Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he replied cautiously, ‘but perhaps one day …’

  ‘An’ d’you like spiders, sir?’ Charlie Cartwright wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, I like all sorts of creepy-crawlies.’

  ‘An’ would y’like to ’ear me whistle?’ added Ted Coggins for good measure.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ said Marcus, ‘on the playground.’

  Good answer, I thought.

  Marcus took all the questions in good spirit and rounded it off by saying how much he was looking forward to coming to Ragley.

  During morning break I telephoned home. Beth’s parents, John and Diane Henderson, had come up from Hampshire to stay for a few days during the half-term holiday and had joined us for the school bonfire. However, as usual, there were occasional tensions. Diane seemed to want to ‘control’ her daughters – Beth here in Yorkshire and her younger sister, Laura, apparently enjoying life in Australia. In many ways she was reminiscent of Maggie Smith’s portrayal of Charlotte Bartlett, the conventionally English chaperone from E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View. Beth had reacted, and it was one of the key reasons that, last year, she had rejected the opportunity to secure a headship in Hampshire. The thought of her mother on the doorstep each day was not something she wished to endure.

  Conversely, John, a tall, weather-beaten sixty-three-year-old, was much more laid back and I always felt relaxed in his presence. He was never happier than when he was playing with John William or busy with his voluntary work rebuilding steam engines on the Watercress Line near their home. In complete contrast to Diane, he was always supportive, and we had formed a positive bond over the years. I saw him more as a friend than a father-in-law.

  It was John who answered the telephone and reassured me that all was well. Apparently, he had purchased a large wooden train from the Habitat catalogue.

  ‘A bargain, Jack, at ten ninety-nine,’ he said, ‘and young John is really enjoying himself. I think we may have another train enthusiast here.’

  I smiled. That would certainly please my train-buff father-in-law. ‘I may be late home, John,’ I said. ‘The new teacher has arrived and I wanted to spend a little time with him after school.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ he said. ‘See you later.’

  In the background I heard my son chanting, ‘Choo-choo,’ before I replaced the receiver.

  It was shortly before lunchtime when Stuart Ormroyd glanced up from his spelling test and announced, ‘Major’s ’ere, Mr Sheffield.’

  The test comprised a list of spellings beginning with the letter ‘A’ and all the children were trying hard.

  ‘In ’is big posh Bentley,’ added my best reader, Michelle Gawthorpe, who had a column of perfect answers including ‘action’, ‘anoint’, ‘appliance’ and ‘awkward’.

  A familiar large, shiny, chauffeur-driven classic black Bentley purred into the car park and parked with precision. Rupert, in a three-piece tweed suit, strode into school and knocked gently on the office door.

  ‘Vera, my dear,’ he said with a smile, ‘I do hope I’m not disturbing you.’

  Vera looked up from her desk and smiled. ‘An unexpected pleasure,’ she replied.

  ‘I came in to meet Mr Potts,’ he said. ‘I thought it was important we made the young man welcome.’

  ‘How thoughtful, Rupert.’

  He looked around the office at Vera’s desk with the photograph of her three cats; the well-organized noticeboard and school timetable; the calendar of term dates and the carefully labelled filing cabinet. Finally he looked back at Vera. ‘I was wondering, my dear, if you have had further thoughts about … retirement?’

  Vera looked out of the window to where the children were playing on the school field, happy in their secure world of simple games and fleeting friendships.

  ‘Yes, Rupert,’ she said quietly, ‘I think about it frequently and I shall know when the time is right. However, for now, there is much to do and I’m needed here.’

  Rupert nodded and remained silent. He would bide his time.

  At lunchtime in the staff-room Sally was reading her November issue of Cosmopolitan magazine and smiled approvingly at the article ‘Fatness is not a problem – other people’s attitudes are’.

  I am a large lady, she thought … in fact, Rubenesque is the graceful way of putting it. However, she was eyeing the tin of custard creams when the Major walked in with Marcus and Rupert began to question him as if he were seeking to attend officer-training school. Fortunately Marcus was not overawed.

  On the playground seven-year-old Billy Ricketts was in conversation with Scott Higginbottom. ‘My dad uses t’f-word,’ said Billy.

