The Other Side of the Dale (15 page)

‘Father Christmas, you were a great hit,' said the Headteacher. The staff looked on and nodded. ‘And we'd like to give you a little Christmas gift.'

‘Oh no,' I said, ‘it really isn't necessary.'

‘Oh, but it is necessary,' insisted the Headteacher and presented me with a small bottle wrapped in bright Christmas paper.

I shook my gift and held it to my ear. ‘After-shave?' I enquired. ‘Is it after-shave?'

‘No, Father Christmas,' the staff replied.

‘Is it a little bottle of whisky?'

‘No, Father Christmas,' they chorused.

I tore off the wrapping to reveal a small brown bottle of medication. The label read: ‘For infestation of the head.'

‘Chelsea's just got over head lice,' said the Headteacher. ‘It's not advisable to be too close to her for the time being.'

‘And she's just recovered from scabies,' piped up a beaming teacher. The rest of the staff then joined in with a hearty ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!'

I was already beginning to itch and began to remove the cottonwool beard which shrouded my face.

At this point, there was a knock on the door and the Headteacher of St Bartholomew's entered, clutching Christmas cards for the staff. It was Sister Brendan.

‘Ah, Sister, greetings!' exclaimed the Headteacher. ‘Now, may I introduce you to Mr Phinn, a school inspector from County Hall?'

A broad smile came to the nun's lips.

‘We have met,' I sighed, conscious that I had been caught with the ridiculous beard in my hand and still dressed in the baggy red suit.

‘And tell me, Mr Phinn,' the nun inquired, ‘is this the appropriate garb for school inspectors these days?'

Hot, flustered and itching all over and no doubt looking like someone who had been dragged through a hedge backwards, I was utterly lost for words. I just clutched the bottle of medication, stared vacantly and wished that Monsignor Leonard had indeed moved Sister Brendan to South America.

‘I have a cryptic message for you, Gervase,' announced David Pritchard peering over his gold-rimmed, half-moon spectacles.

It was late Tuesday afternoon and three days before the school finished for the Christmas holidays. I was endeavouring to catch up on a backlog of correspondence and seemed to be making little progress. Harold Yeats, oblivious to everything and everybody around him, was tapping away on the computer with two fingers, trying to complete a school report. Sidney Clamp was scribbling and scratching at his desk, trying to plan his next art course for early in the new year and David Pritchard was completing the guidelines for teachers on ‘Sport in School'. Since his accident, David had spent much more time in the office and, as a consequence, had cleared all his paperwork, written numerous guidelines and planned all his forthcoming courses. He was, therefore, at something of a loose end that afternoon.

‘I was asked to ask you what has happened to the plate?' announced David, gazing intently over his spectacles. ‘Does that make any sense?'

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘it does. Thank you, David.' I returned to the letter I was writing.

‘It sounds very mysterious to me. Like a coded message,' he observed. ‘Like some secret phrase used by spies. You are not with ΜI5 are you, Gervase? FBI? CIA? An undercover agent investigating corruption in the county?'

‘David, I'm attempting to write an important letter.'

‘It's just that it's a most unusual thing for someone to say, that's all.'

David Pritchard was a man of ebullient personality with a jolly face, a head of silver hair, dark eyes and a big splayed boxer's nose. He had been a great athlete in his youth, featherweight boxing champion for his university college, was a highly-respected rugby referee of long standing and a scratch golfer. But David never used two words if a couple of paragraphs would suffice. His reports were wonderfully entertaining and full of anecdotes and illustrations. They made fascinating reading but it took some time for the lead inspector to pull things together, annotate and summarize his paragraphs for the Report – to see the trees in his very wordy wood of language.

‘I wonder if they would have treated the prose of Dylan Thomas like this?' he had said at one lively meeting. He had scrutinized his corrected draft and sighed when he had seen all the amendments, before concluding, ‘No, I think not.'

‘But you are not writing
Under Milk Wood,
David,' Harold had attempted to explain with some exasperation in his voice. ‘You are writing an inspection report – a clear, succinct, unambiguous inspection report.'

David loved words and he also loved mystery, gossip and intrigue.

‘ “Ask him what has happened to the plate,” ' he repeated. ‘That's all she said.'

‘Yes, David, I heard you the first time.'

‘Miss Bentley came over to me as I hobbled around the Staff Development Centre last week, inquired after my leg, placed an elegant hand on my arm, looked deep into my eyes with those limpid pools of hers and said: ‘Ask Mr Phinn what has happened to the plate.'

