04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  I underlined the word ‘steroids’, wrote ‘stair rods’ in the margin and ‘Well done’ at the bottom. Once again I reflected that teaching had its moments … particularly when I marked eleven-year-old Cathy Cathcart’s book. Cathy had written, ‘My gran was really poorly in the holidays. My mam said it was a terminal illness.’

  I called Cathy out to my desk. ‘I’m sorry to hear about your grandmother,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, Mr Sheffield, she’s better now,’ said Cathy cheerfully.

  ‘But you wrote she had a terminal illness,’ I said, pointing to the sentence.

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. She were sick at ’Eathrow Airport.’

  Shortly before morning assembly we had a discussion about the responsibilities of being in the ‘top’ class and I asked for volunteers for some of the responsible jobs we had to do each day. Two eleven-year-olds with sound financial sense, Simon Nelson and Carol Bustard, were put in charge of the tuck shop. Katy Ollerenshaw inevitably became blackboard-cleaning monitor. This job traditionally went to Ragley’s tallest pupil and Katy had always been in the middle of the back row on class photographs. Cathy Cathcart, a fastidious timekeeper, became school-bell monitor and Darrell Topper became the ‘letting teachers know that school assembly will start in five minutes’ monitor as he was the fastest boy in school and for some strange reason was desperate for the job.

  At morning break I collected a hot milky coffee and went out to do playground duty. It was a pleasure on such a lovely day and, as promised, I helped Heathcliffe and his friends collect a large pile of conkers. Soon, however, he was trying to teach the girls in his class how to wink and whistle. He was intensely proud that he could do both simultaneously.

  * * *

  After lunch we gathered in the staff-room. Vera was checking late dinner money and Anne and Jo were quizzing Sally about the trials of pregnancy.

  I had spent twenty pence on my copy of The Times and scanned the news. Len Murray, the TUC General Secretary, wanted urgent talks with Jim Callaghan about incomes policy. Meanwhile, the BBC’s recorded highlights of a Football League Cup match between Ipswich and Middlesbrough had not been screened last night because the Middlesbrough team had advertising on their shirts. The bright labels showing Middlesbrough’s affiliation to Datsun Japanese cars was in contravention of the corporation’s rules. Advertising was suddenly becoming big business in football and I wondered where it would end.

  During afternoon school we had just begun our new project on the history of York when there was a tap on my door and Shirley the cook popped her head round the door. She looked anxious. ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mr Sheffield, but can I have a word?’

  I walked out into the corridor. Shirley Mapplebeck was a wonderful school cook and with her assistant, the formidable Mrs Doreen Critchley, worked wonders in her small kitchen. ‘What is it, Shirley?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve got a blockage, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley, ‘an ’ah can’t get anything t’flush away.’

  ‘Shall I have a look at playtime, Shirley?’

  ‘Doreen ’ad a go before she left, Mr Sheffield. If she can’t shift it, no one can.’

  I nodded in agreement. Doreen Critchley had the forearms of a circus strong man. ‘You’d better ask Miss Evans to ring County Hall, Shirley.’

  By afternoon break, Vera had everything in hand in her usual unflappable style. ‘Battersbys will be in first thing tomorrow, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Battersbys?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, the Battersby brothers. They can unblock anything,’ said Vera, with absolute certainty.

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said. ‘What would I do without you?’

  She smiled and returned to typing a note to parents entitled ‘School Photographs – Reminder’ on her Royal Imperial typewriter.

  It was after six o’clock when I climbed into my emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller and drove the three miles home to Bilbo Cottage in the sleepy village of Kirkby Steepleton.

  I sat down in the lounge and began to write a report to the school governors about our new school library extension – now close to completion – while attempting to grill a pork chop. I was soon engrossed and only the smell of burning from the kitchen reminded me of my inability to multi-task. By 8.30 p.m. I needed a break so I switched on BBC 1 and settled down to watch Yes Minister. The brilliant Nigel Hawthorne was leading poor Paul Eddington his usual merry dance when the telephone rang.

  ‘Had a good day?’ asked a familiar voice. It was Beth.

  ‘I wish you were here,’ I said.

