Over Hill and Dale By Gervase Phinn

Back Cover:

"Miss, who's that funny man at the back of the classroom?"

SO BEGINS SCHOOL-INSPECTOR GERVASE PHINN'S

second year among the frankly spoken pupils and teachers of North
Yorkshire.  The sight of Gervase calmly getting out his notebook and
pen provokes unexpected reactions from children and adults alike.  He
finds himself unwillingly playing the stooge to Mrs.  Peterson's class
of juniors, confronting Mr.  Swan, whose hunger for lunchtime exceeds
his appetite for English, and alarmingly disarmed by a pupil unsure
whether he is learning French or German.

But Gervase is far from daunted.  He is still in pursuit of lovely head
teacher Christine Bentley; he is ready to brave the steely glare of the
officious Mrs.  Savage, and even feels up to helping Dr.  Gore organize
a gathering of the Feofees just as soon as someone tells him what they
are.

This is a delectable second helping of hilarious tales from the man who
has been dubbed 'the James Herriot of schools'.  It will have you
laughing out loud.

ISBN 0-14-028129-0

PENGUIN

Non-fiction www.penguin.com

780140 281293

OVER HILL AND DALE

Qervase Phinn

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First published By Michael Joseph 2000

Published in Penguin Books 2001

Copyright Gervase Phinn 2000 All rights reserved.

The moral right of the author has been asserted Printed in England by
Clays Ltd, St.  Ives plc

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to
the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be
lent,

re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

For my mother and father, Pat and Jimmy Phinn, my first and best
teachers

I should like to record the immense debt of gratitude that

I owe to Jenny Dereham, my editor, for her invaluable advice and
support and for her wisdom and patience.

The Inspector Calls

Miss, miss, there's a man at the back of the classroom With a big black
book and a smile like a crocodile.  Miss, he asked me if I got a lot of
homework, And when I said, "Too much!"  he wrote it down.

Miss, miss, there's a man at the back of the classroom With a long
sharp pencil and eyes like a shark.  Miss, he asked me what I liked
best about our school, And when I said, "The dinners!"  he wrote it
down.

Miss, miss, there's a man at the back of the classroom With a big
square badge and hair like a hedgehog.  Miss, I asked him what he liked
best about our school, And he said he was not there to answer my
questions, He said he was just 'a fly on the wall'.

Miss, miss, why don't you tell him to "BUZZ OFF!"

Dr.  Gore, Chief Education Officer for the County of Yorkshire, smiled
like a hungry vampire, the sort of thin-lipped, self-satisfied smile of
Count Dracula before he sinks his fangs into a helpless victim.

"And how are you, Gervase?"  he mouthed softly, showing a glimpse of
teeth.

"Oh ... er ... very well, thank you, Dr.  Gore," I replied, attempting
to sound cheerful and relaxed.

"Good, good," the CEO murmured.  He stared for a moment over the top of
his small, gold-framed spectacles and then, resting his elbows on the
large mahogany desk in front of him, steepled his long fingers and
nodded thoughtfully.  "And how have you found your first year with us
in Yorkshire?"  he asked.  His voice was as soft as the summer
breeze.

"Oh ... er ... very well, thank you, Dr.  Gore," I replied for the
second time and shifted nervously in the chair.  He continued to smile
and steeple his long fingers without saying a word.  In the embarrassed
silence which followed I heard the slow ticking of the clock on the
wall, squeaking footsteps in the corridor outside, the distant hum of
traffic on the High Street and a slight buzzing of a faulty fluorescent
light in the outer office.  "I think, well, quite good actually, quite
successful..  ."  My voice trailed off.  I sounded incredibly
inarticulate for the County Inspector of Schools for English and Drama.
"Not too bad," I said finally.

"Good, good," the CEO said almost in a whisper.  "I

expect you are wondering why I sent for you so early in the new
academic year?"  he continued, smiling and steepling.

"Yes, I was wondering," I replied nervously.

The morning had started off so well.  I had arrived at the Education
Office in Fettlesham that first day of the new term, bright and early
and keen to be back at work.  A warm September sun had shone in a
cloudless sky, the air had been fresh and still, the birds singing and
everything had seemed right with the world.  Over the summer break,
while the schools had been on holiday, I had managed to clear my desk
of the mountain of paperwork.  Reports had been completed, guidelines
written, courses planned, correspondence dealt with and documents had
been filed away neatly.  I had surveyed the empty desk with a sense of
real satisfaction and achievement.

It had been a fascinating first year, occasionally exhausting and
frustrating, but for most of the time full of variety and challenge.
The colleagues with whom I worked and shared an office had been
immensely supportive during my induction into the profession of school
inspector.  There was Dr.  Harold Yeats, the Senior Inspector, Sidney
Clamp, the unpredictable and larger-than-life creative and visual arts
inspector and David Pritchard, the small, good-humoured Welshman
responsible for mathematics, PE and games.  We got on well together and
were supported and kept in order by Julie, the inspectors' secretary.

That first year, I had worked alongside teachers in the classroom,
organised courses and conferences, directed workshops, run seminars and
attended governors' meetings and appointment panels.  The most
interesting part of the job, however, had involved visiting the small
rural primary schools in the heart of the beautiful Yorkshire Dales, to
spend a morning or an afternoon observing lessons, looking at the
children's work and reporting on the quality of the teaching and
learning.

As I sat at my empty desk, thinking about the quiet, uneventful,
stress-free day ahead of me, I heard a clattering on the stairs,
telling me that a moment later Julie would totter in on those absurdly
high-heeled shoes she was so fond of wearing.  In my first year Julie
had been invaluable.  Not only was she very efficient, good-humoured
and extremely comical, she had those qualities often possessed by
Yorkshire people generous to a fault, hard-working but with a blunt
nature and a fierce honesty, characteristics which often got her into
trouble.  With her bright bubbly blonde hair and bright bubbly nature,
Julie was a breath of fresh air in the drab and cramped office.  That
morning she struggled into the room, breathing heavily and loaded down
with assorted bags, papers and files.  I jumped up to help her.

"I feel like some sort of peripatetic car boot sale!"  she cried,
dropping her load noisily on the nearest desk.  Before I could open my
mouth she continued, "I started off with a handbag and a bit of
shopping but collected all this little lot on my way from the bus stop.
As I was passing Committee Room i, Debbie you know, the big woman with
the peroxide hair who always wears those awful pink knitted outfits
asked me to take Mr.  Pritchard's briefcase which he left there last
term.  Forget his head if it wasn't screwed on.  I mean that briefcase
has been there for six weeks.  It wouldn't have done Debbie any harm to
bring the briefcase up herself.  The climb up the stairs would have
given her a bit of exercise.  She could do with losing a few pounds.
Anyway, when I got to the Post Room that Derek you know, the gangly lad
with the spectacles and big ears -asked me to pick up the inspectors'
mail since I was going that way anyway.  Then I had these confidential
staffing files pushed into my hands when I reached Personnel.  They
weigh a ton.  I don't know why Dr.  Yeats didn't pick them up himself.
I must have looked like an old pack horse, stumbling along the
corridors of County Hall."  She shook her head and breathed out
heavily.  "I'm too good-natured by half, that's my trouble.  And I've
snagged a nail."  She began to root about in her handbag and continued
chattering on without pausing.  "Anyway, how are you?"  I attempted a
response but without success.  "I had a nail file in here somewhere,
I'm sure I did," she continued.  "I don't know about you, but I could
murder a strong cup of coffee."  Without waiting for an answer she
disappeared out of the room.

"Good morning, Julie!"  I shouted after he rat last getting a word in.
I thought of the wonderfully descriptive and rather unkind Yorkshire
expression to describe a person, just like Julie, who so enjoys talking
about anything and everything that it becomes almost a running
commentary: "She's got a runaway gob talks and says nowt and she's said
nowt when she's done."

A few minutes later, when I was sorting through my mail, Julie returned
with two steaming mugs.  I watched as she set one mug down on my desk
and cupped her hands around the other.

"You're very quiet today," she said.  "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all, Julie," I replied amiably, putting my letters into the
in-tray on my desk.  Then I asked a question which I immediately
regretted, for it started her off on another monologue.  "How was your
holiday?"

"Don't ask!"

"Not too good then?"  I hazarded, looking up and reaching for the
coffee.

"Awful!  I went to Majorca with my boyfriend.  It took months to
persuade him, because Paul's about as adventurous as a dead sheep when
it comes to holidays and, of course, his mother has to put her two
pennyworth in about foreign food, plane crashes and hijackers.  Anyway,
the flight was delayed so we had a four-hour wait at Manchester Airport
with him moaning and groaning.  Then I was stopped at customs by a
horrible little man in black.  I got Spanish tummy the day after I
arrived and Paul fell asleep in the sun and woke up like a lobster with
an attitude problem.  Then he came out in blisters the size of balloons
and wouldn't leave the room.  He said he looked like something out of a
horror film and when I agreed he didn't speak to me for two days.  The
hotel was only half built and the pool was full of spoilt, screaming
children.  We had karaoke every night until two in the morning with a
tone-deaf Dutchman singing "I Did It My Way" at the top of his voice
and a woman from Dudley who sounded like a sheep about to give birth.
And if you got down after eight o'clock in the morning you could say
goodbye to the sun beds  We'll go to Skegness next year in his auntie's
caravan.  Anyway, what was your holiday like?"

"Oh, very restful," I told her.  "I managed to get away for a few days
and'

Before I could elaborate Julie dived in with her characteristic
bluntness.  "And did you see much of that sexy teacher you were taking
out?"

"Unfortunately, not a great deal," I replied smiling and thinking of
what Christine's reaction would be to Julie's comment about her.

I had met Christine almost exactly a year earlier when I had visited
the infant school where she was the Headteacher.  She had appeared like
some vision and I had been bowled over by those large blue eyes, warm
smile, fair complexion and soft mass of golden hair.  After a long
period spent summoning up the courage, and with constant nagging from
my colleagues in the office, I had asked her out.  We had been to the
theatre and the cinema, to a concert and various school events and as
each day passed I felt sure I was falling in love with her.

When I had first met Christine she had had a boyfriend Miles.  He was
everything I was not: strikingly handsome, with the sort of sculptured
features of a male model.  He was lean, athletic, sophisticated and
suave and he was also very wealthy.  But Miles had those flaws of
character often possessed by men who are rich and handsome: he was
arrogant and self-centred.  To my delight, Christine had, in Sidney's
words, 'given him the old heave-ho', which was when I had chanced my
arm and asked her out.  Over the recent summer holidays I had not seen
very much of her.  She had spent three weeks in Chicago, staying with a
cousin and a further week writing up a dissertation for a masters
degree.  We had enjoyed a day walking on the North York Moors and been
to the theatre and out to dinner a couple of times.  This term I was
determined, I was going to see a whole lot more of her.

"So what's happening with you two then?"  asked Julie.  She was not one
to beat about the bush.

"What do you mean, what's happening?"

"Well, are you getting it together?  Is it serious?"

"I'm not sure .. ."  I started.

Julie folded her arms and pulled a face.  "Typical of men that "I'm not
sure."  Just like Paul."  She put on a sort of whining voice."  "I'm
not sure about going to Majorca, I'm not sure this is the right flight,
I'm not sure I'll like this Spanish food, I'm not sure "'

I decided to change the subject.  "Am I the only one in the office this
morning?"

"It's always the woman who has to make the decisions.  What did you
say?"

"I asked if I was the only one in the office this morning?"

"Just you.  Mr.  Clamp's planning his art course, Mr.  Pritch-and's
meeting with the newly qualified teachers and Dr.  Yeats is at a
conference.  There's not much mail either, by the look of it."

"So," I said happily, 'it looks like a quiet start to the term."

"Not necessarily," said Julie.  "Mrs.  Savage phoned last Friday."  At
this point her lip curled like a rabid dog and her voice became
hard-edged.  "She wondered where you were.  I said, "People do take
holidays, you know."  If she'd have bothered to look at those wretched
inspectors' engagement sheets I have to send over to Admin, every week,
she'd have seen that you were on leave.  She just likes the sound of
her own voice and it's not her real voice anyway.  She puts it on.  I
don't know who she thinks she's trying to impress."

I began to chuckle and shake my head.  "You've really got it in for
Mrs.  Savage this morning, Julie, and no mistake.  She's not that
bad."

"She's unbearable.  "Ho," says she, "well tell Mr.  Phinn, when he
returns, thet Dr.  Gore wishes to see him in his room has a metter of
hurgency at nine hey hem prompt."  Made you sound like a naughty
schoolboy.  Then she slams the phone down with no trace of a "please"
or a "thank you" Julie face screwed up as if she had chronic
indigestion.  "That awful voice of hers really gets under my skin."

Mrs.  Savage, the CEO's personal assistant, was not the most popular of
people in our office nor was she the easiest woman to get on with.  She
had a formidable reputation with a sharp tongue and a stare that could
curdle milk; she definitely was not a person with whom to cross swords.
I had kept a wary distance after battling with her the previous year.

"And speaking of getting under people's skin," said Julie, "I reckon
she's had her face done."

"Who?"  I asked.

"Mrs.  Savage.  When I saw her last week in the staff canteen I didn't
recognise her.  Her skin's been stretched right back off her face.  She
looks as if she's walking through a wind tunnel.  All those wrinkles
have disappeared.  And she did have some lines on her face, didn't she?
Looked like something out of that shop in the High Street where they
sell all those wrinkled leather coats.  Those two pouches under her
chin have gone as well."

"I don't remember her having pouches."

"Of course you do!  She looked like a gerbil with mumps.  And I think
she's had that rhino suction because she looks a lot thinner as
well."

"Liposuction," I corrected.

"She's that thick-skinned, I think I was right first time.  She gave me
such a glare.  I tell you, if looks could maim, I'd be on crutches."

"And she said Dr.  Gore wanted to see me?"

"She's unbearable that woman," said Julie with venom, 'you would
think'

"Julie!"  I snapped.  "Did Mrs.  Savage say that Dr.  Gore wanted to
see me?"

"At nine o'clock prompt.  That's what Lady High and Mighty said."

"I wonder what it's about?"

"She puts on that posh accent and that hoity-toity manner but it
doesn't fool me.  Marlene on the switchboard remembers her when she
started as an office junior.  That's when her hair colour was natural.
She had a voice as broad as a barn door and as croaky as a frog with
laryngitis.  Then she .  went through all those husbands like a dose of
salts and was promoted far beyond her capabilities and she now speaks
as if she's got a potato in her mouth."

"I think the expression is "a plum in her mouth"."

"With a mouth like hers, it's definitely a potato.  When I think of the
times '

"Did she say what Dr.  Gore wanted?"  I interrupted.  I was feeling
rather uneasy about this interview with the CEO so early on in the
term.  A small cold dread was settling into the pit of my stomach.

"No, I never gave her the chance.  I keep all conversations with that
woman as short as possible.  Anyone would think she was royalty the way
she carries on.  It might be promotion."

"Pardon?"

"Why Dr.  Gore wants to see you.  You know, a step up.  Doubtful though
you've only been here a year and a bit.  Could be a complaint from a
governor or an angry head teacher

"That's all I need the first week back," I sighed.

"Then again," said Julie, with a mischievous glint in her eye, 'it
could be one of his little jobs."

"Oh no!"  I exclaimed.  "Not one of his little jobs!  Please don't let
it be one of his little jobs!"  I was well acquainted with Dr.  Gore's
little jobs, having been given several in my first year and they were
never 'little' jobs.  There had been the county-wide reading survey and
the full audit of secondary school libraries followed by a detailed
report to the Education Committee.  There had been the investigation
into the teaching of spelling, the production of a series of guideline
documents for teachers, and the organising of the visit of the Minister
of Education.  All this was extra work on the top of the courses,
inspections and report writing.  I prayed it was not one of Dr.  Gore's
little jobs.

Dr.  Gore, Chief Education Officer for the County of Yorkshire,
continued to smile like a hungry vampire as he leaned forward in his
chair.  He peered over his glasses, his eyes glinting like chips of
glass.  "Well, Gervase," he murmured, stroking his brow with a long
finger.  I just knew what he was going to say.  He was going to say, "I
have a little job for you."

"I have a little job for you," he said.

Ten minutes later Julie was waiting for me at the top of the stairs.
"Well?"

"One guess."

"A little job?"

"Right first time."

"I'll put the coffee on."

I followed her into the office.  "Actually it's not too bad," I said
cheerfully, rattling the change in my trouser pocket.  "Dr.  Gore's
asked me to organise a visit of one of Her Majesty's Inspectors for
later this term.  He wants to look at some schools as part of a
national information gathering exercise on literacy standards.  I just
have to nominate a number of schools and arrange things, nothing
massively demanding in that.  I can ring round the schools this morning
and get a letter off to the Ministry.  There's not much else for me to
do today.  The only fly in the ointment is having to liaise with Mrs.
Savage."

Julie pulled the screwed-up face again and clattered out of the office.
"Forget the coffee," she said, "I'll get the brandy."

One bright morning a week later I was looking casually through my post
when I came upon a frighteningly official-looking document.  On the
envelope there was a large royal crest with a lion rampant and rearing
unicorn and topped with a crown.  The letter inside had a black
embossed heading The Ministry of Education and ended with a large
flourish of a signature.  I recognised the name: Miss W. de la Mare.

Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty's Principal Divisional Inspector of
Schools, had contacted me the previous year when I had been given the
'little job' of arranging the visit of the Minister of Education.  She
had barked down the telephone at Julie that she had wanted to speak to
me to discuss the visit and then had promptly hung up.  Julie had told
me that the speaker 'was like a grizzly bear with toothache' and had
given a name which sounded like

"Deadly Stare'.  In the event Miss de la Mare's bark was far worse than
her bite.  In the letter I had now, she requested that I arrange a
series of visits to schools 'which demonstrate good practice in the
teaching of reading and writing' and which 'show good breadth, balance
and continuity in the curriculum'.  She was particularly interested in
poetry.

I knew just the school for her to visit: Backwatersthwaite Primary, the
very first school I had called at when I had started in my new career
as an inspector a year earlier.

It had been the first week of the job.  After a frustrating two-hour
search up and down the dale, along muddy, twisting roads, across
ancient stone bridges, up dirt tracks and through countless picturesque
villages, I had eventually discovered Backwatersthwaite School.  The
Headteacher, Mr.  Lapping, a tall, lean man with grey, frizzy hair like
a pile of wire wool, had not been expecting me but was entirely
unperturbed when I informed him that I was a County School Inspector
visiting to examine the children's work and scrutinise the school
documentation.  I had called at the school again a couple of times
during the year and had been immensely impressed by the quality of the
education.  The children were polite and well-behaved, they answered
questions with enthusiasm and perception, read with confidence and
expression and wrote the most poignant and vivid poetry.

I replied promptly to the letter from the Ministry of Education
suggesting five schools for Miss de la Mare to visit and offering to
accompany her to Backwatersthwaite.  I certainly did not want her to
spend half the day, as I had done, travelling backwards and forwards
through the dale in search of the elusive school.

A couple of days later a second rather sharp-sounding letter arrived
from the Ministry of Education informing me that Miss de la Mare was
grateful for the list of suitable schools and for my offer to accompany
her on one of the ii visits, but she would prefer to go alone.  I
immediately telephoned the head teachers at the chosen schools
forewarning them of the H M I's visitation.

"Well, thank you very much," sighed George Lapping down the line.
"Thank you very much indeed.  I know now who my friends really are."  I
could guess from the tone of his voice that he was secretly pleased but
he made the pretence of displeasure.  "I have attempted, Gervase, over
the many years I have been a teacher and head teacher in this vast and
beautiful county, to avoid the attentions of school inspectors.  My
school is isolated, difficult to find and subtly disguised to resemble
the facade of a private dwelling.  I have kept my head down, got on
with my teaching and not done too bad a job, even if I say so myself.
Now, with your recent arrival in the county, Backwatersthwaite has been
put firmly on the map.  I guess there will be coaches creeping up the
dale full of educationalists and researchers, maybe day trippers and
school parties.  Now I have an HMI putting me under the microscope."

"You should be very flattered that I recommended your school, George,"
I replied.  "It's a mark of the excellent work which your pupils
achieve.  As Shakespeare would have it, "Some are born great, some
achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."

"But I have an HMI thrust upon me.  Well, I just hope he has the same
difficulty finding the school as you did when you first came here,
Gervase.  I can't be doing with visitors.  They interrupt my teaching
routine with all their questions.  Anyway, when is this visit likely to
take place?"

"Oh, some time this term," I replied.  "I'm not exactly sure, but I
should imagine that you'll be given very good warning.  By the way,
George' I was about to tell him that the H MI in question would be a
woman but he cut me off.

"And I do not intend putting on anything special for him.

He'll just have to take us as he finds us.  Anyway, if he intends
coming out in November or December, he had better reconsider.  It's
like Tibet up here in the winter."  I tried again to explain that the
HMI intending to visit him was not a man but Miss de la Mare, and quite
a forceful character at that, but he never gave me the chance.  "I
shall have to go.  Break is over and there's children to teach.  I'll
let you know how I get on."  With that the line went dead.

As soon as I had replaced the receiver, however, the telephone rang.  I
snatched it up.

"George," I said, assuming it would be the previous speaker, "I meant
to say that the HMI '

The voice which replied was coldly formal.  "This is Mrs.  Savage."  I
jumped as if someone had poured a bucket of cold water down my back.
"Is that Mr.  Phinn?"

"Yes, yes, Mrs.  Savage," I said.  "I thought you were someone else."

"Mr.  Phinn," she said primly, 'it was my understanding that you and I
were going to liaise?"

"Going to what?"  I asked.

"Liaise," she repeated.  "I understood from Dr.  Gore that we were
going to liaise over the visit of the HMI."

"Oh yes, he did sort of mention something about that."

"Mr.  Phinn, Dr.  Gore does not sort of mention something.  Dr.  Gore
is always very specific and precise and he clearly informed me that you
were going to get in touch to liaise about this intended visit of the H
MI.  I was to deal with all the administrative arrangements."

"I see," I said lamely.

"Clearly you do not see, Mr.  Phinn."

"I'm sorry?"

"I have not heard a thing," she said tartly.  When I did not respond
she continued.  "I did telephone earlier in the week but your secretary
who is not the easiest person to deal with I have to say was in rather
a tetchy mood.  Something had obviously got under her skin that
morning."  At the mention of'skin' and Julie I recalled the earlier
conversation about Mrs.  Savage's plastic surgery.  I winced and held
my breath to keep from laughing.

"Are you still there?"  came a strident voice down the line.

"Yes, yes, I am."

"And then this morning, as I was dealing with Dr.  Gore's
correspondence, I came across a letter from the Ministry of Education
informing him that the visits have already been arranged."

"The thing is, it was a pretty simple task, Mrs.  Savage," I said.  "I
saw no reason to bother you about it."

I heard a sort of clucking noise down the telephone.  "So I take it
that you have contacted the schools, arranged the visits and organised
everything else as well?"  I could imagine the stiffening of the
shoulders, the hawk-like countenance and the flashing eyes.

"Yes, I have."

"I see.  Well perhaps you will do me the courtesy, next time we are
asked to liaise, of letting me know that you intend to do it all
yourself

"As I said, Mrs.  Savage, it was not an onerous task and'

"I shall, of course, be informing Dr.  Gore of the situation.  I expect
you have sent him all the details?"

"It is in draft now," I said, pulling a clean pad of paper towards me,
'and he will have it in the morning."

There was an embarrassed silence followed by the clucking noise again.
"Well, there seems little more to say."  With that she replaced the
receiver.

I took a deep, deep breath, turned to the window and exhaled noisily.
The morning had started off so well.  How things can change in a matter
of hours, I thought to myself.  I prayed that I would see little of
Mrs.  Savage in the term ahead.  As things turned out, my prayers were
not answered.

"Miss, who's that funny man at the back of the classroom?"  The speaker
was a small, stocky boy of about nine or ten with a shock of thick, red
hair.

"That's not a funny man, Oliver," replied the teacher smiling and
colouring a little, 'that's Mr.  Phinn."

"Well, who is he, miss?"  asked the child.

"He's a visitor, come to see how well we are getting on."

"But what does he do, miss?"  persisted the little boy staring intently
at me with clear quizzical eyes.  "He's just sitting there not doing
anything."

"That's because he's an inspector-'

"A policeman!"  whispered the child excitedly.

"No, Oliver.  Mr.  Phinn's not a police inspector.  He's a school
inspector and'

"And he just sits and watches people then does he, miss?"

"Well, yes, he does, but he has lots of other things to do."  Mrs.
Peterson took a slow, deep breath.  "Mr.  Phinn listens to children
read, for example."

"Listens to children read?"  Oliver repeated shrilly.  "And does he get
paid for it, miss?"

"Yes," replied the teacher wearily, 'he does get paid for it, Oliver,
but come along now, settle down, there's a good boy."

Oliver returned to his desk, all the while staring intently in my
direction.  He then shook his head like an old man despairing at the
excesses of youth, before commenting, "Nice little number that."

I was sitting in the junior classroom of Highcopse County

Primary School, the second week into the new school term, watching the
children settle at their tables, wriggling to get comfortable on the
hard chairs.

It was a gloriously sunny September morning and through the open
classroom window I could see a great rolling sweep of green, dotted
with lazy sheep, rise to the austere, grey-purple fells beyond.  An old
stone farmhouse crouched against the lower slopes, tiny wisps of smoke
curling from the squat chimney into the clear blue sky.  A kestrel
hovered in the warm air.  I could hear the trickling of the small
stream outside as it dribbled amongst the white limestone rocks and
smell the fresh peaty tang of the countryside.  It was idyllic.  The
boy was right it was a 'nice little number'.

I was brought back from my reverie by the teacher's voice.  "Now, is
everyone ready?"  she asked.  "Will you all face the front, and pay
attention?  Do stop shuffling your feet, Penny, and Oliver, don't do
that with your pencil, please.  You know what happened last time. Thank
you.  It will not have escaped your notice, children, that we have a
very special visitor in school today."  Those children who were not
busy clearing away looked warily in my direction.  My smile was greeted
by a sea of solemn faces.  "Our special visitor is called Mr. Phinn,
and he will be with us all morning.  I hope you will have a good view
of proceedings from the back, Mr.  Phinn?"

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

"I wouldn't want you to miss anything."  I detected a hint of sarcasm
in the teacher's voice.

"I can see everything very well, thank you, Mrs.  Peterson."

"And you are not too uncomfortable on the small chair?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you," I repeated, still smiling.

"Let's give Mr.  Phinn a really nice warm welcome, shall we, children,
with a cheerful "Good Morning"?"

The children chanted half-heartedly: "Good morning, Mr.  Phinn."

"Good morning, children," I replied cheerily, still smiling widely.

"Mr.  Phinn," continued the teacher, 'will be hearing some of you read,
looking at your writing and having a little chat about the work which
you have been doing.  That's right, Mr.  Phinn, isn't it?"

"It is indeed," I replied, with the fixed smile beginning to make my
cheeks ache.

"Oliver!"  snapped Mrs.  Peterson, her eyes becoming suddenly cat-like,
'will you stop doing that with your pencil, please?  I have told you
once and I don't want to have to tell you again.  We do not want a
repetition of last term and the incident with the wax crayon, do we?"

"No, miss," answered the child brightly.

"Oliver managed to get a piece of wax crayon lodged in his ear, Mr.
Phinn, and we had the devil's own job to get it out, didn't we,
Oliver?"

"Yes, miss."  There was no trace of contrition in the cheerful voice.

"Peter, turn round please, dear, and pay attention.  And do you know,
Mr.  Phinn, Oliver always has an opinion or an answer.  I do encourage
the children to ask questions and express their views but sometimes
they do need to listen, don't they?"

"They do indeed," I agreed, wishing that she would not include me at
every turn.

"And if Oliver listened a little more and talked a little less he
wouldn't have all these mishaps, would you, Oliver?"  The subject of
the teacher's comments understood that this was an occasion for
listening and he stared back silently with wide eyes.  "When I asked
him what he was doing pushing a wax crayon in his ear, do you know what
he replied, Mr.  Phinn?"  I shook my head.  "He replied, "To see if it
fitted."  The teacher pursed her lips and a pair of hard, glittery eyes
rested on the child.  "Now then, Oliver, you can perhaps remember what
I said Mr.  Phinn does for a living?"

"Not a lot by the sound of it, miss," replied the child seriously.

The teacher sighed.  "Can you remember what I said his job was called?"
she asked sharply.

"Yes, miss.  He's a suspecter."

Mrs.  Peterson shook her head, shrugged and mouthed in my direction,
"There's always one!"

I knew exactly what she meant.  In the twelve months that I had been a
County Inspector of Schools, I had come across countless little
Olivers: lively, inquisitive children who were full of questions (and
answers) and, like Julie, bluntly honest and outspoken.

"Mr.  Phinn is a school inspector," the teacher corrected, mouthing the
words slowly, 'and it's lovely to have you with us, Mr.  Phinn."
Judging by her expression and body language, I was not convinced of the
sincerity of this statement.  Mrs.  Peterson held out her hand suddenly
in a dramatic gesture.  "Oliver, bring that pencil to me, please."  The
little boy trudged to the front of the room and placed the pencil on
the teacher's palm.  "Thank you."  She glowered at him as he returned
to his seat before turning her attention back to the class.  "Now this
morning, because it is a Monday, we start the day as we normally do
with "Newstime".  And we love "Newstime", don't we?"  The class
remained impassive.  Mrs.  Peterson turned in my direction.  "It's an
opportunity, Mr.  Phinn, for the children to tell us what they have
been doing over the weekend.  I don't know whether it's considered good
practice or not these days.  Things in education seem to shift like the
sands of time."

"It is good practice," I reassured her, smiling still.  "It encourages
the children to speak clearly, confidently and with enthusiasm."

"Just what I think."  She nodded and proceeded.  "Though with some
children' she glanced in the direction of Oliver 'a little more
listening and a little less speaking would be preferable."  The subject
of her observation had his elbows on the desk and was propping his chin
in his hands.  He had a faraway look on his face.  Clearly he was not
listening.  "Well, this week, let me see whom I shall ask."  She
scanned the classroom.  "Portia, would you like to come out to the
front and tell us what interesting things you and your family have been
doing over the weekend?"

A large, moon-faced, rather morose-looking girl with hair in enormous
bunches and tied by large crimson ribbons, rose slowly from her seat
and headed sluggishly for the front.  She stared motionless at the
class as if caught in ambera grim expression on her round pale face.

"Come along, then, Portia," urged Mrs.  Peterson.

"Nowt 'appened, miss," the girl answered sullenly.

"Something must have happened, Portia.  Did you go anywhere?"

"No, miss."

"Well, what did you do all weekend?"

"Watch telly, miss."

Mrs.  Peterson sighed and turned in my direction.  "It's like
extracting teeth, getting some of the children to speak, Mr.  Phinn,"
she confided in a sotto voce voice.  "Some of them are very economical
in their use of words."  She turned her attention back to the large
girl at the front of the classroom, who was staring vacantly out of the
window.  "Now, come along, Portia, there must be something you can tell
us all?"

"Miss, we found an 'edge'og on our lawn on Saturday and it were dead,"
the child announced bluntly.

"Oh dear," said Mrs.  Peterson, pulling a dramatically sympathetic
face.  "I wonder why that was?  Do you think something could have
killed it?"  She then looked in my direction, an expectant expression
playing about her eyes.  "Possibly a cat, Mr.  Phinn, do you think?"

"Very possibly," I replied.

"My dad said it were probably next door's dog," said Portia.  "It's all
us killing things that dog.  My dad says it wants purrin' down. It's a
reight vicious thing.  It bit 'im when he was fixing t'fence and last
week it chased this old woman who were collecting for the RSPCA right
down t'path.  We could hear t'screaming from our back room."

"Dear me, it does sound a rather fierce creature, Portia," said Mrs.
Peterson.

"It biter on t'bottom by t'gate.  All her little flags were ower our
garden.  My dad said she wouldn't be coming back in an 'urry!"

Mrs.  Peterson sighed wearily, gave me a faint smile and picked on
another news giver a small, pale boy with large glasses.  "Come on down
to the front, Simon, and tell us all what interesting things you have
been up to this weekend."

"Miss, we're going to Disneyland again next year," said the boy
scurrying down to the front.  "We went into town to book it."

"Well, that does sound exciting.  Simon is a very lucky little boy, Mr.
Phinn," remarked Mrs.  Peterson, swivelling again in my direction and
giving me a look as if to say: "His parents have more money than
sense."  "He's just got back from America and he's off there again next
year.  My goodness."

"It's really good fun, miss.  There's lots to do at Disneyland," said
Simon enthusiastically.

"Have you been to Disneyland, Mr.  Phinn?"  asked Mrs.  Peterson.

"No," I replied, "I haven't."

"Neither have I. Whitby was as far as I got this summer and it rained
for the whole week.  Perhaps when teachers get that well-deserved pay
rise, Mr.  Phinn, I'll be able to go to Disneyland."  I smiled faintly
and nodded.

"Thank you, Simon.  Now let me see.  Oh, come on then, Oliver.  I can
see your hand waving in the air like a palm tree in a tornado.  Come on
down to the front and tell us what interesting things have happened to
you during this weekend."

Oliver scampered to the front excitedly, drew himself up to his full
height and proclaimed in a loud and confident voice: "Miss, some white
worms came out of my bottom yesterday."

Mrs.  Peterson screwed up her face as if she were sucking a lemon.  "Oh
dear me, Oliver.  I don't think we want to hear about that."

"My mum's going to the chemist's today to get some pink stuff to get
rid of the white worms that came'

"I think we've heard quite enough about the white worms, thank you,
Oliver.  Is there something nice you can tell us about?"

"But, miss, my mum said lots of people get them.  When she was a girl
she said that all her class'

"Yes, well, Mr.  Phinn's not travelled all the way from Fettlesham to
hear about white worms, have you, Mr.  Phinn?"  I smiled faintly and
shook my head.  "I'm sure the medicine will work wonders tonight."

"But, miss, when I first saw these white worms they sort of wriggled
and'

"Oliver!"  snapped Mrs.  Peterson with such a wild gleam in her eye
that she looked like a cat ready to pounce.  "Enough!  Back to your
place, please."  Then, turning to Portia she said, "Perhaps the
hedgehog ate something which didn't agree with him.  What do you think
might have happened, Mr.  Phinn?"

This was like some double act, with me as the stooge.  I was becoming a
regular feature in "Newstime', and now I was the resident expert on
hedgehogs.

"Well, it could have been that," I said.  "They do scavenge.

Quite a lot of people put out bread and milk for hedgehogs which is bad
for them.  It makes their stomachs swell, so it's best to let them find
their natural food."

"And does anyone know what the hedgehog's natural food is?"  asked Mrs.
Peterson, addressing the children.

"Worms!"  exclaimed Oliver, grinning widely.

Mrs.  Peterson smiled thinly with noble resignation.

Towards the end of the morning I took the opportunity, whilst the
children were writing up their news, to look at the exercise books.
Portia was writing carefully in large, clear rounded letters as I
approached, but on catching sight of me she froze, dropped her pencil
and stared up like a terrified rabbit in a trap.

"May I look at your work?"  I asked gently.  She slid the book across
the desk, all the while staring and blinking nervously.  She had
written the date at the top of the page in bold writing and then
underneath in four large capital letters the word "EGOG'.

"What does this mean?"  I asked.

"Edge'og!"  she replied, looking at me as if I was incredibly stupid.

Try as I might, I just could not get her to speak to me above the
single word so I tried another tack, to re-assure her that I was really
quite friendly.

"It's a lovely name, Portia," I said.  She eyed me suspiciously.  "You
are named after one of the most famous characters in a wonderful play
by William Shakespeare.  Portia was a very clever and beautiful woman."
I was just about to launch into a rendering of "The quality of mercy is
not strained' when Mrs.  Peterson approached, bent low so her lips were
nearly in my ear and informed me in slow and deliberate tones that "The
name is spelled "P-O-R-S-C-H-E" not "P-O-R-T-I-A!", Mr.  Phinn. Her
father told me, when I asked him about the unusual spelling on Parents'
Evening that he always wanted a Porsche car but couldn't afford one.
She's the next best thing."  Mrs.  Peterson shook her head, shrugged
and mouthed: "There's always one!"

Little Simon, with the large spectacles and the pale, translucent face,
had produced a lively little account about his recent trip to
Disneyland, which concluded:

On Saturday we booked again for Disneyland but next year we are not
taking my nanna with us.  My dad said she wouldn't stop talking all
week and she got on his nerves and was a pain in the neck.  He said it
was like taking a parrot with us.

Finally I arrived at Oliver's desk.  The little boy had his head down
and was scratching away furiously with a large, fat fountain pen.  It
appeared to be leaking because there was ink everywhere.  As I peered
over the shock of red hair I read, with some difficulty, a simple
little account of the white worms and their dramatic appearance on the
day before.

"It's an interesting piece of work, Oliver," I commented, 'but your
writing is hard to read."

"That's because miss took my pencil away, so I'm having to make do with
this."  He scrutinised the writing implement before observing, "And
this pen's got a life of its own."

After morning playtime I joined the infant class in a spacious room
which was neat and orderly with colourful displays depicting various
fairy story characters covering the walls.  There were six large, low
tables with small, orange melamine chairs at each, a selection of
bright picture books on a trolley, a carpeted area, a big plastic tray
for sand and another for water and at the front a square, old-fashioned
teacher's desk and hard wooden chair.  The windows looked out on a
magnificent view up the dale: a vast expanse of pale golden-green
rolling to the grey-purple fells and clear sky beyond.

The five- and six-year-olds were in the charge of a serious-looking
teacher in a grey jumper and dark brown skirt, called appropriately
Mrs.  Dunn.  She had iron-grey hair pulled back severely across her
scalp and wore a pained expression throughout the hour-long lesson. She
had the rather unsettling habit of twitching nervously before glancing
in my direction.  The children read competently and their writing,
though slightly below the standard I would have expected from children
of this age, was sound enough.  There was a great deal of copied
writing, a few simple stories and no poetry.

At the end of the morning I returned to Mrs.  Peterson's class to make
my farewells.  The teacher beamed effusively as I entered her room.

"Now, children, look who's back it's Mr.  Phinn."  The children looked
up indifferently.

"I've just popped in to say goodbye, Mrs.  Peterson."

"It's been a pleasure, Mr.  Phinn.  We do like to have special
visitors, don't we, children?"  One or two children nodded
unenthusiastically.  "It's been a real treat for us and I hope it is
not too long before you come back and see us again.  That would be
nice, children, wouldn't it?  My goodness, Mr.  Phinn, we do have such
a lot of fun in this classroom, don't we, children?"  The class stared
impassively.  "We really do have so much fun, don't we?"  There were a
few nods.  I caught sight of Oliver in the Reading Corner.  He looked
up from his book, Creepy-Crawlies and Minibeasts and shook his head.
Mrs.  Peterson had spotted him too.

"Yes, we do, Oliver!  We're always having fun."  She fixed him with a
rattlesnake look and gave a little laugh.  It was not a pleasant little
laugh.  "Too much to say for himself, that young man, Mr.  Phinn," Mrs.
Peterson confided in me in an undertone.  "We do have a lot of fun."

As I passed Oliver on my way out, I heard him mutter, "I must have been
away that day."  I suppressed a smile.

"Oliver," continued Mrs.  Peterson, her face now rather more leering
than smiling and her voice with quite a sharpness of tone to it, 'would
you go and ask the school secretary to ring the bell for dinnertime,
please, there's a good boy."  The last phrase was said with some
emphasis.  "And shall we all now say a nice, warm "Goodbye" to Mr.
Phinn?"

"Goodbye, Mr.  Phinn," the class intoned.

"Goodbye," I said.

Oliver and I walked down the corridor together.  "Can I ask you
something, Mr.  Phinn?"  he said.

"Of course."

"How do you become one of these suspecters, then?"

"Inspectors, Oliver."

"How do you become one?"

"Well, you have to work hard at school, read a lot of books and when
you go up to the big school you have to pass your exams and go on to
college.  You then take more exams and that takes a long, long time."

"How old do you have to be?"  he asked.

"You have to be twenty-one to be a teacher and even older to be a
school inspector, so you have a long way to go-'

"And then you can sit at the back of classrooms and watch people?"

"That's right."

"And hear children read?"

"That's right."

"And look at their writing?"

"And look at their writing," I repeated.

The little boy looked up and then scratched at the shock of red hair.
"And you get paid for it?"

"And get paid for it," I intoned.  He still looked very thoughtful, so
I said, "Would you like to ask me anything else?"

"No, not really, but..  ."  He paused.  "Go on, Oliver.  Have you got
something to tell me?"  "Well, Mr.  Phinn, I was just thinking, that
when I'm twenty-one, you'll probably be dead!"

"You've had a telephone call," announced David, when I arrived at the
office one damp, depressing, early October afternoon.  He gave a wry
smile before adding, "You have been summoned to an audience with the
Ice Queen herself."

"Who?"

"Mrs.  Savage."

"Oh, no," I moaned.  "Whatever does she want now?"

Sidney looked up from his papers, shook his head, adopted a pitiful
expression and sighed dramatically.

"She left a message that you are to go up and see her," continued
David.  "She was quite insistent."

"Sounds like Mae West," said Sidney suddenly.  He mimicked the slow
American drawl of the star of the silver screen.  "Come up and see me
sometime, honey."

"Anyone less like Mae West, I could not imagine," I told him
caustically.

"My goodness," said David, taking off his reading glasses and folding
them on the desk in front of him, 'someone is in a rather fraught
condition this afternoon."

"I can't seem to escape from the woman," I said, banging my briefcase
down on a chair.  "She was on the phone to me the very first day of
term and since then I keep on getting messages and memos every other
day."

"She's perhaps taken a shine to you," said David, finding the whole
situation highly amusing.  "You want to watch out."

"Huh!"  I grunted.

"Or a certain young, attractive head teacher might start getting a
trifle jealous."

"David, I've already had the third degree from Julie about my love
life.  Could we leave Christine out of it, do you think?  I wonder what
Mrs.  Savage is after now?"

"Did you know," said Sidney, pushing aside his papers and leaning back
expansively in his chair, 'that she once tried to lure a bishop up to
her room?"

"Who?  Mrs.  Savage?"  exclaimed David.

"No, no!  Mae West.  She met this bishop at some fancy function or
other and said to him, "Come up and see me sometime," and this bishop
replied, with a very serious face, "I'm sorry, Miss West, but that is
quite impossible.  It's Lent."  Mae West was reputed to have quipped
back, "Well, bishop, when you get it back from the person you lent it
to, come up and see me."

"I'm sure you make all these stories up, Sidney," said David
sniggering, and returning to his work.

"Did she say what she wanted?"  I asked.

"Who?  Mae West?"  asked Sidney.

"Sidney, will you be serious!  Mrs.  Savage.  Did she say what she
wanted to see me about?"

"No, no," said David.  "Just for you to go up and see her in the Annexe
and that it was a matter of some urgency."

"When is it not?"  I asked in an exasperated voice.

"Now don't start getting comfortable, Gervase," continued David, as I
began taking a bundle of papers from my briefcase, 'putting off until
tomorrow what you can do today.  She won't just disappear, much as we
would like her to, you know.  My old Welsh grandmother used to say that
it is always best to meet adversity head on.  "Grasp the nettle,
David," she used to say.  "Take the bull by the horns and face the
music.  Doing nothing, solves nothing."  She's working late tonight and
wants you to go up and see her at about six o'clock.  She will be
waiting."

"Your old Welsh grandmother?  "asked Sidney, facetiously.

"You are becoming very tiresome, Sidney,"replied David,

putting his glasses back on and looking at him over the top of them. "I
am endeavouring to convey an important message and then complete this
report.  It is nearly six o'clock and I do have a home to go to."

"Go and see her now, Gervase," advised Sidney.  "David's quite right,
it's best to get such a deeply unpleasant and potentially hazardous
experience over and done with like having an ulcerated tooth pulled or
a giant boil lanced."

"Yes, I think you right," I said wearily, stuffing the papers back into
my briefcase.  "I'd better see what she wants."

"And if I were you, Gervase," said David, looking up from his papers,
"I should enter her labyrinth with a great degree of caution.  She
becomes even more of a Gorgon after six o'clock."

"No, no!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "It was Theseus who entered the labyrinth
to face the Minotaur.  You're thinking of Medusa, one of the Gorgons,
who had great sharp shoulders, barbed claws, enormous teeth and who
could turn you to stone with an icy stare.  Come to think of it, sounds
rather like Mrs.  Savage."

"Thank you for the potted history of Greek mythology," said David,
removing his glasses again.  "I am well aware of the difference between
the Minotaur and a Gorgon.  We were taught the classics at my Welsh
grammar school.  One can't say anything around here without receiving a
lecture from you, Sidney, or some clever comment or other.  All I was
attempting to say was that Gervase ought to be on his guard, to proceed
with extreme caution.  She's obviously taken a liking to him'

"No, she has not!"  I exclaimed.

"And may have an ulterior motive for these late meetings.  You are a
very vulnerable young man.  The woman has been through husbands like a
killer shark through a shoal of sprats, and before you start to tell
me, Sidney, that killer sharks don't eat sprats'

I left them both in hearty discussion and departed, thinking to myself,
if only David knew.

I had never divulged to my colleagues the entirely unexpected and
dreadfully embarrassing confrontation which had taken place in Mrs.
Savage's office a few months into my new job.  We had worked closely
together on a number of projects and Mrs.  Savage had been
uncharacteristically good-humoured and co-operative.  When I had been
given one of Dr.  Gore's 'little jobs' to organise the visit of the
Minister of Education Mrs.  Savage had been enormously helpful and
highly efficient.  The visit had gone really well and she and I were on
first-name terms by the end.  Then I had visited Mrs.  Savage's office
late one March afternoon.  She had looked like the star of an American
soap opera, dressed in a scarlet and black suit with huge shoulder pads
and great silver buttons and with what, I imagined, she considered an
alluring look on her face.  She had tilted her head, moved near and
confided in me that she had been so lonely following the death of her
last husband.  When she had moved closer, breathing heavily and
fluttering her eyelashes, I had made hurried apologies and departed at
high speed.  Since then I had kept my distance and, on the few
occasions our paths had crossed, Mrs.  Savage had remained coldly
formal.  I had sensed, however, that beneath the icy exterior there was
something still simmering.

It was with some trepidation, therefore, that I headed for the dreaded
meeting.  The school inspectors occupied the top floor of what could
only be described as an Edwardian villa, some distance away from the
main County Hall.  We saw little of the occupants of the ground floor
the educational psychologists who, like us, spent most of their time in
schools.  One of the villa's former bedrooms had been converted into
our office, another was used as a store and the third, which was not
much bigger than a box-room,

was where Julie worked.  The trip from our office to County Hall was a
pleasant stroll on a bright summer's day and a bracing walk on a fresh
winter's morning, but when the weather took a turn for the worse, I
would arrive for a meeting wet and windblown and wishing I worked in an
office near to the main Education Department.

But then I would be closer to Mrs.  Savage which would be worse, I now
mused as I quickly skirted the formal gardens, well-tended lawns and
neat footpaths which surrounded the grey stone edifice of County Hall.
It was a dark, rain-soaked evening and a ragged grey curtain of cloud
hung from the sky and the wind drove the rain at a sharp slant,
thoroughly soaking me.  Once inside the main building, wet and cold, I
headed for the cloakrooms where I dried my face and combed my hair in
preparation for the ordeal ahead of me.  I then set off for the Annexe
and Mrs.  Savage's room.

The interior of County Hall was like an empty museum, hushed and cool,
with a succession of wandering marbled corridors, long leather-covered
benches and ornate highly polished doors.  The walls were full of
portraits of former councillors, mayors, aldermen, leaders of the
council, high sheriffs, lord lieutenants, members of parliament and
other dignitaries, many of them bearded and all of them looking gloomy.
They stared from their gilt frames in solemn disapproval, adding to my
dismal mood.  A jagged streak of lightning lit up the dark corridors,
followed seconds later by a grumbling of thunder and a downpour of rain
which lashed fiercely at the windows.  As I turned the corner leading
to Mrs.  Savage's room, the clock on the County Hall tower struck six
deep, melancholy, echoing notes.  It sounded like a funeral bell.

The office of Dr.  Gore's Personal Assistant was at the very top of a
modern three-storey structure attached to the rear of County Hall.  The
Annexe clung to the sturdy imposing Victorian building like some great
glass limpet and looked entirely out of place.  The architect, no doubt
constrained by the Finance Department, had designed something large,
utilitarian and cheap and had made no attempt to match the style or
construction of the original building.  The Annexe housed the
administrative and clerical support offices and the Print Room.

Mrs.  Savage's office was palatial compared to mine.  The desk, which
dominated the room, was a vast asymmetrical affair in rich mahogany.
There were filing cupboards and cabinets of various sorts, an
expensive-looking bookcase, an occasional table and two easy chairs.
The walls, which were plain and the colour of sour cream, had four
large paintings in metal frames, positioned at exact distances from one
another.  They were the sort of art Sidney described as meaningless,
abstract splatters.  There was a thick shag-pile carpet and long pale
drapes at the window.  Mrs.  Savage was sitting stiffly at her desk
with icy imperturbability, a computer humming away on a console beside
her.

"Do come in, Mr.  Phinn, and take a seat," she said, catching sight of
me hovering in the doorway like a naughty schoolboy waiting to see the
Headteacher.  "I won't be a moment."  There was a note of sharp command
in her voice.  I sat in one of the easy chairs, crossed my legs
casually and flicked through my diary, attempting to give the
appearance of being entirely at ease.  Inwardly I felt as nervous and
anxious as a patient waiting to hear the results of some medical test.
Mrs.  Savage scratched away with a sharp pencil, for what seemed an
interminable amount of time, glancing up occasionally as if to make
sure I was still there.  I watched her out of the corner of my eye. She
looked haughtier than ever.  I had not seen her since the previous term
and, as Julie had remarked recently, she seemed to have lost weight and
a number of wrinkles and creases into the bargain.  She was dressed in
a close-fitting, pale green silk suit splashed with great crimson
poppies which matched exactly the colour of her lipstick and nail
varnish.  She certainly was a striking-looking woman.

"Now then, Mr.  Phinn," she said suddenly, looking up from her papers,
'thank you for coming up to see me."  She was making it perfectly clear
that we were no longer on first-name terms.  So be it, I thought.

"That's all right, Mrs.  Savage," I replied, attempting to sound
relaxed.  "I believe you mentioned that it was urgent?"

"It is," she said sharply.  "It's about the Feoffees."

"I beg your pardon?"

"The Feoffees," she repeated, picking at the word like a pigeon with a
piece of bread.  She stared and waited and it was clear that she had no
intention of enlightening me as to what a Feoffee actually was.  Well,
two can play at this cat and mouse game, I thought to myself.

"What have the Feoffees got to do with me, Mrs.  Savage?"  I asked.

"As you may be aware, Mr.  Phinn, Lord Marrick, the Vice-Chairman of
the Education Committee, is to take up the office of Greave and Chief
Lord of the Feoffees in the New Year."  She paused for effect.

"Really?"

"Next year is the five hundredth anniversary of the foundation of the
Feoffees.  I don't know whether you knew?"

"No, I didn't."

i "Lord Marrick, who is a great one for tradition, as you

I know, is keen to mark this very significant juncture in the

I Feoffees' history by hosting an open day at Manston Hall

;. at the end of May, and he wants various events, involving a wide
range of local institutions and organisations, to celebrate such an
auspicious occasion."

"I see," I said, nodding and trying to appear knowledgeable.  I had not
the first idea what a "Fee-Fo', or whatever it was called, was but I
was not going to let on to Mrs.  Savage.  "And how do I come in?"

"Dr.  Gore wishes you to attend a planning meeting at Manston Hall in
November in his place.  I have checked your engagement sheet and note
that you have no important commitments at that time.  Of course, Dr.
Gore would have represented the Education Department himself but it is
quite impossible for him to attend the meeting.  As you are no doubt
aware, he has been asked by the Minister of Education to sit on a major
Government committee and will be exceptionally busy for the foreseeable
future.  It is, of course, a great honour for the CEO to be invited by
the Minister to be part of such a prestigious group."  She gave a
slight smile as if she were privy to some secret.  "Dr.  Gore would
not, under normal circumstances, have delegated such an important task
to someone else, particularly to a relative newcomer to the county, but
Dr.  Yeats is leading a major school inspection in November and is not
available.  Dr.  Gore understands that you had a number of dealings
with Lord Marrick last year so he is not unfamiliar to you."

"I see," I said again, still totally in the dark.

"He would have seen you personally to explain what is involved but he
is the guest speaker at the Fettlesham High School Presentation this
evening so has asked me to deal with it.  He would like this matter
expedited immediately."  She leaned over her desk and clasped her hands
before her.  There was a huge solitaire diamond ring on one red-nailed
finger and a cluster of gold hoops on another.  "He has also, Mr.
Phinn, asked me to liaise with you over this."  Her voice had taken on
an even sharper edge.  "I sincerely hope that we will, in fact, liaise
and that you will not take it upon yourself, as you did with the H MI
visits, to do everything on your own."

I had guessed that she would raise that little matter but decided not
to get into a further discussion about it.

"Yes, of course, Mrs.  Savage," I said pleasantly.  "And what does this
particular initiative involve?"

"It involves joining the planning group and contributing where
appropriate.  Of course, the Education Department will have a
significant part to play in the celebration of five hundred years of
the Feoffees.  I guess it will mean displays of various sorts,
children's presentations, that sort of thing, reflecting the life and
work of the Feoffees."  It was as if she were speaking in a foreign
language.

