The Heart of the Dales (6 page)

‘Tha'r not wrong theer,' he replied.

‘So shouldn't you be out in the playground getting some fresh air and exercise?'

‘I'd like to be,' he told me, grimacing, ‘but I've been kept in. We 'ave to sit in t'corridor if we're in trouble. It's called detention.'

‘So you're in trouble then?' I asked.

‘Missis Batters by, she's my teacher, she said I 'ad to stop in 'cos I've been chatterin' too much this mornin' an' not gerrin on wi' mi work.'

I could see the teacher's point of view.

He stabbed a small finger in the direction of my lap. ‘Can I see what tha's writ down in that little black note book o' yourn?'

‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Why?'

‘Because it's private,' I told him.

‘Well,
you
look at
our
work.'

‘It's a bit different,' I said, attempting to extricate myself from a difficult position. ‘This is confidential.'

‘Aye, all reight,' he said. ‘Suit thissen. I'll no doubt see thee later.
I've
got work to do so I can't stand 'ere blatherin' all day.'

‘Goodbye then,' I said, greatly relieved. I flicked open the cover of my note book and got ready to put down my thoughts but the boy remained where he was, watching my every movement.

‘Yes?' I asked. ‘Is there something else?'

‘I'm writin' about what I did on Sat'day,' he told me.

‘Really?' I snapped the note book shut. I could see that I was in for another long conversation.

‘Missis Battersby 'as gor us to write abaat summat interestin' we did ovver t'weekend.'

‘So what did you –' I began.

The boy was in full flight and continued without seeming to draw breath. ‘I know what Missis Battersby's been doin' ovver t'weekend,' he said with a knowing wink. ‘She's gone an' putten that display up theer on t'yonder wall in t'corridor outside 'er classroom. She never puts owt much up out theer but she's gone to town wi' this 'un. It's all abaat t'Gret Fire o' London so tha berrer tek a look at it or she'll not be best pleased. Sometimes she gets in a real paddy an' starts shoutin' at us but I reckon they'll not be much o' that when tha'r in wi' us. She's as nice as pie if we 'ave visitors. It's been purrup special like, that display.'

‘It's very impressive,' I said.

‘Aye,' he replied, nodding sagely.

‘So what can you tell me about the Great Fire of London?' I asked.

‘Nowt.'

‘I thought you'd been studying it.'

‘Nay, I dint say we'd been studyin' it. Last 'istory topic we did were on t'Vikings. We did 'em wi' Missis Sidebottom last year and we did 'em ageean wi' Missis Battersby. I'm sicko' t'Vikings. I can tell thee owt abaat t'Vikings if tha wants but I know nowt about t'Gret Fire o' London. Class what she 'ad some year back did all t'writin' and all t'pictures were done by Missis Battersby. None of us write that neat or paint like that.'

‘I see.'

‘Mi dad passed schoil on Sunday neet and all t'lights were still on. It were like Blackpool Hilluminations, mi dad said. 'Appen t'teachers were markin' t'books and tidyin' up and mekkin' things shit-shape for thy visit.'

‘Ship-shape,' I corrected. ‘It's ship-shape.'

‘What is?'

‘The school.'

‘Aye, it looks a lot berrer than it usually does. There's never much on t'walls usually 'cept what Mester 'Arrison puts up. He's all reight, Mester 'Arrison. 'E's from t'south, tha knaas. Reight difficult to know what 'e's on abaat sometimes though. 'E's not from these parts.'

The boy made a move but then he stopped in his tracks to add with a broad smile. ‘I think Missis Battersby's really looking forward to thy visit.'

‘Really?' I doubted that very much.

‘Aye. I 'eard 'er telling Missis Sidebottom that tha were comin' in today. She said that was all she needed. 'Appen that's why she's 'ad 'er 'air done special.'

‘Before you go,' I said, ‘you might like to tell me your name.'

‘Well, mi mam an' dad calls me Charlie but mi teacher, she calls me Charles.'

‘And what shall I call you?'

‘Tha can suit thissen,' he said. ‘I'll answer to owther.'

‘Tell me, Charlie, what is your account about?'

‘Tha what?'

‘The piece of writing you are finishing, about what you did over the weekend. What is it about?'

