Part 19 (1/2)
”Thank you,” I replied.
”Funny thing is baking, isn't it?” the boy pondered, holding out his hands in front of him the better to examine them. ”You know, my hands were dead mucky before I started making my tarts and just look how clean they are now.”
Gerry placed the brown paper bag carefully in her briefcase and smiled.
A mile or so from the school I pulled off the road. My intention was to discuss the day with Gerry, share our observations and for me to explain a little of what I considered the job of school inspector involved, but she was silent and once more awe-struck by the view, now softened in the late afternoon sun.
”It's like sitting on the roof of the world,” she murmured.
In front of us stretched a grim, primitive, endless land. Nothing broke the silence: no complaining sheep or yapping collie dog, no l.u.s.ty c.o.c.k crow or curlew's fitful cry, no roar or babble of falling water or sighing wind. All was still. Then, high above, a pair of circling buzzards, their great wings outstretched, soared alone in an empty sky.
”I'm going to love this job,” Gerry said quietly.
”I'm sure you will,” I replied.
She looked at me with her dark blue eyes. ”Do you think I'll fit in?”
”Oh, yes, definitely.” She stared out of the window and sighed. ”However, there's something very important I've got to ask you,” I said seriously.
”Yes?” her brow furrowed slightly.
”Would you like your tart now or save it for later?”
The first school I visited in the Summer term was Ugglemat-tersby County Junior School where I had agreed to take the a.s.sembly and spend the day visiting cla.s.ses. The school was situated in the very centre of a dark, brooding village, sandwiched between the Masonic Hall, a square and solid box of a building in rusty-red brick, and the public house, built of a slaty limestone turned a greasy grey, with windows like black cold eyes. The overcast sky and slanting April rain made the school and its surroundings even more bleak and unwelcoming. The area circling the village was a strange and desolate land of sweeping grey moors. It was a wet and barren landscape, naked save for a few ancient oaks and a couple of centuries-old farmsteads. A few hardy sheep, nibbling at the wiry gra.s.ses as thin as the whistling wind, were watched by a pair of hooded crows perched in the gaunt arms of a dead tree like vultures awaiting a death.
There were two women in the drab entrance hall of the school. One was large, with a pale, perfectly spherical face, crimson adhesive lipstick and heavy rounded shoulders. The other was a stern, disagreeable-looking woman with small deep-set eyes, a tight little mouth and bright peroxide hair which stuck up like a brush not an agreeable combination. They stopped talking when I entered and eyed me suspiciously.
”Good morning,” I greeted them cheerfully.
”Mornin',” they replied in unison.
”Dreadful weather, isn't it?”
”Dreadful,” they replied together.
I was about to press the buzzer on the small reception desk when the larger of the two addressed me. ”If you're 'ere to complain, get to t'back o' t'queue.”
”No, I'm not here to complain. I have an appointment with the Headteacher.” I pressed the buzzer and a moment later a small, hara.s.sed-looking woman scurried out. Before she could ask who I was and what I wanted, the large woman pushed forward menacingly.
”Have you told 'im we're 'ere?” she barked.
”I have, Mrs. Wilmott. Mr. Sharpies will be with you in one moment.”
”I've been stood 'ere the best part o' ten minutes.”
”And me, an' all,” added the smaller of the two women.
”I'll be purrin roots down if I wait 'ere much longer.”
”I appreciate that, Mrs. Wilmott, but it is always very hectic on a Monday, and it is always best to make an appointment to be certain that the Headteacher is available. Mr. Sharpies is busy at the moment'
”He's always busy when I come into school. Well, I'm not goin' until I've seen 'im.”
”If you could just bear with me for one moment, Mrs. Wilmott, until I find out what this gentleman wants'
”He wants to see Mr. Sharpies,” announced the large woman.
”He's got an appointment with 'im,” added the other.
”Mr. Phinn,” I said, smiling at the small receptionist. ”I think the Headteacher is expecting me.”
”Are you the book representative?”
”No. Mr. Sharpies will know who I am when you tell him.” I thought it best to keep my ident.i.ty secret from my two aggressive companions. The receptionist hurried away without a word and was back in quick time, accompanied by an exceptionally thin and sallow-complexioned man in a s.h.i.+ny suit and highly polished shoes. When he caught sight of the large woman and her companion with the bright hair, the Headteacher smiled the resigned smile of a martyr about to face the stake.
”Good morning, Mr. Phinn. I will be with you in one moment.” He turned to the women. ”Now then, Mrs. Wil-mott, Mrs. Leech, what can I do for you both?”
”It's our Mandy!” snapped the large woman.
”I guessed it would be,” replied the Headteacher wearily. ”What is it this time?”
”She come home Friday with nits and they're noters ”Not hers?” repeated the Headteacher.
”Noters She must 'ave gor 'em from somebody in this school because there's no nits in our 'ouse.”
”Well, I am most grateful that you have pointed that out to me, Mrs. Wilmott. I will alert the other parents.”
”She shouldn't be comin' 'ome with nits which aren't 'ers,” continued the large woman.
”Indeed no,” replied Mr. Sharpies, retaining his concerned countenance.
”I've brought erin this mornin' and I don't want 'er comin' 'ome with another 'eadful of nits tonight!”
”I take it you have been to the chemist for a specially treated shampoo for head lice?” asked the Headteacher.
”Yes, I 'ave! She's 'ad three good dousin's.”
”Very wise. I will write to all parents asking them to check their children's hair and ensure that they send them to school with clean scalps.”
”Well, I 'opes that's the end of it! She shouldn't be comin' 'ome with nits what aren't 'ers.”
”I did send a copy of the leaflet concerning the prevention and treatment of head lice to each parent or guardian last term, if you recall, Mrs. Wilmott. It recommended the use of a fine-tooth comb on wet hair and specially prepared lotions or rinses obtainable from the pharmacist.”
”I know all that!” snapped the woman. ”But my Mandy has short 'air and it's kept clean and combed regular.”
”Head lice are not fussy about hair length or condition of the hair, Mrs. Wilmott,” explained Mr. Sharpies. ”Clean hair is no protection.” The Headteacher then turned his attention to the other woman. ”And have you come about head lice, Mrs. Leech?” he asked the smaller woman in an excessively patient tone of voice. ”Or is it something else?”
”I've come about knickers!”
”I beg your pardon?”