Over Hill And Dale Part 6

"A good few months, I should say, Mrs. Beighton," remarked her companion.

"And the children are so looking forward to meeting you again."

"They are indeed," added Mrs. Brown.

After morning break, the sixteen junior and twenty infant children gathered around me in the large cla.s.sroom for the a.s.sembly. They listened attentively to the story of The Lyke Wake with no interruptions and everyone was completely still and hushed when I arrived at the dramatic conclusion. Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown, mouths open, hands resting on their laps, sat transfixed at either end of the cla.s.sroom like bookends and made no effort to move.

"Well, I hope you all enjoyed that," I said cheerfully when I finished. The children and their teachers nodded. "Are there any questions?" I looked across a sea of silent children. "There might be something someone wishes to ask?" There was still no response. "Anything at all?"

"Come along now, children," came Mrs. Beighton's voice from the back. "I'm sure there are lots of things you would like to ask Mr. Phinn."

A young frizzy-haired boy with a pale, earnest face raised a hand.

"Ah, there's someone," I cried, relieved that at least one child had found the story sufficiently interesting to ask a question. "Yes, and what would you like to ask?"

"What's a condom?"

"Pardon?" I jumped up in my chair as if I had been poked with a cattle prod.

"A condom? What's a condom?" repeated the child. I was completely lost for words.

Mrs. Beighton and Mrs. Brown leapt to their feet like synchronised puppets with their strings being yanked.

"Well, it's.. ." I began, looking appealingly towards the teachers.

"It's a snake," snapped Mrs. Beighton quickly.

"No, that's an anaconda, miss," volunteered a young, helpful, red-headed boy.

"It's a bird," announced Mrs. Brown with great a.s.surance.

"Condor," exclaimed the child at the back. "You're thinking of a condor, miss."

"Well, what is a condom?" persisted the frizzy-haired child, looking straight into my eyes.

"Well, it's .. ." I began a second time.

"Vikings didn't have big horns on their helmets, John," said Mrs. Beighton, moving to the front of the cla.s.s and taking centre stage, 'and they definitely did not have condoms either."

The little boy, entirely undeterred, continued with the grilling. "But what is a condom?"

"It's something you will learn about when you are older," replied Mrs. Brown firmly, as she joined her companion. She had the pious face of a Mother Superior.

"Is it a rude word, miss?" asked the innocent.

"No, it's not a rude word, John."

"Can I call somebody a condom then, miss?"

"No! You certainly cannot!" snapped Mrs. Beighton.

"Certainly not!" echoed her companion.

"Somebody called me a condom, miss," the infant told the teacher.

"Well, they shouldn't have," said Mrs. Beighton.

"Ignore them," added Mrs. Brown sharply.

"Does it begin with a curly "C" or a kicking "K"?" asked a fresh-faced little girl at the front.

"A curly "C", Sarah, but' replied Mrs. Brown.

"And is it spelt C-O-N-D-O-M?" she asked, articulating every letter slowly and deliberately.

"It is but-'

"Oh, just look at the time!" cried the Headteacher, coming to her colleague's aid. "We haven't started writing yet." The frizzy-haired child continued to persevere and still had his hand in the air.

"Right, children. Put down your hand now, John. Everyone sit up straight, look this way, arms folded and when we are ready we can go to our desks and start our writing."

Mrs. Beighton explained that the older children were going to recount the story I had told in a.s.sembly in their own words and the younger ones were to draw a picture and add some captions which she would write on the blackboard. Soon books were out and the children were scribbling away industriously and peace descended on the cla.s.sroom. I spent the remainder of the morning working with groups of children and looking through the reading scores.

"Thank you, Mrs. Beighton," I said over a cup of coffee at lunch-time, 'you really saved my bacon."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Phinn?" she said with a quizzical expression on her face.

"The condom," I reminded her.

"Oh that. Well, children do tend to get straight to the point in this part of the world. Do you remember what you were saying on your last visit about bluff Yorkshire folk, Mr. Phinn?" she asked.

"Yes, I do," I replied.

"I believe in being honest and open with children, don't get me wrong, but sometimes it is necessary to evade the difficult question. As my sainted mother used to say, there is a time and a place for everything." "And everything in its proper place," added Mrs. Brown.

"Children grow up too early these days, in my opinion, Mr. Phinn," continued the Headteacher. "The time when they were innocent until they reached the big school has sadly pa.s.sed."

"Like wild horses in the wind," I murmured, remembering David's words.

