Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  I held him in my arms, as Beth was the first to leave for her journey to York. It was a ten-mile drive to King’s Manor Primary School and Beth was always keen to arrive before the rest of the staff.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ said Beth, ‘and be a good boy at nursery.’

  John replied with a smile: ‘Banana, Mummy.’ It was clear what was important in his young life.

  I walked out with Beth to her car and she kissed me on the cheek. In her floral summer dress and beige Cagney & Lacey coat with padded shoulders she looked both smart and dynamic – an eighties woman. She took John from my arms. ‘Bye-bye, Mummy,’ he said as she hugged him.

  ‘Have a good day, Jack,’ said Beth, ‘and good luck with the interviews.’

  ‘Not to mention the new temporary classroom,’ I added.

  She smiled. ‘Goodness knows how they will get it over the school wall.’

  A few golden-brown autumn leaves had settled on the sunroof of her car and they blew off as she accelerated away. ‘Love you,’ I murmured.

  Then it was my turn and I set off for school in my Morris Minor Traveller.

  The journey out of Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley always lifted the spirits at this time of year. I wound down the window and welcomed the sharp, clean air. It was a joy to live in this beautiful corner of what was known locally as God’s Own Country. Meanwhile, beyond the hedgerows the last of the ripe barley swayed in the fields in a sinuous rhythm of russet gold.

  I called in to Victor Pratt’s garage and one of my old pupils, Kenny Kershaw, came out to serve me. He was training to be a car mechanic and appeared happy in his work.

  ‘How are you, Kenny?’ I asked.

  ‘Champion, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Kenny. ‘An’ ah’m in charge,’ he added proudly, ‘’cause Victor’s gone off t’see Doctor Davenport.’

  ‘Oh dear, nothing serious I hope.’ Victor was a regular visitor to our local doctor with a series of ailments that defied medical science.

  Kenny pondered this for a moment. ‘No, ah don’t think so … summat about ’is bum bein’ on fire.’

  It sounded par for the course for our curmudgeonly garage owner.

  ‘Anyway, ah’m learnin’ loads o’ stuff, Mr Sheffield,’ said Kenny with a smile as he filled up my car with petrol. ‘It’s good to ’ave a job an’ ah’m savin’ up.’

  I didn’t ask him why. It was common knowledge that he and Claire Bradshaw, the publican’s daughter, were generally regarded as ‘an item’.

  When I stopped outside the General Stores to collect my newspaper, Lillian Figgins, our road crossing patrol officer, known affectionately as Lollipop Lil’, was coming out with a pack of new polishing cloths. She was dressed in her bright yellow coat, ready for duty.

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and held up the cloths. ‘Those pews need a good seein’-to before they get checked by Mrs F. If they’re not perfec’ she’ll soon let y’know. So I’m off up t’St Mary’s after doin’ m’zebra duty.’

  I never ceased to be amazed by the love of the locals for our church and their willingness to support its upkeep. Lollipop Lil’ was in charge of the team of church cleaners known affectionately as ‘The Holy Dusters’. Lillian ruled them with a rod of iron: it didn’t do to cross this tough Yorkshire lady.

  She walked towards her Citroën 2CV, or her ‘tin snail’ as she called it, and glowered at Stan Coe as he drove by in his filthy Land Rover. There was no love lost between these two adversaries. To her surprise, he attempted a smile and she looked after him, puzzled by his reaction. Margery Ackroyd and Betty Buttle, two local gossips, were standing on the pavement and had also witnessed Stan’s unusual behaviour.

  ‘Well now ah’ve seen it all,’ said Lillian in surprise.

  ‘’E’s a wolf in cheap clothin’ is that one,’ warned Betty ominously.

  Lollipop Lil’ nodded in agreement. ‘Ah wouldn’t trust ’im as far as ah could throw ’im.

  ‘An’ ’e’s allus flashin’ ’is ’orn,’ added Margery with feeling.

  ‘’E’s up t’summat,’ said Betty. ‘Y’can allus tell when a man’s up t’summat. They pretend t’be nice. My ’Arry bought me some flowers once.’

  Margery and Lillian both nodded knowingly.

