Part 25 (1/2)

I hear the sea, dark and deep, and the splash of the dolphin's leap. I hear the flames crackling and the window frames rattling in the wind. I see with my ears.

I see with my nose.

I smell the blossoms pearly-grey and hay new mown. I smell the ploughed earth, cows in the byre, the smoky fire. I smell Grandpa's pipe, Gran's lavender room and Mum's faint perfume. I see with my nose.

I see with my mouth.

I taste the strong black coffee and the thick brown toffee between my teeth. I taste the yellow of the lemon, the green of the melon and the red of the tomato. I taste the orange of the carrot, the purple of the plum, the gold of the sun on my face. I see with my mouth.

I see with my hands.

I feel the sharp edges, slippery floors, smooth ledges. I feel lemonade in cold canisters, hard wooden banisters. I feel hands to hold, arms on shoulders, faces to touch. I see with my hands.

”Oh, that was excellent, Ruth,” I said gently when she closed the folder. ”I think it was one of the best monologues I have ever heard.”

”Really?”

”Yes, really. You are a very talented writer.”

”I like writing,” she said. ”Would you like a copy?”

”I'd love one.”

Ms Pinkney, like some large slice of Battenberg cake, was at my side. ”Come along now, Ruth, and join the rest of the group.” When she had gone she turned to me. ”She's a lovely little poet, isn't she?”

”She is,” I replied quietly and, I have to admit, there were tears in my eyes.

The next teacher I met that morning lacked Ms Pinkney's confidence. Miss Taylor's whole body seemed to tremble when I appeared at the cla.s.sroom door and there was a distinct quavering in her voice.

”Oh ... oh ... the inspector ... I never ... oh dear .. . I thought ... do come in.”

The art room she worked in was as colourful as the landscape outside. The tables were covered carefully in clean newsprint, and brushes and pencils, chalks and crayons were neatly arranged in trays. Walls were decorated with sketches and line drawings, bold outlines and pale watery scenes, collages and abstracts. There were clay models, sculptures and lino prints. In a breathless and hurried voice she attempted to explain what the eleven-year-olds in her care were doing.

”They're ... er ... painting .. . using poster paints .. . trying to mix the different colours to paint a scene .. . they are experimenting with different colours and shapes and textures. Some are using brushes, others palette knives or other objects to get an effect.” She wrung her hands nervously. ”I should say, Mr. Phinn, that I'm not a specialist.”

I smiled rea.s.suringly and whispered, ”Neither am I.” Squatting before one little artist, I watched, fascinated by the child's dexterity and concentration. He was a small boy, with dark heavy eyes and long lashes, and a disarming smile. His small twisted body was hunched over the table and his thin legs were tucked beneath the st.u.r.dy chair on which he sat. He placed a small, soft rubber ball into a bowl of crimson paint and then, with delicate fingers, he rolled the ball across the sheet of dark blue paper creating the most striking effect.

”It's a sunset,” he explained. ”Sometimes when you look at the sky, it looks as if it's on fire. It's full of reds and yellows and oranges in long streaky flames.” He immersed the ball in a bowl of orange paint and repeated the process. ”I've used different things to get the different effects, you see,” he explained. I craned forward to get a better view. The boy suddenly sneezed. The ball he was holding, which was covered in thick sticky orange paint, shot out of his hand and, like a bullet from a gun, hit me smack between the legs. It fell to the floor, leaving behind a bright golden sunburst on my trousers. A deathly silence followed. A faint voice said, ”I'm sorry, sir, it just sort of slipped.” The teacher arrived, fluttering a large cloth like a flag and not having the first idea what to do with it. ”Oh dear, oh my goodness, oh how unfortunate.” She stared in disbelief at the stain for a moment and thrust the cloth into my hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a care a.s.sistant take a handkerchief from her handbag and stuff it in her mouth in an attempt to stifle her laughter. By the door, another care a.s.sistant turned away, wiping her eyes. Then the children, who had been remarkably quiet, began to giggle, then chuckle and finally everyone was laughing: children, teacher a.s.sistants and me. I stood there, the centre of attention a grey-suited figure with a great splash of gold like some magnificent codpiece.

My attempts, later in the privacy of the gents, to remove paint proved fruitless. If anything I made it worse. The bright orange had been transformed into a much larger sickly brown blotch. With the aid of my clipboard, I covered the mark and headed for the next lesson, a lower junior English cla.s.s, confident that I could hide the blemish. If I remained seated at the back of the cla.s.sroom with the clipboard positioned strategically on my lap there was little chance of anyone seeing the stain. At lunch-time I planned to nip into the nearby town and buy a pair of grey flannels.

