Over Hill And Dale Part 19

"Thank you," I replied.

"Funny thing is baking, isn't it?" the boy pondered, holding out his hands in front of him the better to examine them. "You know, my hands were dead mucky before I started making my tarts and just look how clean they are now."

Gerry placed the brown paper bag carefully in her briefcase and smiled.

A mile or so from the school I pulled off the road. My intention was to discuss the day with Gerry, share our observations and for me to explain a little of what I considered the job of school inspector involved, but she was silent and once more awe-struck by the view, now softened in the late afternoon sun.

"It's like sitting on the roof of the world," she murmured.

In front of us stretched a grim, primitive, endless land. Nothing broke the silence: no complaining sheep or yapping collie dog, no l.u.s.ty c.o.c.k crow or curlew's fitful cry, no roar or babble of falling water or sighing wind. All was still. Then, high above, a pair of circling buzzards, their great wings outstretched, soared alone in an empty sky.

"I'm going to love this job," Gerry said quietly.

"I'm sure you will," I replied.

She looked at me with her dark blue eyes. "Do you think I'll fit in?"

"Oh, yes, definitely." She stared out of the window and sighed. "However, there's something very important I've got to ask you," I said seriously.

"Yes?" her brow furrowed slightly.

"Would you like your tart now or save it for later?"

The first school I visited in the Summer term was Ugglemat-tersby County Junior School where I had agreed to take the a.s.sembly and spend the day visiting cla.s.ses. The school was situated in the very centre of a dark, brooding village, sandwiched between the Masonic Hall, a square and solid box of a building in rusty-red brick, and the public house, built of a slaty limestone turned a greasy grey, with windows like black cold eyes. The overcast sky and slanting April rain made the school and its surroundings even more bleak and unwelcoming. The area circling the village was a strange and desolate land of sweeping grey moors. It was a wet and barren landscape, naked save for a few ancient oaks and a couple of centuries-old farmsteads. A few hardy sheep, nibbling at the wiry gra.s.ses as thin as the whistling wind, were watched by a pair of hooded crows perched in the gaunt arms of a dead tree like vultures awaiting a death.

There were two women in the drab entrance hall of the school. One was large, with a pale, perfectly spherical face, crimson adhesive lipstick and heavy rounded shoulders. The other was a stern, disagreeable-looking woman with small deep-set eyes, a tight little mouth and bright peroxide hair which stuck up like a brush not an agreeable combination. They stopped talking when I entered and eyed me suspiciously.

"Good morning," I greeted them cheerfully.

"Mornin'," they replied in unison.

"Dreadful weather, isn't it?"

"Dreadful," they replied together.

I was about to press the buzzer on the small reception desk when the larger of the two addressed me. "If you're 'ere to complain, get to t'back o' t'queue."

"No, I'm not here to complain. I have an appointment with the Headteacher." I pressed the buzzer and a moment later a small, hara.s.sed-looking woman scurried out. Before she could ask who I was and what I wanted, the large woman pushed forward menacingly.

"Have you told 'im we're 'ere?" she barked.

"I have, Mrs. Wilmott. Mr. Sharpies will be with you in one moment."

"I've been stood 'ere the best part o' ten minutes."

"And me, an' all," added the smaller of the two women.

"I'll be purrin roots down if I wait 'ere much longer."

"I appreciate that, Mrs. Wilmott, but it is always very hectic on a Monday, and it is always best to make an appointment to be certain that the Headteacher is available. Mr. Sharpies is busy at the moment'

"He's always busy when I come into school. Well, I'm not goin' until I've seen 'im."

"If you could just bear with me for one moment, Mrs. Wilmott, until I find out what this gentleman wants'

"He wants to see Mr. Sharpies," announced the large woman.

"He's got an appointment with 'im," added the other.

"Mr. Phinn," I said, smiling at the small receptionist. "I think the Headteacher is expecting me."

"Are you the book representative?"

"No. Mr. Sharpies will know who I am when you tell him." I thought it best to keep my ident.i.ty secret from my two aggressive companions. The receptionist hurried away without a word and was back in quick time, accompanied by an exceptionally thin and sallow-complexioned man in a shiny suit and highly polished shoes. When he caught sight of the large woman and her companion with the bright hair, the Headteacher smiled the resigned smile of a martyr about to face the stake.

"Good morning, Mr. Phinn. I will be with you in one moment." He turned to the women. "Now then, Mrs. Wil-mott, Mrs. Leech, what can I do for you both?"

"It's our Mandy!" snapped the large woman.

"I guessed it would be," replied the Headteacher wearily. "What is it this time?"

"She come home Friday with nits and they're noters "Not hers?" repeated the Headteacher.

"Noters She must 'ave gor 'em from somebody in this school because there's no nits in our 'ouse."