  ‘Why?’ said Beth. I imagined her green eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.

  ‘I’ve just cremated my evening meal.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Can you come round?’ I asked hopefully. There was a pause and I knew she would be twirling a lock of honey-blonde hair between her fingers while she considered my proposal.

  ‘Sorry, Jack – too much paperwork. Anyway, we can catch up at the weekend. I’ve got something interesting to show you.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I said.

  We said our usual goodbyes and, with the television for company, it was nearly midnight by the time I finished my report. Patrick Moore in The Sky at Night was wandering around a meteor crater in northern Arizona and looking as lonely as I felt when I switched off. Finally, in my quiet bedroom, I dispelled thoughts of blocked sinks and fell asleep wondering what life would be like when Beth was here.

  The next morning bright autumn sunshine lit up the back road to Ragley village. At this time of year, my journey to school was always a joy in this beautiful corner of God’s Own Country. Beyond the hawthorn hedgerow a field of corn swayed with the rhythm of the soft breeze and the breath of life. However, my peace was soon shattered when I drove up the cobbled school drive and heard the sound of hammering and loud voices.

  In the car park was a filthy battleship-grey van covered in rust. A crude sign in white gloss had been painted on the back doors. It read: Albert & Sidney Battersby – Blockages are our Business.

  The noise was coming from the other side of the cycle shed where two stocky unshaven men, dressed in filthy brown overalls, had removed a huge metal inspection cover. One of the pair was bald as a coot and peering down the hole. He was beating our Victorian drainage system with a club hammer and appeared completely unconcerned that he was up to his elbows in raw sewage. The other, sporting the thickest National Health spectacles I had ever seen and clearly the brains of the partnership, was issuing instructions.

  ‘Good morning,’ I shouted. ‘I’m the headteacher, Jack Sheffield.’

  ‘ ’Morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said the one with the spectacles. He peered at me myopically. ‘Ah’m Bert an’ this is m’brother, Sid.’ Both of them were unmoved by the putrid smell.

  ‘So, can you fix it?’ I asked and wrinkled my nose.

  Bert sucked air through his teeth and looked down at Sid. ‘We’ve seen some blockages in us time, ’aven’t we, Sid?’ he said. Then he shook his head sadly as if someone had just died. ‘ ’Ow’s it looking?’

  ‘It’s nine-inch solid down ’ere,’ said Sid.

  It was all becoming too graphic for me. ‘It looks … terrible,’ I said.

  ‘Mebbe so,’ said Sid, unconcerned.

  ‘It might be shit t’you, Mr Sheffield, but it’s our bread an’ butter,’ said Bert philosophically.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I mumbled, ‘but can you help us, Mr Battersby?’

  ‘There’s only one thing for it, Sid,’ said Bert.

  ‘Y’don’t mean …’

  ‘A’h do,’ said Bert. ‘We’ve no choice.’

  ‘Y’know what ’appened las’ time?’ said Sid ominously.

  ‘If we don’t use ’er, we’ve no chance.’

  ‘Her?’ I asked. ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Well, not ’xactly ’er, Mr Sheffield, it’s more of a what,’ said Bert.

  ‘That’s reight,’ said Sid solemn
ly. ‘You tell ’im, Bert.’

  He looked me square in the eyes. ‘We’ve no choice, Mr Sheffield. We’ll ’ave t’use Big Bertha.’ He announced it as if he’d just declared war on Russia.

  ‘Big Bertha!’

  ‘Best hinvention known to man or beast,’ said Bert.

  ‘If Big Bertha can’t shift it, nowt can,’ said Sid.

  ‘ ’Er pounds per square inch is frightening,’ added Bert for good measure.

  ‘Well, good luck,’ I said hesitantly.

  At twelve o’clock, Cathy Cathcart stood up to ring the bell. ‘Posh van coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. Cathy had clearly become the new self-appointed ‘announcer’ for the class. A royal-blue van, spotless and waxed to a high sheen, pulled up in the car park. On the sides, under a distinctive coat of arms, blazed the words Temple Photography in gold flowing letters.