"Of course," I nodded.

There was a portentous pursing of the lips.  Mrs.  Savage eyed me for a
brief moment before continuing.  "Dr.  Gore has asked me to deal with
all the administration.  I have already informed Lord Marrick that you
will be representing the Education Department and I shall send you the
agenda and the accompanying papers for the meeting just as soon as I
receive them."  She paused and gave me a frosty look.  "And I would be
very appreciative, Mr.  Phinn, if you would see to it that I am kept
fully informed.  It makes my life so much easier if I know what is
happening, when it is happening and how it is happening.  I hope I make
myself clear."

"Perfectly clear, Mrs.  Savage."

She ran her eyes over me critically as a doctor might observe an
interesting patient.  "Good," she said.  I stood up to go.  "One
moment, Mr.  Phinn, I haven't finished with you yet."  She gave a
small, quick smile before rising from her chair and straightening the
creases in her skirt.  I felt a tingle of apprehension.  Was she going
to leap across the desk, launch herself on top of me in wild abandon,
drag me on to the thick shag-pile carpet, throw me over the occasional
table?  I stepped back as she moved stealthily around the desk like a
predatory cat.  I could smell her heavy perfume.  The eyelashes began
to flutter.  My apprehension turned to cold fear.  This was going to be
a re-enactment of the earlier deeply embarrassing incident.  I was
going to have to fight the woman off!

"What about a date?"  she asked.

"Date?"  I whispered.  "What date?"

"You need a date for the meeting at Manston Hall."

"Ah," I sighed, 'that date."  In my anxiety to get the meeting over
quickly, I had completely overlooked that the date had not yet been
mentioned.  I had thought, for one appalling moment, that Mrs.  Savage
was pro positioning me for a date.

"The twenty-fifth of November at ten o'clock."  I stared, wide-eyed,
open-mouthed, rooted to the spot as if looking into the face of Medusa
herself.  "Is there something else, Mr.  Phinn?"  asked Mrs.  Savage.

"No, nothing," I replied and headed at a brisk pace for the door.

Sidney and David were putting on their coats when I arrived back at the
office.

"You managed to escape unscathed then," commented David, straightening
the papers on his desk.

"He does look a little flushed and out of breath, don't you think?"
said Sidney.  "I hope your dealings with Mrs.  Savage were entirely
professional, Gervase.  What did she want?"  .  "Have either of you
heard of the Feoffees?"

"Are they a pop group?"  asked David.

"I once went out with an amazing American girl at Oxford called Fifi,"
sighed Sidney.  "Very good sculptor.  Had wonderful muscles and flaming
red hair.  Ate nothing but lentils.  Remarkable woman."

"I have a drawer in my filing cabinet marked "Fifi"," said David. "It's
stuffed full of papers, dead documents, 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 unassuming 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 institution.  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 pass.

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 grassy 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 damning 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 classics
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 classroom practitioner, 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 classrooms 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 God 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,
documents 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 nobody 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.

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

"Hello, Mrs.  Peterson, it's Gervase Phinn here."

"Oh, hello 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 class 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 grass 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 class 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 Cassatt'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 classroom 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 damn
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."

"Just listen a moment, will you, Thomas," I said, catching sight of
Mrs.  Dunn sitting at the back of the room with a self-satisfied smile
on her face.  She seemed to be quite enjoying my discomfort.  "We can
perhaps talk about that later on.  Now I want us all to look very
carefully at this picture of the rabbit.  I saw quite a few rabbits
this morning asl-'

"My granddad kills them an' all," said Thomas.  "He pegs a little
string net ower t'rabbit warren holes and lets one of his jills
down."

"Jills?"  I asked.

"His ferret.  He keeps her half fed to make her keen.  If he underfeeds
her, she eats t'rabbit and won't come up out of t'ole.  If he overfeeds
her she won't go down at all.  He lets her down thole and she chases
t'rabbits out into t'net.  Then my granddad breaks their necks.  He's
reight good at that."

"Really," I said feebly.  "Well perhaps later on we could hear all
about that, Thomas, but for the moment let's look at the picture and
think of the shapes and colours in it."  I selected the final large
photograph of a dormouse and decided on a pre-emptive strike.  "And
what about dormice, Thomas?  Does your granddad kill those as well and
hang them up on the fence?"

"No, he quite likes dormice.  They don't really do any harm."

Thank goodness for that, I thought.  "Right then," I said cheerfully,
'let's all look at this shy little dormouse, clinging to a stalk of
wheat.  Look carefully at the colour of his fur and his large round
eyes which'

"Sheba kills dormice, though," said Thomas in his flat, matter-of-fact
voice.

"Sheba?"  I sighed.

"Our farm cat.  She catches 'em in t'fields, carries 'em into t'kitchen
and plays with 'em before killing 'em.  We try to get 'em off of'er but
she runs off."

"I see," I said wearily.

"And sometimes she brings shrews into t'kitchen an' all, and bites
their 'eads off and'

"Is there anyone else who would like to say anything about animals?"  I
interrupted, in the hope of changing the subject.  A small, pixie-faced
little boy sitting right under my nose raised his hand eagerly.

"Yes?"  I said pleasantly, looking into the keen little face.  "What
have you to tell me?"

"I've got frogs on my underpants," he announced proudly.

By the end of the morning the children had produced some short,
interesting poems about the animals.  Most were not about little,
soft-furred moles, adorable little dormice, gambolling rabbits or
playful squirrels but were blunt, realistic descriptions of the animals
that they knew so much about far more than I ever would.  They clearly
did not need a set of large photographs to prompt them.  There were
images of 'fierce, sharp-toothed badgers', 'crows which picked at the
dead animals on the road', 'fat, black rats that hid in the hay' and
'red foxes creeping behind the hen coop'.  Thomas's effort was quite
clearly the best:

On a frosty morning, my granddad

Takes his jill to catch rabbits.

She has a little blue collar and a silver bell,

Tiny red eyes and creamy fur,

And she trembles in his hands.

"Thomas lives on the farm at the top of the dale," explained Mrs.  Dunn
as we headed in the direction of the school hall for lunch.  She was
quite animated and talkative.  "Like most farming children, he's been
brought up to be unsentimental about animals.  They are on the farm for
a purpose, not as pets, and any creature which affects their livelihood
is regarded as a pest.  You should hear what he's got to say about
foxes."  She paused for a moment before adding, "Thomas has a great
deal to say for himself, hasn't he?  You might have guessed, Mr. Phinn,
he's Oliver's younger brother."

At lunch I sat between Thomas and an angelic-looking little girl.  The
boy surveyed me for a moment.  "Meat and tatey pie for lunch," he said
rubbing his hands.  "My favourite."  He stared at me for a moment.  "I
reckon you won't be 'having any."

"Why is that?"  I asked, intrigued.

"You're probably one of those vegetarians.  Me granddad doesn't like
vegetarians.  He says they take the meat out of his mouth.  "There's
nothing better than a good bit o' beef on your plate or a nice bit o'
pork on your fork."  That's what my granddad says.  He doesn't like
vegetarians, my granddad."

Woe betide any vegetarian foolish enough to cross his granddad's land,
I thought to myself.  They'd end up, along with the moles and the
squirrels, hanging up on t'fence.

Before I could inform Thomas that I was not, in fact, a vegetarian, the
little angel sitting next to me whispered shyly, "I like rabbits."

"So do I," I replied.

"My daddy likes rabbits too."

"Does he?"

"And my mummy likes rabbits."

"That's nice."

She took a mouthful of meat and potato pie before adding quietly, "They
taste really good with onions."

I am certain that I learnt more from the children that morning at
Highcopse Primary School than they did from me.  Heading back to the
office after lunch, on that bright autumnal afternoon, along the
twisting ribbon of road, I came once more upon the swaying box on
wheels with the cut-out hand waving "Have a nice day' in the back
window.  I glanced again at the driver as I overtook.  He gave me his
shaky wave.  I smiled and waved back.  I was in such a good mood that
had the extremely dirty-looking individual still been at the side of
the road intent on getting to York, I might very well have stopped to
give him a lift.

Later that afternoon, on my way back from collecting some guideline
documents from the Print Room, I bumped into George Lapping in a
corridor in County Hall.

"Hello," he said laconically.

"What are you doing at County Hall, George?"  I asked.  "I thought you
rarely ventured out of Backwatersthwaite."

"I've been dragooned," he said.

"Pardon?"

"Enlisted, press-ganged, selected to sit on one of these advisory
committees.  I got the sort of invitation you couldn't refuse from the
CEO.  It's on "Key Skills".  Now what do I know about key skills?
You're responsible, putting me in the spotlight and encouraging that H
MI to visit me.  I knew it would happen."

"I meant to give you a ring about the HMI.  She's been then, has
she?"

"Oh, she's been all right," he replied with a wry chuckle.

"Have you got a minute, George?"  I asked him.  "Just let's pop into
one of the empty committee rooms and you can fill me in."

A moment later George was giving me a blow-by-blow account of the
visitation of Miss Winifred de la Mare, H MI.

"For a start," began George, "I didn't remember receiving this letter
which she said she sent, saying when she would be coming, so it was a
real shock when she arrived on my doorstep.  I was walking up the path
to the school one morning just before half past eight and, as I always
do, I paused to admire the view.  Anyway, as I approached the entrance
a huge brown creature jumped out at me.  It gave me the shock of my
life.  I thought at first it was a grizzly bear.  When I had calmed
down a bit, I realised it was, in fact, a large woman in thick brown
tweeds, heavy brogues and this hat in the shape of a flowerpot.

' "You were expecting me!"  she snaps.

' "Was I?"  I replied.

'"Yes!"  says she.

' "Oh!"  says I. ' "I wrote you a letter," says she.

' "Did you?"  says I. ' "Did you not get it?"  she asks.

' "I might have," I replied.

' "It was very important," says she.

' "Was it?"  says I. ' "Official!"  says she.  "In a large brown
envelope."

' "Really?"  says I. ' "The name is de la Mare," says she.  "Do you not
remember?"

' "Can't say as I do," says I."

As George recounted his meeting with the HMI, it brought back memories
of his and my first meeting and the verbal badminton we had played for
a good few minutes before he had discovered that I was not the man to
fix the guttering but a school inspector.  I thought to myself that he
might have learnt something from that experience.  He clearly had
not.

"So what happened?"  I asked.

"I told her that I received lots of letters but, because I was a
teaching head, I had to deal with correspondence and such when I could
find the time.  She followed me into the school, peering around her as
if it were a museum, declined a cup of tea, plonked herself down on my
chair, took the flowerpot off her head and got out this thick wedge of
paper from her big black bag.

' "I'm ready to commence," says she.

'"Are you?"  says I. ' "I am," says she.

"I pointed out to her that the children had not yet arrived so there
was not much point in "commencing" anything, but at nine o'clock after
the register she could get started.  I asked her if she wanted to begin
with the infants and work up or with the juniors and work down.

' "I wish to start with you, Mr.  Lapping," she says, fixing me with
those gimlet eyes of hers.  "I want to discuss the teaching of
spelling, grammar and punctuation, approaches to poetry, drama and
story writing, standards of literacy, the handwriting policy, reading
in the early years and the level of comprehension."  It was like an
educational shopping list.

'"Hang on, Miss Mare," I says.

'"De la," says she, "it's de la Mare.""

I shut my eyes and groaned inwardly I could guess what was coming.

'"OK, Delia," I says, "I don't have all that information at my
fingertips, you know."

Bingo!

' "Well, don't you think you ought to, Mr.  Lapping?"  says she.

'"What?"  says I. ' "Have that information at your fingertips.  After
all you are the Headteacher!"

"I tried to explain to her that document after document arrived at the
school like the plagues of Egypt, that I'd got a broken boiler, faulty
pipes, toilets which wouldn't flush, a leaking roof, three children
with chicken pox and a member of staff suffering from stress who,
having just returned from one of Mr.  Clamp's art courses, was ready to
chuck herself down a pothole at Hopton Crags.

' "Nevertheless, Mr.  Lapping," says she, "it would be helpful to have
some information on all these matters."

' "Well, it's a new one to me," says I. "It's the first time in nearly
forty years of teaching that the nit nurse has wanted that sort of
information from me."

I winced.  "You thought she was the school nurse?"

"Well, of course I did.  How was I to know she was one of these HMIs?
I've only ever met one in the whole of my career and he was an old man
in a suit, with a hangdog expression and about as happy as a jockey
with haemorrhoids.  I was certainly not expecting a strapping great
woman in tweeds.  I mean, she looked like the nit nurse."

"How did she react?"  I hardly dared ask.

"She stared at me for a moment with a sort of glazed expression and
then she smiled.

' "Let's start again, Mr.  Lapping," she said.  "My name is Winifred de
la Mare, HMI."

"We got on like a house on fire after that, particularly when she had
met the children and read their poetry and stories.  She liked what she
saw so much she's coming back in the spring."

"I really am delighted," I said.  "Maybe I could come out to meet her
when she returns?"

"Oh, you'll be meeting her all right, Gervase," George Lapping replied.
"She was very interested in the creative writing we were doing, said it
was very innovative, so I told her I got the ideas from one of your
literacy courses and I suggested that she might care to join you on the
next one you direct.  Those little gimlet eyes of hers lit up at the
thought.  She said it was an excellent suggestion and that she will, no
doubt, be getting in touch with you."

"Well, thank you very much," I replied.

"You should be very flattered," he told me, with a mischievous ring in
his voice.  "It's a mark of the excellent in-service you provide that I
have recommended you."  With that, he made for the door, waved his hand
dramatically and departed with the words: "Some are born great, some
achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them."

There was a witch waiting for me outside the school.  The hideous
creature had long, knotted black hair which cascaded from beneath a
pointed hat, a pale green-tinged face and crimson slit of a mouth, and
she was shrouded in a flowing black cape.  As I approached, the
red-rimmed eyes fixed me with a glare and a long white-fingered hand
with sharp red nails reached out like the talon of some great bird of
prey and beckoned.  The ghastly crone smiled widely to reveal a
mouthful of blackened teeth.

"Hello, Gervase," she crooned, 'how nice to see you."  Before me stood
the woman I was pretty sure I loved.  Beneath the green and red
make-up, the tangle of hair and the cloak of black was Miss Christine
Bentley, Headteacher of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School.  That
particular morning I had agreed to visit the school as part of the
Children's Reading Day celebrations to take the school assembly, talk
to the children about stories and reading, and judge the competition
for the best fancy-dressed characters out of literature.  I had looked
forward immensely to seeing Christine again and, even dressed as a
witch, thought she looked wonderful.

I had arrived at the Education Office earlier in the day feeling on top
of the world.

"You're looking pretty chipper, Gervase," remarked Sidney as I entered
the room, humming.

"I am feeling pretty chipper actually, Sidney," I replied cheerfully.

"Certainly a lot more buoyant than a couple of weeks ago," remarked
David, looking up from his papers and removing his spectacles.  "I take
it you have placated Mrs.  Peterson and have dear little Mrs.  Dunn
eating out of your hand following your latest visit to Highcopse
School?"

"Yes, things went well, thank you, David.  You were quite right, she is
a dedicated teacher and perhaps I was a little hard on her."

"And is the Bride of Frankenstein leaving you in peace?"

"Things have gone blissfully quiet in that direction," I said brightly.
"Not a memo or a message or a telephone call all week from Mrs.
Savage."

"There's a definite spring in your step," continued Sidney, 'an
eagerness in your eye and rather a smug little smile playing about your
lips.  I could hear you whistling up the stairs like a blackbird with
the early morning worm."

"It would hardly be whistling, this blackbird of yours," observed
David, putting down his pen, 'if it had a beak full of worms."

"Oh, don't be so pedantic," retorted Sidney.  "I didn't say the
blackbird had the worm in its beak, did I?"

"Well, where would it have the worm then, if it's not in its beak
tucked under its wing?  In a shopping basket?"

"Look, the worm is immaterial began Sidney.

"Is this conversation leading anywhere?"  I interrupted.  I had heard
quite enough about worms recently enough to last me a lifetime.  Sidney
ignored me.

"What I meant, David, is that Gervase looks like the cat that has
caught the mouse.  Now is that comparison acceptable to you?"

I had heard enough about mice as well.  "When you two have quite
finished' I attempted to get a word in but had no success.

"Not really," continued David.  "That's a cliche, that is.  What about:
like a proud, powerful lion surveying his jungle kingdom.  Much more
original, precise and descriptive, don't you think?"

"Now I wonder why our young colleague here is looking so very pleased
with himself this bright morning?"  remarked Sidney, swivelling around
on his chair to face me.  "It has rather more to it than having a
successful visit to Highcopse School, I'll wager."

"Possibly because today is Children's Reading Day," I suggested, 'and
for most of the time I shall be doing what I really enjoy touring
schools encouraging children to read."

"Or could it, by any chance, be because you are about to see the woman
of your dreams, the Venus of Fettlesham, the Aphrodite of the education
world, the delectable Miss Christine Bentley of Winnery Nook Nursery
and Infant School?"

"How do you know I am visiting Winnery Nook this morning?"

"You can't keep anything from me, dear boy.  Julie mentioned that you
had the visit on your engagement sheet for this week.  Now do tell us,
how are things going with that Nordic beauty of yours?"

Before I could reply, David looked up again from his papers.  "She's a
real cracker is that Miss Bentley," he said.  "As my grandfather he was
the one who had the sheep farm near Builth Wells used to say, "Fyddai
hi yn berffaith pet ai hi yn Gymraes.""

"I could not have expressed it better myself," remarked Sidney.  "And
what in heaven's name does that mouthful of gutter al gibberish mean?
Whenever you start spouting Welsh I always think you're choking on a
bone."

"It means, "If she were Welsh, she'd be perfect"!"  replied David. "And
I'll tell you this, if I was fancy-free, with a bit more hair on my
head and less of a spare tyre around the tummy, I'd be after her like a
rat up a drainpipe."

' "Like a rat up a drainpipe"!"  Sidney repeated, snorting.

"What a wonderful way with words you Welsh have!  "Like a rat up a
drainpipe."  Most original and descriptive.  I don't know how you have
the brass neck to criticise my choice of words when you use that sort
of hackneyed expression."

I had begun to sort through the papers on my desk to check that there
was nothing urgent to deal with, trying not to get involved in the
endless badinage between Sidney and David.  It was impossible, however,
not to listen.  They were like a comedy duo.  One would set off on a
line of thought and then the other would respond with a witticism or a
clever riposte, each trying to outdo the other.  It was like playing
verbal ping-pong.

After a moment's silence, when I thought my two colleagues had returned
to their work, Sidney jumped up from his desk, hurried over to where I
was standing, put his arm around my shoulder and looked at me with an
intense expression upon his face and a gleam in his eye.

"What is it?"  I asked.

"Now come along, Gervase, you have been particularly elusive when a
certain young enchantress is mentioned.  How are things going with you
and the delightful Head-teacher of Winnery Nook?"

"Oh, all right," I replied, shuffling my papers.

"Another master word smith  "Oh, all right"," Sidney snorted again.
"Ever the master of understatement.  You are supposed to be an
inspector for English, for goodness sake.  Can't you do better than
"Oh, all right"?  What about splendid, fantastic, magnificent,
marvelous, amazing, incredible, miraculous, phenomenal, spectacular-'

"All right!  All right!  Things are going pretty well.  I just don't
want to tempt fate."

"So we can assume that you are, in Harold's quaintly old-fashioned
words, "walking out" with Miss Bentley, or in Julie's more
down-to-earth description "cooartin" and that wedding bells will soon
be in the air?"

"No, you certainly cannot assume any such thing.  I have taken her out
a few times.  There's nothing serious at the moment."  I was feeling
rather embarrassed and irritated by the way the conversation was going.
"Have you completed this form on school resources yet?"  I asked
holding up a yellow sheet of paper, endeavouring to change the
subject.

"Oh, you won't get out of answering quite so easily as that," Sidney
told me, plucking the paper from my hand and returning it to the pile
on my desk.  "Now do tell.  Are things developing satisfactorily in
that direction?"

"Look, Sidney," I groaned, "I would rather not talk about it.  It's
gone eight thirty and I have to be in a school in fifteen minutes."

"Well, you want to go for it, Gervase," remarked David, leaving his
desk to join us.  "You are only young once.  And as my grandfather used
to say '

"Oh dear, here we go," sighed Sidney.  "Another dose of Welsh
wisdom."

' "Live for the moment, for time runs away like the wild horses in the
wind."  Very imaginative was my old grandfather.  One of the Welsh
bards he was.  He had a very poetical turn of phrase.  You know, I
think about that little saying of his more and more these days.  I feel
as if time is running away with me like the horses in the wind."  He
turned to the.  window and stared out in the direction of County Hall.
"I've felt decidedly past it recently, I can tell you.  Last week a
child asked me if I wore knickerbockers when I was a boy, and then the
games teacher at St.  Walburga's wondered if I might care for a chair
while I watched the rugby match.  Then I got this memorandum from Mrs.
Savage outlining the advantages of early retirement.  People will be
standing up for me on buses next and helping me cross the road."  He
sighed, turned to face me and rested a hand on my shoulder, "But about
Miss Bentley

As the conversation was now developing into an in-depth analysis of my
love life, I decided to leave.  Snatching up my mail, I crammed it into
my briefcase and headed for the door, nearly knocking julie over in the
process as she entered with three mugs of coffee.

"Somebody's in a hurry!"  she exclaimed.  "Rushing around like a rabbit
with the runs."

"Look," I said quietly but deliberately and addressing all three of my
companions, 'this morning I have been compared to a blackbird with a
beak full of worms, a cat that has got the mouse, a lion in the jungle,
a rat up a drainpipe, a horse in the wind and now a rabbit with the
runs.  To continue the animal similes, may I add one of my own?  I feel
like a fox pursued by hounds.  I would be very pleased if you left me
and my love life alone!  And so that no one is in any doubt where I am
going, I am off to Winnery Book School for Nook Day, I mean Winnery
Nook for Book Day, to see Christine, I mean Miss Bentley, purely, I may
add, in my professional capacity."

"Of course you are!"  they all chorused loudly.

"I thought you were dressing up for Children's Reading Day," I teased,
returning Christine's smile.

"Cheeky thing!"  she exclaimed.  "You had better come in.  And any more
clever comments of that kind and I'll put a spell on you."

But Christine had already put a spell on me.  She had captivated and
charmed me, if only she knew it.  I walked with her down the school
corridor past excited, chattering children dressed as all sorts of
characters, fussing parents who were putting the final touches to their
children's outfits, and teachers in costume attempting to organise
things.

"How was Chicago?"

"Marvellous," Christine replied.

"And the dissertation?"

"All finished and sent off."

We had arrived at the main hall by this time and were surrounded by a
knot of colourful little characters all excited to show themselves off
to the Headteacher.

"Look," Christine whispered, laying a red talon on my arm, 'things are
a bit frenetic at the moment, but I'm free this weekend.  Let's go out
and I can tell you all about it and you can tell me what sort of summer
you've had."

"That would be great," I said, chuckling.  "I'll give you a ring."

"What are you laughing at?"  she asked.

"You just look so ridiculous in that witch outfit."

"I've told you once," she said, showing a mouthful of black teeth,
"I'll put a spell on you.  I promise we'll catch up on everything this
weekend, but now I must welcome the parents and children, Gervase, so
if you would like to wait in the staff room, I'll see you in a moment.
Make yourself a cup of coffee if you like.  Oh, by the way, you'll find
the Chairman of Governors in there.  She'll be judging the competition
with you."

In the small staff room I found a large, elderly woman with hands on
hips and legs planted well apart, staring intently out of the window at
the view.  She had really gone to town on her costume and was dressed
in a wonderfully bizarre outfit.  The heavy, old-fashioned suit was a
mustard yellow with red and green checks and was as shapeless as a sack
of potatoes.  The thick stockings were of the darkest brown and the
shoes of the heavy, sensible brogue variety with little leather acorns
attached to the front.  To complete the effect, she wore a wide-brimmed
red hat sporting two long pheasant feathers, held in place by a silver
brooch in the shape of a stag's head.  She held a battered old handbag
and an ancient umbrella with a swan's head handle.  She looked
magnificently outlandish.

The multicoloured figure, like some overfed, exotic bird,

turned full circle when she heard me enter.  "MorninT she snapped.

"Good morning," I replied.  "You really do look the part."

She stared at me perplexed.  "Do I?"

"Yes, indeed.  Are you Miss Marple?"

"I beg your pardon, young man?"

"Miss Marple?"

"No, I'm not.  I'm Sybil Wainwright, Chairman of Governors."

"But who are you dressed as?  Are you not Agatha Christie's sleuth,
Miss Marple?"

"Why do you keep going on about a Miss Marple?  I've already told you,
my name is Mrs.  Wainwright."

"Yes, but what character are you supposed to be?  Are you Mary
Poppins?"

"Character?  What are you blathering on about?  I've not come as any
character."  It then dawned upon me that she was wearing her usual
apparel.  "I always dress like this."  I urgently wanted the ground to
open and swallow me up.

"Of course."  I held out my hand which she shook charily.  "It's my
feeble attempt at humour.  I'm Gervase Phinn, school inspector, here to
judge the competition with you."

"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," said Mrs.  Wainwright, grimacing and
eyeing me suspiciously.  "I had not the first idea what you were going
on about."

After a short and rather strained conversation, I extricated myself
from the company of the colourful Chairman of Governors and went in
search of Christine.  I found her in the small reading area of the
school.  The Wicked Witch of the West was sitting in the corner with
her arm around a small boy who was crying piteously.  His little body
was shaking uncontrollably and great tears streamed down his round red
face.  Christine held him close with a claw-like hand and tried to
comfort him.  The child was dressed in twisted yellow tights over which
he wore a pair of close-fitting, electric-blue underpants.  He had on a
baggy white T-shirt with sup am an written incorrectly across the front
in large, shaky letters.

"Well, I don't think you look a prat, Gavin," said the witch.

"I do, miss, I do," whimpered Superman.  "Everyone says I look a
prat."

Christine caught sight of me peering through the bookcases.  "Well,
look who is here!"  she cried, beckoning me over.  "It's Mr.  Phinn."
Superman looked up and stifled his sobbing for a moment.  He wiped away
his tears with a grubby little fist, leaving long streaks across his
cheeks, and stared sorrowfully in my direction.  "Now, Mr.  Phinn is a
very important visitor, Gavin, and knows everything about everything
because he's an inspector."  The child sniffed loudly and wiped his
nose on his hand.  "Do you know what an inspector does?"

The child nodded pathetically before answering.  "He collects bus
tickets."

Christine stifled a laugh before telling the child that I was a school
inspector and something of an expert on costumes.  "Shall we ask Mr.
Phinn what he thinks about your outfit, Gavin?"  The child sniffed,
wiped his nose again and nodded.  "Well, Mr.  Phinn," said Christine,
'do you think Gavin looks a prat?"

"I certainly do not think he looks a prat!"  I exclaimed
dramatically.

The little boy started to weep and wail again.  "I do!  I do!  I know I
do.  Everybody says I do!"

"And I have in my pocket a special piece of paper which says you do not
look a prat."  I reached in my jacket, produced a visiting card and
wrote on it: "Superman does not look a prat."

The little boy took it from me, scrutinized it for a moment and asked:
"Is that what it says?"

"It does," I replied.

He tucked the card down the back of his electric-blue underpants,
sniffed, smiled and scurried off.

Christine came over and put her hand on my arm.  "That was sweet," she
said.  "Now let's see how you fare taking the school assembly."

The infants by this time had gathered in the hall and were sitting
cross-legged in their resplendent costumes, facing the front.

"Good morning, children," said Christine brightly.

"Good morning Miss Bentley, good morning everyone," they chanted.

"Don't you all look wonderful this morning," she said, scanning the
rows of children who gazed back with expectant, happy faces.  "Everyone
looks really, really super.  My goodness, what a lot of different
characters we have in the hall today.  It's going to be really hard to
judge which of you are the best, so I have asked two of my friends to
help me.  I think you all know Mrs.  Wainwright' she indicated the
Chairman of Governors sitting at the side 'and some of you may remember
Mr.  Phinn who visited our school last year.  Well, Mr.  Phinn is going
to take our assembly this morning and then help us decide which of you
are the most imaginatively dressed characters.  Over to you, Mr.
Phinn."

I had decided that I would read the children the parable of the lost
sheep.  It's a short account and I thought it would be very appropriate
for an assembly and would relate to the children, many of whom came
from farming backgrounds.

"Good morning, children," I said, striding to the front of the hall.
"Today, as you know, is Children's Reading Day and Miss Bentley has
asked me to talk to you about some of my favourite books."  I held up a
large crimson-coloured volume, on the front of which the title, Stories
from the Bible, was picked out in large golden lettering.  "This book
was given to me by my mother many years ago when I was a little boy. It
is a very special book, full of wonderful stories which were told by a
very special man.  Does anyone know who I mean?"

"Jesus," chorused the children.

"Yes, it's Jesus, and although Jesus never wrote down any of his
stories, his friends did, and millions of people have read what he said
nearly two thousand years ago.  Jesus wanted everyone to be kind and
love each other and was often surrounded by people who did not have
much money, people who had done wrong, people who had got into trouble,
people who were sick and lonely, people who were looked down upon by
the rich and powerful.  In this story, which is called "The Story of
the Lost Sheep", Jesus tries to help us understand how we should feel
about the poor and weak."

Every eye was on me as I read the story.  "Imagine that a shepherd had
a hundred sheep.  One day, when he counted them, he found that there
was one missing.  He could have said, "Well, it's only one, I've got
ninety-nine more.  I won't bother looking for it."  But he didn't say
that.  He left all the other sheep untended and went in search of the
one lost sheep until he found it.  Now why do you think he did that?" I
hoped that the children would appreciate the meaning of the parable,
that every single one of us is valuable in the eyes of God and that
'there is more joy in heaven when one sinner turns back to God than
ninety-nine who see no need to repent'.  But the point was missed.

"Why do you think the shepherd risked losing all the other sheep just
for the one which was lost?"  I asked again.

A thoughtful-looking little boy on the front row raised a hand, "appen
it were t'tup!"  he said.

I pressed on, explaining what parables were and how they taught us all
how to lead better lives.  I could see by the fidgeting and turning of
heads that I was not having a massive impact on the children who were
obviously keen to get on with the judging of the costumes, so I decided
to finish.  But not before posing one final question.

"And what would you say to Jesus," I asked, holding high the red book
like some preacher of old, 'if he were to walk into the hall this
morning?"

The boy on the front row thought for a moment, then raised his hand a
second time and said loudly, "I'd give 'im that book, Mester Phinn, and
I'd say, "Jesus Christ this is your life!"

The judging of the competition went a great deal better.  Before us
paraded a whole host of book characters: Long John Silver and Peter
Rabbit, Paddington Bear and Peter Pan, Robin Hood and Cinderella, Toad
of Toad Hall and Little Red Riding Hood.  Last of all came a
pathetic-looking little boy in wrinkled yellow tights, electric-blue
underpants and a T-shirt with sup am an written incorrectly across the
front.  I heard a few suppressed giggles and whispers from the other
children and saw their smirks and smiles.

Mrs.  Wainwright and I awarded the first prize to the Little Mermaid,
the second prize to Aladdin and the third prize to a very pleased
little boy in yellow tights, electric-blue underpants and a T-shirt
with sup aman written incorrectly across the front.  As he scampered
out to the front of the hall, his weeping and whimpering ceased and the
frowns were replaced by a great beaming smile.

I said my farewells to the children and Mrs.  Wainwright and headed for
the door.  Christine followed me and when she had made sure we were out
of sight of everyone slipped her hand through my arm.

"That was really nice of you," she said, giving me a quick peck on the
cheek and then rubbing out the greenish smear which had been left
behind.  "Gavin won't stop talking about that for weeks.  You're an old
softie really, aren't you?"

"I think the assembly was a bit over their heads," I said.

"Just a bit.  I've got to go.  Don't forget to ring me."

A large, round-faced boy appeared from the hall.  He wore a bright red
blouse, baggy blue pants, large red floppy hat with a small silver bell
on the end and huge black shoes.  His lips were crimson, his eyes lined
in thick black mascara and two scarlet circles adorned each cheek.  It
was a grotesque parody of Noddy.

"Mr.  Phinn!"  he gasped.  "Mr.  Phinn!  I need one of those pieces of
paper which you gave to Gavin which says I don't look a prat."

Driving on to my next appointment, I recalled when I had been in
exactly the same situation as little Gavin.  I was seven at the time
and my sister at home from teacher training college, had made me the
most magnificent red and yellow outfit from crepe paper for a fancy
dress event.  I was to go as the Pied Piper of Hamelin and had set off
for school with her in my colourful doublet and little red and yellow
hat.  People on the top deck of the bus had craned their necks to get a
view of the little figure who had strutted along, passers-by had stared
and then smiled, and old ladies had peered through the curtains.  I had
felt the centre of attention and so proud.  Halfway there, the sky had
opened and the rain had fallen as thick as umbrella spokes.  In seconds
the crisp crepe paper had turned into one soggy, orange mess and I had
arrived at school soaked to the skin and sobbing uncontrollably.  Miss
Franklin, the Headteacher, had taken charge immediately and I had been
dried and given a clean pair of shorts and yellow T-shirt to wear.  By
this time, my great heaving sobs had become a pathetic sniffle and
snuffle but when I had seen myself in the mirror I had returned to the
howling.  The dye from the red and yellow crepe paper had run and
looking back at me in the mirror had been a small boy with brilliant
orange streaks down his face, arms, hands and legs.  Miss Franklin had
calmed me down, given me a cuddle and had ushered me into the hall
where all the other children were waiting in their colourful costumes.
I remembered their smirks and grins and the whispering and giggling
and, like the child in the electric-blue underpants and yellow tights,
I had felt a complete prat.

"Who's he come as, miss?"  one of the older children had sniggered.

"Well, can't you tell, Jimmy Everett?"  Miss Franklin had said with
exaggerated surprise in her voice while putting her arm protectively
around my shoulder.  "He's come as the Gingerbread Man.  Fancy you not
knowing that."

Like little Gavin, I had won third prize, had talked about it for weeks
and had fallen in love with my very first infant Headteacher, the
beautiful Miss Franklin.

My next appointment on Children's Reading Day was at Hawksrill Primary,
a school deep in the heart of the Dales, where I had agreed to take
another school assembly on the theme of reading.  As I drove up the
twisting snake of a road, I determined that this assembly would be
without incident and decided that I would abandon my plans to read
again the parable of' The Lost Sheep' and I would talk about something
completely different.

One day during the summer holidays, Christine and I had walked from
deep within the North York Moors to the coast at Ravenscar.  The
journey followed the old Viking route known as The Lyke Wake.  Legend
has it that the Vikings carried the 'lyke' or corpse across the bleak
moors to the sea, where the body was given up to the waves.  With the
coming of Christianity, the practice was continued but it took on a
deeper meaning and the walk came to symbolise the journey of the soul
towards Heaven.

When we had arrived at Ravenscar Christine had bought me a very
readable little book about The Lyke Wake.  The central character was a
brave and noble Viking called Thor who helped carry his dead father
across the lonely, desolate land to his final resting place.  The story
starts in modern times, when a school party stumbles across a silver
bracelet or torque glistening in the bracken.  This short, lively tale,
I thought, would be ideal for reading in the assembly.

Hawksrill was a small stone building enclosed by a low, craggy
limestone wall.  It was surrounded by a vast expanse of pale and dark
green fields which rose to the thick, now dead bracken slopes, long
belts of woodland and the faraway, cold grey fells.  The Headteacher,
Mrs.  Beighton, was a stout, squarely built, ruddy-complexioned woman
with a wide, friendly face and short cropped white hair.  Her
assistant, Mrs.  Brown, was uncannily like her.  They both wore rather
old-fashioned, floral-patterned dresses and cardigans and carried
capacious handbags.  Both were widows and shared a small cottage within
walking distance of the school.

Mrs.  Beighton and Mrs.  Brown were inseparable.  They came on courses
together, could be seen each Saturday, shopping in Fettlesham, and on
Sundays they attended the primitive Methodist chapel and sat side by
side in the front pew in their Sunday hats.  Mrs.  Beighton and Mrs.
Brown were typical of many Yorkshire folk: industrious, good-humoured
and plain speaking, with strong views and an ironic sense of humour. On
my last visit to the school towards the end of the previous term, I had
remarked that they were so typical of the forthright and friendly
people I had met on my travels about the county.

"Well, you know, Mr.  Phinn," Mrs.  Beighton had explained, "I think
you can always tell someone from Yorkshire."

"But you can't tell them much," Mrs.  Brown had added, chuckling.

Both teachers now greeted me with warm smiles when I entered the one
large, bright classroom during morning playtime.

"Hello, Mr.  Phinn," said the Headteacher cheerily.  "How kind of you
to come to see us."

"Most kind," echoed Mrs.  Brown.  "Do come in."

"It seems an age since you visited us, out here at Hawksrill," said
Mrs.  Beighton.

"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 classroom for the assembly.  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 classroom 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 assurance.

"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 class 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 assembly 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 classroom.  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 passed."

"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,
Principal 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 Hell 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 assured 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 shuttlecock."  I assumed 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 Titanic 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 attitude 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 passed the premises on my way down the
High Street and smiled after reading the notice prominently displayed
in the window: "Bargain Basement 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 wristwatch, '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 blustering 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 reassuring 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
space 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
titters 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."

I headed for home, tired but happy with the way Children's Reading Day
had turned out, arriving just as the clock at County Hall chimed nine.
The small flat which I rented above The Rumbling Turn cafe in the High
Street would seem very cold and lonely after such an entertaining and
eventful day.  I parked behind a little green Morris Minor which I
recognised immediately and I jumped out of my car like era rabbit with
the runs.  The side window of the Morris Minor slid down.

"Hello," said Christine.  "I've just put the cauldron on.  I wondered
if you would like to join the Wicked Witch of the West for supper?"

Valentine Courtnay-Cunninghame, 9th Earl Marrick, Viscount Manston,
Baron Brafferton, M C, D L, was a larger than life character, whom I
had met for the first time one cold, bright day the previous autumn.  I
had been driving casually along an empty, twisting road on my way to a
small rural school, when a pheasant he had just shot landed on the
bonnet of my car.  I don't know who was the more surprised, me or the
pheasant.  Having come to an abrupt halt and whilst contemplating roast
pheasant for Saturday supp era rotund, red-cheeked character had
climbed over the dry stone wall, shotgun in hand.  He had a great
walrus moustache and hair shooting up from a square head and was
dressed in Norfolk jacket, plus-fours and deerstalker hat.  He had come
to claim the bird he had bagged.  That was Lord Marrick.

I had met him on a number of occasions after that at school governors'
meetings, staff appointments and when I took reports to the Education
Committee on which he served as Vice-Chairman.  I had also accompanied
him round a number of schools to look at aspects of the curriculum and
show him good educational practice.  I found Lord Marrick to be a
plain-spoken, shrewd but extremely warm man with a cheerful good humour
and a deep sense of reverence for the land his family had been so much
a part of for many generations.  He had received the little-awarded
Knight of the Order of St.  Sylvester from the Pope himself the
previous year.

On one occasion Lord Marrick had told me how he had been walking
through Nether Brafferton Wood, which formed part of his extensive
estate, when he came upon a large hairy individual at the entrance to a
shabby tent.

"Who are you?"  he had asked abruptly.

"Jack," the man had replied.  "And who are you?"

"I am Lord Marrick and you are on my land."

"Am I?"

"Yes, you are.  Would you be so good as to de-camp, pack up your things
and depart."

"Why?"

"Because, as I have said, this is my land."

"I'm not doing any harm," the man had said amiably.

"That is beside the point.  This is my land."

"Where did you get it from?"

"I got it from my father," Lord Marrick had explained calmly.

"Well, where did your father get it from?"  the man had asked.

"From his father."

"Well, where did he get it from?"

"He got it from his father who got it from his father who got it from
his father, right the way back to the Norman Conquest when Sir Richard
de Courtnay acquired it."

"Well, how did he get it?"  the man had asked, making no effort to
move.

"He fought for it," Lord Marrick had replied.

"Well, I'll fight you for it!"  had come the reply.

"Good story, isn't it?"  Lord Marrick had roared.  "The very devil.
"I'll fight you for it."  Of course, I let the fellow stay, told him
not to go lighting fires and disturbing the grouse and said there'd be
a hot meal up at the house.  I mean you can't just throw "a gentleman
of the road" off your land, certainly not one who possesses such
wonderful impertinence and wit.  Well, can you?"

The evening before my appointment with Lord Marrick, the snow fell
unexpectedly and in bitter earnest.  Peering from the window of my
small flat which overlooked Fettle-sham High Street, I watched the
great flakes begin to settle and gradually form a thick carpet along
the pavements.  Walls, trees, road signs, letter boxes, rooftops were
soon shrouded in white.  I thought of the farmers.  I had seen a Dales
winter the previous Christmas.  The icy wind had raged, the snow had
packed up in great mounds and piled into drifts which froze until the
whole landscape had been transformed into one vast ocean of crusted
billows.  I recalled seeing a farmer, his collie dog leaping at his
heels, tramping through the thick snow in a field behind a school, in
search of his foundered sheep.  I remembered well the grim, determined
expression on his face.  His was a hard life.

The next morning, 25 November, I was up bright and early.  I pulled
back the curtains to find the snow had stopped but had settled.  The
main road out of Fettlesham, however, looked to have been cleared and
traffic was moving as usual.  The weather forecast said there would be
no more snow on the way and that a thaw would likely set in during the
day, so I decided to chance it and drive out to Manston Hall.

I called into the office to check if any papers for the meeting had
arrived, but apart from a couple of messages, a summary of a policy
document from the Ministry of Education and the usual circulars and
publishers' catalogues, there was nothing for me.

"You're in very early this morning, Gervase," said Harold, whom I
bumped into at the door to the office as I was on my way out.

"I called in on the off-chance that the papers for the Feoffees meeting
would have arrived, but they're not here.  Mrs.  Savage said she'd send
them over.  So much for liaising."

"Well, they'll perhaps have them for you when you get there if it's
still taking place.  It's very thick snow this morning and you'll have
a tricky drive up to Manston.  You have to go over Ribbon Bank.  I
think this cold spell has caught everyone out and you'll not find any
gritting lorries along that road yet.  Perhaps you ought to ring
through and see if the meeting is still on."

"Yes, that's a thought," I said, returning to my desk and picking up
the telephone.  I looked up the number and dialled.  "I thought you
were on inspection this week?"  I said to Harold, whilst waiting for
someone at the other end of the line to pick up the receiver.

"I was but the school's snowed in and those children who did arrive
have been sent home, so we are postponing it.  I got a call from the
Headteacher very early this morning."

The telephone was answered by Lord Manston's secretary who confirmed
that the meeting was going ahead and looked forward to meeting me later
that morning.  She reassured me that the weather further up the dale
was not too bad and that all the roads were passable.

"Well, it's still on," I said and then had a thought.  "Harold," I
said, 'if you have nothing else on today, why don't you come with me to
the meeting or go in my place?  You know far more about these Feoffees
than I do."

"No, no," said Harold, 'it's good experience and they are expecting you
anyway.  Just be careful on the roads.  Oh, and give my regards to Lord
Marrick."

Once I had left the main Fettlesham-West Challerton road, I wondered to
myself whether it had been such a good idea after all to risk such a
potentially hazardous journey.  The fields and hedgerows, hills and
fells which surrounded me, merged into one great white expanse,
unbroken and shimmering to the horizon's brim.  The scene was
magnificent but I was too concerned with keeping my eyes fixed on the
road ahead and avoiding careering into some ditch to appreciate it on
that cold, bright morning.

The car skidded a good few times on the narrow untreated roads and it
took three or four attempts to get up Ribbon Bank, but thankfully there
were no sharp inclines after that and I was soon, with a great feeling
of relief, crawling towards the tall ornate gates and square lodge
which marked the entrance to Manston Hall.

Manston Hall was not a large house by stately homes' standards but was
a beautifully proportioned building of extraordinary charm and beauty.
Built in warm, red brick and with many large rectangular windows, it
stood out square and bright and solid in its vast parkland.  All around
the hall stretched a strange white world stroked in silence.  No wind
blew the snow into drifts, no birds called, no animal moved and, save
for the sporadic soft thud of snow falling from the branches of the
towering dark trees which bordered the drive, all was silent.  There
was a stillness, as if life itself had been suspended.

There were several large saloon cars, a Range Rovera Rolls-Royce and a
shiny black limousine with a small flag on the bonnet, parked in front
of the hall.  The old Volvo estate which I drove looked very much out
of place in such expensive company.  I looked at my watch.  Ten minutes
past ten.  I was late.  I checked my hair in the rear view mirror,
straightened my tie, collected my note pad and climbed out.

The great black door to Manston Hall, flanked by elegant stone pillars,
was opened by an ancient retainer.  He was a tall man with a long,
pale, angular face, dark deep-set eyes, very thick wild white hair and
a large nose which curved savagely like a bent bow.

"Good morning, sir," he intoned sepulchrally and gestured for me to
enter.

I walked into a spacious entrance hall which was painted in pale yellow
and blue.  While the retainer pushed shut the heavy door and
re-arranged the draught-excluder in front of it, I gazed round in
wonder.  The ceiling was a jungle of decorative plaster work the
intricate twisting designs standing out from the darker background.  A
series of matching panels was set in the walls, between which were
large oil paintings showing different animals: grazing cattle, fat
black pigs on stumpy legs, bored-looking sheep, leaping horses, packs
of hounds.  The floor, of white inlaid marble, matched the huge and
magnificently carved chimney-piece, above which a full-length portrait
in dark oils depicted a severe-looking man posing in military uniform.
An organ case with massive Ionic columns and elaborate carving stood at
one side, flanked by a pair of pale, delicate tables with dark marble
tops.  On the opposite side, the entire wall was covered by a vivid
tapestry depicting some classical theme.  The central charactera woman
with a great tangle of hair and piercing eyes, looked remarkably like
Medusa.

"May I have your name, sir?"  asked the retainer straightening up.  He
spoke in a hushed voice and his face was entirely expressionless.

"Gervase Phinn," I replied.

"Is that Mr.  Phinn?"  he enquired.

"It is," I replied.

"If you would come this way, Mr.  Phinn."

I followed his slow, measured steps down a long corridor.  We passed
one rather formal-looking room with dark portraits on the walls and
porcelain on the antique, highly polished furniture and then a more
comfortable lived-in study with rather shabby sofas and armchairs.  Our
unhurried progress ended at two tall carved wooden columns.  The
retainer opened the door and I was ushered through it.

"Mr.  Gervase Phinn," announced the retainer and then departed without
a glance.  I was in the library, a panelled room with a ceiling rich in
fine plaster work  One wall had shelving which stretched from floor to
ceiling and which was crammed with leather-bound books.  A huge Persian
carpet covered the dark polished wooden floor.  There was a group of
men in animated conversation, standing before a great roaring open
fire.  On hearing of my arrival, Lord Marrick glanced in my direction,
waved his hand expansively in the air and strode across to meet me.

"Mr.  Phinn.  Gervase.  Good of you to come.  Dreadful weather, isn't
it?"  He did not wait for a response.  "Hope you had no trouble finding
us?  Come along in and meet everyone."

Taking my arm he led me towards the group and began introducing me, as
the education representative, to the frighteningly august group of
individuals.  There was Brigadier Lumsden, a big-nosed, big-voiced
ex-soldier; Archdeacon Richards, a plump, cheerful-looking little
cleric with a round red face; the present Greave of the Feoffees, a
stocky man in a loud-checked tweed suit with a face as soft and brown
and wrinkled as an over-ripe russet apple.  Then there was Dr.
Coulson-Smith, the High Sheriff, a short, thick-necked individual with
a curiously flat face; a tall silver-haired policeman in impressive
uniform with a short toothbrush moustache; and finally Judge Plunkett,
a painfully thin man with a face full of tragic potential.  It sounded
like a page from Who's Who.  I shook hands, smiled fatuously at each
one and wondered why I was there.  What exactly could an insignificant
school inspector contribute to this gathering of the great and the
good?

"Gentlemen!"  boomed Lord Marrick.  "We appear to be all present and
correct so shall we make a start?  If you would follow me, I'll lead
the way to the morning room."  We followed the peer into another
equally magnificent room in the centre of which was a long, highly
polished table at one end of which sat a young woman with black
lustrous hair and big dark eyes.  Carved, balloon-backed rosewood
chairs were arranged around it and I was seated between the tweed suit
and the policeman.

"Now, gentlemen," Lord Marrick began, when we were all seated and
looking in his direction, "I've asked Janet, my secretary, to take a
few notes."  He indicated the woman by his side who smiled down the
table.  "I appreciate your giving up valuable time to join me here this
morning," continued Lord Marrick, 'particularly in this bloody awful
weather and I want to assure you that this meeting will be short, sharp
and to the point and not ramble on like a lost sheep in a snowstorm." I
glanced to the window and noticed that heavy flakes of snow were
beginning to fall.  So much for the weather forecast I thought.  "Now I
hope you got all the papers that Janet sent out last week."  There were
nods and grunts of agreement and the shuffling of various documents.
Everyone seemed to have a batch of papers except me.  Mine were no
doubt sitting on Mrs.  Savage's desk.  "Now, as I have said in my
notes," went on Lord Marrick, "I want to mark the five hundred years of
the Feoffees by a major event at Manston Hall.  I want the general
public to know about those traditions which are so much a part of our
cultural heritage.  Whenever I mention the word Feoffees to people,
they look at me as if I am not quite right in the head."

"It was the same when I became High Sheriff in April," said the
thick-necked individual with the curiously flat face.  "I would mention
the word "shrievalty" and people thought I was talking in Polish."  He
looked across the table at me.  "You wouldn't credit it, would you?
That people had never heard of the word "shrievalty"?"

"You wouldn't," I said, feigning disbelief.  I hadn't a clue what the
word meant.

"The number of times I have had to explain that it refers to the office
of sheriff-'

"Quite so, quite so," said Lord Marrick impatiently.  "I am sure we
could debate the decline in the English language until the cows come
home, a topic which I am sure Mr.

Phinn, as something of an English specialist, would love to do, but we
must press on.  Could we throw a few ideas around regarding how the
area for which you have responsibility can play its part in the
celebration?  The Feoffees, as you know, have existed for five hundred
years, helping the unfortunate, supporting the sick, giving burs aries
and scholarships to deserving causes and I want to have a really good
bash up here at Manston Hall to celebrate our achievements.  So come
on, colleagues, what can you suggest?"

During the next half-hour the ideas came fast and furious.  The
brigadier suggested a parade of army vehicles including tanks, and a
display by the army motorcycle team; the policeman said he could
arrange a march past by the police band, and a demonstration by
dog-handlers and mounted police; the archdeacon offered a recital by
the abbey choir; other suggestions came forth for exhibitions of local
history, craft stalls and information stands of all kinds.  Then there
was a sudden silence and all eyes seemed to be on me.

"Mr.  Phinn," snapped Lord Marrick suddenly.  "You have been
unnaturally quiet.  What can the Education Department offer?"  I was on
the point of mumbling something about having to consult Dr.  Gore,
gleaning suggestions from schools and discussing certain ideas with my
colleagues when my neighbour, the large russet-cheeked individual in
the tweed suit, jerked up in his chair as though he had been stung,
twitched madly and exclaimed, "What the devil!"  His head then
disappeared beneath the table.

"Is it the bitch?"  asked Lord Marrick casually.  Along with the
others, I peered below the table and saw the ugliest, most
vicious-looking dog I had ever seen.  It was a barrel-bodied,
bow-legged bulldog with pinky-white jowls and pale unfriendly eyes.  It
had rested its fat, round head between the legs of the man next to
me.

"Push her off, Quentin!"  commanded Lord Marrick good humouredly.  "She
loves the smell of tweeds.  She's an old softie at heart.  Just wants
to be friendly and affectionate."  At this point the monster growled
and showed a set of impressive teeth.  "Old softie', 'friendly' and
'affectionate' were not words which readily sprang to my mind.  The dog
peered up with the grey, watery, button eyes of a shark.  It then began
rumbling like a distant train.  The complexion of the man in tweeds had
changed miraculously from the soft brown of the russet apple to an
unearthly white.

"Come on out of there, Laetitia," coaxed Lord Marrick, joining us to
peer under the table.  The dog continued to stay rooted to the spot,
growling and grimacing and eyeing the man in tweeds like some long-lost
bone.

"She's a wonderful dog.  English bulldog.  Nobly born of impeccable
pedigree.  She'd let anyone walk straight into the house.  Wouldn't
make a sound.  Course, they'd not get out again.  Teeth like metal
man-traps.  One snap of those jaws and she'd not let go.  Locks on you,
see.  Couldn't prise her off with a monkey wrench.  Yes, if she grabbed
a hand you'd lose a few of your fingers."  The man in tweeds looked as
if he had been caught in amber.  I don't think he's worrying about his
hand, I thought to myself.  Not a muscle in his body moved.  Everyone
in close proximity to the dog crossed his legs.

"Laetitia!  Will you come out!  Heel!"  ordered Lord Marrick.  The dog
blinked lazily, lifted its fat, round face from between the man's legs,
yawned massively, displaying a set of teeth like tank-traps, and
plodded off, still rumbling.

"Now then, you were saying, Mr.  Phinn," said Lord Marrick to the
accompaniment of a great release of breath from the man in the
tweeds.

