The Heart of the Dales (38 page)

‘Isn't that what I was saying?' enquired the headteacher, looking puzzled.

‘The Infant School will also cease to exist,' I said, ‘and become part of a county primary school with a new headteacher.'

‘A new headteacher!' exclaimed Mrs Braddock-Smith. ‘How can there be a new headteacher when I am already in post?' The colour drained from her face as what I had said sunk in.

‘Well, both you and Mr Harrison will be considered for the
position in the first instance, and then if neither of you is appointed, it will go to national advert.'

‘You mean I will be in
competition
with Mr Harrison for the post?' asked Mrs Braddock-Smith. ‘And it may go to national advert?'

‘Yes,' I replied. She had obviously assumed that the position would be hers.

She gave a wry smile. ‘Well, I may sound as if I am blowing my own trumpet, Mr Phinn, but when you compare my track record with that of my colleague down the road, I should think there will be little doubt which one of us is the better suited for the position of headteacher at the new school. You yourself have seen the quality of the education I provide here and the excellent standard of work the children achieve. And, though I say so myself, I feel I run a school second to none in the county.'

‘That may very well be the case, Mrs Braddock-Smith,' I told her, ‘but the appointment will be in the hands of the governors. I can only advise.'

‘My governors,' she said, ‘have always greatly valued the work I have done here and know that I will be able to rise to the challenge.'

‘There will be a new governing body,' I said, ‘comprising of governors from both schools.'

‘I see,' said the headteacher. Mrs Braddock-Smith's elation had evaporated like a burst balloon. She rose from her desk in queenly fashion. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I naturally assumed that I would be asked to become headteacher of the amalgamated schools. I thought that is why you wished to see me. As you might imagine, this has come as some surprise. I shall have to see what Archdeacon Richards has to say about all this – and my union. And now, if you will excuse me, Mr Phinn, I have a great deal to do. As you are no doubt aware, half-term starts this afternoon and there is much to be done before the children breakup for their holiday.'

Oh dear, I thought, a minute or so later as I stood at the gate looking back at the school building; this situation was
likely to be more contentious than I had imagined. I sensed a presence behind me and, turning, discovered the same hawk-faced crossing patrol woman I had encountered when I had visited the Infant School earlier in the term. She was now wielding her lollipop sign emblazoned with ‘STOP!' most aggressively.

‘I hear that you're closing the Juniors,' she said sharply.

‘Not me personally,' I said.

‘Well, I don't like the idea.'

‘Really? Why not?'

‘It will mean a whole lot of new kiddies coming to this school and crossing the road up here.' She pushed her lollipop in my face.

‘That's very likely,' I told her, moving back a pace.

‘Older children, who can be real nuisances and not do what they're told. And there'll be many more cars hooting and puthering out exhaust fumes. It'll be like a war zone up here. Well, will I be getting some help?'

‘I've really no idea.'

‘I hope I will because I won't be able to cope on my own.'

‘It may well be,' I said mischievously, ‘that the crossing patrol warden down at the Junior School, who I believe is extremely well thought of and very good humoured, is asked to take on the job up here.' With that and a hearty ‘Good afternoon', I headed for my next appointment, leaving the vision in luminous yellow open-mouthed and lost for words.

At the Junior School, Mr Harrison was waiting in the entrance to greet me. He looked a whole lot better than when I had last seen him at the parents' meeting and was actually smiling.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Phinn,' he said cheerfully.

‘Good afternoon.'

‘It's been a beautiful day, hasn't it? Getting a bit nippy now, but it's been bright and fresh.'

‘Yes, indeed,' I said, surprised by his obvious good humour.

I followed him to his room where he sat at his desk, rubbed his hands together vigorously and asked, ‘Cup of tea?'

‘No, thank you,' I replied, bemused by his manner. Mr Harrison was grinning like a cat that had got the cream.

I had written to him after my last visit, explaining that I had seen the Chief Inspector with the intention of recommending that a thorough inspection of the school would take place, but events – namely, the proposed amalgamation of the two schools – had changed things.