‘Oh, that. Me an' mi brother 'elped mi dad castrate three bullocks.' With a cheerful wave, the boy returned to his desk leaving the Inspector of Schools with open mouth and completely lost for words.

Following the break, I joined Mrs Battersby's class and met young Charlie again.

‘Hey up, Mester Phinn,' he said as I entered the classroom.

‘Hello, Charlie,' I replied.

‘It's Mester Phinn, miss,' Charlie informed her enthusiastically, pointing at me. ‘I've met 'im.'

‘I do have eyes, Charles,' said the teacher. ‘It's nice to see you, Mr Phinn,' she said unconvincingly.

It was clear by her demeanour that Mrs Battersby was far from happy to see me. My report of her lesson on the last visit had been critical so I could hardly expect to be received like the Prodigal Son, and was therefore prepared for the tight-lipped and solemn countenance.

‘Sit down, Charles,' instructed the teacher. ‘You're jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box with fleas.' There was a slight tremble in her voice.

‘Good morning, children,' I said brightly.

‘Mornin', Mester Phinn,' they replied in unison.

‘So you've met Charles,' said the teacher, raising a hand to her throat where a small red nervous rash was appearing. ‘Quite a little character, isn't he?'

‘Yes, we've had an interesting conversation.'

She glanced at the boy disapprovingly and looked quite disconcerted. ‘Really?'

‘Yes, we were having a little chatter at break time,' I said.

‘When he should have been completing his work,' said the
teacher. ‘Charles has a great deal to say for himself, Mr Phinn, as I imagine you discovered. He does so like to chatter.' She emphasised the final word. ‘I hope that he behaved himself and didn't speak out of turn.'

‘Oh no, he was very polite,' I told her. Charlie's face broke into a wide smile and there was a hint of mischief in his bright eyes. ‘We were talking about the Great Fire of London and I was admiring your display.'

Mrs Battersby's face coloured a little and she gave a thin smile. ‘I'm pleased to hear it,' she said. ‘Sometimes children tend to say the wrong thing. I always say to their parents that if they don't believe everything their children say about me then I won't believe everything that their children say about them.' She gave a small agitated laugh.

Mrs Battersby was a dumpy, sharp-eyed woman of indeterminate age, and wearing a bright pink turtleneck jumper and heavy grey shapeless skirt. To complete the ensemble she sported a large rope of amber beads and heavy brown brogues. I smiled inwardly when I caught sight of the carefully permed hair and recalled the conversation shortly before with young Charlie.

During the lesson, the children worked quietly, copying up their accounts of their weekend activities. Mrs Batters by sat at her desk and a small queue of readers formed to read to her from their books. As I wandered around the classroom talking to the children and examining their work, the teacher constantly looked up and watched my progress with small black suspicious eyes.

The first child to whom I spoke, a stout girl called Ruby, was only too pleased to show me her book. It was neat and contained some interesting stories, poems and language exercises but the teacher had been very heavy-handed with the marking pen. There was so much red on it that it looked as if someone with a nosebleed had leaned over the page.

‘We usually have the Leprosy Hour every Thursday after break,' she told me confidentially, ‘but we've got to finish our account of what we did over the weekend.'

‘Whatever is the Leprosy Hour?' I asked mystified.

‘It's really called the Literacy Hour,' the girl told me, ‘but miss calls it the Leprosy Hour because she hates it. When Mr Harrison came, he said we all had to do an hour of English and maths every morning because we needed to get better at writing and number work. We have the Innumeracy Hour as well.'

‘I see. So what is your account about?' I asked, pulling her exercise book towards me.

‘Well,' replied the girl, swivelling around to face me, ‘I'm writing about what I did on Saturday.'

‘And what did you do on Saturday?' I asked.

‘I helped my Grandpa Morrison build a drystone wall.'

‘Really? That sounds very interesting.'

‘Do you know anything about drystone walling?' she asked.

‘I do, as a matter of fact,' I told her. ‘At the cottage in Hawksrill where I live I had a drystone wall built at the bottom of the garden. The man who built it for me –'

‘Who was it?' interrupted the child.

‘His name was Tom Fields.'

‘I'll ask my Grandpa Morrison if he knows him,' she said. ‘He knows most of the wallers around here. Go on, then.'