Before the meeting concluded, I agreed to mount a display of children's
poetry and stories based on famous characters from history, approach a
couple of schools to ask them to perform some short plays on an
historical theme, enlist the help of my colleagues to arrange an
exhibition on education down the ages, a gymnastics display and a
performance by the County Youth Orchestra.  Finally I agreed to
organise essay and public speaking competitions on the theme of customs
and traditions.  That little lot would keep Mrs.  Savage busy, I
thought to myself gleefully.

Lord Marrick appeared well pleased with how the meeting had gone.  I
waited until the others had departed before going over to him.  He was
explaining something to his secretary but looked up as I approached.
"Quite a successful morning, eh, Mr.  Phinn?"  he said.

"Yes, indeed, Lord Marrick," I replied.  "I just wanted to apologise
for my late arrival but I had a few problems getting up Ribbon Bank.
I'm afraid the snow was particularly thick and-'

"Not a problem."

"And also for arriving without the papers.  I didn't want you to think
that I hadn't bothered to bring them along.  I'm afraid they didn't
arrive at the Education Office.  I checked this morning but they
definitely weren't on my desk."

"Well, that's strange because I delivered them myself when I was at
County Hall last week for the Education Committee.  No point wasting
money on postage.  Gave them to Dr.  Gore's secretary.  The woman with
the red nails and the teeth."

"Mrs.  Savage," I said slowly.

"That's the woman.  Janet, will you arrange for another set to be sent
to Mr.  Phinn?  Thank you."

Lord Marrick himself escorted me back to the entrance hall.  We stopped
beneath the vivid tapestry depicting the classical theme and the woman
with a great tangle of hair and piercing eyes.  I heard the patter of
feet behind me on the white inlaid marble floor and, turning, found
behind me not only the wretched bulldog but two exact miniature
versions of itself.  Both puppies had the grey button eyes,

the pinky-white jowls, the rows of sharp teeth, the stumpy tails and
both growled and grumbled in unison with their mother.

"Those are her pups," Lord Marrick told me proudly.  "Lucretia and
Caesare.  She's showing them off, you see.  I'm hopeful they will win
me a blue ribbon for Best of Breed at the Fettlesham Show in a few
years' time."  He bent down and stroked the fat little heads.  Both
puppies stared up with a lofty disdain.  Then Laetitia nosed Lord
Marrick's hand away and growled before moving in my direction and
rubbing her body against my legs.

"She likes you, Mr.  Phinn."

"Really," I managed to whisper.

"Do you know she can be the most wilful, bad-tempered, moody creature
imaginable and certainly not one to lock jaws with, but when she takes
a liking to someone, she'll stick to him like glue and be his bosom
friend for life."  The dog began to whimper.  "You've made a great
impression," continued Lord Marrick beaming widely.  "You will have a
job to get rid of her."

I don't know why, but at that moment I thought of Mrs.  Savage and I
made a mental note to give her a wide berth in the coming weeks.

Over the summer, when the schools were on holiday, we inspectors had
the long and onerous task of analysing all the school reports from the
previous academic year and writing an extensive commentary for
submission to Dr.  Gore and the Education Committee.  Although this
exercise was one of the most tedious and time-consuming aspects of our
work, it was invaluable in giving us a clear and detailed picture of
how well, or otherwise, schools in the county were doing, what were the
issues which needed to be addressed and whether standards, particularly
in literacy and numeracy, were rising or falling.  The analysis was
also useful in helping us plan the in-service training of the teachers
and offer a programme of courses, conferences and workshops which
focused on their particular needs.

It was with a great sense of relief that my commentary on the state of
English teaching in the county turned out to be positive.  Most
teachers clearly spent a great deal of time and effort teaching
children to read and write and encouraging them to turn to books for
pleasure and for information.  There was, however, one area of the
English curriculum which seemed to be neglected.  Mrs.  Peterson and
Mrs.  Dunn at Highcopse Primary School were clearly not alone in
spending little time on poetry.  In report after report I noted that
this subject was often consigned to the margins of the serious business
of study and that some children had little experience of appreciating
and writing verse.  I decided, therefore, to mount a series of weekend
courses to help teachers develop their expertise, offer ideas and
strategies and give them greater confidence in teaching this important
area of English.

The first course was planned to take place in early December.  I wanted
to get it out of the way before the end of term events, when schools
would be immersed in carol concerts, parties, presentation evenings,
nativity plays and all the other activities which come with the
festival.  I knew from my experiences the previous year that this would
be my busiest time and I would be out in schools every day and most
evenings as well.  I was not, however, prepared for the response to
attend the poetry course.  When the deadline came for final
applications, my in-tray was piled high with over fifty requests.

"You should be pleased, instead of pulling a face like a bulldog which
has just swallowed a wasp," commented Sidney, staring at his own meagre
pile of applications.  "I've got a miserable ten people for my December
art course."

"I am pleased," I responded, feeling slightly uncomfortable at the
mention of bulldogs.  "It's just that it's rather more than I
anticipated."

"Well, there's a simple remedy.  Write to half of them saying the
course is full and tell them there's space on a really exciting art
course planned to take place at the same time."

I pondered Sidney's suggestion but decided to go ahead with the large
number.  The various contributors to the course were delighted with the
interest from so many teachers and had no worries about working with
such a big group.  The Staff Development Centre had been booked well in
advance but I rang Connie to let her know that there would be more
teachers attending than anticipated.  Then I steamed ahead and ordered
the materials, arranged for the course programme to be printed, and
despatched letters of acceptance to the applicants.

Everything was going like clockwork and then I

received the letter.  My heart gave a jump when I came across the
frighteningly official envelope with the large royal crest and the
heavy black lettering: The Ministry of Education.  It was from the
formidable Miss de la Mare, Her Majesty's Principal Divisional
Inspector of Schools.  She said she had been impressed with some of the
creative writing she had observed in the few schools she had recently
visited in the county and mentioned her visit to Backwatersthwaite and
the poetry lessons of the 'inspirational Mr.  Lapping'.  She said that,
as I was no doubt aware, she was compiling a national report on the
teaching of the arts in primary schools and wished to discuss certain
matters with me.  Then she had noticed, as she was looking through the
county in-service handbook for teachers, that I was running a series of
weekend poetry courses and thought how useful it would be if she
attended one.  She concluded her letter: "I have followed the normal
protocol and contacted Dr.  Gore and he is happy for me to join you.  I
trust there will be no objection on your part?"

"No objection!"  exclaimed Sidney with a hollow laugh, when I read him
the letter.  "No objection on your part", she says.  As if you are in
any position to object.  It would be like a prisoner of the Spanish
Inquisition saying to his torturer: "I say, senor, I would rather you
didn't do that with the old thumbscrews", or a French aristocrat
informing the man on the guillotine, "Not today, monsieur, thank you
very much".  You have no choice in the matter, whatsoever.  The
question is merely rhetorical.  She's cleared it with the C E O, so
you've no option.  You are well and truly lumbered with her.  Fancy
having the HMI version of a rottweiler watching you for two days.  That
will cramp your style and no mistake.  And by the description of her
provided by poor George Lapping, she makes Mrs.  Savage sound like
Florence Nightingale and Connie like Mother Teresa.  She'll be watching
your every move with those little beady eyes and noting things down and
filing away all this information about you at the Ministry of
Education."

"And everything was going so smoothly," I sighed.  "I could have well
done without this."

"Oh, that's the way of things," said David in his Prophet of Doom
voice.  "Always something or somebody who goes and has to spoil one's
equilibrium.  I don't think I've ever run a course without a mishap or
a problem.  Everything is going fine and then disaster!  You are
cycling along the country lane on a bright, balmy day with the sun
shining on your face and the fresh wind blowing through your hair and
suddenly somebody pushes a thundering great stick through your spokes
and you're over the handlebars and flat on your face."  At this point
he removed his reading glasses, placed them neatly on the desk in front
of him and leaned back in his chair.  We knew we were in for one of his
monologues.  "No, I have yet to run a course free from some hitch or
another.  There's the course member who has been sent by the head
teacher who doesn't want to be there in the first place and thinks the
thing is a total waste of time.  She sits there, on the front row to
continue Sidney's metaphor like Madame Defarge knitting, as if waiting
for the great blade to descend and your head to roll into the basket
before her."  He brought his hand down in a sharp chopping movement.

"They are the worst," I agreed, nodding.  "The front row cynic who has
nothing to learn."

"Then there's the teacher who turns out to be verbally aggressive,"
continued David, 'because he's been passed over for promotion and, of
course, he blames you because you were on his interviewing panel.  And
the expert who has been on every blessed course and conference in the
in-service handbook and knows it all and tells you so."

"I think I might have a few of those on this poetry course," I said,
glancing through the applications.

IOI

"Or the outside speaker who fails to turn up and you are left facing a
hostile audience, feeling like the first Christian to be thrown to the
lions.  Then there's the occasion when you and thirty teachers turn up
all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed one Saturday morning to find the Staff
Development Centre all locked up and Connie away in Mablethorpe in her
caravan for the weekend."

"Ah, now that won't happen," I told him, "I've checked the date with
Connie."

"My goodness, I've had my fair share of disastrous courses," said David
morosely.  "Mind you, I've never been scrutinized by an HMI.  Now that
is deeply worrying.  At least my disasters went unobserved."

"I am sure that Gervase is greatly heartened and encouraged by all
that," remarked Sidney.  "I should imagine that he won't get a wink of
sleep contemplating all the potential calamities."

"Hang on a minute," exclaimed David.  "It was you who started all this
off with your gloomy predictions about this rottweiler of an HMI
cramping his style and watching every move with her little beady eyes.
I hardly think your comments are likely to re-assure him."

"I was going on to say," said Sidney, 'before you started on your
running commentary of all your failed courses, that I will be directing
my art course at the very same time as our young colleague and will be
there at the Staff Development Centre to give him the benefit of my
advice and guidance, as well as my undivided support and succour."

"Huh!"  snapped David.  "You'll not have any time to be giving him any
undivided support and succour.  You'll be too busy arguing with Connie
as you always do."

Before Sidney could respond, I stood up, walked behind him as he sat at
his desk, put my hand on his shoulder and said, "That is really very
kind of you, Sidney.  I might just ask Miss de la Mare to pop into a
few of your sessions.  After all, she is interested in the arts in
school which covers your subject as well."

"Ha, ha!"  laughed David, throwing up his hands in the air.  "That's
taken the smug expression off his face."

A week before the course, I double-checked that all the arrangements
were in place.  Connie was fully briefed, the speakers had the dates in
their diaries and all the details, course members and Miss de la Mare
had received the programme, and the books and materials I was to use
had been delivered.  On the Friday evening before the course commenced,
a bitterly cold night, I drove out to the Staff Development Centre to
set out the tables and chairs, put up the exhibition of children's work
and to make certain all the equipment was working.  I expected to see a
dark and deserted building but, as I pulled into the car park, I
noticed that every room seemed to be lit up.  Connie, in her
predictable pose, with arms folded and the death-mask expression, stood
in the entrance like some Eastern statue.

She made a sort of clucking noise as I entered.  "What are you doing
here?"  she asked bluntly.

"I've come to set up the rooms for tomorrow's poetry course," I
replied.

"You'll be lucky.  I say you'll be lucky," she snapped, giving a
twisted smile.  "The place is as full as bingo night at the Empire.
Everyone, bar the Queen and members of the royal family are in here
tonight.  It's bedlam.  There's the vicar, him with the jeans and the
motor bike, rehearsing his pantomime because the church hall's
heating's off.  There's the Brownies at the back like a hoard of wild
dervishes and a whole load of senior citizens in cowboy hats and great
big boots line dancing in the reception area because the village hall's
boiler's broke down too.  Some of them can hardly stand up never mind
trying to leap about to cowboy music.  I've seen three of them with
zimmers.  I

mean that floor's slippery I only polished it this morning.  But would
they listen?  They shouldn't be out on a night like this.  It's bitter.
Do you want a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please, Connie."  I followed her down the corridor to the kitchen
and, to be fair to her, there was a great cacophony of noise issuing
from every room in the Centre.  I took two cups and saucers from the
cupboard and watched her as she filled the kettle.

"Mr.  Clamp has just gone after setting up his artery course for
tomorrow, leaving behind him the usual trail of destruction and debris.
You might as well get back in your car and have a quiet Friday night in
something which I was intending to do before I got the call from that
dreadful Mrs.  Savage at County Hall telling me to allow all these
people in.  "As this is a time of peace and goodwill," she says in that
posh voice of hers and as if butter wouldn't melt, "we are making the
premises available for the church drama group, the Brownies and the
senior citizens' dance club, since their pipes are frozen up and they
are desperate.  I'm sure we can help out."  I said to her, "What's with
the 'we'?  It's all very well making the premises available but it's me
what has to stay and supervise and give up my Friday night as well."  I
said to her, "It's not you who'll be having to deal with the trendy
vicar, an unco-operative Brown Owl and a posse of geriatric line
dancers and Mr.  Clamp to boot."  She had no answer to that I can tell
you!"  She opened a tin of biscuits.  "Mind you, I'm on double time. Do
you want a Garibaldi?"

I had a sinking feeling that David's prophecies about doomed courses
were about to come true.  "So, I can't set up my rooms for tomorrow,
then?"  I asked.

"Not unless you want to negotiate with the Brownies and the OAP line
dancers, you can't."

"What time will they be finished, do you think?"

"Well, this place is being locked up at nine, come hell or high
water."

"I'd better leave it until tomorrow then, Connie," I said.  "I'll be
here early to set things up, if that's all right."

"I'm opening up at seven, as per usual," she replied as I started to
go.  "Don't you want a cup of tea then?"

"No, I'll get off."  I was thinking that I might give Christine a ring
and see if she would like to go out for a drink.

Connie followed me out of the main door, as if to see some undesirable
off the premises.  It was then that I noticed the flower.  Outside the
entrance to the Centre, in a large wooden tub full of pale spiky grass
and the withered remains of summer blooms, was a splash of red.  It was
a large flower with crimson leaves.

"What do you make of that, Connie?"  I asked.

"It's an alopecia."

"A whatT

"I noticed it this evening when Mr.  Clamp was unloading his stuffed
animals for his artery course.  I mentioned it to him.  I said I had
never seen a flower like that growing in December, except winter
pansies.  He said it was a hardy winter variety of alopecia that
flourishes in the frost."

"I don't know much about flowers, but it looks like a geranium to
me."

"It's a scarlet alopecia," said Connie.  "Mr.  Clamp says that they
only flower every ten years and that they like the cold.  They're quite
rare actually.  He suggested I write to that gardening programme.  What
do you think?"

"I think Mr.  Clamp's got a vivid imagination, Connie, that's what I
think."

"So you don't think it's an alopecia then?"

"As I said, it looks like a geranium to me.  but I've never seen one
bloom in the winter, not outdoors, at any rate."  I poked the earth
surrounding the flower and it was as hard as iron.  "It's very strange,
I have to admit."

To the strains of some very loud twanging country and western song, the
shrieks of excited little girls and the picture of Connie in my rear
view mirror staring at the flower, I drove home.  I hoped I could
persuade Christine to come out for that drink.  I needed to have my
mind taken off the course the next day.  As it turned out, I need not
have worried so much but Christine did provide the perfect diversion.

The next morning I arrived at the Centre bright and very early.  I
checked the equipment, arranged the tables and chairs, set up the
exhibition in the large room where the course was to take place and
waited nervously for the first teachers to arrive.  Even though I had
run courses before, I could not help being rather on edge.  David's
words kept coming back to me.  Would my speakers turn up?  If they did,
would they be well received?  What would I do if I got a group of
difficult teachers?  Was the programme relevant?  Suppose the heating
went off?  To occupy myself, and take my mind off things which might go
wrong, I began to write a short poem, taking as a theme the flower
which had bloomed miraculously in the cold weather.  Very soon I had
written a couple of verses which I entitled "Red Bloom of Winter'.  I
compared the flower to 'a splash of blood on the dark earth',
describing it as 'a crimson cluster hidden in the grass, straight
stemmed, defiant'; it was 'a bright life in the midst of death'.  I was
deep into creating vivid imagery when the door opened and Connie made
an entrance, holding a brush like a weapon.

"There's a woman in reception wanting to see you.  I thought at first
it was one of the geriatric line dancers come back to collect her
zimmer but she said you were expecting her.  Sounded like "Fella
Beware"."

"Miss de la Mare," I whispered to myself.  "She's the HMI I told you
about, Connie," I said, jumping to my feet and hurrying to the door.

"Well, I hope she's not blocked my entrance," grumbled Connie,
following me down the corridor.

Miss de la Mare was not as I expected her to be.  I imagined a solid,
ample woman with savagely cropped grey hair, small severe mouth and
hard glittery eyes, the kind that make you think that at any moment you
are about to be pounced on.  I expected her to be dressed, as George
Lapping had described her, in thick brown tweeds, heavy brogues and in
a hat the shape of a flowerpot.  The woman waiting for me in the
entrance was very different.  She was a plump, cheerful-looking woman
with a round face freckled like a good egg, and neatly bobbed silver
hair.  She was dressed in a coat as bright and as red as a letter box
with a long multicoloured scarf draped around her neck.

"Mr.  Phinn," she proclaimed, shaking my hand vigorously.  "Winifred de
la Mare.  Good of you to let me come.  Really looking forward to
joining you.  Now, I know that you will have lots to do, so don't mind
me.  You just crack on with what you have to do.  I'll just tootle off
and mingle with the teachers when they begin to arrive.  Oh, by the
way, I noticed in the course booklet that there's an art course going
on at the same time.  Do you think your colleague would mind if I
popped in this afternoon?"

"He would be delighted, I'm sure," I replied gleefully.

"Good show!"  She peered around her before adding, "I don't suppose
there's a chance of a cup of tea?  I've travelled a fair distance this
morning."

"Of course," I replied turning to Connie, who was loitering in the
background.  "I wonder if Miss de la Mare could'

Before I could complete my request, Connie set off in the direction of
the kitchen, announcing that if my visitor would care to follow her,
she would put the kettle on.  As they strolled off, I caught a snatch
of their conversation.

"You keep this Centre very neat and tidy."

"I try my best and you can't do any more than that."

I had an idea, from that moment on, that the course would be a
success.

To my great relief, my opening lecture and the morning workshops were
well received.  The teachers were good-humoured and genuinely
interested and took part in all the assignments with great enthusiasm.
Miss de la Mare, despite her rather overbearing manner and her frequent
interruptions, proved to be most amicable and involved herself fully in
all the activities, joining the discussions and even tackling the
writing tasks.

At lunch-time I introduced the HMI to Sidney.  He was holding forth to
several young women teachers who had gathered around him in the dining
area.  They were staring up at him as wide-eyed as infants.

"Miss de la Mare," I said when Sidney looked up and gave me a
surreptitious wink, 'may I introduce my colleague who is the Creative
and Visual Arts Inspector?"

"Winifred de la Mare!"  she barked.

Sidney's smile stretched from ear to ear and could have been seen a few
hundred yards away.  "I am delighted to meet you, Miss de la Mare," he
said.  "I hope you are enjoying the poetry course."

"Very much," she said briskly.

"Miss de la Mare is wondering if she might join you for the remainder
of the day," I said with such a wonderfully smug feeling.

The fixed smile waned a little on Sidney's face.  "Join me?"  he said.
"You would like to join me?"

"If you have no objection," said Miss de la Mare.

I recalled my earlier conversation with Sidney.  He really had no
choice in the matter.  The question was merely rhetorical.

"I should be delighted," he said, with little conviction in his
voice.

By the time Sunday afternoon had arrived, I had seen relatively little
of Miss de la Mare.  She seemed to have been so captivated with the
work Sidney was undertaking that she had remained with him for all of
Saturday afternoon and Sunday morning.  For the last session of the
poetry course, however, she re-appeared.  The teachers were discussing
a selection of verse by known and unknown poets and some of the course
members had agreed to read out poems they had written themselves.  I
decided to chance my arm and read my poem, "Red Bloom of Winter'.  I
conveniently failed to mention that it was my own work.  When I had
finished declaiming to the group there was a rapt silence.

Then one rather pensive-looking woman spoke.  "Beautiful," she sighed.
"Beautiful.  It's such a very tender poem.  I just loved the delicate
sound formation and the strong sense of the mystic'

"Did you really?"  I cooed.

"I think the poet captures the sense of desolation really well," added
another.  "She's obviously immensely depressed, perhaps on the very
brink of taking her own life?"

"Who is?"  I ventured.

"The woman in the poem.  All the words and images stress her rejection
and feeling of emptiness and futility.  The mood is one of coldness and
frigidity.  The relationship has turned sour.  It's so very sad."

"What relationship?"  I ventured again.

"Why, the woman's relationship with her partner.  She is represented by
the red flower," explained the teacher.  "That is the central symbol of
the verse.  The man is the hard, cold earth which is freezing the very
life out of her.  She is the woman of warmth and life, the Earth
mother."

Another teacher entered the discussion.  "Perhaps the flower is more a
symbol of the hatred and deep-seated jealousy of the woman who has been
betrayed."

"Betrayed?"  I asked.

"There's a great deal of violent imagery in the poem, references to
"blood" and "death" and the "frozen stem as rigid as a corpse"."

"It could be more to do with her death," said the pensive-looking
teacher.

"But there isn't a woman in the poem," I said.

"The poet has obviously suffered," she continued.  "I think she's quite
disturbed."

"Is the poem about saving the planet?"  asked a small man with large
glasses.  "Doesn't the dying flower represent the destruction of the
environment?  All that is bright and beautiful is being choked to
death."

"Or is the poem about life itself?"  sighed the woman who had spoken
first.

"Or could it just be about a flower?"  I hazarded.

"But who would want to write a poem about a flower?"  asked the rather
intense-looking woman.

Later in the staff room, after all the teachers had made their
farewells and thanked me for a stimulating course, I sat with Miss de
la Mare.  Sidney bobbed in to say goodbye.  He looked like the cat
which had got the cream.  He had whispered to me earlier in the hall
that he had got on well with Miss de la Mare who had been highly
complimentary about what she had observed.

"He's quite a character, Mr.  Clamp," said the HMI.  "An immensely
creative man and very innovative and, like many introverts, a man of
few words."

"A man of few words!"  I gasped.  "An introvert?"

"Oh yes, I found him a most unassuming and quietly spoken man but very
talented.  I did so enjoy my time with him and the art teachers and I
have a mind to ask him to contribute to a national course on "The Arts
in School", which I am directing next summer in Oxford.  He might of
course be a little shy about speaking to a large group.  Do you think
he would be interested?"

no

"I'm sure he would," I replied.  Sidney had made another conquest.

"You may care to come along too," continued Miss de la Mare.  "I found
those parts of the poetry course I attended most interesting.  I
thought your choice of that final poem quite inspired."

"Thank you," I replied.

"You obviously chose the poem about the flower to get the discussion
going about the very nature of poetry writing."

Did I?  I thought to myself.

"And it certainly got them to think and to argue," continued Miss de la
Mare, 'but you can see what a lot of work you have to do."

"I do?"

"Why, yes.  It really wasn't as good as all the teachers thought, was
it?  In fact, the poem was rather overwritten, rather cliched, don't
you think?  So many people imagine that a poem must have some hidden
meaning, some symbolism, something profound to say.  It is quite
possible for someone to write a simple little poem, however trite it
might be, about a flower.  I have always been of the opinion that poems
can be about anything and that anything you wish it to be can become a
poem.  You see, the reader brings so much of herself to the poem, very
often seeing something in the verse that the poet never intended.  I
feel sure the poet here never imagined that her poem about a flower
would be regarded as a description of life itself

"No, I suppose not," I said, feeling somewhat deflated.

"Did one of the sixth-formers you have come across write it?"  she
asked.

I shook my head.  "No, it's by a modern poet."

"I once visited a large primary school in the middle of a dreadfully
depressing inner city area," Miss de la Mare told me, smiling at the
memory.  "The work of the children consisted largely of arid exercises
on the noun, the verb and in the adjective but when questioned the
children had not the first idea what the parts of speech were.  Page
after page was filled with dreary exercise after dreary exercise. There
was the occasional story, the odd comprehension but not a sign of a
poem.  And then I found this nervous little boy in the corner of the
classroom.  When I asked if I could examine his book he looked at me
with such large sad eyes and he said very quietly, "No."  I tried to
coax him but he was adamant, saying that his work was not worth looking
at.  He couldn't spell, his writing was untidy and he never got good
marks for his work.  I eventually persuaded him to let me see his
writing.  The book was indeed very poor and, like all the rest, crammed
with unmarked exercises.  There was the occasional comment from his
teacher in bright red ink for him to re-write or to take greater
care.

"Then, at the very back of the book I came upon a piece of writing in
small crabbed print.  I asked him ifhe had written it.  He nodded.  I
asked him ifhe had received any help with it.  He shook his head. Well,
it was quite a small masterpiece.  He had written, and I remember the
words so well:

Yesterday yesterday yesterday

Sorrow sorrow sorrow

Today today today

Hope hope hope

Tomorrow tomorrow tomorrow

Love love love

' "What a wonderful little poem," I told him.

"He thought for a while, stared up at me with those large, sad eyes and
announced: "They're mi spelling corrections,

Connie collared me on my way out later that afternoon.  "It's dead!"
she exclaimed.  "What is?"

"My flaming alopecia, that's what!  It wilted and then died.  I knew I
shouldn't have watered it."

"I shouldn't think it made much difference, Connie," I reassured her.

"I've never had a flaming alopecia before," she said sadly.

I learnt from Sidney the next day that he, as I had suspected, had been
behind the ruse.  He had arrived at the Staff Development Centre on the
Friday night to set up for his course.  Backwards and forwards, under
Connie's eagle eye, he had emptied his car of materials and artefacts
for his "Art for Christmas' weekend.  Branches of yew, fronds of holly,
ropes of ivy, bunches of mistletoe, stuffed robins and last of all two
large poinsettia plants had been carried into the Centre.  As he had
tried to negotiate the vicar's motor bike, which had been parked
precariously near the entrance, Sidney had snapped off the stem of one
of the plants.  Rather than leave the cluster of red leaves on the
floor for Connie to complain about, he had stuck them into the tub and
thought no more of it.  When later Connie had drawn attention to it, he
had informed her that it was a rare flaming alopecia plant.

"I think it was very unkind of you," I remarked, 'and I've a good mind
to tell Connie."

"Don't do that, old chap," he replied, leaning back in his chair and
placing his hands behind his head.  "Connie is so wonderfully naive, so
splendidly gullible, so amazingly ingenuous, that it would be cruel to
enlighten her.  I do not approve of anything, you know, Gervase, which
tampers with natural ignorance.  Ignorance is like a delicate exotic
flower, touch it, and the bloom is gone for ever."

"I've read Oscar Wilde as well, Sidney," I said.  "And it wasn't a
delicate exotic flower, it was fruit.  "Ignorance is like a delicate
exotic fruit," says Lady Bracknell.  It's in The Importance of Being
Earnest."

"Well, I said it first!"  exclaimed Sidney with mock surprise.  "This
Lady Bracknell must have heard me say it on one of my courses.  Anyway,
"flower" is far more appropriate, in the circumstances, don't you
think?"

"And what will happen," I asked him, 'when Connie discovers that
alopecia is a scalp condition and not a variety of rare
winter-flowering plant?"

"She will probably not speak to me for a long, long time," smiled
Sidney, stretching back even more expansively in his chair.  "Which
suits me fine because it will keep her out of my hair.  I say, that's
rather clever, isn't it?  Alopecia?  Hair?"

I shook my head.  "You're incorrigible, Sidney."

"I'm really going to make an effort with Christmas this year,"
announced Julie, a week before the schools closed for the holidays.

"And why is that?"  asked David, looking up from his papers and peering
over his gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles.

"Because last year," replied Julie, taking the opportunity to have a
break from distributing the early morning mail, 'was so indescribably
awful that I'm really going to try not to let it get to me this year.
I'm going to go with the flow, just let it all wash over me.  Do you
know that last year I was glad to get back to work.  I spent ages and
ages looking for presents which in the end didn't suit.  I wrote
hundreds of cards to people I haven't seen for ages and am not likely
to ever see again and then, at the very last minute, somebody sent me a
card who I hadn't sent one to and I had to rush to catch the last post
to send them one.  Well, this year I'm not sending any cards and I'm
giving all my nephews and nieces money and I've asked everybody else
what they want.  It's a much better idea, I think."

"Oh no," I said, "I don't agree at all with that.  Part of the
excitement of Christmas is sending cards and getting surprise
presents."

"Well, I can do without surprise presents, thank you very much,"
replied Julie, flicking half-heartedly through the mail.  She looked
up.  "You know what surprise present I got from Paul last year?"

"I don't," I said, 'but I guess you are about to tell us."

"Red underwear!  That's what I got.  Shocking, skimpy,

red silk underwear.  Now who in their right minds apart from Mrs.
Savage and a French prostitute would be seen dead in red underwear?"

"Although I am not an expert on ladies' lingerie," said David, "I do
think red underwear sounds rather attractive on a woman that is."

"There's the typical man speaking," Julie told him.  "I wouldn't be
seen dead in red underwear."

"It could have been worse," I ventured.  "Paul could have given you
oven gloves."

"Well, at least I would have worn the oven gloves," retorted Julie.
"He's certainly not getting me into, red underwear."

"So what about Christmas Day?"  I asked.  "Have you cancelled that?"

"We're going out for dinner.  That's the other big improvement.
Christmas Day last year was a disaster.  Mum put the turkey giblets in
a dish and when she came to make the gravy they'd mysteriously
disappeared.  You would have thought that she'd lost all her life
savings the fuss she made.  Eventually, Uncle Tom admitted that he had
given them to the dog.  We had Mum moaning, Uncle Tom apologising,
Auntie Pat crying, Dad ignoring it all and then the dog was sick.
Granddad nearly choked on a silver sixpence and Grandma lost an earring
so we spent the afternoon playing clean the carpet, find the sixpence
and hunt the earring.  Then we watched Chitty, Chitty, bloody Bang Bang
for the umpteenth time on the telly until we all fell asleep.  It was a
nightmare.  Four days of living hell."

"You had a lively time and no mistake," remarked David, chuckling to
himself.

"That's just it, Mr.  Pritchard, I don't want a lively time.  I have
enough of a lively time with you inspectors all the year round.  At
Christmas I want peace and quiet, with no hassle, no noise, no
stress."

"And speaking of hassle, noise and stress," said David, cupping a hand
around his ear, "I think I can hear the dainty tread of the Inspector
for Visual and Creative Arts on the stairs."

"And that's another thing," said Julie, pursing her lips before holding
up the papers in front of her, "I've got a mountain of work to finish
for Mr.  Clamp and I was hoping to get off a bit earlier tonight to
finish my Christmas shopping."

A moment later Sidney burst into the office.  "Happy Christmas!"  he
roared, throwing his briefcase on Harold's chair.  "I just love this
time of year.  The smell of pine in the air, shop windows crammed with
colourful gifts, carols and cribs, fairy lights, holly and mistletoe,
and Santa's grotto, ho!  ho!  ho!  It just grabs you by the throat and
says, "Peace and goodwill to all men"."  He pulled off his coat, hung
it up roughly and flopped at his desk.  "Christmas makes you feel so
well disposed to others, it's .. . it's .. . what's the word, Gervase?
Infectious, yes, that's what it is, infectious.  Why, at this time of
year I could kiss Connie and hug Mrs.  Savage."  Sidney suddenly
stopped.  The three of us were staring at him in bemused silence.  "Is
it something I've said?"

"May I remind you, Sidney," said David, 'that schools have not broken
up for the holidays yet and Christmas has not arrived.  We all have
quite a bit of work to do before the term ends and I believe you, in
particular, have a great deal to finish."

"I've somehow gone back in time," said Sidney dramatically, talking to
no one in particular, 'and found my way into the office of Ebeneezer
Scrooge."

Julie placed the thick pile of papers on his desk.  "Dr.  Yeats wants
the report on Loxley Chase School before the end of the afternoon.  He
was on the phone twice yesterday.  You have six letters to sign, the
questionnaire on "Painters in Schools" to complete, your January course
applications to check over and you still haven't finished the Arts
Council response that Dr.  Gore asked you to do.  In today's mail there
are two items marked "very urgent" and two more marked "urgent".  And,
by the looks of it," she said, indicating the papers before him,
'you've omv got two greetings cards this morning in that little lot.
Happy Christmas!"

"Will someone tell me what I have done?"  appealed Sidney, watching
Julie totter out of the door on her high heels.

"It's what you haven't done," said David, pointing to the mound on his
colleague's desk.  "Julie was not intending to work late tonight.  She
was wanting to finish her Christmas shopping.  If I were you, Sidney,
I'd make a start."

Thereafter, the first part of the day was unusually quiet.  Sidney soon
settled down to his reports and letters and all that could be heard
above the gentle hum of the traffic on Fettlesham High Street were the
scratching of pens, the occasional sigh and grunt, and the scraping of
a chair on the hard wooden floor.  When the clock on the County Hall
tower struck eleven o'clock, Sidney's pen bounced off the page in a
flourish as he stabbed the final full stop to the Loxley Chase Report.
Then he leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and
exhaled heavily.  David peered over his glasses and I looked up from my
work.

"I take it that our young secretary," announced Sidney, 'bearing in
mind the mood she was in when I arrived, will not be forthcoming with
the libations this morning."

"You know where the mugs are," murmured David, returning to his
report.

"And since you are so full of the Christmas spirit, Sidney," I told
him, 'oozing with goodwill to all men and infected with festive
kindness, perhaps you would like to make David and me some coffee at
the same time."

Sidney thought for a moment, smiled dramatically, then jumped up from
his chair.  "Of course, dear boy, nothing would give me greater
pleasure.  I shall take these letters and this completed report through
to Julie to placate her as well."

Over coffee, Sidney began one of his all too familiar interrogations.
"I assume that over Christmas you are taking the blonde love goddess of
Winnery Nook to some faraway, exotic location, Gervase?"

"No," I replied curtly.

"No?"  he retorted.  "Is it a wet weekend in Whitby, then?"

"Actually, we are not spending Christmas together.  I'm going to my
brother's in Retford again.  I'm hoping we can have a few days together
in the New Year."

"Barbados, Nice, St.  Tropez, Paris?"

"Settle."

"Seattle!"  exclaimed Sidney, reaching for his coffee.  "Well, well,
Gervase, you are lashing out.  This sounds serious.  A trip to the
States.  Seattle will be beautiful at this time of year."

"No, Sidney, I said Settle, not Seattle."

"Settle!  Settle!"  he cried.  "You're taking her to Settle?  The
pot-holing capital of the Dales.  What are you intending doing?
Creeping about on all fours underground with lamps on your heads?
Hiking over the slippery limestone in driving sleet?  Trekking through
the snow?"

"Actually, Settle is spectacular in winter," announced David, taking
off his spectacles.

"Don't tell me you're taking him with you as well?"  asked Sidney.

"As a matter of fact, it was I who recommended Settle to Gervase. There
is a very pleasant little hostelry there called The Traddles. The food
is outstanding, the views magnificent and the people who own it very
friendly.  Also, it's a very romantic place."

"But it is still Settle," groaned Sidney.  "And has she agreed to
go?"

"I haven't asked her yet," I said.  "I want it to be a surprise."

"It'll be a surprise all right!"

"I booked a couple of days back in October and'

"Well, don't hold your breath," Sidney told me, "I think staying at
home is preferable to Settle in winter."  He changed the subject.  "And
what have you got your inamorata for Christmas?"

"A locket," I replied.

"Oh dear, oh dear.  A locket!  A locket is something you give your
maiden aunt or a little girl about to make her First Communion."

"As a matter of fact," said David again, 'it was I who recommended to
Gervase the Mezzo Gallery in Skipton.  They design and make the most
unusual silver jewellery."

"But a locket is not a present you give to the woman of your dreams.
What he needs for a feisty young beauty of Christine Bentley's obvious
charm, attraction and elegance is something particularly feminine,
something which expresses his simmering passion, his ardour, something
which speaks of his undying devotion, like a mass of red roses, an
obscenely large bottle of French perfume, a huge box of Belgian
chocolates, a delicate diamond pendant'

"You mean something tasteful like red silk underwear?"  suggested
David.

"That's exactly the sort of thing women love," enthused Sidney.  "They
really go for men who are unpredictable and impulsive, who surprise
them with unusual gifts.  Unlike your other ideas, David, red underwear
is an inspired suggestion.  Now I will take you to Hoopers of
Harrogate, Gervase, and help you select'

"There is no way I am giving Christine red underwear!"  I said
emphatically.

"But she will adore it!"  cried Sidney, just as Julie appeared with his
letters for signing.  "Now what woman could resist red silk underwear?
Wouldn't you agree, Julie?"

Julie gave him a long, blistering look before slowly leaving the
office.

"You know, I think Christmas brings out the worst in some people,"
sighed Sidney shaking his head.

I decided to broach the subject of the couple of days in Settle with
Christine that very evening.  I had agreed to go with her to the
Christmas production at Winnery Nook Junior School and was due to pick
her up from her parents' house at seven o'clock.

"Please come with me," Christine had pleaded earlier that week, 'and
give me some moral support with the insufferable Mr.  Logan."

To say that Christine did not get on with the self-opinionated
Headteacher of the Junior School would be something of an
understatement.  Mr.  Logan was a large man with pale watery-blue eyes
and heavy jowls.  He had the irritating habit of waving his fat
freckled hands in front of him as if conducting some invisible
orchestra and he spoke at such a speed and in such a strident tone of
voice that his listeners were eventually harangued into silence.  He
was hard-working and managed an excellent staff but it was his
patronising attitude to early education which infuriated Christine. For
Mr.  Logan, the Infant School was where 'the little ones' were
'occupied' and 'taught a few basic skills'.  It was only when they
reached him in the Juniors that the really rigorous work began.

I arrived at Christine's house a little before half-past six.  Drops of
rain began to fall as I drove up the curved gravel drive leading to the
stone-built house.  Christine's mother opened the door to me with a
warm smile and I was ushered down the long hallway and into the
sitting-room.

"What an evening," she said.  "Come along in, Gervase, Christine won't
be long.  She arrived back late from school as usual, so she's still
getting ready."

It was a charming, elegant room and about as different as it possibly
could be from my dark little flat above The Rumbling Turn cafe.  A
large Christmas tree in the corner sparkled with silver tinsel and tiny
lights, the mantelpiece was lined with cards, red and gold decorations
hung from the walls and a small crib had pride of place on an
occasional table.  I sat in front of a welcoming log fire which
crackled brightly in the grate.

"The room looks splendid," I said.

"Oh, I just love Christmas," she replied, echoing Sidney's words.  "It
seems to put everyone in such a friendly mood.  People smile at one
another in the street and strangers talk to you.  It really brings out
the best in people, don't you think?"

"So you are all prepared for Christmas?"  I asked.

"Just about.  I told Christine that you would be very welcome to join
us but she said you had already agreed to go to your brother's."

"That's right," I replied.  "I'm collecting my parents and my sister is
coming down and we'll have a family Christmas in Retford.  But thank
you very much for inviting me."

"Well, perhaps next year," she said smiling.

Let's hope I will still be on the scene next year, I thought.

"Ours will be a quiet affair," Mrs.  Bentley continued.  "We never see
a great deal of Christine at Christmas, to be truthful.  She goes off
on Boxing Day and'

"Goes off?"  I interrupted.

"Skiing, you know.  She's gone skiing every Christmas since she left
college.  Didn't she tell you?"

"No," I replied, crestfallen, 'she never mentioned it."

"Oh dear," said Mrs.  Bentley.  "I hope I haven't put my foot in it."

"You never told me you were going skiing after Christmas," I remarked
as I drove towards Winnery Nook Junior School a short while later.

"Oh didn't I?"  she replied innocently.

"No, you didn't."  I realised my voice had a rather petulant edge to
it.

"Well, I knew that you were off to your big family get-together in
Retford."  When I didn't reply, she continued.  "You didn't want to
come, did you?"

"I might have done."

Christine chuckled and put her hand on my arm.  "But you don't ski,
Gervase."

"I could have watched.  Anyway, who are you going with?"

"Oh, just a friend," she replied, clearly enjoying this little
exchange.

"What friend?"  I could feel my heart thumping in my chest.

"Someone you don't know."

"Not Miles, is it?"

"Of course not.  I've not seen Miles for ages.  Anyway, you know
him."

"Who then?"

"This is getting like the third degree."

"I think you might have told me."

"Are you jealous?"

"No," I said peevishly.  "Well, yes, I am as a matter of fact."

"Alex.  I'm going with Alex, an old college friend.  So there.  Now you
know."

"And what's this Alex like?"

"Tall, slim, attractive."  She paused and chuckled.  "She's very
nice."

"Oh, it's a she then?"  I cried, vastly relieved.

"Of course, it's a she, silly.  I'm not likely to be going off skiing
with another man, am I?"  She moved closer.  "I'm not that sort of
woman."

"Oh well, that's different," I said.  "I just thought that we might
have spent a couple of days together over the Christmas break the last
weekend before schools start again.  There's a really nice hotel that
David recommended and '

"I'm only going for a week, and will be back on the second," said
Christine quickly.

"So you'll come?"

"I'd love to."

"Right then, that's great!"  I said, sounding pretty pleased with
myself.

"But won't hotels be full up at this time of year?"

"I booked a couple of months ago," I told her.  "I wanted to surprise
you."

"You were pretty sure of yourself, Gervase Phinn," she said.  "And
where is this hotel?"

"Well, it's not Barbados, Nice, St.  Tropez or Paris, I'm afraid.  It's
near Settle."

"I love Settle," Christine said.  "I'll really look forward to it."

"Good, that's settled then," I said.

We both laughed out loud.

Winnery Nook Junior School was a modern and attractive building
constructed in the same honey-coloured brick as the Infant School which
was situated a couple of hundred yards away beyond a large square
playground.  It had the same low-angled roof of red pan tiles and large
picture windows but was certainly not as warm and welcoming.

I parked the car and Christine and I hurried up the path which was
glistening with rain in the light of the street lamps.  We passed a
series of large black and white notices: "Property of Yorkshire County
Council'; "Trespassers will be prosecuted'; "No public right of way';
"No dogs allowed on these fields'.  Attached inside on the glass of the
entrance door was a further series of requests and instructions: "All
visitors MUST report to Reception'; "Parents must wait outside when
collecting their children'; "The car park is strictly for the use of
school staff only'.

The place sounded as welcoming as a Ministry of Defence shooting range,
and the entrance area of the school had the ambience of a hospital
waiting-room.  A few anaemic prints hung on a pale yellow wall and
three hard-backed chairs had been arranged in a line facing them.  On a
small table were a couple of magazines and an unhealthy-looking spider
plant, its green and white shoots trailing to the floor.  As we headed
for the school hall, following the throng, a freckly-faced boy of about
seven ran up excitedly.

"Hello, Miss Bentley!"  he cried, obviously delighted to see her.

"This is John, Mr.  Phinn," said Christine, turning to me.  "He came up
to the Juniors at the beginning of this term and he was one of my star
pupils, weren't you, John?"

"Yes, miss," nodded the child.

We moved out of everyone's way.  "Are you in the play, John?"  asked
Christine.

"No, miss, there's only a few parts and they went to the older ones.
I'm helping with the programmes and stacking the chairs at the end."

"Oh well," said Christine, 'there's time enough.  You'll probably be in
next year's play."

"I hope so, miss," replied the child.

"And how do you like the Juniors?"

"Oh, it's all right, miss," replied the boy unenthusiastically.

When we had taken our seats, the lights dimmed, the hall fell silent
and a fat man with pale, fishy eyes strode to the front.  This was Mr.
Logan, the Headteacher.  He waved his hands expansively in front of
him, explaining that the evening's performance was a dramatic episode
from the well-loved children's classic, Anne of Green Gables.  He
prattled on about there being so few really good Christmas plays
suitable for children these days and how he believed in good quality
writing, traditional values and high standards.  What all this had to
do with a school play was beyond me.  He then reminded everyone that
taking pictures during the performance was prohibited because the flash
lights would disturb the actors, that there would be no interval and
that there would be a retiring collection to supplement the school
fund.

A Christmas production gives a school the opportunity of staging a
large-scale dramatic event involving a great many children.  It should
be a lively, joyous affair, full of colour, music and often dancing,
centred on a seasonal theme.  I had been in the audience the week
before at Willingforth Primary School, and had laughed and cheered with
the parents and children at the outstanding performance of "Scrooge'.
All the pupils in the school had been involved in some way.

The evening before I had watched a nativity play at St.  Bartholomew's
Roman Catholic Infant School.  The star of the show had been the
Innkeeper, played with great gusto by a cheeky-faced little boy of six.
In front of the curtains on the makeshift stage there was a bed in
which the Innkeeper was sleeping.  He was suddenly awoken by Joseph
banging loudly on the inn door and asking for a room.  Each time the
Innkeeper clambered into the bed to go to sleep he was disturbed: by
the shepherds looking for the baby, by the Three Kings bearing gifts,
by a great flashing star and finally by a host of heavenly angels
singing "Away in a Manger' loudly outside his window.  Finally, he had
had enough and stamped and stormed across the stage.  The curtains had
opened to reveal a tableau at the centre of which was a little Mary in
blue and Joseph in a dressing-gown, white socks and with a towel over
his head, held in place by an elastic belt with a snake clasp.

"What's all this, then?"  the Innkeeper had demanded.  Mary had held a
finger to her lips.  "You'll wake the baby," she had said.  The grumpy
Innkeeper had peered angrily into the manger.  His face had suddenly
changed and a great beaming smile had filled his face.  "Aaaaaahhhhh,
he's a bobby-dazzler!"  he had exclaimed.  "What a luwerly little
baby."

That evening there were tears in many an eye.

There were only six children in the school production oiAnne of Green
Gables.  Five of them struggled through the tedious, wordy and
overly-sentimental episode, delivering their lines as if reading from a
shopping list.  In contrast, the lead part of Anne, played by a plump,
red-faced girl with protuberant blue eyes, was undertaken with great
enthusiasm and confidence.  Dressed in a bright blue and yellow gingham
smock (rather unsuitable for the time of year, I thought) and sporting
huge bunches of hair tied in red ribbons, she dominated the stage.  She
declaimed her lines in a dreadful mock-American drawl at the rate of a
Gatling gun and had the irritating habit of waving her hands in front
of her as if conducting some imaginary orchestra.  I had seen something
similar to this performance before.

The play thankfully came to an end.  Soon Christine was surrounded by a
knot of excited pupils eager to talk to her.  I was content to sit and
watch her as she chattered and laughed and ruffled hair, her blue eyes
shining and her beautiful face flushed with pleasure.  My reverie was
shattered with the appearance of Mr.  Logan, accompanied by the large
girl who had played the part of Anne.

"Good evening, Mr.  Phinn!"  he said.  "I trust you enjoyed our little
performance?"

"Yes, the children did very well," I replied, tactfully.

"Mr.  Phinn," the Headteacher informed the girl, 'is a school inspector
and he has cast his critical eye over many a school play."  An
expectant expression played about the girl's large blue eyes.

"You were very confident," I said, 'and did very well to remember all
those words."

"I'm auditioning for the lead role in Annie next week," the child
informed me.  Annie, I thought to myself.  Annie the musical about the
wraith-like orphan.

"She goes to drama school every Saturday," announced the Headteacher
waving his hands in front of him.  "She's my youngest daughter, is
Leanne."

On our way out, Christine and I caught sight of the pale, slight girl
who had delivered the opening lines of the play.  She would make a
perfect Annie, I thought.

"You were excellent," I told her.

"You were, Cathy," agreed Christine.  "Really excellent."

"I only had a few lines, miss," replied the child, smiling coyly.

"Ah," I said, 'but you were the first person to speak and it was you
who set the scene.  We heard every word clearly, didn't we, Miss
Bentley, and if I had an Oscar to award -you know, the prizes that very
famous actors and actresses sometimes get well, I would give it to
you."

"That was a lovely thing to do," said Christine, sliding her arm
through mine as we walked down the path.  "And if you only knew what
that will do for Cathy's confidence.  She was such a shy little thing
when she was with me in the Infants."

"She deserved an Oscar," I said.  "Anyone who could go on to the stage,
before all the other actors, beneath all those bright lights, in front
of a hundred people and deliver such ridiculous lines without making
one mistake, deserves an Oscar."

Under a street light, I consulted my programme.  "I wrote down the
lines.  Do you remember what she had to say?"

"No," replied Christine, "I was thinking what an ordeal the whole
evening was going to be.  What did she have to say?"

I read the lines: "Is Farmer Hart's farm far from here?"

I can imagine Sidney trying to say those lines after a few Christmas
drinks."

We laughed and laughed all the way to the car.

"So what was Settle like?"  asked Sidney.  It was the first week back
after the Christmas break and a particularly cold and windy morning.

I was certainly not going to elaborate.  To do so would have initiated
one of his rigorous interrogations about my love life, so I replied
curtly, "Excellent," and continued to sort through the papers on my
desk.

"And was it full of ramblers, scramblers and danglers?"

"Pardon?"

"Hikers, hill walkers and mountain climbers?"

"We didn't go out much," I replied, putting a file into my briefcase.

"Really?  Sounds like you had a very intimate time."  I did not reply.
"And the locket?"

"She loved it."

"Mmmm, and there was I thinking Miss Bentley was a woman of taste.  Did
she help you choose that frightful attire?"

"Pardon?"

"Gervase, are you going deaf?  Have the icy gusts and wintry gales of
Settle resulted in a hearing problem?  I asked about that horrendous
suit which you are wearing and whether Miss Bentley helped you select
it."

"No, I bought it yesterday as a matter of fact," I replied.  "Sidney, I
really do have to get on.  I have an appointment."

"And you are intending going into schools in it, are you?"

"Of course, I am," I replied, looking up from my papers.  "Why
shouldn't I?"

"Because you'll frighten the teachers and terrify the children, that's
why."

"What's wrong with it?"

"It's quite the loudest, ill-fitting and garish piece of apparel I ever
did see.  You look like a down-at-heel music hall comedian or some
impoverished country squire.  It's a dreadful suit, outrageously
tasteless and flashy and completely out of character for you."

"I take it you don't like it, then?"

"Wherever did you get it?"

"It was in the January sales."

"I assumed that much," said Sidney.  "I should imagine that it has been
in the January sales since Queen Victoria's time.  I asked from where
did you purchase the monstrosity?"

"From Fritters of Fettlesham."

"Fritters of Fettlesham!"  exclaimed my colleague.  "Fritters of
Fettlesham!  Are you aware that the only customers who frequent that
antique emporium are decrepit old colonels, elderly clergymen and
retired schoolmasters?  Why didn't you go to Michael Stewart of Selby
or Hoopers of Harrogate and get yourself something more stylish a
tasteful, tailor-made herring-bone, or modest check or pin-stripe?"

I had to admit to myself that the suit was rather unusual.  It was a
sort of mustardy brown with a dark-red, dog-tooth pattern, wide curved
lapels, heavy cuffs and large leather buttons.

"Are you wearing it for a bet?"  persisted Sidney.

"Look, this suit may not be at the height of fashion but it is
incredibly warm and was remarkably cheap.  What's more, the man in
Fritters assured me it is the cosiest suit in the shop."

"Cosiest!  Cosiest!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "You are not a tea-cosy,
Gervase."

"Look, Sidney, I wanted something which will insulate me against the
cold and wet this winter and on mornings like today, this suit is
ideal."  I plucked a label from the large square pocket."  "This suit,"
I began to read," "has a lining treated by a special process to extend
the durability of the item.  Most people produce approximately 3,ooog
of perspiration in a standard day and this lining is made to cope with
up to 4,ooog a day."

"You'll lose about two stone in weight wearing that outfit," remarked
Sidney, stretching across to feel the cloth.

I continued to read: "The lining material contains nine billion
microscopic pores per square inch, each one 10,000 times smaller than a
rain drop."

"Wow!"  cried Sidney, with mock surprise.

' "These pores will allow perspiration to escape whilst preventing cold
from penetrating the material."

"It would take a harpoon to penetrate that fabric'

' "This treatment gives a very special feel to the material providing
the wearer with protection and comfort '"

"I get the idea, Gervase," said Sidney interrupting, 'but it's still
the ugliest suit I have ever clapped my eyes on.  Anyway, what are you
going to be doing this morning?  Fell walking, sheep shearing, climbing
Pen-y-ghent, exploring the caves at Ingleton, trekking across the
Pennines?"

"This morning, if you must know, I am going to Sir Cosmo Cavendish
Boys' Grammar School to join the interview panel for the Head of
Classics post.  The last time I was at that draughty dungeon of a place
I was frozen to the bone.  The interviews lasted all morning and most
of the afternoon with a gang of garrulous governors arguing about
everything and nothing.  I do not intend to sit in that ice box of a
conference room for three or four hours today, slowly freezing to
death.  This suit may not be particularly stylish, Sidney, but I'll be
as snug as a bug in a rug."

"That's because it very probably was a rug before someone, with a
bizarre sense of humour, turned it into a suit."

"Sidney, I do not intend to spend any more time arguing with you about
what I wear.  The last time I visited the school I ended up with the
most dreadful running cold and racking cough.  I didn't stop sneezing
and wheezing for a good week.  On this occasion I will be well
prepared."

"Ah," sighed Sidney, 'but is the school prepared for you?"  At this
point Julie bustled in with the morning mail.  "And what is your
opinion of Gervase's attire, Julie, my dear?"  he asked.

"He looks like my Uncle Cyril," she informed us casually, moving from
one desk to the other filling the in-trays.

"Was he the doctor?"  I asked.

"No, the bookie!"  she replied.  "He was the bigamist who ended up in
prison."

"I'm off," I said, heading for the door, not wishing to prolong the
conversation a moment longer.