‘As you know,' I said now, ‘the plan is to close down this school and move the Juniors in with the Infants at the school up the road.'

The headteacher leaned back in his chair, placed his hands behind his head and looked up at the ceiling. ‘I think it's an excellent idea,' he said.

‘You do?' I said, taken aback.

‘I do,' he said. ‘Numbers are declining here, there's plenty of space up at the Infants and I thinka fresh start with new teachers and a new headteacher will make all the difference.' I considered for a moment how to approach the thorny question of the new headteacher. He must have been reading my mind. ‘And then, of course,' he said, ‘there'll be the appointment of the headteacher of the amalgamated schools.'

As at the meeting with the headteacher of Ugglemattersby Infant School, I explained that, in the first instance, he would be in competition with Mrs Braddock-Smith for the headship of the new school, and if neither was deemed satisfactory to the board of the newly-elected governors, then the position would be advertised nationally.

‘I think she deserves the job,' he said. I detected a slight sardonic inflection in his voice.

‘Who?'

‘Mrs Braddock-Smith,' he replied.

‘You do?'

‘I do,' he said. ‘She's a very successful headteacher and runs a popular and high-achieving school, as she is always at great pains to point out, and I am certain she will rise admirably to the challenge.' There was undisguised sarcasm in his voice.

‘So you won't be applying for the post?' I asked.

‘No, I won't,' he told me, a smile still playing across his face. ‘You see, I am resigning.' He looked as pleased as Punch.

‘Resigning?'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘My wife is a great one for telling me that things have the habit of working out for the best. Well, I'm pleased to say that they have now for me. The chairman of governors of my last school down in London phoned me a few weeks ago, when I was at my lowest ebb, to tell me that the present headteacher is retiring at the end of this term. He asked if I would consider putting in an application for the post. I was, of course, very flattered. I then received such encouraging letters from my former colleagues on the staff urging me to apply. Why, even the caretaker wrote asking me to return. I cannot tell you how I felt receiving such letters. I applied, went for the interview last week and was offered the position. So, you see, Mr Phinn, the amalgamation of the schools is all academic as far as I am concerned. I shall be returning to London.'

‘Well, congratulations,' I said, and meant it.

‘And I do hope that Mrs Braddock-Smith is appointed as the headteacher of the new primary school, I sincerely do.' He looked well pleased with the situation. ‘She always told me that she welcomed a challenge and I have no doubt in my mind that should Mrs Battersby and Mrs Sidebottom be redeployed to the new school, they will provide her with all the challenge she needs.'

It was the opening night of
The Dame of Sark
and I was ready to head off home from the Staff Development Centre, shower, change, have some tea and get to the Fettlesham Little Theatre in good time. Much to the cast's amazement and despite Raymond's frequent panic attacks and periodic theatrical outbursts, the production had fallen into place and it seemed that we might not make total fools of ourselves on the night.

I was tidying up after an English course I had just directed; it had been a tiresome afternoon with a number of would-be Philip Larkins testing my patience. I was about finished when Mrs Kipling from St Margaret's Church of England Primary School popped her head around the door of the room.

‘Hello, Mr Phinn,' she said brightly.

‘Good afternoon,' I said.

‘I've been here on one of the art courses,' she told me. ‘We've been doing collage work this afternoon and it's been truly inspirational. Yesterday, we did batikand screen-printing. He's such a character isn't he, Mr Clamp, and so artistic?'

‘He is,' I agreed.

‘And so very talented.'

‘Yes, he is.'

‘I try to come on all the courses he holds,' she said, beaming pinkly.

I curtailed the eulogy to my ‘artistic', ‘very talented' and ‘truly inspirational' colleague by asking, ‘And how are things at St Margaret's?'

‘Fine,' she told me, coming into the room.

‘I meant to get in touch with you,' I said. ‘I'm sorry if I was a bit hard on your chairman of governors. When I thought
about it later, you were quite right – one shouldn't judge by appearances.'

