I confirmed we had a list of the children and we would determine their friendship groups when they attended their preliminary visit next month. The intention was to place each child in a class with a friend to ease the problems of transfer. Richard appeared happy with this and the interviews began.
We saw the candidates in alphabetical order and the questioning followed a familiar format as we discussed their background, experience and interests. Richard Gomersall introduced topical issues, including the fact that last May Kenneth Baker had become Secretary of State for Education and it was clear he intended to make his mark.
As it emerged, three of the candidates were disappointing in an interview situation. They had appeared very promising on paper, but stumbled through their responses. In complete contrast, the young male candidate, Mr Marcus Potts, stood out from the rest.
It was 3.30 p.m. and decision time.
‘So, what do you think, Jack?’ asked Richard.
‘I think Mr Potts is an outstanding candidate. He’s bright, articulate and has many of the skills we need in the sciences.’
‘I agree,’ said Richard.
‘And so do I,’ added the Major. ‘A fine young man.’
Joseph hesitated. ‘We are a Church of England school,’ he said, ‘and I remain unclear about his faith.’ There was a pause. ‘However, it is clear he is the strongest candidate, so I’ll concur with the majority view.’
Marcus Potts was thrilled to become the successful applicant and I shook his hand. He was twenty-three years old, no more than five feet seven inches tall, with a mop of long, wavy black hair. Trained in Cambridge, he had secured his first teaching post in a tiny North Yorkshire school that had been designated for closure, so it came as a relief for him to secure this appointment. His particular skills were in the sciences and computer studies.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You won’t regret it.’
When the bell went for the end of school I was walking with Marcus through the cloakroom area where two nine-year-olds, Ted Coggins and Charlie Cartwright, were rushing to put on their coats.
‘Are you in a hurry, Ted?’ I asked.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ted.
‘We’re goin’ ’ome t’play Kerplunk,’ revealed Charlie.
‘Or mebbe Operation,’ added Ted.
‘I like Operation,’ said Marcus. ‘You need a lot of skill.’
‘Y’right there, sir, an’ we’ve got plenty,’ confirmed the eager Ted.
The confidence of youth, I thought.
Marcus looked relaxed as he was introduced to the rest of the staff and I showed him the newly erected temporary classroom that was to be his base. I walked with him to the car park and we paused next to his rusty red Mini.
‘When the furniture has arrived, can I come in from time to time to prepare?’ he asked. His enthusiasm was obvious and infectious. I had a good feeling about this young man.
‘Of course. Simply telephone first and make an arrangement with Vera,’ I said.
‘Vera?’
I smiled. ‘Yes, our secretary, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener. You’ll find her very helpful.’
In the office Vera was sharing a few thoughts with Rupert.
‘I’ll discuss it further with Mr Sheffield,’ she promised.
‘That’s good,’ said Rupert simply.
‘Out of pride, I believed no one could do the job better than myself.’
Rupert smiled. ‘That’s the thing about women.’
‘And what is that?’
‘They’re like bindweed.’ Rupert gave a wry smile.
Vera was not impressed. ‘Bindweed? Convolvulus? What has that to do with women?’
He took her hand gently in his. ‘My dear, I mean it well. Bindweed is unconventional. It climbs anti-clockwise … against the grain, so to speak. Unexpected – just like you.’
Vera looked out of the window and sighed. ‘I see.’
‘You never cease to surprise me,’ said Rupert, and he kissed her on the cheek and left.
A few minutes later Ruby called in to the office to empty the wastepaper bin.
‘I’ve seen t’new teacher,’ she said. ‘Looks t’be a lovely young man.’
‘I do believe he is,’ said Vera.
‘They’re few an’ far between, good men,’ said Ruby quietly.
‘So, Ruby, what’s the latest with Mr Dainty?’
‘T’be ’onest, Mrs F, ’e’s allus gallivantin’ about, is George,’ said Ruby. ‘’E’s never still.’
‘Well, he’s an active man.’
‘’E is that,’ agreed Ruby with a smile.
The school was quiet now. The teachers had returned to their classrooms and I was in the office checking some paperwork. Vera sat at her desk. She appeared thoughtful.