"And don't go near the cliffs, will you, Gervase?"  shouted Sidney
after me.  "You'd be a hazard to shipping in that suit!"

Sir Cosmo Cavendish Boys' Grammar School was built at the turn of the
century, paid for by the wealthy wool manufacturer and philanthropist
from whom the school had taken its name.  It was a huge, ornate,
ostentatious pile of a building with squat, black turreted towers and
mullioned windows, long cold corridors and dark cramped classrooms.  I
had only been a school inspector for eight weeks when I had been
dragooned by Harold into undertaking the inspection of PE and games at
the school, in place of David Pritchard who had broken his leg by
tripping over a raised paving slab at the Golf Club.  The inspection
itself had gone pretty well but I had been dragooned a second time on
this occasion by the Head of Department, a broad, solid, hard-looking
Scotsman called Mr.  Auchterloonie into refereeing a rugby match after
school when the official referee had failed to arrive.  It had been
disastrous.

My second visit had been to attend the interview panel for the
appointment of the Head of English, and the day was spent in a
refrigerated box euphemistically known as the Conference Room.  I had
sat there shivering uncontrollably and endeavouring to stop my teeth
from chattering.  Never again, I had thought.

I now parked the car in the spot reserved for visitors at the front of
the school and collected the various papers I would need from my
briefcase.  I felt beautifully warm as I clambered from the car into
the cold morning air and ambled past the great bronze statue of the
school's founder which dominated the main entrance.  Sir Cosmo stood on
a large plinth, hands on hips, legs apart and chin jutting out like a
mastiff about to pounce.

"Excuse me, sir."  It was a small boy wrapped up like an Eskimo: thick
brown and yellow scarf, leather gloves, fur-trimmed anorak and woollen
hat pulled down over his ears.  He had a bright, open face.  "Are you
here for the interviews, sir?"

"Yes, I am," I replied.

"Would you like to follow me, sir, and I'll take you to the
administration block."

"Thank you," I replied.

"Have you travelled far, sir?"

"Just from Fettlesham."

"Roads icy, sir?"

"Very."

"You have to take it easy in this sort of weather, don't you, sir?"

"You do indeed."  What joy to find such politeness, I thought to
myself.

"I can't say that I like the snow and ice, sir," said the boy,
scuttling along ahead of me.

"Neither can I, and it is particularly bitter this morning, isn't
it?"

The round face beneath the thick woolly hat, now pink with cold,
smiled, "Well, sir, never mind, you look pretty warm in your winter
coat."  That made me sound distinctly like a sheep.

The foyer of the administration block was spartan and draughty.  I
pressed the buzzer on the reception desk and, as if on some sort of
trigger, the frosted glass slid back immediately and I was confronted
with a pinch-faced woman with half-moon glasses perched on the end of
her nose.  She stared at me for a moment with her small eyes.  "Yes?"
she asked sharply.  "May I help you?"

"I am expected."

"Who are you?"  she demanded.  This woman, I thought, could take a few
lessons in manners and common courtesy from the pupil whom I had just
met and who had returned to his vigil by the front door.  "Are you from
Fosters Floor Coverings?"  she asked, not giving me the chance to
reply.  "To fit the carpet in the Drama Studio?"

I was tempted to enquire if I looked like a carpet fitter but resisted
the urge.  "No, I'm here for the interviews," I replied equally coldly.
"My name is Phinn."  She ran a long finger down a sheet in front of
her.  "It's spelt with a "ph"."

"What is?"

"My name P-h-in-n."

"There's no one on the list of that name."

I sighed heavily.  "There's no "f" in Phinn."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Has it been spelt with an "f"?"

"Whether it's a "p" or an "f" there is no one called Phinn on this
list.  Did you receive an invitation from the Chairman of Governors to
attend for interview?"

"No."

"Well, there you are then."

"That is because I am on the Interview Panel.  The Head master asked me
to join him.  I am not one of the candidates.  I am from the Education
Office."

"Oh, I see.  Well, I do wish you had said so earlier."  She ran her
finger down another list.  "Yes, here you are.  Jarface Phinn."  I
didn't bother correcting her.  "The Panel is convening in the
Conference Room.  I'll arrange for a pupil to take you down."

"Please don't bother," I told her loftily.  "I do know my way.  I've
been here before."

The glass abruptly slid shut in front of my eyes.

The Headmaster greeted me at the door of the Conference Room.  Dr.
Trollop was a tall, cadaverous man with unhealthy-looking, greyish
skin.  He was dressed in a dark suit, dark tie and was draped in a long
black gown; his mournful countenance immediately reminded me of an
undertaker.

"Good morning, Mr.  Phinn," he intoned, surveying me morosely and
without a flicker of a smile.  "It's good of you to join us."  To match
his appearance, Dr.  Trollop had the soft, vaguely
ecclesiastical-sounding tone of voice of a funeral director about to
give his condolences to bereaved relatives.  I was ushered into the
Conference Room to join the Chairman of Governors, Canon Williams, and
the other members of the Panel.

A broad individual with an exceptionally thick neck, vast florid face
and sporting a mop of unnaturally shiny, jet black hair was in loud
conversation with Canon Williams, a thin cleric wearing steel-rimmed
spectacles.  Already seated at a long mahogany table was Mr.  Mortimer,
the know-it-all parent-governor, who was flicking eagerly through a
pile of papers.  On my last visit to the school for the interviews for
the Head of English post, he had drawn out the discussions when I had
asked a candidate about the importance of students reading the great
writers of literature.  All he had seemed bothered about was whether
the students could spell and punctuate and write 'a decent letter of
application'.  The final member of the Panel was a quietly spoken and
nervous-looking foundation-governor, Mr.  Wright, who smiled weakly at
me as I entered.  All were dressed soberly, which made me stand out all
the more in my suit of many colours.  I surmised that these interviews
were going to be as long and as tedious as on the previous occasion.

"I must say," said the man with the vast florid face when we had taken
our seats behind the large table, 'it's a damn sight warmer in 'ere
than t'last time I were in t'school.  I were frozzen to deeath.  It's
pretty par ky on t'tops where I farm so I know all about bleak weather
but, by' eck, t'room were icy.  I were fair starved.  It took me a
couple o'brandies and a gret rooaring farmhouse fire to thaw me out
when I got back."

"Yes, I agree," said the canon, 'it was decidedly chilly.  Of course,
I'm quite used to the cold.  I can never get the church heating, such
as it is, to work and the rectory rarely gets warm.  I often wear a
body-warmer under my cassock.  I get them from Fritters of Fettlesham,
you know."  He smiled in my direction.  "However, I think we will be
comfortable enough this morning as the Headmaster has kindly agreed to
provide some heating for us."  He gestured to a vast metal box of a
heater in the corner of the room, which was blowing out great gusts of
hot air noisily and at an incredible rate.

Dr.  Trollop glanced at the heater with gloomy eyes and rubbed his chin
thoughtfully.  He looked as if he had recently been exhumed.  "I never
seem to feel the cold," he murmured in a hushed voice.

He's probably cold-blooded, I thought to myself.

"Well, colleagues, shall we make a start?"  said the canon brightly. "I
think we all know Mr.  Phinn from the Education Office in Fettlesham,
who is here to give us the benefit of his expert advice oh, perhaps
with the exception of Councillor Peterson."

"I've not met 'im but I've 'eard of 'im," said the man with the vast
florid face.  "MorninV

"Good morning," I replied, with a sinking heart.  So this was
Councillor George Peterson, the most vociferous and tiresome member of
the Education Committee, and husband of the formidable Headteacher of
Highcopse County Primary School.

"Now, we are gathered here to interview for the position of Head of the
Classics Department," continued Canon Williams removing his
steel-rimmed spectacles.  "It is a very important position in the
school.  Last time we interviewed it was for the Head of English post
when, if you may remember, our discussions were a tad prolonged,
largely because we departed down a number of diverse avenues, all very
lively and interesting but immensely time-consuming.  I do hope that
these interviews will be rather more focused."  He glanced casually in
the direction of Councillor Peterson and Mr.  Mortimer.  I reckoned, as
I listened to the well-meaning, cheerful clergyman, that these
interviews would be no shorter.  "We have three strong candidates for
the post, all well-qualified and experienced '

"Can I just ask something before we go any further?"  interrupted
Councillor Peterson.  I could see a weary expression cloud the canon's
face.  "I'd like someone to tell me what's t'point of kids learnin'
Latin and Greek?  I mean, I were never taught Latin at school and it's
not sum mat what's held me back."

"Oh, Councillor Peterson," responded Canon Williams as if speaking to a
naughty schoolchild, 'it's very, very useful for one to know Latin and
Greek."

"Why?"  demanded the councillor.

"I beg your pardon?"  asked the canon.

"Why is it important?"

"Well, it is.  I really do not want to go into the reasons for-'

"I can see it comes in 'andy for someone in your line of business, you
being a clergyman an' all and 'having to use it at your services,
but'

"In actual fact, Councillor, I do not use Latin at my services.  It's
those of the Romanish persuasion who use Latin.  The Church of England
services are in English and have been so since the sixteenth
century."

"Well, I wun't know abaat that, Canon, I'm chapel mi self and there's
no chance of our minister using Latin, not by a long chalk."

"Having said that," continued the canon, "I do feel that a good
grounding in the classics stands young people in good stead."

"Well, I can't see it, mi self grumbled the fat councillor, shaking his
head.

"I feel certain that Mr.  Phinn here could mount a very eloquent
defence of the efficacy of a classical education," said the canon,
looking longingly in my direction but I felt it prudent to say
nothing.

"Do you think we might get on?"  sighed Dr.  Trollop.

"I would be very interested to hear from Mr.  Phinn in what ways Latin
and Greek are relevant in the modern world."  The know-it-all
parent-governor now joined the discussion.  Mr.  Mortimer clearly was
not going to let things lie and launched into a lecture on the futility
of classics in the curriculum.  "It seems to me to be a total and utter
waste of time to study classics.  Latin and Greek are of no practical
use.  French and German, yes, but a couple of old languages nobody
speaks well, I just can't see the point.  In this day and age we want
captains of industry not relics of a bygone age.  We want young people
fluent in Japanese and Chinese, conversant with computers, able to
enter the world of commerce, international finance and business.  We
want mathematicians, linguists, engineers, physicists, chemists, those
highly skilled in communications.

I for one and I've said it to Dr.  Trollop on more than one occasion
feel that the school would be better ofF employing a teacher of
Information Technology rather than a classics master."

Canon Williams looked extremely ill-at-ease and turned to Dr.  Trollop
for help.  The Headmaster, however also felt it politic not to enter
the debate and continued to stare at the heater with a solemn
countenance.  He had obviously heard Mr.  Mortimer's views many times
before.

Mr.  Wright, the foundation-governor, suddenly spoke up.  "I did Latin
at school," he said cheerily.  The canon, a great wave of relief
suffusing his face, thought he had found an ally and looked to him for
some support, but there was none forthcoming.  "We learnt a little
poem.  I remember it to this day."  He then recited the verse.

Latin is a dead tongue, As dead as dead can be.  First it killed the
Romans, And now it's killing me.  All are dead who spoke it, All are
dead who wrote it.  All are dead who learnt it.  Lucky dead they've
earned it.

"That makes my point exactly," said Mr.  Mortimer, smugly.

"Oh dear me," sighed the canon, wiping his brow with the back of his
hand.

"And I'll tell thee this, Canon," boomed the councillor, quite
determined to keep the discussion going, 'old Cosmo Cavendish, him who
founded this place, could 'ardly string two words together in English,
ne'er mind Latin.  Only bit o' Latin he knew is the Yorkshireman's
motto: "Brasso, in clutcho, in tacto  Made his millions in cloth."

"Our school motto," piped up the parent-governor, 'was "Video, Disco,
Audio", and I can remember-'

"My point is interrupted the councillor, but he was interrupted himself
by the Headmaster.

"Whether we teach Latin and Greek is not an issue here, gentlemen,"
said Dr.  Trollop in a low, wearisome tone of voice.  "The fact of the
matter is we teach classical civilisation, we have Latin and Greek on
our curriculum, students are examined in these subjects and we require
a head of department.  We can argue the pros and cons of retaining the
classics at the next full governors' meeting if you wish, Mr. Mortimer,
but this morning we are here to undertake an interview and I would be
grateful if we could now proceed."

"Eminently sensible idea, Dr.  Trollop," chortled the cleric.  "So let
us move on."

The first candidate looked like a younger version of Dr.  Trollop.  He
stared over his thick spectacles with great gloomy hooded eyes and, in
answer to the question why he had applied for the post, breathed out
heavily and said that he found the public school where he taught at
present a little too demanding and was looking for a quieter life in
rural Yorkshire in a school with not so many pupils to teach.  When
Councillor Peterson tackled him on the relevance of Latin and Greek in
the modern world, he nodded sagely and said he sometimes wondered about
that himself when faced with a class of adolescent boys more interested
in football and pop music.  He went on to explain that Latin was a
discipline and part of our cultural heritage and helped students with
their English.

When it came to my turn to ask a question, I asked the candidate which
of the classical scholars had influenced him the most in his own
life.

"I don't quite see the pertinence of that question," he answered
wearily.  "Of what significance is it to my position as a teacher who
has influenced me or not?"

"I feel it is very relevant," I replied.  "Were you applying for the
Head of English post I would ask which is your favourite author or
poet.  It tells me something about you."

"Well," he replied dismissively, 'this is not for an English post, so I
really cannot say."

I decided not to pursue the line of questioning any further.  There was
enough heat in the room already without adding to it.  The Conference
Room was like a furnace.  The huge metal contraption was blowing out
great blasts of hot air, mostly in my direction, and I was beginning to
feel like a side of beef on a spit.

The next candidate bore an unnerving resemblance to the first: the same
thin angular frame, funereal expression, dark doleful eyes and sallow
complexion.  When asked by the canon why he had applied for the
position, he replied that he wanted something more 'pedagogically
challenging'.  When asked by the parent-governor about his strengths,
he replied that he had 'a fertility of intellect' and that he enjoyed
mending clocks.  In answer to Councillor Peterson's question as to the
relevance of Latin and Greek he thought for a moment, crossed his
spindly legs, folded his long arms and stared at the ceiling.

"Did you understand t'question?"  asked the councillor after an
inordinately long pause.

"Oh yes," replied the candidate still staring heavenwards.  "I was just
contemplating the best way of responding."  After another lengthy
interlude he enquired, "Perhaps, rather than answer that question
directly, I might be allowed to set up a paradigm."

"A what?"  snapped the councillor.

"A paradigm," repeated the candidate, pronouncing the word with slow
deliberation.  "Would it be acceptable for me to set up a paradigm?"

"It's all right by me," replied the councillor, 'but is this room going
to be big enough?"

"It is quite in order for you to set up your paradigm," said the canon,
his words accompanied by the scraping of chairs as the councillor and
the parent-governor moved back to get a better view of what I suspected
they imagined to be the erection of some sort of marquee.  I was
tempted to say that it might prove difficult hammering in the pegs.

The last candidate was a small, middle-aged woman with dark hair
scraped back tightly on her head and tied in a neat bun.  My heart
missed a beat when I saw what she was wearing.  She had on a suit made
in exactly the same material as my own: mustardy brown with a dark red,
dog-tooth pattern.  There were no wide curved lapels, heavy cuffs or
large leather buttons but it was certainly made from the same cloth. By
the look on her face the candidate was as surprised as I when she
caught sight of my attire.  The other interviewers clearly thought we
were related in some way for their eyes flashed backwards and forwards
from the candidate to me.

The room was now like a sauna and I could feel the perspiration all
over my body and the heavy suit sticking to my body.  I wondered how
the candidate was feeling, but she answered the questions with great
skill and flourish until it came to Councillor Peterson's turn.

"Ave you a family?"  he asked.

"No, I'm not married."

"Do you intend to?"

"Do I intend to what?"  she asked sweetly.

"Get married."

"Councillor Peterson," the canon interrupted quickly, "I'm afraid that
kind of question cannot be put to the candidate."

"Well, I just 'ave," he replied.

"It is entirely irrelevant whether the candidate is married or not."

"It's very relevant," he replied aggressively.  "What if this young
lady gets married and then 'as a family?  She'll 'ave to 'ave time off
to 'ave the kiddies and then get somebody to look after them when she's
at work.  That's not satisfactory at all, is it?"

"You are not allowed to ask that, "joined in Mr.  Mortimer, 'because
it's a non-PC question."

"A what?"  exclaimed the councillor.

"It's not politically correct," he was informed.

"Well, I think I know more abaat politics than anyone here present," he
spluttered.  "I've been a county councillor for nearly twenty years."

"Shall we move on, Mr.  Chairman?"  asked the Headmaster, fixing the
councillor with a look that brought to mind the Ancient Mariner and his
glittering eye.

"I don't have any immediate plans to get married," said the candidate
looking Councillor Peterson in the eye, and with a smile playing about
her lips, 'or indeed to have any children."

"Right then," he said, leaning back in his chair as if vindicated.
"I'll move on.  Do you reckon you'd be able to cope with t'big lads,
you bein' a woman an' all?"

The canon breathed out noisily.  Dr.  Trollop shook his head.

"I've never found any difficulty coping with big or indeed little
lads."  She smiled and looked directly at him.

"Oh."  Councillor Peterson was lost for words.

"I generally find that they do exactly as I say."

"Oh."

"Large boys present no problems for me."

"No," muttered the councillor, rather chastened, "I don't suppose they
do, I mean don't, I mean, I'm sure they don't give you any trouble."

"And your last question, Councillor Peterson, about the relevance of
the subjects?"  prompted the canon.

"Oh yes.  Well, I'm just a simple farmer what scrapes a livin' from
t'land and not knowing Latin's not 'eld me back.

A lot of t'lads at t'school will end up running their family farm or
mebbe becoming estate managers or land agents or working for t'Ministry
of Agriculture and Fisheries.  What I'd like to know is, what's t'point
of 'em studying Greek and Latin and all this classical stuff?"

The candidate continued to smile sweetly.  "A knowledge of Latin helps
us gain a good command of the grammar and vocabulary of our own
language.  Effective communication is very important in the modern
world.  It's always impressive to hear English well spoken, don't you
think?"  She paused and looked Councillor Peterson straight in the eye.
"I also believe that we have so much to learn from studying the Greeks
and the Romans.  Take Aristotle, for example.  He wrote a great deal
about logic, metaphysics, physics, astronomy, meteorology, biology,
psychology, ethics, politics, philosophy and literary criticism.  His
philosophy became the foundation for the Islamic religion and was
incorporated into Christianity.  Then there's Socrates, such a clever,
gentle and enigmatic man, very like Jesus."

"Really?"  said the canon suddenly sitting up.  "In what way?"

"Well, their contemporaries found them both difficult to fathom.
Neither of them wrote anything down and we have to rely on their
disciples to know what they believed and what they said.  We do know
that they were wonderful communicators, great teachers, that they could
use words in such a way that people's lives were changed for the
better.  Surely learning about such men helps young people to live
good, honest lives, to become more compassionate, truthful and
humane."

"Fascinating, fascinating," murmured the canon.  "I would dearly like
to debate this further, but I am afraid that time is of the essence and
I will now call upon Mr.  Phinn, the representative from the Education
Office, to put a question."

"I was going to ask which classical scholar has influenced you the
most," I said, looking into the candidate's china-blue eyes, 'but I'd
guess from what you've said that it's either Aristotle or Socrates."

"It isn't actually," she replied.  "It would have to be Seneca."  She
turned in the direction of Councillor Peterson.  "He was a Roman
playwright and author of many essays and the teacher of Nero, one the
most infamous of Roman emperors."

"T'chap what fiddled when Rome was burnin'," said the councillor.

"The very one," agreed the candidate.  "Despite teaching the young
emperor and forming what he thought was a close relationship with his
pupil, Seneca was forced by Nero to take his own life.  He told the
unvarnished truth, you see.  It was a tragic end to a brilliant writer
and philosopher.  It was through reading Seneca that I decided to come
into teaching.  You see, he never lost his optimism and enthusiasm and
delighted in the company of the young.  He said that part of his joy in
learning was that it put him in a position to teach, and that nothing,
however valuable, would ever give him any pleasure if it were just for
his benefit alone.  "If wisdom were offered me on the one condition
that I should keep it shut away and not divulge it to anyone," he once
said, "I should reject it, for there is no enjoying the possession of
anything valuable unless one has someone to share it with."  Makes good
sense, doesn't it?"

There was a silence in the room.  The canon nodded, Mr.  Mortimer
shuffled his papers, the foundation-governor stared at the candidate as
if she were the Queen herself, Dr.  Trollop gave a brief smile and
nodded, and I knew that this candidate had clinched the job.  Indeed,
fifteen minutes late rafter a surprisingly brief and amiable
discussion, Miss Rebecca Barnes was offered the position of Head of
Classics.

By this time I was sweltering and near to fainting with the searing
heat.  The wretched machine was still blasting out fiery hot air, the
windows were misted over with condensation, the metal frames of the
chairs were scorching, and the wretched suit was sticking to me.  The
suit's lining containing 'nine billion microscopic pores per square
inch, each one 10,000 times smaller than a rain drop' was beginning to
steam.  I just had to get out.

"Canon Williams," I panted, 'if you would excuse me, I do have another
appointment to get to."

"Oh yes, of course," replied the cleric.  "Are you feeling quite all
right, Mr.  Phinn?  You look decidedly flushed."

"I'm fine, thank you, Canon," I puffed, 'but I must be off."

"Well, that was a most satisfactory conclusion to the morning, don't
you think?  I just know that Miss Barnes will be a great success and I
can see that Dr.  Trollop is delighted with such a keen and committed
addition to his staff."  The Headmaster nodded his head lugubriously
like a tortoise and gave a thin smile.  Clearly heat had no more effect
upon him than extreme cold.

"She was certainly the best of the three," the parent-governor said.
"She very nearly convinced me of the usefulness of classics and, of
course, when she mentioned Jesus, she certainly had you hooked, Canon
Williams."

"Well, she suited me," concluded Councillor Peterson, stressing the
word 'suited'.  "When I Just clapped eyes on 'er I thowt she'd not be
up to t'job but she 'as a lot about her, that young woman, and I reckon
she'll do champion."  Then he turned in my direction and his fat face
broke into a great smile.  "And I could see that Mester Phinn, here,
liked the cut of her cloth, didn't you, Mester Phinn?"  I did not say
anything but smiled and headed for the door and the fresh air.

As I walked to the car I passed again the great bronze statue of the
school's founder which dominated the main entrance.  I paused and
stared up for a moment at Sir Cosmo,

standing proudly on his large plinth, hands on hips, legs apart and
chin jutting out like a mastiff about to pounce.  Something seemed
strangely familiar about the figure.  I looked more closely.  Yes, it
was the suit he was wearing.  Sir Cosmo was dressed in a suit with wide
curved lapels, heavy cuffs and large buttons.  I guess he had done his
shopping at Fritters of Fettlesham.

II

The name, Sunny Grove Secondary Modern School, was singularly
inappropriate.  It was a grim, towering, blackened building surrounded
by high brick walls and set in a depressing inner-city environment of
dirt and noise.  From the high windows, shabby factory premises and
derelict land could be seen by those pupils tall enough to peer through
the grimy glass.  Row upon row of terraced houses surrounded the
school; street after street of grey, gloomy buildings.  The few houses
that had been built in the last twenty years had acquired a look of
drabness and neglect.  Even the air had a sooty, dusty taste.  It was a
depressing scene of litter-strewn roads, graffiti-covered walls,
windowless bus shelters a landscape devoid of trees and empty of
colour.  The bright morning sunshine did little to make the scene less
bleak.  The previous term I had marvelled at the awesome view from
Hawksrill Primary School the great craggy fells, steep-sided gorges,
trickling silver streams, lustrous pine forests, rolling green pastures
and purple moors.  It was a world away.

Sunny Grove would have been an ideal setting for a film version of a
Dickens' novel.  It resembled one of those dark and forbidding
institutions described in Hard Times or Nicholas Nickleby.  I could
imagine Mr.  McChoakumchild, the heartless teacher, or Wackford
Squeers, the brutal Headmaster of Dotheboys Hall, feeling very much at
home here.  I was directed across the school playground by a large
arrow, following the instructions for all visitors to report to
reception.  It was just after nine o'clock and the school assembly was
in full flow.  Hearing the boys singing the hymn based on Blake's poem
"Jerusalem', I thought to myself how apt were the lines:

And was Jerusalem builded here Among those dark satanic mills?

As I turned a corner, I bumped into a small, grubby-looking boy of
about eleven or twelve who was creeping around the side of the school,
as if trying to escape from someone.  He had long, lank hair, an
unhealthy pallor to his skin and was dressed in a dirty blazer and grey
flannel trousers far too big for him.  The boy looked up at me with a
frightened wide-eyed expression like that of a rabbit caught in a
trap.

"Hello," I said.  He continued to gawp at me.  "Shouldn't you be in
school?"  He nodded.  "Well, come along then, you can show me the way
to the school office."  I motioned him to go before me.  Head down and
dragging his feet, the boy turned reluctantly towards the school
entrance.

The window in the glass-fronted reception desk slid back.

"Good morning, may I help you?"  a woman enquired.  Then, catching
sight of the pupil skulking behind me, she reached for a large, red
book which she flicked open.  On the cover was written in large
letters: pupils arriving late.  "Excuse me a moment."  She craned her
neck to get a better view of the boy.  "Third time late this week,
Justin," she declared, shaking her head and writing down his name.

"Yes, miss."

"And what's the excuse this time?"

"Miss, I had to run an errand."

"And where should you be first period?"

"PE, miss," whispered the pupil.

"Well, you've missed assembly.  You had better go straight to your
first lesson."  The little boy scurried off.  The woman turned her
attention back to me.  "I'm sorry about that.  Now, may I help you?"

"Yes," I replied, "I have an appointment with the Head-teacher.  My
name is Mr.  Phinn and I'm from the Education Office."

"If you would like to take a seat, Mr.  Phinn, I will see if Mr.
Fenton's available.  I think he should be just about out of assembly by
now."

A moment later the Headteacher emerged via the school office and held
out a large hand.  I had seen his face over many a dry stone wall,
driving a hundred tractors along the winding country roads, staring
stern-faced at sheep auctions, herding sluggish cattle along the farm
tracks.  It was a Dalesman's face: a thatch of thick, grey hair over a
broad, creased brow, weathered features, heavy moustache and brown,
good-humoured eyes.

"Good to see you, Mr.  Phinn," he said.  "Come along in."

I followed the Headteacher into a large, comfortable room.  The heavy,
dark, wooden bookcases lining three walls were crammed with books, and
the rest of the room was filled with a large oak desk and leather
armchair, two threadbare easy chairs, three ancient-looking filing
cabinets and a small table piled high with reports and files.

"Come in, come in," he said, ushering me ahead of him.  He skirted
around the two easy chairs and small table and placed himself squarely
behind his desk on the large leather chair.  "Were your ears burning
this weekend, Mr.  Phinn, by any chance?  I was preaching at Hawksrill
Methodist Chapel last Sunday and Mrs.  Beighton and Mrs.  Brown -we
call them "the merry widows" were singing your praises.  I'm a lay
preacher, you know, for my sins.  Anyhow, I was chatting to them after
the service and your name came up.  I believe you visited the school
last term.  It's a lovely spot up there, isn't it?"  How strange, I
thought, when I had only been thinking of the place myself five minutes
earlier.

Mr.  Fenton chatted on amiably and inconsequentially for a further five
minutes, without stopping for a reply.  Then, when a pause came and I
endeavoured to respond, he jumped up, negotiated the chairs and the
table again and disappeared out of the door.  A minute later he was
back with a tray of coffee.  "I'd forget my head if it wasn't screwed
on.  Now then, Mr.  Phinn, you're not here to talk about Hawksrill and
my preaching.  Shall we get down to business?"

For the first part of the morning I sat with the Headteacher to look
through the examination results and discuss strategies for improvement.
The pupils' performance was low compared with the grammar school's
across town, but it had been steadily improving over the past few years
and Mr.  Fenton was justifiably proud of this achievement.  I soon
found that he had strong views which he was not afraid of expressing.
When he spoke about his pupils, his dark eyes lit up with a sort of
missionary zeal.  Then came the sermon.

"The boys arrive here at eleven, Mr.  Phinn, having failed their
eleven-plus examination.  Their parents will have received a letter
from the Education Office informing them that their son has not reached
the required standard to qualify for a place at the grammar school.  In
effect, these children will have been deemed to be failures.  Some
parents have promised their son a bike ifhe passes, a sort of misguided
incentive to encourage him to work harder perhaps.  The bike is not now
forthcoming, of course.  Many of the boys arrive here, therefore,
under-confident, with low self-esteem.  Some have seen their best
friends heading up the hill in grammar school blazer and gold badge
while they have been heading downhill.  Our job, Mr.  Phinn, first and
foremost, is to build up their confidence and self-esteem, continue to
have high expectations for them and be sure they know, give them
maximum support and encouragement, develop their social skills and
qualities of character to enable them to enter the world feeling good
about themselves.  I

want them to use their time at Sunny Grove so they develop into
well-rounded young people with courage, tolerance, strong convictions,
lively enquiring minds and a sense of humour."  He stopped suddenly. "I
really am sorry, Mr.  Phinn," he said, "I got carried away.  I'm sure
you don't need to be told all this.  I must sound incredibly pompous.
I don't mean to be, but I do feel so passionately about this and if I
have a captive audience .. . It's the Methodist lay preacher in me, I
guess."

"That's quite all right, Mr.  Fenton," I replied.  "I really do enjoy
listening to someone else holding forth about education."

"Well, I am sure you are not here for a sermon from me.  You'll have to
visit Hawksrill Chapel for that.  Let's have a tour of the school and
then I have arranged for you to join some English and modern language
lessons for the remainder of the day.  I believe you said in your
letter that you would be reporting on the teaching and learning."

Sunny Grove Secondary Modern School was built at the turn of the
century.  It was a substantial, three-storey edifice of red brick built
around a central quadrangle.  Movement about the school was by means of
a wide, green-tiled corridor running round this quadrangle. Classrooms,
which formed a square around the central paved courtyard on the ground
floor, had hard wooden floors and high, beamed ceilings. The windows
facing the corridor extended down past waist level, enabling the
Headmasters of old to patrol the school each morning, cane in hand, and
peer into each classroom to ensure the pupils had their noses to the
grindstone.  Invariably, they would have been hard men who would impose
harsh discipline.  Punctuality, silence, obedience and cleanliness
would have been their bywords and if they could get the pupils placed
in their charge to learn to read and write, add up, fear God and know
their station in life, so much the better.  The windows facing the
street were high, thus preventing any inattentive pupil from staring at
the outside world and dreaming.

The school was very different now.  Paintwork was in bright blues and
greens, and display boards, which stretched the full length of the
corridor, were covered in line drawings, paintings, photographs and
children's writing.  Floors had a clean and polished look, the brass
door handles sparkled and there was not a sign of graffiti or litter.
Everything looked cheerful and orderly.  The quadrangle was now an
attractive and informal lawned area with ornamental trees, shrubs and a
small pond.  There were garden benches and picnic tables and two large
modern sculptures.

Following our tour of the building, I headed for the first lesson, to
see Mr.  Armstrong, Head of the Modern Foreign Language Department,
with a group of thirty thirteen-year-old boys.

Mr.  Armstrong was a pink-faced, weak-jawed individual of indeterminate
age.  As I entered the classroom and took a seat at the back, he
surveyed me morosely with the pale grey eyes of a fish glimpsed at the
bottom of a pond.  He moved to the blackboard, stooping heavily, as
though carrying some great invisible weight on his shoulders.

"Now, where were we?"  he asked the apparently disinterested and
extremely passive group of adolescents, most of whom appeared to be
staring vacantly into space or were slumped, as if drugged, over their
desks.  "Ah, yes," he continued, not getting or indeed expecting a
response.  He then began to chant:

"Je vais I'm going nous allons we're going tu vas you're going vous
allez you're going il va he's going

Us vont they're going, masculine elk va she's going elks vont they're
going, feminine on va one's going."

I've only just arrived, I thought to myself, but I wished that this one
was going, I really do.  The teacher continued to drone on in such a
soporific tone of voice that I felt like joining the rest of the
drooping listeners.  My mind began to wander and my eyelids became
heavy.  I was brought out of my reverie by a large, thin-faced boy who
was sitting next to me.

"Do you speak any foreign languages?"  he whispered.

"Yes, I do," I replied in an undertone.

"Do you speak German?"

"Yes."

"And do you speak French?"

"Yes, I do."

He thought for a moment, surveyed the teacher still chanting at the
front, and then nodded in his direction.  "Which is this, then?"  he
asked.

The second visit of the day, to an English lesson with thirty-five
eleven-year-old boys, proved to be as tedious as the first and, at
times, quite bizarre.  The teach era Mr.  Swan, was an extremely
frail-looking old man with wild, wiry grey hair and a strangely flat
face.  He was dressed in a threadbare sports jacket with leather
patches, shiny flannel trousers and a mustard-coloured waistcoat.  The
pupils had been asked to learn a list of collective nouns and were
being tested on them.  This exercise seemed to me to have very little
relevance or value, bearing in mind the low literacy level of the
pupils.  They would have been much better occupied, in my opinion,
developing their skills in reading and in writing clearly and
accurately instead of chanting the various collective nouns.

"The collective noun for sheep?"  barked the teacher, strutting between
the desks.

"Flock," chorused the class.

"Cattle?"

"Herd."

"Sailors?"

"Crew."

This went on for some time until the nouns became rather more
esoteric.

"The collective noun for foxes?"  cried Mr.  Swan.

"Skulk," shouted back the children.

"Cats?"

"Clouder."

"Leopards?"

"Leap."

"The collective noun for snipe?"  shouted the teacher.  There was no
response.  I had no idea either.  "Wisp," he informed us, writing the
word in large capital letters on the blackboard.  "Skylarks?"  There
was another silence.  "Exultation."  The word was added to the other.
"What about rhinoceros?"  Still no response.  "Crash!"  he exclaimed.
"Not a lot of people know that."

Well, I certainly didn't, I said to myself.  "Crash' would be a very
appropriate collective noun to describe a group of bores, I thought. "A
crash of bores'.  I imagined with horror a whole school full of Mr.
Swans.  When and how would these youngsters ever apply this knowledge?
"Oh, look, our mam, there's a wisp of snipe and an exultation of
skylarks flying over that clouder of cats!"

When the pupils had settled down to tackle a very simple and deeply
uninspiring comprehension exercise on glass production in St.  Helens,
I moved around the class examining their books, listening to them read
and testing them on their spellings and knowledge of grammar and
punctuation.  Mr.  Swan observed me, stony-faced, from behind his desk.
Standards were very low indeed.

Justin, the little late-comer I had met earlier that morning,

sat in the corner away from the others, looking nervous and confused. I
sat down next to him.

"May I look at your book?"  I asked gently.

"Yes, sir," he whispered, pushing a dog-eared exercise book in my
direction.  He watched me with that frightened, wide-eyed look on his
face.  I read from the first page an account entitled "Myself.

"Sir, we had to write that for Mr.  Swan when we came up to this
school," he explained quietly.  "Sir, so he could get to know a bit
about us, sir.  It's not very good.  I'm not much good at writing,
sir."  I found the description of himself immensely sad.

I'm not much good at anything really I like art but am not much good.
I am in the bottom set for evrything and I've not really got eny
friends. I don't really like school, Id like a bike When I leave
school, Id like to work in a bread fac try  I like the smell of bread
baking, you get free bread if you work in a bread fac try  The man next
door told me that.

The teacher's comment at the bottom read: "Untidy work.  Watch your
spellings.  Remember full stops."  The boy was given a grade of two out
of ten.

"It's not bad at all this, Justin," I said, staring into his large,
wide eyes.  "You just need to do a bit of work on the spellings and put
in your full stops."  He nodded slowly.  I went through his work with
him.  "Now, tonight when you get home, you copy out carefully your next
draft of this account.  Will you do that?"  He nodded.  "You know, I
worked in a bread factory once, when I was a student, and you're right
about the smell of freshly baked bread.  It is a wonderful smell.  My
job was to take the tins out of a huge oven with a long pole.  I wasn't
very good at it.  And you are right, we did get free bread."

He smiled.  "Sir, are you learning how to be a teacher?"

"No," I replied.  "I've been a teacher though."

"Can you come and teach in this school?"  he asked.

"No, I can't do that," I said.  "I'm a school inspector now."

"I don't suppose you'd want to teach in a place like this, anyway," he
told me, gazing up with his wide-eyed look.

I gave Mr.  Swan some rather blunt feedback at the end of the lesson
when the pupils had departed for lunch.  There was little evidence in
the exercise books that his pupils had improved at all in terms of
spelling, punctuation and presentation in their writing during the half
a term he had been teaching them.  There were a few short accounts, an
essay, a couple of simple comprehension exercises and no poetry. Whilst
there were plenty of critical comments in red biro at the end of the
work, there were no suggestions about how the pupils might improve. I
explained that I saw little value in teaching the boys about collective
nouns when they did not have the first idea what a noun actually was,
and many were incapable of spelling the very simplest of words or using
the full stop correctly.

"Well, I don't agree," he said, bristling at the criticism.  "I think
that a knowledge of the different collective nouns is very
important."

"Why?"

"It's useful for them to know these things."

"And when would the pupils be in a position to apply this extensive
knowledge of the collective noun?"  I was getting irritated by the
man's manner.

"That's beside the point.  It's part of our cultural heritage.  Anyway,
Mr.  Phinn, these boys are very weak academically.  I mean, what can
you expect?"

"The moon?"  I replied.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Sir Alex Clegg, former Chief Education Officer of the West Riding of
Yorkshire, once said that "the good teacher expects the moon"."

15.8

Mr.  Swan smiled cynically and there was a long, deep in-drawing of
breath.  "Did he indeed?"

"And do you set homework?"  I asked.

"Homework?  No, I do not set homework.  What is the point?  These boys
would never do homework."

"Well, I would disagree!"

"Mr.  Phinn, have you ever taught pupils like this?"

"Yes, I have."

"Well, I've taught them for rather longer, I think.  They're not your
grammar school high-fliers, you know.  These lads will end up in manual
jobs, that's if they're lucky, and not become university professors and
brain surgeons.  You can't make silk purses out of sows' ears.  It's
all very weD school inspectors coming in telling teachers what they
should and shouldn't do, they don't have to do it.  Anyway, I'm only
here to help the school out."

"In what way?"  I asked.

"I took early retirement a few years ago but was asked to come in to
take the classes of Mrs.  Simkins who is on maternity leave.  You just
can't get teachers to come in to take this sort of pupil.  I'm doing
the school a favour, if you must know, and precious little thanks I
appear to be getting for it."

"Really."  Some favour I thought.  "And what is the development of this
lesson?"

"How do you mean?"  His face was white, his mouth tight with
displeasure.

"Having got the pupils to learn the various collective nouns, what do
you do next?"

"I teach them that the collective noun always takes the singular form
of the verb."  He then launched into a diatribe.  "You hear so much
misuse of the English language on the television and radio.  People
seem incapable of speaking correctly.  Newspapers are full of spelling
errors.  Teachers come out of college these days with no training in
grammar.

I blame all those trendy methods teachers have been forced to use.  I
never took any notice of the hare-brained ideas churned out by
lecturers and inspectors."  I could see by his expression that he felt
I was part and parcel of this trendy movement.

I sighed.  "But you are dealing with a group of boys, Mr.  Swan, who
have very limited language skills.  They need to develop their command
of basic reading and writing through clear, structured and appropriate
work."

He seemed undaunted by my comments.  "Well, that's what I've just been
saying, isn't it?  They are incapable.  These boys are very weak
academically.  In fact, this class are the weakest in the year."

"Is," I corrected.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is," I repeated.  "This class r'5 the weakest in the year, "class"
being a collective noun and taking the singular form of the verb."

"If you will excuse me," he said, as if he hadn't heard me, 'it is
lunch-time."  With that he walked out of the classroom.

Towards the end of the lunch break I returned to the Headteacher's room
feeling most depressed and wondering how Mr.  Fenton would react to the
damning report I would, no doubt, be presenting to him at the end of
the day.

There was a broad, tweed-suited individual with Mr.  Fenton.  I
recognised, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, the thick neck,
florid face and shiny mop of hair of Councillor George Peterson.

The visitor grinned like a frog on seeing me enter the room.  "Ah, so
it's Mester Phinn, is it!"  he exclaimed.  "We meet again."

"Good afternoon, Councillor Peterson," I said, holding out a hand.

"I see you know each other," said Mr.  Fenton, indicating a chair.  "Do
sit down, Mr.  Phinn.  I wondered where you had got to.  I got you a
sandwich.  I hope you like ham.  Councillor Peterson is one of our
governors and also an old boy of the school."

"He went to see the wife's school last term," Councillor Peterson told
Mr.  Fenton, 'and then we were interviewing for t'classics job ower
t'town at t'grammar.  That were a rum do, and no mistake."  He paused
to scratch his mop of hair.  "So what you doing in Sunny Grove today,
then?"

"Observing lessons and assessing the quality of the teaching and
learning," I explained before taking a bite of the sandwich.

"My wife were abaat as 'appy as a legless donkey when she got 'ome
after your inspection visit toer school.  I 'ad to get mi own tea, she
was in such a state.  I don't know what yer said, because she wouldn't
tell me, but it dint gu down too well, I can tell thee that."

"I'm sorry about that, Councillor."

"Nay, don't thee go apologisin', Mester Phinn.  Tha's got nowt to be
sorry abaat.  Thy 'as a job o' work to do.  I said to my wife, I said,
that's what inspectors do pick spots, see what's goin' on, check that
everythin's as it should be and find out what's up.  That's what they
do go round schools inspectin'.  I said toer, it's like blamin' traffic
wardens for clampin' yer car on a double yella line or a dentist sayin'
you need a tooth out.  That's what they're paid for, not to tell thee
that every think in t'garden's rosy.  That dint gu down too well,
neither."

"I'm sorry that Mrs.  Peterson took my report so badly," I told him.
"It really was pretty positive."

"That's human nature, I'm afraid," said the Headteacher.  "However much
praise is given, it's the niggling little negatives which we tend to
remember."

Again, I wondered how he would respond to my report.  There would be no
'niggling little negatives'.

"She soon changed 'er mind after you'd gone in and spent a bit o' time
with the children," continued the councillor.  "Teachin' 'em poetry,
wasn't it?"

"That's right."

"Aye, she come home well pleased after that."

"I'm very relieved," I said, and indeed I was.

"Don't see t'point of poetry myself, Mester Phinn.  Like Latin and
Greek.  I don't see the relevance.  Never could.  Poetry's not going to
get these lads a job, is it?  They need to be able to write decent
letters of application and add up."  I did not respond but saw in Mr.
Fenton's eyes a weary look of resignation.  I prayed that Councillor
Peterson would not be remaining in the school to hear my report.  "So,
how's this morning gone?"

"It's been very interesting," I said diplomatically.

"Aye, well it's a good school, this.  Course, the lads aren't going to
break any records when it comes to exams but they come out of this
school a grand set of young men.  Don't they, Alfred?"

"I would like to think so, George," said the Headteacher.  "I'm very
proud of them."

"I've been most impressed with the pupils," I said.

"So, what teachers 'ave you seen so far?"  Councillor Peterson asked,
sticking out a formidable bottom jaw and fixing me with his large pale
eyes.

"I observed Mr.  Armstrong and Mr.  Swan this morning," I told him.

"He used to teach me, did Mester Swan when I was 'ere, back in t'dim
and distant past.  By God, is 'e still going?"

"He's filling in for the time being," explained the Head-teacher,
'doing some supply work during Mrs.  Simkins' absence.  I must say, Mr.
Swan is finding it rather different from when you were at the
school."

"emustbegettin' abitlongint'toothbynow," continued Councillor Peterson.
"I reckon 'e were a fair old age when I was at school because 'is 'air
were grey then.  He were a good teacher was Mester Swan.  One of told
school."

"But times have changed, Councillor," I said and, taking a deep breath,
continued, 'and a lot of the old school methods and ideas are
inappropriate in this day and age.  I'm afraid I did not find Mr.  Swan
a good teacher and shall be describing his very poor lesson in some
detail in my report."

"Oh dear," I heard Mr.  Fenton murmur.

Councillor Peterson's jaw dropped.  "By the 'eck, Mester Phinn," he
chuckled, 'that' dun't mince words.  Thar a regular Yorkshireman and no
mistake.  I can see what mi wife means."

The first lesson of the afternoon was a great improvement on the
morning's.  The teach era bubbly, enthusiastic young woman called Miss
Mullane, had prepared a lesson based on a novel set at the time of the
Second World War which the second-year pupils were reading.  She used
well-chosen illustrations and probing questions to develop
understanding of ideas and motives.  "What do you think it was like for
the evacuee children?"  "How would you react to leaving home to stay in
a stranger's house in the country?"  "What would you miss most?"  "How
would the parents feel?"  "Can you predict what might happen next?" She
encouraged the boys to explore character in greater depth, whilst
sensitively supporting the less able, helping them to stay interested
and involved by the use of questions matched to their abilities and
interests.  She required them to justify a point of view, refer to the
text, relate to their own experiences and examine the use of
language.

The atmosphere in the classroom was warm and supportive, and the boys
responded well to the teacher, clearly enjoying her touches of humour.
Miss Mullane had a real empathy with, and respect for, the pupils and,
unlike Mr.  Swan, had high expectations of their success.  She
encouraged, directed, suggested, questioned, challenged and developed
the pupils' understanding in an atmosphere of good humour and
enjoyment.

The classroom environment was wonderfully bright and attractive with
appropriate displays of posters, photographs and artefacts which gave
the pupils a feel for the period in which the novel was set.  Children
had talked to their grandmothers and grandfathers about their war
memories and there were poems, stories, commentaries, descriptions,
letters, diary entries and anecdotes a whole range of writing related
to the Second World War.

As usual, I spent part of the lesson examining the pupils' exercise
books.  The work was varied and well presented and carefully marked in
pencil.  One pupil, imagining he had just arrived at his new home, had
written his piece in the form of a diary entry.  Another was composing
a letter home describing his experiences.  A third boy was busy with a
play script based on a conversation between the billeting officer and a
villager who refused to take an evacuee.

"What are you writing?"  I asked a cheerful-looking boy scribbling away
at the front desk.

"It's an account based on the novel we're reading.  I'm this evacuee,
you see, sent from the city into the country to stay with this old
couple who are not used to children.  I'm writing my story of the
journey and my fears and hopes and feelings."  I looked at the neat,
clear writing and nodded.  "This is very good," I said.  "You really
describe things well.  Some good details in here.  You seem to know a
lot about the war."

"Thank you," said the boy smiling.  He stared at me for a moment before
asking, "Were you an evacuee, sir?"

"No, I was born just after the war.  My brother was, though, and we
have a photograph of him on the station platform at Sheffield in his
uniform, with his gas mask in a cardboard box and his little leather
suitcase.  He looked really sad to be going."

"Why was he in uniform, sir?  Was he a soldier?"

"No, no, but all the children had to wear their uniform.  They looked
very smart."

"Was he in the Hitler Youth, then?"

"School uniform," I said laughing.

Things are looking up, I thought to myself, as I headed for the final
lesson of the day.  I entered the school hall to find two groups of
large, aggressive-looking boys facing each other like street gangs
ready for a fight.  There was no sign of a teacher.  I stood frozen to
the spot.

The leader of one group thrust his face forward, curled his lip and
spat out the words, "So, are ya looking for a fight then?  Because if
ya are .. ."  Those behind him shouted encouragement, gestured and
pulled faces.  The leader of the other group moved forward slowly and
threateningly, maintaining a carefully blank expression on his face.

"No, I 'm not looking for a fight," he mouthed deliberately, stressing
each word, 'but, if I was, I could sort you out.  I could spit on ya
and drown ya.  So, if you fancy your chances

His supporters jumped up and down, jeering and roaring with laughter,
taunting the other group with gestures and silly faces.  One small boy,
with large glasses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to
intervene.

"Look!"  he shouted.  "Stop!  You shouldn't be doing this!  There's
bound to be trouble.  We've been told not to fight again.  You've got
to stop!"

A lad as large as a bear, with close-cropped hair and hands like
spades, grabbed him by his coat and pushed him away.  He mimicked his
voice.  "Oh stop, you'll get into trouble."  He then pulled what looked
like a knife from his jacket and waved it in the air, his face
ballooning with anger.  "Why waste time with words?"  he roared. "Let's
kill 'em!"

That's when I entered the fray.  "Stop!"  I yelled.  "Stop immediately!
Whatever's going on?  What are you boys doing?"  I could feel myself
trembling.  Remarkably, the whole class froze and stared
uncomprehendingly in my direction.  "Where's your teacher?"  I
demanded.

"I'm here," came a soft, calm voice from behind me.  At the back of the
hall and out of my view stood a small, prim-looking woman with
spectacles on the end of her nose.  She observed me over her glasses as
if looking at some poor unfortunate sitting on the corner of the street
begging for change a face full of distant pity.

"Whatever's going on?"  I asked again.  I could feel my heart thudding
away in my chest.

"Shakespeare," she replied smiling and clearly enjoying my discomfort.
"Act i, Scene i. The boys are trying to get to grips with the meaning
of the text in Romeo and Juliet by acting it out in everyday language.
It's the part where the servants of the Montagues meet the Capulets in
the city square and start facing up to each other for the fight.  I'm
sure you know it well.  All right, boys, relax a moment."  She walked
slowly in my direction and extended a small hand.  A faint waft of
sandalwood soap floated up to me.  "I'm Jan Darlington, the drama
teacher and you must be Mr.  Phinn."

"That's right," I said, attempting a smile.  "I'm most awfully sorry
about the interruption.  I feel so embarrassed but I really thought'

"Please don't worry about it."  She turned to her class, laughing.
"Don't just stand there with your mouths open.  Sit down for a moment."
The class obeyed instantly.  "If you convinced Mr.  Phinn that this was
the real thing, I think you'll convince your audience next week. There
was some real aggression and tension in that scene, your words fair
crackled with energy.  There was plenty of convincing body language and
facial expressions as well.  Now, we want that sort of acting when we
get back to the text.  Remember to keep that deadpan face, Wayne, it
really makes you look far more intimidating, and Paul, even more of a
dramatic pause before you say that last line.  Really space it out to
get maximum effect.  It's all to do with timing, you see."  The teacher
turned to me.  "Do take a seat, Mr.  Phinn, and we'll try the scene out
on you, as Shakespeare wrote it.  We would all really appreciate an
objective view."

I sat for half an hour and watched the most gripping opening of Romeo
and Juliet I had ever seen.  Two boys ambled down the side of the
hall's stage, chewing and looking bored.  Two more boys walked slowly
down the opposite side.  They eyed each other like fighting dogs.

"My naked weapon is out," whispered one, standing discreetly behind his
companion and drawing a wooden dagger from his belt.  "Quarrel, I will
back thee."

"How turn and run?"  enquired the other, with a cynical curl of the
lip.

"Fear me not."

"No, marry," sneered the other.  "I fear thee!"  The other two boys
swaggered forward with their hands in their pockets.  Their eyes were
like slits and there were cold expressions on their faces.

"I will bite my thumb at them, which is a disgrace to them if they bear
it," whispered one.

"Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?"  asked the other articulating
every word.

The verbal confrontation was electric, full of curses and threats,
bravado and threatening gestures.  And then the fight began.  This was
mimed and every action was slow and accentuated.  When both sides were
locked together, their arms and legs knotted in a violent embrace, the
small boy playing Benvolio, with large glasses and wielding a ruler
like a sword, tried to intervene.

"Part, fools!"  he cried.  "Put up your swords; you know not what you
do!"

The large lad, Tybalt, gripped him by his coat and pushed him away.
"What, drawn, and talk of peace!"  he roared.  "I hate the word as I
hate hell, all Montagues, and thee."  He plucked a wooden knife from
his jacket and stabbed the air, his face ballooning with anger.  "Have
at thee, coward!"

"Let's stop there for a moment," interrupted the teacher.  "Make the
fight scene even slower and more exaggerated.  Curve your arm, Simon,
in a great arc when you are throwing the punch and, Peter, make that
kick slower and more deliberate and show the intense fury in your
expression.  Remember there should be no physical contact.  This part
is mimed.  You also need to remember that you are thugs spoiling for a
fight.  It's hot, dusty, you are feeling sticky, there is a tension in
the air.  Try and capture that.  You kept that deadpan face really
well, Wayne, well done, and, Paul, even more of a dramatic pause at the
end of the line: "Do you bite your thumb at us sir?"  The word "sir" is
not a sign of respect.  It is said as an insult so stress it."

Miss Darlington then turned to me.  "Well, let's ask our theatre critic
what he thought of the scene."

I only had one word to offer: "Superb."

The bell sounded for the end of school.  The pupils, without being
told, packed away the props and stacked the chairs before putting on
their jackets and shouting their 'goodbyes' to Miss Darlington.  I
spent ten minutes talking through the lesson with her before setting
off, in much better spirits, to deliver an oral report to the
Headteacher.

Mr.  Fenton listened to my preliminary report in silence.  I concluded
by saying that whilst I had observed some outstanding lessons from Miss
Darlington and Miss Mullane, there were significant weaknesses in the
teaching of Mr.  Armstrong.  As for Mr.  Swan, I was of the strongest
opinion that he should return to retirement as soon as possible.  I
referred to the Headteacher's earlier comments about building up the
pupils' self-esteem and self-confidence, the need for challenge, pace
and strong teacher support and encouragement.  "These pupils are not
empty vessels to be filled up with a few arid facts about collective
nouns.  They deserve better," I said.  "Now it's my turn to sound
pompous.  I don't mean to be but, like you, I do feel strongly about
pupils who think they are failures."