  There’s nowt so queer as folk, thought Lillian as she drove to school to pick up her stop sign.

  When I arrived in the car park Joseph Evans was collecting some papers from the boot of his white Austin A40.

  ‘Good morning, Jack,’ he said. ‘Just some notes for the interviews. All four candidates look promising.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ I agreed, ‘and Vera has all the arrangements in hand.’

  ‘I’m sure she has,’ said Joseph wistfully. He stared up at the office window and reflected on a time when his sister had had all his arrangements in hand. That was when they had lived together in the vicarage. Life had been simple then, more straightforward and peaceful. With a deep sigh, he followed me into school.

  Vera was busy in the office when we walked in and it was clear she had started work earlier than usual. She had typed a letter on a Gestetner master sheet and smoothed it carefully on the rotating drum. It was to the parents of Morton School inviting them to send their children for an introductory visit to Ragley on Tuesday afternoon, 7 October. The event included a guided tour and an opportunity to meet the teachers.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, picking up one of the letters. It was perfect. There was no doubt that Vera was an expert at using our unpredictable duplicating machine. Everyone else created an inky mess.

  ‘I have to agree,’ said Vera immodestly. ‘There is a particular technique and I’ve honed it to perfection over the years.’

  ‘Really?’ said Joseph, a little surprised at his sister’s lack of modesty.

  ‘Oh, good morning, Joseph,’ said Vera. ‘I see from the diary you’re taking assembly this morning.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And what is your theme?’ asked Vera.

  Our vicar gave a meaningful stare. ‘Vanity,’ he said simply and walked out to the hall.

  Vera returned to her duplicating and for a moment she was troubled … How will they cope without me?

  At nine o’clock Tom Burgess rang the bell to announce the beginning of a new school day. Ruby was standing by the office door. She had put down her dustpan and was leaning on her broom. ‘Ah’m off in a few minutes, Mrs F.’

  Vera looked up at her dear friend and smiled. ‘I hear you have been seeing more of Mr Dainty,’ she said. ‘How is he?’

  Ruby pondered this for a moment. ‘Well, as y’know, Mrs F, ’e’s allus been gen’rous an’ kind. If y’recall, ’e took me to t’Queen’s ’Otel in Leeds for t’Annual Fish Fryers’ Lunch an’ we ’ad a lovely time.’

  Before returning to live in Ragley, George Dainty had made his fortune in Alicante in Spain with his fish-and-chip shop, The Codfather.

  ‘I remember it well,’ said Vera, ‘and you wore a lovely dress.’

  ‘Yes ah did, an’ then ’e bought me a special gift an’ it cost a fortune.’

  ‘And what was that, Ruby?’ asked Vera tentatively.

  ‘A top o’ t’range deep-fat fryer, an’ it meks chips a real treat.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Vera, but without conviction.

  ‘An’ las’ Saturday ’e took me to a posh do.’ Ruby fished a leaflet out of the pocket of her overall and passed it to Vera.

  It read:

  BATTLE OF BRITAIN DANCE

  Leeds Town Hall

  Saturday 13th September

  Dancing to the sound of the Lloyd Allen Big Band.

  ‘Tickets were four poun’ fifty,’ said Ruby, full of excitement.

  ‘Did you enjoy yourself?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Yes, ah did.’ Ruby picked up her dustpan to carry on with her cleaning. ‘An’, ah mus’ say … ’e’s a proper little twinkletoes, is my George,’ she added proudly as she walked off to her store cupboard.


  My George, thought Vera, and she smiled. Her friend had definitely moved on with her life.

  It was time for morning assembly and Anne cleaned her LP record of the Peer Gynt Suite, placed it carefully on the turntable of our music trolley, lowered the stylus on to the correct track and adjusted the volume. Soon the familiar strains of Edvard Grieg’s ‘Anitra’s Dance’ filled the hall as the children walked in quietly and sat cross-legged on the polished woodblock floor.

  Joseph Evans, a slightly stooped, angular figure, took the lead and introduced the first hymn.

