04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  At exactly nine o’clock Cathy Cathcart pulled on the school bell rope and announced the beginning of the spring term 1981. With a self-satisfied glance at her wristwatch, she attached the rope to the cast-iron cleat on the wall and walked into my classroom. Another year had begun.

  Cathy, a keen little girl, was soon hard at work in her English exercise book. I was pleased she was using her dictionary but, sadly, it was not always to good effect. In answer to the instruction ‘Use the word judicious in a sentence’, Cathy, presumably with the Fairy Liquid commercial in mind, had written: ‘Hands that judicious can be soft as your face.’ Also, when asked to describe the meaning of a ‘turbine’ she had written: ‘What an Arab wears on his head.’ Not for the first time it occurred to me that you needed a sense of humour to survive as a teacher.

  At lunchtime, on this bitter winter’s day, I marvelled at the beauty of Ragley School. The railings were etched in frost and each fleur-de-lis was topped with an arrowhead of fresh snow. A smooth curve of crusted white rime formed a repeated pattern on each pane of glass in the tall arched windows. The sound of the children’s games was muffled and their breath formed tiny clouds of vapour in the still, icy air.

  Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Vera was reporting the latest news. ‘We’re getting a new telephone in the office,’ she said, ‘and an extension line in the staff-room. It appears there’s been some fuss about our phone number and I assured the young lady it ended in three zero.’

  ‘I wonder if it will be one of the new push-button telephones,’ said Jo.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera, consulting a pink maintenance form on her clipboard. ‘It’s one of those new Trimphones.’

  Jo’s eyes widened in excitement: she loved new technology and knew that before the end of the year the school would own a computer.

  Vera picked up her Daily Telegraph and scanned with relief the story that the Yorkshire Ripper had finally been brought to justice for the killing of thirteen women. He had been arrested last week in Sheffield after driving with false number plates. Then she spotted a story that did not appeal to her.

  ‘Ridiculous!’ she exclaimed, tossing the newspaper on to the coffee-table.

  ‘What’s wrong, Vera?’ asked Valerie.

  ‘Just look at that,’ said Vera, pointing at the headline.

  It read: ‘Should the Queen retire?’

  ‘Just because she’s fifty-three,’ said Vera, ‘and Charles is now thirty-one.’

  ‘I agree, Vera, it’s scandalous,’ said Valerie, who, much to Vera’s approval, was another ardent royalist. ‘Queen Victoria reigned until she was eighty-two.’

  ‘Quite right, Valerie,’ said Vera. ‘The monarchy is secure and solid.’

  ‘Respected and popular,’ added Valerie for good measure, ‘and the new girlfriend for Charles is a real beauty.’

  ‘Oh, you mean Lady Diana Spencer?’ said Anne, looking up from marking her children’s writing books. Jemima Poole had written, ‘I love my mummy even when she is grumpy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Valerie. ‘She’s the granddaughter of Lady Fermoy, you know, who was a lady of the bedchamber to the Queen Mother for thirty years.’

  ‘Yes, she’s definitely got the right background, but don’t you think she’s rather young?’

  ‘I thought Charles would have tied the knot with her older sister, Sarah, a couple of years ago,’ said Anne. ‘She seemed to be the royal flame at the time.’

  ‘It’s possible his father’s selected this one,’ said Vera as she locked the metal money box for late dinner money.

  ‘You may well be right,’ said Valerie and she collected her dinner register and set off back to her classroom.

  ‘Yes … well, let’s just hope they’re happy,’ said Vera quietly to herself.

  Just before afternoon break I called briefly into Valerie’s classroom. All the children were working hard. Miss Flint had written on the blackboard, in beautiful cursive script, The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog, a sentence that includes all the letters of the alphabet, and the children had copied it in their very best handwriting in their writing books. Nine-year-old Sarah Tait had added and the farmer was not pleased, clearly determined to cast judgement on the worthiness of the dog. It struck me as a very formal exercise and a long way from Sally’s style of teaching, her so-called ‘integrated day’.

  Valerie’s slate-grey eyes never wavered as she looked at me steadily. It was as if she knew what I was thinking. ‘It’s not just facts and knowledge, Jack,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘They’re important … but I try to give my children wisdom. That will be much more important in this broken world.’

