“Don’t worry, Jack, I’ve arranged for Vera to type up both the headmaster’s report and the Chairman’s report over the weekend,” said Joseph. “Perhaps you could drop it in to her at the vicarage tomorrow on your way home.”
Ruby was her usual bustling, helpful self when I asked for her stock list.
“I’ll do it tomorrow afternoon when they’re out at football an’ the ‘ouse is quiet, Mr Sheffield,” she said. “Just call by when it suits.”
On Saturday morning, I travelled into York market earlier than usual and did my shopping for the week. It was a bright, clear, late autumn day and the Minster looked magnificent against a cold, blue sky. As usual, I bumped into someone I knew. In amongst the Christmas shoppers and tourists, Mr Miles-Humphreys and his wife were suddenly alongside me as I looked in the shop windows of Goodramgate. I hadn’t met his wife before but I knew her by reputation as one of the leading lights of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society.
“This is m-my w-w-w – ” stuttered Mr Miles-Humphreys.
“He’s trying to tell you I’m his wife, Felicity,” said Mrs Miles-Humphreys with a disparaging shake of her wiry, jet-black dyed hair.
Felicity Miles-Humphreys, with expansive theatrical gestures and a loud town crier voice, informed me and most of the shoppers around that she was en route to York Station to be an extra in the film Agatha starring Dustin Hoffman and Vanessa Redgrave. She had been booked to wander up and down the platform in period costume for the princely sum of eight pounds. The stuttering Mr Miles-Humphreys tried manfully to bid me goodbye but the forceful Felicity could not wait that long and they disappeared into the crowds.
I looked at my watch. A gentle walk by the river was an inviting prospect but time was pressing so I strolled back to Lord Mayor’s Walk where my car was parked. Above me, to my left, a party of tourists hurried along the city walls. Behind them a couple wandered slowly. One of them was Beth Henderson, her distinctive blond hair blowing in the wind. Alongside her, a tall, handsome, fair-haired man smiled down at her. I thought of waving but decided not to and felt a sudden pang of disappointment as I climbed into my car and drove quickly back to Kirkby Steepleton.
After unpacking the groceries I attempted to tidy my tiny kitchen but my mind was elsewhere. I wondered if I had missed my chance with Beth Henderson. After a few minutes, I still seemed to have as many pots and pans in boxes on the floor as when I started so I gave it up as a bad job.
By midday I was back in school. I filled my fountain pen and started writing.
It occurred to me that this was yet another aspect of the job for which I had not been trained, but John Pruett’s careful and accurate reports proved an excellent template. By mid afternoon I was hungry so I purchased a packet of crisps from Claire Bradshaw’s tuck shop box and made a coffee. As I relaxed with my feet up, I tuned in the staff-room radio and Paul McCartney’s ‘Mull of Kintyre’ droned in the background.
The newsreader cut in to give the latest news on the firemen’s strike. He said they wanted a 30 per cent pay rise but Mr Callaghan, the Prime Minister, had confirmed he would not budge beyond 10 per cent. In the meantime, an emergency crew had been called out in their Green Goddess to tackle a blazing Ford Cortina taxi in the middle of York.
When David Soul’s recent number-one hit, ‘Silver Lady’, came on, the telephone rang and made me jump. It was Anne Grainger.
“Hello, Jack, how’s it going? I wondered if you wanted to call in for a bite to eat when you’ve finished,” she said.
“Thanks, Anne, I’d love to,” I replied.
“Who’s that singing on the radio?” said Anne suddenly.
“David Soul.”
“Bye,” she said abruptly and put the phone down.
I glanced at the radio. It was a well-known fact that Anne Grainger went weak at the knees whenever David Soul sang. However, when Jimmy Osmond began singing ‘Long-Haired Lover from Liverpool’, it seemed a good moment to switch off and carry on with a description of our newly purchased scheme of work entitled the School Mathematics Project.
It was just after six o’clock when I stood in the pitch dark outside number seven School View. The streetlight illuminated bits of machinery in the overgrown front garden so that it looked like a motorcycle graveyard.
Ruby’s eldest daughter, Racquel, in a bright purple dressing gown, opened the door.
