The Heart of the Dales (19 page)

The headteacher nodded towards me. ‘This is Mr Phinn, as I informed you, Mr Gaskell, the County Inspector for English and Drama. Had you or Councillor Peterson contacted him, he too could have cleared up the matter, being fully aware of the origins of the expressions.' I nodded knowingly, but kept quiet. I had had no idea from where the expressions had originated. I too had thought they were rather vulgar phrases. ‘Have you anything to add, Mr Phinn?' asked the headteacher.

‘I think Mr Gaskell should contact the
Fettlesham Gazette
and explain it was all a misunderstanding,' I said.

‘That goes without question,' said Miss Drayton, ‘and I shall most certainly be getting in touch with the Editor because the reputation of the school could very well have been tarnished by such accusations.' She turned to her colleague. ‘Have you anything to add, Mr Hornchurch?' she asked.

‘It's just a misunderstanding,' he said. ‘Let's forget all about it. I've got more important things to think about at the moment. I'm taking the children on a trip to the Science Museum next Saturday and I've still got lots to do.' Mr Gaskell continued to stare at the carpet. ‘It would be very nice if your Miranda could come after all.'

‘I don't know about that,' he replied quietly, without looking up.

‘School trips are a very important part of the curriculum,' said the headteacher.

‘Miranda is doing very well, you know,' said Mr Horn-church.

The parent stood up. ‘Well, I must be off.'

‘Yes,' said Miss Drayton, rising from her chair and giving Mr Gaskell a tight little smile of dismissal. ‘I think your daughter is waiting to be taken home. I suggest we conclude this very unfortunate meeting.'

‘Yes,' said Mr Gaskell, heading for the door. ‘Good afternoon.'

‘But before you go, Mr Gaskell,' said Miss Drayton, ‘I rather think you have something to say to Mr Hornchurch.'

‘Something to say?'

‘An apology?'

The man coughed nervously. ‘Yes, well… er… I'm sorry for the… er… trouble, I'm sure,' he mumbled. ‘And… er… I'll let you know about Miranda and the trip.' And with that, he lumbered from the room.

‘One expression from this rich and poetic language of ours,' I observed, ‘which comes to my mind is being “taken down a peg or two”.'

‘Ah yes,' said Mr Hornchurch. ‘Now that's another very interesting nautical expression.' It was as if I had wound him up like a clockwork toy. ‘At the time of Nelson, there was a strict hierarchy at sea displayed by the position of the ship's colours after they had been raised. The greatest honour was conferred by the flags flown at the masthead. To be “taken down a peg or two” was to receive a reduction in the honour shown to you. Of course, nowadays, it has come to mean taking the conceit from a boastful person, rather like “taking the wind out of one's sails”. Now there's another expression which –'

‘I think we have had enough expressions for one day, thank you,' said Miss Drayton, laughing. ‘Well,' she said, ‘I think that was very generous of you, Mr Hornchurch. I don't think I would have been quite so understanding.' Her brow creased a fraction, ‘You
were
quite right about those particular expressions, weren't you?'

Mr Hornchurch stretched out a hand towards the bookcase. ‘Would you like me to get the
OED
?' he asked.

‘No, that won't be necessary,' said the headteacher. ‘Off
you go, then, but I do think it might be wise to modify the range of idioms that you discuss with the children.'

Mr Hornchurch nodded and then, with a mischievous grin on his face, made a mock-naval salute, and said, ‘Aye, aye, sir!' With that, the most eccentric teacher it has been my pleasure to meet strode for the door, leaving us both laughing.

I was at the office early on the Monday morning, eager to report back to Miss de la Mare about ‘the storm in the teacup' at Tarncliffe, and also determined to broach the question of Ugglemattersby once and for all.

Julie was already tapping away noisily at the typewriter in the adjoining office when I arrived and she shouted down the corridor: ‘Morning, Mr Phinn.'

‘How do you know it's me?' I called back.

Julie appeared at the door of the inspectors' office. ‘Mr Pritchard is running a course this morning,' she said, ‘and Mr Clamp is never in this early at the start of the week and Dr Mullarkey is at a meeting in York. Anyway, Miss de la Mare has you in her appointment book for eight o'clock.'