  There was more to Valerie than met the eye and it occurred to me that I could learn a lot from this experienced lady.

  At the end of school I was walking out of the building with Vera and Valerie when a small white van pulled up in the car park and a short, stocky man with a sooty face and gleaming white teeth climbed out. On the side of the van it read: Kelvin Froggat, Chimney-sweep, with a telephone number underneath that looked familiar. It was the same number as Ragley School!

  He obviously knew Vera. ‘ ’Ello, Miss Evans,’ he said breathlessly. ‘Ah’m real sorry, there’s been a mix-up wi’ phone numbers. Ah were given t’wrong one. Las’ two digits are t’wrong way round. Ah’ll gerrit changed straight away.’

  ‘Thank you, Kelvin. I’m sure it’s not your fault,’ said Vera graciously. After all, Kelvin cleaned the vicarage chimneys every year and was always tidy.

  I recalled the strange telephone call. ‘I took a message yesterday morning from a lady who sounded worried about her chimney.’

  ‘That were Deirdre Coe,’ he said. ‘She weren’t pleased. An’ t’make matters worse, ’er chimneys were in such a poor state m’brooms got stuck an’ ah’ve ’ad t’get a new set.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Froggat,’ I said.

  He drove off, followed by Valerie in her 1971 Vauxhall Viva Estate. Whirling flakes of snow filled the frozen sky and danced like ghostly moths in the flickering beams of their headlights.

  Vera stood beside me as we watched their red tail lights disappear.

  Then she smiled up at me. ‘As I was saying, Mr Sheffield … new brooms.’

  Chapter Eleven

  The Problem with Men

  All staff began to prepare mid-year reports for distribution at half-term. Our outdoor education weekend in early June for the children in Class 4 was booked.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 2 February 1981

  COLIN PRINGLE LOOKED in his briefcase and knew his life had changed for ever.

  On his way home from work he had called into Woolworth’s in York. He stared intently at a bottle of Johnson’s baby shampoo. For 59p it promised ‘no more tears’ on the label. He looked up at Sally, who nodded in approval. As an afterthought, he had also bought some Johnson’s baby oil for 69p, a large tube of Aquafresh toothpaste for 25p and a bottle of Silvikrin shampoo for 39p.

  ‘These are for your hospital bag,’ he said and Sally gave him a strained smile. The time was getting close.

  Sally was finally fed up with pregnancy and wanted it all to be over. Ruby had suggested long walks and pineapple chunks to hurry things along, whereas a voluble Mrs Ackroyd in the General Stores had sworn by spicy foods and herbal tea. Sally had tried all these but her backache was worse and she couldn’t sleep at night. The midwife had told her the baby’s head was engaged, and going to the toilet had become an uncomfortable experience. Sally had also begun to experience fake contractions but kept it to herself. Sharing this news with the nervous Colin would probably give him a heart attack. She looked at him sadly. He had given up smoking and was sucking giant humbugs as if there was no tomorrow. Still, she thought, it wasn’t his fault. After all, he was just a man.

  Meanwhile, three miles away, Sheila Bradshaw was making an announcement. ‘T’problem wi’ men is they’re only good f ’one thing an’ most of ’em are
useless at that.’

  Don the barman looked sheepishly at me and then glanced nervously at his buxom wife. He pulled a half pint of Chestnut Mild. ‘Here y’are, Jack,’ he said and then added in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘and good luck when y’finally get married.’

  It was Monday evening, 2 February, and I had arranged to meet Beth in The Royal Oak. The members of the Ragley Rovers football team stared at Sheila as she fiddled with the controls of the television set in the taproom. The sight of Sheila in a skin-tight micro-miniskirt and halfway up a step-ladder was a welcome distraction from their mournful analysis of last Saturday’s heavy defeat to the Thirkby United Colts XI. A group of fifteen-year-old boys had put six goals past them.

  ‘It were too frosty t’tackle ’em,’ muttered Clint Ramsbottom.

  ‘Y’reight, Nancy. Pitch were like glass,’ agreed Shane.

  Clint winced when his big brother called him ‘Nancy’ but, as always, he nodded in acknowledgement. No one in their right mind would ever disagree with Shane.

