Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  About the Book

  It’s 1986 and Jack Sheffield returns to Ragley village school for his tenth rollercoaster year as headteacher.

  It’s the time of Margaret Thatcher’s third election victory, Dynasty and shoulder pads, Neighbours and a Transformer for Christmas. And at Ragley School, a year of surprises is in store. Ruby the caretaker finds happiness at last, Vera the secretary makes an important decision, a new teacher is appointed and a disaster threatens the school.

  Meanwhile, Jack receives unexpected news, and is faced with the biggest decision of his career …

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1 Smile of the Tiger

  2 The Vanity of Vera

  3 Ruby Tuesday

  4 Every Loser Wins

  5 The Last Firework

  6 Judgement Day

  7 A Carol for Christmas

  8 Sleeping Beauty

  9 Footprints in the Snow

  10 Too Many Cooks

  11 Oscar’s Revenge

  12 Gone Fishing

  13 Knowing Me, Knowing You

  14 Cambridge Blues

  15 Hogging the Headlines

  16 The Yuppie

  17 Maggie For Ever

  18 He Who Waits

  19 Happiest Days

  About the Author

  Also by Jack Sheffield

  Copyright

  HAPPIEST DAYS

  The Alternative School Logbook 1986–1987

  Jack Sheffield

  For my wife, Elisabeth

  Acknowledgements

  I have been fortunate to have had the support over many years of a wonderful editor, the superb Linda Evans (now retired), and I am now under the guidance of my new editors at Penguin Random House, the dynamic duo of Bella Bosworth and Aimée Longos. Sincere thanks for bringing this novel to publication supported by the excellent team at Transworld, including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Jo Williamson, Sarah Harwood, Vivien Thompson, Brenda Updegraff and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers.

  Special thanks as always go to my hard-working literary agent and long-time friend, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour and the regular updates on the state of England cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Adrian Barnes, managing director of Justtech Ltd and church organist, Medstead, Hampshire; Stella Cunningham, former evacuee and retired wages clerk, Storrington, West Sussex; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire’s finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury’s, Alton, Hampshire; David Haigh, programme management consultant and fishing enthusiast, Medstead, Hampshire; Ginny Hayward, family record keeper and supporter of the Watercress Line, Medstead, Hampshire; Ian Jurd, retired builder, churchwarden and Southampton FC supporter, Medstead, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Freda Lawes, long-standing member of the Mid-Hants Railway Preservation Society, Ropley, Hampshire; Roy Linley, lead architect, strategy and technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation, and Leeds United supporter, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Helen Maddison, primary-school teacher and literary critic, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Jacqui Rogers, clinical imaging support worker, allotment holder and tap dancer, Malton, Yorkshire; and all the terrific staff at Waterstones, Alton, including the irreplaceable Simon (now retired), the excellent Sam, Scottish travel expert Fiona, plus Bridget and Ysemay; also, Celia and the Cambridgeshire Collection team in the magnificent state-of-the-art Cambridge Central Library.

  Finally, sincere thanks to my wife, Elisabeth, without whose help the Teacher series of novels would never have been written.

  Prologue

  Life.

  One journey … many pathways. Choosing the right one can be difficult.

  So it was in the summer of 1986.

  I knew the next conversation would determine my future career. Over the years my happiest days had been at Ragley School and I prayed they would continue. I took a deep breath, gripped the telephone a little tighter and listened to her words. They were calm and precise.

  Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall in Northallerton, paused and I heard a shuffling of papers. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘further to your interview today, I should like to offer you the post of headteacher of Ragley and Morton Church of England Primary School.’

  The relief was palpable.

  I said simply, ‘I accept.’

  It was then that Miss Barrington-Huntley moved seamlessly into a more familiar mode. ‘Congratulations, Jack, and I’m sorry you had a long wait for the decision … but you will appreciate we had a very strong shortlist and there was much to discuss.’

  ‘I fully understand.’

  ‘You will receive all the formal paperwork in the post during the coming week and do call me if you have any concerns. In the meantime, enjoy your well-earned summer holiday.’

  I replaced the receiver and my wife, Beth, smiled up at me while our three-year-old son, John William, continued playing happily with his Lego.

  ‘Well done, Jack,’ she said. ‘I know how important it was to you.’

  That evening, as the sun set over the distant Hambleton hills, we sat on our garden bench and celebrated with a glass of Merlot while breathing in the soft scent of the yellow ‘Peace’ roses. Beth rested her head on my shoulder and I caressed her honey-blonde hair. Our lives had moved on. It was the beginning of a new journey and the unknown was just around the corner.

  That was six weeks ago and now the school summer holiday was almost over. A new academic year stretched out before me. For the past nine years I had been Ragley’s headteacher, but the closure of Morton School in the next village meant the two schools were to be amalgamated next January at the start of the spring term. It had required an interview for the post of headteacher of the newly formed school and I had been given the opportunity to continue in my post.

  On Sunday, 31 August I was sitting at my desk in the school office sifting through the mail from County Hall and the academic year 1986/87 was a few days away. An amber light slanted through the tall Victorian windows while motes of dust hovered like tiny fireflies in the shafts of autumn sunshine.