  There were times when Vera, a devout Christian, slipped out of the office for a few minutes to join in our act of daily worship, if only to share in the Lord’s Prayer. She would stand by the double doors that led to the entrance hall and by leaving the office door open she could respond to a call on the telephone.

  However, this morning was different. She had been rankled by Joseph’s barbed criticism and had crept quietly into the hall to hear his sermon. She sat in the seat next to mine, clasped her hands and listened intently.

  Joseph told a story about a vain crow who thought he was better than the other crows. He wanted to join the peacocks, but eventually he was abandoned by his own fellows and went on to lead a lonely life. Then he opened his Bible and began to read: ‘Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.’

  Vera leaned towards me. ‘Philippians, chapter two,’ she whispered.

  Joseph glanced across at his sister and continued to read: ‘Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.’

  ‘Verses three and four,’ murmured Vera.

  Deep in thought, she got up quietly and returned to the office and I wondered if Joseph was making a point.

  As Vera sat at her desk the telephone rang. ‘Ragley School,’ she said briskly.

  ‘Morning,’ said a gruff voice. ‘County ’all building works ’ere.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Vera.

  ‘Y’big ’ut is on its way.’

  ‘Hut?’ replied Vera. ‘Surely you mean our new classroom?’

  ‘Well, we call ’em ’uts,’ said the voice.

  ‘Correct use of the English language is very important, young man,’ she said. ‘Do keep that in mind. You’re referring of course to the new temporary classroom. So what time can we expect it?’

  ‘Yer ’ut, ah mean classroom, is on its way. We’ve jus’ loaded it … so mebbe an ’our.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vera. ‘Well we shall look out for it.’

  ‘G’bye,’ said the voice and rang off.

  Vera was making a neat shorthand note on her spiral-bound pad when the telephone rang again.

  ‘Ragley School,’ she said.

  ‘It’s me, my dear,’ answered Rupert.

  ‘What are you doing ringing me at school?’

  ‘I was wondering if you had thought any more about what we discussed.’

  ‘Yes, I have, but I shall pick the right moment to progress it. As you know I have concerns about the person who might one day replace me – and what will happen then to the school?’

  There was a sigh from Rupert. ‘You’ll recall we agreed to spend more time together.’

  ‘The thing is, Rupert, I’ve created systems here that work perfectly and it will be difficult to find someone who could sustain them.’

  ‘We are not indispensable, my dear, not even you.’ Rupert spoke quietly but with gravitas.

  ‘I don’t think you know what the job entails and what is going through my mind,’ said Vera.

  ‘I think I do,’ replied Rupert. ‘In fact I recall Robert Oppenheimer once said that genius sees the answer before the question.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘how vain.’

  ‘Exactly, my dear.’

  Vera considered this for a moment before saying she needed to get on with her filing. She replaced the receiver.

  Vera had bought a jar of Nescafé Gold Blend from the General Stores for the staff-room, plus a packet of custard creams. At morning break when the staff walked in she had heated milk in a pan for our morning coffee and had served camomile tea to Joseph to calm his nerves following a fraught lesson with Class 3.

  Sally was sipping her hot drink while trying hard to ignore the fresh supplies in the biscuit tin. She had bought a Daily Mirror for 17p and was showing Pat a front-page photograph of Sarah Ferguson under the headline ‘Fergie’s Secret Naughty Nibble’.

  ‘It says here,’ said Sally, ‘that the Duchess of York was caught buying chocolate in a baker’s shop. Apparently the young assistant thought it was someone in fancy dress until she caught sight of the bodyguard.’

  ‘Well, a little chocolate won’t hurt,’ said Vera, our loyal royalist, ‘and she has a superb figure.’

  Sally’s politics were far removed from those of Vera. ‘You’ll like this, Vera,’ she continued. ‘Next Sunday there’s to be a so-called intimate insight from Highgrove into the private life of Charles and Diana along with their two sons.’

  Vera’s face lit up. ‘That should be fascinating, because they lead such demanding lives.’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered Sally, ‘it must be tough with all those nannies, butlers, chauffeurs, maids and lots of holidays.’

  Vera retired quietly to the sink. A lack of knowledge is a dangerous thing, she thought.

