any around today?’
‘Course not! They’re all dead. They’re hextinct.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Dead. Wiped aaht.’
‘And why do you think that is?’ the Inspector had asked.
The little boy had thought for a moment. ‘Well, mister,’ he had said, ‘that’s one of life’s gret mysteries, in’t it?’
On the Friday Harold and I compared notes. ‘And do you think you will like this line of work, Gervase?’ he asked, staring at me with those large pale eyes.
‘I’m sure I will,’ I answered. ‘I feel a lot more optimistic and confident than I did last week. Thank you for looking after me. It’s been so useful and quite fascinating.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. Well, it’s getting late. We must be away. But if there is anything, anything at all I can be of help with, do please ask. Next week you are on your own. You’ve contacted all the schools we discussed, informing them of your intended visits, have you?’
‘Yes. I’m very much looking forward to getting out and about.’
‘We’ll meet each Friday for the next few weeks, at about this time, to see how things are going. All right?’ I nodded. ‘And don’t be afraid of asking for advice. Goodnight, Gervase. I think you’ll fit in really well.’
‘Goodnight, Harold, and thank you again,’ I replied. I watched the great frame disappear through the door and heard the heavy footfalls as he descended the narrow stairs. I was tired but happy and knew in my heart that this was the job for me. I smiled, thinking of the little boy with the bright eyes and grubby face who Harold had described, and what he had said: ‘Well, mister, that’s one of life’s gret mysteries, in’t it?’
I was startled out of my reverie by the shrill ringing of the telephone.
‘Hello?’ I said cheerily.
‘Is that free school meals?’
‘I do not believe it!’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘I just do not believe it!’
‘Listen to me, I want free school meals for my daughter, Kimberley Jenkinson. Are you still there? Hello!’
‘Harold!’ I shouted. ‘Harold!’
5
The small, square schoolhouse was enclosed by low, craggy, almost white limestone walls. Beyond lay an expanse of pale and dark greens, cropped close by lazy-looking sheep. Further off the cold, grey fells, thick bracken slopes and long belts of dark woodland stretched to distant heights capped in a blue mist. The colouring of the scene was unforgettable on such a day. I had driven to the school early, along twisting narrow roads, and through the open car window I could feel the warmth of the September sun and catch the tang of leaf and loam and wood smoke. I had passed ancient trees, tranquil rivers, towering fells, great shaggy hills, stark grey outcrops, seas of dusky heather and even the shell of a gaunt castle, and had been filled with a huge sense of awe.
It was Tuesday morning, the third week into my new job and my first visit to Hawksrill School, a tiny primary school deep in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales. Now, after many years as County Inspector and after countless visits to hundreds of schools just like Hawksrill, I still feel the magic and wonder of the Dales that I felt in those very first few weeks.
I stood at the gate to the small school, breathing in the cold, clear morning air and taking in the panorama around me when a small, wide-eyed little girl of about ten with round cheeks and closely-cropped red hair, legs like pestles and a coat slightly too large, joined me. She had thatwonderfully fresh rosy complexion of a daughter of the Dales.
‘It’s a grand day, mester, in’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ I replied.
‘Them’s our yows,’ she said proudly, pointing to the sheep on the expanse of green below us. ‘Cross-breed Leicesters. Reight hardy breed, them. We’ve ’ad a good year. They weather up on t’wolds better than other breeds, tha’ knaws.’
‘Really?’
‘Grandad Braithwaite won t’blue ribbon at t’Fettlesham Show wi’ one of
‘Course not! They’re all dead. They’re hextinct.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Dead. Wiped aaht.’
‘And why do you think that is?’ the Inspector had asked.
The little boy had thought for a moment. ‘Well, mister,’ he had said, ‘that’s one of life’s gret mysteries, in’t it?’
On the Friday Harold and I compared notes. ‘And do you think you will like this line of work, Gervase?’ he asked, staring at me with those large pale eyes.
‘I’m sure I will,’ I answered. ‘I feel a lot more optimistic and confident than I did last week. Thank you for looking after me. It’s been so useful and quite fascinating.’
‘It’s been a pleasure. Well, it’s getting late. We must be away. But if there is anything, anything at all I can be of help with, do please ask. Next week you are on your own. You’ve contacted all the schools we discussed, informing them of your intended visits, have you?’
‘Yes. I’m very much looking forward to getting out and about.’
‘We’ll meet each Friday for the next few weeks, at about this time, to see how things are going. All right?’ I nodded. ‘And don’t be afraid of asking for advice. Goodnight, Gervase. I think you’ll fit in really well.’
‘Goodnight, Harold, and thank you again,’ I replied. I watched the great frame disappear through the door and heard the heavy footfalls as he descended the narrow stairs. I was tired but happy and knew in my heart that this was the job for me. I smiled, thinking of the little boy with the bright eyes and grubby face who Harold had described, and what he had said: ‘Well, mister, that’s one of life’s gret mysteries, in’t it?’
I was startled out of my reverie by the shrill ringing of the telephone.
‘Hello?’ I said cheerily.
‘Is that free school meals?’
‘I do not believe it!’ I said in a hushed voice. ‘I just do not believe it!’
‘Listen to me, I want free school meals for my daughter, Kimberley Jenkinson. Are you still there? Hello!’
‘Harold!’ I shouted. ‘Harold!’
5
The small, square schoolhouse was enclosed by low, craggy, almost white limestone walls. Beyond lay an expanse of pale and dark greens, cropped close by lazy-looking sheep. Further off the cold, grey fells, thick bracken slopes and long belts of dark woodland stretched to distant heights capped in a blue mist. The colouring of the scene was unforgettable on such a day. I had driven to the school early, along twisting narrow roads, and through the open car window I could feel the warmth of the September sun and catch the tang of leaf and loam and wood smoke. I had passed ancient trees, tranquil rivers, towering fells, great shaggy hills, stark grey outcrops, seas of dusky heather and even the shell of a gaunt castle, and had been filled with a huge sense of awe.
It was Tuesday morning, the third week into my new job and my first visit to Hawksrill School, a tiny primary school deep in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales. Now, after many years as County Inspector and after countless visits to hundreds of schools just like Hawksrill, I still feel the magic and wonder of the Dales that I felt in those very first few weeks.
I stood at the gate to the small school, breathing in the cold, clear morning air and taking in the panorama around me when a small, wide-eyed little girl of about ten with round cheeks and closely-cropped red hair, legs like pestles and a coat slightly too large, joined me. She had thatwonderfully fresh rosy complexion of a daughter of the Dales.
‘It’s a grand day, mester, in’t it?’
‘It certainly is,’ I replied.
‘Them’s our yows,’ she said proudly, pointing to the sheep on the expanse of green below us. ‘Cross-breed Leicesters. Reight hardy breed, them. We’ve ’ad a good year. They weather up on t’wolds better than other breeds, tha’ knaws.’
‘Really?’
‘Grandad Braithwaite won t’blue ribbon at t’Fettlesham Show wi’ one of
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