The Other Side of the Dale Read Free Page A

enemies. For your information, I merely
mentioned
that the post held some slight interest, that’s all. I didn’t request a lecture on why I would be singularly unsuitable. You make me sound like some broken-down old carthorse ready for the knackers’ yard.’
    ‘What are you two on about?’ I had asked.
    The Head of History, undaunted by his colleague’s outburst, had continued in a casual voice.
    ‘You asked for an honest opinion, Harry, and that is what I gave. It would not suit me either, if it comes to that.’ He had then turned in my direction. ‘There’s a post in this week’s education supplement for a school inspector – English and drama. Harry was considering it and asked for my honest opinion. He is now sulking because I gave my honest opinion. I am nothing if not blunt.’
    ‘I asked for an opinion not a character assassination –’ Harry had begun but further discussion was curtailed by the sound of the bell. Both men, still arguing, had headed for the door. When they had gone, I had picked up theeducation supplement which Harry had left behind, and glanced at the advertisement which had been circled in red biro: ‘Wanted for September, a County Inspector of Schools for English and Drama. We are looking to appoint a well-qualified, energetic, experienced and creative honours graduate, with senior management experience in a school or college. He or she would join a well-established, successful and dynamic team, responsible for the advice to, and for the inspection of schools in the North of England.’ It seemed to jump off the page. Surely, all inspectors were not ‘dry, dusty, poker-faced, mean-minded little men’. I had met some really lively and enthusiastic inspectors and the job is what you made it.
    That evening I had thought hard and long about the post and decided to apply. I sent off for details and returned the completed application form within the week. A reply arrived three weeks later inviting me for interview at 9.00 am at County Hall in Fettlesham. So here I was waiting to be called into the Council Chamber to convince the Panel that I was the best candidate for the job. I was reasonably confident that I was well qualified and therefore in with a chance until I met the other four applicants for the post. Three of them seemed infinitely more self-assured and experienced and much better qualified than I. They sat in the anteroom calm and composed, chatting amiably – mostly about themselves.
    ‘I completed my Ph.D. in early literacy problems,’ a tall, confident young woman was telling an urbane distinguished-looking man. ‘I feel certain I have read one of your books about qualitative and quantitative methods in the teaching of aphasic pupils, when I was undertaking my research into the specific learning difficulties of early years, itinerant inner-city children.’
    ‘Quite possibly,’ he replied in a cultured and confident voice, stretching back casually in his chair and staring at the ceiling. ‘I’ve written extensively and lectured widely on the topic of aphasia. My doctorate was in dyslexia.’
    ‘Yes,’ added the third candidate, an equally suave and self-confident man in an immaculate blue suit and sporting a carefully trimmed beard. ‘I remember you gave the keynote address on that very topic at the university where I lecture. It went down very well, I recall.’
    ‘You are too kind,’ drawled the object of the praise. ‘I just hope that they are as receptive in the States this summer. I’m out there for a lecture tour, you know.’
    The fourth candidate, a small, dark-haired, softly-spoken woman, smiled nervously in my direction. I guess she thought, looking at me, that we had much in common compared to the others. We had arrived at the same time and had spoken briefly as we had made our way along the dark corridor of the anteroom. She was the Headteacher of a large inner-city primary school and clearly loved her job. When she spoke about the children, the