Part 3 (1/2)
”I have a drawer in my filing cabinet marked ”Fifi”,” said David. ”It's stuffed full of papers, dead doc.u.ments, reports and memoranda. Stands for ”File it and forget it”. Most of Mrs. Savage's missives are consigned to that drawer.”
”Will you two be serious for a moment,” I said. ”It's not ”Fifi”, it's ”Feoffee”. I have to attend a meeting at Manston Hall. Evidently Lord Marrick is becoming the top Feoffee, whatever that involves, and wants to arrange some events to celebrate it. Could it be some sort of Masonic order?”
”Druids,” suggested Sidney, putting on his raincoat. ”Probably the Yorks.h.i.+re version of the druids. Old men in white sheets dancing around the monoliths at Brimham Rocks. Like the daft sort of thing the Welsh go in for. Dressing up in those funny costumes and waiting for the eclipse.”
”Daft!” exclaimed David. ”I'll have you know that the druids are part of a long cultural tradition which stretches back centuries. They do not dress up in funny costumes. The Celts-'
”Oh, please spare us the Celts,” begged Sidney, 'or we will be here all night.”
A heavy laboured tread could be heard on the stairs leading up to the office.
”Well, I can't offer any more help,” announced David, glowering in Sidney's direction before reaching for his umbrella.
”But those light steps on the stairs,” said Sidney, cupping his hand around his ear, 'tell me that our esteemed leader is about to enter and I feel certain he will be able to furnish you with detailed information about these Feelies.”
”Yes, you'd best ask Harold, Gervase,” agreed David. ”There is nothing on which Harold Yeats is not an expert.”
”Isn't that a double negative?” asked Sidney. '”Nothing on which he is not”. I think it would be rather better expressed as ”Harold is an expert on everything”.”
”I am going to do something extremely unpleasant with this umbrella in a minute, Sidney, if you don't shut up! Firstly I am picked up on my knowledge of Greek mythology, then you have a go at the druids and now you see fit to correct my grammar.”
”Well, we have the English expert here, he can arbitrate. Am I right or am I right, Gervase? Was that not a double negative?”
”Don't bring me into it,” I said, ”I've got other things on my mind at the moment.”
At this point Harold breezed in, wet and windblown, but smiling a great toothy smile. The Senior County Inspector was a giant of a man. Six foot, three inches in height, he looked a daunting figure with his great broad shoulders, heavy bulldog jaw, large watery eyes and prominent teeth but he was the gentlest and most una.s.suming person I had ever met. He was a man of sincerity, generosity and unfailing courtesy, someone who always looked for the best in everybody and had a deep interest in the needs of children. He was also a walking encyclopedia and turned out to know everything there was to know about the Feoffees. He became quite animated when asked to explain what they were and what they did.
”A very interesting group of men, the Feoffees,” he enthused. ”They were originally a collection of civic worthies and dignitaries, usually prominent landowners and gentry, founded in the reign of Henry VII to keep law and order. All justice in a parish or town was administered by them and they ensured the sick and needy were cared for. They were responsible for no end of things repair of bridges and roads, keeping the water supply fresh, isolating plague victims, making sure the pillories and ducking stools were kept in good working order.”
”Are you sure we're talking about the same thing, Harold?” I asked.
”Oh, yes, indeed. The Feoffees served a very important function in Tudor and Stuart times. They appointed the swineherd, clerk of the market, overseer of the roads and provided all the liveries for the beadles, pipers, town criers and organ blowers the whole company of minor officials. Of course, the Feoffees varied from area to area but '
”That's fine, Harold,” I interrupted, 'but what is their function today?”
”Well, it is largely a charitable inst.i.tution. Why are you so interested in the Feoffees anyway, Gervase?”
I explained about the meeting with Mrs. Savage, the proposed visit to Manston Hall and my involvement in the forthcoming celebrations.
”I see,” said Harold. ”It sounds a very interesting undertaking. I would have very much liked to have attended that meeting myself. I mean I am the inspector who covers history. It's strange that I wasn't approached.”
”Mrs. Savage said that you are leading an inspection on the twenty-fifth of November when the meeting takes place but if you can re-arrange things, Harold, I should be delighted for you to go instead.”
”No, no,” said Harold. ”I can't cancel an inspection. Mrs. Savage is quite right.”
”It would have been nice to have been asked or at least consulted though, wouldn't it, Harold?” said David. ”That woman takes far too much on to herself. She's only an office clerk, for goodness sake. Anyone would think she was the CEO, the way she carries on.”
”Well, I'm glad she didn't approach me!” said Sidney. ”It sounds a complete and utter waste of time! What has all this got to do with education? I thought our job was to inspect schools not join a group of anachronistic, undoubtedly well-heeled geriatrics who have nothing better to do than spend their time repairing pillories and ducking stools, and isolating victims of the plague.”
”Sidney,” snapped Harold, 'it has everything to do with education! First, the Feoffees are part of our rich, cultural heritage, which is something we should be proud of and cherish.”
”Like the druids,” interposed David.