“Come in, Mr Sheffield, you’re expected. Mam’s in the front room,” she said as she folded up an ironing board and rushed upstairs. Ruby was staring at the television set in the lounge and dabbing tears from her eyes with the hem of her huge apron.
She looked up at me and shook her head sadly.
“Oh, bloomin’ ‘eck, Mr Sheffield,” said Ruby, “ah feel all unnecessary, ‘e’s jus’ been on, mi favourite, an’ ah’m all of a fluster.”
She perched her massive behind on the creaking arm of the battered sofa. I glanced at the screen just in time to see Basil Brush shouting ‘Boom, Boom’, and waving goodbye.
“No, not ‘im,” said Ruby, rubbing her red eyes. “It’s Demis Roussos, ‘e were a guest on t’Basil Brush Show, he sings like an angel an’ ‘e’s such a fine figure of a man. Ah do like a man with a bit of meat on ‘im.”
It begged the question why she had married Ronnie who was at best seven stones dripping wet.
“Jus’ come into t’kitchen while ah finish our Duggie’s tea an’ ah’ll be right with you,” shouted Ruby as she disappeared into the cluttered kitchen.
“I’ve just come to collect that stock list, Ruby, and then I’ll be on my way,” I said, staring in horror at the state of the kitchen. I suddenly thought that mine didn’t look so untidy after all.
“It’s there on t’kitchen table,” said Ruby, pointing to a grubby collection of tea-stained papers next to a pile of racing pigeon magazines. As Racquel had placed her recently ironed underwear on top, it caused a fatal moment of hesitation.
“Would you mind checking it for me, Mr Sheffield?” asked Ruby, impervious to the hot fat spitting from the frying pan. “Ah’m a bit worried about some of m’spelling.”
“OK, Ruby, let’s have a look,” I said. I moved a bowl of half-eaten cereal from the chair, picked up a pair of muddy football socks from the table in front of me and began to read. The spelling was difficult at first but once I realized Ruby used her own personal phonetic style the meanings of words began to make sense. At six-thirty I was ready to leave, by which time a heated argument had begun in the lounge. Ruby was trying to referee from the kitchen and fry bacon at the same time.
“But it’s ‘alf past six an’ ah want to watch Man from Atlantis,” yelled seventeen-year-old Sharon, shaking her peroxide-blond hair.
“Y’can’t just switch to Yorkshire TV in t’middle of Doctor Who,” shouted fifteen-year-old Natasha with her hand protecting the control buttons of their teak-effect Marconi 20-inch colour television.
Twenty-two-year-old Duggie, the Ragley Rovers number seven, was stretched out on the sofa in his muddy football kit.
“Ah’m off t’pub, ah’m not watching a big curly-haired pansy wi’ webbed feet,” said Duggie.
It was unclear whether Duggie was referring to an alien being in Doctor Who or the Man from Atlantis but, clearly, he had had enough. He trudged upstairs to the bathroom and began hammering on the door. Unknown to Duggie, Racquel was applying mascara so a long wait was in store.
Meanwhile little Hazel was sitting on the floor wearing odd socks and eating a sandwich dripping with red sauce.
“Teacher, teacher, ah’ve got a bacon buttie,” said Hazel proudly.
Ruby nearly tripped over her as she came in from the kitchen.
“Mr Sheffield, why don’t you stay an’ sit down and ‘ave a cup of tea?” said Ruby.
I looked warily at the sofa, now covered in muddy patches.
“I don’t want to trouble you, Ruby,” I said, edging towards the hallway. “I only came to collect the stock list.”
“Natasha, get M
r Sheffield a cup of tea and tell our Duggie ‘is tea’s ready an’ to stop shouting at our Racquel,” yelled Ruby above the din of the television.
Natasha gave me a look like thunder and climbed over the back of the threadbare sofa. The hot, sweet milky tea in a heavy mug the size of a small bucket was not to my liking and had the faint aroma of engine oil but I didn’t complain. Ruby’s untidy lounge looked as if someone had tipped the leftovers from a jumble sale all over the floor but she was quite at ease as she folded up her daughter’s ironing. Feeling like a thief in the night, I carefully poured the contents of the mug into the spider plant on the creaking sideboard.
“That was lovely, Ruby,” I said hastily. “Thanks for the tea and all your hard work.”
