The Heart of the Dales Read Online Free PDF Page B

will put the wheels in motion.’
    â€˜You imagine that it might come to that?’ Mr Harrison asked, clasping his hands tightly in front of him and resting them on the desk.
    â€˜Children only have the one chance at education,’ I told him. ‘They deserve enthusiastic, optimistic, committed teachers who have high expectations of the pupils in their care. From what you have told me, the children in this school are getting a poor deal.’ I stopped for a moment. I seemed to be repeating the selfsame words as I had done when I had visited the school just over two years before and had delivered my report. Clearly my own efforts had produced little effect either.
    â€˜It’s not going to be easy,’ the headteacher told me sadly, tugging at his long-suffering moustache once more. ‘No, it’s not going to be easy.’ He looked completely defeated and weary.
    â€˜On the positive side,’ I told him, attempting to sound cheerful, ‘the state of the buildings has certainly improved since I was last here, on the inside at any rate. It looks a whole lot brighter and more welcoming and it’s good to see the children’s efforts displayed to such good effect on the walls. I noticed coming in that you now have a small library and it seems well stocked with some appropriate books. This is certainly an improvement.’
    â€˜I do try,’ he said unhappily, ‘but I sometimes wish I had never left London. Being a big fish in a little pool does not have as many merits as I hoped for.’
    Following the depressing conversation with the headteacher, I spent the next part of the morning observing the lower Juniors, a class of seven-to nine-year-olds and their prickly teacher.
    Mrs Sidebottom, tall and thin with a pale, melancholy, beaked face, was like a heron in her prim white blouse buttoned up to the neck and tight grey skirt from which protruded skeletal legs. Her thick white hair was twisted up untidily on her head and speared with what looked like wooden meat skewers. When I entered her classroom, she fingered the cameobrooch at her throat, drew her lips together into a tight little and stared at me with Gorgon ferocity.
    â€˜Good morning,’ I said heartily.
    â€˜Good morning,’ Mrs Sidebottom replied, with cool immutable gravity in her voice.
    â€˜Good morning, children,’ I said, turning to the class that sat in serried rows behind old-fashioned wooden desks.
    â€˜Good mo-or-ning, Hinspector Phinn,’ they chorused.
    â€˜We were expecting you, Mr Phinn,’ the teacher said in a coldly formal and superior voice. Her eyes refused to meet mine. ‘I rather assumed that you would be here at the very start of the lesson.’ She glanced theatrically at her wristwatch. ‘I suppose the roads from Fettlesham were busy at this time in the morning.’ There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of her reply.
    â€˜I was with the headteacher,’ I explained, ‘and have been since I arrived at the school at eight thirty.’ I was minded to add, ‘before you arrived’ but I resisted the temptation.
    â€˜I see.’ She gave me a little smile – but still wouldn’t look directly at me; it was not a very pleasant smile. ‘Well, now you are here, I’ll explain a little of what we are about.’
    â€˜Perhaps one of the children could tell me.’
    â€˜Very well,’ the teacher said, bristling a little. ‘Simone, could you explain to Mr Phinn what we do on Thursday mornings?’
    â€˜We’re learn in’ ’ow to speyk proper,’ a large healthy-looking girl with cheeks as round and as red as a polished apple informed me in her strong Yorkshire accent. ‘All on us in t’class ’ave to –’
    â€˜I am endeavouring, Mr Phinn,’ the teacher cut in sharply, ‘to encourage the children to speak clearly, expressively and accurately with distinct articulation so that