Jim crept back in and sat at the teacher’s desk. He examined Miss Twigg’s lesson plan in her folder and glanced up regularly to observe the children staring wide-eyed at the pictures being held up by Miss Twigg as the epic story unfolded. Seeing that all was well, I returned to my class to relate the equally epic story of Captain Scott’s last fateful journey across the icy wastes of Antarctica.
Just after 3.45 p.m. the last of the children had set off home and I was in my classroom marking maths books. Jim knocked on the door and walked in. His face was wreathed in smiles.
“How did it go, Jim?” I asked.
“Memorable, truly memorable!” said Jim. “She certainly got the children involved, particularly little Terry.”
I knew there was more to come. He closed the door to drown out Ruby’s rendition of ‘Edelweiss’ as she swept the corridor outside and he pulled up a chair alongside me.
“It was a good ‘Story Time’, Jack, and Miss Twigg used her voice to good effect. She got to the part where the wolf huffed and puffed and by then the children’s eyes were popping out with a mixture of horror and excitement, particularly little Terry. Then she uttered the fateful words, ‘He huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down.’ You could have heard a pin drop. There was a long and stunned silence. The children were aghast at the horrible deed. Finally, Terry, shaking his head in disgust, said slowly and clearly, ‘The bastard!’
“I just didn’t know where to look. Poor Miss Twigg handled it very well and agreed with him that he was indeed a very naughty wolf.”
We both laughed.
“He’s not been here long, Jim, and he’s got an interesting vocabulary,” I said by way of explanation.
Jim showed me his written report on the lesson. He wanted me to see it before he discussed it with Miss Twigg. It was very supportive and praised Miss Twigg’s use of voice, effective questioning and good classroom management.
Anne, Jo and Sally were waiting for me in the school office to hear Jim’s report on Miss Twigg and they were all delighted to hear the good news, although Anne was concerned to hear little Terry’s verdict on the big bad wolf.
The telephone rang and Sally picked up the receiver.
“It’s Sue Phillips ringing from the hospital, Jack,” said Sally, handing me the receiver.
Sue sounded in a hurry.
“Jack, I’ve booked Elvis for one week,” she said breathlessly. “You can collect him after school tonight if you like.”
“Elvis?” I asked in surprise.
“Yes, Elvis the Pelvis,” said Sue. “All the student nurses practise on him. Just come down to the Orthopaedic Ward and I can see you there.”
The penny dropped.
“Oh, you mean the skeleton for the student’s health education project. Thanks, Sue, I’ll be there about five o’clock.”
“OK, Jack, see you then. Must rush, I’m training a student as well. Bye.”
The line went dead and I replaced the receiver.
“Did I hear you say Elvis?” asked Anne.
Anne had been a big fan of Elvis Presley, even more so since his sad death just a few months before.
“It’s the nickname for the skeleton in the nurses’ training room at the hospital,” I explained. “I’m collecting it tonight to support Miss Twigg’s project.”
I glanced out of the window. Darkness had fallen and the freezing rain was turning to sleet.
“You had better get home,” I said. “The weather’s getting worse.”
Anne, Sally and Jo collected their coats and scarves when the office door suddenly burst open and the three ladies jumped in alarm. Jo fell backwards against the filing cabinet. In walked our least favourite school governor.
“Early finish, eh?” said Stan Coe, shaking the frozen droplets from his dirty waxed overcoat. He looked down at Miss Maddison and grinned. “Made y’jump, did ah?” Then he swelled his chest and stood to attention. “It were National Service made me, tha knows. Discipline an’ nerves of steel. An’ when you ‘ave nerves of steel y’don’t frighten easy.”
He marched off to the gents’ toilet, whistling loudly.
“Pity the Army didn’t teach him to knock on doors,” said Sally, shaking her head in dismay.
“I’d like to see someone frighten him,” muttered Jo darkly, straightening her dishevelled coat.
“Come on, let’s get home,” said Anne, ushering Sally and Jo out of the office like a mother hen, “and good luck with his lordship, Jack.” She winked at me and closed the door behind her.