Sidney's ears pricked up at the mention of Christine Bentley's name and his body became animated like a puppet with its strings pulled.

‘The ravishing Christine Bentley of Winnery Nook!' he cried. ‘And what were you doing visiting Winnery Nook again, Gervase? What was your excuse this time for going to see the most desirable unmarried woman in the whole county?'

‘We have had this conversation before, Sidney.'

‘You never seem to be out of the place,' he remarked casually. ‘You are in and out of that school like a fiddler's elbow!'

‘Hardly!'

‘I trust that your relationship with Miss Bentley is entirely professional?'

‘I have been into the school once, Sidney, only once.'

‘What's this about a plate, then?' he asked. ‘Or was the word “date”? Did she say, “Ask Mr Phinn what has happened to our date”?'

‘No, it was definitely plate,' said David.

‘Gentlemen,' said Harold turning away from the computer screen to face us, ‘do you think we could return to the serious business of report writing, guideline preparation, course planning and correspondence? It is nearly the end of term, it has been a horrendously hard week and it is only Tuesday. There is much to do, it looks like snow, the roads are busy and I do intend getting home at a reasonable hour this evening. I am late-night shopping tomorrow evening with wife, daughters and son and have to assemble the wretched imitation Christmas tree, get the fairy lights to work and decorate the house with fronds of holly before the weekend, so I would really appreciate a little less badinage in order for me to concentrate on finishing this report. I
really do not want to take work home over Christmas!'

‘Of course, Harold, old boy,' replied Sidney smiling beatifically. ‘It is a dreadfully demanding time of year, I do agree, and we all have such a lot on our plates.' He glanced mischievously in my direction, before saying in an undertone, ‘Some more than others.'

We had just settled down to our work again when the telephone rang. Harold snatched up the receiver with a great paw.

‘Hello, Harold Yeats here. Yes, yes, he's sitting next to me. I'll pass you over.' He slapped a large hand over the receiver which he passed in my direction. ‘Gervase, it's for you. Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook.'

Sidney and David both turned to stare at me with expectant looks on their faces.

‘Now,' exclaimed Sidney, ‘all will be revealed!'

‘Hello,' I answered. ‘Yes, yes, he did mention it to me. No, no, that's quite all right. Yes, yes, I have meant to call in with it but have been so very busy. Yes, yes, well, that would be very nice. I should enjoy that. Yes, of course. I will see you tomorrow then. Goodbye.' I put down the receiver carefully. I then returned to my letter.

‘Well?' asked Sidney.

‘Well what?'

‘Do tell, Gervase,' pleaded David. ‘Put us out of our misery.'

‘You don't need to look at me with those silly expressions,' I said. ‘I've only been invited to a nativity plate – I mean play, tomorrow evening.'

‘Invited to the nativity play by Miss Bentley of Winnery Nook,' sighed David, ‘and the only one in the office to receive an advent calendar from Sister Brendan
and
a
Christmas card from Mrs Savage. My goodness, Gervase, just what
is
your secret with the opposite sex?'

‘Gentlemen,' growled Harold, ‘please!'

Winnery Nook Nursery and Infant School looked very different from when I had last visited it early in the autumn. The surrounding fields and rocky outcrops were now hidden under a smattering of snow, and the friendly belt of pines had a fine dusting of white. The air was icy fresh. The snow had fallen softly overnight and the whole area around the small school was a vast white silent sea.

I entered the brightness and warmth of the school clutching the blue cracked plate and looking for Christine. A member of staff informed me that she was backstage getting the little ones ready for the play but that a seat had been reserved for me in the front row.

‘Shall I take the plate?' asked the teacher, eyeing the piece of pottery.

‘No, that's all right, thank you.' I managed a weak smile.

Mums and dads, grannies and grampas, aunties and uncles, neighbours and friends filled the school hall for the nativity play, the highlight of the school year. I found my seat just as the lights dimmed and a spotlight lit up the small stage.

This was the fifth infant nativity play I had seen this year. At the first, I had approached the school to find all the children heading for home. I had stopped a small boy loaded down with Christmas cards, calendars, decorations, presents and all manner of boxes and bags as he tried to negotiate the narrow gate.

‘Where's everyone going?' I had asked. ‘There's a nativity play here this afternoon, isn't there?'