  A tall, deathly pale, grey-haired and frail-looking man emerged and began to unpack his equipment. I went out and introduced myself.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, handing me his card, which announced he was Raymond De ’Ath from Temple Photography in Thirkby.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mr, er, Death,’ I said.

  ‘It’s two syllables: De ’Ath,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘I’ll set up in the school hall, shall I?’

  It was soon evident that Raymond had lived a life of false enthusiasm. Over many years, countless crying babies and demanding mothers had finally ground down his mental resolve. His catchphrase, ‘Smile for Raymond’, was now a forlorn plea from the heart. As he picked up his tripod, he reflected that the last time he had smiled was when his wife had run off with a travelling salesman from Cleckheaton whose aftershave could stop a clock at ten paces.

  By the time he reached the school entrance, his optimism was fading fast. Heathcliffe Earnshaw was holding open the door and smiling. At least, it was Heathcliffe’s version of a smile. When Raymond saw the glassy-eyed stare, clenched teeth and contorted grimace he knew another tough day was in store.

  ‘Ah’ve been learning t’smile all las’ night,’ said Heathcliffe cheerfully.

  Raymond gazed back in horror. The boy’s manic expression might have been that of an axe-murderer. Raymond nodded warily and hurried into the school hall, where, before setting up his camera equipment, he hastily swallowed two aspirins.

  At afternoon break, Anne was on playground duty and Vera, who had taken charge of directing children from their classrooms to the chairs in front of Raymond’s screen in the school hall, was shaking her head in despair. ‘If he says “Smile for Raymond” again, I’ll scream,’ she whispered.

  I decided to see how the Battersby brothers were progressing.

  ‘Nearly done,’ said Bert. ‘We’ve set up Big Bertha.’ The brothers were admiring the ugly contraption as if it were a thing of beauty.

  It was then I noticed a gap in the school fence behind the cycle shed. I frowned in dismay. Also, there were cigarette stubs scattered on the ground. However, I was soon distracted.

  ‘Mr Sheffield,’ said Sid suddenly, ‘we’ve got a little bit o’ summat special.’

  He beckoned me to the car park. Puzzled, I followed the two brothers to the back doors of their van.

  ‘Bit of a sideline, so t’speak,’ said Bert. He smiled and tapped the side of his bulbous nose with a filthy forefinger. Then he opened the doors and a repulsive smell of decay floated out. On the floor was a collection of grubby newspaper parcels. Sid selected one and opened it.

  ‘We gerrit from a mate in Thirkby, Mr Sheffield,’ said Bert.

  ‘Best lean bacon y’ll ever see,’ said Sid triumphantly, holding up a rasher between his muddy brown finger and thumb.

  ‘Usu’lly a pound,’ said Bert.

  ‘But t’you, fifty pence,’ added Sid.

  After staying long enough to express polite interest, I retreated quickly with a mumbled apology.

  * * *

  Back in the school hall, I mentioned the damaged fence to Vera.

  ‘I’ll ask Mr Paxton to fix it,’ she said. John Paxton was Ragley’s handyman.

  ‘Perhaps he could plant a couple of shrubs as well to fill the gap, Vera.’

  ‘Good idea. I’ll arrange it,’ she said.

  ‘You know, Mr Sheffield,’ added Vera thoughtfully, ‘someone may be using it as a short cut from the council estate.’

  ‘Smile for Raymond,’ said the photographer once again. Vera visibly winced and hurried off to collect the last group of children.

  At a quarter to three, Anne popped her head round the staff-room door. ‘Excuse me, everybody,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep all the children outside. Doctor Death says we’re ready for the whole school photograph on the playground.’

  Raymond De ’Ath ceremoniously placed five chairs in a line and ushered me to the chair in the centre. Anne sat on my right, Vera on my left, and they were flanked by Jo and Sally. Then he asked Katy Ollerenshaw to stand directly behind me, and the rest of the children were placed on either side, in descending order of height, to create a pyramid of faces. Anne’s children sat cross-legged in front.

  There was a long pause while Raymond disappeared like a furtive ostrich under his black cloak. ‘Now assume a pose, please,’ said a muffled voice.

  ‘Damian Brown, don’t forget to smile,’ said Jo in a commanding voice and I recalled my conversation with Mrs Brown.