‘How do you know that?' I asked.

‘Because she rang through just before you came in,' she replied, ‘and told me you had an appointment with her this morning. She asked me to tell you she's running a bit late and she'll ring when she's ready for you. She's likely to be held up because she has to see venomous Brenda, the black widow of County Hall – something to do with the school closures.'

There was no love lost between our secretary and the Chief Education Officer's PA. In fact, there was a mutual dislike bordering on hostility between the two of them, and a long-running history of disputes and disagreements. Any mention of Mrs Savage to Julie was guaranteed to wind her up.

‘It might not have been me coming into the office,' I said. ‘It could have been the Personal Assistant from hell checking up on us again,' I said.

‘If it was Mrs Savage,' Julie retorted, ‘I'd have heard her a mile off. With all that jewellery she wears, she sounds like a
wind chime in a gale whenever she moves. Mind you, it's more difficult in the new offices to be warned of her arrival since she doesn't have to come up the two flights of stairs any more. She was always huffing and puffing by the time she got to the second floor.'

It was true. Mrs Savage did like to adorn herself in expensive and heavy jewellery. It was a wonder that her neck, hands and wrists were capable of supporting so many chains, rings, necklaces and bracelets that hung from her like Christmas tree baubles.

‘So I have an extra ten minutes, good,' I said.

‘Well, there's plenty of work for you on your desk to be getting on with, and there're some calls to make from Friday afternoon.'

‘No peace for the wicked,' I said, looking through the pile of papers on my desk.

‘So, how's that little squirrel of yours, then?' she asked.

‘Who told you about the squirrel?' I asked.

‘Mr Clamp, who else?' She perched herself on the end of my desk and straightened her strip of emerald-green skirt. ‘We were having a laugh about it on Friday when he was in the office. He told us about two little boys at one of the schools he was visiting. When they saw a squirrel outside the classroom window, one of them said, “Ooh, look at that squirrel in the tree. Let's tell miss.” “Shurrup, Gavin,” said the other, “she'll make us write about it.”' Julie laughed. ‘I get no work done when Mr Clamp is around.'

‘Well, I can tell you that Christine and I aren't laughing at the moment. We keep being woken up in the dead of night by its wretched scratching and scraping and scuttling about in the loft. It is driving us mad. In fact, I'm expecting Mr Hinderwell to deliver a squirrel trap today or tomorrow. Keep an eye out for it, will you?'

‘Certainly. I'll put it by your desk when it arrives.' Julie adopted a pose of a squirrel begging, with her hands held up in front of her substantial chest. ‘I played a squirrel once in the infant nativity play,' she said. ‘I was burning hot in that grey
woollen costume under all the stage lights, and it smelt revolting, too – of smelly socks and sweat and toilets. I couldn't see properly through the eyeholes and kept banging into things. I knocked the frankincense off the stage and tripped over the manger.'

‘I wasn't aware that they had squirrels in the stable at Bethlehem?' I said, smiling at the thought of the mayhem.

‘There was in our version. In fact, there were all sorts of assorted animals. I think the costumes were left over from when the juniors did
The Wind in the Willows
. It was a real laugh, that Nativity. Maureen Broadbent was a mole and stole the show by biting one of the angels. Jimmy Parker walked on stage in a white sheet with cardboard wings and a halo shouting, “Shift thissen. It's t'Angel o' Lord 'ere. Move out of t'way!” and then he trod on Maureen's paw – they were really her fingers, of course. So she bit him!'

‘It sounds great,' I chuckled, ‘a real barrel of laughs.'

‘The best part was when we presented Baby Jesus with His presents,' Julie told me. ‘After the Three Wise Men had given their gifts, all the animals gave theirs. Well, I went on stage without mine and Mrs Proctor, my teacher, brought the house down by shouting out from the wings of the stage, “Squirrel, get back here, you've forgotten your nuts!” So why does the boss want to see you so early on a Monday morning?' asked Julie, suddenly changing the subject.

‘It's about a school with a problem,' I told her. ‘Well, it was supposed to be a problem but, as it turned out, it was all a fuss about nothing, a storm in a teacup. I had better things to do with my time last Friday afternoon I can tell you than go on a wild-goose chase for Councillor Peterson.'