“Bulb’s gone in there,” grumbled Stan when he emerged from the toilet. “It’s like black ‘ole of Calcutta.”
“I’ll get it fixed, Mr Coe. Now, what was it you wanted?” I asked abruptly.
“Ah’m coming in t’check on this student tomorrow,” said Mr Coe. “Ah don’t ‘old wi’ young kids tekkin’ classes. If she’s no good they can tek ‘er back.”
“I don’t anticipate any problems so don’t trouble yourself,” I replied tactfully. “Anyway, you must excuse me, Mr Coe, I’ve an important errand.”
He glanced at his watch, shook his head and wandered out to his Land Rover in the car park.
The lights of York Hospital shone brightly as I parked my car in the car park. The Orthopaedic Ward was clearly signposted and I soon spotted Sue Phillips working with a young student nurse who was pushing the drugs trolley. Sue walked alongside carrying a huge bunch of keys and she waved when she saw me.
As always, she looked immaculate in her light blue Staff Nurse uniform, to which was pinned a spotless white apron starched stiff as a board. Her navy blue belt sported a precious buckle depicting the God of Wind and her silver General Nursing Council badge sparkled under the fluorescent lights. She pushed the trolley to the side of the shiny corridor with the sole of one of her sensible, black lace-up shoes, stooped to pick up a small white book from the bottom shelf of the trolley and handed it to the student.
“Julie, just check Mr Johnson’s drugs in the ‘MIMS’ book while I have a word with Mr Sheffield,” she said.
“Hello, Sue,” I said. “I’m here for the skeleton.”
“It’s in the training room at the end of the corridor,” said Sue.
She turned to the student who was checking the drugs lists.
“Julie, would you mind getting Elvis for Mr Sheffield from Room 11?”
Sue glanced up at me as Julie trotted down the corridor.
“Elvis is really popular at the staff party,” she said with a smile. “By the way, I hope your car’s big enough.”
The skeleton appeared at the end of the corridor. It was life-size and hanging from a hook on a tall tubular stand fixed to a wooden base on castors.
“I had no idea it was that big,” I said in surprise.
“Good luck with the project, Jack,” said Sue as she hurried off with the student nurse and the drugs trolley. “I’ll call into school tomorrow to fix up the session with the parents and babies.”
As I pushed Elvis through the corridors of the hospital I received a few startled looks. A man in a wheelchair passed me in a doorway and shouted cheerfully, “Hey, mister, thy mate looks reight poorly.”
The scene in the darkness of the car park was even more surreal.
The only way I could get Elvis safely into the car was to unhook him from the stand and strap him in the passenger’s seat. As I drove slowly out of the car park, startled visitors stared wide-eyed as the head of the skeleton nodded gently to the left and right with the motion of the car. More than once I glanced at him, lit up by the headlights of oncoming cars, as he turned to look at me and nodded in apparent acknowledgement.
Back at the deserted school I was aware of a certain ghoulish quality as I struggled to unlock the school door and carry Elvis like a drunken man into the entrance hall. I was then faced with the dilemma of where to put him. Ruby would receive a rude shock if I left him in the office so it seemed sensible to put him into the gents’ toilet overnight. As I w
as the only male member of staff, it was the least used room in the school.
The next morning, Miss Twigg was waiting for me once again in the entrance hall with a request to check her teaching file before she started work.
We sat in the school office leafing through her notes when Sue Phillips and Jo Maddison came in with some visual aids from the ‘My Body’ Health Education programme.
“We thought these might help your display, Erica,” said Jo, putting down the large pictures of babies, running athletes and skeletons.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said, glancing up at Sue, “I’ve got a surprise for you, Erica.”
At that moment the office door burst open and Stan Coe walked in as if he owned the building.
“Now then, Mr Sheffield, ah’ll be with you in a minute t’see this student o’ yours,” said Stan, totally ignoring Miss Twigg. He clearly thought she was one of the children. As usual, he strode through the office without a word to Sue or Jo and walked straight into the gents’ toilet, flicked the light switch and walked into the darkness.
“Y’aven’t fixed this light then,” he shouted as he pulled the door shut behind him.