‘What is it, Vera?’
‘Jack, I have something confidential to share with you.’
I remained silent. It was unusual for Vera to use my first name and the significance didn’t escape me.
‘I’m considering retirement.’
‘I see.’
‘It will have to come some time,’ she continued.
‘Vera,’ I said quietly, ‘you know what you mean to our school and how much I appreciate the support you have given to me over many years.’
She smiled gently. ‘I know … but I’ve been talking it over with Rupert and he’s keen we should spend our retirement years together – sooner rather than later.’
‘I can understand that.’
‘Well, I passed my sixty-fourth birthday during the summer holiday,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’m not getting any younger, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re still as sharp as when we first met, Vera.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘So when were you thinking of?’
‘I would prefer to do another academic year after this one, up until 1988, but Rupert wants me to leave at the end of the summer term next July.’
‘You know I’ll support whatever you prefer and we could leave a final decision until the end of the spring term. Then we can secure a replacement for you during the summer. But if you wish to continue for another academic year, so be it.’
Vera steepled her fingers as if in prayer. ‘Yes, I see,’ she said quietly. Then she looked around our shared office, at the photographs on the wall of countless generations of Ragley children, and bowed her head. There was a long silence.
Finally she spoke up again. ‘Both Rupert and my brother feel I’ve been a little vain,’ she said suddenly. ‘You see, I wondered who would replace me.’
‘That would be very difficult, Vera, but, as always, we shall do our best. We are not irreplaceable.’
Vera smiled. ‘Yes, that’s what they said.’
‘So how would you like to resolve this?’
‘I should like to keep it to ourselves for now.’
‘I understand.’
She stood up, buttoned her coat, checked that her desk was left in its usual tidy state, picked up her handbag and walked to the door.
‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said.
The room was quiet once more and only the ticking of the clock disturbed the silence.
It occurred to me that I was the guardian of secrets … and it was a heavy burden.
Chapter Three
Ruby Tuesday
Children from Morton School visited during the afternoon session.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 7 October 1986
It was a pale autumn morning on Tuesday, 7 October and I stared out of the leaded windows of Bilbo Cottage. The distant hills were shrouded in a blanket of mist and the trees were spectres in a ghostly dawn. At their feet, fallen leaves, amber and gold, lay like scattered souls. The hedgerows were rich with wild fruits awaiting nimble fingers and a future feast of jams and jellies. Goldfinches pecked at the ripe seeds while robins claimed their territory. The season was changing and wisps of wood smoke hovered above the pantile roofs of Kirkby Steepleton.
On the council estate at 7 School View, Ruby was also looking out of her bedroom window, but she was not appreciating the wonders of nature. Our caretaker had endured a troubled night with occasional tears while she recalled her life with her late husband, Ronnie. He had been habitually unemployed and what little money he had was spent on beer, cigarettes, the bookmaker and his racing pigeons. In consequence, Ruby, now approaching her mid-fifties, had endured a hard life.
However, beyond the untidy front garden and the bedraggled privet hedge was a sight that made her smile. Parked by the kerb stood a faded, harvest-gold 1970 Austin 1100, a gift from George Dainty, and it filled her with pride. Despite rust on all the doors, it had been described as ‘a good runner’ and so it had proved. During the summer holiday, thanks to George’s tuition, Ruby had passed her driving test at the first attempt, followed by a grand celebration in The Royal Oak. She was now a familiar sight driving down the High Street towards York to visit her four-year-old granddaughter, Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle. Little Krystal was due to start school next summer and Ruby spent as much time as she could with the joy of her life.
Downstairs, after a hurried breakfast of a mug of tea and a Lion bar, she put on her threadbare winter coat and headscarf as the weather was turning chilly again. She picked up the heavy bunch of school keys, shouted goodbye to Natasha and set off for her least favourite day of the week. It was when she gave the toilets her extra special deep-clean and checked the ageing boiler.
‘Ah ’ate Tuesdays,’ murmured Ruby, looking down at her arthritic fingers, ‘’speshully t’day.’
However, unknown to Ruby, it was destined to be a Tuesday she would never forget.
