Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  When the bell rang for the end of school I dismissed the children and walked through the cloakroom area towards the office. Ted Coggins, the burly farmer’s son, was in excited conversation with Charlie Cartwright about Trick or Treat night. He was in such a hurry he bumped into me in the corridor. ‘Steady on, Ted!’ I cried, a little winded by the collision. ‘You shouldn’t run in school.’

  Quick as a flash Ted replied, ‘Mr Evans told us about t’Ten Commandments, Mr Sheffield, an’ it didn’t say anythin’ ’bout runnin’ in school.’

  He walked off at great speed and with a big smile on his face, as if he were in an Olympic time trial. ‘’Ave a good ’oliday, sir,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  I didn’t reprimand him for shouting. I guessed that wasn’t included in the Ten Commandments either.

  When I walked into the office Vera handed me the telephone receiver. ‘It’s Beth,’ she said in hushed tones and resumed tidying the private domain that was her four-drawer filing cabinet.

  ‘How’s it going?’ asked Beth. ‘Have you got the new furniture?’

  ‘Yes, it looks terrific.’

  ‘So, are you getting a bite to eat before the governors’ meeting?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll walk over to the Oak,’ I said, ‘although I feel like drowning my sorrows.’

  ‘Really? Why is that?’

  ‘You’ll never guess who is on the list of new governors.’

  There was a moment’s silence. ‘Not that dreadful man again?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘Oh dear – will he never go away?’

  ‘Well, wish me luck.’

  ‘Must go, Jack. I’ll be home in good time to give John his tea – so see you later tonight.’

  I wanted to say ‘Love you’, but Vera was at the other desk so I refrained.

  Joseph had called in to the office to check all was well for the meeting. ‘I’ll come back in good time,’ he said.

  ‘And the agenda is prepared,’ said Vera.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘It should be an interesting meeting.’

  ‘And we shall have Mr Coe to cope with once again,’ added Joseph.

  ‘I have the feeling he’s up to something,’ I said, ‘and, no doubt, it will be something to do with money.’

  ‘The love of money,’ quoted Vera, ‘the root of all evil.’

  ‘First Letter to Timothy, chapter six,’ murmured Joseph and Vera gave an imperceptible nod.

  It was six o’clock and the orange lights of The Royal Oak were a welcome sight as I walked out of school and across the village green. Sheila Bradshaw was behind the bar and gave me a cheery welcome. She was wearing a sparkly boob-tube that left little to the imagination and a black leather mini-skirt.

  ‘Evenin’, Mr Sheffield, what’s it t’be?’ I looked up at the Specials board. Tonight there was a choice of Chicken in a Basket, Corned Beef Hash or a Sheila Salad.

  ‘I’ve got a meeting in school, Sheila, so nothing too filling,’ I said.

  ‘Well, we’ve got a nice mushroom salad if y’want summat light.’

  ‘Thanks, that’s fine,’ I said. ‘A salad and better make it a soft drink.’

  Old Tommy Piercy, our local butcher, was in his usual seat at the bar next to the signed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott, or ‘Sir Geoffrey’ as Old Tommy called him.

  ‘A salad!’ he said. ‘What’s t’world comin’ to? Mark my words,’ he added prophetically, ‘man can’t live by veg alone.’

  There was a celebration going on behind me, and Little Malcolm and Dorothy were sitting on the bench seat under the dart board, flanked by Big Dave and Nellie and most of the Ragley Rovers football team.

  Sheila smiled as she served up my orange juice. ‘It’s a special night f’Dorothy,’ she confided. ‘She’s jus’ found out she’s pregnant.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said. ‘Put a couple of drinks behind the bar for them from me,’ and I handed over a ten-pound note.

  I walked over and shook Little Malcolm’s hand. ‘Congratulations to you both,’ I said.

  ‘Ah’m feeling ten feet tall, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. For our vertically challenged bin man, this clearly was something special.

  Big Dave had his arm around Little Malcolm’s shoulders and was whispering something in his ear. I didn’t know what it was, but Little Malcolm nodded to his giant cousin while I noticed Nellie looked a little wistful. Meanwhile, Dorothy was simply glowing.

