“If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I’m going to retire,” she said as she picked up a magazine article that described the Dutch Elm disease that had recently swept through the country and caused Vera much heartache.
As soon as she had left the room, Joseph nodded knowingly at Albert who immediately tiptoed into the kitchen.
“What is it this time, Joseph?” whispered Albert.
“It’s a variation on my peapod vintage,” said Joseph quietly as he collected a crate of bottles from behind the cellar door.
“Excellent,” said Albert, putting three glasses on the kitchen table.
Joseph poured three full glasses of the murky pale-yellow liquid from an old wine bottle, from which the label had been removed.
“Just see this as a welcome ceremony,” said Albert with a wink.
In no time at all, Joseph and Albert had emptied a bottle between them whilst I was still sipping my first glass. The molten lava disguised as peapod wine had begun to attack my nervous system and a tiny army was attacking my senses of touch, hearing, smell, taste and sight with small hammers.
It was time to take my leave.
Reluctantly they allowed me to go when I appealed to them that it was not safe to drink and drive and somehow I negotiated the drive home. It was with a sense of amazement that I felt so good the next morning at school. I assumed it was the relief of having completed my Governors’ Report.
Vera looked concerned when she came in for her afternoon’s work.
“Joseph isn’t well,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Vera,” I said with concern.
“He worked very late with Albert Jenkins last night,” said Vera. “He’s too conscientious for his own good. I think I’ll give him a call to check he’s all right.”
With that, she telephoned Joseph. She seemed to have to wait a long time before he answered.
It didn’t appear that the call helped.
“Stop mumbling, Joseph,” said Vera, “you simply should not work so hard.”
I had an idea.
“Vera, would you tell Joseph that a doctor said on the radio that if you drink a lot it’s the best cure for a headache.”
Vera repeated the message. Then she went white.
“Joseph!” she spluttered and put the telephone down.
“Goodness me,” said Vera, shaking her head in disbelief, “I just hope my cats didn’t hear that.”
Seven
Old Boilers, Sex and Being Overpaid
The school boiler broke down at 4.00 p.m.
Repair was completed by 10.00 p.m.
81 children on roll.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday 20 December 1977
M
y mother, Margaret, was a tough little Glaswegian with a heart of gold. She shared a flat with her sister, May, in the Headingley district of Leeds and with their grey curly hair, dimpled cheeks and thick spectacles, they looked like two peas in a pod. Each year, since the death of my father in 1972, I had invited them to spend Christmas week with me. After that they both went to join their Scottish clan in Glasgow for a riotous Hogmanay.
It was the last week of term and my mother was her usual chatterbox self when I telephoned her to say I intended to collect them after school.
“Och, it’ll be good tae see ye again, son,” she said, shouting down the telephone as if I was deaf. In the background I heard Aunt May utter the dreaded words.
“Tell him he must stay for a wee bite tae eat.”
I reluctantly agreed. Cooking was not their strong suit.
Even so, I had just bought them a Prestige Pressure Cooker from the Co-op as a Christmas present. I thought it was £14.95 well spent but it was wishful thinking.
When I pulled up on the steep cobbled road outside their flat they were standing together and looking out for me, illuminated in the window the way they always were, looking like identical twins and waving like synchronized swimmers.
As I sat in the rocking chair next to the tiny gas fire, I looked at the two, framed black-and-white photographs on the mantelpiece. The first was dated 1943 and showed my father in his petty officer’s uniform standing alongside my mother, then a pretty nineteen-year-old munitions worker in a Glasgow factory. The second was of my father in his smart naval uniform with his familiar smile and black wavy Enrol Flynn hair.
In 1942, at a Christmas dance in Glasgow, my mother had met John William Sheffield, a Yorkshireman on leave and looking for some warmth and peace after the horrors of war. The previous year he had served on the HMS Prince of Wales when, on 24 May 1941, with the ill-fated HMS Hood, it had engaged the mighty German battleship Bismarck. HMS Prince of Wales was damaged but scored three hits on the Bismarck.
