Part 13 (1/2)

”Is,” I corrected.

”I beg your pardon?”

”Is,” I repeated. ”This cla.s.s r'5 the weakest in the year, ”cla.s.s” being a collective noun and taking the singular form of the verb.”

”If you will excuse me,” he said, as if he hadn't heard me, 'it is lunch-time.” With that he walked out of the cla.s.sroom.

Towards the end of the lunch break I returned to the Headteacher's room feeling most depressed and wondering how Mr. Fenton would react to the d.a.m.ning report I would, no doubt, be presenting to him at the end of the day.

There was a broad, tweed-suited individual with Mr. Fenton. I recognised, with a sinking feeling in my stomach, the thick neck, florid face and s.h.i.+ny mop of hair of Councillor George Peterson.

The visitor grinned like a frog on seeing me enter the room. ”Ah, so it's Mester Phinn, is it!” he exclaimed. ”We meet again.”

”Good afternoon, Councillor Peterson,” I said, holding out a hand.

”I see you know each other,” said Mr. Fenton, indicating a chair. ”Do sit down, Mr. Phinn. I wondered where you had got to. I got you a sandwich. I hope you like ham. Councillor Peterson is one of our governors and also an old boy of the school.”

”He went to see the wife's school last term,” Councillor Peterson told Mr. Fenton, 'and then we were interviewing for t'cla.s.sics job ower t'town at t'grammar. That were a rum do, and no mistake.” He paused to scratch his mop of hair. ”So what you doing in Sunny Grove today, then?”

”Observing lessons and a.s.sessing the quality of the teaching and learning,” I explained before taking a bite of the sandwich.

”My wife were abaat as 'appy as a legless donkey when she got 'ome after your inspection visit toer school. I 'ad to get mi own tea, she was in such a state. I don't know what yer said, because she wouldn't tell me, but it dint gu down too well, I can tell thee that.”

”I'm sorry about that, Councillor.”

”Nay, don't thee go apologisin', Mester Phinn. Tha's got nowt to be sorry abaat. Thy 'as a job o' work to do. I said to my wife, I said, that's what inspectors do pick spots, see what's goin' on, check that everythin's as it should be and find out what's up. That's what they do go round schools inspectin'. I said toer, it's like blamin' traffic wardens for clampin' yer car on a double yella line or a dentist sayin' you need a tooth out. That's what they're paid for, not to tell thee that every think in t'garden's rosy. That dint gu down too well, neither.”

”I'm sorry that Mrs. Peterson took my report so badly,” I told him. ”It really was pretty positive.”

”That's human nature, I'm afraid,” said the Headteacher. ”However much praise is given, it's the niggling little negatives which we tend to remember.”

Again, I wondered how he would respond to my report. There would be no 'niggling little negatives'.

”She soon changed 'er mind after you'd gone in and spent a bit o' time with the children,” continued the councillor. ”Teachin' 'em poetry, wasn't it?”

”That's right.”

”Aye, she come home well pleased after that.”

”I'm very relieved,” I said, and indeed I was.

”Don't see t'point of poetry myself, Mester Phinn. Like Latin and Greek. I don't see the relevance. Never could. Poetry's not going to get these lads a job, is it? They need to be able to write decent letters of application and add up.” I did not respond but saw in Mr. Fenton's eyes a weary look of resignation. I prayed that Councillor Peterson would not be remaining in the school to hear my report. ”So, how's this morning gone?”

”It's been very interesting,” I said diplomatically.

”Aye, well it's a good school, this. Course, the lads aren't going to break any records when it comes to exams but they come out of this school a grand set of young men. Don't they, Alfred?”

”I would like to think so, George,” said the Headteacher. ”I'm very proud of them.”

”I've been most impressed with the pupils,” I said.

”So, what teachers 'ave you seen so far?” Councillor Peterson asked, sticking out a formidable bottom jaw and fixing me with his large pale eyes.

”I observed Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Swan this morning,” I told him.

”He used to teach me, did Mester Swan when I was 'ere, back in t'dim and distant past. By G.o.d, is 'e still going?”

”He's filling in for the time being,” explained the Head-teacher, 'doing some supply work during Mrs. Simkins' absence. I must say, Mr. Swan is finding it rather different from when you were at the school.”

”emustbegettin' abitlongint'toothbynow,” continued Councillor Peterson. ”I reckon 'e were a fair old age when I was at school because 'is 'air were grey then. He were a good teacher was Mester Swan. One of told school.”