Vera glanced up from her desk. Ruby was polishing the brass handle of the office door, a sure sign she had something on her mind.
‘Hello, Ruby,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
Ruby looked down and pulled tufts from her polishing cloth with her work-red fingers. ‘Ah’ve been frettin’ all morning, Mrs F.’
‘What about?’ enquired Vera.
‘This an’ that, Mrs F,’ mumbled Ruby.
Vera replaced the top on her fountain pen and closed her late-dinner-money register. ‘Come in and shut the door, Ruby,’ she said gently, ‘and tell me about it.’
Ruby stuffed her polishing cloth into the copious pocket of her overall and sighed deeply. She closed the door and sat down in the visitor’s chair. ‘It’s our ’Azel – ah waved ’er off yesterday.’
‘Waved her off?’
‘Yes, Mrs F,’ explained Ruby, ‘she’s gone t’Paris in France on a school trip.’
‘But that’s wonderful,’ said Vera.
‘Yes, she were right excited,’ said Ruby, ‘but ah jus’ want ’er t’stay safe.’
‘The teachers at Easington School have an excellent reputation for their school trips,’ said Vera with a reassuring smile, ‘and she’ll learn so much.’
Ruby nodded thoughtfully. ‘She will that, Mrs F, an’ she’s a quick learner, is our ’Azel. In fac’, ah reckon she’ll be effluent in French when she comes ’ome.’
‘I’m sure she will,’ agreed Vera with a knowing smile.
Ruby stood up to resume her work. ‘Well, thank you f’list’nin’,’ she said quietly.
The perceptive Vera could see that Ruby had been crying. ‘Ruby … was there anything else that you wished to talk about?’
Ruby looked a little sheepish. ‘Well, ah still think back t’my Ronnie … an’ there’s George Dainty, o’ course … but that’ll keep for another day.’ She opened the door, paused and looked back. ‘An’ summat, well, personal … but that’ll keep an’ all.’
Vera smiled after her as Ruby walked out, picked up her mop and galvanized bucket and trotted off to the children’s toilets. There was more to discover, but all would be revealed in time. Finally, Vera unscrewed the top of her fountain pen again, checked the register, opened her notepad and wrote a note to herself to remind Mrs Longbottom to send her long-overdue dinner money.
At 9.15 a.m., on her way home, Ruby decided to call in to the General Stores. On the forecourt Edna Trott was loading her groceries into the basket of her Rascal Electric Supertrike. Many years ago, Edna had been the caretaker at Ragley School before Ruby. She was now eighty years old and her mobility scooter helped her retain her independence.
‘’Ello Ruby,’ Edna greeted her. ‘’Ow’s that old boiler shapin’ up? It were on its las’ legs when ah worked at t’school.’
‘Ah’ve jus’ checked it, Mrs Trott,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ it’ll probably las’ me out.’
‘An’ ’ow’s that young man ah keep seein’ you with?’ enquired Edna with a secret smile.
Ruby’s cheeks flushed. ‘’E’s fine, is George, thank you – a lovely man.’
Edna climbed on her scooter and nodded thoughtfully. ‘Grab y’bit o’ ’appiness while y’can, Ruby. Life’s too short for mopin’ abart all day.’
Ruby looked after her as she drove off. Per’aps she’s right, she thought.
When Ruby walked into the General Stores, the bell above the door rang merrily and she joined the queue. Prudence Golightly was serving Maurice Tupham with a large sack of potatoes. Prudence had used the huge weighing scale on the floor that, in a bygone age, had been used to weigh sacks of grain on a local farm.
Mrs Ogden was in the shop with her daughter, Kylie, before taking the little girl to the dentist. Kylie stepped on to the scale. ‘How much do I cost, Mummy?’ she asked and was puzzled when all the grown-ups laughed.
Finally it was Ruby’s turn.
Prudence Golightly, in her mid-sixties, had known Ruby for most of her life and had a soft spot for the hard-working caretaker.
‘Good morning, Ruby,’ she said, ‘and how are you?’