"I blame the television," added her companion and then, almost as an afterthought, sighed noisily, "I was thirty-three before I knew what a condom was."

When the time came for me to leave, I paused at the gate of the small school to marvel at the panoramic view which stretched out before me: soft green pastures dotted with grazing sheep and heavy, square-bodied cattle; a vast, hazy-blue sky streaked with creamy clouds; nestling, sunlit farmsteads; the country lane which twisted and turned over the hill. It had, no doubt, remained the same for centuries. There was a great sense of tranquillity and timelessness around me, as if the noises and concerns of the modern world had been swallowed up by those rolling fields, thick bracken slopes, dark, mysterious forests and misty fells.

I was brought out of my reverie by the sound of voices. Out of sight, behind the craggy stone wall which enclosed the school, I observed three or four young boys gathered around the red-haired pupil who had tried to put his teachers right about what a condom was. He was explaining to his fascinated companions that "You can get them in different sizes, different colours, different flavours .. ."

My next appointment was at the Staff Development Centre to plan the in-service course for secondary school librarians with Mike Spiller, Princ.i.p.al Librarian for the county, and the children's writer, Irene Madley, who lived locally. I arrived at the unattractive, red-brick building, which had once been a secondary modern school, with only a few minutes to spare. At the entrance was a large notice with the words welcome to the staff development centre, underneath which was written, these premises are protected by guard dogs. The car park, formerly the school playground, was littered with great red and yellow cones and resembled the test course for advanced motorists.

Connie, the caretaker, was awaiting my arrival. She was standing, as was her wont, in the entrance hall, with arms folded tightly over her chest and with the pained expression of one who is wearing uncomfortably tight shoes. She was an ample woman with a bright copper-coloured perm, round florid face and the small sharp eyes of a hungry bird. She was dressed in her usual brilliant pink nylon overall and clutched a feather duster magisterially like a field-marshal's baton.

"You can always tell when the Caretaker from h.e.l.l is approaching," Sidney had once said after a particularly acrimonious exchange with Connie. "She fair crackles in that nylon overall. Touch her and you'd electrocute yourself."

Connie was not Sidney's favourite person and he was certainly not hers. She complained about him frequently and he about her. Sidney extrovert, unpredictable, creative was just the sort of man to ruffle Connie's feathers and he had experienced the sharp edge of her tongue on many an occasion.

Connie, in fact, complained about most things and most people. If one were to ask her how she was, she would invariably reply with the phrase, "Mustn't grumble' which was followed immediately by a long diatribe. She was a woman of a certain reputation and famous for her bluntness, thick skin, memorable malapropisms and amazingly inventive non sequiturs. Connie was also very good-hearted, down-to-earth and had a dry wit to rival Sidney's. On my first visit to the Centre, I had walked cheerfully into the main hall, with an armful of books and folders, to be stopped in my tracks by a stentorian voice echoing down the corridor behind me.

"I say!" she had boomed. "I've just mopped that floor!"

I had promptly dropped everything I had been carrying. Later in the day she had informed me gravely that she liked things neat and tidy and that she had so much work cleaning up after the inspectors that she 'could barely keep her feet above water'.

Connie greeted me that afternoon with her usual grimace, which I ignored.

"Good afternoon, Connie," I said in the most agreeable of voices. "What a lovely day it is."

"I wouldn't know, I've been inside cleaning," she answered glumly.

"The weather has been perfect today," I continued cheerfully. "Beautifully mild and sunny."

"Aye, that's as may be," she mouthed, 'but I reckon we'll be paying for it next week." Before I could respond, she launched into the attack. "You came into the car park like a squirrel with its tail on fire. You want to slow down." What is it, with all these animal similes, I thought to myself. Now Connie had jumped on the band wagon. "You don't need to go so fast," she continued, gesturing with the feather duster. "It's a good job it isn't icy, or you'd have been into the wall and then the sparks would have really hit the fan."

"I thought I was running a bit late for the meeting," I explained.

"Well, there's only you here."

Connie set off up the corridor in the direction of the kitchen, still determined to prolong the conversation about my speedy arrival at the Centre. "You nearly had my bollards over. I put them bollards there for a reason, not for decoration, you know. They're to stop people from driving recklessly and from blocking my entrance. It's a health and safety hazard it is, parking in front of my entrance. That Mr. Clamp's always doing it, when he runs his artery courses. I'm tired of telling him not to obstruct the fire exit, but does he listen? Then there's Mr. Pritchard. He left his equipment propped up there on the Monday when he had his PE course and'

"I've parked well away from the entrance, Connie," I a.s.sured her, 'and your bollards are intact and all in place."