  I sat alone eating my salad at the table in the bay window. On the juke-box Nick Berry was singing ‘Every Loser Wins’ and, as Little Malcolm smiled sheepishly up at his giant cousin, it seemed appropriate.

  The governors’ meeting took place in the staff-room and Vera, as the secretary, had placed an agenda on each chair. At seven o’clock Joseph welcomed everyone and said it was to be a short meeting, intended to welcome the new governors and confirm arrangements prior to the new school opening in January.

  ‘First of all, we welcome two new governors – Mrs Rebecca Parrish, as parent governor, and Mr Stan Coe from the Morton governing body.’

  Vera made a note in the book of governors’ minutes and sighed deeply.

  Ragley’s existing governing body was reappointed en bloc, along with Stan Coe as the only surviving member of the Morton governing body. All the other Morton governors had resigned.

  In contrast Mrs Parrish was a most welcome addition. She appeared relaxed and happy with her new life after a difficult time last January when she had separated from her husband, Simon, a lecturer at the University in York. His affair with one of his students had come to light and Mrs Parrish had acted swiftly. I recalled meeting the arrogant Simon Parrish, who had boasted to me of his 1985 ‘C’ Saab 900i with its distinctive cochineal-red metallic paintwork. Now it was simply £10,000 worth of motor car that meant nothing to him. Today he would have willingly given up all he owned to spend time with his talented daughter. The relationship with his former student was over; she had found a younger man and a less complicated lover. Rebecca Parrish had closed the door and was getting on with her life.

  Stan Coe said very little except he was pleased to be back supporting his local community once again. There were a few sceptical looks from Major Forbes-Kitchener as Stan gave a forced smile through nicotine-stained teeth.

  We discussed the arrangements for the official opening of the new school and confirmed that Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chairman of the Education Committee, would be the guest of honour. We also confirmed the allocation of the children into five classes instead of the present four.

  The meeting was about to close when Rebecca Parrish raised the issue of new homes in the area. ‘I did hear about some new executive homes being built further down the York Road.’

  ‘Yes, it was mentioned by our Primary Adviser, Mr Gomersall,’ I said. ‘There are a lot of computer programmers working at the chocolate factory in York and more in the Unilever offices on the Leeds northern ring road. They need homes, but they’re likely to be closer to York and not in our catchment area.’

  Vera looked across to Rupert, who took the hint. ‘I know there’s been talk of building in the village,’ he said.

  ‘I think it’s just gossip at present,’ said Anne, the teacher representative on the governing body. Up to then she had been very quiet. There was clearly something on her mind and it wasn’t anything to do with bricks and mortar.

  Meanwhile, Stan Coe shuffled in his seat, gave a wintry smile and said nothing.

  After the meeting closed everyone walked out to the car park and I stood in the entrance hall with Joseph and Vera.

  ‘Thanks for your support,’ I said.

  Vera watched our local pig farmer get into his Land Rover. ‘What is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul.’

  Joseph smiled grimly. ‘Mark chapter eight, verse thirty-six,’ he said quietly and they walked out into the darkness.

  I locked up the school and drove home.

 
; Under the vast purple sky over the plain of York and beneath a blizzard of stars, I reflected on their words.

  Stan Coe didn’t mind losing his soul if it meant that in the end he would win.

  Chapter Five

  The Last Firework

  The annual PTA bonfire on Saturday, 8 November raised £206.45 for school funds. Mr Marcus Potts, our newly appointed teacher, visited school today to work in his classroom and attend a staff meeting.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 10 November 1986

  It was an iron-grey morning. A reluctant light spread across the land and a cloak of mist shrouded the silent fields.

  I was listening to The Pretenders as I drove on the back road to Ragley. It was Monday, 10 November and even the church bells of St Mary’s sounded mournful as I pulled up on the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage. Liquid rainbows reflected in the pools of oil and rainwater as he ambled out to greet me.

  ‘How are you this morning, Victor?’ I asked, but without conviction. Victor usually had a medical problem and today was no exception.

