he asked.

"No," I replied.

"I can. I reckons I didn't do such a good job on mi shoe." With that he walked away.

As I drove back to the office in Fettlesham that balmy early summer afternoon, I thought of Janine returning to a warm, loving world of books and reading and I thought of Sam who would be about to start his many ch.o.r.es on the farm. What a different life those children led. I determined to find that little boy some books simple enough for him to read but with lively, realistic characters and an interesting story line He deserved better than Dan and Nan.

The view from the Headteacher's room in St. Catherine's School was one of the most magnificent I had ever seen. Beneath a s.h.i.+ning blue sky stretched a landscape of every conceivable colour: light purple mountains, brilliant green pastureland, swathes of yellow and red gorse which blazed like a bonfire, dark green hedgerows speckled in pinks and whites, twisted black stumps, striding silvered limestone walls and the grey snake of a road curling up the hill to the far distance. Light, the colour of melted b.u.t.ter, danced amongst the new leaves of early summer.

"It's quite a picture, isn't it?" said the Headteacher. Mrs. Thomas was a small, ample, quietly spoken woman with a kindly presence and a gentle manner, the sort of teacher who sees good in every child.

"It is," I agreed. It was at times like this that I realised how fortunate I was to have a job which enabled me to see such beauty day after day. Such sights never failed to fill me with awe.

It was Monday and the start of a two-day inspection of a school for physically disabled children. David, Gerry and I were undertaking what is colloquially known amongst inspectors as a 'dip stick' inspection. I was to look at the English and the arts in the school, David the mathematics and Gerry the sciences. We had formed a very favourable impression only five minutes after we had entered the building. We had arrived at the main entrance to be greeted by large lettering: welcome to st Catherine's school above the door. A welcoming party of four smart, smiling children signed us in and gave us badges. The building was immaculate: clean, bright walls, carpeted floors, displays of work well mounted. There was an atmosphere of calm about the school, a tranquillity which I had come across several times before in schools for the physically and mentally disabled. "You know, I can smell a good school," observed David as we headed for Mrs. Thomas's office. "The minute I walk through the door I can sense, in the very atmosphere and environment, whether it is a good or a bad school. I have a very positive feeling about this place."

Not long after, with clipboard in hand, I made my way to the first lesson: drama. The teacher, Ms Pinkney, a strapping, jolly woman with long red hair gathered up in a tortoisesh.e.l.l comb, and dressed in a bright pink and yellow Lycra outfit which clung to her as if she had been poured into it, greeted me cheerfully and confidently.

"Come along in, Mr. Phinn. Shoes by the door, jacket on a peg. There's a spare leotard if you want to slip into it." She beamed. "Only joking about the leotard, but you do need to get rid of the coat and shoes. I hope you inspectors have a sense of humour. You'll need it in here." Before I could respond she rattled on regardless. "The children will arrive in a moment. This is my star group you are about to see, full of beans and keen as sharpened knives. You're in for a real treat this morning. Quite a number of children in this cla.s.s are partially sighted or blind, and three have cerebral palsy. There's a couple with Down's syndrome, an autistic child brilliant artist he is and a dyspraxic boy. Wonderful athlete is Phillip. None of their disabilities holds them back one jot, as you'll see. They're an extremely talented group. In my opinion, what stops children like this achieving is not lack of ability but other people's low expectations of them. Don't you think?"

"It's usually me who asks the questions, Ms Pinkney," I replied, 'but now you come to mention it, I couldn't agree more. I think what you say, however applies equally well to all children, whether disabled or not. High expectation and high self-esteem seem to me to be the keys to success in learning."

