Over Hill And Dale Part 18

Gerry, who had joined me a few moments before, just in time to hear the end of my interesting exchange with the 'bright little b.u.t.ton', whispered in my ear. "You know, Gervase, if I get Alzheimer's Disease when I'm feeble, old and grey, I think I would like my children to say that I have got "Old Timers' Disease". It sounds much more friendly and humane, don't you think?"

"I thought you said you didn't have a family?" I replied, surprised at the revelation.

"I don't yet," she told me, throwing her head back and laughing, 'but I intend to one day."

"Excuse me," said the 'bright little b.u.t.ton', patting my arm, 'would your girlfriend like to hear me read?"

At the second school, Sheepcote Primary, Gerry looked through the children's work and discussed the science curriculum with the teacher while I moved around the cla.s.s room talking to the children about the tasks they were undertaking that morning. On the table, tucked in a corner, were two boys busy sewing. One looked as if he had been dragged through a hedge backwards. He had spiky hair, a round red face and large ears. His nose was running and a front tooth was missing. His shirt was hanging out, his socks were concertinaed around his ankles, his legs were covered in cuts and bruises, and his shoes were so scuffed I could not tell whether they were originally black or brown. His hands and face were both entirely innocent of soap and water. His companion looked as healthy as a prize-winning bull. He was a very large, amiable-looking boy with a round moon of a face, great dimpled elbows and knees, and fingers as fat as sausages. Both boys were surrounded by threads, cottons, fabrics, an a.s.sortment of needles, boxes of pins and scissors and both were sewing furiously, their arms rising and falling like pistons.

"h.e.l.lo," I said brightly.

"h.e.l.lo," replied the larger boy. His companion continued to sew with a vengeance, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

"And how are you?"

"Middlin' well," replied the large boy.

"And what are you two up to?" I asked amiably.

"Samplers," he answered.

"Samplers?"

"Victorian embroidery," the toothless one informed me, still vigorously sewing.

"For Mother's Day on Sunday," added the other.

"I see," I said, bending over them to get a closer look at their work. "May I see?"

"Can't be stopping," said the toothless one, continuing to sew with great determination, forcing the needle savagely through the canvas. "Got to get it finished." He turned to his friend. "Pa.s.s us t'pink will that, Dean?"

His companion searched through the a.s.sortment of coloured threads. "All gone," he replied bluntly.

"All gone!" exclaimed the toothless boy. "All gone! Tha's gone and used all t'pink?"

"I needed it for mi roses."

"And that's used all t'purple, an all?"

"That were for mi lilac'

"And t'yella?"

"That were for mi daffs," said the large boy apologetically.

"And that's left me wi all t'blacks and t'browns and t'greys. Thanks very much, Dean!"

The boys, entirely oblivious of my presence, resumed pushing the large needles through the fabric as if their lives depended upon it.

"Just stop a moment, will you, please," I told them.

The toothless one paused, looked up, wiped the dewdrop from his nose with the back of his hand and then returned to his sewing as if he had not heard me.

"I can't stop," he told me. "I've got to gerrit done."

His companion, clearly very pleased with his effort, held up a pale square of cream fabric. In large, uneven letters were the words: A MOTHER'S LOVE IS A BLESSING. The border was ablaze with a whole host of large, unrecognisable but extremely vivid flowers.

"I've just got mi name to put at t'bottom and I'm all done," he announced proudly.

"And that's used up all t'pink," grumbled his companion, who was still st.i.tching away madly.

The large boy straightened his sampler with a fat, pink hand and admired his handiwork before asking, "Are you one of these school inspectors Miss was on about?"

"I am," I replied.

"What do you reckon to mi sampler, then?"

"Well, it's very bright and original but, you know, if I had come into your school a hundred years ago, you'd have been in real trouble."

"How old are you, then?" asked the toothless boy.

"What I meant is that if a school inspector had visited your school at the time it was built, you would have been in trouble."

"Why's that then?"

"Because your st.i.tches are too big. If you look at the Victorian samplers, you will notice that the lettering and designs are very delicate and very carefully st.i.tched."