  The staff-room emptied until only Vera and Joseph remained. Vera ran some hot water to wash the mugs.

  ‘I’ll help you with that,’ offered Joseph and picked up Vera’s favourite Flowers of the Forest tea towel.

  ‘No, Joseph,’ she said sharply, ‘you never do it properly.’

  He put down the tea towel and shook his head. ‘Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities; all is vanity.’

  Vera was a little irritated. She hated to be lectured by her younger brother. ‘Yes Joseph,’ she retorted testily. ‘Ecclesiastes, chapter one, verse two. I know it well.’

  Joseph smiled. ‘Your memory was always remarkable,’ he said softly and kissed her gently on her forehead as he left.

  It was 11.30 a.m. when Rufus Snodgrass announced, ‘Big crane’s ’ere, Mr Sheffield.’ All the children looked out of the window. A large crane was parked outside school and a group of villagers had gathered to watch the proceedings. The local bobby, PC Julian Pike, had appeared on his bicycle, apparently in charge of crowd control but mainly concerned with the close proximity of his new girlfriend, Ruby’s daughter Natasha, who was taking a break from Diane’s Hair Salon.

  ‘Come on, boys and girls,’ I said. ‘Let’s go outside.’

  We lined up at a safe distance near the school entrance while a group of workmen fixed long chains to something that resembled a giant green shoebox. The temporary classroom was in two halves and each half had to be lifted over the school wall and lowered on to the brick base. It was achieved with ease by the experienced crane driver, to the accompaniment of cheers from the children. The classroom was placed on the brick towers to raise it off the ground and ensure it was perfectly level.

  Sadly, there was no running water in the new room, but we had been told it was the best accommodation on offer in the present economic climate. I wondered how long it would remain there or if it would become a permanent feature. It looked out of place next to our classic Victorian building, but I guessed we would get used to it. Even so, the space inside appeared generous, with a cloakroom, a large rectangular classroom space and a store cupboard.

  When the operation was complete the teachers gathered on the playground. ‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘It will have to do, I expect,’ said Anne.

  ‘It’s pretty basic,’ sighed Sally. ‘The lack of running water inhibits art activities and hand-washing.’

  ‘Plus an extra twenty-eight children using the toilets in the main building,’ added Pat.

  Meanwhile, our regular supply teacher, Miss Valerie Flint, had arrived to teach my class for t
he afternoon. Valerie, at sixty-four, had smiled when asked if she would apply for the new post. ‘Too long in the tooth, Jack,’ she said. ‘I enjoy my freedom too much.’

  It was just after school lunch and the workmen had driven away when the candidates began to arrive for the afternoon interviews. There were two men and two women and all of them were primary-school teachers in Yorkshire. They included a lady in her forties with extensive experience in primary education; a young woman who had completed three years’ teaching in a Northallerton primary school; a man in his forties who had entered the profession late in life; and, finally, a young man who had recently completed his probationary year in North Yorkshire.

  All of them were given a tour of the school accompanied by a member of staff while the children looked on curiously.

  Shortly before one o’clock the members of the interviewing panel gathered in the school office. Joseph Evans, as chair of governors, had walked down the Morton Road from the vicarage; Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, also a governor, arrived in a chauffeur-driven classic Bentley; and our senior primary adviser, Richard Gomersall, roared up the drive in his six-cylinder Jaguar XJ6.

  Rupert, in a tweed jacket, cavalry-twill trousers, lovat-green waistcoat, regimental tie, crisp white shirt and brown leather brogues polished to a military shine, looked his usual immaculate self. Richard Gomersall, as always, made sure he was the height of fashion with his long, wavy, carefully coiffured reddish-brown hair, a bright pink linen jacket with padded shoulders, rolled-up sleeves and baggy trousers. Cuban-heeled leather boots with pointed toecaps completed the ensemble, and Rupert eyed him curiously.

  Although Joseph was officially the chair of the interviewing panel, it was our senior primary adviser who took the lead and confirmed the official arrangements for the amalgamation of the two schools. According to his records, twenty-eight children were to transfer from Morton. They were mostly five- to eight-year-olds, plus three ten-year-olds – two girls and one boy destined for my class.