My father spoke little of the war but I remember one Boxing Day family gathering in 1955. We sat round the coal fire and all the grown-ups were telling stories of the war. My father was encouraged to ‘open up’ and told the chilling tale of the sinking of HMS Prince of Wales on 10 December 1941 by Japanese aircraft. He described how he leaped into the South China Sea as the great battleship sank. His life jacket had a flashing light on it and it was this that saved him after many hours in the water.
He also recalled that Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill was a passenger on HMS Prince of Wales on his journey to Newfoundland for the Atlantic Treaty Conference with the American President Roosevelt. That apart, he spoke little of the war and never claimed his medals.
I was born in St James’s Hospital, Leeds, in 1945 on the day the war ended. From that day, all I ever knew was encouragement from my mother. She saw education as the passport to a fulfilling life and encouraged me to work hard at school. My headship almost seemed like a gift to her, a way of saying thank you. If only for her sake, it was an opportunity I was not going to waste.
The smell of burning from the kitchen brought me swiftly back to the present. Margaret had cremated a couple of teacakes and was scraping them vigorously over the sink. Meanwhile, May had put on her blue Glasgow Rangers apron and had reheated some soup that both looked and smelled like emulsion paint.
As always, they both chattered continuously but because my mother was deaf in her left ear and May was deaf in her right ear, conversations did not always follow a logical path.
“Are ye looking forward tae y’Christmas holiday?” shouted May.
“When do you start?” asked Margaret.
“They’re in the cupboard,” said May.
“What’s in the cupboard?” I asked.
“The jam tarts,” said May.
“What did you say?” asked Margaret.
“The twenty-first of December,” I replied.
“What do you remember?” said Margaret.
“Well, ye put them there this morning,” said May.
And so it went on.
I ate all the supper, for I knew it would upset them if I didn’t. Then I packed their cases in my car and drove off to Bilbo Cottage. Margaret and May loved my new home and to my relief set to in the kitchen.
“Och aye, it’s like Fred Karno’s in here,” said Margaret, opening and closing the cupboard doors.
May looked around at the jumble of pans and recalled my father’s lack of organization in a kitchen.
“Y’the perfect epiphany of y’father,” said May, whose vocabulary occasionally stretched the imagination.
I left them to it and prepared my work for the next day at school.
The following morning my mother had prepared some porridge for my breakfast. It had the consistency of quick-drying cement but a cup of tea washed it down and I kissed her on the cheek and reminded her that I had a busy day, with a meeting after school.
“Aboot time y’had a nice wee lassie tae help ye with all this,” said Margaret hopefully as she surveyed the cluttered kitchen. It was a regular theme and I had heard hints like this on many occasions. I didn’t see Beth Henderson as the domesticated type but thought it would be fun finding out. With this thought and
the porridge to warm me I grabbed my scarf and opened the front door.
“Don’t worry about my tea, Mam,” I said as I left the house and stepped out onto the frozen driveway. “I have a meeting after school to make final preparations for the Christmas Party.”
♦
One thing I quickly learned as a headmaster was that you never really knew what was in store when you walked through the school gates each morning. The last thing I expected after my staff meeting at the end of school was to be lying on my back on the concrete floor of the school boiler house. It was the final straw.
The bitter sleet of a freezing December gusted through the open doorway of the boiler house and stung my raw cheeks.
“I hate boilers!” I cried.
I was chilled to the bone and the old potato sack beneath my shoulders was crusted with ice.
“I hate boilers,” I shouted, “particularly old boilers!”
Fatigue had stripped away the last vestige of resistance and a rasping cough ripped from my aching throat. Double pneumonia seemed just around the corner. Surely this wasn’t part of a headmaster’s job, I thought.
“Nearly there, Jack. Just ‘old that light steady,” gasped Jim the Boiler Man. “One more turn an’ she’ll be as good as new.”
I gripped the frozen metal of the torch a little tighter and peered into the arc of flickering yellow light.