  ‘OK, Miss,’ grumbled Damian, ‘but m’face is ’urting.’

  ‘Shall we say “Cheese”, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Tracy Crabtree.

  ‘We said “Sausages” last year, sir,’ said Darrell Topper helpfully.

  Sally started to giggle and Anne joined in.

  ‘Quiet now, please,’ said Mr De ’Ath.

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Vera, losing patience.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he mumbled with a final twist of the lens.

  Vera could stand it no longer. ‘If he says “Smile for Raymond” once more I swear I’ll—’

  ‘OK, everybody … smile for Raymond.’

  Then, in a split second, everything happened at once.

  Behind the crouching photographer, round the corner of the cycle shed, Big Bertha cleared the blocked drain with a huge bang and a brown geyser of water plumed into the air. This was immediately followed by a loud scream and Mrs Winifred Brown appeared from behind the shed like a drowned rat with a damp cigarette hanging from her lips. Instantly, eighty-seven children, four teachers and one secretary burst into laughter and a camera shutter opened and closed.

  Now, many years later, when I look at school photographs of times gone by, one stands out. In among the serious faces, teachers and pupils that have come and gone, there is one photograph that stands out from the rest. Above a neatly typed label, ‘Ragley School 1980’, it shows the happiest group of staff and pupils you could ever wish to meet.

  They are united in one accord.

  All of them are smiling for Raymond.

  Chapter Two

  The Brave New World of Vera Evans

  Miss Evans received training on our new school typewriter. The Revd Joseph Evans took his weekly RE lesson. The PTA Annual General Meeting was followed by a ‘Metric Mathematics’ event to introduce our School Mathematics Project to parents.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Wednesday, 24 September 1980

  MISS VERA EVANS always made perfect scones.

  In the vicarage kitchen all her utensils and ingredients were laid out neatly on the marble work surface. Having taken her faithful Be-Ro Home Recipes: Scones, Cakes, Pastry & Puddings from the pine shelf of cookery books next to her gleaming Aga cooker, she opened it to page 6, ‘Be-Ro Rich Scones’, and propped the stiff but well-worn pages against her ancient brass weighing scales. Her two-and-a-half-inch-diameter cutter, with which she would press out exactly twelve scones, sparkled in the autumn sunshine that streamed through the leaded panes of the arched kitchen window. Then she picked up her favourite wooden spoon,
selected a spotless mixing bowl and began. Puccini’s ‘Humming Chorus’ from Madam Butterfly was playing softly on her radio and, appropriately, she hummed along. It was Saturday morning, 20 September, and Vera was content in her world.

  Vera had never married and she lived with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the vicarage on Morton Road. It was a beautifully furnished and spacious house and Vera took pride in keeping it spick-and-span. Her life was one of tidiness and order and even her three cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, were well-behaved. Her favourite, Maggie, a black cat with white paws, was named after Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, Vera’s political heroine. Hers was a quiet, serene life of church flowers, school administration and Women’s Institute meetings.

  However, little did she know it, but, at that very moment, changes were in store for the secretary of Ragley School. A revolution was about to take place and Vera’s world would never be the same again.

  A mile away in the Ragley School office I was looking at a typewriter, the like of which I had never seen before.

  ‘It’s an ergonomically designed, golf-ball head, IBM Selectric – and a bargain at three hundred pounds,’ said Mr Joy, the salesman, with a voice like a machine-gun. He was clearly ex-army and looked very smart in his white shirt, grey suit and military tie. Unfortunately, his straight black, Brylcreemed hair, parted on the right, and his toothbrush moustache gave him an uncanny resemblance to Adolf Hitler.

  ‘There’s no carriage return,’ I said, looking puzzled. ‘So how will my secretary know how it works?’

  ‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said confidently, ‘we have ways of making it work …’ He was even beginning to sound like Hitler. ‘The platen remains stationary, Mr Sheffield,’ he added with a stony face. ‘It’s the golf-ball that moves side to side.’

  ‘Platen?’

  ‘The round rubber cylinder,’ he explained, pointing. ‘It’s a state-of-the-art machine, Mr Sheffield, guaranteed to make your secretary’s work the envy of the village.’