I had not banked, however, on meeting Little Miss Eagle Eyes. As I entered the cla.s.sroom, a small girl of about seven or eight, with Down's syndrome, must have spotted the mark on my trousers and no sooner had I positioned myself at the rear of the room out of everyone's way than she approached me. I smiled warmly at the serious face. She continued to observe me as if I were some rather strange specimen in a museum case. Then she gently lifted the clipboard and peered underneath. She looked up. Then back at the stain and then back at me. Recognition suddenly dawned and she shouted the full length of the cla.s.sroom.

”Miss! Miss! This man's done a runny poof”

Every head in the cla.s.sroom turned in my direction. ”I ... er ... had a accident with some paint in the previous cla.s.s,” I explained, making my hasty apologies to an astonished teacher and an open-mouthed cla.s.s, before scurrying from the room. With clipboard clasped to my stomach, I headed quickly for the school office, intending to explain the situation to the school secretary and say I would be out of school for a short while. But Lady Luck was not with me. Halfway down the corridor I met Mrs. Thomas herself, beaming madly.

”Oh, Mr. Phinn, I heard what happened from Miss Taylor.” She stared at the stain. ”Oh dear, it does look rather conspicuous, doesn't it? Not to worry, it's only poster paint and will not be hard to remove. It's not uncommon for some of our children to have a little accident now and again and we have a laundry on the premises. I'm sure we can soon find you a change of clothes if you would like to follow me.”

The change of clothes consisted of a pair of white cotton trousers. They looked ridiculous worn with my grey jacket, white s.h.i.+rt and college tie so I put on the matching white cotton jacket, and was soon dressed in the sort of outfit worn by physiotherapists, care a.s.sistants, support staff and ancillaries. The suit was rather small and tight-fitting but I felt a great deal more at ease and, picking up my clipboard, headed for lunch in the dining-room.

The first lesson of the afternoon was a music cla.s.s with the older juniors. On my way there I pa.s.sed several people, all dressed in the same white attire as me. I found the music teacher hovering outside the music room, looking furtively in each direction. She had a long, pale, worried face and was twitching nervously as I approached.

”Good afternoon' I began.

”Quick!” she snapped, pulling the sleeve of my jacket. ”Quick! Come in!” She glanced over my shoulder and then down the corridor before pus.h.i.+ng me into an empty cla.s.sroom on the other side of the corridor. She pushed the door to, and whispered in a confidential tone of voice, ”Did you see any?”

”See any?” I repeated.

”Inspectors. Did you see any school inspectors? We've got inspectors in.”

”Yes, I know, I'm I tried to explain but with little success.

”I'm terrified, I don't mind telling you. I've seen the old one prowling about in the mathematics block this morning. He looks as if he's been dug up.”

”Well, you see-'

”I've got the piano tuner in the music room mending two broken keys on the baby grand, a whistling window cleaner up a ladder outside, the cla.s.sroom a.s.sistant off ill, a really lively group of children arriving any moment and you can bet your bottom dollar I'll have a school inspector watching points and ticking his little boxes.”

”If I might-'

”They descend on you like hungry vultures, you know. They look into everything folders, files, desks, drawers, books, bags, storeroom, cupboards. I wouldn't put it past them to rootle through my handbag.”

”Oh no, they-'

”It's a nightmare. Then they interrogate you, ask you all sorts of questions before sitting at the back of the room scribbling away, and you never know what they write. It's all very upsetting. I've not had a wink of sleep for a month.”

”It's not that bad,” I rea.s.sured her.

”Well, how would you know?” she said sharply, but did not waitforareply. ”Youshouldhave it done to you and you'll find out how stressful it is. Have you ever been observed?” She did not wait for an answer to that either, but rattled on regardless. ”I mean, my job is on the line here. I just know I'll get one in with me at some point today. I have a sort of premonition. I can feel it in my bones. Are you sure you didn't see anybody heading this way?”

”Well, no, I didn't, but if I might explain why I am'

”Thank G.o.d for that! I might just be lucky.” She peered out of the door. ”Anyway, the children are arriving now.”

I followed her as she darted across the corridor into the music room where she spoke to a group of very ebullient children who were finding their places. ”Listen a moment, everyone, and that includes you, Michael Thompson.” The children stopped their chatter and faced the teacher. ”Did any of you see a stranger heading this way?”

”No, miss,” the cla.s.s chorused.

”Because we might be having a school inspector with us this afternoon and I want everyone on their best behaviour.” The teacher flourished a hand in my direction. ”Here's your physio, Peter, so you can get straight off.”

A young man in a wheelchair approached me. ”Is it hydrotherapy today, sir?” he asked.

”I've no idea,” I replied.

”It's usually hydrotherapy on a Monday, sir, if the pool's available.”

”This is a new physiotherapist, Peterand he's probably not aware of all the'

”Actually, I'm not,” I interrupted quite forcefully. I could not let this deception continue.