  ‘Them kids were like Torvill an’ Dean out there,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘We should ’ave worn skates instead of football boots.’

  Everyone nodded even though most had never heard of Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, the new European ice-dancing champions.

  ‘An’ that’s another thing wi’ you men,’ said Sheila: ‘Yer allus complaining.’

  Meanwhile, Colin was still anxious. Sally, to take her mind off her increasing discomfort, had persuaded him to read the instructions for their new Hotpoint automatic top loader washing machine. The salesman had told Colin and Sally that at £289.95 it could cope with a 10-pound wash load, had a no-tangle action and an impressive 1,050 rpm spin speed. Colin had simply looked perplexed and Sally had taken the initiative.

  ‘We’ll take it,’ she said, ‘and Colin …’ she fixed him with a stern expression, ‘you will have to learn how to use it.’

  Colin was dumbstruck. It hadn’t occurred to him that having a baby would have such far-reaching and life-changing implications.

  However, at that moment, Sally glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and began to time her contractions. They were now five minutes apart and each one lasted almost one minute.

  ‘Colin,’ she said quietly, ‘put the hospital bag in the car. It’s time to go.’

  Colin sprinted like a headless chicken to the car, ran back for the bag, returned once more for the car keys and finally roared off like Jackie Stewart in the Monaco Grand Prix.

  Beth walked into the lounge bar and, as always, she looked stunning, even after a long day at school. She reached up to kiss me on the cheek, slipped off her sheepskin coat and woolly scarf and sat opposite me at the table by the bay window. She was wearing a smart two-piece outfit in jade with slightly padded shoulders, a suede-look embroidered waistcoat and a straight skirt.

  ‘Gosh, I need a drink, Jack. That governors’ report took an age.’ She rubbed her neck and stretched.

  ‘G and T?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Beth.

  Soon we were sipping our drinks and, eventually, Beth launched into what was on our minds. ‘Any news about Ragley?’ she asked quietly.

  I put down my drink. ‘Nothing concrete … just rumours. I’ve heard they may close Morton School to coincide with Miss Tripps’ retirement.’

  ‘That’s a blow for Morton but good for you, Jack. The Morton children would come to Ragley. There’re only about thirty of them, I think.’

  ‘We’d need another classroom,’ I said.

  ‘You’d get one of those mobiles. We had a couple of those when I was at Thirkby. They erect them in a day. The only problem is water. There’s no supply and art work becomes a bit of a pain. But there’s plenty of spare land near your cycle shed. I expect they’d put it there.’

  I pondered this strange new scenario. ‘Sad for Morton, though, Beth,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe, but it would make economic sense and Joseph is chairman of governors of both schools, so if it meant this was the only way to save Ragley he would have to go along with the closure of Morton.’

  Her words ‘economic sense’ reverberated in my tired brain. The world was changing and Mrs Thatcher’s new cost-efficient society had a hard edge to it for public servants. I was also seeing the tough side of Beth. There was steel there I hadn’t noticed before. Deep down, I didn’t want to benefit from Morton’s loss and I had a great affection for Miss Tripps. It would break her heart to oversee the closure of her beloved village school. Thoughtfully, I supped on my Chestnut Mild as the strains of Abba’s ‘The Winner Takes It All’ drifted through from the taproom juke-box.

  ‘There is another way forward, Jack.’

  Beth leant under the table, opened her leather shoulder bag and took out a well-thumbed copy of the new issue of the Times Educational Supplement. She opened it to the Primary Appointments page, where she had circled a number of advertised posts. She pointed to one of them. ‘There’s a large school in Bridlington, Jack … a much higher salary … You may want to think about it.’

  ‘I’m not sure, Beth. I wouldn’t be a class teacher any more.’

  ‘But surely it’s your next logical step, isn’t it?’

  I took a deep breath and quickly scanned the text of the advertisement. ‘Following the retirement of … a new headteacher required for September 1981 … 350+ children on roll …’

  ‘We could sell up and move to somewhere in North Yorkshire between Hartingdale and the coast,’ added Beth.

  It seemed as though she had worked it all out.

  ‘But I thought you would want to move in with me at Bilbo Cottage.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘And I love teaching, Beth. I’d miss not having a class of my own.’

