Over Hill And Dale Part 23

"Oh yes, of course," said the Headteacher, reddening with embarra.s.sment. She turned to the policeman, who was flicking open his notebook again, and said, "It's quite all right, officer. I am expecting an inspector, but I never imagined that he would come with a police escort."

The secretary and the caretaker disappeared and the policeman, having satisfied himself of my ident.i.ty, departed, pausing at the gates of the school to rea.s.sure the group of anxious onlookers.

"Mr. Phinn," said Mrs. Wilson holding out her hand and smiling to cover her discomfiture, "I'm pleased to meet you."

"I am terribly sorry, Mrs. Wilson .. ." I began and then attempted to explain that I always gave myself plenty of time to find the schools I visited and that if I arrived early I sat in the car but that this was something I would never do again.

"It's not you who should be sorry, Mr. Phinn," said the Headteacher, turning in the direction of her colleague and glowering. "I do wish you had consulted me, Marion, before telephoning the police. This is a very unfortunate start to the day. I cannot begin to imagine what Mr. Phinn must be thinking."

"Well, I'm sorry, Mrs. Wilson, I'm sure," the second woman replied, clearly stung by the rebuke, 'but I thought he might be a child molester. One has to be very vigilant these days."

"This is Mrs. Thickett," said the Headteacher somewhat coldly. "She's in charge of the infant cla.s.s."

"How do you do," I said, attempting a smile.

"I mean, you can't be too careful," said the infant teacher, twisting the ring on her finger nervously. "Not where vulnerable little children are concerned. You read all the time in the papers about these abusers, s.e.x offenders and child molesters. There was a terrible programme on the television last week about'

"Mr. Phinn hardly looks like a child molester, Marion," interrupted the Headteacher sharply, still glaring at her.

"Oh, they don't all wear dirty raincoats, you know, Mrs. Wilson. Some of them come in suits."

"Well, there's no harm done." I smiled rea.s.suringly at Mrs. Thickett. "Mistakes do happen. Anyway, I was at fault not coming into school as soon as I arrived. Perhaps now that things have been cleared up .. ." I endeavoured to move the conversation on by beginning to explain what I wished to do during the morning visit but the little woman would not let it lie.

"You have to be so careful when it comes to the small ones. You hear all these dreadful stories of children being dragged into cars and driven off. It's a terrible world we live in, a terrible world."

Oh dear, I thought, this does not bode well.

I eventually managed to have ten minutes alone with the Headteacher to explain the focus of my visit. I was there to monitor the teaching and learning of English and agreed to start the morning in the infant cla.s.s.

Mrs. Thickett's cla.s.sroom was clean, orderly and decorated with bright posters and paintings. A few pieces of young children's first writing attempts were pinned alongside lists of key words, the alphabet and various arithmetical tables. Ranks of small melamine-topped tables were grouped together, each with a tray containing pencils, rulers, crayons and scissors. There was a small Reading Corner with a square of carpet, two large cushions and a bookcase full of a.s.sorted books, also a play area the Home Corner which had been set out as a cafe with a counter, plastic till, a table and a chair. The room smelt of bleach and lavender floor ; polish. I positioned myself at the rear of the cla.s.sroom and watched as the children entered. They eyed me suspiciously as they filed past and took their seats.

When they were all settled and facing the teacher, Mrs. Thickett began. "Good morning, children," she said jovially "Good morning, Mrs. Thickett, good morning, every one," the children chorused.

"This morning, children, we have a special visitor."

"It's the man in the car," chirped up a cheeky-faced youngster swivelling round to get a better look at me. "My mum phoned the bobbies about him." Oh dear, oh dear! I thought, this little incident is not going to go away. All eyes were now trained on me. I smiled wearily.

"That was because your mother thought that Mr. Phinn was a bad man, Shane," said the teacher in a simpering voice. "But Mr. Phinn is not a bad man. He's a nice man." I winced.

"Why did my mum phone the bobbies then, miss?" persisted the child, glancing again in my direction.

