Free The Other Side of the Dale by Gervase Phinn Page A

initiatives, with their important government directives and weighty educational reports, but I just carry on in my own little way, trying my best to teach.Now this morning it is a group of eleven-year-olds you will be observing.’ He waved in the direction of the classroom door, outside which a group of youngsters was beginning to queue. ‘They are bright and keen and willing enough and do apply themselves but like many young people are not greatly enamoured by poetry.’
    ‘So today you –’ I tried unsuccessfully to intervene.
    ‘So today,’ he continued, ‘I intend to read, appreciate and comment upon a poem, a piece of quite exceptional verse, in an attempt to reveal to them how powerful vocabulary, vivid imagery and heightened emotions contained in good quality writing can so enhance their lives.’
    ‘What is the poem which –’
    ‘I feel it is so important to try and instil in young people the love of great literature, to endeavour –’A small boy popped his head around the door and achieved greater success than I had accomplished in stemming the waterfall of words.
    ‘Excuse me, Mr Palmer!’ he shouted. ‘Can we come in, sir?’
    ‘You
can
come in, Thomas Ashbourne,’ replied the teacher. ‘You have the legs which will enable you to come in, you have the ability to walk through the door, you have the facility to enter the room but whether or not you
may
come in is another matter entirely.’
    ‘Pardon, sir,’ replied the boy entirely confused by the teacher’s response.
    Mr Palmer sighed. ‘Yes, come in, Thomas Ashbourne. You
may
come in.’ Turning to me he disclosed, ‘Of course, I blame the television and the Americans for the decline in English grammar. I do not possess one myself – a television that is.’
    The pupils, who had waited quietly and patiently outsidethe door, entered in an orderly manner, sat down, took out their pens and books and prepared for the first lesson of the day. They looked bright eyed and eager and I wondered if any would get a word in during the course of the lesson.
    ‘Today,’ began Mr Palmer, ‘we have a visitor. Mr Phinn, a school inspector no less, will be remaining with us for the duration of this lesson. I hope he will leave suitably impressed.’
    ‘Good morning, Mr Phinn,’ the class chorused.
    ‘What is the name of a person who steals from another?’ asked Mr Palmer suddenly. A hush came over the class. Had someone stolen something? What had gone missing? The pupils looked very apprehensive. The teacher repeated the question. ‘Now come along, what is the name of a person who steals from another?’
    ‘Thief, sir,’ came a tentative reply.
    ‘Yes, there is “thief”, but are there any others?’
    ‘Burglar, sir.’
    ‘Mugger, sir.’
    ‘No, no, I wasn’t thinking of those.’
    ‘Robber, sir.’
    ‘Shoplifter, sir.’
    ‘Well, yes,’ said the teacher, ‘but it is not the one I have in mind. They are all words for someone who steals, but none of you has come up with the one I want,’ said the teacher. ‘Any others?’ At this point I really could not see in which direction this lesson on poetry was going. The interrogation continued during which the class exhausted every possible variation of the word ‘thief’, but still the pupils had not guessed the word which was clearly implanted in the teacher’s head, the word he wanted to hear.
    ‘A person who stole from others in bygone days,’ the teacher persisted. ‘Now, does that give you a clue?’
    There was a forest of hands and an eagerness to answer. ‘Sir! Sir! Sir!’
    ‘Yes, Thomas?’ the teacher asked.
    ‘Pirate, sir.’
    ‘I wasn’t thinking of a pirate, but you are getting warmer.’
    ‘Buccaneer, sir,’ came a triumphant voice.
    ‘Not a buccaneer. Any more?’ The class was silent.
    ‘Well, I was thinking,’ said the teacher, ‘of a highwayman. And the poem we are going to look at today is called
The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes.’
    ‘Mr Palmer,’ I