  Scott looked puzzled. ‘So does mine,’ he said. ‘What does it mean?’

  Billy considered this for a moment and shook his head. ‘Dunno … but ah thinks it’s summat t’do wi’ sex an’ y’say it t’people y’don’t like.’

  Scott surveyed the playground. ‘Dallas Earnshaw said you were smelly this morning.’

  Billy frowned. ‘Well, let’s go say it to ’er,’ and they ran off.

  Up the High Street in Nora’s Coffee Shop, Dorothy was reading her latest Smash Hits magazine. Her pregnancy had captured the imagination of the village and Little Malcolm felt he had achieved new status. He really did feel he was walking tall.

  Dorothy was studying a picture of her secret heart-throb, Shakin’ Stevens. His new record, ‘Because I Love You’, was causing some excitement as each copy included a ‘genuine autograph’. Nora was looking over Dorothy’s shoulder. The front cover photograph of Ade Edmondson brandishing a chainsaw did little for Nora, but Dorothy was engrossed.

  Drooling over pictures of Bon Jovi, Duran Duran, along with Spandau Ballet on their tour of Holland, had occupied a few minutes between customers for Dorothy. She held up the centre-page spread of Prince for Nora to admire.

  ‘What d’you think, Nora?’

  ‘Who is it?’ asked Nora.

  ‘It’s Prince.’

  ‘Pwince?’ queried Nora, who had never been able to pronounce the letter ‘R’.

  ‘Yes, don’t y’think ’e looks smart?’

  Prince was wearing a bright yellow suit with white buttons and what looked suspiciously like lip gloss. Nora studied the photograph. ‘Well, Dowothy, ah can’t see my Tywone in a suit like that.’

  Dorothy had to agree. The thought of Tyrone Crabtree, Nora’s boyfriend, looking like a giant banana in a yellow suit was a step too far.

  Diana Ross’s ‘Chain Reaction’ was playing on the juke-box when Big Dave and Little Malcolm walked in.

  ‘Ah’ll get ’em in, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm confidently and, while Big Dave sat at their usual table, Little Malcolm approached the love of his life. He noticed that Dorothy’s peroxide-blonde hair seemed to have taken on a life of its own and spiralled upwards in a mass of eccentric waves and curls.

  ‘Yer ’air looks nice, Dorothy,’ he said, thinking back to Big Dave’s suggestions on how to please women.

  ‘Oooh thank you, Malcolm,’ replied Dorothy. Then she pursed her lips and looked thoughtful, and Little Malcolm wondered what was coming next. ‘Problem is,’ she continued, ‘ah couldn’t mek up m’mind whether t’go for a proper glossy ’old wi’ m’Shock Waves Wet Gel or go for a bit more lift wi’ m’Super Firm Gel.’

  Little Malcolm hadn’t realized the world of hairdressing threw up so many problems. Momentarily it crossed his mind that it would be preferable to have a son and not a daughter. Dorothy loaded up a tray and served them with two pork pies and two large mugs of sweet tea.

  It was then that a young teenager in a polo-neck jumper and a pair of scruffy jeans walked in and stared at the pile of rock buns in the cabinet.

  ‘Ah’ll ’ave one o’ them,’ he said bluntly, ‘an’ a coffee.’

  He took out a fifty-pence piece and slapped it on the counter.

  Nora hated bad manners. ‘That’s not vewy p’lite,’ she said.

  Dorothy arrived behind the co
unter. ‘Y’should say please.’

  ‘An’ ah’m in a ’urry,’ retorted the boy, pushing back his long black unkempt hair.

  ‘Y’bein’ wude,’ said Nora.

  ‘An’ shouldn’t you be in school?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Ah’ve no lessons this afternoon,’ he said defensively, ‘so can ah ’ave m’coffee … please?’

  Both Big Dave and Little Malcolm heard the conversation. ‘Be’ave y’self,’ growled Big Dave.

  ‘An’ say y’sorry,’ added Little Malcolm.

  ‘Sorry,’ mumbled the boy without conviction.

  Finally, as he walked out he flashed a V-sign to the two bin men and ran off down School View.

  ‘Who were that?’ said Big Dave.

  ‘It’s young Dean, Mrs Skinner’s son,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘They moved into one o’ them farm cottages round back o’ Morton Road. We do their bins.’