The toothless boy stopped sewing abruptly, examined his sampler and carefully put down his needle and thread, before turning to look me straight in the face. "Aye, well, if I did 'em all small and delicate like what you say, mi mum'd niwer gerrit, would she? I've been on this for four week and I'llbe lucky to get it done for next year's Mother's Day, way things stand."

"I'll get mine done," Dean chimed in smugly.

"Aye!" snapped the toothless one. "And we know why, don't we?"

"Why?" I asked.

"Because, when Miss give out all these different Victorian sayings and proverbs, I was off poorly and when I got back I was stuck wit' one n.o.b'dy wanted. Dean got shortest -A MOTHER'S LOVE IS A BLESSING and I got t'longest!" He displayed his piece of fabric with a grubby finger. It read: THERE IS NOTHING SO PURE, THERE IS NOTHING SO HIGH, AS THE LOVE YOU.

WILL SEE IN YOUR MOTHER'S EYE.

"I've only just started mi border," he moaned. "And Dean's used all t'pinks and t'yellas and t'purples and I'm stuck wit' blacks t'browns and t'greys!"

"You could do animals instead of flowers," suggested his companion with a self-satisfied smirk on his round red face. "You don't need colours for sheep and cows and goats "I'd need sum mat for t'pigs, though, wouldn't I?" cried the toothless one. "And that's used all t'pink!"

"I'm sure that, however it turns out, your mother will love your sampler," I rea.s.sured him.

"If she gets it!" he barked.

"Well, I may see you boys later," I said moving away.

"Later?" they exclaimed in unison.

"I thought I'd pop into the Singing cla.s.s during the lunch-hour," I told them.

"Singing!" the toothless one exclaimed. "Singing! We don't gu to no Singing cla.s.s! That's for t'cissies!" The other boy, putting the finishing touches to his large pink rose, nodded in agreement before echoing his companion's sentiments: "Aye, choir's for t'cissies and t'la.s.ses. You wunt catch us theer."

As I headed to another desk, I heard a plaintive cry from the corner table, "Miss, miss, can I have some pink thread, please? We're clean out ovver 'ere!"

After lunch, on our way to the Headteacher's room, Gerry and I paused for a moment at the door of the school hall to watch a little of the Singing cla.s.s. There was no sign of the two embroiderers. The juniors, conducted by a very expressive young man in a red corduroy suit, great spotted bow-tie and mustard-coloured waistcoat, were singing with great gusto.

There was an old lady who swallowed a fly. I don't know why she swallowed a fly. Perhaps she'll die.

On our way out of the school a little later, we came across a very distressed-looking girl standing crying in the corridor.

Great tears rolled down her cheeks and her small body was shaking piteously.

"What is it?" asked Gerry quietly, squatting in front of the weeping child and gently touching her arm.

"I'm going to die!" wailed the little girl. "I'm going to die."

"No, no," comforted Gerry, giving her a cuddle. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"I just know it! I'm going to die!" The child wiped her tears away with small round fists, leaving long streaks across her red cheeks.

"Who says you are going to die?" asked Gerry gently.

"Everyone!" exclaimed the child. "Everyone! I know I am. I'm going to die!"

"How do you know?"

"Because I swallowed a fly, that's why. On the campsite last year in France. I swallowed a fly!" moaned the child. "They were singing in the hall. They said I'd die!"

Gerry finally managed to rea.s.sure the little girl that what she had heard was just a funny song and that she was not going to die. The child departed down the corridor with the mournful words, "And I need to swallow a spider to get the fly."

We left Sheepcote School, both smiling, and headed further up the dale. My companion said very little, she just stared in wonderment out of the car window at the sweeping panorama, clumps of early primroses sheltering under the hedgerows bright in the afternoon sun, the dark, far-off wooded fells, rough moorland, great stone outcrops and hazy peaks. Gerry was certainly going to fit in well, I thought to myself. She had an easy natural way with children, related well to teachers and was good-humoured and friendly. I just wondered what she would make of the three of us in the Inspectors' Office, and whether she would be able to cope with the constant verbal badminton between David and Sidney. My leisurely drive was brought to an abrupt halt.

