Over Hill And Dale Part 3

"I have a drawer in my filing cabinet marked "Fifi"," said David. "It's stuffed full of papers, dead doc.u.ments, reports and memoranda. Stands for "File it and forget it". Most of Mrs. Savage's missives are consigned to that drawer."

"Will you two be serious for a moment," I said. "It's not "Fifi", it's "Feoffee". I have to attend a meeting at Manston Hall. Evidently Lord Marrick is becoming the top Feoffee, whatever that involves, and wants to arrange some events to celebrate it. Could it be some sort of Masonic order?"

"Druids," suggested Sidney, putting on his raincoat. "Probably the Yorkshire version of the druids. Old men in white sheets dancing around the monoliths at Brimham Rocks. Like the daft sort of thing the Welsh go in for. Dressing up in those funny costumes and waiting for the eclipse."

"Daft!" exclaimed David. "I'll have you know that the druids are part of a long cultural tradition which stretches back centuries. They do not dress up in funny costumes. The Celts-'

"Oh, please spare us the Celts," begged Sidney, 'or we will be here all night."

A heavy laboured tread could be heard on the stairs leading up to the office.

"Well, I can't offer any more help," announced David, glowering in Sidney's direction before reaching for his umbrella.

"But those light steps on the stairs," said Sidney, cupping his hand around his ear, 'tell me that our esteemed leader is about to enter and I feel certain he will be able to furnish you with detailed information about these Feelies."

"Yes, you'd best ask Harold, Gervase," agreed David. "There is nothing on which Harold Yeats is not an expert."

"Isn't that a double negative?" asked Sidney. '"Nothing on which he is not". I think it would be rather better expressed as "Harold is an expert on everything"."

"I am going to do something extremely unpleasant with this umbrella in a minute, Sidney, if you don't shut up! Firstly I am picked up on my knowledge of Greek mythology, then you have a go at the druids and now you see fit to correct my grammar."

"Well, we have the English expert here, he can arbitrate. Am I right or am I right, Gervase? Was that not a double negative?"

"Don't bring me into it," I said, "I've got other things on my mind at the moment."

At this point Harold breezed in, wet and windblown, but smiling a great toothy smile. The Senior County Inspector was a giant of a man. Six foot, three inches in height, he looked a daunting figure with his great broad shoulders, heavy bulldog jaw, large watery eyes and prominent teeth but he was the gentlest and most una.s.suming person I had ever met. He was a man of sincerity, generosity and unfailing courtesy, someone who always looked for the best in everybody and had a deep interest in the needs of children. He was also a walking encyclopedia and turned out to know everything there was to know about the Feoffees. He became quite animated when asked to explain what they were and what they did.

"A very interesting group of men, the Feoffees," he enthused. "They were originally a collection of civic worthies and dignitaries, usually prominent landowners and gentry, founded in the reign of Henry VII to keep law and order. All justice in a parish or town was administered by them and they ensured the sick and needy were cared for. They were responsible for no end of things repair of bridges and roads, keeping the water supply fresh, isolating plague victims, making sure the pillories and ducking stools were kept in good working order."

"Are you sure we're talking about the same thing, Harold?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, indeed. The Feoffees served a very important function in Tudor and Stuart times. They appointed the swineherd, clerk of the market, overseer of the roads and provided all the liveries for the beadles, pipers, town criers and organ blowers the whole company of minor officials. Of course, the Feoffees varied from area to area but '

"That's fine, Harold," I interrupted, 'but what is their function today?"

"Well, it is largely a charitable inst.i.tution. Why are you so interested in the Feoffees anyway, Gervase?"

I explained about the meeting with Mrs. Savage, the proposed visit to Manston Hall and my involvement in the forthcoming celebrations.

"I see," said Harold. "It sounds a very interesting undertaking. I would have very much liked to have attended that meeting myself. I mean I am the inspector who covers history. It's strange that I wasn't approached."

"Mrs. Savage said that you are leading an inspection on the twenty-fifth of November when the meeting takes place but if you can re-arrange things, Harold, I should be delighted for you to go instead."

"No, no," said Harold. "I can't cancel an inspection. Mrs. Savage is quite right."

"It would have been nice to have been asked or at least consulted though, wouldn't it, Harold?" said David. "That woman takes far too much on to herself. She's only an office clerk, for goodness sake. Anyone would think she was the CEO, the way she carries on."