"Because she thought that Mr. Phinn was somebody else."

"A kidnapper, miss?"

"No, not a kidnapper."

"A murderer?" The child's voice rose in excitement.

"Don't be silly, Shane. She thought Mr. Phinn was a stranger and just to be on the safe side telephoned the police.

Remember that parents and teachers tell you not to talk to strangers so you all have to be very careful. But Mr. Phinn is not a stranger because I know him."

"But I don't know him, miss," said the child.

"Well, you soon will," replied the teacher, with a sharper ring to her voice. "Now, let's hear no more about it. Mr. Phinn's a school inspector, here this morning to see how well you are doing and to look at all the lovely work you do. So, don't be afraid to speak to him and answer his questions. He's very friendly." I didn't feel at all friendly.

"My mummy says I haven't to speak to strangers," announced a frightened-looking little girl at the front desk.

"Mr. Phinn is not a stranger, Melanie," Mrs. Thickett said slowly and deliberately. "I know him, Mrs. Wilson knows him and I say it is all right to talk to him."

Following the morning's unfortunate episode, I rather expected a quiet, nervous group of young children when I started my tour around the cla.s.sroom but the contrary was true. During the course of the morning, I moved from desk to desk speaking to the children about their stories, examining their work and listening to them read. I found them lively and interested and full of questions. Things seemed to be taking a turn for the better.

In the Home Corner, set out as Fred's Cafe, I met a stocky, six-year-old boy dressed in a large blue ap.r.o.n. He was playing the part of Fred, the proprietor. All around him were notices and signs: no dogs allowed, special OF THE WEEK, COD 'n' CHIPS, NO SMOKING! WAITER service. I seated myself at the small table and looked at a blank piece of paper at the top of which was written in bold lettering: menu. The little boy sidled up and stared at me intently. I looked up.

"What's it to be?" he asked.

"Oh," I said, taking on the role of a customer, "I think I'll just have something to drink."

"Anything to eat?"

"No, I don't think so."

"So you just want a drink?"

"Yes, please."

"What about some fish 'n' chips?"

"No, I'm really not that hungry."

"Just a drink?"

"That's right."

The boy disappeared and returned a moment later with a small, empty plastic beaker which he placed before me. Then he watched intently as I drank the imaginary liquid, licked my lips and exclaimed, "That was the nicest cup of tea I have had in a long while."

"It's an 'arf o' bitter," he told me bluntly and walked off.

On my tours of schools, I have visited many Home Corners: doctors' surgeries, opticians, banks, fish and chip shops, Victorian schoolrooms, dentists, florists, libraries, garages, corner shops, travel agents, clothes shops, strange planets and secret caves a whole range of imaginary places where the small children enter make-believe worlds and where their language is often at its richest and most creative. I have seen infant children taking on a whole host of roles, imitating mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters, teachers and other adults with whom they come in contact.

On one occasion I visited a Home Corner set out as an estate agents. Rachel, the six-year-old receptionist, was sitting behind a desk on which had been arranged pens, pencils, a tape measure, a calculator, a plastic telephone and a toy cash dispenser. She had a name card bearing the name "Miss R. Prentice' pinned to her dress and a pair of large spectacle frames on the tip of her nose. On a small table a range of brochures had been arranged, some made by the pupils themselves.

"Good morning," she said cheerfully when I entered. "May I help you?"

"I'm looking for a house," I said, 'a big one."

She pointed to the small table. "There are lots to choose from," she said confidently. "Have a browse."

"I like the look of this house," I said, pointing to a photograph of the largest and the most expensive.

The girl shook her head. "Sold," she replied, 'subject to contract."

"What about this one?" I said, picking up a photograph of another large residence. It had turrets and big bay windows, a great sweeping drive and tall iron gates.

She leaned forward and in a confidential voice informed me that "Big houses cost a lot of money, you know. Why don't you buy a little one?" She thrust a picture of a small red-bricked terraced house into my hand. She clearly thought that big houses were way out of my league. "This one should do you."