‘Fine thank you, Prudence, an’ ’ow are you?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Prudence brightly. ‘Companionship is a wonderful thing.’ She glanced up at Ragley’s favourite teddy bear, dressed in his autumn ensemble of brown cord trousers, green jacket and a bright mustard scarf. ‘I’ve had Jeremy Bear for many years, but now I’ve got my Trio and he is such a loyal friend.’ Trio was a three-legged cat that Prudence had collected from the Cat Sanctuary in York. ‘You really can’t beat a good friend.’
‘Y’right there,’ agreed Ruby with emphasis. She looked around the well-stocked shelves.
‘So, what’s it to be?’ asked Prudence.
‘Jus’ a box o’ that daft cereal what our Duggie likes, please, Prudence, an’ a sliced loaf.’ Ruby rummaged for her purse. ‘Oh ’eck, ah’ve jus’ remembered … an’ a tin o’ corned beef, please. Ah’d be losin’ me ’ead if it weren’t screwed on.’
Prudence smiled. ‘Easily done, Ruby.’
‘Mebbe so,’ said Ruby, ‘but, mind you, ah’m not as bad as that Emily Cade.’ Emily was in her sixties and her mother, Ada, was Ragley’s oldest inhabitant at ninety-eight.
‘Really?’
‘Well, she’s gettin’ real forgetful,’ confided Ruby.
‘Forgetful?’
‘Yes, she left ’er mother in t’Co-op las’ week. Poor ol’ sod were there f’two ’ours afore she remembered.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence.
‘It’s a shame,’ said Ruby. ‘Emily were allus a good cook – in fac’ she were good at gravy, an’ y’can’t say fairer than that.’
Prudence nodded in agreement. In the pecking order of Yorkshire culinary expertise, excellent gravy was right up there.
At morning break I was on playground duty, so I collected a mug of coffee from the staff-room and walked outside. As usual, the boys dominated the wider spaces of the playground, playing football and leapfrog, while the girls huddled in corners deep in conversation.
Eight-year-old Jeremy Urquhart, a thoughtful, freckle-faced little boy, looked up at me. ‘Do you like being a teacher, sir?’
I was used to direct questions. ‘Yes, I wanted to be a teacher from being very young
.’ I studied the little boy’s eager face. ‘So, what about you, Jeremy? What would you like to be when you grow up?’
Jeremy considered this for a moment. ‘Taller,’ he said and ran off.
Ask a daft question, I thought.
I joined a circle of children by the school wall under the shade of the avenue of horse chestnut trees, where Stuart Ormroyd and Tom Burgess were playing conkers. A group of five-year-olds, including Ryan Samson, Gary Spittall and Walter Popple, were watching with fascinated interest.
‘Ah wish ah could play conkers,’ said Ryan.
Stuart looked down at the three younger boys. ‘Well, y’need a friend t’play with.’
Ryan looked at Gary. ‘Well, Gary’s my friend,’ he said.
Walter looked forlorn. ‘Ah wish ah ’ad a friend – a real friend.’
Stuart stopped playing conkers and looked down at the little boy. ‘What d’you mean, Walter … a real friend?’
‘Well,’ said Walter, ‘y’know – one wi’ chocolate,’ and he wandered off.
When the bell rang for the end of break I called in to Pat’s classroom. She was busy with our school computer, a BBC Micro, purchased for £299 and, according to Pat, it contained a huge 16KB of RAM.
‘The problem is, Jack,’ she said, ‘many of these children go home to a ZX Spectrum or a Commodore 64. We’re not keeping pace.’
‘I’ll keep trying, Pat, but the school budget is tight. We’re educating these children on a few pence per child per day, and without PTA support we wouldn’t have this.’
Pat smiled. ‘No problem, Jack, just thinking out loud.’
Ruby was back in school after putting out the tables for our daily Reading Workshop, when parents and grandparents were invited in to hear children read.
Six-year-old Alison Gawthorpe was sitting at a table with her reading book and her mother was encouraging her to read the first page. ‘Come on, Alison, shape y’self and get readin’,’ she said sharply. ‘An’ wipe that snot off y’nose.’
Alison was not impressed. She stared up at her mother. ‘What were you like when you were young, Mam? ’Cause Gran says you used t’be nice.’
Happiest Days Page 4