"Just as well," she snorted, flicking at the window sills as she walked ahead of me. We soon arrived at the small kitchen.

"Did Mr. Spiller or Mrs. Madley ring through to say they'd be late?" I asked her.

"No," she replied curtly.

"Well, they should be here any time now. I'll go and put the papers out in a minute, if you'll tell me what room we're in."

"I've put you in Room 9, well away from the psychologists. They've got a meeting here today which, knowing the way they talk, will go on into the early hours."

"Connie, I was wondering I began.

She read my mind. "And I suppose you'll be wanting a cup of tea?"

"That would be most welcome."

"Well, you're out of luck with the biscuits. Mr. Clamp polished off the last custard creams on Tuesday and I'm all out of Garibaldis."

Connie disappeared into the small kitchen and I heard her rattling and clattering as she made the tea.

"And did you have a nice holiday this summer?" I shouted after her.

"No," came the quick reply.

"I thought you and your husband were going to Ireland?"

"We did."

"And you didn't enjoy it?"

"No, I didn't!" She emerged a moment later with a mug of tea which she thrust into my hand. "Be careful, it's hot."

"Well, I had an absolutely marvelous time in Ireland," I told her. "It was one of the best holidays I have had. The scenery was stunning, the food magnificent, the people really friendly. What was the problem?"

"The crossing. I had a dreadful time. I thought I was going to die, I really did. As soon as I set foot on that ferry I just knew I was going to be sick. We'd barely got out of the harbour when it started to move and it got worse and worse. I was up and down those steps like a shuttlec.o.c.k." I a.s.sumed she meant 'like a yo-yo' but I felt it politic not to interrupt. "If I vomited once, I vomited ten times." I took a sip of tea and attempted to look concerned. "All the way over, the sea was heaving and splashing outside and I was heaving and splashing inside in the ladies' lavatory. And where was Ted?" Ted was Connie's long-suffering husband. "I'll tell you where Ted was," she continued, not waiting for or expecting a response. "He was in the restaurant with a full English breakfast, two rounds of toast and a pot of tea for two, that's where Ted was. I said to him later, when I decided to talk to him again, that if I'd have fallen overboard he'd have never known. If he'd have been on the t.i.tanic he wouldn't have got up from his egg and bacon and sausage. No little thing like an iceberg would have shifted Ted from the table. Up and down, up and down, went that boat. I'll tell you this, I've never been so glad to get my feet on terra cotta." I spluttered, nearly choked and covered my tie in tea. "I told you that tea was hot," she said.

"No, no, it's fine," I replied, wiping my tie with a handkerchief, "I was just thinking it was about time for me to see if my colleagues have arrived."

"And leave the room tidy," Connie told me, disappearing into the kitchen where she resumed the clattering and clanking. A moment later, as I was half way down the corridor, I heard her echoing voice, "And I hope they've parked away from the entrance."

Following the planning meeting, I headed for my final engagement of the day. Connie watched eagle-eyed from the window as I crawled out of the car park, negotiating the line of large red and yellow, strategically placed cones. I was still in good spirits when I arrived at the market town of Masonby to give an evening talk on Reading Development to parents and governors, but things were about to change.

Westgarth Primary School was a large, sprawling building surrounded by high iron railings. I had visited the school the previous year with Harold Yeats and we had received a rapturous welcome. The beaming caretaker had announced our arrival in grand style, the secretary had very nearly swooned with pleasure and the Headteacher, Mrs. Thornton, a horse-faced woman with a vigorous handshake, had exclaimed: "At last! I cannot tell you how pleased we are to see you!" She had then discovered that we were not from the Premises and Maintenance Section of the Education Department, as she had thought, there to deal with the smell in the boys' lavatories, and her att.i.tude had instantly changed for the worse. She had regained her good humour, however, when Harold had delivered a very good report on the school curriculum and promised to take up her cause of the boys' lavatories at County Hall.

My talk now at Westgarth Primary School started later than planned. In the Headteacher's room, I was collared by the particularly garrulous and self-opinionated Chairman of Governors who owned the large hardware shop near the school. I had pa.s.sed the premises on my way down the High Street and smiled after reading the notice prominently displayed in the window: "Bargain Bas.e.m.e.nt Upstairs'. The owner was a loud, flop-eared, extremely portly individual with a nose as heavy as a turnip and great hooded eyes. He berated me about the drop in standards, the decline of homework, the lack of manners in the young and the increase in juvenile crime. The Headteacher tried in vain to intervene and move the conversation on to more pleasant and inconsequential topics but she failed singularly. The Chairman of Governors, stabbing the air with a fat finger and with eyes shining with the intensity of a zealot, carried on regardless. Mrs. Thornton's face took on the long, gloomy expression I had observed on my visit to the school the previous year, when Harold had informed her that we had not come to fix the plumbing. It was the look of weary resignation, that of a saint approaching certain martyrdom. Clearly that was her way of dealing with this pretentious and irritating man.