‘Marlene, who works on the switchboard, was telling me about Councillor Peterson's latest gaffe. Joyce, who takes the Education Committee minutes, was telling her how she overheard Councillor Peterson telling another councillor about it. Marlene nearly wet herself laughing. Listen to this! The Ministry of Education and Science asked for an elected member to represent the county at a Regional Race Committee meeting
in York. It was all to do with equal opportunities, multi-racial matters, making sure that people of different races and cultures are not discriminated against.'

‘Well, that's a good idea,' I said. ‘It's about time some notice was taken of that.'

‘Anyway,' she continued, ‘who should put himself forward but Councillor Peterson.'

‘I would have thought he was the very last person to represent the Authority on racial awareness,' I said, ‘but, of course, he does like to have his fat fingers in every pie.'

‘Let me finish,' said Julie. ‘So off he goes to this Race Committee meeting in York, and comes back and reports that he'd thought it was all about horse racing! He thought he was all set for a slap-up meal and a day at York Races. He was dressed for the part as well, in his tweeds and trilby hat and with a pair of binoculars round his neck– or so Joyce said she'd heard him say, and that's what she told Marlene who told me.'

‘Typical of him,' I said. ‘And speaking of meetings, could you ring County Hall and see if Miss de la Mare wants to see me yet?'

‘Well, I thought it was very funny,' said Julie, presumably stung because I hadn't laughed. ‘And I'm not going to ring County Hall because, if you remember, I told you she would ring over when she's ready for you.' And with that, she tottered back to her office on her bright green high heels.

Oh dear, I realised I had now upset Julie. I was definitely on edge about the forthcoming meeting with the Chief Inspector.

A moment later, she popped her head around the door. ‘I meant to say, will you
please
give that double-barrelled woman with the fancy name a call before your meeting? I've left a note with her number on your desk. I couldn't get her off the line on Friday and I don't want a repeat.' She then adopted what she considered a frightfully upper-class accent. ‘I hev to speak to Mr Phinn abite something very himportant. It's abslewtly hessential he rings me,
tout de suite
.'

The urgent call was from Mrs Cleaver-Canning, or should
I say the Honourable Margot Cleaver-Canning. I had met this impressively large and formidable woman a couple of years before when I had been inveigled by her into speaking at the Christmas dinner of the Totterdale and Clearwell Golf Club when she was the Lady Captain. Prior to being formally invited, she had summoned me to her elegant house so she could vet me and make sure I would be suitable. Here I had met this vision with purple-tinted bouffant hair, large grey eyes and scarlet bow of a mouth, and her long-suffering husband, Winco – Wing Commander Norman Cleaver-Canning (Rtd) DFC. Some time later, the honourable lady had dragooned me into taking a minor part in an amateur production of
The Sound of Music
. Perhaps ‘memorable' is not the right word to describe the last performance. ‘Traumatic' might be more fitting. As the curtain had fallen, I had been informed that Christine had been rushed into hospital to have our first child who had decided to arrive a bit earlier than expected. There had been no time to change out of our costumes. Winco, resplendent in a heavily be-medalled German admiral's uniform, had driven me in his Mercedes at breakneck speed to Fettlesham Royal Infirmary with the Mother Abbess, (Mrs Cleaver-Canning), with an inch of stage make-up on her face, directing proceedings from the passenger seat. I had arrived just in time to see my son being born.

I made the call.

‘Gervase, how are you?' came a loud and high-pitched voice down the line.

‘I'm fine, thank you, Mrs Cleaver-Canning,' I replied.

‘I do wish you would call me Margot.'

‘Well, I'm fine, thank you, Margot, and how are you?'

‘Top notch. And how is that dear little child of yours?'

‘He's thriving.'

‘Good. And your charming wife?'

‘She's very well, too.'

‘I am so glad to hear it,' she said. ‘It was quite an experience, wasn't it, the evening your little boy came into the world? A performance to remember.'

‘It was indeed,' I replied.

‘Now, I am sure you will have ascertained that I am not telephoning you merely to exchange pleasantries.'

‘No, I guessed there would be something else,' I said, with a sinking feeling.