The Other Side of the Dale Read Free

lawns and neat footpaths. The interior was like a museum, hushed and cool, with long echoey, oak-panelled corridors, high ornate ceilings, marble figures and walls full of gilt-framed portraits of former councillors, mayors, aldermen, leaders of the Council, high sheriffs, lord lieutenants, members of parliament and other dignitaries. It was really quite a daunting place.
    ‘Just be yourself, answer the questions honestly – and remember to smile,’ I thought to myself as I waited with the four other candidates in the small anteroom to the Council Chamber. It was the good, sound, sensible advice I always gave to my students when, the term before they left school, I helped them to prepare for their job or college interviews. ‘And if I’m not successful,’ I thought, ‘well, it’s not the end of the world, is it? I enjoy my present job and have done pretty well to get a senior master’s post in a large and flourishing comprehensive school before the age of thirty. In a few more years I could very well be a headteacher with all the challenges and demands that would bring.’ But I was not convincing myself. I really wanted this job. The post of County Inspector of Schools with the responsibility for organizing courses, running workshops, working inthe classrooms alongside teachers and students, meeting governors and parents, advising, influencing, encouraging and challenging others in the profession, held infinitely more appeal than the post of headteacher. I was so keen I was becoming increasingly tense and edgy. ‘Just be yourself, answer the questions honestly and
smile
,’ I reminded myself again but I was too nervous to listen to the small, reassuring voice in my head and fidgeted and fretted, adjusted my tie for the umpteenth time, tapped my fingers on my chin and smiled nervously at the other candidates on interview with me for the post.
    I had heard about the position of County Inspector of Schools a couple of months before when I had entered the staffroom of Elmwood Comprehensive School at morning break, arriving in the middle of a lively discussion between Cyril, the Head of the History Department and Harry, the Head of English.
    ‘It’s just not you, Harry,’ the Head of History had been saying. ‘I’m sorry but it’s not! For a start you’ve only taught in a couple of schools, you have no experience of English in primary or special education, you’ve never taught drama and, quite frankly, you’re too old. They’ll be looking for one of these sedate young Oxbridge sorts – cut-glass accent and more degrees than a thermometer. I mean, just think about the inspectors we’ve had in this school. Dry, dusty, poker-faced, mean-minded little men who spend their time watching points and nit-picking. Do you seriously think that sort of work would suit you? It must be an awful job, inspecting schools, sitting at the back of lessons, bored out of your mind, ticking little boxes and writing endless reports. You’ll never see your family, you’ll have to deal with awkward teachers all the time and you’ll be travelling hither and yonder. And you don’t even like driving – you’realways complaining about the few miles you drive to school. Think of the miles you’d clock up touring the county along those narrow twisting roads in all weather. And what about all those late nights, all those weekends? And I mean, you’re not getting any younger. You can hardly be described as “energetic” and “dynamic”, now can you? It takes you all your time to get up the stairs in Ε Block and you need two cups of coffee and a cigarette to face 4C on Friday afternoon. Now be honest, Harry, it’s just not the sort of job for you.’
    ‘Well, if you’ve quite finished, thank you very much, Cyril. I am very appreciative of all your encouragement and support,’ the Head of English had replied quite peeved by the advice his colleague had so freely and publicly given. ‘With friends like you I don’t need