Over Hill And Dale Part 25

I hear the sea, dark and deep, and the splash of the dolphin's leap. I hear the flames crackling and the window frames rattling in the wind. I see with my ears.

I see with my nose.

I smell the blossoms pearly-grey and hay new mown. I smell the ploughed earth, cows in the byre, the smoky fire. I smell Grandpa's pipe, Gran's lavender room and Mum's faint perfume. I see with my nose.

I see with my mouth.

I taste the strong black coffee and the thick brown toffee between my teeth. I taste the yellow of the lemon, the green of the melon and the red of the tomato. I taste the orange of the carrot, the purple of the plum, the gold of the sun on my face. I see with my mouth.

I see with my hands.

I feel the sharp edges, slippery floors, smooth ledges. I feel lemonade in cold canisters, hard wooden banisters. I feel hands to hold, arms on shoulders, faces to touch. I see with my hands.

"Oh, that was excellent, Ruth," I said gently when she closed the folder. "I think it was one of the best monologues I have ever heard."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. You are a very talented writer."

"I like writing," she said. "Would you like a copy?"

"I'd love one."

Ms Pinkney, like some large slice of Battenberg cake, was at my side. "Come along now, Ruth, and join the rest of the group." When she had gone she turned to me. "She's a lovely little poet, isn't she?"

"She is," I replied quietly and, I have to admit, there were tears in my eyes.

The next teacher I met that morning lacked Ms Pinkney's confidence. Miss Taylor's whole body seemed to tremble when I appeared at the cla.s.sroom door and there was a distinct quavering in her voice.

"Oh ... oh ... the inspector ... I never ... oh dear .. . I thought ... do come in."

The art room she worked in was as colourful as the landscape outside. The tables were covered carefully in clean newsprint, and brushes and pencils, chalks and crayons were neatly arranged in trays. Walls were decorated with sketches and line drawings, bold outlines and pale watery scenes, collages and abstracts. There were clay models, sculptures and lino prints. In a breathless and hurried voice she attempted to explain what the eleven-year-olds in her care were doing.

"They're ... er ... painting .. . using poster paints .. . trying to mix the different colours to paint a scene .. . they are experimenting with different colours and shapes and textures. Some are using brushes, others palette knives or other objects to get an effect." She wrung her hands nervously. "I should say, Mr. Phinn, that I'm not a specialist."

I smiled rea.s.suringly and whispered, "Neither am I." Squatting before one little artist, I watched, fascinated by the child's dexterity and concentration. He was a small boy, with dark heavy eyes and long lashes, and a disarming smile. His small twisted body was hunched over the table and his thin legs were tucked beneath the st.u.r.dy chair on which he sat. He placed a small, soft rubber ball into a bowl of crimson paint and then, with delicate fingers, he rolled the ball across the sheet of dark blue paper creating the most striking effect.

"It's a sunset," he explained. "Sometimes when you look at the sky, it looks as if it's on fire. It's full of reds and yellows and oranges in long streaky flames." He immersed the ball in a bowl of orange paint and repeated the process. "I've used different things to get the different effects, you see," he explained. I craned forward to get a better view. The boy suddenly sneezed. The ball he was holding, which was covered in thick sticky orange paint, shot out of his hand and, like a bullet from a gun, hit me smack between the legs. It fell to the floor, leaving behind a bright golden sunburst on my trousers. A deathly silence followed. A faint voice said, "I'm sorry, sir, it just sort of slipped." The teacher arrived, fluttering a large cloth like a flag and not having the first idea what to do with it. "Oh dear, oh my goodness, oh how unfortunate." She stared in disbelief at the stain for a moment and thrust the cloth into my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a care a.s.sistant take a handkerchief from her handbag and stuff it in her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. By the door, another care a.s.sistant turned away, wiping her eyes. Then the children, who had been remarkably quiet, began to giggle, then chuckle and finally everyone was laughing: children, teacher a.s.sistants and me. I stood there, the centre of attention a grey-suited figure with a great splash of gold like some magnificent codpiece.