‘Pardon?'

‘You were telling me about your drystone wall.'

‘Well, Tom told me a little bit about how drystone walls are built. For example, how the fields around where I live were all walled at one time but when they fall down, the farmers usually replace the wall with fencing. Sometimes they use bits of the old wall to patch somewhere else.'

‘That's true enough,' agreed the girl. ‘So how high is your wall, because they vary, you know.'

‘Tom told me it would be high enough to keep out the sheep and low enough not to spoil my lovely view. I suppose it must be about four feet high.'

‘We usually work in metres these days,' Ruby told me in the manner of a teacher correcting a child who had answered a question wrongly. ‘So how long is it?'

‘I'm supposed to be looking at your work, Ruby,' I said
pleasantly, and then I winked. ‘And I'm usually the one who asks the questions.'

The child's account was clear and detailed. She described how at six thirty on the Saturday morning she had got ‘kitted out' in old jeans, woollen jacket, boots (with metal toe caps) and a large pair of leather gloves, and had set off with her grandfather and two of his friends in the Land Rover to repair a hundred-year-old wall on the estate of Lord Marrick. First she had helped when the men dug a trench, pulling out the roots. They had then neatly stacked the small stones called ‘heartings' that would be used later to packthe centre of the wall. The base of the wall, she wrote, was usually twice the width of the top layer otherwise the whole lot would collapse. ‘If the wall is built properly, it will last for 150 years.' She described how the heavy stones had been put in place first and finally the copestones had been packed tightly on the top which gave the finished wall added strength and height – ‘but they were too heavy for me to lift up that high,' she wrote.

‘It's really like doing a big jigsaw puzzle,' she told me. ‘If my Grandpa Morrison can't get a stone just right, he sometimes pushes it in really hard and says, ‘Get in, tha bugger!' and then says, ‘Pardon mi French.”' She giggled. ‘My Grandpa Morrison says that drystone walls make cosy homes for all sorts of creatures – voles, wizzles, lizards, slow-worms, hedgepigs, toads, spiders and bees – so they're very important. You also get mosses and foxgloves and wrens and wheatears. Did you know that?'

‘I didn't,' I said. What a confident girl I thought and what an amazing account.

After Ruby, I headed for another desk but was cut off by Charlie. ‘Mester Phinn, come an' 'ave a look at mi book. I've just finished.'

I was not particularly interested to read about the boy's morning spent castrating bullocks so I told him I would look later. He would not, however, let me get away so lightly.

‘I'm gerrin a book for mi birthday next week,' he told me. ‘A big un. I'm mad on books.'

‘I'm very pleased to hear it,' I said. ‘So am I.'

‘Are tha?'

‘I am,' I told him. ‘There's nothing better than a book.'

‘Tha's reight theer, Mester Phinn.'

I arrived at another desk but Charlie followed me and thrust his face into min

‘Mi dad says I can go wi' 'im and choose one for missen.'

‘So how many books have you got already?' I asked. ‘

None.'

‘None?'

‘It's mi first,' announced the boy. ‘'As tha any books then, Mester Phinn?'

‘Lots and lots of them. My house is full of them.'

‘Do yer keep 'em in tha 'ouse?' He looked astonished by this revelation.

‘I do, yes. I have a special room where I keep all my books.'

‘How many 'as tha got?'

‘Hundreds.'

‘'Undreds! Gerron!'

‘Yes, I have.'

‘Where do you pur 'em all?'

‘On the shelves.'

The boy threw back his head and laughed. ‘I've just cottoned on,' he said. ‘Tha talkin' about books what you read, aren't tha?'

‘Yes,' I replied. ‘

Well, I'm on abaat bucks what ya breed – male rabbits!'

I shook my head and laughed too.

‘Something appears to have amused you both.' Mrs Battersby had materialised at our side with an expression like the wicked fairy at the christening feast.

‘We were just discussin' bucks, miss,' Charlie told her.

‘Well, you can fetch your book now, Charles, because it's your turn to read to me.' Mrs Battersby turned to me. ‘Charles's reading leaves a lot to be desired, I'm afraid, Mr Phinn. Too much television, I shouldn't wonder.'