”It is important,” continued Harold, 'that young people should know about the history of their country. Furthermore, the Feoffees still help the poor and afflicted, particularly orphans and deprived children. They continue to promote good conduct in the rising generation, provide financial support and give scholars.h.i.+ps and burs aries to deserving causes.” The clock on the County Hall tower began to strike seven but Harold, who had now got the bit firmly between his teeth, continued undeterred. ”The Feoffees, who number amongst their ranks of anachronistic, well-heeled geriatrics our own Dr. Gore, do a great deal of good, so when you ask '
”For whom the bell tolls,” interrupted Sidney, 'it tolls for me to get on home. Seven o'clock and I might, with any luck, have missed the traffic. Oh, and Harold, I do hope the Feoffees have ensured that the roads are in good repair, that Hawksrill Bridge is still standing and there are not too many crowding around the pillories or in the stocks. I need to get back in good time for the football tonight.”
I headed for the office one splendidly bright autumnal Friday afternoon, tired and road-weary. The mild weather had brought the caravaners out in force and I, at the back of a queue of five or six other frustrated car drivers, followed a dangerously swaying box on wheels for three miles as it meandered at 20 mph along the twisting narrow country roads. When at last I became the car directly behind the caravan, I noticed stuck on the back window a little cut-out hand which waved as the caravan teetered. Its message read ”Have a nice day' and next to it was a large yellow circle with the injunction in bold black capital letters: STAY BACK! BABY ON BOARD! I would have a much nicer day, I thought to myself irritably, if the driver of this creeping death-trap would pull over and let me pa.s.s.
When I finally managed to overtake, I noticed that various other messages and signs had been plastered on the side window, including a bright red rectangle with the information: ”I've been down The Black Hole at Alton Towers.” Who actually would be interested in this piece of totally famous information, I asked myself. I caught sight of the driver: he was an exceptionally old man, and incongruously sported a bright orange baseball cap. He beamed through the window and gave me a shaky wave. There was certainly no possibility of this geriatric having a baby on board, and as for a journey down The Black Hole at Alton Towers .. .
I was not in the best of moods as I raced towards the main road. On the gra.s.sy verge stood an extremely dirty-looking individual with a tangle of hair and dressed in a filthy raincoat. He was holding aloft a large piece of cardboard on which was written: ”I am going to York'. Not in this car, mate, you're not, I thought to myself, speeding up.
Sidney and David were busy at their desks as I pushed through the door a short while later and collapsed into a chair.
”I met the ever-ebullient Mrs. Peterson on my art course yesterday,” observed Sidney, looking up from his work, 'and she was not best pleased with your report on her school.”
Before I could answer, David, placing his pen down carefully and smiling beatifically, added, ”Makes a change from all those adoring women who are constantly telephoning him and writing little billets-doux and singing his praises.”
”What did she say?” I asked Sidney, deciding to ignore David's comment.
”That your report was full of criticisms,” Sidney told me blithely.
”It wasn't that bad,” I said glumly, looking through the mail on my desk.
”She said that you said the reading wasn't up to much at Highcopse County Primary School,” continued Sidney casually.
”I never said anything of the sort!”
”That the writing was pretty ordinary, the children didn't speak much and the teachers didn't bother at all with any poetry.”
”Sounds pretty d.a.m.ning to me,” commented David, still smiling like a cat with the cream.
”It would be if I had, in fact, said it,” I replied bristling. ”My report judged the school to be sound enough but there needs to be more challenge and variety in the work. It was pretty positive overall but I suggested that'
”She also said you were not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn.”
”Not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn!” I exclaimed. ”Not very impressed with Mrs. Dunn?”
”That is what she said.”
”An unusual woman, Mrs. Dunn!” exclaimed David suddenly. ”I remember first meeting her on one of my mathematics courses, with that dour expression of hers, wild-looking hair and hooded eyes. She was, I have to admit, a deeply unimpressive woman. She sat in the front row with a face like a death mask until I asked the teachers to break into groups for the activities. Then she looked as if I had asked her to take all her clothes off and do a tap dance on the table. I recall saying to Mrs. Peterson, when she said what a good teacher she was, that Mrs. Dunn was such a sombre and serious person and that she didn't sparkle for me. ”I don't employ Christmas tree fairies, Mr. Pritch-and,” she replied tartly. ”I employ teachers.”
”She never smiled the whole lesson,” I said, still stinging at the criticism of my report. I tore open a letter so savagely that I nearly ripped it in half.
”Doesn't make her a poor teacher,” said David. ”We had a cla.s.sics master at grammar school called ”Smiler” Jones. He always had a smile on his face. Terrified of him, we were. He was always leering and grinning from the front. He had these tiny, s.h.i.+ning eyes and a big hooked nose and always wore a tattered black academic gown. He was like some great dusty crow. Fearful teacher was ”Smiler” Jones. Now, I wouldn't consider him a good teacher.”
”That might explain why you are rather dodgy on the Greek myths,” remarked Sidney.
I shook my head and sighed heavily. ”I merely wrote that the teacher of the infants could be a little more lively and enthusiastic'