"Well, I am most grateful that you have pointed that out to me, Mrs. Wilmott. I will alert the other parents."

"She shouldn't be comin' 'ome with nits which aren't 'ers," continued the large woman.

"Indeed no," replied Mr. Sharpies, retaining his concerned countenance.

"I've brought erin this mornin' and I don't want 'er comin' 'ome with another 'eadful of nits tonight!"

"I take it you have been to the chemist for a specially treated shampoo for head lice?" asked the Headteacher.

"Yes, I 'ave! She's 'ad three good dousin's."

"Very wise. I will write to all parents asking them to check their children's hair and ensure that they send them to school with clean scalps."

"Well, I 'opes that's the end of it! She shouldn't be comin' 'ome with nits what aren't 'ers."

"I did send a copy of the leaflet concerning the prevention and treatment of head lice to each parent or guardian last term, if you recall, Mrs. Wilmott. It recommended the use of a fine-tooth comb on wet hair and specially prepared lotions or rinses obtainable from the pharmacist."

"I know all that!" snapped the woman. "But my Mandy has short 'air and it's kept clean and combed regular."

"Head lice are not fussy about hair length or condition of the hair, Mrs. Wilmott," explained Mr. Sharpies. "Clean hair is no protection." The Headteacher then turned his attention to the other woman. "And have you come about head lice, Mrs. Leech?" he asked the smaller woman in an excessively patient tone of voice. "Or is it something else?"

"I've come about knickers!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Crystal's come home wearing knickers what aren't 'ers!"

"I see," sighed the Headteacher. He turned to me and displayed his martyr's smile. "Do go on into my room, Mr. Phinn." He gestured before him. "I have a feeling this will take a little time."

Through the open door I heard him attempting to pacify the two mothers. Ten minutes later he entered the room, lowered himself into his chair, sighed heavily, stared at me for a moment with great doleful eyes and then remarked, "I became a head teacher Mr. Phinn, to educate the young, to teach children, but what do I have to deal with, day in and day out? Nits and knickers, that's what. Those two women are the very bane of my life. They spend more time in the school than the teachers whom they pursue with the relentless fervour of two hungry foxhounds. When I sent the forms out for the new intake of children, under the section where she had to write her husband's name, Mrs. Wilmott entered: "Father not yet known". I had a dreadful premonition when I read it that Mandy's mother would not be the easiest of parents to deal with." He shook his head and grimaced. "And as for Mrs. Leech'

"Mr. Sharpies," I interrupted, glancing at my watch, "I think it may be about time for the a.s.sembly."

"Oh, good gracious me, so it is, so it is. Do come this way, Mr. Phinn."

The junior children were all waiting quietly in a plain, dark school hall with heavy brown drapes framing long windows which looked out upon the cold and lonely moor. Row after row of children, with serious faces, sat quietly, cross-legged on the hard wooden floor, watched by their serious-faced teachers who stood, arms folded, around the sides.

"Good morning, children," said the Headteacher.

"Good morning, Mr. Sharpies, good morning, everyone," they replied with little enthusiasm.

"We will start with the hymn "All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small"," the Headteacher told them solemnly. The tired-looking teacher at the piano, who had been watching him with a glum expression on her long pale face, struck up the tune in such a slow and laboured way that the joyous hymn sounded like a funeral dirge. There was little verve or volume in the singing and no effort on the part of the teachers to encourage the pupils by singing themselves. I thought of the children at St. Bartholomew's who had sung so l.u.s.tily and in such a heartfelt way, almost competing with the booming rhythms of Miss Fenoughty plonking away on the piano.

"This morning," said Mr. Sharpies, when the hymn had finally ground to a halt, 'we have a guest in school. I am sure it will not have escaped your notice that there is a gentleman with us." All eyes focused upon me. "Mr. Phinn is a school inspector and he is going to take our a.s.sembly before joining you in the cla.s.srooms for the day. If Mr. Phinn asks you anything, answer him in your usual polite manner and should he look lost I am sure you will be able to tell him where to go." With that, the Headteacher joined his colleagues at the side of the hall and folded his arms.

"Good morning," I said and began the a.s.sembly. I attempted to get a response by asking the children about Easter what had they done over the holidays, had they been anywhere interesting, had they received any Easter eggs? questions which usually stimulate lively responses.