He had stopped for the amount of time it took to tell me bluntly, ‘It's off!'

‘It's off?' I had repeated.

‘Aye,' he had replied. ‘T'Virgin Mary's got nits!'

The second nativity play I had seen had not started off all that well. The seven-year-old introducing the Christmas play had announced, after a number of unsuccessful attempts, ‘Welcome to our Harvest Festival.' I learnt later that she could not pronounce the word ‘nativity'. Things had improved after this initial hiccup until the little girl with the lead part of Mary had begun to find that the thick robe and headdress made her more and more hot and sticky as the play progressed. As the Magi had presented her with their gifts she had sighed and thrust the large doll representing the baby Jesus with a fair bit of force onto the lap of Joseph, saying in a loud stage whisper as she did, ‘You have him a bit, he's getting heavy.'

At the third nativity play I had overheard a conversation at the side of the stage between two cherubic six-year-olds dressed in white silk trimmed with silver and speckled with sequins. It was an exchange not meant for the audience's ears. One child had remarked, ‘I feel a right twit in this, don't you, Gavin?' His companion had agreed, nodding vigorously, ‘And if she thinks I'm being a flipping snowflake next year she's got another think coming!'

The little actor in the fourth nativity play I watched had looked very disgruntled. I heard later that the lead part of Joseph had been given to another child and he had not been too pleased. He had argued with his teacher to no avail and had been given the role of the innkeeper. On the night of the performance Mary and Joseph had arrived at the inn and had knocked loudly on the door. The innkeeper, who had remained grumpy all through the rehearsals, had opened the door with a great beaming smile.

‘Innkeeper, innkeeper,' Joseph had begun, ‘we have
travelled many miles in the darkness and the cold. May we come in?'

‘She can come in,' he had said, pointing to Mary, ‘but you can push off!'

I was now about to watch the fifth version of one of the most famous and powerful stories of all time, and wondered what gem might be produced tonight. The curtain opened to reveal the outlines of various Eastern-looking houses painted on a backdrop and two rather forlorn palm trees made out of papier mâché and green crêpe paper which drooped in the centre of the stage. The little boy, playing the lead as Joseph, entered wearing a brightly-coloured towel over his head and held in place by an elastic belt with metal snake fastener. He took centre stage without a trace of nerves, stared at the audience and then beckoned a particularly worried-looking Mary who entered pulling a large cardboard and polystyrene donkey.

‘Come on!' urged Joseph. ‘Hurry up!' He banged on the door of one of the houses. ‘Open up! Open up!' he shouted loudly.

The innkeeper, with a face like a death mask, threw open the door. ‘What?' he barked.

‘Have you any room?'

‘No!'

‘You have!'

‘I haven't!'

‘You have, I saw t'light on.'

‘I haven't.'

‘Look, we've travelled all night up and down those sand-dunes, through dusty towns, over hills, in and out of rivers. We're fit to drop.'

‘Can't help that, there's no room,' replied the innkeeper.

‘And I've got t'wife out here on t'donkey.' Joseph gestured
in the direction of a very glum-looking Mary who was staring at the audience, her face completely expressionless.

The innkeeper remained unmoved. ‘And you can't leave that donkey there. You'll have to move it!'

‘Well give us a room.'

‘There is no room in the inn. How many more times do I have to tell you?'

‘She's having babby, tha knaws.'

‘Well, I can't help that, it's nowt to do with me.'

‘I know,' replied Joseph sighing as he turned to the audience, ‘and it's nowt to do with me neither.'

To the surprise of the children there were great roars of laughter from the audience. And so the play progressed until the final magic moment. Little rosy-faced angels in white with cardboard wings and tinsel halos, shepherds with towels over their heads and cotton-wool beards, the three wise men in coloured robes and shiny paper hats gathered around Mary and Joseph on the cramped stage to sing ‘Away in a Manger' and bring a tear to every eye.

Following the performance, I went in search of the elusive Miss Bentley but, just as I was passing the main door, I was stopped by a mother who wanted to talk to me about her daughter. I put the plate down on a nearby table, and forgot to pick it up again when I moved across the hall to discuss the problem with the child's teacher. When I finally extracted myself, I returned to the entrance to collect the plate.

I looked down in astonishment: the plate was full of coins and even a £5 note. The audience, as they had left the hall, must have thought a collection was being taken. And then I saw Christine heading my way, her face flushed with excitement.