Over Hill And Dale Part 7

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.

"h.e.l.lo," 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 doc.u.ment 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 b.u.mped 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 rea.s.sured me that the weather further up the dale was not too bad and that all the roads were pa.s.sable.

"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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 s.h.i.+ny 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 s.p.a.cious 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 ma.s.sive 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 cla.s.sical 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 pa.s.sed 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 l.u.s.trous 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 b.l.o.o.d.y awful weather and I want to a.s.sure 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 doc.u.ments. 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 scholars.h.i.+ps 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 b.i.t.c.h?" 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, b.u.t.ton 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, Laet.i.tia," 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. n.o.bly 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.

"Laet.i.tia! Will you come out! Heel!" ordered Lord Marrick. The dog blinked lazily, lifted its fat, round face from between the man's legs, yawned ma.s.sively, 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 compet.i.tions 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 cla.s.sical 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 b.u.t.ton 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 Laet.i.tia 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 a.n.a.lysing 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 a.n.a.lysis 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 antic.i.p.ated."

"Well, there's a simple remedy. Write to half of them saying the course is full and tell them there's s.p.a.ce 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 antic.i.p.ated. 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 Princ.i.p.al 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 gla.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sed 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 un.o.bserved."

"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-a.s.sure him."