"Spot on!" she cried. "I can see we're going to get on, Mr. Phinn. In the dim and distant past," the teacher continued, 'many disabled people lived at home cosseted and protected, away from others, and dependent on well-meaning but indulgent parents. Scant demands were made upon them, you see. Some, of course, were packed off to inst.i.tutions and given mindless tasks like making lampshades or weaving baskets. Few had proper jobs and were not expected to do much with their lives. "Well, of course, he's handicapped," they used to whisper. "I mean, what can you expect of her?" That's what they used to say about me, so I know how it feels. I had polio at five, wore callipers right the way through primary school, was called "a spastic" by the other children and was wrapped up in cotton wool by my parents and then I met this fantastic teacher, Mrs. Townsend, and this brilliant physiotherapist called Miss Pierpoint and they changed my life. They built up my self-confidence and believed in me. Anyhow, my drama group is due. I can't go on philosophising all morning, Mr. Phinn, just get your kit off and find a chair."

Smiling to myself, I divested myself of shoes and jacket and headed for the corner to sit un.o.btrusively to observe the lesson. The first child to arrive was a small fair-haired girl. Her eyelids were closed and she was, of course, unaware of my presence in the shadows. She was one of the pupils who had been in the welcoming party when we had arrived that morning.

"Hi, Ruth!" shouted the teacher. "You're here nice and early."

"Miss," asked the girl, heading in the direction of the voice, 'will we be having one of these school inspectors in with us this morning?"

"We will indeed," answered the teacher, putting her arm round the girl's shoulder.

"Are you sure, miss?"

"Positive, Ruth."

"Do you know who it will be, miss?"

"His name's Mr. Phinn."

"Oh, I met him this morning, miss," cried the girl. "He's from Yorks.h.i.+re so he should be all right, shouldn't he, miss?"

"I'm sure he will be just fine." Ms Pinkney cast a sideways glance in my direction.

"What does he look like, miss?"

"All these questions, Ruth Hardcastle. Now come along, shoes off, plimsolls on and cardigan on the peg."

"I've never met a school inspector before," continued the girl pulling off her shoes.

"Well, now's your chance."

"Go on, miss, tell me what he looks like. I want to put a face to his voice."

' Well," said the teacher drawing out the word and glancing again in my direction with a mischievous smile on her lips, 'he's young, handsome, elegant, cultivated and very well dressed."

Ruth thought for a moment before replying, "And he's also in the room, isn't he, miss?"

"He is indeed, Ruth," laughed Ms Pinkney. "He's over by the sound deck in the corner. Perhaps you would like to take him your work and show him what we were doing last week."

At this point the rest of the children began to arrive. They changed their shoes, hung up their coats and sat in a circle in the middle of the studio. I watched Ruth as she felt her way to a large cupboard and her fingers traced the names on the top of several large folders. A minute later she was by my side.

"h.e.l.lo, Mr. Phinn," she said cheerfully.

"h.e.l.lo, Ruth."

"Would you like to see my work?"

"I'd love to."

"Because that's what school inspectors do, isn't it, you look at children's work?"

"That's right."

"To see how they are getting on."

"And how do you think you're getting on, Ruth?" I asked.

"I think that's for you to say really," she replied. "I mean, you're the inspector."

"Well, let me see then."

"It's a monologue. Do you know about monologues, Mr. Phinn?"

"I do, yes."

"We all had to write about our inner thoughts, what we feel. Then we performed them in front of the rest of the group. Mine's a sort of poem." She placed the large folder in my hands, stood back and waited. The pages were full of Braille: page after page of intricate dots. As part of a diploma course I had taken several years ago, I had learnt Braille. It is a simple, uncomplicated system of six dots in two vertical lines of three and while it is relatively easy to understand, Braille is immensely difficult to read. The problem is trying to distinguish the configurations of the small dots on the page. I took Ruth's folder, rested it on my lap and proceeded, at a snail's pace, to try and decipher the writing.

"My .. . thoughts .. . about .. . being .. . blind," I read very slowly, trying to decode the dots on the page, 'by .. . Ruth .. . Hardcastle."

"You're not too good a reader, Mr. Phinn, are you?"

"No, Ruth, I'm not. I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid. Perhaps you could help me out."

She took the folder from my hands, sat at my feet and read to me in such a quiet, expressive voice that I became completely enthralled and totally oblivious of noise around me, of the teacher and the rest of the pupils.

I see with my ears.

I hear the leaves in the tall trees, whispering in the night.