"Well, I'm glad she didn't approach me!" said Sidney. "It sounds a complete and utter waste of time! What has all this got to do with education? I thought our job was to inspect schools not join a group of anachronistic, undoubtedly well-heeled geriatrics who have nothing better to do than spend their time repairing pillories and ducking stools, and isolating victims of the plague."

"Sidney," snapped Harold, 'it has everything to do with education! First, the Feoffees are part of our rich, cultural heritage, which is something we should be proud of and cherish."

"Like the druids," interposed David.

"It is important," continued Harold, 'that young people should know about the history of their country. Furthermore, the Feoffees still help the poor and afflicted, particularly orphans and deprived children. They continue to promote good conduct in the rising generation, provide financial support and give scholarships and burs aries to deserving causes." The clock on the County Hall tower began to strike seven but Harold, who had now got the bit firmly between his teeth, continued undeterred. "The Feoffees, who number amongst their ranks of anachronistic, well-heeled geriatrics our own Dr. Gore, do a great deal of good, so when you ask '

"For whom the bell tolls," interrupted Sidney, 'it tolls for me to get on home. Seven o'clock and I might, with any luck, have missed the traffic. Oh, and Harold, I do hope the Feoffees have ensured that the roads are in good repair, that Hawksrill Bridge is still standing and there are not too many crowding around the pillories or in the stocks. I need to get back in good time for the football tonight."

I headed for the office one splendidly bright autumnal Friday afternoon, tired and road-weary. The mild weather had brought the caravaners out in force and I, at the back of a queue of five or six other frustrated car drivers, followed a dangerously swaying box on wheels for three miles as it meandered at 20 mph along the twisting narrow country roads. When at last I became the car directly behind the caravan, I noticed stuck on the back window a little cut-out hand which waved as the caravan teetered. Its message read "Have a nice day' and next to it was a large yellow circle with the injunction in bold black capital letters: STAY BACK! BABY ON BOARD! I would have a much nicer day, I thought to myself irritably, if the driver of this creeping death-trap would pull over and let me pa.s.s.

When I finally managed to overtake, I noticed that various other messages and signs had been plastered on the side window, including a bright red rectangle with the information: "I've been down The Black Hole at Alton Towers." Who actually would be interested in this piece of totally famous information, I asked myself. I caught sight of the driver: he was an exceptionally old man, and incongruously sported a bright orange baseball cap. He beamed through the window and gave me a shaky wave. There was certainly no possibility of this geriatric having a baby on board, and as for a journey down The Black Hole at Alton Towers .. .

I was not in the best of moods as I raced towards the main road. On the gra.s.sy verge stood an extremely dirty-looking individual with a tangle of hair and dressed in a filthy raincoat. He was holding aloft a large piece of cardboard on which was written: "I am going to York'. Not in this car, mate, you're not, I thought to myself, speeding up.

Sidney and David were busy at their desks as I pushed through the door a short while later and collapsed into a chair.

"I met the ever-ebullient Mrs. Peterson on my art course yesterday," observed Sidney, looking up from his work, 'and she was not best pleased with your report on her school."

Before I could answer, David, placing his pen down carefully and smiling beatifically, added, "Makes a change from all those adoring women who are constantly telephoning him and writing little billets-doux and singing his praises."

"What did she say?" I asked Sidney, deciding to ignore David's comment.

"That your report was full of criticisms," Sidney told me blithely.

"It wasn't that bad," I said glumly, looking through the mail on my desk.

"She said that you said the reading wasn't up to much at Highcopse County Primary School," continued Sidney casually.

"I never said anything of the sort!"

"That the writing was pretty ordinary, the children didn't speak much and the teachers didn't bother at all with any poetry."

"Sounds pretty d.a.m.ning to me," commented David, still smiling like a cat with the cream.

"It would be if I had, in fact, said it," I replied bristling. "My report judged the school to be sound enough but there needs to be more challenge and variety in the work. It was pretty positive overall but I suggested that'

"She also said you were not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn."

"Not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn!" I exclaimed. "Not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn?"

"That is what she said."

"An unusual woman, Mrs. Dunn!" exclaimed David suddenly. "I remember first meeting her on one of my mathematics courses, with that dour expression of hers, wild-looking hair and hooded eyes. She was, I have to admit, a deeply unimpressive woman. She sat in the front row with a face like a death mask until I asked the teachers to break into groups for the activities. Then she looked as if I had asked her to take all her clothes off and do a tap dance on the table. I recall saying to Mrs. Peterson, when she said what a good teacher she was, that Mrs. Dunn was such a sombre and serious person and that she didn't sparkle for me. "I don't employ Christmas tree fairies, Mr. Pritch-and," she replied tartly. "I employ teachers."