  ‘Not good, Mr Sheffield,’ he replied, giving his ample backside a rub. ‘Ah’m off t’see Doctor Davenport again this mornin’.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sympathized.

  ‘Yes,’ said Victor mournfully, ‘ah’ve got them ’aemorrhoids an’ they’re a right pain in the neck.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ I said. It was clear he was suffering significant discomfort even though its location was open to interpretation.

  I paid him and he nodded in appreciation. ‘Good bonfire t’other night,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, the PTA always do a good job.’

  ‘And t’fireworks were t’best ah can recall,’ he added.

  ‘Spectacular,’ I agreed.

  ‘Mind you, our Nora said she thought t’guy looked a bit like Maggie Thatcher.’

  ‘Oh did she?’ I decided not to pursue the point, particularly as it was Sally, our ardent socialist, who had put the finishing touches to the traditional guy prior to its being seated on a broken chair on top of the bonfire. The straw hair and sharp cardboard nose certainly had the appearance of the Prime Minister. Also, I couldn’t imagine Guy Fawkes wearing a blue dress with a delicate bow at the neck.

  As I pulled away from the garage I noticed a green Citroën that I had never seen before in the village. It was parked on the other side of the road on a patch of gravel in front of the five-barred gate that led to Stan Coe’s farm. As I drove by I glanced in my rear-view mirror and caught sight of a tall man in a black raincoat.

  The High Street in Ragley was coming to life and a few figures emerged like wraiths in the mist. Heathcliffe Earnshaw had finished his paper round and Rodney Morgetroyd trundled by on his milk float. On the village green the Robinson cousins, Big Dave and Little Malcolm, were collecting old firework cases, rocket sticks and used sparklers as part of their annual clean-up operation. Both gave me a cheerful wave as I turned right at the top of the High Street and into school.

  Two days ago, on Saturday evening, the weather had been dry, cold and calm – a perfect evening for a bonfire. Hundreds of villagers had lined the fence at the back of the school to join in the celebrations. The Parent Teacher Association had provided the best chicken soup I had ever tasted, and John Grainger’s spectacular firework display had rounded off a successful evening. Sadly, Anne had left the event early saying she had a headache. The following morning the village had settled back into its usual routine, with our thoughts turning towards Christmas.

  When I pulled up in the car park next to Vera’s smart Austin Metro, a rusty red Mini was already parked there. It would have been a style icon in the 1960s, but now in the 1980s it had clearly seen better days.

  Suddenly, Ted ‘Postie’ Postlethwaite pulled up on his bicycle beside me.

  ‘Morning, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  Our postman was regular as clockwork, regardless of the weather. ‘I’ll take in the mail if you like, Ted,’ I offered.

  ‘Thanks,’ he replied and handed over a thick wedge of letters held together with a rubber band. ‘Have a good day, Mr Sheffield,’ he called out as he cycled away.

  I reflected on this sparky village character who never seemed to age. Ted lived in the flat above the Post Office with his new wife, the postmistress Amelia, following their low-key wedding in the summer. According to local gossip, they were blissfully happy in their world of parcels, letters, stamps and frequent sex.

  Ruby was in the entrance hall carrying a stack of paper towels when I walked in. ‘That new teacher ’as come to visit, Mr Sheffield,’ she informed me, ‘an’ Mrs F put ’im in t’staff-room … very p’lite young man.’

  ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Yes, he’s got the day off for a preliminary visit and to check out his new classroom.’

  ‘Well, ’e’ll do f’me,’ said Ruby with a note of approval and she wandered off to replenish the paper-towel dispensers in the children’s toilets.

  In the school office, Vera was talking to Mrs Jackson, mother of the twins Hermione and Honeysuckle. Pippa Jackson was also our newly appointed chair of the PTA and had called in with the grand sum of £206.45 raised at the bonfire evening.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Jackson,’ said Vera, ‘that’s exact to the penny,’ and she deposited the coins in her metal money box. ‘I’ll bank it later today.’ Mrs Jackson smiled and Vera looked up. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said brightly. ‘Mr Potts is in the staff-room and I’ve given him a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, ‘and thank you, Mrs Jackson, for all your support.’