"That's quite all right, Mr.  Phinn," the Headteacher replied.  "I,
too, enjoy listening to someone else holding forth about education. And
you are correct, of course.  The purpose of education is to change an
empty mind into an open one.  Mr.  Armstrong has been with us for a
long time and it's very difficult to get a leopard to change its spots.
He has attended course after course but with little apparent benefit.
His lessons are still exceptionally tedious, I have to admit.  He is a
well-meaning man and hard working and the boys do have a certain
affection for him, but I think the time has come for me to have a
stronger word with him about his methods.  The other teacher concerned,
as you are aware, is covering Mrs.  Simkins' maternity leave.  We had
an excellent teacher lined up but she secured a full-time post and
pulled out at the last minute.  I'm afraid I just could not get anyone
else at such short notice.  I have to agree, however, the pupils do
deserve better.  I shall most certainly act on your advice and do
everything I can to find a different teacher to fill in before Mrs.
Simkins returns."

I nodded, pleased that Mr.  Fenton was prepared to deal with the
problem quickly.

"As for Miss Mullane and Miss Darlington," he continued, 'your
assessment of them comes as no surprise either and I am delighted that
you found their teaching so refreshing.  When I was a lad, we plodded
through the text in maximum, pleasure-destroying detail.  That was the
reason, I suppose, that I never took to Shakespeare, not, that is,
until I came across Jan Darlington.  She brings the words to life, as
you quite rightly observe.  You know, Mr.  Phinn, you should pay us
another visit for the performance next week.  Performing Romeo and
Juliet in an all boys secondary modern school is quite a challenge, I
can tell you."

"I would very much enjoy that, Mr.  Fenton."

"Sadly, Miss Mullane will not be with us much longer.  She's joining
the English Department at West Challerton High School next term as
second in charge.  I shall be very sorry to see her leave."

"I will send a full written report, Mr.  Fenton," I said, making ready
to go.  "Now, if there is nothing else?"

"It's been a great pleasure to meet you, Mr.  Phinn," said the
Headteacher, walking with me to the door.  "It's very reassuring to
have inspectors who are so keen about children.  I do really believe,
you know, that those of us in education can really make a difference,
particularly in the lives of less fortunate children, those who are
labelled failures."

"I know that, Mr.  Fenton," I said, shaking his hand and looking into
the dark, sincere eyes.  "I know that."

"My father was a miner, Mr.  Phinn, and I remember him returning from
the pit in Maltby where I was brought up, weary and caked in black coal
dust but always smiling and good-humoured.  He had no degrees or
diplomas but he was a well-read and intelligent man and always wanted
me to do well at school.  He'd never had the chance, you see.  My
mother was a school cleaner and she too gave me every bit of support
and encouragement.  She worked hard and long to buy me the grammar
school blazer and everything else I had to have, and to keep me on at
school.  I try to make Sunny Grove like the good home that I was
brought up in, a place where there is work and laughter, honesty and
fairness.  I think I owe it to my parents."

As I walked across the playground towards the dingy rows of terraced
houses, shabby factory premises and derelict land, I looked back at the
grim, towering, blackened building with high brick walls.  I thought of
Mr.  Fenton and his missionary zeal, and the words of Blake's poem came
again to mind:

I will not cease from mental fight, Nor shall my sword sleep in my
hand, Till we have built Jerusalem, In England's green and pleasant
land.

"Excellent news, gentlemen!"  Harold Yeats crashed through the door
making the three of us shoot up from our chairs as if given a sharp
electric shock.

"For goodness sake, Harold!"  cried Sidney, retrieving the bundle of
papers which he had scattered across the office floor in his alarm.  "I
wish you wouldn't do that exploding into the room like some maniacal
genie from the magic lamp and nearly giving everyone a heart attack!"

"It's just that I have some really wonderful news!"  exclaimed Harold,
showing his mouthful of teeth and vigorously rubbing his large hands.

"Is it a pay rise?"  asked David lugubriously.  "It's about time we had
an increase in our miserable salaries.  We ought to get a raise when
the teachers do.  Four years it is since my income'

"No, not a pay rise, David, but it is something which will, I have no
doubt, bring a smile to that austere Welsh countenance of yours."

"Mrs.  Savage has been given the sack?"  announced David gleefully.
"Now that would bring a smile to my face.  When I think of that woman,
I genuinely warm to Lucretia Borgia."

"No, no."  Harold rumpled his hair, frowned, sighed and shook his
head.

"We're moving into a new office?"  I suggested.

"No, we are not moving into a new office."

"Connie is retiring?"  ventured Sidney, leaning back in his chair,
placing his long fingers behind his head and staring at the ceiling.
"That would bring a smile to my lips."

"If you three would just listen for a moment and let me get a word in,
I'll tell you.  Dr.  Gore has agreed, with the Education Committee's
approval, for us to expand!"

"Expand!"  exclaimed David.

"Appoint another inspector, one to cover science and technology."

"Oh, be still my dancing feet!"  exclaimed David.  "You mean I will no
longer be responsible for science and technology?"

"I thought that would please you," said Harold, again showing his set
of tombstone teeth.

"It is absolutely superb news, Harold," chortled David.  "Of course,
it's about time too.  I've had to cover science and technology for far
too long.  It will be a blessed relief to pass on all that work in
physics and chemistry to some bright young thing.  When will he
start?"

"It will be after Easter," announced Harold pleasantly.  "Some time
after the start of the Summer term.  The advertisement goes into the
Education Supplement next Monday, then there will be the usual few
weeks to receive applications and references.  Then, of course, there
will be the interviews and the successful candidate will have to give a
couple of months' notice to his employer."

"He!  His!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "Don't you two think, in this age of
equal opportunities, that it may very well be a woman who is appointed?
Why is there an assumption that the new inspector will be a man?"

Harold took a deep, steadying breath.  "Yes, of course," he replied.
"You are quite right.  It was a slip of the tongue.  It's just that
most science inspectors seem to be men."

"All the more reason for appointing a woman, I would have thought," I
added.

"It would, of course, be splendid if we were able to appoint a woman,"
replied Harold.  "Actually, when we were short listing for the English
post we all thought that Gervase was'

"A woman!"  exclaimed Sidney.

"Weller yes," Harold stuttered.  "I'm sure Gervase will be the first to
admit he has a most unusual name and it does sound ... oh dear .. . I'm
digging in deeper aren I?"

"It's all right, Harold," I laughed, "I'm used to it.  I often get
letters addressed to Ms Phinn."

"But seriously, Harold," persisted Sidney, "I think it would be an
extremely sensible move to have a woman on the team.  The thing is, a
woman inspector would offer a very positive role model for all the
female science and technology teachers and female students in the
county and, of course, an attractive, intelligent, bubbly young woman
would add a little verve and colour to this drab cubicle we
euphemistically describe as an office.  You could go in for a bit of
positive discrimination."

"Now, who's being sexist?"  spluttered David.  "Why has she got to be
an attractive, intelligent, bubbly young woman?  It's not a beauty
contest she's competing in, you know."

"Oh, I don't think there will be any positive discrimination," said
Harold thoughtfully.  "I think not.  The CEO and the Education
Committee would not go along with that.  This is Yorkshire after all.
They will want the best candidate for the job, regardless of sex."

"Gender," corrected Sidney, 'regardless of gender."

"Look!"  said Harold.  "I came in today really excited about the
prospect of another member for our team.  I do wish you would stop
nit-picking, Sidney.  Now, if you could all bear with me for one
moment, without interrupting, I shall go through the new procedures."

"What new procedures?"  asked David.

"If you would give me the chance," cried Harold, "I will tell you!
Thank you.  Now, things will be rather different from when Gervase was
appointed last year."

"Did they think they got it wrong, then?"  asked Sidney, giving me a
wry smile.

"Not at all, it's just that Dr.  Gore feels we need to refine the
process and update it.  Mrs.  Savage'

David grimaced distastefully.  "I thought she would be lurking in the
background somewhere, like the Ghost of Christmas Past," he growled.
"Is she going to appoint the school inspectors now?  It wouldn't
surprise me in the least.  She has those long, red-nailed fingers in
every other pie."

"Not at all!"  said Harold.  "I really do think that you are rather
hard on Mrs.  Savage, David.  She's a very industrious and efficient
woman, a little on the sharp side with people, maybe, but that's the
way with her.  Underneath that very steely exterior'

"There beats a heart of iron?"  concluded David.

"The woman is irritating beyond endurance," agreed Sidney.  "You ask
Gervase about the industrious and efficient Mrs.  Savage."

"Please don't bring me into this," I said.  "The last person I wish to
talk about is Mrs.  Savage."

"She was supposed to send Gervase all the information for another
Fee-Fo meeting and, for the second time, deliberately withheld it from
him to make him look a fool."

"No, Sidney," I began, 'it wasn't exactly like that and I certainly
didn't say that I was made to look a fool.  In fact'

"And he had to attend the meeting with all these big-wigs," continued
Sidney obliviously, 'bereft of the necessary papers.  For the second
time running.  When he phoned her up, rather than being apologetic, the
vixen said that she had been under the impression he was going to
collect them.  Furthermore'

"Sidney," I interrupted, "I am quite capable of explaining what
happened myself I turned to face Harold.  "It was just a
misunderstanding, Harold.  Mrs.  Savage said that she would send me the
minutes, new agenda and all the accompanying papers for last week's
planning meeting just as soon as she received them, but then later
denied this and said she had asked me to collect them from her office
and'

"Look, can we hear about the new procedures?"  said David in an
exasperated voice.  "It has gone six and I was hoping to get home
before midnight."

"Yes, yes, of course," said Harold.  "But that has just reminded me.  I
would like to have an update from you sometime, Gervase, about how the
Feoffees' event is progressing'

"The new procedures, Harold," sighed David, drumming his fingers on his
desk.

"Well, as I was about to say, Mrs.  Savage has recently attended a
course on selection procedures and has come back with some ideas which
Dr.  Gore is really taken with.  He's going to try out some modern and
rigorous techniques.  I will be drawing up the shortlist of the final
five candidates as usual, but I shall also be attending the interviews
myself this time.  For the first part of the day, the candidates will
sit a short sociometric test before meeting a selection of primary
school head teachers in an informal setting.  At this point, some
preliminary judgements will be made.  I thought perhaps Sister Brendan
and Miss Pilkington and three others could be invited along.  After
morning coffee, each candidate will make a fifteen-minute presentation
to the interview panel of councillors, Dr.  Gore and myself.  It will
be on some topical issue related to science education.  Following this,
he or she will be asked a series of pertinent questions on his or her
presentation.  Lunch will be with three secondary head teachers and the
candidates will again be assessed in an informal setting.  In the
afternoon they will sit a written paper and this will be followed by
the formal interviews.  It should all be over by about five-thirty and
the successful candidate will be informed at the end of the day."

"Is that all they have to do?"  asked Sidney.  "What about hang-gliding
from the clock tower at County Hall while singing selections from
Oklahoma or making a model of Buckingham Palace out of used matchsticks
whilst performing a limbo dance beneath the CEO's desk?"

"I have to admit that it does sound like the Spanish Inquisition!"
exclaimed David.  "I'm certainly glad I didn't have all that carry-on
to go through when I was appointed in the dim and distant past.  If you
were warm and breathing, then they gave you the job.  I was in and out
of the interview room in no time at all."

"When I was interviewed," Sidney told us, "I tripped over the carpet
going into the Council Chamber, tottered forward, gripped the first
hand in sight to get my balance which happened to belong to a
military-looking county councillor with a bright red face and after
that it was all plain sailing.  I think he thought I was giving him
some kind of Masonic handshake."

"I'm certainly glad I didn't have to go through all that last year," I
said.  "The single interview was stressful enough."

"I agree," said David sadly.  "I don't think I'd get over the first
hurdle if I was put through all the things you've planned for these
poor souls, Harold."

"We have to move with the times," said Harold.  "Now, I would like you
all to arrive at the Staff Development Centre at about five-thirty on
the day of the interviews on March ist.  Could you just check in your
diaries that you are available?"

"St.  David's Day!"  exclaimed our resident Welshman.  "Well, I hope we
are not going to be long.  We're having a Welsh evening at the Golf
Club.  Anyway, Harold, why do we have to be there?  Are the candidates
to get a further grilling from us?  Do I twist the thumbscrews, turn
the rack or pour the boiling oil?"

"Just be a good chap, David, and look in your diary," said Harold.

"Do you hear that, Gervase?"  announced Sidney, smiling broadly.  "You
are to attend another interview and have the opportunity to wear that
red and yellow monstrosity you fancifully call a suit."

"Don't mention the suit," I warned him, flicking through my diary. "Why
do you want us there, Harold?"

"It's for you three to meet the successful candidate," Harold told us.
"Gervase, after you were appointed, you mentioned that it would have
been rather nice if you had been given the opportunity of meeting your
new colleagues, so I intend to put that suggestion into practice.  And
another thing you mentioned was that you would have welcomed the chance
of visiting some schools prior to taking up your post.  I shall be
arranging that for our new colleague as well.  Before he or she starts,
I would like you, David, to take him or her into some secondary science
lessons and you, Gervase, to spend a day with him or her observing some
primary design technology work."  Harold bent down to retrieve his
briefcase from the floor.  "Well, I think that's everything unless
someone has something to ask."

Julie, who had been standing by the door listening, raised her hand.
"Could I ask something, Dr.  Yeats?"

"Of course, Julie, what is it?"

"Where is he, she or it going to sit?  On top of the bookcase?  In a
filing cabinet?  On the window sill?  This office is already
overcrowded.  You'll never get another desk and cupboard in here.  Tom
Thumb would have difficulty finding a place to stand."

"Perhaps you could positively discriminate in favour of the smallest
candidate, Harold," suggested Sidney flippantly.  "Someone about four
foot tall and as thin as a rake."

"And what about all the added typing and filing," continued Julie,
ignoring the interruption, 'and all the extra running about I'll have
to do, with another inspector filling up my in-tray?  And then there's
the coffee'

"Julie, Julie," Harold reassured her, 'let's try and be positive.  We
are in desperate need of someone to take on the extra work.  I am
certain that all these little internal difficulties can be overcome.  I
shall have a word with Mrs.  Savage and see if she can arrange a little
extra secretarial help and sort out the room situation."

"Oh, well, if you have a word with Mrs.  Savage, the fount of all
knowledge," said David sarcastically, 'all our problems will be solved.
She'll just wave her magic wand or, more appropriately, wiggle her
witch's broomstick, and everything will be fine.  One could not hope
for a kinder, more considerate, co-operative, easy-going, invariably
cheerful and generally all-round likeable person than the ever-helpful
Mrs.  Savage."

Harold gave a great heaving sigh.  "I just hope our new colleague has a
sense of humour, a thick skin and the patience of a saint."

The day of the interviews arrived.  Harold was in the office early, as
were we all that morning to find out who had been short listed for the
post.  Harold was dressed in an extremely smart dark blue suit, a crisp
white shirt and college tie, highly polished black shoes, and he
carried a leather-backed clipboard.

"My goodness, you look very debonair, Harold," remarked Sidney.

"You look like a game show host with that clipboard," added David. "So,
who have you called for interview then?"

"Well, I can't stay long because I need to be at the SD C for
eight-thirty to meet the candidates but, briefly, there are five up for
the post, including, you will be pleased to hear, Sidney, some women.
There's a Mr.  Carey Price-Williams'

"Oh, well, he must be all right with a name like that," interrupted
David.

"Can't be doing with folk who adopt double-barrelled names," said
Sidney.  "In my experience, they are inevitably pompous and
self-opinionated people who can't make up their minds.  And one
Welshman in this team is quite enough.  Get two of you lot together and
you start singing "Men of Harlech" and talking in Welsh."

"Welsh is a most mellifluous language," David told us.  "It ought to be
compulsory in schools."

"The other morning when you were rabbi ting on to your wife on the
phone, in that guttural, spluttery language of yours, I nearly gave you
the kiss of life.  I thought you'd got a bone stuck in your throat."

"Sidney," said David in a patient tone of voice, 'your analogy about my
speaking Welsh has become rather hackneyed now.  I have heard that
little witticism of yours a good few times now."

"Gentlemen," cried Harold, trying to suppress a smile, 'if I may
continue.  There's a Mr.  Thomas Wilson, a Miss er, Ms Jennifer Black,
a Dr.  Gerry Mullarkey -'

"I bet you any money we get the crusty old doctor," sighed Sidney,
leaning back expansively in his chair and putting his hands behind his
head.  "I can just picture the old buffer.  He'll be a dry, dusty
physicist with glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles and grey frizzy
hair sticking up like wire wool and he'll have as much conversation as
a dead sheep'

"May I remind you, Sidney," I said, 'what you thought I would look
like.  Didn't you have a bet on that, with a name like mine, I would be
a huge, red-headed Irishman?"

"Exactly," began Harold.  "One cannot judge a person by his or her
name'

"Take the name Clamp, for example," interposed David.  "Now what sort
of person does that conjure up?  Clamp?  Something hard, metallic and
with jaws like a shark."

"And you couldn't be more mistaken about Dr.  Mullarkey," Harold
continued.  "The application was very impressive  Dr.  Mullarkey is
extremely well qualified, with a range of experience and excellent
references."

"And no sense of humour."

"Not at all, Sidney," began Harold, "Dr.  Mullarkey sounds extremely
lively and enthusiastic '

"Wasn't Dr.  Mullarkey a villain in Sherlock Holmes, Gervase?"  asked
Sidney suddenly, going off on one of his customary tangents.

"No, that was Professor Moriaty," I said.

"I wonder if he really exists.  It's a very strange name is Mullarkey.
It sounds a tad suspicious to me.  It could be a pseudonym."

"You said the same thing when Gervase applied, if I remember rightly,"
remarked David, 'and, despite his name, he's turned out not too bad."

"Thank you for those few kind words," I said.

"Look," interrupted Harold," I came in here for five minutes, not for a
detailed analysis of each candidate.  I must be off."

"Hang on a minute, Harold!"  cried Sidney.  "You have only mentioned
four, only one of whom is a woman.  Who's the fifth candidate?"

Harold consulted his clipboard.  "A Miss Gloria Goodwood."

"Now that's more like it!"  chortled Sidney.  "Gloria Goodwood.  She
sounds like the heroine in a romantic novel: young, sylph-like,
alluring, with a mass of auburn hair falling like a burnished cascade
over her alabaster shoulders.  I bet you Gloria would add a little
sophistication and glamour to the office.  What's she like?"

"If she is successful," replied Harold, his voice noncommittal, 'you
will see Miss Goodwood at five-thirty at the Staff Development Centre.
I look forward to seeing you all later this afternoon to meet your new
colleague."  With that Harold departed.

I spent the day working on the plans for those events for which I was
responsible at the Feoffees Pageant which was to be held at Manston
Hall at the end of May.  Schools had provided me with a mountain of
children's poetry and stories based on famous characters from history.
I sorted out a good selection and at lunch-time took it over to
Willingforth Primary School where the Headteacher and staff had agreed
to mount the material on display boards.  Pupils from three different
schools were to perform some short plays on historical themes, and I
spent the afternoon calling into each school to see how things were
going.  Sidney had arranged for an exhibition of children's art, David
a gymnastics display and the County Youth Orchestra would give a
performance on the lawn at Manston Hall so the Education Department
would be well represented.

I was secretly relieved that my efforts to organise the essay and
public speaking competitions on the theme of customs and traditions had
not been required.  I had so much on, I really had not relished
organising such a complicated and time-consuming initiative.  When head
teachers had explained that the students would be up to their eyes in
examinations and would not have the time to prepare, I seized the
chance to wriggle out of the task.

All communication with Mrs.  Savage about the Feoffees Pageant had been
undertaken by notes and memoranda.  I had been very careful to record
all the arrangements we had agreed upon and I had made certain Dr. Gore
had been sent a copy.  My promise to liaise had been kept -even if I
had ducked meeting with the Snow Queen in person.

As instructed, I arrived at the Centre at the appointed time.  Connie,
wearing her predictably flat expression, was standing as usual in her
familiar pose with arms folded in the centre of the entrance hall like
some night-club bouncer.  She was facing up to Sidney and David who had
obviously arrived only seconds before.

"Top o' the evenin' to you, Connie," Sidney was saying effusively. "How
are we on this beautiful, mild St.  David's Day?  And here comes Mr.
Phinn, look you."

"I'm very well, thank you.  I hope you've parked your car well away
from the front doors, Mr.  Clamp, and you as well, Mr.  Phinn, because
it's a health and safety hazard to block my entrance.  Wipe your feet,
please, Mr.  Pritchard, I've just done that floor."

"I would not dream of blocking your entrance, Connie!"  exclaimed
Sidney.

"I've had to remind you before now.  And, if you're expecting something
to drink, you're out of luck because there's no milk and I'm all out of
biscuits.  All those councillors and candidates have gone through four
pints of gold top and two boxes of Garibaldis."

"It's so good to find you in such a cheerful mood, Connie," remarked
Sidney, 'and for us to receive such a hearty welcome on St.  David's
Day.  It warms the cockles of my heart."  With that, he set off at a
hearty speed in the direction of the lounge area.

"Speaking of cockles, Mr.  Clamp," said Connie pursuing him, 'when are
you intending moving them shells, pebbles, dried seaweed and stuffed
seagulls you were using on your art course last Christmas?  They're
taking up room.  It's like Blackpool beach in there."

"I shall remove them this very day," replied Sidney, swivelling round
with a great beaming smile on his face.  "Now, what are the candidates
like, Connie?  Do tell."

"Well, there's a big, hairy man who has a lot to say for himself."  She
dipped her head to the side in Sidney's direction.  "A bit like you,
Mr.  Clamp, but he's Welsh."

"Ever the flatterer, Connie," smiled Sidney.

"There's a nicely spoken woman of about forty-five and a very
sour-faced individual in a shiny suit."

"Dr.  Mullarkey," added Sidney knowingly.

"I don't know what he's called," continued Connie, 'but he was very
off-hand with me when I asked him to hex ting-uish his pipe.  I can't
see how he could make a very good inspector when he couldn't read any
of the "No Smoking" signs I have around the Centre.  I've even got them
on the back of the door in the men's toilets, so he couldn't miss them.
I told him he was a health and safety hazard and he gave me such a look
the sort of look my little grandson used to make when he couldn't have
an ice cream.  "A face like a smacked bottom", as my mother used to
say."

Sidney threw himself into a chair and sighed heavily.

"And the other candidates?"  I enquired.

"There was a very friendly young woman.  The only one to offer to help
me dry the dishes.  Very chatty and cheerful, with a lot about her.  I
took to her."

"That will be Glorious Goodbody," purred Sidney.

"And what about the last one?"  asked David.

"Look, Mr.  Pritchard!"  snapped Connie.  "I don't spend all day
standing about watching people, you know."

"Of course, you don't, Connie," sighed Sidney.  "Perish the thought."

"Anyway, I hope they're not going to be much longer.  I've got to do
the toilets before I finish.  And would you three move into the staff
room?  I have the carpet to vacuum in here yet.  It's those councillors
leaving all them crumbs."

As the hand on the Centre clock ticked towards six, Sidney, David and I
were still huddled in the small staff room, getting increasingly
impatient.

"You would think that after nine hours of interrogation, they would
have picked someone by now," complained Sidney.  "I have the annual
general meeting of the West Challerton Artists' Society at seven-thirty
and I need to get home, have a shower, make something to eat and go
through my report."

"And I don't intend staying much longer," said David.  "I've got a
committee meeting at the Golf Club tonight and I want to raise the
matter, yet again, of uneven paving slabs.  After the meeting it being
St.  David's Day I am introducing the Cwmbran Male Voice Choir and I
need to be there in good time."

"And I am speaking to the Parent Teacher Association at Brindcliffe," I
added.

"The appointment is a foregone conclusion anyway," remarked Sidney
casually.  "I could tell by the way Harold was so depressingly
enthusiastic when he got the applications.  His little black eyes lit
up like a ferret with a cornered rabbit when a certain candidate was
mentioned.  I bet you a pound to a penny we get the dry old stick with
the funny name."

"I think you may very well be right, Sidney," agreed David, looking at
his watch and shaking his head.  "He said more about that Mullarkey
fellow than all the others put together."

"You don't think you two are pre-judging this poor person a little?"  I
chimed in.  "He's probably a very decent sort.  Just because he's got
an unusual name doesn't mean'

"I suppose so," agreed Sidney wearily, 'but it would have been rather
nice to have Glorious Goodbody at the next desk."

"It's nearly six o'clock, you know," David announced.  "I have to get
home and change."

"Well, that settles it then," exclaimed Sidney.  "We shall depart and
find out tomorrow who was appointed."

As we all stood to go, Harold Yeats crashed through the door, making
the three of us jump back as if hit in the stomach.

"For goodness sake, Harold!"  cried Sidney.  "I do wish you wouldn't do
that bursting into the room like some jealous husband in a Whitehall
farce."

"It's just that I have some news!"  exclaimed Harold.  "We have
appointed."

"I suppose it's Professor Moriaty?"  sighed Sidney.

"As a matter of fact, it is Dr.  Gerry Mullarkey," replied Harold, 'who
is, at this very moment, looking forward to meeting you all.  If you
would care to make your way down to the lounge area while I de-brief
the unsuccessful candidates, you can congratulate Dr.  Mullarkey and
introduce yourselves."

"I just hope you have picked someone who is going to fit in, Harold,"
said David mournfully.  "I hope he has a sense of humour."

"Oh, I think I can assure you of that on both counts," replied Harold,
showing a mouthful of teeth and vigorously rubbing his large hands
together.  "In fact, I think getting on with you lot is almost as
important as having the right academic qualifications."

There was no sign of Dr.  Mullarkey in the lounge.  Behind the kitchen
hatch Connie could be heard banging pans with such force that they
sounded like the clanging of discordant gongs.  The room was empty save
for an extremely pretty, slender young woman with short raven-black
hair, a pale, delicately boned face and great blue eyes with long
lashes.

"Excuse me, we are looking for a Dr.  Mullarkey," announced David.  "We
were told he was in here."

"Oh yes," replied the young woman, turning and smiling broadly at
him.

"Are you by any chance Miss Goodwood?"  enquired Sidney, approaching
her eagerly.

"No, you've just missed her."

"Have you seen him by any chance?"  I asked.  "Dr.  Mullarkey, that
is?"

"Could you describe him?"

"Well, he's middle-aged, I guess, greying hair, serious sort of chap,
probably in a dark suit.  Smokes a pipe.  Actually, I've not even met
the man.  I'm just going on what others have said."

"There was a Mr.  Wilson here for interview, who fits that description,
but I think he's speaking to Dr.  Yeats at the moment," said the young
woman.

"That's very strange," said Sidney, turning to me and frowning.  "I did
say when I first heard the name mentioned that I had serious doubts
whether this person existed.  I said it sounded suspicious."

"I wonder if he's already left," suggested David, 'but it seems odd
that he should just up and go."

"He's a figment of Harold's imagination," concluded Sidney.  "I don't
think there is a Dr.  Mullarkey."

"Oh but there is," said the young woman.  We all looked at the
beautiful smiling face.  "I'm Dr.  Mullarkey, Geraldine Mullarkey, but
most people call me Gerry.  I assume you gentlemen are my new
colleagues?"

Our mouths fell open and we stared wide-eyed and speechless.

"Oh, I say," murmured Sidney, staring into the blue eyes.  "Oh, I say.
Good gracious, my goodness.  I thought you were a man.  I mean I
thought Dr.  Mullarkey was a man, not a woman like you.  I mean .. .
oh, I don't know what I mean."

"Good afternoon," said David formally, stepping forward and offering
his hand.  "I'm David Pritchard, Inspector for Mathematics, PE and
Games.  The hairy, inarticulate, rambling one is Sidney Clamp, the
Inspector for Visual and Creative Arts and our self-appointed
spokesperson on equal opportunities.  The lifeless, open-mouthed
colleague, incapable of speech and who looks, at this moment, as if the
hamster is dead but the wheel is still turning, is Gervase Phinn, the
Inspector for English and Drama.  It is good to have you with us,
Gerry.  May I congratulate you on getting the job.  I am sure you will
fit in superbly."

"Oh, I say," said Sidney, quaveringly.  "Oh, I say."

"How do you do," I said, taking her small cold hand in mine.  "It's er
.. . splendid toer .. . have you join us."

"And if there is anything we can do for you, please ask," said David.

"There is something, actually," replied our new colleague.  "I have to
catch a train from Fettlesham at just after seven.  I wonder if one of
you could give me a lift to the station that's if it's not too far out
of your way."

"No problem," said David, "I can easily drop you off."

"Nonsense!"  cried Sidney, who had just about gained his composure.
"You're going in the opposite direction, and anyway, you have your
Celtic knees-up this evening, if you remember.  I can easily drop
Geraldine off at the station."

"I thought you had your artists' meeting tonight?"  responded David
tartly.

"It would be much easier for me to drop Gerry off," I interrupted.  "My
talk this evening is at Brindcliffe Primary School, which is directly
opposite the station."

"Well, that's settled," said Dr.  Mullarkey, collecting her handbag and
briefcase.  "I'm sorry to have to rush.  I'm really looking forward to
working with you all."  She gave me a stunning smile.  "Shall we go,
Gervase?"

"Well, I would have thought the idea was to keep them quiet and
knuckling down to their reading and writing, and not encouraging them
to spend their time talking."

I was in the kitchen at the Staff Development Centre helping Connie dry
the cups and saucers.  We were clearing up after the day's course I had
been directing on "Encouraging Talk in the Classroom'.  Connie, as was
her wont, was giving me the benefit of her views.

"When I was a girl you only spoke when you were spoken to.  Youngsters
have far too much to say for themselves these days, in my opinion.
They've got an answer for everything."  Connie was a woman who did not
mince her words and was, as they say in Yorkshire, 'not backwards in
coming forwards'.

"Children learn a great deal by talking things through, Connie," I
endeavoured to explain.  "They sort out all the complex ideas they have
in their heads, share their views, try out their opinions on others,
discuss difficult concepts.  Talking is very important in learning."

"Mm," she mouthed, entirely unconvinced.  "Well, I think they'd be
better off keeping their opinions and ideas to themselves.  In my day,
children were seen and not heard.  If I so much as opened my mouth at
school without Miss Pearson's permission, she'd have that leather strap
out of her drawer as soon as look at you.  And if anyone dared to ask
her a question, woe betide them.  She didn't encourage children to ask
questions.  Miss Pearson liked them to listen, keep quiet and get on
with their work."

"Times have changed, Connie," I said, putting the last of the cups in
the cupboard.

"More's the pity," she replied.  "Now, take my sister's grandson,
Robbie.  Always in trouble at school, always got something to say for
himself, always answering his parents back.  They don't know they're
born, young people, these days.  They want a spell in the army.  I said
to my sister, I said, "Your grandson wants a damn good hiding, cheeking
his parents like that."

"How old is he?"  I asked.

"Fourteen and as broad as a barn door and as thick as a plank of
wood."

"He's a bit old for good hidings, Connie."

"They should have started when he was small.  He was a little demon, he
was."

"Well, a lot of lads go through that stage, you know, when they reach
adolescence.  It's probably his hormones."

Connie stopped what she was doing abruptly and turned to face me.  "I
beg your pardon?"  she snapped.

"It's probably his hormones," I repeated.

"Excuse me," she replied curtly.  "There's no history of hormones in
our family."

I quickly changed the subject.  "And how's that little grandson of
yours?"

The tight lips relaxed, her eyes began to sparkle with pleasure and a
great smile suffused her face.  "Oh, he's a little charmer, he really
is.  In his second year at school now and on the top table.  Bright as
a button is our Damien.  Wraps his granddad round his little finger he
does.  Last week he says to Ted: "Granddad, your face needs ironing."
The things he says.  He's staying with me and Ted at the moment because
his sister is poorly.  She's off school with sickness and diarrhoea.
It's all down her street."

When I directed my first course at the Staff Development Centre, Connie
had watched my every move like some great, hungry vulture.  I would
glance up from my notes during the lecture to see her peering through
the door.  At coffee she hovered in the background, tea-cloth in hand,
making sure we returned our cups and saucers to the hatch in the
kitchen.  At the end of the course she watched, arms folded, to make
certain I left the room as I had found it.  Later, in the cloakroom, I
heard the door pushed open and a great booming voice echoed around the
tiled walls.  "Have you finished in there yet because I want to do them
urinals in a minute!"

"And talking about times changing and taking a turn for the worse,"
said Connie, vigorously wiping around the sink, 'what about that
nun?"

"Nun?"

"That little nun who was on your course."

"Oh, Sister Brendan."

"I had no idea she was a nun.  I was talking to her as if she was a
normal person.  I could have said anything.  In the olden days nuns
wore big, black outfits right down to the ground and black headgear and
wimples that covered up half their faces.  I mean, you couldn't tell
that she was a nun.  She had this blue suit on."  Connie's voice took
on an almost affronted tone.  "I mean, her skirt was nearly up to her
knees.  In my day you never saw so much as a glimpse of ankle.  She
looked like an air hostess.  And she had nothing on her head save for
that bit of a scarf.  I thought nuns had cropped hair.  Well, Julie
Andrews did in "The Sound of Music" and Audrey Hepburn certainly had
her head shaved in "The Nun's Story".  That Sister Brendan had a perm
by the looks of it.  She'll be having highlights put in and wearing
high heels and make-up next.  And another thing," she prattled, and I
leant against the kitchen door to listen to her, 'she had three cups of
tea and most of my Garibaldis.  They take vows, don't they?  They're
supposed to give up all them luxuries.  You don't know where you are
these days, you really don't.  It's just the same with the vicar.  He
only looks about sixteen and when he came into the Centre to rehearse
his pantomime when his pipes had frozen up, he was wearing denim jeans
and a leather jacket, and arrived on a thundering great motor bike.  He
says to me, "Call me Des".  I mean, it's not right, is it?  No sign of
a dog-collar or a hassock.  In my day, vicars were vicars and nuns were
nuns.  You knew where you were.  "Call me Des", I ask you!  Soon,
they'll be letting nuns drive cars and get married."

"Have you ever thought of taking the veil then, Connie?"  I asked
mischievously.

"What?"

"Becoming a nun?"

"Me, a nun?  Course, I haven't," she snorted.  "I'm not that
religiously inclined and you know full well I can't suffer fools
gladly.  You must have the patience of Jove to be a nun.  I'd find it
very difficult to turn the other cheek when I see the mess some people
make in the Centre.  That Mr.  Clamp leaves behind a trail of
destruction and debris every time he runs a course here, and Mr.
Pritchard is forever getting his equipment out and forgetting about it.
And another thing, don't nuns have this vow of silence?  I couldn't
keep quiet for more than two minutes.  Mind you, that seems to have
gone out of the window as well.  That Sister Brendan could talk for
Britain."

So could Connie, I thought to myself as I took myself off home, and she
would captain the team.

Sister Brendan was Headteacher of St.  Bartholomew's Roman Catholic
Infant School in Crompton, a darkly depressing northern industrial
town.  She was a slight, fine-featured woman with small, dark eyes and
a sharp beak of a nose.  When I first met her she reminded me of a
hungry blackbird out for the early worm.  Her small school was
surrounded by tall, blackened chimneys, derelict building sites,
dilapidated warehouses and row upon row of redbrick, terraced
housing.

The school itself, adjacent to the little church, was a complete
contrast.  Like the Headteacher, it was bright, cheerful and welcoming
and on my first visit I had been immensely impressed by the high
quality of the education.  The walls were ablaze with children's
paintings and poems; posters, pictures and book jackets were on various
display tables, while in cabinets were shells, fossils, oddly shaped
pebbles, clay figures and other small artefacts.  The standard of
reading was high and those children I heard, and who came to me in the
Reading Corner, one after the other, were obviously keen to demonstrate
their skill.  All read fluently and with great expression.  The number
work was also very good, as were the singing and the art work, the
history and the geography.

When I was compiling my report, I had had difficulty in finding any
issues for the Headteacher and her staff to address.  One area I did
mention, however, was a greater encouragement of clear speaking and
attentive listening.  The children spoke with enthusiasm and interest
but some had strong accents.  I suggested that the staff, whilst not
denigrating the children's natural way of talking, might teach the
pupils to speak with greater clarity.  One means of doing this, I
suggested, was through drama.  And that was why Sister Brendan had
attended my course.

A couple of days after my conversation with Connie, I received a
telephone call from the very subject of our discussions.  Sister
Brendan thanked me for 'a most enjoyable, interesting and useful
course' and made a request.

"We would like some more advice on drama, Mr.  Phinn.  Could you come
in for an afternoon, do you think?"

"Yes, of course, Sister," I replied.  "I could drop off some helpful
books with ideas for various drama activities and I'll happily talk
things through with you and your staff."

"I was thinking more of a practical demonstration," she said.

"Pardon?"

"Of you taking the children for a drama lesson and showing us."

"Well..  ."

"I'm sure, Mr.  Phinn, that you would be the first to agree that it's
one thing telling teachers what to do and it's quite another showing
them.  I really think we would benefit from seeing you working with the
children and putting those ideas you are so keen on into practice."

What could I say?  "Of course, Sister," I replied, trying to sound
enthusiastic, "I'd be delighted."  It was like a re-run of Highcopse
School when Mrs.  Peterson had inveigled me into teaching a poetry
lesson.  Well, that had gone well enough, I thought to myself, and I
had no reason to think that a drama lesson at St.  Bartholomew's would
be any less successful.

I soon found out, however, that things were not as I had imagined.

I arrived at St.  Bartholomew's a couple of weeks later on a cold but
bright Friday morning.  Sister Brendan saw my car pull up outside the
school and was at the entrance to greet me in seconds.

"My goodness, Mr.  Phinn, you're the early bird," she said beaming
widely.  "Come along in."  I followed her down the bright corridor and
into the Headteacher's room.  "It must be over a year since you were
last here."

"That's right," I agreed.  "I remember it well."  On my last visit,
Sister Brendan had guided or rather 'manhandled' me in the direction of
the school entrance towards the end of the afternoon, pleased, no
doubt, to see me on my way.  She had been, therefore, somewhat
surprised when I had informed her that I intended remaining for the
school assembly.  I should have left when I had the chance.  The
assembly had been an ordeal I would not wish to undergo again.  I had
been used as a sort of visual aid with Sister Brendan constantly
referring to me.  I had not known the prayers or the hymns and had
tried unsuccessfully to mouth my way through, much to everyone's
amusement.  Yes, it had been a memorable visit.

I was brought out of my reverie by Sister Brendan's voice.  "Now, the
plan this morning, Mr.  Phinn, if it is acceptable to you, is that we
will have our assembly and then you can have the two top infant classes
for the morning for drama."

"Two whole classes!"  I exclaimed.  "And for the whole morning?"

"Well, I thought we ought to take full advantage of your kind offer to
work with the children.  Is there a problem with that?"

"No, no problem, Sister," I replied, feeling a nervous churning in my
stomach at the thought of controlling sixty or so lively six- and
seven-year-olds for the morning.

"Assembly this morning will be taken by Monsignor Leonard.  He comes
in- every Friday to spend a little time with us.  I believe you know
Monsignor Leonard, Mr.  Phinn?"  Sister Brendan's small, dark eyes
twinkled.

"Yes, we've met a few times, Sister," I replied.

I had come across Monsignor Leonard on a number of occasions on my
travels around the county's schools.  He was a gentle and unassuming
man who loved the company of children and took a deep and active
interest in education.  I had not seen him for some time.  In fact, the
last occasion had been just before the Christmas holidays the previous
year and he had watched me struggling to tell the story of the nativity
to a group of very lively infants in the small Roman Catholic school at
Netherfoot.  One child in particular, a massively freckled little boy
with spiky ginger hair, had constantly interrupted my account with the
most searching questions.  On my way out that morning, Monsignor
Leonard had smiled benignly, placed his hand gently on my arm and
reminded me of an old proverb: "Here's to the child and all he has to
teach us."

"He's particularly looking forward to meeting you again," continued
Sister Brendan.  "When I told him you would be in school he got quite
animated and wondered if he might stay to watch the drama session?"

"Yes, of course," I replied.

"He'll be bringing with him Miss Fenoughty who is his housekeeper and
the church organist.  She has stepped into the breach to accompany the
children's singing during Mrs.  Webb's absence.  Of course, she just
comes in with Monsignor Leonard for his weekly assembly and we make do
with a tape the remaining days.  I know it sounds a little uncharitable
but I don't think I could cope with Miss Fenoughty every day of the
week."

"Is Mrs.  Webb not well?"  I asked.

"She's off school at the moment after her unfortunate accident in the
Holy Land."

"Oh dear.  What happened?"

Sister Brendan sighed audibly.  "Just before Christmas she went with
the U C M the Union of Catholic Mothers -on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.
It was called "Walking in the Footsteps of Jesus".  Anyhow, she set off
walking in the footsteps of Jesus and fell down a pothole and broke a
leg."  Sister Brendan studied my expression for a moment before
continuing.  "You are one of the few people, Mr.  Phinn, who has not
found that amusing.  Why, even Monsignor Leonard, Mrs.  Webb's parish
priest, remarked that had she worn more appropriate footwear, such as
the kind of sandals worn by Our Lord, instead of high-heeled shoes, she
might not have ended up in a Jerusalem hospital with her leg in
plaster."

"Well, give her my very best.  I do hope she is back at school soon."

"I am on my knees every night praying for that, Mr.  Phinn," sighed the
nun.  "The sooner Mrs.  Webb is back at the piano and Miss Fenoughty
back to her housekeeping the better will be my state of mind.  She
hammers on the keys as if there is no tomorrow.  The piano fairly
shudders when she starts banging away.  She's rather deaf, you see,
and, despite my efforts to get her to play more quietly, she will
insist on crashing along the keyboard as if she's cracking nuts with a
hammer.  It's the same in church on Sunday.  People have taken to
wearing ear muffs, it's that bad.  Last week the Ave Maria sounded like
the "1812 Overture".  And, of course," Sister Brendan continued, 'her
memory is not all that good either and she gets the hymns mixed up.
Last year at the Easter Mass I asked for "All in an April Evening" and
we were treated to a slow, ear-splitting rendering of "Through this
Night of Dread and Darkness".  At one wedding she played at, the couple
wanted "Hills of the North Rejoice" but came down the aisle to a
thunderous rendition of "Climb Every Mountain"."

"It could have been worse," I said.  "She could have played "Fight the
Good Fight"."  By now, I just could not stop myself from smiling.

"I can see you find it funny, Mr.  Phinn, but let me assure you Miss
Fenoughty would try the patience of a saint."  Sister Brendan peered
through the window.  "And speaking of saints, here comes Monsignor
Leonard, who has to put up with Miss Fenoughty, morning, noon and
night."

Down the path to the school came the priest, a tall stick of a man in a
shabby-looking, ill-fitting cassock, and a small, rotund bundle of a
woman of indeterminate age.  She could have been sixty, she could have
been eighty.  I followed Sister Brendan to the school entrance to meet
them.

"Good morning, Sister.  Good morning, Mr.  Phinn,"

boomed the priest before stooping and shouting in his companion's ear:
"This is Mr.  Phinn, Miss Fenoughty.  Do you remember, I mentioned him
this morning at breakfast?"

"I knew a Bernadette Flynn who used to go to Notre Dame High School,"
remarked the old lady, scrutinizing me.  "Very talented girl."

"It's Phinn, Miss Fenoughty, Mr.  Phinn," corrected the priest.

"I also knew a Father Flynn, parish priest at St.  Hilda's.  He was a
lovely man.  I spent hours in the confessional box with him.  A
wonderful listener was Father Flynn."  She looked up at me with small
bright eyes.  "Are you any relation?"

Monsignor Leonard shook his head and smiled and Sister Brendan gave me
a look of noble resignation.

"It's Phinn, not Flynn, Miss Fenoughty!"  roared the priest.

"Monsignor Leonard," said his companion quietly, 'there's no need to
shout in my ear.  It's enough to deafen me."

"I do apologise," said the priest in a much more restrained voice.
"This is Mr.  Phinn, he's an inspector of schools.  His name is Phinn,
Miss Fenoughty, not Flynn."

"Pardon?"  asked Miss Fenoughty.

Sister Brendan, like the statue of the Virgin Mary which dominated the
entrance hall, raised her eyes saint-like to heaven.

Sister Brendan had not exaggerated.  Miss Fenoughty's rendition of' All
Things Bright and Beautiful' made the ground shake and the windows
tremble.  I thought of another set of lyrics for the hymn, beginning
"All Things Loud and Voluble' as she banged away on the keys.  Quite a
number of the children covered their ears.  Monsignor Leonard gave a
small homily about kindness to others, loving your neighbour and
showing charity to those less fortunate.  I

noticed Sister Brendan giving Miss Fenoughty a sideways glance.  A
prayer was said and the assembly was over.  While Sister Brendan
explained to the children what was to happen that morning and organised
them for my drama session, I approached Miss Fenoughty and thought I'd
show a little kindness to the less fortunate.

"You certainly play with gusto, Miss Fenoughty," I said cheerfully.

"Who must go?"  she snapped.  "I thought I was going to stay and watch
the drama.  Monsignor Leonard said he was staying to watch the drama. I
have no transport so I shall have to wait until he goes."

"No, I meant your playing," I said.  "It was very rousing."  I had
raised my voice an octave.

"Oh, well, I can't be doing with these whispery little modern hymns,
Mr.  Flynn.  I like a good old stirring, robust tune.  You should hear
me when I play "When the Saints Go Marching In".  Sister says I'm a bit
heavy-handed on the piano, you know, and the children think I'm a bit
loud."

"Really?"

"I overheard one little boy last week refer to "that old plonker on the
piano"."

"Really?"

"I do tend to plonk, I have to admit."  She chuckled to herself.

At this point Sister Brendan approached and rescued me.  "Miss
Fenoughty," she said slowly and loudly, 'would you like to sit in the
staff room while you wait for Monsignor Leonard?  He's going to watch
the drama."

"I know he is, Sister Brendan," she replied.  "Mr.  Flynn said it would
be all right if I watched too."

"Wouldn't you rather wait in the staff room?"

"No thank you, Sister," she said firmly.

The nun pulled a face.  "Well, will you take a seat at the back of the
hall?  Mr.  Phinn is about ready to start."

"I was just telling Mr.  Flynn, Sister, that the children think I'm a
bit of a plonker."

Sister Brendan's face remained impassive and she did not say a word,
but as I turned to make my way to the front of the hall, I swear I
heard a little chuckle.

The two top infant groups remained seated while the rest of the
children returned to their classrooms.  Monsignor Leonard and the
supply teacher joined Miss Fenoughty who had ensconced herself at the
rear of the hall on the only chair with arms.  The three of them sat in
a row like the judges in a talent contest.

"Now, children," said Sister Brendan, facing the sea of smiling faces,
'we have with us this morning Mr.  Phinn.  We are very fortunate,
because Mr.  Phinn has taken time out of his very busy life as an
inspector to teach a drama lesson."

"Sister Brendan," asked a small fair-haired boy, 'what does Mr.  Phinn
collect?"

"Mr.  Phinn doesn't collect anything, Sean," replied the nun smiling.
"He's not a collector, he's an inspector.  He inspects things."

"Sister Brendan," persisted the child, 'what does Mr.  Phinn
inspect?"

"Oh, lots of things to do with school, but he's not here this morning
to inspect.  Mr.  Phinn's here to take you for drama."

"Could he inspect the gerbil, Sister?"

"Of course not, Sean.  Now be a good boy, sit up straight and leave the
questions until later."  The nun swivelled round and gave me a
disarming smile.  "We have a poorly gerbil, Mr.  Phinn.  We think he's
eaten a piece of orange peel somebody put in his cage."  She moved
closer and whispered, "Keep an eye on Sean."  She then joined the
audience at the back of the hall.

"Good morning, children," I said.

"Good morning, Mr.  Phinn," they chorused.  Before me was a sea of
bright-eyed, eager infants ready for action.

"People who perform drama are actors and they take on acting parts," I
explained.  "They pretend to be other people and use their bodies,
faces and voices to make up a story for other people to watch, just
like in a theatre or in the cinema or on the television.  Later this
morning we shall be acting out a story but first we are going to do a
few warm-up activities to get us in the right frame of mind.  In a
moment, I want everyone to find a space in the hall and then look this
way.  All right, everyone find a space."  The children did as I asked
quietly and without any fuss.

"Good," I said.  "Now, for a start, let's see if you can all listen
really, really well.  Some of you might have played "Simon Says" at
your birthday party."  A number of the children nodded excitedly.
"Well, this exercise is a bit like that.  You just have to do exactly
as I say.  So, let me see.  Everyone ready?  Hands on heads."  All the
children placed their hands on their heads.  "Good.  Hands on
shoulders."  Two children hugged each other.  "No," I said, 'your own
shoulders.  Don't put your hands on anyone else's.  Hands on elbows.
Hands on knees."  This continued for a few minutes.  The children
followed my instructions and things were going really well until I
said, "Hands on thighs," and all the children covered their eyes.

I decided to move on.  "In a moment I will be asking you to walk around
in the hall using all the space, but whenever I say the word "Freeze!"
I want you to stop what you are doing immediately and imagine you are
frozen.  You must remain as silent and as still as the statue of St.
Bartholomew who looks down on you from the front of the hall."  All
eyes examined the large, olive-wood figure of the benign-looking man,
with arms outstretched, who stood on a plinth.  "Then, when I say
"Relax!"  I want you to return to normal.

All right, is everybody ready?"  The children stood to attention.  "You
are walking through the woods on a bright, sunny day.  The sun is
streaming through the trees and you can hear the birds singing and the
rustling of the leaves and the crackling of the branches underfoot.
Freeze!"  Most children stood stock still but a few shuffled their
feet, others scratched their heads and one large girl began to suck her
thumb.

"That was good for a first attempt, but let's see if, when we do it
again, we can all remain perfectly still."  I repeated the commentary
of the walk through the woods and this time all the children froze.
"Very good.  Relax!"

"Mr.  Phinn, when we freeze, can we breathe?"  asked the small
fair-haired boy who had enquired earlier if I could 'inspect' the
gerbil.

"Yes, Sean, you can breathe, but you mustn't move.  Now, this time we
are on a cold, cold street.  The crisp snow crunches under our feet and
the icy wind makes our ears and cheeks tingle.  We start to shiver and
we rub our hands to make ourselves warm.  Cars and lorries are
whooshing along the road and you are splashed by a big bus.  Freeze!"
The children froze.  "Relax!"  All the children relaxed with the
exception of Sean who remained inert, as if caught in amber.  "You can
relax now, Sean," I told him.

"I can't," he replied through tight lips.  "My feet are frozen in a
snowdrift."

"He might have got frostbite," chirped up a small girl.  "My grandpa
says you can get frostbite in snow."

"No, he hasn't got frostbite," I explained, 'because the snow has now
melted and that's why Sean can move."  The little boy relaxed and began
to rub his feet dramatically.

"This time we are in a far-off desert," I continued.  "The hot, hot sun
is burning down on our heads.  We wipe the perspiration from our
foreheads and we start to pant.  Our mouths are as dry as the sand and
we feel faint with the heat.  Freeze!"  Every child froze except
fair-haired Sean.

"But, Mr.  Phinn, you wouldn't freeze in a desert.  You'd burn up or
melt."

"And might get sunburn," piped up the small girl for a second time. "My
grandpa says you can get burnt in the sun."

"Yes, that's true, Sean, but this is a magic desert and we are
freezing.  So freeze, please.  Right everyone, relax!"

"My Auntie June came out in blisters in Majorca," the small girl
informed me, nodding seriously.

"Freeze!"  I barked and she turned to stone.

Until morning playtime I took the children through a series of
different activities and they responded really well.  We visited dark
dungeons and dusty attics, braved storms and swam rivers, climbed
mountains and crawled through caves, dug gardens and threaded needles a
whole range of mimed performances which they clearly enjoyed
undertaking.  At break-time in the staff room, Sister Brendan seemed
happy at the way things were going, as did Mon-signor Leonard.

' The children are doing very well," commented the priest, taking a sip
from a large mug of coffee.  "I wonder if I might remain for the rest
of the morning to see how the work develops?  I just need to drop Miss
Fenoughty off in town but I'll be back, if that is all right."

Before I could answer, Miss Fenoughty, whose hearing seemed to have
undergone a remarkable improvement, placed her cup down carefully
before saying, "I think I might stay, if that's all the same to you,
Monsignor.  I'm certainly enjoying this morning.  It's better than the
bingo."  Sister Brendan raised her eyes to heaven.  "Is there a biscuit
to go with the coffee, Sister?"  asked Miss Fenoughty sweetly.

I was feeling a great deal more confident after playtime.  The children
had been exemplary and taken part in the activities with genuine
interest and excitement.  I explained to them that we had used our
bodies to mime various actions, our faces to express our feelings and
now we were going to add some words.  As the focus of our drama I
picked the poem by Robert Browning, "The Pied Piper of Hamelin'.  The
poem has fifteen long verses and, as I was limited for time and the
text is sometimes quite difficult, I decided that I would read a little
of the original to give the children a feel for the richness of the
language but re-tell the story to move things along.  The children
gathered around me in a half-circle and I began.

Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser,
deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleas anter spot
you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years
ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in their cradles,

And ate the cheeses out of vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats,

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

At this point I saw Father Leonard give Sister Brendan a knowing look
before staring at Miss Fenoughty, who was sublimely oblivious to the
unintended reference to her

'drowning their speaking in fifty different sharps and flats'.  I then
related the exciting story to my hushed and fascinated little audience:
how the people crowded into the Council Chamber demanding action from
the Mayor and Corporation, how the strange, tall figure with 'the sharp
blue eyes and light loose hair', draped in his coat of yellow and red,
agreed to rid the town of the rats for the sum of a thousand guilders,
how he blew his pipe until his lips 'wrinkled' and the rats emerged.

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army
muttered; And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew
to a mighty rumbling: And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats,
great rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers
.. .

I then told the children how the people rejoiced and how the piper
danced on and on, playing his shrill notes, through the narrow streets
and across the square, followed by a sea of squealing rats.  I told
them how he took the rats to the river's edge and described how the
creatures desperately, blindly, hurled themselves into the murky
waters.  I told them how the Pied Piper came for his money and how the
Mayor laughed in his face.

The children listened with wide eyes and open mouths when I related how
the Pied Piper's face had darkened with anger and how he shook his fist
at the city and the skies clouded over and an icy wind began to blow.

And so we came to the dramatic conclusion to the tale: how the Pied
Piper lifted his pipe to his lips and blew three long clear notes. Then
the children came out of the houses,

laughing and chattering, lifting their little feet, skipping and
running and dancing and clapping their hands.  You could have heard a
pin drop when I concluded the story of how the little children followed
the strange man in his coat of yellow and red up to the mountainside
where a great door opened and swallowed them all, all except for the
little lame boy who was left behind.

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says that heaven's gate

Opes to the rich as at easy rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

"Now, there's a couple of difficult words in this verse," I explained."
"Pate" is the old word for head and a "burgher" is-'

A boy with large, round eyes and equally large round glasses waved his
hand madly in the air.  "Mr.  Phinn!  Mr.  Phinn!"  he cried.  "I know
that.  It's something you eat with chips.  You can have chicken burgers
beefburgers and hamburgers."

Another child, with more interest in the impending lunch-time than the
Pied Piper, enquired loudly if they were having burgers for dinner.

"That's another kind of burger," I told her.  "In "The Pied Piper", a
burgher is a sort of council official, a bit like a mayor, a very
important person who makes all the laws.  It was the burghers who
refused to give the Pied Piper his thousand guilders."

The children did not look as if they were any the wiser but I pressed
on.  I organised the children into various groups to act out scenes
from the story: the scurrying, squeaking rats, the mothers and
children, cooks and councillors, shopkeepers and chattering women, the
Mayor and, of course, the Pied Piper.  Everything seemed to be going
smoothly.

Even the rather sad-looking girl, who asked me if she could be a cow
rather than a rat, went away appeased when I explained that there were
no cows in the story and she could be a cat.  I asked several of the
groups to perform their part of the poem for the others to watch.  The
children came out to the front of the hall just as the dinner ladies
entered to set the tables out for dinner, the caretaker to help them,
the crossing patrol warden to collect her "Stop!"  sign and a number of
parents to wait for their children.  The rear of the hall was full of
interested adults who were obviously greatly entertained by the
children's performances.

The last group was to act out that part of the story when the Mayor
refuses to give the Pied Piper his thousand guilders.  The little boy
playing the Pied Piper was the child with the great, round eyes and
enormous pair of glasses, who had volunteered the answer about the
burghers earlier.  Now, with all eyes upon him, he looked extremely shy
and nervous.  The Mayor was none other than Sean, and if he was nervous
he certainly did not show it.

"Well, Pied Piper, what do you want?"  he called confidently from the
centre of the hall.

"I have come for my money," mumbled the Pied Piper who had sidled
nervously across the floor towards him.

"Well, you're not having it!"  shouted the Mayor.

"OK," said the Pied Piper and walked quickly away.

"No!  No!  No!"  shouted the other child.  "That's not what you do!" He
appealed to me.  "Mr.  Phinn!  Mr.  Phinn!  That's not right, is it? He
wouldn't just say "OK" and walk off, would he?  He'd go barmy!" The
little boy was getting into a real state himself, his face red with
rage.

"Freeze!"  I commanded.  It was as if a magic spell had been put on
him.  The child was transformed and became completely motionless.
"Relax!"  I turned to the child with the large glasses.  "You would get
quite angry, you know," I said.  "You have got rid of all the rats and
the Mayor promised you the thousand guilders.  Now he has refused to
pay so you would not be very happy about that, would you?"  The child
shook his head.  "Let's try it again."

For the second time the Mayor stood confidently in the centre of the
hall.  "Well, Pied Piper, what do you want?"  he demanded.

The Pied Piper moved across the hall to him.  "I have come for my
money," he said with not much more conviction than the previous
effort.

"Well, you're not having it!"  shouted the Mayor.

"Why?"

"Because you're not, that's why.  I've changed my mind."

"Go on, give me my money.  You said you would."

"Well, you're not having it!"

"But that's not fair."

"Tough luck!"

"I'll blow my pipe then."

"You can blow your pipe until you burst but you're not having any money
and that's that!"

"OK then," sighed the Pied Piper walking away, 'but you'll be sorry."

Sean's face went crimson with fury.  "No!  No!  No!"  he shouted again.
"That's not what you do!"  He appealed to me for a second time.  "Mr.
Phinn!  Mr.  Phinn!  That's not right, is it?  He's still saying "OK"
and walking away!  He'd go bonkers!"

"Freeze!"  I cried again.  It was as if the child had been turned to
stone.  "Relax!  Now look, Pied Piper," I said to the child with the
large glasses, 'it was a lot better than last time but you do need to
show how annoyed you are with the Mayor.  Try again, and this time when
you leave the Council Chamber, you must show how angry you are."

The child stared up at me vacantly through the large glasses.  "Try and
think of a time when you were mad with someone.  Can you do that?"  He
nodded.  "Last go then, because it's nearly dinner-time."

All faces were turned to the Pied Piper as he stamped into the Council
Chamber.  His eyes were now slits behind the large glasses, his lips
were pressed tightly together, his little body looked stiff and he held
up a fist threateningly.

"Well, Pied Piper, what do you want?"  demanded the Mayor for the third
time.

"I have come for my money," shouted the Pied Piper.

"Well, you're not having it!"  retorted the Mayor.

"Go on, give me my money.  You said you would."

"Well, I've changed my mind.  You're not having it!"

"But that's not fair."

"Tough luck!"

"I'll blow my pipe then."

"You can blow your pipe until you burst, pal, you're not having any
money and that's that!"

"Give me my money!"

"No!"

"You said you would."

"Well, you're not having it!"

"I want my money!"

"Clear off!"  boomed the Mayor.

"Well, you can stuff your thousand guilders!"  roared the Pied Piper.
"You're a tight-fisted old bugger!"

I did not need to say "Freeze!"  Everyone in the hall had already
fallen into a stunned, frozen silence.  Monsignor Leonard, Sister
Brendan, the supply teacher and Miss Fen-oughty were like a tableau at
the back.  None of them moved a muscle.

Then, into the deathly silence, the small boy with the large glasses
and a smile like a Cheshire cat, piped up.  "Is that better, Mr.
Phinn?"  he asked.

Lateras I said my farewells in the school hall, I attempted to direct
the conversation away from the morning's drama but without success.
Miss Fenoughty was determined to discuss proceedings.

"Drama is like singing, isn't it, Mr.  Flynn?  It gives the children a
chance to express themselves through their voices.  I did enjoy this
morning.  I do so love that poem.  I thought the little ones did very
well, didn't you?"

"I did," I replied, smiling weakly.

"And that little boy who played the part of the Pied Piper, he was a
natural little actor.  My goodness he really did sound the part, didn't
you think?"

"I did," I replied again.

"Fancy remembering that word."

"Word?"  I repeated.

"The word he asked you about."

"I'm sorry, Miss Fenoughty .. ."

'"Burgher".  He remembered the word "burgher".  Don't you recall at the
end, didn't he shout at the Mayor, "Give me my money, you mean old
burgher"?"

I heard Monsignor Leonard splutter beside me, hastily plucking a
handkerchief from his pocket and burying his face in it.  Even Sister
Brendan had to suppress a smile.  Their obvious enjoyment, however, was
very short lived.

"You know, Sister," exclaimed Miss Fenoughty, with a wild gleam in her
eye, "I've been thinking.  I've got the score somewhere for the musical
version of "The Pied Piper".  Wouldn't it be a good idea to perform it
for the parents?  I would, of course, be pleased to act as musical
director and perhaps Mr.  Flynn here could deal with the acting.  What
do you all think?"

We were as motionless as the statue of St.  Bartholmew of Whitby, who
looked down upon us sympathetically from his plinth at the front of the
hall.  It was the same St.  Bartholomew, the hermit, who betook himself
to the

Fame Islands in the twelfth century to escape the strident noises of
the world and to spend his life in complete peace and quiet meditation.
I surmise we all envied him at that moment.

Harold and Sidney were in animated conversation when I walked into the
office one mild, misty morning a week before the end of the Spring
term.  They were facing each other across Sidney's desk like aggressive
chess players.

"I'm afraid not, Harold," Sidney was saying.  "I have got more than
enough work to keep me fully occupied for the rest of the year without
taking all that on."  He paused to wish me "Good morning' before
continuing in a loud and combative voice, "There's the inspections,
three courses to direct, the "Arts in School Project", the Fe-Fo
exhibition of children's art to organise, adjudicating that wretched
Art Competition at Fettlesham Show yet again.  I could go on and on."

"You are going on and on," replied Harold, quietly.  He gave me a
toothy smile and wished me "Good morning' before returning to Sidney.
"Now look, Sidney, we all have to take on extra responsibilities from
time to time."  He opened his large hands like the Pope about to give a
blessing.  "Gervase and David have the core subjects to deal with.  It
would be unfair to ask them.  Without denigrating your curriculum area,
I am sure you will agree that mathematics and English do take up far
more time than art and design."

"I would be absolutely hopeless," retorted Sidney, shaking his head
vigorously.  "I'd be about as successful as a garlic salesman at a
vampires' convention.  I am temperamentally unsuited and I have no
intention whatsoever of agreeing."

"What is it you are asking him to do, Harold?"  I enquired, hanging up
my coat.

"To completely redefine my role, that's what!"  cried Sidney.  "Well,
I'm not doing it."

"What nonsense, Sidney!"  said Harold.  "I am merely asking you to take
on a little extra work."

"A little extra work?  A little extra work?  Is that how you would
describe it?  You are asking me to pick up all the hot potatoes on the
curriculum, all the complex, vexatious, troublesome, tricky and
controversial subjects of which I have no experience and in which I
have no expertise.  There is simply no question of-'

"I wish one of you would tell me what it is Sidney has been asked to
do," I said.

"Harold," Sidney told me, scowling in the direction of the Senior
Inspector, 'has asked me, in addition to creative and visual arts and
all the other multifarious jobs I have to do, to be responsible for sex
education, drugs awareness and anti-bullying."  I was unable to
suppress a smile.  "I am sure you find this highly amusing, Gervase,
but'

"Look, Sidney," interrupted Harold, rubbing his heavy bulldog jaw, "I
can't waste any more time arguing with you.  I'm seeing Dr.  Gore at
half-past eight and I need to sort out the briefing papers.  Someone
has got to do it and you are best placed."

"Best placed!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "Oh, I am best placed all right.
With my head beneath the guillotine, you mean?  Up against a wall
facing a firing squad?  On the scaffold waiting for the trap to open?
Sitting on a bloody land-mine!"

"You would think I was asking him to sell his soul," said Harold
wearily, turning in my direction.  He stood up to go and peered at
Sidney with his large pale eyes.  "The fact is, Sidney, there is no one
else."

"Why can't our new colleague, the multi-talented and massively
qualified Dr.  Mullarkey, take it on?  I am sure she knows far more
than I do about sex, drugs and violence."

At that very moment a head appeared around the door.  "Did I hear my
name mentioned?"

Dr.  Mullarkey was due to take up her post as County Inspector for
Science in early June and Harold had organised some school visits
before she started so she could get a feel for things and meet a few
people.  At present, she was a lecturer in education and had asked if
this preliminary visit could be before the end of the Spring term
rather than early next term when she would be frantically busy
preparing her students for their end-of-year examinations.

That morning it was my turn to accompany Gerry, and I had arranged to
take her into three primary schools to observe some design and
technology work.

"You'll get used to Sidney," I said as we walked towards the car park.
"He's a sort of extravagant, larger-than-life character, but a
marvelous colleague.  Everything is a drama with Sidney.  The one thing
about our office is that it's never dull."

"I'm really looking forward to starting," said Gerry, as we skirted the
grey exterior of County Hall and headed across the narrow gravel path
through the formal gardens.  I gave her a quizzical look.  "Really,"
she said, laughing.  "Of course, I've got to find somewhere to live, so
could do with a bit of advice about location and houses."

"I'm the last one to ask.  I began searching for a place when I started
eighteen months ago but am still in my rented bachelor flat on the High
Street.  I just don't seem to have found the time for house hunting."

"So you're not married?"

"No."

"I'll probably do that at the outset," she said.  "Rent a flat or a
little cottage, I mean.  I suppose a place in Fettlesham is the most
convenient?"

"Yes, it's pretty central."  We walked in silence for a while.  "So,
you've no family?"

A smile came to the delicately boned face.  "No, just me.  Footloose
and fancy free."

"Really?"  I said.

The clock on the County Hall tower struck eight o'clock as I drove down
Fettlesham High Street which was just becoming busy with early morning
traffic.  I was soon on a twisting, empty road, bordered by craggy grey
limestone walls and verges fringed by last year's dead, murky-brown
bracken and tussocky grass.  Beyond the walls was an austere, still
scene, a vast undulating world of dark fields covered in a light,
fleecy mist, empty save for the small cluster of barns and square
farmhouses, and the occasional twisted hawthorn tree.  The shadowy
green foreground lay ahead of us, backed in the distance by the sombre,
pale blue peaks.  Bars of purple cloud stretched across the sky.  Gerry
didn't speak until the pale sun, shining through the clouds with an
almost luminous warmth, made the whole landscape before us glisten with
the splendour of a gemstone.

"It's magnificent," she said quietly.

"It is, isn't it?  I can never get used to it."

The small stone primary school we were to visit first was nestled in
the very heart of the village of TarnclifTe.  It was sandwiched between
the post office-cum-general store and the squat, grey Primitive
Methodist chapel and looked like a private dwelling at first glance.
From the pavement the door opened directly into the one large classroom
and passers-by could peer through the leaded windows to see the pupils
at work.  We were given a warm welcome by the Headteacher, Miss
Drayton, and her assistant, Mrs.  Standish, who both shook our hands
vigorously and ushered us into the classroom.

Gerry and I started with the junior-aged children who were behind a
large partition, working industriously on various models and
construction work.  In the corner of the amazingly cluttered and busy
classroom were two girls of about ten or eleven, their school clothes
shrouded by large men's shirts.  They explained to us that they had
been asked to design and produce a labour-saving device for use in the
home.  They had come up with the idea for a gadget which would tell the
milkman the number of pints required each day.  Their first, not very
novel idea had been to design a clock face with numbers from one to
eight around the rim and a hand which could be adjusted to point to the
number of pints needed that particular day.

"But then," explained one of the girls enthusiastically, 'what if you
wanted some cream as well as milk?"

"Or orange juice?"  added the other.

"Or eggs or yoghurt?"

"And some milkmen sell potatoes as well."

"So the problem has become very complicated," observed Gerry, looking
at their plans.  "Have you managed to resolve it?"

"One solution would be to have six different faces, each one for a
different thing milk, cream, eggs, orange juice, yoghurt and potatoes
but Mrs.  Standish said our design has to be simple, clear, easy to use
and cheap to produce."

"This is a real problem, isn't it?"  said Gerry.  "Have you found the
solution?"

"Oh, yes!"  exclaimed one of the girls.  "Tessa had a brain wave  She
plucked a piece of paper from her folder and pushed it in Gerry's
direction with a triumphant look on her face.  Gerry examined the
sketch, smiled, nodded and observed, "Ingenious' before passing it to
me.  The design was for a small square of thin plywood on which was
written in bright capital letters: "MILKMAN!  SEE NOTE IN

bottle;

In another corner of the room a large boy was humming quietly and
contentedly to himself, his body moving backwards and forwards in time
to the tune as he filed away at a long piece of wood.

"And what are you doing?"  asked Gerry cheerfully.

He looked up for a moment.  "Oh, I'm just raspin', miss," he replied
simply, before returning to his work.

I left Gerry with the 'rasper' and moved into the infant section of the
classroom.

"Would you like me to read to you?"  asked a small girl, with wide,
cornflower-blue eyes and a mass of blonde hair which was gathered in
two large candy floss bunches.

"Yes," I replied, "I would like that very much."

"I'm a very good reader, you know," she confided in me, while she
searched in her bag for her book.

"Are you?"

"I read with expression."

"Do you?"

"And I can do different voices."

"Really?  I expect you use dramatic pauses as well," I said
mischievously.

She looked up for a moment and then added seriously, "I don't know what
they are, but I probably can."

She was indeed a very accomplished little reader and sailed through her
book confidently and fluently.  "I am good, aren't I?"  she announced
when she had completed three pages.

"Very good," I said.

"I'm good at writing as well."

"I imagined you would be."

"Would you like to see my writing?"

"I'd love to."

"Poetry or prose?"

"Poetry, please."

"I keep my poems in a portfolio."

"I guessed you would," I said, smiling.

Her writing was neat, imaginative and accurate.  "I am good at writing,
aren't I?"

"Very good," I agreed.

"I'm good at talking as well."

"I can tell that.  I think your mummy's got a little chatterbox at
home."

"Oh, no!"  exclaimed the child.  "My granny has asthma and I'm not
allowed to keep pets."

"I see," I said chuckling.  I couldn't imagine what sort of animal she
thought 'a little chatterbox' was.

"My granny calls me her "bright little button"."

"That's a lovely name," I told her.  "They're very special are grannies
and we must really look after them."

"My granny wobbles, you know," the little chatterbox continued.

"Does she?"

"She has a special disease which makes her wobble and forget things."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yes," said the little girl, nodding sagely.  "It's called "Old Timers'
Disease"."

Gerry, who had joined me a few moments before, just in time to hear the
end of my interesting exchange with the 'bright little button',
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 button', 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 class 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 assortment of
needles, boxes of pins and scissors and both were sewing furiously,
their arms rising and falling like pistons.

"Hello," I said brightly.

"Hello," 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.  "Pass us t'pink
will that, Dean?"

His companion searched through the assortment 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
stitching 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 stitches are too big.  If you look at the Victorian
samplers, you will notice that the lettering and designs are very
delicate and very carefully stitched."

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
nob'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 reassured 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 class during the lunch-hour," I
told them.

"Singing!"  the toothless one exclaimed.  "Singing!  We don't gu to no
Singing class!  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'lasses.  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 class.  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 reassure 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 massive 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 class, 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
aprons, 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 massive 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 assured 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.

"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 lusty
cock 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 assembly and spend
the day visiting classes.  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 grasses 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,
harassed-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 identity 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 assembly."

"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 lustily 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
assembly before joining you in the classrooms 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 assembly.  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, assemblies 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
grass, 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 grass 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 pass 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 grass 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 classroom.  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 assembly that I would be coming into classrooms.  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
Saturday 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.

"Mostly Swaledales but we're thinkin' o' diversifyin'."

"Really?"

"That's why we were at Fettlesham market.  Granfether were lookin' at
t'Texels."

"I see.  So what do Swaledale sheep look like?"

"Tha dun't know owl abaat sheep then?"

"Not a lot."

He shifted in his chair the better to face me.  "Well, that can all us
spot a Swaledale.  It 'as curly 'orns on its 'ead, sort of a black face
wi' a white snout, sometimes wi' a bit o' specklin' on and it 'as a
fairly light carcass.  Now yer Dales-bred sheep are an 'ardy breed and
fare well on this sort o' land and in this sort o' weather.  It can ger
a bit par ky up 'ere and rain fair teems dahn so you need sum mat wi' a
bit o' gumption.  Sometimes we cross 'em wi' Blue-faced Leicesters to
produce a mule breeding sheep.  Anyroad, we've 'ad a bit o' trouble wi'
sheep dip flu and blow fly this year and we're looking at Texels to see
what they can do."

"And what do Texels look like?"

"They're not much to look at bit like a bull terrier, fat white bodies,
short wool, legs wide spaced but they're pretty docile and give a lot
o' milk.  They give extra lean meat an' all and there's more fat on
t'carcass.  They're easy to maintain are Texels.  Mi granfether reckons
there'll be a sight more of a profit in 'em.  Tha sees they have higher
kill-out percentage and better conformation and grading than yer
Swaledales."

"Do they really?"  I had not the first idea what the boy was talking
about.  I changed the subject.  "And you are a Methodist?"

"Aye.  Mi granfether's a lay preeacher at t'chapel in Uggle-matters by
His sarmons is famous, tha knaws.  People cum for miles to 'ear 'im
speyk.  He says he gives Divil a reight run for his money when he gets
gooin.  I might ger 'im that book what yer were reading.
Astagorritwithi?"

"Pardon?"

"Book.  Astagorritwithi, so's I can mek a note on t'title?"

I took the book from my briefcase and watched as he copied down the
title in his large, untidy writing.  "Champion," he said when he had
finished.  "It'll do fer Granfether for 'is birthday."  Then he
inclined his head in the direction of Mandy who was busy scratching
away at her scalp on the next table, and whispered, "See that lass, 'er
wi' gob on 'er, well she's 'ad nits, tha knaws.  By looks in it she's
still gorrem.  Tha wants to keep a fair distance, otherwise that'll be
teckin' 'ome sum mat that niwer bargained fer."

Mr.  Sharpies heard my critical preliminary report at the end of the
day with the sort of impassive expression a professional mourner would
have spent a lifetime perfecting.

"Firstly, Mr.  Sharpies, I have to tell you that the quality of
teaching and learning and the standards of attainment in the school are
just not high enough.  Reading and writing standards are low in
relation to the children's ages and the basic skills of spelling are
unsatisfactory.  The children arrive from the Infants with a reasonable
command of language and read soundly enough but their progress from
then on is slow."  I referred to my notes.  "I have seen no
enthusiastic and optimistic teachers today and no lesson which I could
judge to be good.  Indeed, there was no purpose to two of the lessons I
observed, no clear objectives or careful planning, and the range of
teaching strategies was very narrow.  Do you wish to comment on
that?"

"No," replied the Headteacher bluntly.

"The exterior of the building is very drab and uninviting something you
cannot do much about but the inside is little better."

"What's the state of the building got to do with education?"  he asked.
"Provided the place is clean and warm, we don't need to turn the place
into some exotic showcase."

"Do you not think children work better in a bright, attractive and
welcoming environment where their efforts are displayed around them
rather than in a series of drab classrooms containing little to
interest or challenge them?"

"I don't place much importance on that sort of thing," he replied
dismissively.

"The book stock is poor, there are very few dictionaries in the
building and the work as a whole needs to be far better directed.  I
really feel there needs to be more enjoyment, more excitement and fun
in the curriculum, to get the children interested and wanting to
learn."

Mr.  Sharpies sighed heavily when I had finished, stared at me for a
moment with his great doleful eyes, and then remarked:' I became a head
teacher Mr.  Phinn, as I mentioned to you when you arrived, to educate
the young, to teach children, but what do I have to deal with, day in,
day out?"

Nits and knickers, I thought to myself, recalling the earlier
conversation.

"Difficult parents, interfering governors and critical school
inspectors, that's what.  They are the very bane of my life.  I'm just
not allowed to get on with my job in peace and quiet.  It's very easy
to sit in judgement for a day, Mr.  Phinn, but I have to be here day in
and day out."  He made his chosen profession sound like a prison
sentence.  "This job gets more and more difficult.  The stresses and
strains, the pressures and problems I have to cope with.  People just
don't realise.  They have no idea.  You've seen the children who attend
this school.  If I had the raw material then I might be able to get the
results you say I should be getting.  But look at where these children
come from.  I mean, what can you expect?"

"Mr.  Sharpies," I said slowly, 'surely that is what good teachers do
they have high expectations.  They expect the moon.  Now I appreciate
the many pressures and stresses in education at the moment, but anyone
who becomes a head teacher must realise that dealing with difficult
parents, interfering governors and critical school inspectors is part
and parcel of the job.  I will, of course, be sending a detailed
written report to the school, outlining the issues you need to address
and giving suggestions on how you might improve.  I shall also be
arranging to make a further series of visits."

"So I take it you are not entirely happy with what you have seen?" said
the Headteacher wearily, studying his fingernails.

"No, Mr.  Sharpies, I am not.  I would not be doing my job if I told
you that everything in the garden was rosy."

The Headteacher looked up at this point and glowered.  "Well, speaking
of gardens, Mr.  Phinn, that story you read to us at assembly about a
giant who dropped dead under a tree did not exactly put us all in a
good-humoured mood, did it?  It certainly didn't bring a smile to my
face."  He got to his feet.  "I don't have to listen to any more of
this," he said.  "Just put in your official report.  And now, if you
don't mind, I've had a very hard day."

With that, he walked across his office and held open the door, clearly
indicating that the inspection was over.

Cold wind and slanting rain swept about the car as I left the dark,
brooding village.  The overcast sky, dark desolate moors and great
looming fells made me feel extraordinarily depressed.  I never liked
giving a poor report but sometimes it was needed.  A few sheep were
still nibbling at the wiry grass, and the hooded crows perched in the
branches of the dead oak did not look as though they had moved all day.
One of the sheep looked up as I drove slowly past.  It was a fat ram
with curly horns, a black face with a white snout and great doleful
eyes.  It stared impassively and reminded me so much of the Headteacher
of Ugglemattersby County Junior School.

Mrs.  Savage appeared very much at home in the entrance hall of Lord
Marrick's stately home and blended in beautifully with the pale colours
of the room.  She was dressed in an elegant cream coat beneath which
she wore a flowing blue chiffon dress and her fingers, wrists, ears and
neck had a generous assortment of showy gold jewellery.  Standing
before the huge and magnificently carved chimney-piece and below the
oil painting of some military ancestor of Lord Marrick's, she looked
like the Lady of the Manor waiting for a photograph to be taken, with
her imperious expression and hands clasped formally before her.

"Ah, Mr.  Phinn," she said, advancing and clicking noisily with her
heels on the white inlaid marble floor.  "You are here at last."

I glanced at my watch.  "It's only just gone eight," I replied.  "I
didn't want to get here too early."

"As you know," she replied haughtily, "I like things to be done
efficiently and thoroughly and not leave anything to chance.  I want to
make certain that every final detail has been taken on board."

It was the Saturday of the Feoffees Pageant and the weather was
perfect, the sky a cloudless blue and it was warm for the end of May.
Marquees and multi-coloured tents were scattered on the green sward of
parkland to the front of Manston Hall.  The event was to start at 11.00
am when the Feoffees would process in full regalia and Lord Marrick
would officially open proceedings.  Already the area around the hall
was a hive of activity.  The police bandsmen had arrived and were busy
setting up their chairs and music stands near a small stone obelisk, an
officious army sergeant with a bristling moustache was berating a squad
of young soldiers beside three huge, shiny tanks and assorted army
vehicles, and an R.A.F dog handler was putting his savage-looking
beasts through their paces.  A juggler, in a colourful patchwork
outfit, was entertaining a knot of little boys in surplices, red
cassocks and stiff white collars.  Stallholders were busy arranging
their wares, jewellery, pottery, cakes, books, bras sware and all
manner of items on long trestle tables.

I had spent the previous morning with Mrs.  Savage, no longer being
able to avoid a face-to-face meeting.  Her brief had been merely to
deal with the administration but, true to form, she had expanded her
role and had insisted on marching around the park, checking items off
against a large clipboard of notes held officiously in front of her.
She had made certain that the Exhibition marquee was absolutely as
ordered, that the staging had been correctly assembled for the drama
productions, that the covered area for the gymnastics area conformed to
all the safety regulations, and that the Orangery was properly set up
for the Youth Orchestra.  The various group organisers were obviously
well in control and regarded Mrs.  Savage with a mixture of irritation
and amusement.

"I may be something of a stickler, Mr.  Phinn," said Mrs.  Savage now,
'but I do like everything to be She stopped mid-sentence when a
barrel-bodied, bow-legged bulldog with pinky-white jowls and pale
unfriendly eyes appeared from the direction of the library.  "What a
remarkably ugly-looking creature," she said.  The dog made a low
rumbling noise and displayed a set of sharp teeth.  Mrs.  Savage strode
towards it.  "Shoo!"  she snapped.  The dog stared at her with its cold
grey button eyes.  "Shoo!"  she repeated, smacking her hands together
sharply, her heavy jewellery jangling.

The dog hesitated for a moment in disbelief, then slunk away whining.
Laetitia had met her match.

I followed Mrs.  Savage's rapid progress down the stone steps of the
hall and towards a large marquee, outside which was a big sign
announcing education exhibition.  We were just about to enter the tent
when a small man in a blue boiler suit approached.  He addressed Mrs.
Savage.  "I've been looking for you."

She gave him one of her famous condescending looks.  "Really?"

"Where do you want it, love?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your tent?"

"Tent?"  She arched an eyebrow.

"Your tent," he repeated.  "Where do you want it putting?"

"What are you talking about?"  she said irritably.  "I don't know
anything about a tent."

"Where you're doing your fortune-telling."

"Do I look remotely like a fortune teller?"  she asked in a sharp and
strident tone of voice, her eyes shining with intensity.

"I was told to look for a woman in blue and yella wi' lots o' bangles
and beads."

With a clash of bracelets, she pointed in the opposite direction.
"Well, I suggest you look elsewhere.  I am certainly not Gypsy Rose
Lee."

"Sorry, I'm sure," said the man as Mrs.  Savage disappeared into the
marquee.

The art exhibition was magnificent.  Sidney had worked hard the
afternoon before and produced a dazzling display of work.  There were
delicate watercolours, bold oil paintings, detailed line drawings,
portraits in chalk and charcoals, rural scenes in inks, sculptures,
embroideries, tapestries and collages.  It was a mass of colour.  On
large boards a range of poetry and tidy handwritten accounts of
historical events had been displayed.  Behind the Education marquee,
teachers were preparing for the drama production, going over final
details with their young charges, while a troop of junior gymnasts was
practising on large blue mats.  In the Orangery members of the Youth
Orchestra were rehearsing for their performance which would take place
later that morning.

"Well," said Mrs.  Savage, smiling uncharacteristically, as we headed
back towards the hall, "I think everything is in order."

I had to hand it to the woman.  Things had been organised extremely
well.  She had contacted schools and arranged for the children's work
to be collected for my exhibition.  I had done very little, apart from
suggesting the various activities and inviting teachers to take part.

"Yes," I said.  "You've worked very hard."

She stared at me for a moment.  "Thank you," she said.  "I think we
both deserve a cup of coffee."  She gestured in the direction of the
Refreshment Tent.  "Shall we?"

The Feoffees Pageant went like clockwork.  At eleven o'clock on the
dot, Lord Marrick, as Greave and Chief Lord of the Feoffees, dressed in
a long scarlet gown and heavy gold chain, followed the Mace Bearer and
led a line of largely elderly men in dark suits and bowler hats.  They
processed up the steps of Manston Hall where Lord Marrick made a speech
and officially opened the pageant to celebrate the Feoffees' five
hundredth anniversary.

The police band struck up a rousing tune and the park was soon full of
people, pushing and jostling through the exhibitions, watching the
performances, listening to the music or just sitting relaxing in the
warm sunshine.

"Splendid!  Splendid!"  said Dr.  Gore later that morning as he entered
the marquee where the children's work was displayed.  He was dressed in
a charcoal grey suit with his bowler hat perched rakishly on the side
of his head.  I suppressed a smile.  "It really does look impressive in
here.  Wonderful work.  Quite delightful.  The Youth Orchestra are
going great guns in the Orangery and the gymnastics are about to begin
so I must pop back and see those.  I just wanted to call in to say how
well everyone has done.  I think we can say that the Education
Department has held its own, eh?"  Before I could respond, he strode
off, rubbing his hands and repeating enthusiastically, "Splendid!
Splendid!"

"I think the old man's pleased," remarked Sidney phlegmatically.

Mrs.  Savage stood at the door to the office, dressed in a wildly
striped multi-coloured smock, long cream silk scarf, pale grey boots
and the usual assortment of heavy clanking jewellery.  Her hair was
curled up in long tendrils on her head and held in place by a great
silver clasp in the shape of a spider.  It was well before nine o'clock
on the first morning of the following week.  Mrs.  Savage rarely
ventured into the Inspectors' Office at the best of times and to see
her at the crack of dawn was entirely unexpected, not to say
disconcerting.

"I could hear the noise from the bottom of the stairs," she said to no
one in particular, in that sharp, disapproving voice of hers.

"We were laughing," said Sidney, smiling in such an exaggerated fashion
that he looked quite manic.  "We were sharing an amusing story, a funny
little anecdote, a whimsical moment, an engaging little account."  He
was rather labouring the point.  "Schools are funny places, you know,
my dear Mrs.  Savage."

"Really?"  replied our visitor, retaining her sour expression and
clearly irritated by Sidney's exaggerated good humour.

"Mr.  Pritchard was telling us about his recent visit to an infant
school," Harold told her.  "Weren't you, David?"  His colleague nodded
slightly and it was clear he was not going to relate the story for the
benefit of Mrs.  Savage, of whom he had an abiding dislike.  "Yes,"
continued Harold amiably, 'it was a most entertaining little tale.  Mr.
Pritchard had asked this small boy if he had been anywhere interesting
over the Easter holiday and the little chap told him he had been to
Scarborough for the day.  "And did you go on a donkey?"  Mr.  Pritchard
asked him.  "Oh no," the child replied, "I went in my dad's car."
Harold chuckled.  "The things children say nowadays."

"Yes, well I'm sure that's all very amusing, Dr.  Yeats," said Mrs.
Savage, without the trace of a smile.

"And how may we help you?"  enquired Harold.

"I have called over for two reasons.  Firstly, Dr.  Gore, to whom I
spoke on Sunday, was very pleased with everyone's efforts with regard
to the Feoffees Pageant and asked me to convey his appreciation.  He
will be writing to you formally to express his thanks.  Things went
extremely well and Lord Marrick was particularly grateful for all the
hard work that had been expended."

"That is very good to hear, Mrs.  Savage," Harold told her.

Mrs.  Savage turned in my direction.  "I would appreciate it, Mr.
Phinn, if you could come across and see me some time."  I heard Sidney
stifle a laugh.  She gave him a quick glance.  "We need to put our
heads together to compile a report on the Feoffees Pageant for Dr.
Gore's annual report to the Education Committee."

"Yes," I said, "I'll give you a ring."

"It would be more convenient for me if we could do it now.  Have you a
window in your diary?"

"I'll have a look," I said.

While I was flicking through the pages in my diary, she turned her
attention to Harold.  "The second and more important reason for my
visit, Dr.  Yeats, concerns a much less pleasant matter."  David rolled
his eyes and Sidney adopted his usual pose, placing his hands behind
his head, leaning back in his chair and fixing his gaze on the ceiling.
Mrs.  Savage continued undeterred.  "I've come up especially early
before you all disappear off on school visits.  I need to talk to you
all together."

David drew in a long weary breath, sighed dramatically and shook his
head.  Sidney continued to look heavenwards.  Mrs.  Savage fixed them
with a venomous stare.

"That sounds ominous," said Harold in the most pleasant of voices and
no doubt hoping to defuse a potentially explosive situation.  "Do
enlighten us, Mrs.  Savage."

David looked abstractedly out of the window, Sidney didn't move a
muscle and I feigned interest in a diary entry, so she had no one
except Harold on whom to focus her icy stare.

"As you will be aware, Dr.  Yeats, part of my remit is to record all
the weekly forecasts that the inspectors complete when they are sent to
me each Friday afternoon.  This procedure is so Dr.  Gore knows where
all the inspectors are during the following week.  I'm sure I don't
have to tell you that."

"No, Mrs.  Savage, you do not have to tell us that," echoed David in a
weary voice.  "I have been filling in those engagement sheets for time
immemorial."

"Well," she continued, unperturbed by the interruption, "I have to say
that some of the weekly programmes from this office, sent to me last
term, were of times incomplete, sometimes inaccurate, frequently
illegible and, on a growing number of occasions' she paused and tried
to gain Sidney's attention by glaring pointedly in his direction "I
have received no programmes at all.  Now, it is essential that Dr. Gore
knows exactly where all the inspectors are during the week."

"Why?"  asked David, suddenly turning from the window.

"I beg your pardon, Mr.  Pritchard?"

"Why exactly does Dr.  Gore need to know where we all are every minute
of the day?"

"Because he may wish to contact you in an emergency."

Sidney suppressed a snort rather ineffectually.  "We are school
inspectors, Mrs.  Savage, not the air-sea rescue."

"Nevertheless, he needs to know where you are."

"In all my twenty-odd years as a school inspector," David said, 'there
has been not one, single occasion when any sort of emergency has arisen
which demanded my immediate and undivided attention and there has been
nothing so very important that it could not wait until the next day."

"Suppose a member of the Education Committee requires an urgent answer
to a query?"  She was certainly persistent.

"He or she should be able to wait until the following morning, surely,"
stated Harold with amused detachment.

"It is our business to respond promptly and effectively," continued
Mrs.  Savage with lofty disdain, 'and to make the system more
efficient, I have, with Dr.  Gore's full approval, decided on a new
procedure."

"Oh dear, oh dear," groaned David, 'not another mass of paperwork and
more wretched forms to fill in?"

"What about next Thursday?"  I suggested, hoping to curtail the lively
and increasingly belligerent exchange.

"Pardon?"  asked Mrs.  Savage.

"For me to come across to see you.  At about five o'clock?"

"Yes, yes, that sounds fine.  Now about these new procedures.  Dr. Gore
has asked me to get you up to speed," announced Mrs.  Savage, adjusting
the silk scarf as she caught sight of her reflection in the glass of
the door.

"Get us up to what?"  demanded Sidney.

"Up to speed," repeated Mrs.  Savage, slowly and deliberately.  "Fully
conversant with the changes."

Over the past few months Mrs.  Savage had been attending a course for
education officers.  Returning from her weekly lectures and seminars
and filled with new ideas and concepts, she had initiated a number of
changes in the administration of the Education Department.  The module
she had undertaken on selection procedures, for example, had resulted
in new and complicated procedures for appointing staff.  Gerry
Mullarkey had been the first on the receiving end of that.  Another
transformation was in Mrs.  Savage's vocabulary.  She had adopted a
completely new language, a language full of jargon, psychobabble and
gobbledygook.  A foreigner with a good grasp of English, on meeting
Mrs.  Savage, would assume that she was from another planet, such was
the incomprehensible nature of her language.  David had entertained us
one afternoon with an account of the recent meeting of the standing
committee concerned with pupils who had been expelled from school,
which he chaired.  Mrs.  Savage had been 'deputed', as she informed
him, 'to act as rapporteur'.

"She managed to translate perfectly clear, readable and succinct
comments into the most meaningless twaddle that I have ever heard.
There was one lad, who had been expelled from school for answering back
and shouting at the teachers.  He was a damn nuisance, that's what he
was, and needed a few days off school to cool off- or more likely, "a
good, tidy slap", as my old Welsh grandmother used to say.  In the
minutes, Mrs.  Savage, who is now, after her DIY education course,
something of an expert on difficult children, as well as every other
blessed thing, had it recorded in a sort of gibberish."  He had reached
across his desk and plucked a piece of paper from his out-tray.  "Here,
listen to this for complete and utter nonsense: "One behaviour ally
challenged student with ADHD (attention-deficit-hyperactive-disorder)
and ODS op positional-defiance-syndrome) came from a multi-delinquent
family with siblings high on the incarceration index."  In simple
English it means he was loud-mouthed and troublesome and his brothers
were behind bars.  When I enquired of our "rapporteur" if she were now
our resident psychologist, she gave me that look which would turn you
to stone.  The woman's going off the rails or, as she might term it,
she has "manic episode stress-inducing disorder" or, as I might
describe it, "pain in the neck syndrome"."

"As I was saying," continued Mrs.  Savage now, "I am here at the behest
of Dr.  Gore to explain the new procedures and to get you all up to
speed.  We do not want anyone off-message, do we?  I would like,
starting now, for all the inspectors to complete a blue Form IMF."

"A what?"  snapped David.

"International Monetary Fund," explained Sidney.

"The Inspectors' Monthly Forecast form!"  exclaimed Mrs.  Savage. "This
will replace the green Form IWF, the Inspectors' Weekly Forecast form,
which you send to me at present.  I will now know well in advance where
you are during the days and evenings and then'

"Evenings?"  interrupted David.  "What's this about evenings?  You want
to know what we are doing in the evenings?  Good gracious me, this gets
worse and worse."

Mrs.  Savage gave a twisted little smile.  "Only if it's official
County business, Mr.  Pritchard.  I am not the slightest bit interested
in what you get up to in your own time."

"Just as well," said Sidney, looking in my direction.  "I am sure
Gervase would not wish to record the many assignations he has with a
certain young head teacher

"Now, should there be any changes you wish to make," continued Mrs.
Savage, ignoring him, 'you will need to complete a yellow Form AIMF, an
Amendment to the Inspectors' Monthly Forecast form.  All visits to
schools need to be recorded accurately and clearly and, should there be
any changes, the amendments noted.  Both the IMF and the AIMF should be
sent to me directly so I can make the necessary alterations and
adjustments to your programmes."

"In triplicate?"  asked Sidney sarcastically.

"I have brought over a batch of the new forms," she continued
undeterred, 'which I have left in your secretary's office and I would
like them returned to me completed, asap."  She stared pointedly again
in Sidney's direction.  "Now, it is important that we all come aboard
on this."

"Mrs.  Savage began David rising to his feet.

"Well, we will see how it goes, Mrs.  Savage," interrupted Harold with
the unruffled gentleness of the peacemaker.  Then, without conviction,
he added, "It sounds very reasonable to me."

"No, Harold!"  cried David.  "It does not sound at all reasonable.  I
have better things to do than complete a lot of silly forms.  I do not
wish to "get up to speed", to be frank, nor to "come aboard".  I am
quite content working at my own steady pace.  I am not on a running
track nor in a racing car.  I well recall some of Mrs.  Savage's other
hair-brained ideas and wonderful initiatives, such as wearing those
idiotic luminous identity badges, putting ridiculously complicated
codes on the photocopier or making us park in remote areas of the
County Hall miles away from this office.  All abandoned, as I recall. I
have no intention whatsoever of spending my time on forecasts or
filling in amendment sheets whether they be blue, green, red or
psychedelic pink!  I have more bumf on my desk than a Belgian
bureaucrat.  Now, if you will excuse me, I have a school to visit
because that is what I do for a job inspect schools and not sit around
pushing coloured paper backwards and forwards!"  With that David
snatched up his briefcase and departed.

"And much as I would like to debate the efficacy of your forms, Mrs.
Savage," Sidney told her, maintaining his carefully blank expression,
and heading for the door at the same time, "I too have an appointment
at nine o'clock in the far distant Dales."

Mrs.  Savage looked like a startled ostrich.  "Well..  ."  was all she
could muster to say in a strangled sort of voice.

"I will have a word with them, Mrs.  Savage," Harold told her gently,
'and, as I said, we will see how it goes.  I feel certain'

"I have to say I find your two colleagues very offhand, Dr.  Yeats,"
said Mrs.  Savage, regaining some composure and readjusting the
chiffon.  "I am only endeavouring to make the system more efficient,
that's all.  I do have a job to do and it makes it exceedingly
difficult if the people who'

"I'm sure you are only doing what you feel is for the best," reassured
Harold, showing his set of tombstone teeth.

"And I shall be mentioning their opposition to Dr.  Gore."  She looked
in my direction.  "Have you anything to say, Mr.  Phinn?"  she asked
curtly.

"Well, now you ask, Mrs.  Savage, I really do think that we have quite
enough paper arriving on our desks.  The present system seems to me to
work well and'

"I am sure there will be no problems," interposed Harold, rubbing his
large hands together.  "It shouldn't take all that long to complete
your forecasts.  Julie can check through my colleagues' desk diaries,
fill in the details and bring the forms over later today or
tomorrow."

"Where is your secretary, by the way, Dr.  Yeats?"  asked Mrs.  Savage
suddenly.

"I asked her to take our new colleague over to the main building and
show her where everything is post room, resources area, library, that
sort of thing."

"I see."

There was a clattering of shoes on the stairs and a few moments later
Julie arrived accompanied by the new science inspector who had arrived
that morning.

"Ah, I see you have arrived," said Mrs.  Savage, ignoring Julie and
addressing herself directly to Gerry Mullarkey.  She did not wait for
any response.  "I was expecting you this afternoon, but since you are
here, I'll explain a few things if you would like to accompany me over
to my office."

Gerry smiled an easy smile.  "And who are you?"  she enquired.

"I am Mrs.  Savage, Dr.  Gore's personal assistant," she responded
tartly.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs.  Savage," said Gerry in a quite charming
voice.

"What is your shorthand like?"  asked Mrs.  Savage.

"Non-existent."

"Your typing speed?"

"About a word a minute, I should think."

"Well, this does not sound at all encouraging.  Can you use a
dictaphone?"

"No."

"Have you any qualifications at all?"

"Well, I have a degree in physics, a masters degree in microbiology, a
Ph.D."  and I'm a Fellow of the Royal Institute of Chemists."

"Oh!"  exclaimed Mrs.  Savage.  "I thought you were the temporary
clerical assistant, from the agency in Fettlesham."

"No, no," interposed Harold, 'this is Dr.  Mullarkey, the new science
inspector, who has just started.  I believe you were on one of your
courses at the time of the interviews."

"Oh, I see.  Someone might have said something earlier, Dr.  Yeats.  I
assumed that Dr.  Mullarkey was a man."

"Most people do," replied Gerry.

Mrs.  Savage looked, for once, distinctly uncomfortable and I could not
wait to recount the episode to Sidney and David.

"Well, perhaps when you have a moment, Dr.  Mullarkey," said Mrs.
Savage, 'you could call up and see me in my office.  It's in the Annexe
to the rear of County Hall.  Well, I have work to do," she told us with
stiff finality, as though we were wilfully detaining he rand with that
she swept in the direction of the stairs.  She reappeared a second
later.  "And

I would appreciate those forms, Dr.  Yeats, as soon as possible."  "She
is the most objectionable, unpleasant, ill-mannered, sour-faced old
trout I have ever met!"  exclaimed Julie when Mrs.  Savage had finally
made her grand exit.  "Swarming about in that ridiculous coloured tent
of a dress like Florence of Arabia, treating everybody like yesterday's
left-overs.  Never said one word to me.  Did you notice that?  Not a
word.  And did you see the hair?  She looks like she's been frightened
by a firework.  And as for that plastic surgery she's had, it didn't
work, I can tell you that.  When you get close up, the skin that's been
stretched right back off her face is tucked under her chin like a
gerbil's pouch.  I reckon the surgeon must have been left-handed."

"Julie," I said, 'don't hold back.  Tell us what you really think about
Mrs.  Savage."  Laughter returned to the office.

"You never told me she was beautiful."

Christine and I were walking down the drive to Castlesnelling High
School on a warm Friday evening on our way to the final performance of
the staff and students' production of the musical Oliver!.  Christine
looked stunning.  Her hair shone golden, her blue eyes sparkled like
ice in the moonlight and the light-coloured, close-fitting coat showed
off perfectly her slim figure.  She looked like a movie star.  I felt
so proud to be with her.

"I didn't think it was important," I replied casually.

"You just said she was very clever, you never mentioned that she had
looks as well as brains."  Our conversation had got around to Dr. Gerry
Mullarkey, who had visited Winnery Nook School that day.  "She was
certainly singing your praises.  She said how helpful you had been."

"Really?"  I replied in a non-committal tone of voice.

"Taken her around schools, introduced her to all the important people,
helped her settle in, even shown her some of the wonderful scenery. You
must have seen quite a lot of her."

"Well, it's the least I can do.  After all, she is a new colleague and
everyone was really friendly when I started."  By this time we had
arrived at the entrance and a good opportunity for me, I thought, to
change the subject.  "I hope this production is going to be all right,"
I said, opening the door for Christine.  "The last play I saw here was
awful."

"Is she married?"

"Who?"

"Geraldine Mullarkey."

"No, she's not married."  I tried again to change the subject.  "It was
a gruesome production of Hamlet they did here last year.  The stage at
the end looked like a scene from the First World War, full of people
wounded and bleeding and dying and dead'

"And is she coming tonight?"  she asked, walking ahead of me.

"Christine, will you stop going on about Gerry.  No, of course she
isn't coming tonight.  She's the science inspector.  What would she be
doing at a school play?  If I didn't know you better I'd say you were
jealous."

"Well, she is very attractive."

"So you keep telling me."

"And you've been spending a great deal of time with her.  She said you
had been particularly helpful by attending a difficult meeting with her
a week ago.  Was that when you cancelled our night out at the
theatre?"

"Yes, it was, as a matter of fact."

"Mmmm."

"What's "Mmmm" supposed to mean?  Christine, there is nothing going on
between me and Gerry Mullarkey.  She's just a colleague."

"But a very attractive colleague with whom you have been out quite a
few times now."

"I've not been going out with her as you put it.  Ours is a purely
professional relationship."

"Has she got a boyfriend?"

"No, I don't think she has."

"Mmmm."

"There you go again."

We found our seats, smack in the centre of the front row and Christine
continued the conversation.

"You seem to be surrounded by good-looking women."

"Christine, most of my time is spent with small children,

spotty adolescents, ageing women teachers, married men, crusty county
councillors and nuns.  I don't know where you get this idea that I
spend my whole day with the contestants for Miss World.  You make me
sound like some sort of Casanova.  And, as for the Education Office,
it's like a men's club.  There's hardly a woman in sight."

"There's your secretary."

"She's not much more than a teenager and she's engaged."

"There's that very attractive woman with the expensive clothes."

"Which very attractive woman with the expensive clothes?"

"She was with Dr.  Gore earlier this week when he came to speak to the
infant school head teachers  She was wearing this incredible silk said
affair with masses of silver jewellery."

"You mean Mrs.  Savage!"  I exclaimed.

"She's very unusual and striking."

"Christine, the limestone caverns beneath Malham Tarn are very unusual
and striking, Pen-y-ghent in winter is very unusual and striking,
Hopton Crags are very unusual and striking, but I don't want to spend
all my time down a cave, up a mountain, or hanging off a cliff.  Mrs.
Savage would be the last woman on earth I would have any designs on.
I'd sooner play postman's knock with the bride of Frankenstein.  Mrs.
Savage is the most disagreeable person I have ever met.  And," I added
hotly, 'she's old."

"Mmmm," hummed Christine, smiling, "I do seem to have touched a raw
nerve."

I had been hoping for a pleasant, stress-free evening and a chance to
forget about the hectic couple of weeks I'd just had, but things were
not turning out like that.

Following my visit to Ugglemattersby County Junior School, I had taken
great care over my written critical report and then shown it to Harold.
He had sighed, shaken his head and told me to take a copy over to Dr.
Gore, who he felt needed to see it.  I had arrived at the CEO's office
first thing the next morning, despite knowing full well that there
would be very little possibility of getting a direct audience with the
great man himself.  Mrs.  Savage, no doubt, would be keeping vigil.
Sure enough, she had spotted me creeping down the top corridor, had
shot out of her room like a keen-eyed guard dog and had impeded my
progress, insisting that Dr.  Gore was very busy.  I had then been
asked to complete one of her wretched pieces of paper Form SIN i:
Schools in Need and I had spent a tedious ten minutes ticking a series
of little boxes, while she hovered over me like a malign presence.

Later that day I had been called to the telephone and informed by Mrs.
Savage that the CEO, having read my report, was very concerned about
the obvious weaknesses at Ugglemattersby School and a full inspection
was to be organised and that I should get on with it.

I emerged from my reverie about the tiresome day when the man who had
just come to sit on the next seat engaged me in conversation.  "Good
evening, Mr.  Phinn."

I turned to face the florid countenance and great walrus moustache of
Lord Marrick.

"Oh, good evening, Lord Marrick," I replied.

"I'm a governor here, you know," he said, explaining his presence at
the school play.  "Like to show the flag, support the school and all
that.  Actually, I'm glad I've bumped into you.  Just this week sent a
letter off to Dr.  Gore thanking you and your colleagues for all the
help with the Feoffees Pageant.  Went off really well."

"Yes, it seemed to be a great success," I said.

"Cracking day!"  he exclaimed.

I put my arm around Christine's shoulders and nudged her forward. "Lord
Marrick, may I introduce you to Christine Bentley, Headteacher of
Winnery Nook Infant and Nursery School?"

Lord Marrick leaned across me, took Christine's hand in his, patted it
gently and smiled warmly.  "Very pleased to meet you, Miss Bentley."

At this point we both caught sight of a large figure ambling towards
the front of the hall.  I recognised the thick neck, vast red face,
purple pitted nose and mop of unnaturally shiny, jet black hair.  It
was Councillor Peterson.

"Good God!"  exclaimed Lord Marrick, turning towards me.  "I hope
George Peterson isn't going to inflict himself on us.  I've never met a
man who can talk like him.  Case of verbal diarrhoea.  Pain in the
proverbials, he is."  The councillor spotted us, waved and headed in
our direction.  "He's seen us!  He's coming over.  Brace yourself, Mr.
Phinn."