"She never smiled the whole lesson," I said, still stinging at the criticism of my report. I tore open a letter so savagely that I nearly ripped it in half.

"Doesn't make her a poor teacher," said David. "We had a cla.s.sics master at grammar school called "Smiler" Jones. He always had a smile on his face. Terrified of him, we were. He was always leering and grinning from the front. He had these tiny, shining eyes and a big hooked nose and always wore a tattered black academic gown. He was like some great dusty crow. Fearful teacher was "Smiler" Jones. Now, I wouldn't consider him a good teacher."

"That might explain why you are rather dodgy on the Greek myths," remarked Sidney.

I shook my head and sighed heavily. "I merely wrote that the teacher of the infants could be a little more lively and enthusiastic'

"You know, Gervase," said David, 'you of all people, being in charge of English, should know that one should never judge a book by its cover or, as they say in this part of the world, "Never judge a blade by its heft". I've seen Mrs. Dunn teach, and whilst I have to admit she is not the most dynamic and inspirational of teachers in the world and unlikely to win the "Teacher of the Year Award", she is a good, solid, reliable cla.s.sroom pract.i.tioner, well-intentioned, dedicated and willing to learn. She improves with knowing, does Mrs. Dunn."

"And Mrs. Peterson said that you said the children were unusually quiet," continued Sidney, leaning back on his chair and obviously enjoying imparting this next piece of information.

"Well, they were. There was only one child who got a word in."

"That was because, as Mrs. Peterson said, you frightened them."

"What?"

"She said you sat at the back with your big black clipboard like someone about to take the measurements for a coffin."

"I was of the opinion, Sidney, that that is what school inspectors do sit at the back of cla.s.srooms and observe lessons."

"She said your constant smiling put the children off."

"I don't believe it," I sighed.

"Of course that's what "Smiler" Jones used to do," remarked David. "His smile was quite unnerving. He put the fear of G.o.d into us with his funereal expression."

"She said that when you had gone," continued Sidney, 'one of the juniors asked if that funny man with the smile like the shark was coming back?"

"You seem to have taken an unusually thorough interest in my visit to Highcopse School, Sidney. It appears you have gone through the report with Mrs. Peterson in some detail'

"Just forewarning you, old boy, that's all."

"Oh heck, I'll give her a ring later and sort it out."

"Might be a wise move," added David, nodding sagely, 'bearing in mind who her husband is."

"And who is her husband?" I asked.

"County Councillor George Peterson. He's on the Education Committee. One of the most vociferous, self-opinionated and tiresome members. Rambles on for hours, does old George."

"What an end to the week," I sighed.

"I have had a most enjoyable week, actually," said Sidney mischievously, clearly enjoying my discomfiture. "The art course was a great success, all schools visited, reports completed, letters written, doc.u.ments filed."

"And pigs fed and ready to fly," added David.

"I shall choose to disregard that remark, David," retorted Sidney. "I feel on top of everything at the moment and, being Friday, I am in the very best of moods. Nothing and n.o.body will interfere with my good humour and well being today. It has been such glorious weather for this time of year, I might just take the caravan out this weekend. You can join us if you like, Gervase. It might cheer you up."

I did not respond.

The following Monday I telephoned the school.

"h.e.l.lo," came a loud, confident voice down the line, "Highcopse County Primary School. Mrs. Peterson, Head-teacher, speaking."

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Peterson, it's Gervase Phinn here."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo Mr. Phinn. How are you?" She certainly did not sound upset or angry, quite the reverse in fact.

"I'm very well, thank you. Now, er, Mrs. Peterson, my colleague Sidney Clamp has had a word with me. He tells me that you are rather upset about the report I wrote after my visit."

"I wasn't upset, Mr. Phinn," she said sweetly, 'just a little disappointed, that's all."

"Would you like me to call in and discuss it with you?" I asked.

"Oh no, there's no need for that. I do know how busy you inspectors are. Of course, we in schools are busy people too. Mrs. Dunn and I do try very hard, Mr. Phinn, but there's only so many hours in the day and there's so much to cover on the curriculum these days. I do appreciate your comments about poetry, although I have to say we were somewhat surprised with the extent of the criticisms in the report, but you see it's not one of Mrs. Dunn's strong points. Not mine either, if I'm truthful. She is very good at the things she feels confident with but when it comes to poetry and'

I interrupted the monologue. "Mrs. Peterson, I really would be happy to call in to talk about the report and suggest various approaches and offer some ideas."