My attempts, later in the privacy of the gents, to remove paint proved fruitless. If anything I made it worse. The bright orange had been transformed into a much larger sickly brown blotch. With the aid of my clipboard, I covered the mark and headed for the next lesson, a lower junior English cla.s.s, confident that I could hide the blemish. If I remained seated at the back of the cla.s.sroom with the clipboard positioned strategically on my lap there was little chance of anyone seeing the stain. At lunch-time I planned to nip into the nearby town and buy a pair of grey flannels.

I had not banked, however, on meeting Little Miss Eagle Eyes. As I entered the cla.s.sroom, a small girl of about seven or eight, with Down's syndrome, must have spotted the mark on my trousers and no sooner had I positioned myself at the rear of the room out of everyone's way than she approached me. I smiled warmly at the serious face. She continued to observe me as if I were some rather strange specimen in a museum case. Then she gently lifted the clipboard and peered underneath. She looked up. Then back at the stain and then back at me. Recognition suddenly dawned and she shouted the full length of the cla.s.sroom.

"Miss! Miss! This man's done a runny poof"

Every head in the cla.s.sroom turned in my direction. "I ... er ... had a accident with some paint in the previous cla.s.s," I explained, making my hasty apologies to an astonished teacher and an open-mouthed cla.s.s, before scurrying from the room. With clipboard clasped to my stomach, I headed quickly for the school office, intending to explain the situation to the school secretary and say I would be out of school for a short while. But Lady Luck was not with me. Halfway down the corridor I met Mrs. Thomas herself, beaming madly.

"Oh, Mr. Phinn, I heard what happened from Miss Taylor." She stared at the stain. "Oh dear, it does look rather conspicuous, doesn't it? Not to worry, it's only poster paint and will not be hard to remove. It's not uncommon for some of our children to have a little accident now and again and we have a laundry on the premises. I'm sure we can soon find you a change of clothes if you would like to follow me."

The change of clothes consisted of a pair of white cotton trousers. They looked ridiculous worn with my grey jacket, white s.h.i.+rt and college tie so I put on the matching white cotton jacket, and was soon dressed in the sort of outfit worn by physiotherapists, care a.s.sistants, support staff and ancillaries. The suit was rather small and tight-fitting but I felt a great deal more at ease and, picking up my clipboard, headed for lunch in the dining-room.

The first lesson of the afternoon was a music cla.s.s with the older juniors. On my way there I pa.s.sed several people, all dressed in the same white attire as me. I found the music teacher hovering outside the music room, looking furtively in each direction. She had a long, pale, worried face and was twitching nervously as I approached.

"Good afternoon' I began.

"Quick!" she snapped, pulling the sleeve of my jacket. "Quick! Come in!" She glanced over my shoulder and then down the corridor before pus.h.i.+ng me into an empty cla.s.sroom on the other side of the corridor. She pushed the door to, and whispered in a confidential tone of voice, "Did you see any?"

"See any?" I repeated.

"Inspectors. Did you see any school inspectors? We've got inspectors in."

"Yes, I know, I'm I tried to explain but with little success.

"I'm terrified, I don't mind telling you. I've seen the old one prowling about in the mathematics block this morning. He looks as if he's been dug up."

"Well, you see-'

"I've got the piano tuner in the music room mending two broken keys on the baby grand, a whistling window cleaner up a ladder outside, the cla.s.sroom a.s.sistant off ill, a really lively group of children arriving any moment and you can bet your bottom dollar I'll have a school inspector watching points and ticking his little boxes."

"If I might-'

"They descend on you like hungry vultures, you know. They look into everything folders, files, desks, drawers, books, bags, storeroom, cupboards. I wouldn't put it past them to rootle through my handbag."

"Oh no, they-'

"It's a nightmare. Then they interrogate you, ask you all sorts of questions before sitting at the back of the room scribbling away, and you never know what they write. It's all very upsetting. I've not had a wink of sleep for a month."

"It's not that bad," I rea.s.sured her.