‘Don't worry your head about that, Mr Phinn,' she said. ‘Mr Featherstone does have that effect on people until you get to know him. He looks rather Dickensian with his whiskers and gold-rimmed spectacles but he's not the dour and daunting person he appears to be. What he needs is a good wife, a jolly, homely, good-humoured woman and a large family of lively children to get him to take things less seriously, but I guess he is too set in his bachelor ways and will remain so. He likes children but just can't seem to get on their wave lengths. But I do have to say, Mr Phinn, his heart is in the right place and I would much rather have a really interested and concerned chairman of governors like Mr Featherstone, than one who is constantly interfering or someone who is apathetic and can't be bothered.'

‘I suppose so,' I said.

‘Actually, poor Mr Featherstone is a little nervous at the moment,' she confided in me.

‘Why so?' I asked.

‘Well, it's getting near to Remembrance Sunday and last year he was a bit shell-shocked after an incident at the war memorial in the village.' Mrs Kipling pulled a face. ‘Oh dear, perhaps that's not quite the right phrase to use in the circumstances.'

‘What happened?' I asked, intrigued.

‘If you have a minute, I'll tell you,' she said, bringing up a chair. ‘Mr Featherstone came into school last November in the week leading up to Remembrance Sunday. He explained to the children in assembly about the significance of the poppies and the importance of the special service at the war memorial when people gathered in the village to remember those who had given their lives in the two world wars. It was a very emotional assembly, particularly when he told the children that his own father had been killed in the last war and his grandfather had died in the trenches at Ypres in the first. He told the children,' Mrs Kipling continued, ‘that they might like to attend the service with their parents on the Sunday but that, if
they did, they had to remain perfectly still and silent during the two-minute silence. “If you feel you want to say something,' he told them, “put your finger over your lips to stop yourself.' He demonstrated by placing his index finger over his own lips and the children did likewise. “And if you really want anything, then raise your hand like this.' He held up his right arm to show them how.'

Mrs Kipling stood up to demonstrate what Mr Featherstone had shown the children to do, then sat down again.

‘Well, on the Sunday, quite a few of the children did attend the service. We crowded around the memorial on the village green and Mr Featherstone gave a very moving address. The children behaved themselves but I could see a few of them were getting a bit fidgety. When it came to the two-minute silence several did as they had been told. They put their fingers over their lips, and three young lads raised their arms. No doubt, you can imagine the surprise on the faces of all the old soldiers when they saw a group of little children facing the war memorial and giving what to them looked like the Nazi salute.'

I smiled as I pictured the scene. ‘Well, I'm sure it will all go swimmingly this year,' I said.

‘Would you like to see my masterpiece?' she asked, standing up.

‘Your masterpiece?'

‘My collage. I'm really proud of it.'

‘Yes,' I told her, having a surreptitious look at my watch, ‘I'd be most interested to see it.'

‘It's in the corridor.'

I followed Mrs Kipling and there, propped up on a chair, was a garish jigsaw of material mounted on a large piece of card.

She looked at her handiwork with obvious pride. ‘We were asked to express a mood such as happiness, anger, frustration, affection, depression, that sort of thing. I call mine ‘In the Pink' and I know exactly which wall I will display it on back at school. I shall put it in the entrance hall in order to cheer people up.'

‘It's very striking,' I commented, thinking to myself that I
wouldn't even hang such a hideous creation, with all those clashing pinks and corals, on my toilet wall, let alone in my hall.

‘I thought of the school entrance,' Mrs Kipling told me, ‘to give it maximum impact and exposure.'

‘It will certainly turn heads,' I said. As I looked closer at the collage, I seemed to recognise some of the material – a bright pink nylon fabric, and had a sudden dreadful thought.

‘So where did the material come from for your collage?' I asked casually.

‘Mr Clamp brought along black bags containing all sorts of woven, knitted or felted fabric, wool, cotton, scraps of silk, bits with different textures and in various colours. He told us that he often got old clothes and pieces of material from charity shops. As soon as I saw this really unusual pink overall – you must admit it is so wonderfully bright that it sort of shimmers – I commandeered it.'