”But times have changed, Councillor,” I said and, taking a deep breath, continued, 'and a lot of the old school methods and ideas are inappropriate in this day and age. I'm afraid I did not find Mr. Swan a good teacher and shall be describing his very poor lesson in some detail in my report.”

”Oh dear,” I heard Mr. Fenton murmur.

Councillor Peterson's jaw dropped. ”By the 'eck, Mester Phinn,” he chuckled, 'that' dun't mince words. Thar a regular Yorks.h.i.+reman and no mistake. I can see what mi wife means.”

The first lesson of the afternoon was a great improvement on the morning's. The teach era bubbly, enthusiastic young woman called Miss Mullane, had prepared a lesson based on a novel set at the time of the Second World War which the second-year pupils were reading. She used well-chosen ill.u.s.trations and probing questions to develop understanding of ideas and motives. ”What do you think it was like for the evacuee children?” ”How would you react to leaving home to stay in a stranger's house in the country?” ”What would you miss most?” ”How would the parents feel?” ”Can you predict what might happen next?” She encouraged the boys to explore character in greater depth, whilst sensitively supporting the less able, helping them to stay interested and involved by the use of questions matched to their abilities and interests. She required them to justify a point of view, refer to the text, relate to their own experiences and examine the use of language.

The atmosphere in the cla.s.sroom was warm and supportive, and the boys responded well to the teacher, clearly enjoying her touches of humour. Miss Mullane had a real empathy with, and respect for, the pupils and, unlike Mr. Swan, had high expectations of their success. She encouraged, directed, suggested, questioned, challenged and developed the pupils' understanding in an atmosphere of good humour and enjoyment.

The cla.s.sroom environment was wonderfully bright and attractive with appropriate displays of posters, photographs and artefacts which gave the pupils a feel for the period in which the novel was set. Children had talked to their grandmothers and grandfathers about their war memories and there were poems, stories, commentaries, descriptions, letters, diary entries and anecdotes a whole range of writing related to the Second World War.

As usual, I spent part of the lesson examining the pupils' exercise books. The work was varied and well presented and carefully marked in pencil. One pupil, imagining he had just arrived at his new home, had written his piece in the form of a diary entry. Another was composing a letter home describing his experiences. A third boy was busy with a play script based on a conversation between the billeting officer and a villager who refused to take an evacuee.

”What are you writing?” I asked a cheerful-looking boy scribbling away at the front desk.

”It's an account based on the novel we're reading. I'm this evacuee, you see, sent from the city into the country to stay with this old couple who are not used to children. I'm writing my story of the journey and my fears and hopes and feelings.” I looked at the neat, clear writing and nodded. ”This is very good,” I said. ”You really describe things well. Some good details in here. You seem to know a lot about the war.”

”Thank you,” said the boy smiling. He stared at me for a moment before asking, ”Were you an evacuee, sir?”

”No, I was born just after the war. My brother was, though, and we have a photograph of him on the station platform at Sheffield in his uniform, with his gas mask in a cardboard box and his little leather suitcase. He looked really sad to be going.”

”Why was he in uniform, sir? Was he a soldier?”

”No, no, but all the children had to wear their uniform. They looked very smart.”

”Was he in the Hitler Youth, then?”

”School uniform,” I said laughing.

Things are looking up, I thought to myself, as I headed for the final lesson of the day. I entered the school hall to find two groups of large, aggressive-looking boys facing each other like street gangs ready for a fight. There was no sign of a teacher. I stood frozen to the spot.

The leader of one group thrust his face forward, curled his lip and spat out the words, ”So, are ya looking for a fight then? Because if ya are .. .” Those behind him shouted encouragement, gestured and pulled faces. The leader of the other group moved forward slowly and threateningly, maintaining a carefully blank expression on his face.

”No, I 'm not looking for a fight,” he mouthed deliberately, stressing each word, 'but, if I was, I could sort you out. I could spit on ya and drown ya. So, if you fancy your chances His supporters jumped up and down, jeering and roaring with laughter, taunting the other group with gestures and silly faces. One small boy, with large gla.s.ses and wielding a ruler like a sword, tried to intervene.

”Look!” he shouted. ”Stop! You shouldn't be doing this! There's bound to be trouble. We've been told not to fight again. You've got to stop!”

A lad as large as a bear, with close-cropped hair and hands like spades, grabbed him by his coat and pushed him away. He mimicked his voice. ”Oh stop, you'll get into trouble.” He then pulled what looked like a knife from his jacket and waved it in the air, his face ballooning with anger. ”Why waste time with words?” he roared. ”Let's kill 'em!”