  Across the road, Dean lit up a cigarette, sat on a wall and looked aimlessly around. Then he felt in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulled out a firework. It was his last one and he had saved it following last Saturday’s Bonfire Night. After all, he thought, a spare firework could always come in handy.

  When the bell rang for afternoon break I called in to see Marcus in his classroom.

  ‘I’ve brought you a mug of tea and some biscuits,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. I’m just loading up the computer with some of the educational software I’ve brought in.’

  ‘And here are the up-to-date class lists for next January when we move to five classes.’

  I handed over the lists and looked around the classroom. It was impressive. Stimulating posters covered the display boards and the beginnings of a book corner had emerged. I left him in there checking the list of new pupils who were to arrive next term from Morton School and learning their names.

  We finished the day with a brief staff meeting and Vera served tea. We began by welcoming Marcus to the team and he thanked everyone for their support. Sally took the lead on the next item.

  ‘The retirement home has got back to us,’ she said, ‘and confirmed arrangements for our visit there on Saturday morning, twentieth December. It’s when the school choir will be singing Christmas carols.’

  Vera read out a letter from Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chair of the Education Committee in Northallerton, confirming she had accepted the invitation to attend the official opening of the newly amalgamated school on the first day of the spring term. She added that she would be accompanied by her assistant, Miss Cleverley.

  Anne outlined a few ideas for the Christmas party on Friday, 19 December, the last day of term, and Pat enthused about the success of our netball team. It was a relaxed beginning to the new half-term.

  As everyone drifted back to their classrooms to do some final tidying up, I settled down to some paperwork. Marcus said he would be working in his classroom so we agreed to meet later. Gradually the staff went home, Ruby swept all the classrooms and I battled with a questionnaire from County Hall concerning ‘Health & Safety in the Workplace’. It occurred to me that if we followed all the recommendations we would never go on another school trip or permit children to play any of our team sports.

  An hour later the temperature dropped as the old school boiler rumbled to a halt. Suddenly it was chilly in the office and the windows began to rattle as the wind moaned through the cracks in the wooden casements.

  I had just written in the school logbook, ‘Mr Marcus Potts, our newly appointed teacher, visited school today to work in his classroom and attend a staff meeting’ when the church clock up the Morton Road chimed six. It was time for some refreshment, so I locked up the school and collected Marcus from his classroom. We crunched over the fallen leaves on the village green towards The Royal Oak. Across the road, Ted Postlethwaite was at the front door of the Post Office and gave us a wave as we walked in. The warmth was a blessing.

  At a corner table in the lounge bar, Claire Bradshaw, the landlord’s daughter, and Anita Cuthbertson, two twenty-year-olds who had been in my class when I first arrived in Ragley, were sipping orange juice and smoking cigarettes.

  ‘’Ello, sir,’ said Claire while Anita eyed up Marcus.

  I noticed that Anita had adopted a Gothic look. The ensemble comprised long, back-combed hair, pale skin, dark eye shadow and lipstick, black nail varnish and a spiked dog collar. It was perhaps a blessing that her long black gabardine raincoat covered her leather corset. She had left behind dreams of a night of passion with Shakin’ Stevens and discovered new interests in Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Cure and The Cult.

  Meanwhile, Claire had purchased The Smash Hits Yearbook 1987 for only £2.95 and, for these two young women, life seemed complete.

  Anita was studying a Phaze advertisement for a pair of so-called bondage trousers in black or tartan, complete with zips and D-rings. With no change out of £20 it was a significant purchase, but for Anita image was everything and Claire let her cut out page 86.

  At the bar Sheila Bradshaw came to serve us and I saw Marcus react when he witnessed North Yorkshire’s finest cleavage. Perhaps I should have warned him.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Sheila, simultaneously fluttering her false eyelashes at Marcus.

  ‘Just a half of Chestnut for me, please, Sheila. We’re not staying long.’

  ‘And the same for me, please,’ added Marcus.

  ‘This is our new teacher, Mr Potts,’ I said. ‘He starts next January.’

  ‘Pleased t’meet you,’ said Sheila. She leaned forward provocatively. ‘An’ ah ’ope you’ll come back t’try one o’ my Specials.’

