Happiest Days

by Jack Sheffield

  He looked up, tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘Doctor said she’ll be all right.’ Nora burst into tears and walked away, while Tyrone tried to comfort her.

  ‘Can we see ’er?’ asked Nellie.

  Little Malcolm shook his head. ‘She’s sleepin’ now … an’ she looks beautiful.’

  Big Dave, too upset to speak, wrapped his cousin in a giant embrace and held him tight.

  We sat there, uncertain what to do next. Eventually, the doctor came out to speak to us all and said that Dorothy needed rest. He advised us to go home but would understand if Malcolm wanted to stay and there was a comfortable private room nearby.

  ‘You go ’ome now, Nora,’ said Nellie. ‘Y’can’t do owt ’ere. Get some rest.’

  Tyrone held Nora’s hand. ‘Nellie’s right,’ he said softly.

  ‘You too, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nellie, ‘an’ thanks for ’elping.’

  ‘What about you?’ I asked. ‘Shall I take you home?’

  Nellie looked back at her husband trying to comfort his cousin. ‘There’s no way Dave’ll leave Malcolm now. ’E’ll sit wi’ ’im as long as it teks an’ ah’ll stay an’ look after ’em.’

  Nellie was gradually taking charge and I admired this tough lady for her resilience and clear thinking.

  I followed Nora and Tyrone down the corridor and paused to look back. Little Malcolm stood there with Big Dave’s arm around his shoulders while Nellie spoke to them both in hushed tones. The diminutive bin man was in despair, lost in an eternal sorrow within the shelter of his grief. Ahead of him was a black night of broken dreams while the cracked bones of his spirit cried out without hope. For this tough Yorkshireman there was only a closed door and a chilling heartache while he waited for his sleeping wife to awake.

  As I drove home I thought about the enormity of what I had just witnessed and my chest felt tight with the depth of sorrow. It was a silent, lonely journey, while above me the tattered shreds of cirrus clouds dimmed the light of a gibbous moon.

  It was then I realized … a new year had dawned.

  Chapter Nine

  Footprints in the Snow

  School reopened today for the spring term with 133 children on roll. The official amalgamation of Ragley and Morton schools began today with the arrival of 28 children from Morton. Mr Marcus Potts began his appointment as full-time teacher with responsibility for Class 3 in the temporary classroom.

  Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:

  Monday, 5 January 1987

  It was a dark winter morning when I set off for the first day of term and a heavy snowfall during the night made for a difficult journey. It was Monday, 5 January and the land was silent and still while the creatures of the countryside sought refuge. I called in at the General Stores and even the bell above the door sounded muted as I walked in. It appeared the village had been in mourning since the news of Dorothy losing her baby.

  ‘A sad start to the New Year, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence. ‘I pray that Dorothy will recover.’

  ‘It will certainly take time,’ I said.

  ‘Well, she’s a strong young woman … and she has a loving husband,’ Prudence added wistfully.

  I could barely imagine the effect this would have had on Little Malcolm. He worshipped Dorothy.

  ‘Something for the staff-room, Mr Sheffield?’ enquired Prudence. ‘Reduced after Christmas.’ She took a box of Sarah Bernhardt Butter Cream & Fondant Fancies from behind the jars of Seven Seas Castor Oil on the shelf at the back of her and placed it on the counter. ‘These for a treat and perhaps … a packet of Brontë Biscuits.’ She lowered her voice, ‘A gift for your staff.’

  ‘That’s very kind, thank you, Prudence,’ I said. ‘They will be appreciated.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ replied Prudence, ‘and a Happy New Year.’

  ‘And to you too – and Jeremy, of course.’

  It was very early and I expected I would be the first member of staff to arrive. The newcomers from Morton were due to attend for their first full day at Ragley, along with our new teacher, Marcus Potts.

  I paused for a moment to take in the sight. The playground had a new covering of fresh snow, and frost coated the fleurs-de-lis on top of the metal railings. The clock tower looked frozen in time and the new temporary classroom blended in with its blanket of whiteness. In the hedgerow blood-red berries were bright against the snow.