Just at that moment the lights began to fade, the orchestra stopped
tuning up and the conductor, a dapper little man in a dinner jacket,
made his entrance.  Councillor Peterson thought better of coming over
to us and found a seat further along the row.  Both Lord Marrick and I
sighed with relief.

"Have you met Councillor Peterson?"  Lord Marrick whispered.

"Yes," I replied, "I've met him."

I had seen umpteen school productions of Oliver!  but this was the
first where live animals formed part of the cast.  I had advised the
Head of Drama, when he telephoned me before Easter to invite me to the
performance, that it was extremely risky to have animals on stage.
Children were unpredictable enough, but animals!  He told me that the
cat and dog he planned to use were very well trained and that he wanted
this production to be as authentic, different and memorable as
possible.  He ignored my advice.

All went well in the first half of the show.  In Act I, Widow Corney's
cat behaved impeccably, purring and mewing at just the right moments to
the delight of the audience.  When Mr.  Bumble stroked its head, it
meowed and yawned widely as if it had rehearsed this very movement;

it received a well-deserved flutter of applause.  The fat, bow-legged
bull terrier, Bullseye, pulled on to the stage by the fearsome-looking
Head of the PE Department playing the part of the villain, Bill Sikes,
also behaved remarkably well.  It sat obediently when commanded,
growling on cue and even snarling when Fagin appeared.  It was a
vicious-looking creature with a body like a small white barrel and when
it yawned it displayed a set of serrated teeth of frightening
proportions.  The Head of PE really took on the part of the bullying
thief with a vengeance.  He was a huge, hairy, swarthy complexioned
individual with a great booming voice and a twisted sneer.  He roared
and threatened, banging his cudgel so hard on tables, chairs and
anything in his path that the very stage set shook.  The children in
Fagin's gang looked genuinely terrified of him.

It happened in the very last act.  Nancy (the Head of the Food
Technology Department) had just finished a rousing rendering of'As Long
As He Needs Me'.  She had put her heart and soul into the singing
because it was the last night and all her family and friends occupied a
large block of seats in the middle of the hall.  They had shown loud
appreciation every time she had made an appearance on stage.  It was
the denouement of the drama.  Nancy had brought Oliver to the meeting
place on London Bridge to return him to his family but she had been
followed by Bill Sikes.  He entered a darkened stage dragging the fat,
snarling brute behind him.  The stumpy little tail was tucked down (not
a good sign, I learned later), the barrel body was quivering and the
small, grey, shark eyes looked distinctly sinister.

"What you doin' on London Bridge at this time o' night, Nancy, my gel?"
growled Bill Sikes.  The dog made a deep, low, rumbling sound.

"Bill!"  cried the Head of the Food Technology Department in a
plaintive voice.  "Why do you look at me like that?"

The Head of PE glowered, curled his top lip, shook his cudgel
menacingly and moved towards his victim.  The dog snarled, as if on
cue.  "It's dark 'ere under the arches, aint it, Nancy, my gel, but
there's light enough for wot I got to do."

"Whadaya mean, Bill?"

"You've opened them pretty red lips of yours, Nancy, once too often but
you'll not be opening 'em again .. . he ver  He then gave a great tug
on the piece of rope attached to the dog.  Bullseye had planted his bow
legs firmly on the boards, however and did not move an inch.

"Come on, Bullseye!"  commanded the Head of PE in a voice as rough as
gravel and gave the rope another great tug.  The dog lifted its fat,
round head slightly and fixed him with its cold button eyes.  Then it
shot like a cannonball straight for him, snarling and slavering.

"Bloody hell!"  shrieked the Head of PE and, dropping his cudgel, shot
offstage right, leaving the dog centre stage and Nancy frozen at the
other side.  The animal eyed her viciously and began to move slowly in
her direction.  The conductor, with great presence of mind, took charge
of the situation and, tapping his baton on his music stand, led the
orchestra into a reprise of'As Long As He Needs Me'.  The Head of the
Food Technology Department, in a frightened little voice, quavered the
song to a hushed audience.  The dog ambled across the stage, surveyed
her for a moment, growled and then displayed his magnificent set of
teeth.

There was a voice offstage.  "Here, Daisy, here, girl!  Daisy, come on,
Daisy, here, girl!"  The dog remained rooted to the spot, snarling and
snapping its jaws.  The Head of the Food Technology Department stopped
singing and, terrified, stared at the beast as it edged closer.

"This is no bloody good at all!"  Lord Marrick said loudly, rising to
his feet.  He strode to the side of the stage, mounted the steps,
skirted round the trembling Nancy and took hold of the dog's collar.
"Now then, Daisy!"  he commanded staring down into the animal's
shimmering eyes.  "Sit!  Down!"  The dog returned the gaze for a
moment, then flopped flat to the floor.  "Come to heel!"  ordered Lord
Marrick.  The dog scrabbled to its feet obediently and was led offstage
to loud, appreciative clapping.  A rather shame-faced Bill Sikes
reappeared, quickly despatched Nancy by strangulation and made an
embarrassed exit.

"Well, that were a rum do," observed Councillor Peterson, scratching
his head as we headed for the exit at the end of the performance.

"They just need to know who's the master," said Lord Marrick, looking
pretty pleased with himself.

Following the play, Christine and I went out to dinner in Fettlesham.
By the time we reached the restaurant we were both in high spirits.
Re-living the play's unusual climax, we laughed until we cried.  Over
coffee, I looked across the table at her.  She looked so beautiful.
Perhaps this was the moment to tell her that I had fallen for her in a
big way.

"Gervase," she said suddenly, 'there's something I feel I have to tell
you."

"Oh," I said.  This sounded horribly ominous.

"Well, it's rather embarrassing, but I really do have to tell you."

"What?"  My heart sank.  She was going to tell me she did not want to
see me again, that she was not prepared to share me with Gerry, that
she'd heard about office affairs, that there were other fish in the
sea, that she had met someone else.  "What?"  I asked again.  "What is
it?"

"Well," she paused and glanced away from my piercing gaze.  It looked
to me as if there was a slight smile on her lips.  "It's really very
difficult but someone has to tell you."

"Tell me, tell me," I insisted.

"Now it's not something you should feel at all ashamed about."

"For goodness sake, Christine, put me out of my misery."

"It is quite embarrassing but'

"Christine!  Will you tell me?"

"You have some little lodgers."

"Lodgers?"  I was utterly perplexed.

"In your hair."

"In my hair?"

"Please stop repeating me," she said.  "It's difficult enough as it
is."  She took a deep breath before whispering, "You've got nits."

"Nits!"  I cried.  Several heads turned in our direction.

"You've been, um, scratching all night.  It's quite common for those
who work with children to get head lice.  You've probably been in a
school where a child has them.  I see lots of cases.  Now, tomorrow you
must go straight to the chemist and get some medicated shampoo and a
very thin metal comb."

"Yes, miss," I said quietly.  "Is there anything else you wish to tell
me?"

"Well, I think you're free of scabies," she replied laughing.

"Will you still go out with me?"

"When you have got rid of the little lodgers," she said smiling
warmly.

I was outside the chemist's bright and early the next morning.  While I
waited for the shop to open, I considered where I might have picked up
the nasty nits.  It could not have been from my first visit to
Ugglemattersby School because that had been over a month before.
However, I had recently paid the school a second visit and now
remembered that the self-same Mandy Wilmott had been scratching away at
her wild and woolly hair when I had sat in on her class to see if any
improvements had been made.

A young woman in a bright white nylon overall opened the door at nine
o'clock, and smiled at me as I entered.  This is oh so embarrassing, I
thought to myself.

"May I help you, sir?"  she asked brightly.

"Yes, I'd like .. . something .. . for .. . for .. ."

She detected my embarrassment.  "Something for the .  weekend?"

"No, no!"  I exclaimed.  "I'd like .. . er .. ."

"Would you prefer a male assistant to help you, sir?"

"Pardon?"

"Is the item you wish to purchase of a personal and intimate nature?
Would you prefer the manager to serve you?"  She smiled knowingly.

"Oh, well yes, it is of a personal nature.  I want something for
lice."

"Is that for head lice?"  she asked.

"Oh yes, definitely head lice."

"Right," she said and dipped down behind the counter.  "There's this
very good shampoo and you need a fine metal comb as well.  Is it for
your little girl?  Long hair often proves very attractive."  I nodded.
"Poor thing.  You need to put plenty of conditioner on her hair and
comb it thoroughly when it's wet.  Nits can't stick to hair with
conditioner on."

"I see."

"Is there anything else?"

"No, no, that's all," I said, paying for the items before beating a
hasty retreat.

Most of the weekend was spent washing and showering and scrubbing and
combing and by Monday my visitors had gone.  I arrived at the office to
find my colleagues in very high spirits.

"I could hear the noise from the bottom of the stairs," I said as I
entered.

"You sound just like Mrs.  Savage," Sidney told me with tears in his
eyes, and that set everybody off into paroxysms of laughter.

"Don't come in!"  shouted David.  "Stay at the door."

"Oh no, no, you can't come in yet, Gervase," commanded Sidney.

"Whatever is going on?"  I asked from the doorway.

"Oh, do tell him, Sidney!"  cried David.  "Do tell him!"

"Tell me what?"  I demanded.

"They couldn't have found a more deserving home," chuckled David.

"What are you talking about?"  I asked, getting irritated.

"For goodness sake, let him in," said Harold.

"I think you should tell him, David, and savour the moment," said
Sidney.

There was a great gasping in-drawing of breath and then David, trying
to keep a straight face, announced: "Mrs.  Savage has got nits!"

"What?"  I cried.

"She sent over one of her bits of coloured paper this morning,"
explained Julie with smears of mascara down her cheeks.

"Known from this day on as Form NIT i," said David.  "And on it she
says '

"No!  No, wait a minute, let me read it!"  cried Sidney, plucking a
pink sheet of paper from his in-tray.  Then he read the memo in a
mock-serious tone.  "Members of staff should note that there has been
an outbreak of head lice in the Education Department at County Hall.
Employees should take the necessary precautions, check their hair and
scalp and, should they discover any infestation, remain off work, use
the appropriate medicated hair treatment from a chemist and only return
to duty when clear.  Head lice, Pedicus hum anus are small insects and
feed by sucking blood through the scalp."  Julie, will you stop
laughing, I'm trying to read this.  "Lice find it difficult to escape
wet hair when combed because it is slippery and they can't get a grip
so "' By now everyone was bent double in paroxysms of laughter.  "Oh, I
give up!"  roared Sidney.

"Julie phoned Mavis on the main switchboard," spluttered David, 'and
found out that Mrs.  Savage has been infested along with most of the
top corridor.  Everyone reckons she's the carrier.  She was seen
scratching her way into the CEO's room first thing this morning.
Evidently Dr.  Gore has now banished her until she's got rid of
them."

"I do think you are all being a little unkind to Mrs.  Savage," said
Harold, attempting to suppress his laughter.  "I'm sure that she is not
as bad as she is painted.  She can be quite charming and it can't be
nice to have lice."

"I must remember that little phrase the next time she comes over here
with her silly bits of paper," said David.  "It can't be nice to have
lice."

"And before you can enter here, dear boy," said Sidney to me, holding
up his hand like a crossing patrol warden, 'you have to be thoroughly
checked.  We have our own resident expert on insects, mini beasts
parasites and wildlife.  I give you Dr.  Geraldine Mullarkey."

Gerry jumped up from her desk, directed me to a chair, tilted back my
head and peered at my scalp.  She moved a few strands of hair with her
long fingers.  "All clear," she announced.  "Cleanest hair I've seen in
months."

"Ah, Gervase," sighed Sidney, leaning back in his chair and putting his
hands behind his head.  "What a way to start the week to have a
beautiful young woman run her soft fingers through your hair.  It's
worth having nits for."

I turned very very red and prayed that my colleagues would think the
blush emanated from being so close to the enchanting Dr.  Mullarkey
rather than for the real reason.  As I fiddled with some papers on my
desk, I recalled that in the middle of the previous week I had been
across to the Annexe to discuss my second visit to Ugglemattersby
with

Dr.  Gore and that I had had to wait for some time in Mrs.  Savage's
office until he could see me.  I now had a very nasty suspicion that I
had been the original carrier of the little lodgers to the top floor.

There was a sharp rap on the glass.  A large, round, red-faced
policeman peered into the car and gestured for me to wind down the
window.

"May I help you, officer?"  I asked.

"Yes, sir, I think you can," was the reply.  "What exactly are you
doing?"

"Pardon?"  I was quite taken aback by the sharpness of his manner.

"I asked you what exactly are you doing?"

"Nothing," I replied.  Help!  Was my tax disc out of date or were my
tyres worn down to an illegal state?  "Is there something wrong?"

"We have had a number of calls from several concerned residents in this
vicinity, and from a teacher reporting a suspicious-looking character
parked outside the school and watching the children as they enter. And,
furthermore," he emphasised the words, 'making notes in a black
book."

"Oh, I see."  I sighed with relief.  "I can explain."

"I hope you can, sir.  Would you mind stepping out of the car?"

"Yes, yes, of course."

"I have been observing you for the last five minutes and your behaviour
does give rise to a number of questions."  He took out his notebook and
flicked it open.  "Now, sir .. ."

"I'm a school inspector," I explained.

"I see," he said, looking decidedly unconvinced.  "School inspector."
He wrote it down.  "And you have some means of identification, do you,
sir?"

"Of course," I replied, reaching for my wallet and producing my County
Hall identity card which was promptly plucked from my hand.  He then
carefully scrutinized the photograph, looked earnestly at me, copied
down the details and snapped the book shut.

"Is everything in order, officer?"  I asked.

"It appears to be, sir, but if I may say so, it is unwise to sit
outside a school watching the children go in and out.  It does lend
itself to speculation.  Much better to go in and make your presence
known to the Headteacher."

"Yes, officer, quite right," I answered sheepishly.  "It won't happen
again.  It's just that I arrived rather early for my appointment.  I
shall, of course, take your advice in future.  It just never occurred
to me."  The policeman nodded seriously but made no effort to move.
"So, if that's all?"

"I'll accompany you on to the premises, sir, if I may."

So I was escorted across the road, down the school path and to the
entrance of Tupton Road Primary School, watched with interest by
assorted children, a gaggle of whispering parents and a large,
solemn-faced crossing patrol warden who held her stop!  children
crossing!  sign like some Wagnerian operatic heroine wielding a
spear.

I was greeted at the door of the school by a lean middle-aged woman
with a pale, indrawn face.  Behind her stood her small, nervous-looking
companion who clutched an umbrella like a defensive weapon.  The taller
of the two had large dark eyes which looked even darker nestling as
they were in heavy black make-up.  The pale face and black eyes gave
her the appearance of a racoon.

"Is there something wrong, officer?"  she exclaimed.

"Are you the Headteacher?"  asked the policeman.

"Yes, I am," she replied in an anxious voice.  "Mrs.  Daphne Wilson.
Has there been an accident?"

The policeman ignored the question.  "Do you know this gentleman,
madam?"

"Never seen him before in my life," she said, staring intently at me.

"He was the man in the car outside the school, Mrs.  Wilson.  The one I
telephoned the police about," added the small woman with the
umbrella.

"Oh, was he?"  said the Headteacher.

My heart sank.  The school secretary emerged from her office and
scrutinized me as if trying to put a name to a familiar face.  A moment
later the caretaker appeared from the school hall, armed with a
sweeping brush, and glared at me as if I had walked across his wet
floor.  "I'm Gervase Phinn!"  I announced to the knot of observers.
"The school inspector."  My audience continued to gape.  "From the
Education Office in Fettlesham.  I have an appointment."

"Oh yes, of course," said the Headteacher, reddening with
embarrassment.  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 identity, departed, pausing at the gates of the
school to reassure 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 class."

"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, sex 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 reassuringly 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
class.

Mrs.  Thickett's classroom 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 assorted 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
classroom 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
classroom 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 apron.  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 glasses 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 snatched 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 classroom 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 Saturday 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-assurance 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 shit 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."

"Well, what word should I use then?"

"Just say you've got dirt on your shoe."

"But it's not dirt, is it?  It's shit."

Oh dear, I thought for the umpteenth time that day, another fine mess I
have got myself into.

Mrs.  Wilson, who had obviously been privy to this exchange, suddenly
appeared at my side and whispered in my ear, "Perhaps he could say
"excrement on his sole" or "faeces on his feet" or "poo on his shoe". I
feel certain it will be somewhere in that inspectors' handbook of
yours, Mr.  Phinn."  There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

I decided to persevere and turned back to Sam.  "What does your mum say
if you have it on your shoe?"

"Have what on mi shoe?"

"You know what."  I pointed to his feet.

"She makes me tek mi shoes off."

"Well, take them off, Sam, get your reading book and come into the
Reading Corner with me."

When I had finally prevailed upon him to come on the carpet, he stood
close to me with an expressionless face.  "Yes?"  he asked.

"Would you like to read to me?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, I would really like you to."

Sam took a blustering breath.  "No, I don't think so.  I've bin heard
reading already today by Mrs.  Wilson and I'm not in t'mood for another
session at t'moment.  Mebbe later on."

With that he walked away, retrieved his shoes, examined the soles
critically and returned to his desk.

Just before lunch Sam arrived with a rather dog-eared reading book with
a grey cover.  It was called Dan and Nan have Fun.

"I'll read to you now if you want," he announced.  "But I'm not reight
good.  I'm a slow reader that knaws and I'm still on the Reading Scheme
books.  Most others in t'class are free readers.  I don't know why, but
I just don't seem to tek to reading."

"Don't worry about that, Sam," I said, pleased to see him, 'just try
your best."

"I'll come on t'carpet an all, cos I've seen to mi shoes."

"Right," I said.

"Mrs.  Wilson let me scrape off all the sh-"

I jumped in as quick as a sudden crack of a whip.  "That's all right,
then."

His book was one in a series called the Funtime Reading Scheme. Judging
by the cover, it did not appear to justify its title.  There were other
books in the series about pirates and princesses, gypsies and wizards,
fairs and picnics, holidays and festivals.  Perhaps the dreary cover of
Dan and Nan have Fun belied a fast-moving story of adventure and
excitement, but I strongly doubted it.  When Sam, screwing up his eyes
and furrowing his brow, started to bark out the words, I realised that
the grey cover reflected the contents accurately.  He read the text
with steady determination, quickly flicking through the pages without
pausing to look at the pictures in an effort to get it over with.

Here is Dan.  Dan is a boy.  Here is Nan.  Nan is a girl.  , Dan is a
boy.

Nan is a girl.

Dan is Nan's brother.

Nan is Dan's sister.

They have fun.

Here is a house.

Dan and Nan live in the house.

They live near a river.

They have fun.

Dan has a canoe.

Dan and Nan go in the canoe.

They go on the river.

Dan paddles the canoe.

They have fun.

Nan sings a song.

Dan catches a fish.

Dan chops some wood.

Dan lights a fire.

Nan cooks the fish.

They eat the fish.

They have fun.

The pictures depicted a sparklingly clean little boy dressed in his
school blazer and cap.  He wore a spotless white shirt, neatly knotted
tie, highly polished shoes and knee-length socks rather inappropriate
attire for a fishing trip in a canoe, one would have thought.  He was
beaming from the page.  Nan, too, was gleaming, dressed in a colourful
floral frock, bright blue shoes, dazzling white stockings and she was
sporting great red ribbons in her long blonde plaits.  She, like her
brother, looked ecstatically happy.

"You read that very well, Sam," I said when he had finished.

"Aye, I try," he replied philosophically.

"Yes.  You do try very hard," I said, but thinking to myself what a
pity that the material was so dry and dreary.

"What do you think of the story?"  I asked.

"Bloody stupid!"  I was just about to repeat the earlier exchange of'
Don say that word' but thought better of it.  The book was 'bloody
stupid'.  He could not have described it better.  He shook his head
before continuing.  "I mean going in a canoe on a fast-flowing river is
asking for trouble.  And you'd never catch a carp in them waters wi
that rod.  He wunt catch a cold wit hat  And as for chopping wood up
with that gret axe.  He could have taken his fingers off.  I wouldn't
let 'im loose wi penknife never mind a ruddy gret 'atchet.  And another
thing, that should never light fires near a forest.  They wants to get
some work done them two instead of prat ting abaat all day havin' fun.
I have to collect eggs on our farm, feed sows, fill troughs and coop up
hens afore mi tea."  He paused and looked around him and sniffed the
air.  "Can that smell owl, Mester Phinn?"  he asked.

"No," I replied.

"I can.  I reckons I didn't do such a good job on mi shoe."  With that
he walked away.

As I drove back to the office in Fettlesham that balmy early summer
afternoon, I thought of Janine returning to a warm, loving world of
books and reading and I thought of Sam who would be about to start his
many chores on the farm.  What a different life those children led.  I
determined to find that little boy some books simple enough for him to
read but with lively, realistic characters and an interesting story
line  He deserved better than Dan and Nan.

The view from the Headteacher's room in St.  Catherine's School was one
of the most magnificent I had ever seen.  Beneath a shining blue sky
stretched a landscape of every conceivable colour: light purple
mountains, brilliant green pastureland, swathes of yellow and red gorse
which blazed like a bonfire, dark green hedgerows speckled in pinks and
whites, twisted black stumps, striding silvered limestone walls and the
grey snake of a road curling up the hill to the far distance.  Light,
the colour of melted butter, danced amongst the new leaves of early
summer.

"It's quite a picture, isn't it?"  said the Headteacher.  Mrs.  Thomas
was a small, ample, quietly spoken woman with a kindly presence and a
gentle manner, the sort of teacher who sees good in every child.

"It is," I agreed.  It was at times like this that I realised how
fortunate I was to have a job which enabled me to see such beauty day
after day.  Such sights never failed to fill me with awe.

It was Monday and the start of a two-day inspection of a school for
physically disabled children.  David, Gerry and I were undertaking what
is colloquially known amongst inspectors as a 'dip stick' inspection. I
was to look at the English and the arts in the school, David the
mathematics and Gerry the sciences.  We had formed a very favourable
impression only five minutes after we had entered the building.  We had
arrived at the main entrance to be greeted by large lettering: welcome
to st Catherine's school above the door.  A welcoming party of four
smart,

smiling children signed us in and gave us badges.  The building was
immaculate: clean, bright walls, carpeted floors, displays of work well
mounted.  There was an atmosphere of calm about the school, a
tranquillity which I had come across several times before in schools
for the physically and mentally disabled.

"You know, I can smell a good school," observed David as we headed for
Mrs.  Thomas's office.  "The minute I walk through the door I can
sense, in the very atmosphere and environment, whether it is a good or
a bad school.  I have a very positive feeling about this place."

Not long after, with clipboard in hand, I made my way to the first
lesson: drama.  The teacher, Ms Pinkney, a strapping, jolly woman with
long red hair gathered up in a tortoiseshell comb, and dressed in a
bright pink and yellow Lycra outfit which clung to her as if she had
been poured into it, greeted me cheerfully and confidently.

"Come along in, Mr.  Phinn.  Shoes by the door, jacket on a peg.
There's a spare leotard if you want to slip into it."  She beamed.
"Only joking about the leotard, but you do need to get rid of the coat
and shoes.  I hope you inspectors have a sense of humour.  You'll need
it in here."  Before I could respond she rattled on regardless.  "The
children will arrive in a moment.  This is my star group you are about
to see, full of beans and keen as sharpened knives.  You're in for a
real treat this morning.  Quite a number of children in this class are
partially sighted or blind, and three have cerebral palsy.  There's a
couple with Down's syndrome, an autistic child brilliant artist he is
and a dyspraxic boy.  Wonderful athlete is Phillip.  None of their
disabilities holds them back one jot, as you'll see.  They're an
extremely talented group.  In my opinion, what stops children like this
achieving is not lack of ability but other people's low expectations of
them.  Don't you think?"

"It's usually me who asks the questions, Ms Pinkney," I

replied, 'but now you come to mention it, I couldn't agree more.  I
think what you say, however applies equally well to all children,
whether disabled or not.  High expectation and high self-esteem seem to
me to be the keys to success in learning."

"Spot on!"  she cried.  "I can see we're going to get on, Mr.  Phinn.
In the dim and distant past," the teacher continued, 'many disabled
people lived at home cosseted and protected, away from others, and
dependent on well-meaning but indulgent parents.  Scant demands were
made upon them, you see.  Some, of course, were packed off to
institutions and given mindless tasks like making lampshades or weaving
baskets.  Few had proper jobs and were not expected to do much with
their lives.  "Well, of course, he's handicapped," they used to
whisper.  "I mean, what can you expect of her?"  That's what they used
to say about me, so I know how it feels.  I had polio at five, wore
callipers right the way through primary school, was called "a spastic"
by the other children and was wrapped up in cotton wool by my parents
and then I met this fantastic teacher, Mrs.  Townsend, and this
brilliant physiotherapist called Miss Pierpoint and they changed my
life.  They built up my self-confidence and believed in me.  Anyhow, my
drama group is due.  I can't go on philosophising all morning, Mr.
Phinn, just get your kit off and find a chair."

Smiling to myself, I divested myself of shoes and jacket and headed for
the corner to sit unobtrusively to observe the lesson.  The first child
to arrive was a small fair-haired girl.  Her eyelids were closed and
she was, of course, unaware of my presence in the shadows.  She was one
of the pupils who had been in the welcoming party when we had arrived
that morning.

"Hi, Ruth!"  shouted the teacher.  "You're here nice and early."

"Miss," asked the girl, heading in the direction of the voice, 'will we
be having one of these school inspectors in with us this morning?"

"We will indeed," answered the teacher, putting her arm round the
girl's shoulder.

"Are you sure, miss?"

"Positive, Ruth."

"Do you know who it will be, miss?"

"His name's Mr.  Phinn."

"Oh, I met him this morning, miss," cried the girl.  "He's from
Yorkshire so he should be all right, shouldn't he, miss?"

"I'm sure he will be just fine."  Ms Pinkney cast a sideways glance in
my direction.

"What does he look like, miss?"

"All these questions, Ruth Hardcastle.  Now come along, shoes off,
plimsolls on and cardigan on the peg."

"I've never met a school inspector before," continued the girl pulling
off her shoes.

"Well, now's your chance."

"Go on, miss, tell me what he looks like.  I want to put a face to his
voice."

' Well," said the teacher drawing out the word and glancing again in my
direction with a mischievous smile on her lips, 'he's young, handsome,
elegant, cultivated and very well dressed."

Ruth thought for a moment before replying, "And he's also in the room,
isn't he, miss?"

"He is indeed, Ruth," laughed Ms Pinkney.  "He's over by the sound deck
in the corner.  Perhaps you would like to take him your work and show
him what we were doing last week."

At this point the rest of the children began to arrive.  They changed
their shoes, hung up their coats and sat in a circle in the middle of
the studio.  I watched Ruth as she felt her way to a large cupboard and
her fingers traced the names on the top of several large folders.  A
minute later she was by my side.

"Hello, Mr.  Phinn," she said cheerfully.

"Hello, Ruth."

"Would you like to see my work?"

"I'd love to."

"Because that's what school inspectors do, isn't it, you look at
children's work?"

"That's right."

"To see how they are getting on."

"And how do you think you're getting on, Ruth?"  I asked.

"I think that's for you to say really," she replied.  "I mean, you're
the inspector."

"Well, let me see then."

"It's a monologue.  Do you know about monologues, Mr.  Phinn?"

"I do, yes."

"We all had to write about our inner thoughts, what we feel.  Then we
performed them in front of the rest of the group.  Mine's a sort of
poem."  She placed the large folder in my hands, stood back and waited.
The pages were full of Braille: page after page of intricate dots.  As
part of a diploma course I had taken several years ago, I had learnt
Braille.  It is a simple, uncomplicated system of six dots in two
vertical lines of three and while it is relatively easy to understand,
Braille is immensely difficult to read.  The problem is trying to
distinguish the configurations of the small dots on the page.  I took
Ruth's folder, rested it on my lap and proceeded, at a snail's pace, to
try and decipher the writing.

"My .. . thoughts .. . about .. . being .. . blind," I read very
slowly, trying to decode the dots on the page, 'by .. . Ruth .. .
Hardcastle."

"You're not too good a reader, Mr.  Phinn, are you?"

"No, Ruth, I'm not.  I'm a bit rusty, I'm afraid.  Perhaps you could
help me out."

She took the folder from my hands, sat at my feet and read to me in
such a quiet, expressive voice that I became completely enthralled and
totally oblivious of noise around me, of the teacher and the rest of
the pupils.

I see with my ears.

I hear the leaves in the tall trees, whispering in the night.

I hear the sea, dark and deep, and the splash of the dolphin's leap.  I
hear the flames crackling and the window frames rattling in the wind. I
see with my ears.

I see with my nose.

I smell the blossoms pearly-grey and hay new mown.  I smell the
ploughed earth, cows in the byre, the smoky fire.  I smell Grandpa's
pipe, Gran's lavender room and Mum's faint perfume.  I see with my
nose.

I see with my mouth.

I taste the strong black coffee and the thick brown toffee between my
teeth.  I taste the yellow of the lemon, the green of the melon and the
red of the tomato.  I taste the orange of the carrot, the purple of the
plum, the gold of the sun on my face.  I see with my mouth.

I see with my hands.

I feel the sharp edges, slippery floors, smooth ledges.  I feel
lemonade in cold canisters, hard wooden banisters.  I feel hands to
hold, arms on shoulders, faces to touch.  I see with my hands.

"Oh, that was excellent, Ruth," I said gently when she closed the
folder.  "I think it was one of the best monologues I have ever
heard."

"Really?"

"Yes, really.  You are a very talented writer."

"I like writing," she said.  "Would you like a copy?"

"I'd love one."

Ms Pinkney, like some large slice of Battenberg cake, was at my side.
"Come along now, Ruth, and join the rest of the group."  When she had
gone she turned to me.  "She's a lovely little poet, isn't she?"

"She is," I replied quietly and, I have to admit, there were tears in
my eyes.

The next teacher I met that morning lacked Ms Pinkney's confidence.
Miss Taylor's whole body seemed to tremble when I appeared at the
classroom door and there was a distinct quavering in her voice.

"Oh ... oh ... the inspector ... I never ... oh dear .. . I thought ...
do come in."

The art room she worked in was as colourful as the landscape outside.
The tables were covered carefully in clean newsprint, and brushes and
pencils, chalks and crayons were neatly arranged in trays.  Walls were
decorated with sketches and line drawings, bold outlines and pale
watery scenes, collages and abstracts.  There were clay models,
sculptures and lino prints.  In a breathless and hurried voice she
attempted to explain what the eleven-year-olds in her care were
doing.

"They're ... er ... painting .. . using poster paints .. . trying to
mix the different colours to paint a scene .. . they are experimenting
with different colours and shapes and textures.  Some are using
brushes, others palette knives or other objects to get an effect."  She
wrung her hands nervously.  "I should say, Mr.  Phinn, that I'm not a
specialist."

I smiled reassuringly and whispered, "Neither am I."  Squatting before
one little artist, I watched, fascinated by the child's dexterity and
concentration.  He was a small boy, with dark heavy eyes and long
lashes, and a disarming smile.  His small twisted body was hunched over
the table and his thin legs were tucked beneath the sturdy chair on
which he sat.  He placed a small, soft rubber ball into a bowl of
crimson paint and then, with delicate fingers, he rolled the ball
across the sheet of dark blue paper creating the most striking
effect.

"It's a sunset," he explained.  "Sometimes when you look at the sky, it
looks as if it's on fire.  It's full of reds and yellows and oranges in
long streaky flames."  He immersed the ball in a bowl of orange paint
and repeated the process.  "I've used different things to get the
different effects, you see," he explained.  I craned forward to get a
better view.  The boy suddenly sneezed.  The ball he was holding, which
was covered in thick sticky orange paint, shot out of his hand and,
like a bullet from a gun, hit me smack between the legs.  It fell to
the floor, leaving behind a bright golden sunburst on my trousers.  A
deathly silence followed.  A faint voice said, "I'm sorry, sir, it just
sort of slipped."  The teacher arrived, fluttering a large cloth like a
flag and not having the first idea what to do with it.  "Oh dear, oh my
goodness, oh how unfortunate."  She stared in disbelief at the stain
for a moment and thrust the cloth into my hands.  Out of the corner of
my eye, I saw a care assistant take a handkerchief from her handbag and
stuff it in her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter.  By the
door, another care assistant turned away, wiping her eyes.  Then the
children, who had been remarkably quiet, began to giggle, then chuckle
and finally everyone was laughing: children, teacher assistants and me.
I stood there, the centre of attention a grey-suited figure with a
great splash of gold like some magnificent codpiece.

My attempts, later in the privacy of the gents, to remove paint proved
fruitless.  If anything I made it worse.  The bright orange had been
transformed into a much larger sickly brown blotch.  With the aid of my
clipboard, I covered the mark and headed for the next lesson, a lower
junior English class, confident that I could hide the blemish.  If I
remained seated at the back of the classroom with the clipboard
positioned strategically on my lap there was little chance of anyone
seeing the stain.  At lunch-time I planned to nip into the nearby town
and buy a pair of grey flannels.

I had not banked, however, on meeting Little Miss Eagle Eyes.  As I
entered the classroom, a small girl of about seven or eight, with
Down's syndrome, must have spotted the mark on my trousers and no
sooner had I positioned myself at the rear of the room out of
everyone's way than she approached me.  I smiled warmly at the serious
face.  She continued to observe me as if I were some rather strange
specimen in a museum case.  Then she gently lifted the clipboard and
peered underneath.  She looked up.  Then back at the stain and then
back at me.  Recognition suddenly dawned and she shouted the full
length of the classroom.

"Miss!  Miss!  This man's done a runny poof"

Every head in the classroom turned in my direction.  "I ... er ... had
a accident with some paint in the previous class," I explained, making
my hasty apologies to an astonished teacher and an open-mouthed class,
before scurrying from the room.  With clipboard clasped to my stomach,
I headed quickly for the school office, intending to explain the
situation to the school secretary and say I would be out of school for
a short while.  But Lady Luck was not with me.  Halfway down the
corridor I met Mrs.  Thomas herself, beaming madly.

"Oh, Mr.  Phinn, I heard what happened from Miss Taylor."  She stared
at the stain.  "Oh dear, it does look rather conspicuous, doesn't it?
Not to worry, it's only poster paint and will not be hard to remove.
It's not uncommon for some of our children to have a little accident
now and again and we have a laundry on the premises.  I'm sure we can
soon find you a change of clothes if you would like to follow me."

The change of clothes consisted of a pair of white cotton trousers.
They looked ridiculous worn with my grey jacket, white shirt and
college tie so I put on the matching white cotton jacket, and was soon
dressed in the sort of outfit worn by physiotherapists, care
assistants, support staff and ancillaries.  The suit was rather small
and tight-fitting but I felt a great deal more at ease and, picking up
my clipboard, headed for lunch in the dining-room.

The first lesson of the afternoon was a music class with the older
juniors.  On my way there I passed several people, all dressed in the
same white attire as me.  I found the music teacher hovering outside
the music room, looking furtively in each direction.  She had a long,
pale, worried face and was twitching nervously as I approached.

"Good afternoon' I began.

"Quick!"  she snapped, pulling the sleeve of my jacket.  "Quick!  Come
in!"  She glanced over my shoulder and then down the corridor before
pushing me into an empty classroom on the other side of the corridor.
She pushed the door to, and whispered in a confidential tone of voice,
"Did you see any?"

"See any?"  I repeated.

"Inspectors.  Did you see any school inspectors?  We've got inspectors
in."

"Yes, I know, I'm I tried to explain but with little success.

"I'm terrified, I don't mind telling you.  I've seen the old one
prowling about in the mathematics block this morning.  He looks as if
he's been dug up."

"Well, you see-'

"I've got the piano tuner in the music room mending two broken keys on
the baby grand, a whistling window cleaner up a ladder outside, the
classroom assistant off ill, a really lively group of children arriving
any moment and you can bet your bottom dollar I'll have a school
inspector watching points and ticking his little boxes."

"If I might-'

"They descend on you like hungry vultures, you know.  They look into
everything folders, files, desks, drawers, books, bags, storeroom,
cupboards.  I wouldn't put it past them to rootle through my
handbag."

"Oh no, they-'

"It's a nightmare.  Then they interrogate you, ask you all sorts of
questions before sitting at the back of the room scribbling away, and
you never know what they write.  It's all very upsetting.  I've not had
a wink of sleep for a month."

"It's not that bad," I reassured her.

"Well, how would you know?"  she said sharply, but did not
waitforareply.  "Youshouldhave it done to you and you'll find out how
stressful it is.  Have you ever been observed?"  She did not wait for
an answer to that either, but rattled on regardless.  "I mean, my job
is on the line here.  I just know I'll get one in with me at some point
today.  I have a sort of premonition.  I can feel it in my bones.  Are
you sure you didn't see anybody heading this way?"

"Well, no, I didn't, but if I might explain why I am'

"Thank God for that!  I might just be lucky."  She peered out of the
door.  "Anyway, the children are arriving now."

I followed her as she darted across the corridor into the music room
where she spoke to a group of very ebullient children who were finding
their places.  "Listen a moment, everyone, and that includes you,
Michael Thompson."  The children stopped their chatter and faced the
teacher.  "Did any of you see a stranger heading this way?"

"No, miss," the class chorused.

"Because we might be having a school inspector with us this afternoon
and I want everyone on their best behaviour."  The teacher flourished a
hand in my direction.  "Here's your physio, Peter, so you can get
straight off."

A young man in a wheelchair approached me.  "Is it hydrotherapy today,
sir?"  he asked.

"I've no idea," I replied.

"It's usually hydrotherapy on a Monday, sir, if the pool's
available."

"This is a new physiotherapist, Peterand he's probably not aware of all
the'

"Actually, I'm not," I interrupted quite forcefully.  I could not let
this deception continue.

"You're not?  Well, who are you then?"  asked the teacher.  "You need
to wear your badge so if you do meet an inspector, he'll know who you
are."

I reached into my pocket for my badge and pinned it on my lapel.  In
bold black lettering it read: G. R. Phinn, Inspector of Schools.

At first the teacher did not register and then her face drained of
colour.  She stared at the badge as if mesmerised, before whispering,
"You never are.  Oh Lord, you never are."

"I'm afraid so."  I smiled weakly.  "I have been attempting to tell
you."

"I feel faint," she murmured, and then added, "I never knew inspectors
came incognito."  Then, turning to the window, she gestured at the
whistling window cleaner, polishing away outside.  "Is he one as well?"
she asked faintly.

Once we had got over that little trauma, the lesson was fine.  The
children were keen and interested and demonstrated their not
inconsiderable skills on various instruments.  When the teacher saw the
smiles and heard the easy, pleasant conversations between us, she
visibly relaxed.  It was towards the end of the lesson that a pale,
gentle-eyed boy with long delicate hands and an ashen complexion
wheeled himself towards me.  Matthew, I later found out, had Muscular
Dystrophy, a cruel and debilitating disease which wastes away the
muscles in the body.

"Would you like me to sing?"  he asked simply.

I had never been asked such a question in a classroom before.  Children
often offered to read to me or show me their writing or tell me about
the work they were undertaking but never sing.

"I should like that very much," I replied.

The boy sang a haunting melody in a high, clear and perfectly pitched
voice.  The classroom fell utterly silent.  Not a child moved.  The
window cleaner stopped his whistling and froze on his ladder, the piano
tuner who had stayed behind to hear the lesson had an expression of
utter astonishment and I felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes for
the second time that day.

When he had finished, the teacher sighed loudly.  "Oh Matthew," she
said, putting an arm around his shoulder, 'that song always makes me
cry."

A shy smile came to the boy's lips, the smile of one who has
unexpectedly scored the winning goal, who has finally reached a summit.
It was a smile of pure success.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon observing the English lessons.
In one class I came upon an earnest-looking young man of about sixteen
drafting an essay which was placed on a tray fixed across the front of
his wheelchair.  His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth, his
face was fierce with concentration.

"Good afternoon," I said, sitting down next to him and looking over his
shoulder.

"Oh, hi!"  he replied, staring up and smiling.

"Would you like to tell me what you are doing?"

"Excuse me?"

"Tell me what you're doing?"  I repeated.

"Well, as you can see, I'm writing."  There was a mischievous glint in
the bright, intelligent eyes.

"Writing what?"

He placed his pen down carefully in front of him.  "Who are you?"

"I'm Gervase Phinn, a school inspector," I told him.

"Really?  I thought you were a care assistant or one of the medical
staff.  Do all school inspectors usually dress like dentists?"

"No, they don't.  It's a long story."

"I like stories," he said, placing his elbows on the desk and propping
his chin in his cupped hands.  "I want to be a professional writer.
I've got a place at Oxford to read English next year."

"Well done," I said.

"If I get the grades.  So, what's the story with the white outfit,
then?"

"I spilt something on my suit and hence the change of clothes," I
explained.

"And here I was thinking there was something sinister about it that you
were creeping round classrooms incognito, disguised as a care assistant
to spy on the teachers.  It would make a good story that, don't you
think?"

"You'll have to write it and send me a copy," I told him, smiling.
"Now, would you tell me what you are doing?"

He explained to me that the texts he was studying for his exams were
The Cherry Orchard by Anton Chekhov and Othello by William
Shakespeare.

"And which do you prefer?"  I asked.

He looked down at his desk for a moment in thoughtful silence.  "The
Chekhov, I think," he eventually replied.

"That's an interesting choice," I remarked.

"Why do you say that?"  he asked.

"I would have thought that a boy of sixteen would have preferred
Othello."

"Really?"

"Perhaps you would tell me why you prefer Chekhov to Shakespeare?"  I
asked.

"Perhaps before I do that, Mr.  Phinn," he replied, 'you would explain
why you think it is surprising that a boy of sixteen might prefer the
Shakespeare?"  There was a slight smile playing on his lips.

"Well, I suppose it's because there's more excitement and action in the
Shakespeare.  It's more of a boy's play, I would have thought."

"I guess most people, like you, would assume that a boy would prefer a
play with more action, intrigue and violence rather than the more
contemplative and thoughtful Russian drama but I'm rather perverse in
that I like the Chekhov.  Boys can be sensitive as well, you know."

"Yes, of course," I replied, feeling firmly put in my place.

At the end of the day David, Gerry and I sat in the Head-teacher's room
giving some feedback.  My colleagues, like the pupil to whom I had been
speaking, were greatly intrigued as to why I was dressed 'like a
trainee doctor' but I explained to them that all would be revealed
later.

"Well, as for mathematics, Mrs.  Thomas .. David began.

His voice became fainter and fainter as I stared through the window at
the great sweep of the fells, the tumbling woods and distant moorland.
I could feel the warmth of the mellow afternoon sun on my face and
caught a waft of roses from the garden.  I was in another world.

"Would you like to say a few things about English and the arts, Mr.
Phinn?"  David's voice broke into my reverie.

Before I could respond, there was a knock on the door and what appeared
like a delegation entered the room.  The little artist presented me
with his painting of the sunset, Ruth gave me a copy of her poem and
Miss Taylor held out a pair of clean, neatly pressed trousers.  The
Headteacher smiled broadly, Gerry frowned in obvious puzzlement and
David's eyes popped out, as we say in Yorkshire, like chapel hat
pegs.

"Here are your trousers, Mr.  Phinn," said Miss Taylor, suppressing a
smile.  "We wouldn't want you to leave without them."

It was a glorious early summer day when I visited Scarthorpe Primary
School.  I sat uncomfortably in an already hot car, parked in a
gateway, becoming increasingly frustrated.  It was as well that I had
set off early that morning because I had been over hill and dale in a
futile search for the elusive little school.  I had checked the route
to the village of Scarthorpe on the Ordnance Survey map before setting
out and it had seemed simple enough.  Indeed, the route via quiet,
snaking lanes was quite straightforward until I had arrived at some
crossroads where none of the old, pointed wooden signs made any mention
of Scarthorpe.  It was as if the village had been suddenly swallowed
up.  I tossed a mental coin, turned right and drove for a couple of
miles until I came to a sign for Scarthorpe pointing in the opposite
direction.  I retraced my route, crossed over the original crossroads
and came to more crossroads with another set of signs but, again, none
with the name of the village I wanted.  I turned left and arrived at a
sign which indicated that Scarthorpe was, yet again, in the direction
from which I had just come.  So, back I went and after a couple more
miles, with no signs in sight, I pulled off the road.  I was now
sitting, fuming, in the car, deciding which way to go next.  I pushed
the totally unhelpful road atlas aside its scale was far too small and
stared through the windscreen at the magnificent view which stretched
before me.

Beneath a vast, blank curve of blue there stretched the brilliant
greens of the pastureland, rolling and billowing up to the richer,
darker hues of the far-off fells.  Fat, creamy sheep grazed lazily
behind the white-silvered limestone walls in fields, while their lambs
frisked and raced.  In the still, windless sky a wedge of birds moved
slowly south, high above a trembling kestrel.  There was the heady
scent of may blossom and buttercups blending with the smells of earth
and grass.  I returned to the map and followed with my finger the route
which I had taken from Fettlesham earlier that morning: the straight
road to Hawksrill, over Butterwick Fell, through Whisterton, by Castle
Crags, past the United States Air force Base at Ribbon Bank, into
War-grave village, on to the Thresherton road, to arrive at the first
enigmatic crossroads.  I leaned back in the hot seat, the sun on my
face, wiped my brow and sighed aloud.  "Where, in heaven's name, am

I?"

I realised that it would have been far more sensible if I had stopped
to ask directions at the pub a couple of miles back or at a house close
to the road.  Now, with time ticking on, I was in the middle of
nowhere.  I sighed and wondered what to do next.  Across the road an
ancient millstone announced the entrance to Providence Farm and a long,
narrow, pot-holed track led to a distant cluster of buildings.  If only
I had brought the Ordnance Survey map with me; it would have surely
shown the farm and pinpointed my whereabouts.  The road atlas was
useless.  There's nothing for it, I thought, I will have to ask.  The
track looked good only for tractors and jeeps so I decided to walk.

The muddy track seemed endless, and it was a long, hot trek to the
farm.  In a field beside the track, a herd of black and white cows
stared with elaborate indifference as I passed, and continued to swish
their tails slowly and chew methodically.  In the field on the other
side, standing alone, was a huge, square-bodied bull with a brass ring
through its nose.  It looked like a box on legs.  The creature regarded
me with utmost suspicion as I came closer and when I was level it
bellowed loudly and lengthily.  On closer examination it looked
abnormally large.  Its back was as wide as a trestle table and its neck
as thick as the sentinel chestnut tree which cast a shadow over the
farmhouse.  As I approached the cattle grid and the buildings, I became
aware I was being observed.  Two men were standing at the entrance to a
barn watching me as bright-eyed cats might watch a mouse.  The older of
the two had a stern, weathered face the colour of bruised parchment,
grizzled, smoky-grey hair and a sharp beak of a nose.  He was dressed
in a clean, long-sleeved, collarless shirt, open waistcoat and ancient
Wellington boots.  His companion was a fair, thick-set young man with
an equally weathered face and tight, wiry hair.  He was dressed in a
T-shirt and shorts but, incongruously, he wore large heavy
military-style boots.  His arms and legs were wind-burned to the colour
of copper.

"Can't that read?"  demanded the older of the men.

"Pardon?"

"Sign on t'gate.  Can't that read?  Feed reps only by appointment."

"I'm not a rep," I panted.  "I'm a school inspector."

"Well, that'll not find any sc oil up 'ere and that's for sure."

"I gather that," I said, getting my breath, 'but I'm well and truly
lost."

The younger man screwed up his face, surveyed the sky, empty apart from
skimming swallows, and sucked in his breath.

"What sc oil are that looking fer?"

"Scarthorpe Primary School.  Do you know where it is?"

"appen I do."

"Well, would you be so kind as to tell me?"

The young man pointed across the fields.  "See yonder spire.  That's
t'church.  Scoil's next door."

"Tha'r a bit on t'early side to go a-visitin'," said the older man.
"It's just past eight.  There'll be nob'dy theer at this time."

"Well, I always set off early to make certain I get there."  There was
no reply, just a couple of slow nods of the head.  "As you might have
guessed, I'm not too good at directions and, I have to say, the road
signs around here are very confusing."

"Been t'same since time o' t'Vikings.  They had difficulty finding
their way around this part o' t'dale, I'll be bound.  We don't go
advertisin' ourselves up here, tha knaws."

"Nay," agreed his young companion.  "We don't want rooad full o'
caravans!"

"And coaches."

"And ramblers climbin' ower t'walls and knockin' 'em down."

I felt it politic to make a hasty retreat.  "Well, thank you for your
help.  I'll be on my way.  Just head in the direction of the church,
you say?"

"Nay, it's not quite as easy as that," explained the older man.  "Rooad
comes back on it sen at t'bottom o' yonder 'ill.  When that gets to
t'crossroads, tek sign for Whisterton, and you pass Thresherton Hall on
yer right.  Turn left at Holloway Farm, stay on t'rooad and you'll get
to t'scoil."

"Thank you," I said, trying to memo rise the instructions and turning
to go.

"old on," said the older man, 'we'll walk to t'gate withee and see thee
off t'premises."  I was thus accompanied by the two farmers, in
silence, down the long muddy track which seemed to stretch endlessly to
the road.  Our pace was leisurely to say the least and they kept their
eyes suspiciously on me from the start.

The farmer stopped when we came level with the fearsome bull.  The
beast eyed us malevolently, scraped and stamped the ground with a
cudgel of a hoof, snorted contemptuously and filled the air with loud
and mournful bellowing.

"Telling us who's t'boss," announced the older man, his face screwing
up with pleasure.  "Showing off for t'benefit o' t'cows."  All the cows
I could see in the fields surrounding us ceased their swishing and
chewing and stared in the direction of the bull.  "Leads a life of owd
Riley, does Samson.  Spends all t'winter inside in t'warm, eatin' and
drinkin' and sleepin', and all summer in t' field, in t'sun, eatin' and
drinkin' and sleepin' and mekkin love.  Not a bad old life, is it?"

"I could imagine worse," I agreed.

"Mind you," commented the younger man, 'many a bull niwer gets t'chance
of any o' that, eh, Dad?"

"They don't," agreed his father seriously.  "Most of 'em get castrated
and end up as beefburgers."

"Really," I said.

"Tha'd beard pushed to imagine owl worse than that, wun't that?"

"You would," I agreed, with feeling.

"Gerrin castrated and endin' up beefburgered.  But that's the way o'
things.  Aye, that's the way o' things."

"How many cows do you have?"  I asked, attempting to get on to less
delicate ground.

"Near on three un dred replied the older man as we set off down the
track again.

"And do you have sheep?"

"We do.  Up on t'felk'

"And pigs?"

"No, we don't keep pigs.  Not a lot o'money in pigs these days.  Not a
lot o'money in owl, if truth be told.  Poor relations are yer farmers.
Hardly worth keeping livestock what wi price o'feed."

"And how many acres have you?"

"I can see that'r an inspector," said the farmer stopping in his
tracks. "Tha'r full o' bloody questions, aren't tha?"

We walked on without another word.  Howeverafter a minute or two, I
found the silence rather embarrassing so

I commented cheerfully, "The farm's a fair old distance from the
road."

"Aye, it is that," agreed the older man.

"Yes, quite a distance," I said, not expecting a reply.

"That's what t'local MP said when he comes up 'ere a-canvassin' last
year.  "Aye," I said to 'im, "it is a fair distance, but if it were any
shorter it wun't reach, would it?"

At getting on for a quarter to nine, I finally arrived at Scarthorpe
Primary School.  The small stone building was tucked away behind the
ancient Norman church and half-hidden by a huge, stunted oak tree, its
twisted roots grasping the thin soil like arthritic fingers.  The
school was further obscured by the overhanging branches of laurel and
sycamore.  Mrs.  Fox, the Headteacher, was a vast andj oily woman with
a shock of streaky curls and large friendly eyes behind enormous
coloured frames.  She wore a bright tartan smock, a rope of large, blue
glass beads and yellow dangly earrings.  Mrs.  Fox had the sort of
voice which would penetrate bricks and mortar.

"My goodness, Mr.  Phinn, you are the early bird," she chortled.  I
explained that I would have arrived even earlier had I not taken so
many wrong turnings at the mysterious crossroads.  I was also foolish
enough to mention that I had broken my journey at Providence Farm and
related the conversation with the two farmers about the bull.

"Oh, you met Mr.  Purvis and his son, Jack, did you?  I was at school
with the one and taught the other.  Both are real characters, aren't
they?"

"They are indeed," I agreed.  "Well, Mrs.  Fox, what I intend to do
this morning'

"He dotes on that bull of his.  Soft as a brush when it comes to
Samson.  We often take the children up to Providence Farm as part of
our environmental studies work."

At this point I attempted for a second time to explain what form my
day's inspection would take, but Mrs.  Fox continued blithely.  "My
great-uncle Beecham had the land adjoining Providence Farm and knew his
grandfather really well.  Old Mr.  Purvis lived right up to his
ninety-eighth birthday he did, without a day's illness didn't have the
patience of his grandson when it came to bulls.  My great-uncle Beecham
always used to tell the tale which never fails to bring a smile to my
lips."

"What I hope to be doing today, Mrs.  Fox' I tried again.