"Mr. Parsons," she began, glancing at her wrist.w.a.tch, 'do you think we might make a start? It is '

The Chairman, who clearly thought that school inspectors were part and parcel of some conspiracy to depress standards and were largely responsible for all the ills of society, continued to harangue me without even acknowledging her. In his opinion it was all the fault of the 'educational establishment'. It was the 'long-haired professors' and 'trendy, bearded progressives' who were to blame with 'their wishy-washy, airy-fairy ideas'. I was just too nonplussed to reply, and listened to the tirade with a bemused expression on my face, thinking how he would have reacted to Sidney and Sidney to him.

The ranting speaker was clearly rather disconcerted when I failed to respond. My mot hera nurse and health visitor for many years, had had to deal with many an awkward and sometimes aggressive patient. She had always advised me that, when faced with antagonistic and belligerent people, bristling for a quarrel, the best plan of attack was to disarm them with affability. It never failed to work. So, I looked at the large bl.u.s.tering face before me and merely smiled and nodded.

It was the janitor, knocking noisily on the door before bursting in, who rescued the situation. "Are we startin' or what, Mrs. Thornton?" he demanded loudly. "We've got upwards of fotty people out theer and they're getting restless."

"We are just coming, Mr. Smails," the Headteacher replied, clearly relieved by the interruption and grasping this ideal opportunity to get the proceedings started. "If you'll follow me, Mr. Phinn," she said, ignoring the Chairman of Governors, who was mid-sentence at the time, 'we'll make a start, shall we?"

Three rows of parents and governors faced a bare table and chair at the front of the school hall, most of them with weary expressions and folded arms. As I arranged my books and sorted out my papers, Mr. Parsons launched into his introduction as if addressing a Nuremberg rally. He told parents that we were 'all labouring under a misconception' if we thought reading was in a healthy state. He had read in the paper about the three million illiterates in the country and thought that it was a 'national scandal'. This evening, he told them, the expert would tell them just what the Education Department would be doing to raise standards. The expert, I thought to myself, would be doing no such thing. He would be speaking about the excitement of books and how parents might help in encouraging their children to read and enjoy them.

As Mr. Parsons droned on, I glanced at the solemn faces in front of me, and recalled Sidney's rea.s.suring comments after one of his talks had not gone as well as he had expected. He had addressed a group of reactionary elderly ladies at a luncheon club event on the theme of modern art. He had said he had felt like a garlic salesman at a vampire convention. The Madame Chairman had told the audience at the end of his talk that she was grateful to Mr. Clamp for sharing his interesting views and that he had very kindly waived his fee. As a result, she had said, beaming widely, they could save up to get a really good speaker for the following year.

Finally Mr. Parsons finished and introduced me. Once I started reading extracts from books and peppering the talk with anecdotes about children, the atmosphere in the hall improved. I heard a number of chuckles and saw people smiling and nodding in approval. During the talk I glanced occasionally in the direction of the Headteacher and the Chairman of Governors. Each time I looked their way, I saw Mrs. Thornton, perched motionless on the edge of her chair, staring into s.p.a.ce like someone who had been told some devastating news. I guess the anxiety over the boys' lavatories paled into insignificance compared with the problem sitting on her right.

The vote of thanks was not the most effusive I have received. "Thank you," said the Chairman of Governors, when I sat down to a ripple of applause. "I'm not taking any questions," he said, pushing out his chin, 'because time is getting on and I'm sure Mrs. Thornton and the janitor are anxious to get to bed."

A pained expression crossed the Headteacher's face.

"And I shan't be far behind them," added Mr. Parsons, oblivious to the t.i.tters from the audience.

The Headteacher walked with me to the school gate. "Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Phinn," she said. She sounded exhausted. "It was good of you to give up your evening. I know the parents very much enjoyed your talk. As for Mr. Parsons .. ." She did not finish the sentence but gave me her martyred look and shook her head. "Goodnight," she said quietly.

As I walked to the car, I thought again of my mother and one of her favourite sayings, "There is always somebody else worse off than you."