  Meanwhile, a bitter malevolent wind cut through my duffel coat and I shivered as I picked up my old leather satchel, locked my car and set off towards the school entrance. It was then that I spotted them … footprints in the snow. Someone had arrived even earlier and headed towards the old cycle shed.

  I set off to investigate.

  A short, stocky ten-year-old boy in blue jeans, thick woollen jumper and an old green anorak was leaning against the wall. He had straight black hair with a severe fringe and an engaging smile.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said. I guessed he was the boy who had not attended the preliminary visit but had called in very briefly with his mother after school one evening. They had spoken with Anne. ‘It’s George, isn’t it? You’re coming into my class.’

  He looked up sharply. ‘Yes, sir … George Frith from Morton.’

  ‘Do you know me?’ I asked with an encouraging smile. ‘I’m Mr Sheffield, your new headteacher.’

  He considered me for a moment. ‘What ’appened to t’other one, sir – that Mr Timmings from Morton?’

  ‘He moved to another school.’

  George considered this and nodded. He blew on his hands, which looked blue with cold.

  ‘In weather like this pupils can go into school before nine o’clock so long as there’s a member of staff there,’ I explained. ‘Then you can sit in the library if you wish. It’s warm in there.’

  He stared at the school entrance, where Ruby had appeared with a broom and a carton of Saxa salt. ‘Ah like lib’ries, sir, but ah wouldn’t want t’go in … y’know, wi’ not knowin’ no one.’

  I changed tack. ‘Why have you come to school so early, George?’

  ‘’Cause ah never knew m’dad an’ m’mam works the early shift, sir, at t’chocolate factory. We leave ’ome before eight an’ she drops me off. At Morton ah allus ’ad t’wait outside. Caretaker didn’t like me.’

  A sharp gust blew a flurry of snow into the cycle shed and it settled around his heavy brown boots.

  ‘Let’s go into school,’ I said, ‘and you can help me with a job.’

  Although his teeth were chattering, he managed a smile and we walked into the library. ‘George, I’d like you to select six books that you think would be good to read and we’ll take them into our classroom.’

  He set to eagerly. ‘OK, sir.’

  I paused before going into the school office. ‘Who are your friends?’ I asked.

  For the first time his infectious smile disappeared. ‘Ain’t got none, sir,’ he said, ‘’cause at Morton there were no other boys my age – jus’ girls.’

  It was my turn to smile. I hung up my coat and scarf and walked into the school hall to prepare for morning assembly. I left the double doors open so I could keep an eye on him.

  A few minutes later the car park was filled with new arrivals. Vera parked in her usual place and headed briskly for the school office. Pat Brookside skidded to a halt next to my Morris Minor Traveller, at the same time as Marcus Potts chugged slowly towards the space next to the cycle shed in his little red Mini. Sally had collected Anne en route and they were both unloading a collection of posters.

  Vera had started work in the school office and looked up with a smile when I walked in. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘and a Happy New Year.’

  ‘And to you, Vera. It promises to be eventful.’

  Telephone calls had already been coming in. Vera looked down at her spiral-bound notepad. ‘Miss Barrington-Huntley called to say she couldn’t get out of her driveway this morning and sends her apologies and best wishes. She s
aid Miss Cleverley may call in later in the week.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said. I would have preferred Miss Barrington-Huntley, I thought.

  Vera opened the new register for Class 5. ‘The boy in the library – that’s George Frith, isn’t it? He’s one of your new pupils in the top class.’

  ‘Yes, he seems a little subdued at present but I’m hoping he will make new friends.’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye open, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘You always have done,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure you always will.’

  Vera looked at me thoughtfully as if searching for a hidden message. ‘Thank you,’ she said simply and returned to her registers.

  ‘Well, I’m off to see how Marcus is getting on.’

  Vera held up a pair of pristine registers. ‘I’ve prepared these for the new Class 3 and I’ve entered the children’s names in alphabetical order. It’s important Mr Potts gets off to a good start.’

  Vera’s immaculate copperplate writing was distinctive.

  ‘Thanks Vera,’ I said, ‘and good luck today. No doubt there will be a few queries from the new parents.’

  Vera merely smiled. Nothing could faze our reliable secretary. She had seen it all before.