With that, I made a quick exit, drove down School View, turned left to the village green then right past The Royal Oak and on to the Morton Road. Within five minutes I had parked beneath one of the magnificent elm trees in St Mary’s churchyard. Owls were hooting as I rang the doorbell of the vicarage.
Joseph Evans, complete with dog collar and striped apron, answered the door. To my surprise he was carrying a wine bottle and a glass.
“Hello, Jack, saw you drive in,” he said cheerfully and beckoned me into the kitchen. He looked furtively at Vera who was sitting in the lounge engrossed in an article about Prince Charles entitled ‘Charles the Charming’.
Joseph beckoned me towards the kitchen.
“Jack, you must try my latest creation,” he said, pouring a glass of wine. “It’s my peapod vintage.”
The murky liquid smelled like paint remover and I took a hesitant sip. It was like being hit in the solar plexus by a fireball.
“Needs a bit of refinement, but it’s almost there,” he said, sniffing the glass appreciatively. “Anyway, Vera doesn’t approve of my hobby, so perhaps we had better go and say hello.”
Joseph glanced at the kitchen clock; it was approaching seven o’clock. “If you don’t mind, Jack, make sure you’re gone by seven thirty. Sorry if that sounds a bit rude but it’s Nicholas Parsons, you see.” He looked around furtively and whispered, “Don’t say I said so, but she’s absolutely dotty about him. She sees him as the perfect English gentleman and never ever misses Sale of the Century on Saturday night.”
We both walked into the elegant lounge adorned with spectacular flower arrangements, highly polished candlesticks and three plump cats in various states of repose.
Vera put down her magazine and stood up to greet me.
“Come in, Mr Sheffield,” she said and pointed me towards a leather armchair. “Would you like a cup of tea? I’m sure Joseph has been too busy showing off his dreadful wine to remember to ask you.”
“Thank you, Vera, that would be lovely,” I said, recalling my previous cup of tea at Ruby’s, “and here’s my headmaster’s report to the Governors ready for typing. Ruby’s list is in there as well.”
Vera took the sheaf of papers and glanced at her watch anxiously as she hurried to the kitchen. The sound of clinking bottles could be heard as Vera cleared the kitchen table.
Minutes later she hurried back with a beautifully laid-out tray, including a pot of tea, china cups and saucers, matching sugar bowl and milk jug, silver teaspoons, lace-trimmed napkins and a doily-covered plate filled with home-made biscuits. She placed it on an ornately carved dark-oak coffee table and began to pour the tea.
“It’s Earl Grey,” said Vera, glancing at her watch again, “I hope that’s OK.”
“Fine, thank you, Vera,” I said and settled down into the armchair.
She passed me the cup of tea.
“Help yourself to a biscuit while I get a copy of my stock report for you.”
When Vera walked out to the study, Joseph nodded at the grandfather clock in the corner of the room and gave me a meaningful stare.
“Don’t worry, Joseph,” I said, “I’ll drink my tea and go.”
Vera reappeared and handed me a stock list neatly typed on vicarage-headed notepaper.
“Thank you, Vera, I do appreciate your support. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I promised to call in to see Anne Grainger on the way home.”
Vera looked relieved and walked eagerly into the lounge for her weekly rendezvous with her perfect gentleman whilst Joseph saw me to the door.
The lights of The Royal Oak were bright as I drove past the village green once more and turned left up the Easington Road to the Crescent, an estate of recently built private houses where Anne lived with her husband John, a local craftsman and woodcarver.
As I drove into the quiet cul-de-sac, their detached stone-fronted house looked warm and inviting. John’s beautiful woodcarvings were displayed on the window ledges and, as I walked inside, I admired the photographs of the Yorkshire Dales that filled the walls. John was a member of the Easington Camera Club and had won many prizes for his dramatic landscapes.
Anne had prepared a simple but delicious dish of bubble and squeak topped with Wensleydale cheese and fried tomatoes and we ate contentedly in their quarry-tiled kitchen.
After coffee, Anne washed the dishes while John and I went into his garage and examined his wide range of camera equipment. He put a half-finished carving of a magnificent shire horse to one side and laid out a range of camera lenses of all shapes and sizes.