Suddenly there was a yell like a wounded buffalo followed by a crash as Stan Coe fell backwards through the doorway with a clatter and Elvis toppled slowly on top of him.
Stan Coe mouthed a silent scream as he stared terrified into the eyeless sockets of the skeleton’s grinning skull.
“Who’s that?” said Miss Twigg in amazement.
“It’s Elvis,” said Sue.
“No, I meant him,” said Erica, pointing to a gibbering and very white-faced Stan Coe.
Jo Maddison grinned from ear to ear as I stumbled forward to lift the skeleton from the terrified farmer. She turned to the wide-eyed Erica Twigg.
“Erica, allow me introduce our Vice Chairman of Governors, Mr Stanley Coe,” said Jo in her best toast-master voice. Then she added in a stage whisper, “He’s got nerves of steel!”
Twelve
Dance With Your Eyes
HT visited the Thomas Pemberton Special School in York to coordinate arrangements for a ‘pen friend’ project – a successful (and enlightening) visit.
Miss Flint in Class 4 – morning session only.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday 8 March 1978
“M
y Tracey-Leanne’ll catch her death o’ cold in her vest,” said the formidable Mrs Brown. “It’s freezing in that ‘all o’ yours, an’ them wall bars are like t’north face of the Aga.”
It was clear that Mrs Winifred Brown did not approve of my Physical Education lessons and, whilst her knowledge of the names of famous mountains was lacking, she had made her point.
“It’s a pity, Mrs Brown, because your Tracey is a good gymnast and loves the Movement and Music lessons we have each week,” I explained. “Why don’t you call in and see for yourself? We have a lesson on Wednesday afternoon.”
Mrs Brown seemed surprised by the invitation.
“Aye, mebbe ah will,” she said, “an’ ah’ll ‘ave a word with our Dominic’s teacher at t’same time, ‘e were black bright when he came home from football t’other night.”
I had learned it was always wise to let Mrs Brown have the last word so I smiled politely, nodded and walked back into the office.
Vera was waiting for me with a list on her spiral note pad.
“Mrs Phillips called, Mr Sheffield,” said Vera. “She says you can visit the special school in York at ten thirty on Wednesday morning.”
This was good news. During her last visit to school, Sue Phillips had asked if I would agree to the children in my class becoming pen friends with some of the children at the Thomas Pemberton Special School in York. Sue wanted to strengthen links between our able-bodied children and those children in the special school who were recovering from illness or accident. It sounded a great idea. My visit to meet the headmistress and tour the school was intended to establish a working relationship and make arrangements for the exchange of letters.
Vera was enthusiastic.
“It’s a lovely school,” she said. “My friends at the Women’s Institute put on a party tea for them during the Silver Jubilee celebrations.”
“Thanks, Vera,” I said. “I’ve not been to a special school before so I’m looking forward to it.”
♦
On Wednesday morning Miss Flint, the supply teacher, came in to teach my class. I completed registration and confirmed the work that had been planned for the morning. While Valerie Flint’s slate-grey eyes rarely showed any emotion, our relationship was now almost cordial. My predecessor had held fast to the rule that female staff should not be permitted to wear trousers during working hours. Before the end of my first day, I had withdrawn this outdated and illegal practice. It proved very popular with all the staff, particularly Miss Flint. Today she was dressed in a tailored safari shirt with a long pointed collar and a brown pin-stripe trouser suit. Her stylish sling-back clogs with their thick heels and soles ensured she was marginally taller than me.
The top of the blackboard was uncharted territory for the five-feet-three-inch frame of the diminutive Miss Maddison. Not so for Miss Flint, who picked up a stick of chalk and in neat italic handwriting wrote ‘Wednesday 8 March 1978’ in the top-left corner of the board. Then she placed the wooden board ruler down the left edge and drew a vertical line to represent the margin. Under the date she wrote the title ‘Spelling Test’ and then turned to face the children.
“Number one,” said Miss Flint, “flour; we use flour to make bread.”
I tiptoed out of the silent classroom and left the children to their ordeal.