  I walked out to the temporary classroom. Between Christmas and New Year, a team of builders had created a substantial wooden structure providing cover from the steps outside the temporary classroom to the main building. It was reassuring that the steps would be kept safe and dry in all weathers. When I opened the door to our new building I saw that Marcus had labelled the coat pegs with the names of all the children in his care. He had also transformed his classroom. There were bright and inviting displays against the back wall and he had created an attractive reading corner and a science table filled with activities and reference books.

  ‘Splendid, Marcus,’ I said. ‘Your classroom looks terrific.’

  He smiled and looked around him; it was a job well done. ‘I just wanted to create lots of interest for the children.’ He picked up a glass prism from the science display and turned it carefully in his hands to produce a kaleidoscope of colours on a white sheet of cardboard. ‘You know,’ he added with a grin, ‘plenty of awe and wonder.’

  ‘You’ve certainly achieved that,’ I said as I looked around, ‘and we finished up with a far superior temporary classroom.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said wistfully, ‘in a strange way perhaps the fire did us a favour.’

  I reflected on my conversation with Dean Skinner’s stepfather about his weekly payments. ‘Perhaps,’ I said. ‘Anyway, here are your registers from Vera, and if you need anything, please ask.’

  He gave me a slightly nervous smile and placed the registers on his desk next to two pens, one red and one black, plus his dinner-money tin.

  All seemed to be well, so I walked back to the hall where Sally and Pat were making preparations for morning assembly. Owing to the influx of new children, we had decided to have an extended morning assembly at ten o’clock to integrate the newcomers as quickly as possible.

  ‘Morning, Jack,’ said Sally. ‘I’m hoping to find a few more children for my choir and recorder group this morning.’

  Pat glanced out of the window towards our new Class 3. ‘How’s Marcus?’ she asked. ‘I called in and he’s worked wonders with his classroom.’

  I returned to the entrance hall, where Ruby had washed down the children’s toilets and was putting away her mop and galvanized bucket.

  ‘Thanks for all your work, Ruby,’ I said. ‘The school looks really clean and tidy.’

  ‘An’ ah gave Mr Potts’s classroom a proper polish, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, her faced flushed with exertion. ‘An’ that nice safety officer from County ’All, ’im who’s a bit boss-eyed wi’ a gammy leg, called in yesterday an’ fitted a fire distinguisher in t’entrance to ’is classroom.’

  I recalled the genial Mr Harry Nettles, who coped well with the setbacks in his life. ‘That’s good to hear.’

  Ruby nodded towards the office door. ‘An’ ah’ve got a couple more ’ours each week f’me to cover m’extra cleaning.’

  At 8.45 a.m. William Featherstone’s Reliance coach pulled up outside the school gate and eighteen children hurried excitedly up the cobbled drive. The remaining pupils from Morton had chosen to arrive by car or on foot. First up the drive was Mrs Nobbs, wife of the Morton baker, with her seven-year-old identical twin boys, Benjamin and Edward.

  Anne had the majority of the new children in her class and a group of parents had arrived early to discuss arrangements with her.

  ‘Yes, please come into the classroom at the end of school to collect your children,’ said Anne. ‘It’s important I can link the children to their parents so they always leave our classroom in safety.’

  Anne was her usual professional self and completely at ease with the new situation. Some of the parents appeared anxious, but calmed down quickly when Anne put their minds at rest.

  One parent who seemed particularly concerned was Mrs Stansfield. She crouched down next to her five-year-old daughter, Jacqui, and stroked her dark brown pigtails. ‘Now, Jacqui,’ she said quietly and held up a clean white handkerchief, ‘this is y’special ’anky, so remember what we said ’bout wavin’ t’me at playtime if you’re all right an’ ’appy, ’cause ah need t’know. I’ll be across the road in the bedroom window at your Aunty Jean’s.’

  In the centre of the handkerchief she had stitched a rectangle of material that she had cut from Jacqui’s comfort blanket.

  ‘So, don’t forget,’ she said. ‘When y’see me waving ah want you t’wave back with this ’anky. Will you remember?’

  ‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Jacqui, who, unlike her mother, was feeling quite relaxed and excited at the sight of her new classroom. There seemed to be lots of interesting things to do. She was looking forward to playing in the Home Corner. She had spotted an ironing board and a model cooker with an assortment of pots and pans.

  Mrs Stansfield gave her a big hug and, with tears streaming down her face, the anxious parent hurried out into the snow. As soon as she had gone, the confident and inquisitive Jacqui ran into the Home Corner, put a pan on the stove and began to stir some make-believe soup with a plastic spoon. Another five-year-old, Zach Eccles, joined her and, within one minute of her mother’s departure, Jacqui had a new friend and the beginnings of an imaginary three-course meal.

  When I returned to the office Vera was busy with a new parent who appeared very agitated.

  ‘This is Mrs Nobbs, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, looking up from her admissions register. ‘Her sons Benjamin and Edward will be going into Mr Potts’s class.’

  ‘I’ve brought some spare clothing for Ben,’ explained Mrs Nobbs. ‘’E’s the one wi’ red socks, ’is brother ’as blue ones.’ I saw Vera make a note. ‘Y’see our Ben ’as this ’ffliction.’

  ‘Fliction?’ I queried.

  ‘I think Mrs Nobbs is referring to an affliction, Mr Sheffield,’ interpreted Vera.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, ‘and what is that?’

  ‘Well, ’e teks after me.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘’E does that.’

  Vera was keen to get to the point. ‘What exactly is this affliction?’

  Mrs Nobbs took a deep breath and flushed to the tips of her ears. ‘’E wets himself when ’e gets nervous.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m sure we’ll manage and perhaps you will be able to call in at the end of school and we’ll see how Benjamin has coped.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘I’m sure all will be well,’ I reassured her as I got up to open the office door.

  ‘There is one more thing, that is if you don’t mind,’ said Mrs Nobbs, hopping from one foot to the other.

  ‘Yes?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Can ah use y’toilet afore ah go?’

  After pointing out the visitors’ toilet, I walked out to the entrance hall where two ten-year-olds in my class, the libr
ary monitors Claire Buttershaw and Michelle Gawthorpe, were looking concerned.

  ‘Sir, there’s a new boy in our library,’ reported Claire.

  ‘And he’s collecting a pile of books,’ added Michelle.

  ‘Yes, I told him to do that,’ I said. ‘So go and introduce yourselves and make him feel welcome. His name is George and he’s coming into our class.’

  Both girls nodded politely but without conviction. They were good-hearted girls, but for them boys were a strange and distant species.

  ‘Show him where to hang his coat and then bring him into class. Then you can help him display the books he has selected in our book corner.’

  The two girls gave me glassy-eyed smiles and hurried back to the library with gritted teeth.

  After the bell rang for the start of school I made a point of ensuring the new pupils settled in. I gave a talk about making friends and helping the arrivals from Morton, not just in our class but throughout the school. I had placed George Frith next to Barry Stonehouse and asked them to take charge of our class book corner. ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Barry, ‘an’ don’t worry, ah’ll look after George.’

  Many years have passed since that day long ago, but friendships often start with small steps and a lifetime of companionship had already begun. It was unknown to me then but, eight years later, the two boys were also destined to play rugby together for Yorkshire Schoolboys. However, on that freezing-cold January morning, they were simply two ten-year-olds who by chance shared a desk along with an interest in Grange Hill, Masters of the Universe and library books.

  It soon became apparent that we had to get used to children from the temporary classroom having to walk into the main building to use the toilets.

  At 9.45 a.m. I spotted Ben Nobbs hurrying down the steps towards the main school, so I popped my head round the classroom door. ‘Are you all right, Ben?’ I asked.

  Ben looked up at me nervously. ‘Jus’ goin’ to t’toilet, sir,’ he said.

  ‘That’s fine, Ben.’

  At least he knows the way, I thought.

  At ten o’clock our morning assembly was a relaxed occasion and lacked the usual formality. We took the opportunity to introduce the teachers, plus Vera and Ruby along with Shirley and Doreen from the kitchen. Sally led us in a couple of songs on her guitar and we asked the older children to keep an eye on the younger ones during playtime.