28 28 Charlie, a small boy of about ten or eleven, was sitting at his desk by the window poring over his book, his brow furrowed in concentration. As I approached, he closed the book and placed a hand firmly on top.
‘May I look at your work?’ I asked, smiling.
‘No,’ came the blunt reply.
‘Why not?’ I asked.
‘Because tha not lookin’, that’s why. It’s no good. When t’teacher says, “Today, we’re doin’ writing”, I don’t feel all that well. Me stomach gets all churned up like. I have problems with me writing, you see. Me spelling’s not up to much and me handwriting’s all ovver t’place.’
‘I’d still like to see,’ I said.
‘Well, tha not.’ He kept a firm hand over his book so I could not verify his comments. ‘Can’t read reight well, either,’ he added. ‘I have trouble wi’ words.’
‘I see,’ I replied gently.
He looked me full in the face. ‘I’m remedial, tha knows.’
And what does that mean?’ I asked, knowing full well the meaning of the label sometimes attached to children with special educational needs.
‘Thick,’ he replied bluntly. Then he added sadly, ‘I’m not much good at owt really.’
‘Everyone’s good at something,’ I said.
He just shook his head in a resigned sort of way and stared out of the window to the distant hills.
‘Tha not from round ’ere then?’ he asked.
‘No, I live at the other side of the dale.’
‘Aye, I thowt by way yer were speakin’ you were an off-comed-un.’
Since starting work in rural Yorkshire, I had been called this more times than I can remember – someone from out of the dale, a foreigner. ‘I am indeed an “off-comed-un”,’ I admitted.
I hoped, by changing the subject, I might eventually prevail upon the boy to show me his work and answer a few questions so I asked, ‘Where do you live?’
‘Reight up theer.’ He pointed through the window to the far-off hills. ‘I live on a farm up theer – at t’top of t’dale.’
‘What a lucky boy you are,’ I murmured. ‘You must have one of the finest views in the world.’
‘It’s all reight,’ he said in a matter-of-fact voice. ‘What time were you up this mornin’ then, mester?’
‘Early,’ I replied. ‘Half past six.’
‘I was up at six helpin’ me dad deliver a calf.’
‘Really?’
‘And it were dead. It would’ve been a good milker an’ all, just like its mother, wide solid rear and good udder texture. We got ratchet on –’
‘Aye, you put yer ratchet up against t’cow, it’s a sort of metal gadget like. Yer tie yer ropes round yer calf ’s back legs and yer turn yer ratchet every time there’s a contraction. Helping cow along a bit.’ He paused. ‘Does tha know what a contraction is?’
‘I do,’ I replied.
‘Aye, it were dead all reight. So we’ve ’ad a month of it, I can tell thee,’ continued Charlie, fixing his eyes on a flock of sheep meandering between the grey limestone walls. He sighed and was quiet for a moment. ‘Them’s ours,’ he then remarked casually, ‘them sheep. We’ve got an ’undred yows and two jocks.’
‘Jocks?’ I asked. ‘Are they Scottish sheep?’
He shook his head and dusty mop of hair. ‘No, no, jocks are rams, moor sheep. Does tha know why we ’as all them yows and only the two jocks?’
‘Yes,’ I replied, smiling, ‘I think so.’
‘Bought another from t’market last week. It’d only been wi’ us three days and it dropped down dead – even before it had done any tuppin’,’ he continued. ‘Me dad were none too pleased.’ He paused fractionally and gave a low whistle between his teeth. ‘Does tha know what tuppin’ means?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
‘We’d trouble week afore wi’ ’oggits.’
‘Hoggits? Little pigs?’ I ventured.
He shook his head again. ‘No, no, your ’oggits are sheep of an age between your lamb and your ewe. Sort of teenage sheep.’ He observed me for a moment. ‘Does tha know what a drape is?’
‘No, I don’t,’ I replied.
‘A stirk?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ I told him.
‘Tha dunt know much, does tha?’ he said, shaking his head.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘I’m remedial, you know.’
He looked at me thoughtfully and a smile formed on his lips for the first time that morning. ‘I don’t know owt abaat that but tha’re an off-comed-un and no mistake.’
‘I am,’ I admitted. Then, like a sensitive and patient teacher, the child who was ‘nowt much good at owt’, who ‘had trouble wi’ words’, invited the off-comed-un, the school inspector who had his own ‘special educational needs’, into his world of hoggits and shearlings, stots and stirks, wethers and tups, tegs and hogs, becoming animated as he realized the extent of his companion’s ignorance, surprised that there were people who couldn’t tell a Blue-faced Leicester from a Texel or a Masham from a Swaledale.
‘We’ve a sheepdog what’s going blind and t’last straw were this calf. It would’ve been a reight good milker an’ all.’
‘I’m sorry to hear about all your troubles.’ My reply sounded feeble.
‘Me dad’s got a word for it.’ At that point I felt it wise to move on but he reassured me. ‘Oh, it’s not rude. It’s a word which describes a yow when she’s heavy pregnant, so heavy, you see, she falls over on her back and just can’t move, she’s helpless. Sticks her legs in t’air and just can’t shift. It’s called “rigged”, proper word is “riggwelted”. Me dad comes in from t’fields and flops on t’settee and says, “I’m fair riggwelted.” ’
Some weeks later I was asked to speak at a very prestigious educational conference in London. Following my lecture, I was approached by the Minister of Education who enquired, ‘And how are things in education in the North of England, Mr Phinn?’
‘Well,’ I replied, smiling mischievously, ‘the teachers are feeling somewhat “riggwelted”.’