Sally Pringle was in the hall with her class. The children had removed their slip-on plimsolls and taken off their socks in preparation for their Movement lesson.
Like every other experienced teacher of young children, Sally had instructed every child to put a single sock in each plimsoll, preferably their own. Years of misplaced socks, gloves, scarves, hats and, especially, Wellington boots had conditioned Sally Pringle’s decision-making. The rebellious spirit of flower power had gradually been eroded by the discipline required to ensure that a group of tiny human beings went home dressed in the same clothes in which they arrived. This metamorphism of her organized soul was not without cost.
The previous weekend, Sally had accompanied her husband on his works annual dinner. They had bought tickets at £4.75 for a three-course dinner, dance and cabaret, featuring Roy Castle, at the 3Bs Theatre Bar in Bridlington. When Sally had sat down with her husband and all his friends from work, she had taken out her school notebook and asked those who wanted a starter to raise their hand. Fortunately, she refrained from making sure everyone had gone to the toilet before they left for home.
However, Sally’s status as the school fashion icon remained undiminished. As I walked through the hall she was sitting on a chair pulling off her trendy, knee-length, horizontal-striped, rainbow-coloured socks with a pocket for every toe. The stripes exactly matched those on her sleeveless tank top. Sally’s colourful fashion sense was greatly admired by the children and frowned upon by Vera.
“I won’t forget to tape the Music and Movement lesson,” said Sally as I passed by. “I’ll leave it on your desk ready for this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Sally,” I said. “I’ll be back at lunchtime.”
A few minutes later I was on the forecourt of Pratt’s Garage on the High Street. Victor Pratt, the owner, lumbered out to serve me with petrol from the single pump. His thick hands and unshaven face, as usual, were smeared with black streaks of grease and oil.
“Ninety pence a gallon,” moaned Victor. “If it ever gets to a pound ah’ll be out of business.”
Petrol prices had just leaped by 20 per cent since the recent tanker drivers work to rule.
“Ah blame t’government,” said Victor.
No one had ever seen Victor smile. Moaning was a way of life for him.
“T
hanks, Victor,” I said and handed him a ten-pound note.
Victor returned with a few oil-smeared coins and dropped them in my hand.
“Looks like rain again,” he said with a scowl at the heavy clouds.
I drove towards York, breathed in the strong smell of cocoa as I passed the Rowntrees factory, and marvelled once again at the Minster when it came into view and dominated the medieval skyline. As I crossed Lendal Bridge I glanced down at the river below. Beneath me a team of eight rowers pulled mightily in perfect unison and left fleeting herringbone patterns on the surface of the Ouse with the symmetry of their strokes. The city was waking from winter and soon the pleasure steamers would be chugging back into life.
I followed an ambulance past the railway station and Micklegate Bar and thought of the children I was about to meet. Two miles south of the river, I saw the Thomas Pemberton School sign and I pulled into the car park.
A sprightly woman in a bright blue tracksuit jogged out to meet me.
“Hello,” I shouted, “I’m Jack Sheffield. Pleased to meet you.”
“Jack, welcome. You’re just in time to help out,” she said breathlessly. “Everyone lends a hand with this lesson, so do you mind coming straight into the hall?”
She trotted towards the entrance doors and beckoned to me to catch up.
“I’m the head, Jill Sanderson, by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “We’ll do introductions later. Hope you don’t mind.”
With that, I followed her into a wide corridor that was heaving with activity. Children in wheelchairs jostled playfully for position on the sloping ramp that led into a large school hall. Others on crutches entered by another door, whilst able-bodied adults hurried from every corner of the school as if it was a fire drill. Some of them carried young children; others placed large rubber mats in a big circle around the edge of the hall.
The headmistress plugged in a large radio and quickly tuned it in and turned down the volume control. To my amazement, I realized she was about to use the same Music and Movement programme that I used with my class. A few minutes remained before the start of the broadcast and Jill Sanderson stood in the middle of the hall and smiled at all the children. She radiated confidence and enthusiasm and pointed towards a group of children who had callipers on their legs and crutches under their armpits.
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 13