"Well, how would you know?" she said sharply, but did not waitforareply. "Youshouldhave it done to you and you'll find out how stressful it is. Have you ever been observed?" She did not wait for an answer to that either, but rattled on regardless. "I mean, my job is on the line here. I just know I'll get one in with me at some point today. I have a sort of premonition. I can feel it in my bones. Are you sure you didn't see anybody heading this way?"

"Well, no, I didn't, but if I might explain why I am'

"Thank G.o.d for that! I might just be lucky." She peered out of the door. "Anyway, the children are arriving now."

I followed her as she darted across the corridor into the music room where she spoke to a group of very ebullient children who were finding their places. "Listen a moment, everyone, and that includes you, Michael Thompson." The children stopped their chatter and faced the teacher. "Did any of you see a stranger heading this way?"

"No, miss," the cla.s.s chorused.

"Because we might be having a school inspector with us this afternoon and I want everyone on their best behaviour." The teacher flourished a hand in my direction. "Here's your physio, Peter, so you can get straight off."

A young man in a wheelchair approached me. "Is it hydrotherapy today, sir?" he asked.

"I've no idea," I replied.

"It's usually hydrotherapy on a Monday, sir, if the pool's available."

"This is a new physiotherapist, Peterand he's probably not aware of all the'

"Actually, I'm not," I interrupted quite forcefully. I could not let this deception continue.

"You're not? Well, who are you then?" asked the teacher. "You need to wear your badge so if you do meet an inspector, he'll know who you are."

I reached into my pocket for my badge and pinned it on my lapel. In bold black lettering it read: G. R. Phinn, Inspector of Schools.

At first the teacher did not register and then her face drained of colour. She stared at the badge as if mesmerised, before whispering, "You never are. Oh Lord, you never are."

"I'm afraid so." I smiled weakly. "I have been attempting to tell you."

"I feel faint," she murmured, and then added, "I never knew inspectors came incognito." Then, turning to the window, she gestured at the whistling window cleaner, polis.h.i.+ng away outside. "Is he one as well?" she asked faintly.

Once we had got over that little trauma, the lesson was fine. The children were keen and interested and demonstrated their not inconsiderable skills on various instruments. When the teacher saw the smiles and heard the easy, pleasant conversations between us, she visibly relaxed. It was towards the end of the lesson that a pale, gentle-eyed boy with long delicate hands and an ashen complexion wheeled himself towards me. Matthew, I later found out, had Muscular Dystrophy, a cruel and debilitating disease which wastes away the muscles in the body.

"Would you like me to sing?" he asked simply.

I had never been asked such a question in a cla.s.sroom before. Children often offered to read to me or show me their writing or tell me about the work they were undertaking but never sing.

"I should like that very much," I replied.

The boy sang a haunting melody in a high, clear and perfectly pitched voice. The cla.s.sroom fell utterly silent. Not a child moved. The window cleaner stopped his whistling and froze on his ladder, the piano tuner who had stayed behind to hear the lesson had an expression of utter astonishment and I felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes for the second time that day.

When he had finished, the teacher sighed loudly. "Oh Matthew," she said, putting an arm around his shoulder, 'that song always makes me cry."

A shy smile came to the boy's lips, the smile of one who has unexpectedly scored the winning goal, who has finally reached a summit. It was a smile of pure success.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon observing the English lessons. In one cla.s.s I came upon an earnest-looking young man of about sixteen drafting an essay which was placed on a tray fixed across the front of his wheelchair. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, his face was fierce with concentration.

"Good afternoon," I said, sitting down next to him and looking over his shoulder.

"Oh, hi!" he replied, staring up and smiling.

"Would you like to tell me what you are doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me what you're doing?" I repeated.

"Well, as you can see, I'm writing." There was a mischievous glint in the bright, intelligent eyes.

"Writing what?"

He placed his pen down carefully in front of him. "Who are you?"

"I'm Gervase Phinn, a school inspector," I told him.

"Really? I thought you were a care a.s.sistant or one of the medical staff. Do all school inspectors usually dress like dentists?"