I recall the time during my first year as an inspector when I had found a Home Corner set out as a baby clinic and a small girl clutching a large doll to her chest. She had been surrounded by scales, towels, feeding bottles, a plastic bath and a toy cot.

As I approached she had looked up alarmed. "Go away!" she had cried. "I'm breast feeding!"

The most memorable and dramatic incident in a Home Corner had taken place in a large infant school in the town of Crompton. It had been set out as a little post office and there were two small girls, clutching shopping bags, waiting to be served by a small pixie-like boy with enormous gla.s.ses that made his eyes look larger than ever. Suddenly a bruiser of a little boy had burst in brandishing a large plastic gun.

"This is a stick up!" he had shouted. "Get them 'ands up in the air and let's be 'having yer cash!"

The two little girls had looked unperturbed and had readily obliged and the child behind the counter had emptied various bits of paper, representing the takings, into the paper ; bag which had been held out to him. The little bank robber had s.n.a.t.c.hed the papers that the two little girls had been holding and made a quick get-away.

"Isn't it terrible?" one little girl had complained, shaking her head. "He's gone and nicked mi family allowance."

"Ne'er mind, love," the other child had consoled her, 'we'll call at t'Social on t'way 'ome and you can get a credit . note."

As I left Fred's Cafe that morning, I met another customer. ? It was Shane, the cheeky-faced youngster whose mum had : telephoned the bobbies about me. There was a small plastic i policeman's helmet on his head.

"Mornin'," he said. "I wants a word wi' you."

Oh dear, oh dear! I thought, and beat a coward's retreat to the staff room for coffee.

It After morning break, I joined Mrs. Wilson in the junior cla.s.sroom and began by hearing the children read. The first ; child, Janine, was a strikingly pretty little black girl with long beaded hair and a bright, open smile.

i "I love reading," she announced in a matter-of-fact voice.

I'.". "Do you indeed?"

"I read all the time at home, you know." "Do you?"

"And Mummy reads to me and Daddy and Grampa and Grannie."

; "Really? You are a lucky girl."

: ; "And I get books for my birthday and at Christmas, and jl; we go to the library every Sat.u.r.day morning."

"So you read a great deal?" i "My daddy calls me a bibliomaniac. He says it's because I'm mad about books. And I am. I love books." I smiled and looked into the shiny open face. "And you probably have a lot of your own books, do you?"

I 277.

"Enough to start a library. That's what my mummy says."

"Will you read to me, then?"

"I'd love to."

She was indeed a very good reader: clear and expressive and with all the self-a.s.surance and high self-esteem of the achieving child who has experienced nothing but encouragement throughout her short life.

"Do you think I'm a good reader?" she asked when she had finished.

"No," I replied, 'you're not a good reader."

The child's sanguine expression disappeared in an instant, and she looked quite startled instead.

"You are a brilliant reader!" The smile returned, in triplicate. "You are one of the very best readers I have ever heard."

Later in the morning I came across Sam. He was a small rosy-cheeked boy with wiry blond hair, a round little biscuit barrel of a body and a doleful expression. He was not lively and interested and full of questions like Janine, and was unwilling to come with me into the Reading Corner with his book.

"I can't go on t'carpet," he announced flatly.

"You can," I replied.

"No, I can't. I can't go on that carpet."

"Did Mrs. Wilson say you couldn't go on the carpet?"

"No, but I'm not goin' on!"

"Why?"

"Because I'm not!"

"Is there some reason why you can't go on the carpet?" I persisted.

"Aye, there is."

"Well, why can't you go on the carpet?"

"Because I've got s.h.i.t on mi shoe."

"Oh no!" I exclaimed dramatically. "You must not say that word."

The child maintained his carefully blank expression. "What word?" he asked casually.

"That first word."

"Why?"

"Because it's not a very nice word for a little boy to use."

"Why?"

"Well, it's just not a nice word to use, that's all."