  Meanwhile, on the office wall, the clock with its faded Roman numerals ticked on. In spite of the usual apprehension, I had always found the dawn of a new school year to be an exciting time, but little did I know that a battle was about to commence.

  However, on that distant day all seemed calm as my tenth year as a village school headmaster in North Yorkshire was about to begin. Up the Morton Road the church clock chimed midday. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, removed the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. Then I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink, wrote the date and stared at the empty page.

  The record of another school year was about to begin. Nine years ago, the retiring headmaster, John Pruett, had told me how to fill in the official school logbook. ‘Just keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say what really happens, because no one will believe you!’

  So the real stories were written in my ‘Alternative School Logbook’. And this is it!

  Chapter One

  Smile of the Tiger

  School reopened today for the new academic year with 101 children on roll. A workman from County Hall was on site preparing the ground for the arrival of the temporary classroom later this month. Letters were posted to the four teachers shortlisted for interview on 17
September.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Wednesday, 3 September 1986

  It was a morning of bright sunshine on Wednesday, 3 September, the first day of the school year, and all seemed well in my world.

  As headmaster of Ragley village school in North Yorkshire, I felt a sense of keen anticipation as a new term stretched out before me … but, of course, on that fine autumn morning I had no idea what lay in store. Problems, like dark thunder clouds, were on the distant horizon and they were coming my way.

  At our home in Kirkby Steepleton in the hallway of Bilbo Cottage my wife, Beth, was saying goodbye to our son, John William, when our childminder, Mrs Roberts, arrived. She had driven from her home in Hartingdale where Beth had once been the local village school headteacher. Since then, Beth had secured promotion to a larger Group 4 headship at King’s Manor Primary School in York. Like me, Beth was keen to have an early start and she lifted three-year-old John and gave him a hug.

  ‘Now be good for Mrs Roberts,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ said John.

  She kissed his cheek, stroked his fair hair and passed him to me. I knew it was always a wrench for her to say goodbye, but that was the pattern of our lives.

  Beth’s new headship had proved a success. After glancing through the contents of her black executive briefcase, she checked her appearance in the hall mirror. Her smart two-piece business suit emphasized her slim figure and she tucked her hair behind her ears before hurrying out to her car. Beth had finally said farewell to her ageing Volkswagen Beetle in exchange for a more upmarket, five-door, blue 1981 VW Golf CD diesel. According to Beth, it was a bargain at under £3,000 and matched the status of her new job. Even so, I missed the familiar Beetle.

  Regardless of Beth’s regular attempts at persuasion, I knew I could never part with my Morris Minor Traveller. It was like an old friend and I gave the yellow-and-chrome AA badge on the radiator grille a quick polish with my cuff for good luck. Then it was my turn to leave for my three-mile journey on the back road to Ragley village.

  It was always a joy to travel through North Yorkshire in early autumn and as I drove past Twenty Acre Field the last of the harvest was waiting to be gathered in. Beyond the hedgerow the cornfield swirled in the light breeze like a restless ocean – rather like my thoughts – and I wondered what the new school year would bring.

  Then it happened … the unexpected!

  As I drove slowly up Ragley High Street I spotted a distinctive, mud-smeared Land Rover coming towards me. It was my familiar adversary, Stan Coe, local pig farmer and serial bully. Our paths had crossed many times in the past and there was no love lost between us. To my surprise, he leaned out of his window, waved and smiled. I simply stared in astonishment. He had definitely smiled. Puzzled, I wondered if he had turned over a new leaf … I should have known better.

  Still shaking my head in disbelief, I turned in through the school gate and drove up the cobbled drive. I parked my car, picked up my old leather satchel and walked to the school entrance, where Ruby, the caretaker, was leaning on her broom.

  ‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she greeted me. ‘A lovely day.’ In her triple-X, bright orange overall and with her rosy cheeks, she cut a cheerful figure.

  ‘Hello, Ruby,’ I said, ‘and thanks for all your work during the holiday.’

  ‘Allus a pleasure, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied with a smile.

  Ruby had been thrilled when she passed her driving test at the first attempt during the summer holiday. It was thanks to the regular lessons and considerable patience of her friend George Dainty, who had become her constant companion. Now she pushed a few strands of wavy chestnut hair from her eyes and nodded across the playground. ‘We’ve gorra early bird, Mr Sheffield.’

  A solitary workman was busy on the far side of the school grounds. A new temporary classroom was due to arrive later in the month to cater for our growing numbers and preparations were already under way. Ruby leaned towards me with a conspiratorial whisper. ‘That’s Billy ’Ardcastle from Easington what does jobs f’County ’All. ’E were ’ere at t’crack o’ dawn. Good worker, is Billy.’

  Reassured, I walked over to speak to him. He appeared deep in thought as he stared at the strip of spare ground.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hardcastle,’ I said. He was standing next to a pile of bricks and a wheelbarrow full of recently mixed mortar. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, the headteacher.’

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ he said with a friendly smile, ‘pleased t’meet you.’ He was over six feet tall with shoulders like an American football player and the build of a Sherman tank.