Jim was a little grease monkey of a man and his oil-smeared face broke into a startling white-toothed grin as the last giant nut was locked into place. He sighed with satisfaction and stroked the black oven doors with obvious affection. Jim really loved boilers.
“Well, you can ‘ave y’Christmas party after all,” he announced cheerily. “Tell the kids Father Christmas came early an’ fixed it for ‘em.”
A fit of coughing left me in convulsions. The torch clattered to the concrete floor and the light finally gave out. I uttered a silent curse. I was all in and I knew it. It was nearly fourteen hours since I’d walked into school that morning but it felt like half a lifetime. I was also blackened, sweaty and filthy. No one had mentioned this at my interview. The school’s central heating system in the late 1970s didn’t appear to have changed much since the 1870s.
Jim had travelled over from Harrogate to answer my emergency call. At the end of the school day the boiler had rumbled to a halt with a bronchitic cough and the temperature had dropped like a stone. The following day was the school Christmas Party and without heat we should have to close the school. Prompt action was required to avoid the prospect of a lot of very unhappy children. Jim had come to the rescue but had required an assistant.
“Thanks, Jim,” I said, “you’re a lifesaver. Come into the staff-room and I’ll brew some tea.”
Jim stroked his stubbly chin. “I’d rather ‘ave a bevvy in The Oak. G’mon, Jack, we’ve earned one.”
As the boiler hummed back into life, Jim loaded up his van and I locked the school doors. A few flakes of snow began to fall as we drove out in convoy through the wrought-iron gates and around the village green to the car park outside the welcoming orange lights of The Oak. I was tired, hungry and thirsty and I trudged in behind Jim with the heavy-booted gait of a blacksmith’s apprentice. Squeezing between two burly, red-faced farmers I thrust some money towards Don, the big, raw-boned barman.
“Two pints of Chestnut, please, Don, and two meat pies,” I shouted over the hubbub of conversation.
Don the landlord towered over me from the other side of the bar. It was a matter of conjecture whether his huge biceps had developed because of his prowess as an amateur wrestler or merely by pulling countless pints.
“Been cleaning chimneys, Mr Sheffield?” asked Don as he placed the frothing glasses of rich, dark mild beer on the bar. I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the milk stout and bottled shandy. Jim and I looked as if we were about to audition for The Black and White Minstrels.
“Almost, Don,” I replied, “just a bit of boiler trouble.”
“I know what you mean.” He grinned and winked at his wife, Sheila, who pressed her ample frame towards him and dug an elbow in his ribs.
She caught my eye and whispered something that was lost in the chatter around the bar. I leaned towards her expecting some pearl of wisdom or the latest gossip.
She smelled like a perfume factory as her lacquered hair brushed against my face.
“I wonder if I can have a word with you about sex, Mr Sheffield?” she asked.
“Pardon?”
“Sex, Mr Sheffield, y’know, birds ‘n bees an’ all that.”
Surely I was imagining this.
“Yes, but I don’t quite follow…” I mumbled.
I looked towards her husband’s bulging form that was fortunately out of earshot.
“When are you going t’give some lessons on it?” she persisted. “Cause if you don’t ah’ll have t’do it m’self.”
My brain refused to function. I was too tired to work this one out. She was speaking, I was hearing but I couldn’t understand a word.
“What exactly is it you want, Mrs Bradshaw?” I asked.
Two beer mats were irretrievably pinned beneath her green lurex sweater as she pressed her astonishing cleavage even further over the bar and looked at me imploringly. I could feel myself beginning to sweat.
“Our Claire’s been asking questions, y’know about babies ‘n things an’ growing up ‘n suchlike. Don’s a great useless lump ‘n I’m not sure ‘ow t’start. So, I was wondering if you were going to teach ‘em at school.”
Relief washed over me. “Oh, I see, er yes, we do have a series of talks by the school nurse coming up early next year. You’ll be invited to attend.”
Sheila looked pleased.