In this case little was forthcoming. Clearly, a.s.semblies in this school involved listening and not contributing. The only movement I noticed amongst the solemn rows of children was random scratchings at scalps. Rows of serious faces observed me quietly as if waiting for a performance to begin so I pressed on. I read them the very poignant children's story, The Selfish Giant by Oscar Wilde, which concerns the mean-minded Giant who owns a large and lovely garden with soft green gra.s.s, beautiful flowers like stars, and peach trees covered in delicate blossoms of pink and pearl. One day he finds small children playing in his garden and angrily chases them away. "My own garden is my own garden," he says and he builds a high wall so none can enter. When spring arrives, the Giant's garden is empty of birds, the trees have forgotten to blossom, snow covers the gra.s.s with a great white cloak, and frost paints the trees silver. The Giant sits sadly at his window and looks down on his garden which is in perpetual winter and he wonders why the spring did not return.

Then, one morning, he hears the birds singing and sees the most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall, the children have crept in and they are sitting in the branches of the trees which are now covered in blossoms. Only in one corner is it still winter. There stands a little boy weeping bitterly for he is too small to reach up to the branches, of the tree. The Giant's heart melts. "How selfish I have been," he says. So he creeps downstairs and into his garden. He takes the little child gently in his hands and puts him in the tree. And the tree bursts into blossom and the birds come and sing in it. The Giant takes a great axe and knocks down the high wall so all the children can come to play in his garden. Every day they come to play but the little boy the Giant loves more than any other, the one he put into the tree, is never with them.

Years pa.s.s and the Giant grows very old and feeble. One winter morning he looks from his window to see in the farthest corner of the garden a tree covered in lovely white blossoms. Its branches are golden and silver fruit hangs from them. Underneath stands the little boy he loves. Downstairs runs the Giant with great joy. Across the gra.s.s he runs until he comes close to the child. And then his face grows red with anger. "Who hath dared to wound thee?" he cries, for on the palms of the child's hands are the prints of two nails and the prints of two nails are on the little feet. "Tell me," roars the Giant, 'and I will take my big sword and slay him."

"Nay," answers the child, 'these are the wounds of love."

"Who art thou?" asks the Giant, and a strange awe falls on him and he kneels before that little child. And the child smiles.

"You let me play once in your garden. Today you shall come to my garden, which is Paradise." And when the children ran into the garden that afternoon to play, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, covered in white blossoms.

I had barely finished the story when a number of hands shot up. This is more like it, I thought. The children are beginning to respond and I can now talk about the story and relate it to the theme of being kind and considerate to others. The owner of one of the hands waving at me was a large, red-cheeked boy with hair the colour of straw.

"Yes?" I said, pointing in his direction.

"I'm a Methodist," he announced loudly.

"Really?" I replied.

"And I'm going to Paradise!"

"I'm sure you are."

"Mr. Phinn!" Another boy almost identical to the first in size and colouring shouted from the back, "I'm Church of England and I'm goin' to Paradise an' all!"

"I'm certain you will get in as well," I replied.

Then a large girl with a chubby face, rounded shoulders and wild, woolly hair rose to her feet and announced dramatically, "I'm nowt but I'm still gerrin' in!"

"I'm sure you'll be the first in the queue, Mandy," the Headteacher told her before instructing the children not to call out.

I met Mandy later in her cla.s.sroom. She was sitting next to a small, sad-looking girl of about ten or eleven with a tight little mouth and bright blonde hair. I guessed that I had met her mother earlier that morning. The two girls stopped talking when I approached and eyed me suspiciously.

"Would you like to tell me what you're doing?" I asked pleasantly.

"Why?" demanded the larger child.

"Well, I would like you to."

"But why?"

"I'm a school inspector," I said. "Don't you remember? Mr. Sharpies mentioned in a.s.sembly that I would be coming into cla.s.srooms. I'm here to look at your work."

The girl shrugged, scratched her scalp and pushed her book across the desk. "We're writing," she explained.

"About what?"

"What we did ower t'weekend."

"I see. Would you like to tell me what you did?"

"Not particularly," she replied, scratching her scalp again.

"She been weshing her 'air all weekend cos she 'ad nits," announced the smaller girl.

"Shurrup, Crystal!" cried the larger girl, elbowing her. "You don't 'ave to tell everybody, tha knaws."

"Everybody knaws," said the other casually. "Yer mam broadcast it."

At the next table sat the youthful Methodist with two other large boys.

"Could I have a look at what you're doing?"

"Aye that can, if that likes." He pushed his book across the desk in my direction. In large untidy writing was an account of his visit to a Sat.u.r.day sheep auction with his grandfather.

"So you live on a farm, do you?" I asked.

"Aye, that's reight."

"And you have sheep?"

"Well, I reckon we wunt be goin' to a sheep auction if we kept pigs, now would we?"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't." I had learnt quite a bit about farming in my first year travelling around the Dales' schools and found that, by engaging children in a discussion about the things they were interested and often expert in, I could break the ice and very soon get them talking. From there I would move on to ask them what they liked doing best in school, talk about their writing, listen to them read and test their spelling. "So what breed of sheep do you have?" I asked.