  ‘A pleasure, Mr Sheffield, and please call me Pippa.’

  Vera frowned. This was a little too familiar for our straight-laced school secretary.

  ‘Well, yes, of course,’ I replied after a brief hesitation. I glanced across at Vera. ‘Perhaps in private conversation,’ I added and headed quickly for the staff-room.

  Marcus Potts was staring out of the window when I walked in. ‘Hello, Marcus,’ I said, ‘and welcome to Ragley. I’m so pleased you could make it.’

  ‘Thanks for the invitation. I’m looking forward to getting stuck in.’

  ‘I’m sure you’ll like your classroom. The new furniture has arrived and Ruby has removed all the protective wrapping and given the floor and windows a good clean. Also, the chalkboard and display boards have been fixed to the walls – so you’ve got a flying start.’

  He gave me a boyish grin from under his mop of black wavy hair. In a cord suit, denim shirt, old school tie and polished shoes, it was clear he had made an effort to smarten himself up. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It gives me a chance to settle in and make my mark. In fact, I was hoping to come in each week after school if I may to ensure I’m ready for January.’

  ‘Good idea.’ I was impressed by his commitment. ‘Let’s go, shall we?’

  We walked out to the playground, climbed the wooden steps and stopped outside the door of the temporary classroom. It was locked, and with great ceremony I gave him his own duplicate key. Vera had arranged for a spare one to be cut at Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and she had attached it to a large brass ring. On it was a cardboard luggage label with ‘MR POTTS’ written on it.

  Marcus stared at it as if it marked a profound moment in his life. ‘My own classroom,’ he murmured quietly. ‘May I?’

  I nodded and he unlocked it almost reverentially.

  We stood there and looked around. Ruby had made a good job of cleaning, while Anne and Pat had been in to arrange the furniture to leave space for a book corner, a wet area complete with plastic buckets, and a display table. It was a welcoming sight and he drank it all in. ‘Wonderful,’ he said. ‘Simply perfect.’

  He was thrilled and I was moved to see his reaction.

  Pat suddenly arrived carrying our BBC Micro computer. ‘Hi, Marcus. You said you would be bringing in some new software, so you might as well keep this here for the rest of the day. I’ve brou
ght a spare extension lead so you can set it up wherever it suits.’

  Marcus looked as though all his Christmases had come at once. It occurred to me that Pat and Marcus were the teachers of the future, and the new technology of the eighties was something they had both adopted with ease.

  ‘Thanks, Pat,’ he said. ‘I’ve got some software in the car, so I’ll load up the programs and we can check them out later.’ He looked across at me. ‘If that’s fine with you, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, by all means,’ I said. ‘Pat will appreciate the support.’ I didn’t mention that Anne and I had been left behind in terms of working with our computer, although we were trying hard.

  He looked around at the bare walls and empty display boards. ‘Well … perhaps I’ll begin by putting backing paper on the noticeboards, and I’ve got some terrific posters of the planets of the solar system.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare staple gun you can have,’ offered Pat and hurried off to her classroom.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Everything you need should be in the stock cupboard, but check with Vera regarding basic equipment for your desk, such as pens and pencils. In the meantime, see you later for morning assembly at ten fifteen.’

  I left him staring in admiration at his pristine new teacher’s desk.

  At the end of morning assembly, including a rousing rendition of ‘When a Knight Won His Spurs’ followed by the Lord’s Prayer, I invited Marcus to stand up and tell the children something about himself. He was relaxed as he recounted his early life in Cambridge, where he went to school and university, along with his interests in computers, insects, cycling, classical music and amateur dramatics. I saw the reaction from the teachers as well as the children. It was clear we had appointed a remarkable young man.

  Unwittingly, he asked the children if they had any questions and many hands shot up.

  ‘’Ow old are you, sir?’ asked Sigourney Longbottom.

  Marcus smiled. ‘I’m twenty-three.’

  ‘Are you married, sir?’ asked Julie Tricklebank.