  Marcus blushed slightly, but to his credit retained his composure.

  I pointed up to the Specials board. ‘Sheila does some lovely food, Marcus,’ I explained.

  We took our drinks to a table by the bay window and relaxed while the regulars drifted in. Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom arrived at the bar with two of his sons, Shane and Clint.

  Clint was wearing a baggy, slouch-shouldered, red leather jacket with puffy sleeves, black leather pants and sunglasses. In contrast, Shane was still part of punk subculture with ripped jeans, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket decorated with safety pins. The letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand caught the eye as he lifted his tankard, and they took their drinks to a battered table in the tap room and lit up their cigarettes.

  Sheila reached up to remove Deke’s tankard from the shelf above the bar while Deke nodded towards his sons. ‘’E’s a good lad, is our Clint,’ he said quietly in Sheila’s ear. ‘’E can’t ’elp bein’ a big girl’s blouse.’

  Sheila merely shook her head as she pulled Deke’s pint of Tetley’s bitter. She knew that in the singing cowboy’s world this was as close as he could get to accepting Clint’s sexuality.

  Marcus and I chatted amicably about school and life in general. We finished our drinks and stood up to leave.

  It was then that it happened.

  Ted Postlethwaite suddenly burst in, rushed up to the bar and looked frantically around. ‘FIRE!’ he shouted. ‘FIRE!’

  Everyone stared at Ted and put down their tankards.

  He looked across to the bay window and saw me. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ he yelled, ‘come quick!’

  I hurried towards him. ‘What is it, Ted?’

  ‘A fire at t’school … it’s that new classroom … it’s going up in flames!’

  Chapter Six

  Judgement Day

  The headteacher attended the magistrates’ court in York during afternoon school to give evidence concerning the fire that damaged the temporary classroom. Miss Flint provided supply cover.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 5 December 1986

  It was Friday, 5 December and the first snow of winter had fallen. A world of silence awaited me as I looked out of the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage. The distant land was covered in a white shroud that curved gracefully across
the ploughed fields and muted the sounds of the countryside. I could only hope that Deke Ramsbottom would clear the back road to Ragley before I set off. Ahead of me was a difficult journey.

  Also, later in the day, my first visit to the local magistrates’ court in York was in store. It was judgement day for Dean Skinner and I wondered what the outcome would be.

  In Bilbo Cottage Beth had risen early and was sitting at the kitchen table completing some notes for her Christmas concert. It was the day of her reception class Nativity play and Beth was keen that all the preparations would go smoothly.

  When I came downstairs with John it was just after 6.15 a.m. and on the small portable television on the worktop Anne Diamond and Geoff Meade had introduced Good Morning Britain. They were cranking up the excitement towards Christmas, while Wincey Willis tended to dampen our enthusiasm with a freezing weather forecast.

  Beth was too preoccupied to join in with the opportunity to ‘shape up with Lizzie Webb’, preferring to check the dates for her forthcoming meetings with the governing body and the PTA. I turned down the volume and gave our hungry son a bowl of porridge topped with sliced banana. Somehow John managed to get most of it over his face as he watched Popeye the Sailorman eating his spinach on the morning cartoon. As I was wearing my best suit, I kept my distance. I had learned from bitter experience – our lively son had been known to hit the far wall of the kitchen with a handful of mushy peas.

  Mrs Roberts arrived and Beth and I left for work. The journey to Ragley on the winding country road was slow and arduous in spite of Deke’s snow plough clearing the worst of the drifts. Far beyond the frozen hedgerows the high moors loomed ominously with the threat of more snow, while the chattering sound of grouse crying ‘go-back, go back’ was a warning. On my car radio the number-one record, Europe’s ‘The Final Countdown’, seemed prophetic. I pulled up outside the General Stores and the bell rang as I walked in.

  Mrs Ricketts was in front of me in the queue. She had bought a packet of cigarettes, an aniseed-flavoured Black Jack for her daughter, Suzi-Quatro, and a Daily Express for 20p. It was while she was admiring a photograph of Sarah Ferguson under the headline ‘Fergie Meets Santa’ that Suzi-Quatro announced, ‘Santa’s comin’ to our ’ouse, Miss Golightly.’