"His bull was called Caesar.  He was a great, fat, pompous creature, no
good at all except for breeding purposes.  He looked like the emperor
himself the way he strutted round the field and proceeded toer ... do
his duty to the cows, as one might say.  But he had a really vicious
streak had Caesar, and many's the time Old Mr.  Purvis stamped back to
the farmhouse, cursing and swearing, and black and blue with bruises.
The bull broke his arm a couple of times when he was trying to get hold
of him.  Anyway, when Young Mr.  Purvis was about eleven, as the story
goes, he rushed into the farmhouse kitchen one morning shouting blue
murder.  "Grandfather!  Grandfather!"  he cries.  "Caesar's gone!  He's
not in his field!  Somebody's stolen Caesar!"  His grandfather didn't
bat an eyelid but carried on drinking his tea.  Then he nodded in the
direction of the window.  In the field beyond was poor old Caesar yoked
to a plough pulling away down the furrows, with two of the farmhands
flicking his haunches with sharp switches.  Caesar snorted and bellowed
and puffed and heaved and looked very hard done by.  "I'll show him
that there's more to life than love-making!"  said Old Mr.  Purvis."
Mrs.  Fox chuckled loudly, her body heaving and her eyes filling with
tears of pleasure.

"What I hope to be doing today, Mrs.  Fox' I attempted a third time.

"Did Mr.  Purvis tell you about the incident when that poor young vet
was called out to see to Samson?"

I took the bull firmly by the horns.  "Mrs.  Fox, I really would like
to make a start, if I may."

"Why, of course you do, Mr.  Phinn," she replied smiling broadly.
"That's why you're here.  Come along and I'll let you look through our
planning documents while the children arrive.  I'll tell you about
Samson, the vet and the bottle of liquid paraffin later, if you
like."

I thought it would be the last time that day that I would hear about
bulls but sadly I was mistaken.  In the junior classroom later that
morning, I joined two boys of about ten or eleven.  Both were miniature
versions of the farmers I had met at Providence Farm: plain, stocky
individuals with sturdy legs, brown faces, tightly curled hair, short,
sandy eyelashes and bright eyes.  Neither was a very good reader but
each tried hard and barked out the words with grim determination.  The
reading book depicted an idyllic town with sparkling shops, gleaming
hotels, brightly painted houses with well-tended gardens and white
gates, and a manicured park with a friendly, waving park-keeper
standing at the entrance.  There were no traces of litter or graffiti
and not a sign of a public house, betting office, job centre or charity
shop.  Everyone in this Utopia looked happy and well dressed, from the
jolly policeman to the beaming vicar to the smiling shoppers.  The most
exciting things that happened in the story were a walk round the lake
to look at the ducks and a ride on the bus.  It came as no surprise
therefore to discover that it was called Merry town.

"Do you enjoy reading?"  I asked one of the boys when he finished and
had snapped the book shut with a vengeance.

He lifted a sandy eyebrow.  "No."

"Do you read at home?"

"No."

"Why is that?"

"Don't 'ave t'time."

"Do you have any books at home?"

"A few."

"And what are they about?"

"Tractors."

"Do you like reading about tractors?"

"Not particularly."

It was like extracting blood from a stone but I persisted and tried, by
changing tack, to get him to open up a little.

"You live on a farm, do you?"

"I do."

"I visited a farm on my way here this morning."

"Oh, aye."  He appeared a little more interested.

"Providence Farm.  Do you know it?"

"appen I do."

The other boy looked up from his work at the mention of the farm.  "Did
that see Samson?"

"I did indeed," I replied.

"e's a champion beast is Samson, 'e is that."

"Do you live on a farm as well?"

"Aye."

"Do you have a bull?"

"Nay, only bull we 'ave on our farm is t'bull wit' bowler 'at."

"Pardon?"

"AI man."

"I'm sorry?"

The boy sighed and gave me such a world-weary look.  Then, as a teacher
might explain to a particularly slow child, he articulated, "Artificial
Inseminator.  'e comes round and sees to t'cows."

"I see," I said somewhat uncertainly.

"So, there's no need for t'bull."

The first boy decided to contribute to the discussion.  "French sperm's
best, tha knaws."

"Really?"  I sighed.  "And do you have a bull on your farm.?"

"Nay, we 'ave all our cows done, like on Roger's farm.  We did 'ave two
bulls but they're both dee ad now.  One were called Eric, he were an
'olstein and tother were called Oscar and he were a Belgian Blue.
Samson's a Limosan and not near as big."

"You mean there are bulls which are bigger than Samson?"  I gasped.

"Oh aye, Belgian Blues can weigh owl up to a ton and an 'arf.
Double-muscled, that sees.  Bred for their meat."  He was now quite
animated.  "Yer Belgian Blue 'as muscles on muscles and is so big that
can only deliver a calf through a Caesarean.  Tha knaws what a
Caesarean is, dust thaI do."

"Can't gerrem out natural way, Belgian Blues.  Vets just zip 'em op pen
down t'belly."

His companion added, "If that was to cross 'em wi' a Fresian you'd 'ave
a fair chance of a natural birth, Jacob."  He turned to me.  "Tha sees
most Belgian Blue cows bred wi' another breed, so it meks it easier for
'em to calve."

"Still large, though," said the other seriously.  "Anyroad, we dun't
bother wi' bulls any more.  Best bull is t'bull out of a test tube."

"What a pity," I said.  "To think that those wonderful creatures, these
great, snorting, bellowing beasts with their massive bodies and sharp
horns might not be seen again."

"They don't 'ave 'orns," Jacob told me bluntly.

"They don't?  But I thought all bulls have horns?"

"They 'ave 'em tekken off after three month.  You de-bud 'em.  Burn off
their 'orns.  Bulls are bad enough wi'out 'orns on.  Tha dun't go
lookin' fer trouble.  It'sard enough gerrin' 'em in from t'fields as it
is.  Old Samson's a devil.  Belgian Blues are placid usually, but your
Limosan, they can be reight frisky.  Toss you up in t'air or butt thee
as soon as look at thee."

"And that's talkin' money," interrupted Roger.  "Best o' breed at
Fettlesham Show this year, Pride o' Brussels 'e were called, fetched
fotty thousand quid.  Serious money is that, tha knaws.  And o'
course, if owl 'appens to 'em like if they 'ad an accident or come down
wi sum mat and tek badly, then they're no good to man nor beast."

"That's what 'appened wi' Oscar and Eric, weren't it, Jacob?"

"Aye," replied the boy sagely.

"What sort of accident did they have?"  I enquired innocently.

"Well, Eric were feeling a bit lively like and made a move for cows in
t'next field, 'e went through a thick aw thorn 'edge, a dry stone wall
and two gates afore mi dad blocked him witractor.  Anyroad, Eric
charged tractor and bust a few bones.  Got an infection and had to be
put down."

"I thought the idea was for the bull to get to the cows?"  I
commented.

Both boys looked at me with disdainful expressions.  "We're talkin' big
bulls 'ere.  A ton and an 'arf-'ed have brok every cow's back."

"I see," I said feebly.  "Well, shall we look at your books?"

"In olden days, when Mr.  Purvis's granddad up at Providence Farm had
Caesar, he used to dig a pit, put t'cow in it and lower t'bull on with
two reight big, thick leather straps."

"I see," I said weakly.  "Could you get your English books out,
please?"

"Nowadays it's all mechanised," the boy continued regardless.  "They
put t'bull in a serving cage and lower him on and lift him off, lower
him on and lift him off."

"My granddad says it's not a bad old life," remarked Roger, echoing the
comments I had heard earlier that morning at Providence Farm.

I tried again to move the conversation away from what was becoming an
increasingly embarrassing conversation.  "So what have you been doing
in English this week?"

"Now, tother bull, Oscar, 'e went and 'ad t'accident."

"What accident was that?"  I asked somewhat stupidly.

"Accident what Belgian Blues 'ave."

"And what is that?"

"Tha knaws," said the boy, eyeing me seriously.

"I don't."

"Tha' does."

"Really I don't.  What accident did he have?"

The boy gave his companion another knowing look, the tired,
long-suffering look of the expert attempting to explain a simple
concept to an ignoramus.  "Well, Mester Phinn, sometimes when a bull
gets to t'Just cow, he's very keen .. ."  At this point I wished I had
stayed with the fantasy world of Merrytown and its cardboard
inhabitants, for I anticipated that what was to follow would be as
blunt as a sump hammer.  "And 'e gets a bit carried away like and
sometimes 'e overdoes it and 'is willy snaps."  I could hear my great
in-drawing of breath and feel a red flush creeping up my neck.

I retreated to the classroom window and stared at the view outside,
attempting to regain my composure.  I felt decidedly weak at the knees
and was entirely at a loss for words.  A flood of sunlight poured into
the room, slanting in long bars across the dusty air.  All was still.
Through the window the vast, green rolling fells shimmered in the
bright light, the narrow road curled endlessly between the fields, and
far off an invisible bird called plaintively from the sun-warmed grass.
I was brought back to reality by Jacob, who tapped me gently on the arm
and looked up with a twinkle in his bright eyes.

"It's all reight, Mester Phinn," he said winking, 'it only 'appens wi'
bulls!"

I was in love.  Since the first moment I had set eyes on Christine,
appearing round the side of Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School like
some vision, with those deep blue eyes and the soft mass of golden
hair, I had been smitten.  Over the twenty-one months I had known her,
that love had become so powerful that it felt like a wearying sickness.
She was always in my thoughts.  I was like a love-lorn schoolboy,
day-dreaming at the back of the classroom during a rather tedious
lesson and staring vacantly out of the window whilst thinking of
Christine.  In the middle of meetings at the Education Office, my
thoughts would inevitably drift to a picture of her smiling or laughing
or humming to herself as she frequently did.  On a course, the words of
the speaker would flow over me as my mind would be fixed on Christine,
visualising her sitting in the middle of a group of happy infants,
sharing a book with them or reading a poem or singing a nursery rhyme
in that soft, hypnotic voice.  And people were beginning to notice.

Late one afternoon towards the end of the Summer term I stopped
focusing on the report I was supposed to be reading and began to dream
of the woman I loved.

"Gervase!"  snapped Sidney.  "Are you entirely with us this afternoon?
You look as if you are wired up to a brick!"

"Pardon?"

"I have just asked you an important question and, rather than do me the
courtesy of responding, you completely ignored me and continued to peer
into the middle distance like Macbeth upon seeing the ghost of
Banquo."

"I'm sorry, Sidney, I was miles away."

"Indeed you were.  Now, what do you think?"

"What do I think about what?"

Sidney gave a great heaving sigh.  "I was asking about the arrangements
for the Creative Arts Course in Oxford next weekend."

"Well, what about them?"

"Give me strength!"

Following her visit to the Staff Development Centre last December, Miss
de la Mare had written to say how impressed she had been with the
training and had invited Sidney and me to be tutors on a Ministry of
Education course the weekend before the end of the Summer term.  We had
both been very flattered to have been asked and readily agreed.  It had
seemed so far ahead then that I had put it to the back of my mind.  Now
the course was about to happen, I realised that I had not given a
single thought to it.  Help!  My mind was completely occupied with
higher thoughts.

"I said that it would be a sensible idea if we both travelled down to
Oxford together."

"Pardon?"

"What is the matter with you?  Are you sickening for something?  I
asked if we should travel down to Oxford together?"

"Yes, that's fine, Sidney."

"It would be better, I think, if we went in your old Volvo estate.  I
will have to take all my materials, easels and equipment, display
boards and, of course, the stuffed animals."

David, who had been working quietly until this point, raised his head
slowly like a weary tortoise, peered over the top of his spectacles and
said, "You are not taking those wretched stuffed animals with you, are
you, Sidney?"

"Of course!  They are the next best thing to first-hand experience.  I
always take my stuffed animals with me when I run a course.  I would be
lost without them."

David shook his head.  "Well, I'm glad I'm not travelling down to
Oxford with you and a car full of flea-ridden, dead creatures glaring
and snarling out of the window."

"I never glare and snarl out of windows," said Sidney calmly.  "Anyway,
I don't hear Gervase complaining."  He turned to me.  "You have no
problem with my stuffed animals, do you, Gervase?  Gervase!"  Once
again, I was only half-listening to the office chatter.  "I said you
don't have a problem, do you?"

"Who said I had a problem?"

"I give up," sighed Sidney.  "We will talk about this when you emerge
from the catatonic trance."

"You are unusually un forthcoming this afternoon, Gervase," remarked
David.  "Not your old self at all.  Is there something on your mind?"

"No, no, there's nothing on my mind."

"Is it that dreadful dragon of a head teacher from Henderson Road
School?"  asked Sidney grimacing.  "She complains about all the
inspectors so I shouldn't worry."

"No, nothing like that."

"The Ugglemattersby inspection?"

"No, no, that's all been done and dusted and the governors accepted the
report and Mr.  Sharpies is taking early retirement."

"It'll be Mrs.  Savage, then," announced David almost gleefully.  "That
Ice Maiden would put the wind up a banshee.  She's been after me about
those ridiculous coloured forms of hers.  Has she been chasing you?"

"No, it's not Mrs.  Savage."

"Well, what is it?"  both my colleagues asked in unison.

"I can't say.  It's .. . it's ... I need to sort it out myself

"Now come along, Gervase!"  exclaimed Sidney, turning his full
attention on me.  "We are your friends as well as your colleagues.  You
can tell us whatever it is.  I've been on the county's counselling
course and was singled out for my ability to listen sympathetically, so
if you want to confide in me, get things off your chest, I'm all ears.
I've also done art therapy and a stress management weekend so I am well
equipped to help."

"Help!"  snorted David.  "Well equipped to help!  You forget, Sidney,
that I was also on that disastrous counselling course and you were
singled out, as I remember, for your complete inability to listen to
other people and the total insensitivity of your advice.  After contact
with you, the people in your group were suicidal at the end.  As I
recall, your solution to whatever problem that arose was to look the
person in the eye and tell them to pull themselves together, stop
whinging and snap out of it.  I well remember that poor tutor's words:
"With you, Mr.  Clamp, a trouble shared is a trouble doubled."  And on
the stress management weekend I heard that the tutor went down with
severe depression herself, remarking that you did not so much suffer
from stress, you were more of a carrier.  She headed for her car a
gibbering wreck."

"I shall choose to ignore those slanderous comments, David, because my
dear friend here is in need of some help and support.  Now, Gervase,
what is the matter?  Tell, tell."

"I'm in love!"  I blurted out.

There was a stunned silence.

"In love?"  repeated Sidney, after what seemed a long, long pause. "Oh,
that is serious.  Is it someone we know?"

"Yes, of course it is!"  I snapped, already regretting my confession.

"Is it a certain desirable doctor of philosophy, with alluring Irish
eyes and a smile like a rainbow?"

"No, it's not Gerry.  I hardly know her."

"Is it a certain well-preserved, power-dressed widow with a predatory
look and a smile like a shark?"

"Mrs.  Savage?  Do me a favour!"

3H

"The femme fatale with the feather duster in the crackling nylon
overall who inhabits the S D C ?"

"Sidney, will you be serious!"

"Then it must be the Nordic beauty, the blonde bombshell, the
delectable Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook."

"You know full well it is."

"I don't see a problem, myself."

"What did I say?"  announced David shaking his head.  "All the
sensitivity of a sledge hammer."

"Well, I don't," continued Sidney.  "He's been taking her out for the
best part of two years."  He turned his attention back to me.  "I mean,
it's hardly a whirlwind romance."

"I've not been taking her out for the best part of two years," I said.
"I only started seeing Christine last summer."

"Well, you want to look sharpish.  She's an extremely attractive young
woman.  Very marriageable.  If you don't start pulling your finger out,
being a bit more dynamic, proactive and determined, you'll be getting a
"Dear John" letter.  She'll go back to that dreadful soldier and give
you the old heave-ho!"

"Now, does that make you feel a lot better, Gervase?"  asked David
sarcastically.  "Has that wonderfully sympathetic advice helped you
with your little problem?  You know, Sidney, with such obvious
sensitivity and understanding, you ought to work for the Samaritans."

"I am only telling him to gird up his loins and go for it.  I mean,
look at him.  He's like a sick calf, mooning about the office.  I
certainly do not relish a weekend in Oxford with him in this powerless
state."

"Well, that's what love does for you," said David.  "I recall someone
saying that love was like the measles that it is something we all have
to go through.  I know I did."

"More like the mumps with me!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "Incredibly painful
and all the more so when you're older.  You see, David, the problem
with Gervase is'

"Excuse me, Sidney, would you mind not talking about me as if I'm not
here?"  I said.

"You see, your problem, Gervase, is what I was saying about the mumps.
It's happening to you late in life so it's affecting you far worse."

"Late in life!"  I cried.  "I'm just over thirty, not in my dotage!"

"But as you get older, you get more picky, more difficult to please. My
advice, if you really love Christine, is to face up to things, take the
bull by the horns, grasp the nettle and be decisive.  Stop
shilly-shallying, ask her straight out to marry you."

My stomach gave a great lurch at the very word 'marry'.

"And pull yourself together, stop whinging and snap out of it," added
David mimicking Sidney's voice.  "You see what I mean about Sidney's
sensitive approach to a problem?  As tactful as a charging elephant."

"It's not as easy as that, Sidney," I said sighing.  "She might not be
ready for ... er ... marriage.  She's so involved with her work in
school.  We've never discussed any future together and she might not
feel the same way about me.  She might not be the marrying sort.  She's
a very independent woman is Christine.  I know she likes my company and
we enjoy the same things but'

"Have you told her how lovely she is and that you can't stop thinking
about her?"  asked Sidney.

"No."

"Have you told her that when she smiles the birds begin to sing and the
sun begins to shine?"

"No."

"Have you told her that you can't live without her?"

"No."

"Have you told her that you love her?"

"No."

Sidney snorted.  "Then how, in heaven's name, is she to know how you
feel?  She might think that you are the one who isn't ready for
marriage.  She might think that you are too involved with your work to
think about anything else.  She might think that you don't feel the
same way about her as she might think about you.  She might think that
you are not the marrying sort."

"Much as I am loath to admit it," ventured David, who had been
listening intently, "Sidney, despite his bluntness, is perfectly right.
You have to let her know how you really feel about her."

"You, of all people, Gervase," continued Sidney, 'are supposed to
possess the higher order language skills, the ability to use words at
their richest and most persuasive.  Can't you pen her a poem and write
it in chalk down the path to Winnery Nook School?  something along the
lines of "Oh dearest heart, come kiss me gently, Be my love, my
Christine Bentley.""

"I'd stick to painting and stuffed animals if I were you, Sidney," said
David.  "He doesn't want to frighten her off with that sort of
doggerel, or get arrested for defacing school property."

"I'll have you know it worked with my wife," retorted Sidney.  "When I
painted my Lila a poem on the wall of her flat she was putty in my
hands."

"Probably drunk," said David, before turning his attention back to the
topic under discussion.  "I think Gervase ought to take Christine out
for a really romantic dinner in a remote country inn," he said.
"Champagne, roses, soft music.  That's the way it's done.  And I know
the very place.  A delightful French restaurant with superb food and
magnificent views, not too far from here."

"Is that the way you proposed?"  I asked.

"Well, no, actually," replied David.  "I asked Gwynneth in a bus
shelter on a rainy Sunday afternoon in Pontypool.  We were having a
little cwtch and'

"A little what?"  exclaimed Sidney.  "What in the world is a cutch?"

"A cwtch Welsh for a cuddle," explained David.  "And I said, "What
about it, CariadV She said it was quite unexpected and she would have
to think about it as her mother had not taken to me at all.  Thirty
years later and her mother's still not too sure about me.  It took her
three months Gwynneth, that is, not her mother to make up her mind and
then she said she would have to iron out my irritating habits."

"She was singularly unsuccessful on that count," murmured Sidney.

"You see, that's just what I mean," I said.  "Suppose Christine says
she likes me but couldn't marry me.  It would be the end of everything.
I couldn't go on seeing her.  If I delay it a bit, carry on as we are,
she might grow to love me in time like your wife, David.  I just think
it might be better to do nothing for the time being."

"Faint heart, dear boy, faint heart!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "She might
think you are trifling with her affections and get tired of waiting
about.  Have you ever thought of that?  I mean, it's been getting on
for two years, well, over a year anyway, that you have been taking her
out.  She won't go on waiting for ever.  And you're no spring chicken.
The summer holidays are nearly upon us.  She'll be gadding off to some
exotic location full of rich, eligible, unattached men who will buzz
around her like bees around a honey pot.  You've got to go for it.  Be
decisive.  You could start by giving her a quick clutch in a bus
shelter."

"A avtchV snapped David.  "And it worked for me!"

"Look, Gervase, do you love her?"  asked Sidney, suddenly turning very
serious.

"Yes, I do," I replied.

"Well, why don't you ask her to marry you?"

"I'm frightened she'll say no.  I haven't got much money saved, I drive
an old car and I live in a rented flat.  It wouldn't be an offer she
couldn't refuse."

Sidney got up from his desk and came and perched on the corner of my
desk.  "That's not the real reason though, is it?"  he continued.

"What?"  I replied.

"The fact that you've not much money and live in a rented flat."

"No," I replied.  "I'm just frightened that she doesn't love me."

Sidney sighed and put his hand on my shoulder.  "Well, old boy, there's
only one way to find out, isn't there?"

Sidney was right, of course.  I could not delay any longer.  I decided
that when I returned from the course in Oxford I would take Christine
out for that romantic dinner suggested by David and ask her to marry
me.

I arrived at Sidney's house early on the Saturday morning as arranged,
to find my colleague dressed like an ageing pop star in wildly bright
T-shirt and jeans.  He was in the garage, collecting together an
assortment of stuffed animals and equipment.  He stopped what he was
doing when he caught sight of me heading down the path towards him.  I
was about to ask him the question he put to me.

"Gervase, what are you wearing?"

"A suit.  Why?"

"Do you always have to wear that dreadful grey outfit?  We are
contributing to a creative arts course, not attending a Foreign Office
funeral.  Relax, get casual.  It's a residential course for lively
teachers, not an undertakers' convention.  You want to look colourful,
expressive, exciting, artistic.  You're not inspecting this weekend,
you know!"

"I didn't stop to think about what to put on, to be honest.  My mind
was on other things."

"Oh dear, I do hope this is not a taster of things to come.

I sincerely hope that you are not going to mope around Oxford like some
medieval mystic contemplating the meaning of life.  You really will
have to ask her, you know."

"I know."

"This weekend will give you a perfect opportunity to get your thoughts
together and rehearse what you will say to her when you get back and
pop the question.  I'll give you the benefit of my extensive experience
with the opposite sex.  We will have some rehearsals.  Now, come and
help me load up."

We packed the car with Sidney's boxes of paints and brushes, great
plastic bags of clay, folders and files, easels and display boards,
drapes and canvasses, dried flowers and gnarled lumps of driftwood and,
on the very top, we wedged a ferocious-looking stuffed stoat savaging a
rabbit, a snarling fox, a pair of fat hedgehogs and assorted
sharp-beaked birds.

"I shall carry the badger on my knee," announced Sidney.  "He is very
precious is Barry."

We said goodbye to his long-suffering wife, Lila, who smiled and shook
her head as I pulled away and headed for the main road.

Sidney spent the first part of the journey chattering inconsequentially
and the second part in deep sleep with his arms wrapped lovingly round
the stuffed badger.  The sight of him in an amorous embrace with the
black and white creature drew many a stare from other motorists.

When we arrived in Oxford, Sidney rubbed his eyes, stretched, yawned
and peered through the window.  "Drop me off at the college, will you,
Gervase," he directed.  "I shall unpack and find Miss de la Mare and
tell her we've arrived.  You park the car somewhere and then would you
book us in while I sort out the workshop rooms?  I'll see you in an
hour for lunch."

During the summer months, after the undergraduates have gone down for
the Long Vac, the university becomes available for a huge variety of
outside courses and conferences.  Miss de la Mare's art course was to
take place at one of the oldest, most beautiful and prestigious of the
colleges.

Having dropped off Sidney and parked the car as instructed, I made my
way to the entrance of Wentworth College, a large, square, imposing
building of honey-coloured stone.  Moving round various tourists who
were peeking through the small opening set in a vast ancient door
stretching across an entrance archway, I arrived at the Porter's Lodge.
I peered through a leaded window for a sign of life, and found myself
staring into the face of a gaunt, lugubrious-looking porter with a
hatchet of a nose.  The nose could have cut a rock in two.  A few
seconds later the funereal figure emerged through the portal like some
black beetle creeping out from a hole.

"Good morning, sir," he intoned.  "May I be of assistance?"

"Good morning," I replied cheerily.  "I'm here for the meeting."

"You will find your colleagues in the Stafford Chamber."  He gestured
with a long stick of a finger across the quadrangle.  "I'll enter your
name, sir, if I may."

"Gervase Phinn," I replied.

"Thank you, Dr.  Phinn.  Pre-prandial drinks are at present being
served."

"And I am expecting my colleague, so if you could direct him to where
the meeting is taking place?"

"Of course, Dr.  Phinn," replied the porter, smiling like a frog.

I walked out from under the archway and into the quadrangle, in the
middle of which was set a large beautifully mown square of lawn.  The
hum of the traffic outside hardly permeated this peaceful sanctum.

I made my way across the quadrangle to the Stafford Chamber.  It was a
magnificently ornate room with dark oak wainscoting, a great domed
ceiling, and an uneven but highly polished floor.  Portraits of former
Earls of Wentworth lined the walls, and a great imposing portrait of
Charles I on horseback, resplendent in silver armour and flowing blue
cloak, hung at the head of the room.  There was a pleasant smell of old
wood and beeswax.  A small gathering of formally dressed people was
chatting away amiably and sipping sherry, but I could see no sign of
Miss de la Mare.  Everyone seemed to be remarkably relaxed.  I was
relieved to be in a suit.  I would have been entirely out of place in
one of Sidney's suggested outfits and wondered if he would be allowed
in when he arrived.

A distinguished, elderly gentleman, with the face of a Roman senator,
approached me.  "Have we met?"  he asked amiably.

"I don't think so," I replied, holding out my hand.  "I'm Gervase
Phinn."

"John Morton, Emeritus Professor of Medieval History.  I am very
pleased to meet you.  I once knew a bishop called Gervase.  A very
saintly man.  You are a new face at our gathering, are you not?"

"Yes, and very honoured to have been invited."

"Whereabouts are you from?"

"Yorkshire."

"Ah yes, I did detect a certain northern burr in the voice.  You'll
know Professor de Longue, of course.  He's a Halifax man.  And David
Willett-Smith is from your part of the country, Sheffield I think."  As
I cast my eyes around the throng, I had an uneasy feeling that this
august gathering was not a group of primary school teachers on a
weekend creative arts course.  My suspicions were strengthened as my
friendly companion took me round and introduced me to one distinguished
person after another.  They were confirmed when a large be gowned
individual appeared and announced: "Fellows of the College, luncheon is
served."  I had gate crashed a meeting of the Fellows of Wentworth
College.

"So you are Dr.  Finn, are you?"  I turned to face a rather portly,
elderly man with grey nibbled eyebrows and skin as white and shiny as a
waxwork figure.  "I'm Herbert Rawnsley and have been so looking forward
to meeting you."

I shook a cold hand.  "You have?"  I replied nervously.

"Yes, indeed.  I was so delighted to hear that you had been elected one
of our Honorary Fellows.  You are a Cambridge man, are you not?
Trinity, was it?"

"Er ... well ... I ..."

"Your book on Multi-Dimensional Scaling and Log-Linear Contingency
Analysis was refreshingly readable.  We must get together after
lunch."

"Yes, we must," I replied, thinking how, in heaven's name, was I to get
out of this place.

"I must say, you have lost your Canadian accent," continued the
wax-faced individual.

"Gervase is from Yorkshire, Herbert," said Professor Morton who had
just joined us.

"I thought you were Canadian?  It is Maurice Finn, isn't it, author of
Statistical Measurements in Social Science?"

"I'll just wash my hands, if I may," I replied, turning in the
direction of the exit.

"There's a lavatory through here," my companion said helpfully and,
grasping my arm, he added, "I'll come with you.  We'll sit together at
lunch and compare notes.  I'm working on some economic models in which
you may very well be interested."

I hid in a toilet cubicle for a few minutes, then crept away
unobserved.  Once outside in the quadrangle, I breathed great gulps of
air in relief.  I found Sidney pacing up and down near the main
entrance.

"There you are!"  he cried.  "I thought you'd thrown yourself in the
river or something.  Where have you been?"  Before I could answer, he
rattled on.  "Never mind, it's all sorted.  I've seen Miss de la Mare,
found where we are to work and have copies of the programme.  I've
taken the larger room because I need the space.  You'll be all right in
the little annexe, won't you?  Yes, of course, you will, you don't need
equipment for poetry, do you?  Now, let's go and have some lunch."

Miss de la Mare was waiting for me in the entrance to the seminar room
where I was to lead the poetry workshop later that afternoon.  She was
wearing a beige cotton safari concoction, with pockets and zips
everywhere.  Her summer ensemble ended with a pair of pink plimsolls.
There was a broad grin on her plump face.

"Mr.  Phinn, Gervase!"  she cried, grasping my hand and shaking it
vigorously.  "How very nice to see you.  Always a great relief to know
that the speakers and tutors have arrived.  I saw Mr.  Clamp earlier
and he said you'd found the college without too much difficulty.  Now,
come along in and see if you've got everything you need.  There's a
flip chart, screen, overhead projector, plenty of paper and materials."
Miss de la Mare seemed more nervous than I. "It's fine, Miss de la
Mare," I reassured her, glancing around the small room.

"But is the room big enough, do you think?"

"It's fine," I repeated.

"Because I could see if there is something a little larger if not."

"It really is fine," I said laughing.

"Good show!"  she cried, rubbing her hands together.  "I'm sure your
session will go really well."

My afternoon workshop did, in fact, go well.  The teachers were
good-humoured and interested and produced some splendid poems. Sidney's
session, however, did not turn out quite as planned.  I was sitting in
a small rose garden, enclosed by handsome wrought-iron railings, to the
rear of the college, when I caught sight of him striding across the
quadrangle with the stuffed badger tucked under his arm and a
thunderous look on his face.  I called to him and a few moments later
he banged noisily through the gate, flopped on to the seat next to me
and rather unceremoniously, I thought, dumped the badger at his feet.

"I was harangued by a mad woman!"  he exclaimed, eyes blazing and beard
bristling.  "A mad woman in crimson dungarees with bright red hair and
clanking metal jewellery.  Compared to her, Mrs.  Savage is a veritable
Mother Teresa."

"Who was she?"  I asked, trying to suppress a smile.

"Some animal rights activist, by the way she behaved.  She took against
my stuffed creatures from the start and refused to put brush to canvas.
"How would you like to be murdered, gutted, stuffed and mounted and
then painted by all and sundry?"  she screeched at me, as I was
arranging the heron.  The whole session went from bad to worse and
deteriorated into a debate on the rights and wrongs of stuffed
animals."  Sidney's eyes were now fairly crackling with anger.  "I
endeavoured to explain to her that the animals were not deliberately
killed, but had been found dead, but would she have it?"  My colleague
caught sight of the slight smile on my lips.  "You may find this
amusing, Gervase, but that smile will rapidly disappear when I tell you
that, at my suggestion, Boadicea in the red dungarees and battle
jewellery is moving to the poetry workshop with you tomorrow morning. I
suggested that she might find poetry more to her liking."

"Well, thanks a bundle, Sidney!"

"We are doing pottery tomorrow and I certainly don't intend having that
red she-devil savaging me for digging up the environment, stripping
clay from river beds, disturbing the natural habitat of snails and
generally ruining the planet.  I'll tell you this, Gervase -'

"Excuse me, sir."  It was the gaunt, lugubrious-looking porter.

"Yes?"  snapped Sidney.  "What is it?"

"Your voice is carrying across the quadrangle sir."

"Really?"

"It's echoing."

"You don't say."

"This garden is reserved for the Fellows of the college."  He
scrutinized Sidney as if looking for dirt and then his eyes rested on
the stuffed badger.  "And pets are not allowed."

"Pets!"  exclaimed Sidney.  "It's not a pet, it's a stuffed badger."

"I can see what it is, sir."

Sidney patted the creature on the head.  "And it's dead."

"I take it you are not a Fellow of the college, sir?"  continued the
man unperturbed.

"Do I look like a Fellow of the college?"  exclaimed Sidney wearily. He
was dressed in a coloured T-shirt and bandanna, paint-spattered jeans
and multi-coloured plimsolls.

"No, sir, you do not."

"You are correct!  I am not a Fellow of the college."

"Well, would you mind vacating the garden then, please, sir, taking the
animal with you?"

"Am I doing any harm?  Am I doing anything heinously wrong in merely
sitting on a bench in the sunshine, minding my own business?  Is my
stuffed companion ripping up the lawn or savaging the flowers?"

"The garden is for the exclusive use of Fellows of Went-worth College,"
the porter persisted.  "I must ask you to leave."  With a great
exhalation of breath, Sidney got to his feet angrily, snatched up the
badger and strode away.  I got up to follow him.

"I am sorry that you were disturbed, Dr.  Finn," said the porter.  "We
do get all sorts of unsavoury itinerants over the summer who slide in
when my back is turned.  I trust you were not too inconvenienced?"
Without waiting for an answer he walked away but turned as if he had
suddenly forgotten something.  "Oh, by the way, Dr.  Finn, Professor
Rawnsley has been looking for you."

"Bringing the stuffed animals was a complete and utter disaster,"
growled Sidney as I helped him load the car the following afternoon. "I
feel like throwing the blasted badger in the river.  It's brought me
nothing but grief.  I should have got them to paint insipid
watercolours of the college and the gardens, do pretty little sketches
of flowers.  Mind you, we would have been banned no doubt by that
gatekeeper from Hell from drawing anything in his wretched Fellows'
garden."

Before I could answera stately, crimson-gowned figure entered the
quadrangle.  It was the elderly don with the face of the Roman senator
whom I had met the previous day.  He smiled benignly at me.

"You missed a very good lunch yesterday, Gervase," he said, approaching
me.  "We all wondered where you had got to.  Herbert is very keen to
speak to you."

"I was feeling a little unwell," I replied sheepishly.

"Oh, I am sorry.  I trust you are now recovered?"

"Yes, I feel fine today."

"That's good.  Are you coming?"

"Coming?"  I repeated.

"To Evensong in the chapel.  It's the special service for the
Fellows."

"I'll be along in a moment," I replied, smiling weakly.

"I look forward to seeing you there."  There was a swish of red gown
and Professor Morton was gone.

"Who the devil was that?"  asked Sidney.

"Oh, just someone I met yesterday."

"Well, what was all that about lunch and a meeting of the Fellows?  You
are a dark horse, you know.  There are one or two questions I want
answering, Gervase, starting with why you were not asked to vacate the
Fellows' garden when I was evicted, who are these important people that
you seem to know and, more importantly, how you coped with the wild
woman in the red dungarees."

"Come along, Sidney, let's go.  All will be revealed on the journey
home.  I need to get back to Fettlesham.  There's a very important
question I need to ask and it really can't be put off any longer."

I had booked a table at Le Bon Appetit restaurant in the picturesque
village of Ribsdyke for the Saturday after my return from Oxford.
Christine would be in a good mood because term would have ended and she
would be looking forward to the long summer break.  There would be soft
music, subdued lights and, from our secluded table, we would look out
along the dale and watch the sun go down behind the noble fells.  I
would reach out and take Christine's hand in mine.  Our eyes would
lock.  I would gaze into those deep blue eyes and whisper, "Christine,
I think you know how I feel about you.  Over the year, I've grown
closer and closer to you.  You're always in my thoughts, you're forever
in my dreams.  I love you."  I would pause for effect.  "Darling, will
you marry me?"  Her eyes would fill with tears.  "Of course," she would
sigh.

That is what I had carefully rehearsed in Oxford but it did not quite
work out like that.

The taxi arrived late.  I thought it would set the scene much better if
I arrived at Christine's house in a sleek black taxi rather than in my
old, distinctly grubby, Volvo estate.  It would also mean that I could
have more than one glass of wine.  I might need some Dutch courage, I
thought, imagining the ordeal ahead of me.  My heart sank when I saw
the vehicle which spluttered to a halt outside The Rumbling Turn cafe.
It was without a doubt the oldest and smelliest in the fleet, reeking
of diesel and stale cigarettes.

"I didn't know I were pickin' up t'Prince of Wales," said the driver
facetiously, when I complained about the state of the interior.  "You
should have asked for t'limousine."

When we finally arrived at Christine's parents' house, I could see my
future bride staring anxiously through the window.

"I'm really sorry," I said as I hurried her down the path, 'the taxi
was late."

"I thought you'd stood me up," she said smiling.  Then she caught sight
of the vehicle.  "And we're going by taxi.  How nice."

Le Bon Appetit was heaving.  We squeezed through a crowd of loud young
men in smart suits holding pints of lager who were blocking the door,
to be greeted by the head waiter.  He was a small, dark-eyed,
Gallic-looking individual, who eyed me superciliously as I pushed my
way forward, clearing a path for Christine.  He asked, in a strong
French accent, if I had a reservation and, hearing that I had, ran a
fat finger down a list in his hand.

"Ah, oui, Meester and Meesis Pinn."

"Phinn!"  I corrected.

"Meester Phinn.  Eef you would like to come zees way, I will show you
to your table."  We followed him through a noisy, crowded restaurant to
a small table positioned between two larger tables full of loud,
laughing people and directly opposite the doors to the kitchens.

"Is there somewhere which is a little more private?"  I asked,
immediately regretting that I had not asked for a quiet table when I
had booked.

"Private?"  he repeated, arching a thick, black eyebrow.  "Private?"

"More secluded, quieter."

"Oh, no, no, no!  I am afraid not.  Le Bon Appetit ees always ver' busy
at zer weekend.  You 'ave to book early for zer best tables."  He gave
me a look which clearly said, "It is this table or nothing."

"It's fine," said Christine squeezing into a chair.

"Aperitif?"  demanded the waiter, before I could sit down.

"In a minute!"  I snapped, attempting to get into the chair.

After we had ordered them, the drinks took an age to arrive and, try as
I might to have a conversation with Christine, my voice was drowned by
the noise of the other diners, the banging of the double swing doors to
the kitchen, the shouts of the chef and over-loud background music.  To
make matters worse, the waiter another small, dark-eyed, Gallic-looking
individual, insisted on taking us through the menu in maximum, dreary
detail.

"You can 'ave for starters zer warmed asparagus with a lightly poached
egg, fresh spinach salad, garden 'erbs and parmesan shavings or you can
'ave tempura of deep-fried queenie scallops with red pepper sauce on a
bed of rocket leaves and crispy prosciutto, or you can 'ave con fit of
plump pigeon, served with an on est red wine reduction, ragout of
Schitake, oyster and Piedmont wild mushrooms, or you can 'ave casserole
of numerous mussels in a garlic shellfish broth, or you can 'ave
oven-roasted 'alibut tandoori tikka mars ala with pickled lime chutney
and naan bread, or you can 'ave fresh Scottish smoked salmon served on
a platter of chicory leaves, caper, gherkins and roasted crusty bread,
fresh from zer oven, or you can 'ave hot feta cheese with sweet plum
tomatoes, black olives and diced oregano, or you can 'ave fruit terrine
featuring strawberries, blackberries, red currants blueberries, all set
in apple jelly and served with citrus creme fraiche, or you can 'ave
zer fresh tomato soup with zer croutons."

"I'll 'ave the mussels!"  I snapped, when finally the drone came to a
halt.

"And soup for me," said Christine, attempting to suppress a smile.

"Bon," scowled the waiter, bristling like an angry cat and then
proceeded to scribble down the order.  "And now for zer main courses.
We 'ave .. ."  And the whole thing was repeated.  He took my order for
the food and strode away with a flourish.

"Sounds delicious," shouted Christine across the table.

"David recommended it," I shouted back.  "I didn't think it would be
quite as crowded."  At this point there were shrieks of cackling
laughter from the large, rowdy office party at the next table.

"Would you care to see the wine list, sir?"  The wine waiter, with hair
slicked back in rippling boot-black waves, offered an enormous
leather-bound volume in his long white fingers.

"Just a bottle of dry house white, please," I replied.  I could not
contemplate listening to him working through the catalogue of wines. He
inclined his head, nodded and departed through the melee.

The restaurant grew noisier and noisier and hotter and hotter and every
time a waiter swept out of the kitchen, a great gust of humid air hit
us in the face.  It was quite impossible to have any sort of intimate
conversation in such an atmosphere.  The food finally arrived.  The
numerous mussels numbered five, the soup looked about as appetising as
grey dishwater, the main courses were barely warm and the white wine
too sweet.

"I'm really sorry about this, Christine!"  I shouted across the table.
"David said this place was really good.  He came here for his
twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  I certainly wasn't expecting it to
be like this.  I wanted this evening to be so special."

"Could you take a photo of us, please, young man?"  asked a man with a
clarety complexion and heavy jowls who was sitting at the next table.
"Office outing," he explained.  "Do you mind?"

"Of course not," I replied, smiling maniacally.  The evening was
developing into a farce.  I took three or four photographs, thrust the
camera into his hands and wiped my brow.

"To be what?"  asked Christine when I turned back to face her.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"You said something about wanting the evening to be .. ."

"Special!  I wanted it to be special.  But this place has all the
ambience of an abattoir!"  Christine laughed and nearly spilt her wine.
"And there was something very particular I wanted to ask you. Something
I've been wanting to say for weeks now and .. ."  She looked at me
expectantly, as did a couple of the office revellers on the next table
to whom my raised voice had obviously carried.  "Would you .. . would
you .. . would you like another glass of wine?"

"No thanks, it's a little too sweet for me," she replied.

I tried again.  "Christine .. . would you

"Would you care to 'ear what we 'ave for dessert?"  It was the waiter
again.

No, I felt like saying, let me guess.  "Would you like a pudding,
Chris?"  I asked.

"No, thanks, just coffee, please."

"Could we just have coffee, please," I said to the waiter.  He stuck
his tongue in the corner of his mouth, shrugged and nodded as if
deliberating on a difficult arithmetical problem.  "And is there
anywhere less crowded and noisy for us to have it?"  I continued.

"Oh, no, no, no!  I am afraid not.  Le Bon Appetit ees always ver' busy
at zer weekend."

This was just impossible.  There should have been soft music, subdued
lighting, the outstanding view down the dale, a wonderful calm.  I
could not possibly ask her here in this place.  I wanted this evening
to be memorable.

"Shall we skip the coffee?"  suggested Christine helpfully.  "We could
go back to my house.  I make an excellent cup and I know Mum and Dad
would love to see you again.  They hoped you might have time to pop
in."

"No coffee, then, thank you," I told the waiter.  "Just the bill,
please."

' Certainement," murmured the waiter and strode off.

Turning back to Christine, I said in a resigned voice, "Yes, let's go
back to your house for coffee."  I had not planned for the evening to
end like this.  How could I propose with Christine's parents making
polite conversation and smiling at me over the rims of their coffee
cups?  "I'll just go and rustle up the taxi.  I ordered it for eleven,
but we don't want to be hanging about here for the next hour.  Would
you excuse me?  I won't be long."

Having finally persuaded the head waiter to ring for the taxi, I headed
for the only cool and quiet place in the building: the gents.  I had to
get my thoughts straight and think through another plan of attack.  In
the deserted cloakroom, I splashed cold water over my face and stared
into the mirror.  Perhaps Christine's parents would leave us to
ourselves and then I could pop the question.  I had rehearsed what I
would say so many times I knew it backwards.  Or perhaps we could sit
outside in the warm air, I could take her in my arms and propose
beneath the moon.  I looked in the mirror, smiled and said out loud: "I
think you know how I feel about you.  Over the year I've grown closer
and closer to you.  You're always in my thoughts, you're forever in my
dreams.  I love you, I've always loved you, I've loved you since I
first saw you."  I paused for effect.  "I just cannot live without you.
I want to spend the rest of my life with you.  Darling, will you marry
me?"

There was a loud flushing noise, a cubicle door opened and the man with
a clarety complexion and heavy jowls from the next table emerged with a
bemused expression.  He joined me at the washbasin where he proceeded
to wash his hands vigorously.

"I'm afraid I can't," he said bluntly.

"I'm sorry?"

"Marry you.  I'm married already.  I've been married for fotty-five
years.  But thank you for asking I shall always treasure the memory."
Then, chuckling to himself, he left me to my thoughts.

The evening had been a total disaster.  What else could possibly happen
next?  I had not long to wait.  At the bar, having settled the bill, I
became aware of a familiar voice.

"Could you order me a taxi, please, to collect us in about thirty
minutes?"  It was Dr.  Gore.

"Dr.  Gore!"  I exclaimed.

The Chief Education Officer smiled his hungry vampire smile and came
down the bar to join me.  "Hello, Gervase, I didn't see you there.  I
take it you too have been celebrating the end of term?  Are you here
with your colleagues?"

"No, no, just with a friend," I replied.

"Well, you must come and join us for a coffee."

"That's very kind, but I'm expecting a taxi'

"What time?"  he interrupted.

"Well, it was for eleven actually, but I've just asked the waiter to
telephone and see if it could collect us earlier."

"I'm sure that you have time for a cup of coffee.  In any case, if your
taxi does arrive it can wait for ten minutes or so."  He smiled a
thin-lipped, self-satisfied smile, reminding me of Count Dracula before
he sinks his fangs into a helpless victim.  "Now, I won't take no for
an answer.  You run along and fetch your friend.  We're through the
archway, near the window, in a little alcove."

"And where have you been?"  Christine demanded in a mock angry voice
when I arrived back at the table.  "I've been sitting here for ages."

"I'm really sorry.  I met Dr.  Gore and just couldn't get away.  He's
asked us to join him for coffee and I couldn't get out of it.  He
insisted.  Do you mind awfully?"

"Of course not."

I led Christine through the crowd still thronging the bar area, under
the archway and headed in the direction of the window where Dr.  Gore
had said he was sitting.  This was where Christine and I should have
been, I thought crossly.  There was soft background music, subdued
lights, tables for two in secluded alcoves.  I could have proposed
here, I thought to myself.

"He's over there," said Christine taking my arm.

I stopped in my tracks as if turned to stone when I saw who was in
animated conversation with the CEO.  At a pretty table, bathed in pink
light from a nearby lamp, sat a streamlined figure in exquisite
acid-green silk and bedecked in an assortment of heavy gold jewellery.
It was Mrs.  Savage.

"I do not believe it," I heard myself whisper.  "I do not believe
it."

"What is it?"  asked Christine.  "You look as if you've seen a
ghost."

"Something worse," I murmured.

Dr.  Gore stood as we reached the table.  "Ah, there you are," he said.
"Good, good.  Miss Bentley, how very nice to see you.  Gervase never
mentioned who his friend was.  Bit of a dark horse is our English
inspector.  Come, come, do take a seat.  I've ordered some more
coffee."

Mrs.  Savage placed the china cup she was holding carefully between
finger and thumb on the saucer and our eyes met.  She arched an eyebrow
and gave me a twisted little smile.  We sat down on chairs pulled up by
Dr.  Gore.  "You know Brenda, of course, Gervase," continued Dr.  Gore
jovially.  He turned to Christine and gave her the thin-lipped grin.
"This is my personal assistant, Brenda Savage," he explained.  "You
keep me in order, don't you, Brenda?"  She gave a self-satisfied little
smirk before extending a green-nailed hand like some member of royalty.
"Delighted to meet you," she said softly.

"And this is Christine Bentley," Dr.  Gore told her.  "One of our most
distinguished and hard-working head teachers

"Hello," said Christine warmly.  "I think I saw you with Dr.  Gore when
he came to talk at the Headteachers' Conference."

"That's right," said Mrs.  Savage.  "I spend a lot of time with Dr.
Gore."  She gave me what could only be termed a challenging look.

Dr.  Gore and Mrs.  Savage, I thought to myself.  Well, well.  The
evening was collapsing into a complete shambles but what a story I
would have to tell David and Sidney.

"Well, isn't this nice," chortled the CEO leaning back in his chair.

The next ten minutes of trivial conversation seemed an eternity.  Mrs.
Savage never missed an opportunity to remind me how hard Dr.  Gore
worked and how much he relied on her.  I could have yelped for joy when
I saw the little French waiter heading in our direction.

"Meester and Meesis Pinn, your taxi is 'ere."

I thanked Dr.  Gore for the coffee, shook his hand, wished him a
pleasant summer holiday, smiled weakly at Mrs.  Savage and turned to
Christine, "Shall we go then?"

Christine slid her hand into mine and smiled.  "If you're ready," she
replied.

I was lost for words, just as I had been the very first time I had seen
her.  She had the deepest blue eyes and the fairest complexion I had
ever seen, the softest mass of golden hair, the sweetest mouth.  She
was strikingly beautiful.  It had been a coup defoudre an instantaneous
falling in love and I had to tell her.  "Gervase," she repeated, 'are
you ready?"

"Yes," I murmured.  "I'm ready."

"That was an unexpected meeting, wasn't it?"  Christine said as we
headed for the door.  "Fancy coming across Dr.  Gore and Mrs.  Savage,
together.  Do you think there's something going on between them?  He's
a widower, isn't he?"

"Christine'

"Of course, it might be quite innocent -just be a sort of thank-you
meal, you know'

"Christine!  I am really totally uninterested in Dr.  Gore and Mrs.
Savage at the moment.  There really is something I have to ask you.  It
won't wait.  Could we just sit down for a moment?"  We found an empty
table in a smoky part of the room near the bar.  I took a deep breath
and tried to remember the words I had endlessly rehearsed.  My mind
went blank and my throat dry.  "I know this is not the best place to
say this, but I really have to say it now.  You don't have to answer me
right away.  You might want to think about it.  It's just that I think
you are the most beautiful, wonderful, amazing person I've ever met
and, well, I love you.  Yes, I do, I love you.  I can't stop thinking
about you.  It's making me ill.  I want you to be my wife."

"Oh."

"Will you marry me, Christine?  You may want to think about it '

"The answer is "No"," Christine replied immediately.

"No?  Oh, no!"  Her answer was like a bullet to the heart.

"No, I don't need to think about it, Gervase.  Of course I'll marry
you."

' You will?"  I shouted loud enough to turn the entire noisy restaurant
silent.  "You'll marry me?"

"Of course, I will."

Making his way to the bar was the claret-faced man who had heard the
final rehearsal of my speech in the gents.

"Well done, lad," he chuckled, thumping me on the back.  "I knew thy'd
fettle it."

This was followed by a clatter of clinking glasses and noisy applause
from the rest of the diners.  I caught sight of Dr.  Gore raising a
very large brandy glass in our direction.  He was smiling his vampire
smile while Mrs.  Savage, with her be ringed hand on his arm, had an
enigmatic smirk playing about her lips.

"Ees everything all right?"  It was the head waiter who had
materialised at my arm.

"Oui!  Oui!"  I exclaimed jumping up, grasping him by the shoulders and
kissing him on both cheeks.

"Ere, steady on, squire," he replied in a distinctly Yorkshire accent,
looking acutely embarrassed.  "You've no need to carry on like that."

"Le rep as et ait excellent," exclaimed Christine suddenly, 'en de pit
dufait que la soupe etaitfroide, la viande pas assez cuite, levin tie
de et I'ambiance celled' un abattoir.  A part ca, tout et ait super
be

"Thanks very much, madam," said the waiter with a wan smile.  "Very
kind of you, I'm sure."  He looked distinctly uncomfortable.  "I'm not
all that good with French," he whispered, retaining the weak smile.
"The boss just likes us to put on the accent.  Gives the place a bit of
class, you know."  He added in a feeble voice, "Actually, I was born in
Barnsley."  Then he continued as an afterthought, "They don't speak
much French in Barnsley."

We let the taxi wait and stood with our arms around each other on the
little hump-backed bridge in front of the restaurant.  In the clear
moonlight, the swirling waters beneath were speckled in myriad colours:
rose-pink and silver, slate-grey and russet red, shimmering yellow and
tender est blue.  A few leaves eddied in the pools, while old dead
oaks, garlanded in ivy, stood upright with roots agape to the sky and
willows wept and shivered in the breeze.  From its banks, shadowy
pastures climbed up the fell side and the great buffs of limestone
towered above us like tall castle walls.  The smell of wet wood and
honeysuckle mingled in the still air.  A distant farm dog yapped, and
high above an owl gave a hunting shriek.

Christine's blue eyes were bright with pleasure and her blonde hair
shone golden in the moonlight.  I stooped to kiss her.

"I'd like six," I said, wrapping my arms around her waist.

"Six what?"  Christine asked.

"Children.  I'd like six children."

"Let's think about that later, shall we?"  she replied, reaching up to
kiss me.

"You do want children?"  I asked.

"Yes, of course, but not right at this moment and I might want
eight."

"Ey up!  Are that ready or what?"  said a loud voice in my ear.

I very nearly tumbled off the bridge, and turned to face the taxi
driver standing with hands on hips.  "I've got a lot o' calls to neet
tha knaws.  Can't be messin' abaat whilst that looks at t'river.  It's
been theer since Battle o' Ribsdyke 'undreds o' years back.  It'll
still be theer in t' mornin'.  So let's be 'avin' thee."

Christine and I hooted with laughter so loudly that it was the taxi
driver's turn to jump with surprise.

"Are you two all reight?"

"We're champion, aren't we, Chris?"  I exclaimed robustly, in true
Yorkshire fashion.  "Just champion!"

Remember Me?

"Do you remember me?"  asked the young man.

The old man at the bus stop,

Shabby, standing in the sun, alone,

Looked round.

He stared for a moment screwing up his eyes,

Then shook his head.

"No, I don't remember you."

"You used to teach me," said the young man.

"I've taught so many," said the old man, sighing.

"I forget."

"I was the boy you said was useless,

Good for nothing, a waste of space.

Who always left your classroom crying,

And dreaded every lesson that you taught."

The old man shook his head and turned away.

"No, I don't remember you," he murmured.

"Well, I remember you," the young man said.