“You can have this if you like, Jack,” he said. “It’s an old zoom lens that I never use and it will fit your old Pentax.”
I was thrilled to receive such a generous gift. I had bought my camera in 1965 whilst I was training to be a teacher at the college in York and it still worked perfectly.
John glanced at his watch. It was almost nine o’clock.
“I have to go out now, Jack, so you’ll have to excuse me,” said John. “I usually go round to my mother’s for an hour while Anne watches Starsky and Hutch. She’s absolutely daft about David Soul, so I make myself scarce.”
Back in the lounge Anne was settling down in front of the television set for another night with her handsome all-action hero. Once again, Anne’s heart-throb, along with his little curly-haired friend, was destined to cause havoc on the streets of New York in a brightly painted car that resembled striped toothpaste, then save two children from a burning building, get tied up and beaten unconscious and still find time to fall in love and solve a crime before the evening news at five minutes to ten.
Long before then I had said goodbye and driven back to Kirkby Steepleton. Demis Roussos, Nicholas Parsons and David Soul were an unlikely trio but it struck me as I drove along that no matter what your shape, size or accent, there was someone out there for you.
As I stumbled into my dark hallway and felt for the light switch, I wondered if there might be someone out there for me. A vision of Beth Henderson flashed across my mind until reality dawned once again.
By the time I was settled in my sparsely furnished lounge it was ten o’clock. I switched on the television and was faced with a similar dilemma. Was it to be Match of the Day on BBC1 or Dionne Warwick in a celebrity concert on Yorkshire TV or maybe even clearing the pans from the kitchen floor? It was a tough decision but the football won.
♦
By Monday evening I was ready. The report was written and Vera had typed it up on a Gestetner carbon sheet and rolled off five copies on the inky drum of the huge duplicating machine. The copies had been left to dry on the window ledge to avoid smudges and just before seven o’clock they were stapled together and placed like tablemats around the office desk.
“I declare this meeting open,” said Joseph, “and I extend a warm welcome to Jack Sheffield as our new headmaster.”
Everyone smiled and nodded acknowledgement, all except Stan Coe who shook his head and grunted like one of his many pigs.
The fifth member of the governors was introduced to me. He was the County Council representative, Councillor Albert Jenkins, an elderly man in an old three-piece suit complete with watch chain. He had been a local councillor for the past twenty years and had attended the school sh
ortly after the First World War. We shook hands and I felt I had gained a good friend.
“Teks time for outsiders to be accepted here but ah’m sure you’ll mek it one day, young man,” said Albert with a smile. It wasn’t long before I realized he had a sharp mind.
“Now, what’s all this talk from that woman who’s Education Secretary about putting the school curriculum under control of central government?” asked Albert.
Stan Coe had never heard of Shirley Williams, the Minister for Education, so I explained that she had reassured the teaching unions that this would never happen.
“Well, if they do,” said Albert prophetically, “no good’ll come of it.”
After I had read my report, Joseph asked if there were any questions.
Stan Coe was frowning.
“Ah don’t ‘ave much time f’this lib’ry idea,” he mumbled. “It’ll tek village funds away from t’Social Club. There’s a limit t’fund raisin’, tha knows.”
“Let’s put it to the vote,” said Joseph quietly.
Everyone voted for the building of a school library except Stan who gave me a stare of pure venom. He scanned the headmaster’s report again, seeking faults.
“What’s all this abart staff morals are improving?” blustered Stan, pointing a thick finger at the report.
Vera gave him a withering look.
“If you would read it carefully, Stanley,” she said, “you would see it says staff morale is improving.”
Suitably humbled, Stan Coe looked up at the wall clock and glared at Joseph. “Are we done then, Vicar? Ah’ve got a darts match at nine o’clock.”
Joseph asked if there was any other business and closed the meeting.
Stan Coe left hurriedly, Albert Jenkins congratulated me on a good report and Joseph unexpectedly invited everyone back to the vicarage for a nightcap.
Thirty minutes later I found myself sitting with Albert and Joseph and sipping percolated coffee served by Vera in the comfortable lounge of the vicarage. It was good to relax and the tension headache I had experienced during the past few days gradually disappeared. Vera made sure her cats were settled and said goodnight.
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 7