"Oh, I'm sure you have lots of suggested approaches and ideas, Mr. Phinn." That same hint of sarcasm was in her voice which I had detected when I had observed her lesson. "What would be useful, rather than just talking about the report and suggesting what we should be doing, would be for you to come and show us just what you mean."

"In what way?"

"Well, could you take the children for a poetry lesson? Do a demonstration?"

I have walked straight into that little trap, I thought. "Well, yes, I suppose I could," I replied.

"Next week?" came the smug voice down the telephone.

I flicked through my diary. "Thursday morning?"

"Splendid. I look forward to seeing you then. Mrs. Dunn will be so excited." The Headteacher rang off. I could imagine Mrs. Dunn's reaction at the thought of my taking her cla.s.s for poetry and the word 'excitement' did not spring readily to mind. It would probably be a shrug of the shoulders, a shake of the head and a weary look of resignation.

I arrived at Highcopse School the following week on another bright, clear morning to take the children for poetry writing. I paused for a moment before entering the building, breathed in the fresh air and surveyed the swath of green rising to the misty fell side dotted with browsing sheep. I could see rabbits cropping the gra.s.s at the edge of a nearby field, and a fat pheasant strutted along the craggy limestone wall bordering the school. A squirrel ran up the trunk of an ancient tree by the road and then peered at me between the yellowing leaves. High above in a vast and dove-grey sky, the rooks screeched and circled. Here was poetry indeed.

The junior cla.s.s was ready and waiting, paper in front of them, pencils poised. I spent the first part of the morning encouraging the children to write poetry based on several large prints of paintings by famous artists which depicted figures and faces. I asked them to concentrate on the shapes, colours, distinctive features, dress, facial expressions and surroundings, prompting them through questions: "Who is this person? Where does she live? Is she feeling happy or sad, angry or thoughtful? How would you describe the expression?" In a relatively short time the range of responses and ideas covered the blackboard and helped the children compose some impressive pieces of writing. Mrs. Peterson was quite taken aback when she read Porsche's poem which was based on the large colour print of Mary Ca.s.satt's "Child with a Red Hat'.

It looks as if her head's on fire. Great flaming hat as red as a furnace. Tongues of yellow in the golden hair, Like burning corn.

Simon's effort was also very descriptive. His poem was based on "The Ironers' by Degas.

She yawns with a mouth like a gaping cave, In a face as fat as a football. She has the fists of a boxer And arms as thick as tree trunks. It must be all that ironing.

Mrs. Peterson took me aside. "They are most striking pieces of writing, Mr. Phinn. The children have written such lovely poems. I must say you have certainly brought out their creativity."

I was feeling confident and pleased with myself when I appeared after morning playtime in the cla.s.sroom of Mrs. Dunn. I gathered the small children around me on the carpet in the Reading Corner and we talked about several large colour photographs of various animals which I had brought with me. I explained that we were going to write some little descriptive poems about the different creatures which included a mole, rabbit, squirrel and dormouse. We were to look at each picture in turn and it was my intention to encourage the children to talk about the colours and shapes. I did not, however, get very far. When I held up the large photograph of the mole, one of the older children, a large round child called Thomas, remarked casually that his granddad killed moles.

"Does he really?" I replied equally casually and attempted to move on. "Now look at his little fat black body. He's an unusual little creature, the mole. Can you see his big flat paws like pink spades and the sharp claws? Can anyone tell me what'

"They dig and dig wi' them claws, deep underground they go and chuck up reight big mounds of soil," explained Thomas to no one in particular. "Do a lot o' damage to a field, do moles. They're a real pest my granddad says. Some farmers put down poison but me granddad traps 'em and hangs up their bodies on t'fence."

I decided to look at another picture. "Here we have a grey squirrel. I saw a squirrel this morning peeping from between the branches of the tree outside. Look at his large black eyes and long bushy tail. Can anyone tell me what-'

"Tree vermin," commented the same boy. "My granddad shoots them an' all. Ruin trees, they do. My granddad says squirrels are a d.a.m.n nuisance. They eat all t'corn put out for t'hens. Rats wi' bushy tails, that's what squirrels are. My granddad goes out in t'morning with his shotgun, shoots 'em and hangs up their bodies on t'fence."