Free The Other Side of the Dale by Gervase Phinn

what’s thy name, pal?’ he had asked, wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes.
    ‘Dick!’ I had replied.
    At college I retained the name Dick for a couple of days but then returned to Gervase. I had joined a ‘brush-up-your-German’ class and had arrived at the lecture room to find Julian, who I had worked with at the factory, sitting in the front row.
    ‘Hello, Dick,’ he had greeted me brightly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming to this college.’ We had chatted for a while until the tutor had arrived. At that first lesson the teacher, having introduced herself, had moved from student to student, asking each to say who he or she was.
    ‘Wie hieβen sie?’
    ‘Ich bin
Maria Thomas,’ the first student had replied.
    ‘Wie hieβen sie?’
    ‘Ich bin
Elspeth Ward,’ had come the second.
    ‘Wie hieβen sie?’
    ‘
Ich bin
Julian Witherspoon,’ had come the third. Eventually the question had been directed at me.
    ‘Wie hieβen sie?’
    Because of Julian, and not wanting to have to go into a long explanation, I said,
‘Ich bin
Dick Phinn.’
    This had been followed by a series of giggles and chuckles from those around me.
    ‘We always have one funny man,’ the teacher had remarked. ‘I shall be watching your progress, my fat friend, with interest.’
    I learned later that
‘dick’
in German means fat. I quickly abandoned the name Dick.
    The day after my conversation with Julie I was sitting with the Head of the English Department in the staffroom of West Challerton High School at the start of an inspection of the English Department, when my unusual name entered the conversation again.
    ‘Is it Welsh?’ asked the Head of English, a small woman with hair pulled back in a bun, rimless spectacles and a round shiny face.
    ‘No,’ I replied.
    ‘I have a Welsh cousin called Geraint. I thought it might have been of Celtic origin. Is it Irish then?’
    ‘No, my name’s not Welsh or Irish,’ I replied. ‘In fact, the name Gervase –’
    ‘It ees a French name.’ The French Assistante, who was sitting behind us, broke into the conversation. ‘Gervase ees pronounced “Gervez” with a soft sounding “g”, as in zer word “genre”. It ees a French-Norman name and ees very common in France. Everywhere you go, you will ’ear zer name Gervase. It ees pronounced “Ggggervez”.’
    ‘Would you mind pronouncing it again?’ I said. ‘I rather like the way you say it.’
    ‘Ggggervez,’ she repeated in a most seductive voice. Then she added, ‘It ees the name of a yoghurt.’
    The first English lesson I observed that morning was taught by an exceptionally garrulous, rather eccentric, but obviously well-intentioned and dedicated teacher. Mr Palmer was nearing the end of a long and undistinguished career in which promotion had evaded him. He was still, nevertheless, resolutely optimistic and cheerful, enjoyed teaching his subject and attempting, in his own way, to share with his pupils his enthusiasm for Shakespeare and Dickens and Chaucer and all the other great classic writers. During the long time I have worked in schools I have met teachers in similar positions – at the same school all their careers, watching others move on to greater and higher things, and becoming wearied and cynical and ready for retirement.
    Mr Palmer was not in this category. In his shiny, pinstriped suit, limp bow tie and frayed shirt he looked like a schoolmaster of another century. He was a genial, sandy-haired individual who chattered on inconsequentially, clearly in no way unnerved by the presence of a school inspector. Before the arrival of the pupils, I endeavoured to find out what the theme of his lesson would be. He rattled out words like a Gatling gun, frowning and twitching and gesticulating by turns.
    ‘I’ve seen so many inspectors in my long career, Mr Phinn,’ he confided. ‘I’ve seen them come and I’ve seen them go, with their theories and suggestions, their pet projects and imaginative