"No, they don't. It's a long story."

"I like stories," he said, placing his elbows on the desk and propping his chin in his cupped hands. "I want to be a professional writer. I've got a place at Oxford to read English next year."

"Well done," I said.

"If I get the grades. So, what's the story with the white outfit, then?"

"I spilt something on my suit and hence the change of clothes," I explained.

"And here I was thinking there was something sinister about it that you were creeping round cla.s.srooms incognito, disguised as a care a.s.sistant to spy on the teachers. It would make a good story that, don't you think?"

"You'll have to write it and send me a copy," I told him, smiling. "Now, would you tell me what you are doing?"

He explained to me that the texts he was studying for his exams were The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov and Oth.e.l.lo by William Shakespeare.

"And which do you prefer?" I asked.

He looked down at his desk for a moment in thoughtful silence. "The Chekhov, I think," he eventually replied.

"That's an interesting choice," I remarked.

"Why do you say that?" he asked.

"I would have thought that a boy of sixteen would have preferred Oth.e.l.lo."

"Really?"

"Perhaps you would tell me why you prefer Chekhov to Shakespeare?" I asked.

"Perhaps before I do that, Mr. Phinn," he replied, 'you would explain why you think it is surprising that a boy of sixteen might prefer the Shakespeare?" There was a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Well, I suppose it's because there's more excitement and action in the Shakespeare. It's more of a boy's play, I would have thought."

"I guess most people, like you, would a.s.sume that a boy would prefer a play with more action, intrigue and violence rather than the more contemplative and thoughtful Russian drama but I'm rather perverse in that I like the Chekhov. Boys can be sensitive as well, you know."

"Yes, of course," I replied, feeling firmly put in my place.

At the end of the day David, Gerry and I sat in the Head-teacher's room giving some feedback. My colleagues, like the pupil to whom I had been speaking, were greatly intrigued as to why I was dressed 'like a trainee doctor' but I explained to them that all would be revealed later.

"Well, as for mathematics, Mrs. Thomas .. David began.

His voice became fainter and fainter as I stared through the window at the great sweep of the fells, the tumbling woods and distant moorland. I could feel the warmth of the mellow afternoon sun on my face and caught a waft of roses from the garden. I was in another world.

"Would you like to say a few things about English and the arts, Mr. Phinn?" David's voice broke into my reverie.

Before I could respond, there was a knock on the door and what appeared like a delegation entered the room. The little artist presented me with his painting of the sunset, Ruth gave me a copy of her poem and Miss Taylor held out a pair of clean, neatly pressed trousers. The Headteacher smiled broadly, Gerry frowned in obvious puzzlement and David's eyes popped out, as we say in Yorks.h.i.+re, like chapel hat pegs.

"Here are your trousers, Mr. Phinn," said Miss Taylor, suppressing a smile. "We wouldn't want you to leave without them."

It was a glorious early summer day when I visited Scarthorpe Primary School. I sat uncomfortably in an already hot car, parked in a gateway, becoming increasingly frustrated. It was as well that I had set off early that morning because I had been over hill and dale in a futile search for the elusive little school. I had checked the route to the village of Scarthorpe on the Ordnance Survey map before setting out and it had seemed simple enough. Indeed, the route via quiet, snaking lanes was quite straightforward until I had arrived at some crossroads where none of the old, pointed wooden signs made any mention of Scarthorpe. It was as if the village had been suddenly swallowed up. I tossed a mental coin, turned right and drove for a couple of miles until I came to a sign for Scarthorpe pointing in the opposite direction. I retraced my route, crossed over the original crossroads and came to more crossroads with another set of signs but, again, none with the name of the village I wanted. I turned left and arrived at a sign which indicated that Scarthorpe was, yet again, in the direction from which I had just come. So, back I went and after a couple more miles, with no signs in sight, I pulled off the road. I was now sitting, fuming, in the car, deciding which way to go next. I pushed the totally unhelpful road atlas aside its scale was far too small and stared through the windscreen at the magnificent view which stretched before me.