“Thank you, Mr Sheffield, it’s always worried me ‘as sex.”
Looking at her voluptuous proportions I found that hard to believe. But it was another problem solved in a day of problems and I was happy.
The warmth of the taproom had softened the hard edge of my fatigue and the mild beer coursed through my veins like a sleeping draught. Jim was deep in conversation with the two farmers about his favourite subject, boilers. So I merely sank into the luxury of personal reflection and stared mistily at the swimming kaleidoscope of coloured bottles. I was only a day away from completing my first term as headmaster of Ragley Primary School.
So much had happened…so many experiences.
Memories flooded back as my glass was refilled.
A sharp tug on my coat sleeve brought me back to earth. I looked up into the crimson face of Stan Coe, one of the two farmers propping up the bar. He eyed me blearily.
“I wus jus’ telling Tom ‘ere about you teachers being overpaid. You only work a twenty-hour week an’ we ‘ave to pay ‘igh rates t’keep you in comfort,” he bellowed.
This was a familiar argument and one I had heard many times. The only problem with Mr Coe was that he was deadly serious. He also weighed about sixteen stones and had just downed his fifth pint.
“We probably do a lot of work you’re not aware of, Mr Coe,” I replied as tactfully as possible.
“Like supping at quart’ to eleven,” he countered triumphantly.
“An’ another thing, this ‘ere library y’want t’build is a waste of time an’ money. When I was at school we ‘ad no need of such fancy things,” he continued.
“Times change, Mr Coe,” I said softly.
“Aye, ah’ve noticed,” he answered gruffly. “You want to teach ‘em some manners at that there school o’ yours. Kids today are all bloody ignorant.”
Don’s cry of ‘Time, gentlemen please’ gave me an excuse for a quick exit and a cessation of hostilities with the determined Mr Coe.
Heavy flakes of snow were beginning to settle as Jim and I trudged outside. The village was being transformed. The pantile roofs were etched with wavy, white snow patterns and stood out sharp and clean against a heavy, grey sky that promised more snow.
I paused momentarily to sta
re at the ominous skyscape. The vast skies over the plain of York were always a joy, the crimson nights of summer, the purple sunsets of autumn and the awesome, black expanse on a winter’s night. It was good to dwell in my private and peaceful oasis and contemplate the sheer massive splendour of the snowy panorama.
The slamming of Jim’s van door shattered the silence. I shouted goodnight to him and three carefully negotiated miles later I arrived back in Kirkby Steepleton village outside my home. The fast-falling snow muffled the slamming of the garage door and a mini-snowdrift had already covered the empty milk bottles on the doorstep as I stumbled inside. The house was still and quiet and there was no sign of Margaret and May. I tiptoed upstairs and had just reached the landing when my mother appeared. With her grey hair, hot water bottle and Wee Willie Winkie nightgown she looked like a Scottish version of Marley’s Ghost.
“Och, it’s late, Jack. Are ye alreet?” she asked.
“Hello, Mam, don’t worry. There were a few problems at school,” I replied and gave her a hug.
“What sort of problems?” she asked. “Wee ones ah hope.”
I reflected on the events since the end of the school day.
“Old boilers, sex and being overpaid,” I replied a little gruffly and made a quick exit into my room. The bedroom was freezing and arctic draughts whistled through the small window I had left open that morning. My hands and feet had lost all feeling as I slipped into bed. Within seconds my eyes were closing and sleep took over my tired brain. Suddenly, a shrill Scottish voice penetrated the stillness. “Jack, Jack!”
I sat up quickly.
“Yes, Mam, what is it?” I shouted back.
“But you’re not overpaid!” came the reply.
Soon there was silence apart from the sound of the wind blowing snowflakes against the window. I smiled, snuggled under the sheets and reflected that a headmaster’s greatest asset is an understanding mother.
Eight
The Best Christmas Present in the World
All children attended the Christmas Party in spite of a very heavy snowfall. The delay in receiving records from previous schools was discussed with the Education Office.
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 8