  ‘You look deep in thought,’ I observed.

  He nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Ah allus give a job two coats o’ lookin’ over afore ah start.’

  ‘Two coats of looking over?’

  He grinned and stroked his stubbly chin. ‘Yes, ah try t’imagine what it’ll look like when it’s all done an’ dusted, so t’speak.’

  ‘And what do you think?’ I asked.

  He rubbed the back of his weather-beaten neck with the thick fingers of his right hand. ‘Well, ’ow ah see it is if we build t’base a yard o’ two further back than it is on t’plan, y’could ’ave a nice bit o’ garden in front of y’new classroom. It’d catch t’sun summat perfec’ an’ t’kiddies would probably like that.’

  I was impressed. It was a sensitive thought for such an apparently rugged individual. Don’t judge a person on first impressions crossed my mind. ‘Then let’s do that,’ I said, ‘and I appreciate your consideration.’

  He picked up his trowel and speared the perfect mortar mix. ‘Well, ah’d best crack on.’

  ‘Thanks for the prompt start,’ I said, ‘and I’ll make sure the children don’t interfere with your work.’

  ‘Let ’em look, Mr Sheffield,’ he replied with a grin. ‘Ah’m used to an audience.’ With that he began to build a first tower of bricks on which the base of the new classroom would be placed and I walked into school.

  In our shared office the school secretary, Vera Forbes-Kitchener, was already hard at work. Vera, a tall, elegant sixty-four-year-old, looked immaculate in her Marks & Spencer two-piece, charcoal-grey business suit. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  A lady in a shabby raincoat that stank of cigarettes was sitting in the visitor’s chair and her two children were standing beside her, their faces smeared in chocolate.

  ‘This is Mrs Longbottom,’ explained Vera.

  ‘You’ve gorra lovely school, Mr Sheffield,’ remarked Mrs Longbottom, who had just arrived in the village after moving from Leeds.

  ‘Thank you for saying so,’ I said, ‘and welcome to Ragley.’ I felt reassured as I sat down at my desk in the far corner by the window.

  ‘Yes, we’re very proud of our village school,’ said Vera with an enigmatic smile. She opened the new admissions register, unscrewed the top of her fountain pen and looked across to my desk on the other side of the office. ‘Mrs Longbottom’s daughter, Sigourney, is about to commence full-time education in your class, Mr Sheffield, and her son, Tyler, will be in Class 3.’ The two children stopped chewing their Curly Wurly bars and gave me a curious look.

  They both had their mother’s craggy features and all three sported distinctive spiky brown hair that resembled a chimney-sweep’s brush. The girl was a tall ten-year-old in a baggy grey bat-wing sweatshirt, blue jeans with holes in the knees and white pixie boots. Her eight-year-old brother, Tyler, was wearing a Leeds United football shirt with the name RITCHIE on the back, grubby blue shorts and a pair of battered sandals. They both looked as though they had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

  ‘So have you any questions, Mrs Longbottom?’ asked Vera.

  Mrs Longbottom looked across at me, hesitated and then turned back to Vera. ‘There is summat,’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’ enquired Vera.

  ‘Well, ah were jus’ wond’rin’,’ continued Mrs Longbottom, staring thoughtfull
y out of the window.

  I glanced up from my desk. ‘Go on,’ I encouraged her. ‘We’re here to help.’

  She looked firmly at her two children. ‘Sigourney,’ she said, ‘go outside to t’playground an’ wait there with y’brother.’

  Sigourney chewed her Curly Wurly thoughtfully. ‘Don’t wanna,’ she replied defiantly.

  Mrs Longbottom smiled apologetically at Vera. ‘She’s gorra temper, ’as our Sigourney. She likes ’er own way.’

  Finally, with a reluctant shrug of her shoulders, Sigourney nodded to her brother and they both wandered off. Mrs Longbottom got up and closed the door firmly, and I wondered what was coming next. It was clearly something of import.

  She stared at the closed door for a moment, sat down again and spoke in a husky whisper. ‘Ah were jus’ thinkin’ about, y’know … sex.’

  ‘Sex!’ echoed Vera, her cheeks flushing rapidly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Longbottom, ‘’cause as you’ll ’ave noticed, our Sigourney’s growin’ up fast.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose she is,’ agreed Vera cautiously.

  I decided to speak up. ‘Well, if it helps, our local staff nurse comes in to show a film to the school leavers about growing up,’ I explained, ‘and parents are invited.’

  ‘Ah well … that’s good to ’ear,’ said Mrs Longbottom. She sighed, stood up and turned to leave, then paused as if she had remembered something else. ‘Y’see, ah were really thinkin’ ’bout my eldest, Chantelle.’

  ‘Chantelle?’ repeated Vera, wondering how parents came up with these names.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Longbottom. ‘Y’see, back on Gipton Estate in Leeds our Chantelle went to a real forward-thinkin’ school.’

  ‘Really?’ Vera sounded unimpressed by the implication.

  ‘What do you mean by “forward-thinking”, Mrs Longbottom?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, she ’ad a brilliant up-t’-date teacher called Miss Clemence an’ she taught ’em ’bout growin’ up an’ suchlike.’