"Stop!" Gerry suddenly cried.

"Whatever is it?" I exclaimed, skidding the car to a halt.

"Look."

I had seen many animals and birds in my first year travelling around the dales: squirrels dashing suicidally across the road in front of the car to find safety in the trees, the white scuts of rabbits rushing for their burrows, co vies of partridges zinging down the headlands, pheasants ambling by the side of the road, so fat one wondered how they could ever get off the ground, the red brush of a fox slipping shadow-like into the bracken, herons flying lazily over wide, rose-grey rivers, and, once, a family of stoats playing in the quiet sunlit lane. Sometimes I would stop the car and lean against a gate to watch the scene in the fields falling away below me: a tractor chugging along a track, lambs twitching their tails and jumping high in spring sunshine, crested lapwings wheeling and plunging in a great empty sky and sometimes, best of all, I would listen to the call of the curlew.

I had never witnessed, however, what I saw then on that March day. In the field to the side of the road two hares, with long, lean bodies and great erect ears, squared up to each other and began boxing. We watched fascinated as they punched and pummelled each other. The sparring continued until the tired and defeated animal was chased away and the victor rose high on his hind legs, observed us with indifference, and loped away triumphant and unafraid.

Cragside Primary, our third and final port of call, sat in the shadow of the ma.s.sive sphinx-like Cawthorne Crag. There was a mouth-watering aroma of baking pastry permeating the building.

"The children learn to cook in this school, Mr. Phinn,"

explained the Headteacher. "I feel it is important that all children, and particularly boys, should know how to bake a loaf, make a pie, even cook a whole meal. They won't always have their mothers looking after them. Of course, it used to be called baking-time when I started teaching, then it was cookery cla.s.s, then home economics and now, I believe, it's called food technology. It's all the same in my book. Today, we are trying our hand at pastry and our school cook, or catering manager as the Education Office will insist on calling her, is overseeing our efforts."

The school kitchen was a hive of activity. Two boys, smart in white ap.r.o.ns, were helping a large woman with floury hands take their culinary efforts out of the oven. One boy had such a dusting of flour on his face that he looked like Marley's ghost.

"Do you like tarts?" he asked as I approached.

"Pardon?"

"Tarts. Do you like tarts?"

"Jam tarts," added the woman with the floury hands, winking at me.

"Oh, I'm very partial to tarts."

"Do you want one of mine?"

"I think our visitor might enjoy one of your tarts, Richard, at afternoon break with his cup of tea." There was a look on the woman's face which recommended me not to eat one of the tarts on offer.

"But I want to know what he thinks," the boy told her.

"You have to wait until they are cool, Richard."

"Tarts are better when they're hot, miss," persisted the boy. He then looked at me with a shining, innocent face. "Don't you think hot tarts are better than cold ones?"

"I do," I agreed, 'and I will have one of your tarts now." The cook's face took on an expression which told me that I had been warned.

The boy selected the biggest on the baking tray a large, crusty-looking, misshapen lump of pastry. In the centre was a blob of dark red which I supposed was jam. It looked the most unappetising piece of pastry I had ever seen, but I could not go back now. The boy watched keenly as I took a ma.s.sive bite.

"What do you think?" asked the boy eagerly.

It was extremely difficult to speak as the dried-up confection coated the inside of my mouth. I coughed and sprayed the air with bits of pastry and dried jam. "I have never tasted a tart like this in my life," I a.s.sured him honestly, between splutters.

A great smile spread across the boy's face. "Really?"

"Really."

"Would you like another?"

"No, thank you," I replied quickly, 'one is quite enough."

"Does your wife want one?"

"No, thank you, Richard," replied Gerry, trying to suppress her laughter. "I've just had my lunch."

At the end of the afternoon, as we were heading for the door, the little chef appeared with a brown paper bag in his hand. "I've put one of my tarts in here for you, miss," he said to Gerry, 'to have with your tea tonight."

"That's very kind," she said. "Thank you very much."

"And another one for you, sir," he added.