  ‘Would you?’

  ‘And … I love Ragley … the school, the village, the people. I feel at home here.’

  ‘Ah …’ said Beth. She picked up a menu from the table, then glanced at the special of the day on the blackboard above the fireplace. Predictably it was shepherd’s pie. Beth leant over and squeezed my hand. ‘Shall we order some food?’ she said simply.

  At the bar I ordered two specials while Sheila was serving Clint Ramsbottom with his chicken and chips in a basket.

  ‘Give us a knife an’ fork, please, Sheila,’ said Clint.

  ‘Didn’t they teach y’no grammar at school, then?’ Sheila asked him, winking at me.

  ‘ ’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Clint.

  ‘It should be please give me my knife and fork.’

  Clint shook his head in puzzlement. ‘But ah ain’t got none.’

  Colin was now in a state of panic. The roads were freezing over as he skidded through the entrance of Fulton Maternity Hospital. It looked like an old wartime army camp with a collection of single-storey buildings scattered round a large Victorian edifice with a huge chimney.

  He pulled up outside the main entrance and a nurse in a starched apron hurried down the stone steps to help. Colin grabbed the heavy bag out of the boot while the nurse took Sally’s arm. She led her into an entrance hall of bare cream and green walls. A large sign with an arrow pointing to the right read WARDS; another, with an arrow to the left, read DELIVERY ROOMS.

  They turned left down a corridor of polished tiles, and the nurse’s black lace-up shoes tapped out a brisk rhythm that exactly matched Sally’s heartbeat.

  In the delivery room, the matron held Sally’s hand. ‘Sally,’ she said in a calm, reassuring voice, ‘don’t worry. Everything looks normal.’

  Sally looked at the three other women in the ward, who appeared to be in their early twenties. ‘I feel ancient here,’ she breathed. ‘Is it safe at my age?’ There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice.

  The matron put a cooling hand on Sally’s forehead. ‘You’re a healthy woman. There’s no cause for concern.’ She glanced into the corridor, where Colin was down to his last humbug. ‘Shall I ask your husb
and to come in?’

  ‘Not just yet, thanks. Perhaps later,’ whispered Sally.

  ‘I understand,’ said the matron – and she did.

  The conversation in The Royal Oak had drifted back to the bitterly cold weather.

  ‘It’s from Siberia, all this snow,’ said Kojak.

  ‘Bloody Russians!’ said Big Dave in disgust. ‘We don’t want no Russian snow ’ere.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm. ‘We want proper Yorkshire snow.’

  Everyone nodded in agreement and supped thoughtfully until Sheila broke the silence. ‘Ah knew a Russian once,’ she said, staring wistfully at a bottle of vodka, ‘name o’ Stan something.’

  Don gave her a sharp glance.

  ‘ ’E never put no sugar in m’tea,’ continued Sheila in a little world of her own. ‘Said ah were sweet enough.’

  ‘Huh!’ said Don. He grabbed a pint pot and wiped it vigorously with his York City tea towel.

  ‘Like ah said, y’can’t trust Russians,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘ ’Ere, ’ere,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Nowt worse.’

  From out of a haze of Old Holborn tobacco smoke at the end of the bar, Old Tommy Piercy spoke up. Old Tommy tended to say very little but when he did everyone listened. ‘ ’Owd on, ’owd on, not so ’asty, young Malcolm,’ said Old Tommy. He tapped his pipe on the bar for order. ‘Y’forgettin’ southerners.’

  In Old Tommy’s politically incorrect but perfectly formed world, southerners always ranked below Russians, Germans, French onion-sellers, Australian cricketers, teetotallers and vegetarians. Everyone nodded in agreement at his words of wisdom and proceeded to sup in silence. The oracle had spoken.

  ‘Mrs Pringle, we have three trainee midwives who would like to attend the birth … if you have no objection.’

  Sally blinked through her perspiration and nodded. The question had appeared rhetorical anyway.

  The matron beckoned them in and they stood there in a line, two slim young women and a youthful dark-haired man with an attempt at a first moustache who looked as though he had just been let out of school for the day. He blinked nervously and stared in apparent horror at the scene before him.