01 Teacher, Teacher!

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01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 15

by Jack Sheffield


  Ronnie appeared to be whispering something into Handsome Rodney’s ear. The young blond Adonis looked thoughtful as he trudged to the penalty spot and carefully wiped the ball dry on his shirt. Then he placed it on a damp divot of mud and stepped back four paces. Time seemed to stand still. Rodney was obviously deciding which side to put the ball. Big Dave the Goalkeeper stood menacingly with arms outstretched. Rodney looked to the heavens, took a deep breath, trotted up to the ball and chipped it gently, straight at Big Dave. The Ragley crowd roared and the Morton players stared, open-mouthed in disbelief, and groaned.

  Meanwhile, Freddie Kershaw glanced at his watch and thought of his welcome mug of Bovril in the pavilion. As he did so, Big Dave began the move that would go down in Ragley folklore and dominate the discussions in The Royal Oak for the rest of the season.

  Whoever said that everyone is famous for fifteen minutes had not really intended to include ordinary folk like Deadly Duggie Smith, the Ragley village undertaker’s assistant. But if they had said fifteen seconds, it would have been different, for Deadly Duggie’s time had come. This was his fifteen seconds.

  Big Dave, with the strength that launched a thousand dustbins, threw the ball with all his might out to the left touchline. It landed in an explosion of mud and grass at the feet of Clint ‘Nancy’ Ramsbottom who shook his drenched Kevin Keegan locks and looked around him. To his surprise, he was alone. The Morton defender who had marked him all afternoon had gone up to the edge of the Ragley penalty area in anticipation of Rodney scoring the penalty. So Clint set off like a frightened rabbit and the Morton team began the chase like a pack of hounds.

  The referee, blinded momentarily by the pouring rain, began to chug back downfield. He was unaware of the mayhem behind him as Big Dave tripped the Morton players and Nutter Neilson added insult to injury by stepping on them.

  At the precise moment that Clint received the ball at his feet from Big Dave’s long throw, Deadly Duggie set off on a mazy run that he would remember for the rest of his life.

  “Pass it, son,” shouted Deke Ramsbottom from the touchline, the incongruous turkey feathers in the brim of his cowboy hat drooping in the steady downpour.

  “Clint, Clint, pass it!” screamed Deadly Duggie as he ran up the right wing and cut in towards the Morton goal.

  “Pass it, Nancy!” yelled Shane to his younger brother, as he tore up the centre of the field, tugging back two Morton players by the tails of their shirts.

  “Stick it in the box, y’big puff!” commanded Big Dave from the other end of the field.

  “Aye, stick it in the box,” gasped Little Malcolm the Midfield Maestro, hands on hips in the centre circle.

  Deadly Duggie, with only the Morton centre half to beat, put in a final lung-bursting sprint.

  Danny Booth had been the Morton centre half for as long as he could remember, almost since he stopped eating rusks. In recent years he had filled out to the size of a bus shelter and there was no way that Deadly Duggie was going to get past him. So with the finesse of a runaway brick lorry, Danny chopped Deadly Duggie’s legs from under him.

  The referee, Freddie Kershaw, did not blow his whistle, as he recognized this act of violence as a normal part of the cut and thrust of lower league football. Only grievous bodily harm was penalized and, even then, he only penalized players who were not on his coal round.

  At that moment, Clint Ramsbottom curled his left foot round the ball and hit it like a shell into the Morton penalty area.

  With his eyes tight shut, Deadly Duggie, now parallel to the ground with arms outstretched and looking like a Spitfire about to crash land, was on a collision course with the muddy leather football as it carved its path like Halley’s comet towards him.

  The force with which the old-fashioned leather ball hit Deadly Duggie’s head left him with the triple X imprint of the laces on his forehead and, for the rest of the weekend, he resembled an escaped convict from a science fiction film.

  Almost in slow motion, the ball rebounded from Deadly Duggie’s head and arced gently in a perfect parabola over the outstretched hands of Fat Ernie the Morton goalkeeper. Ernie’s wife always made sure that he was well fed and Saturday lunchtime before a match was no exception. Ernie’s brain sent him an instant message to leap cat-like through the air and tip the ball over the crossbar but his body had long since ceased to be cat-like. As his feet remained firmly stuck in the mud, Fat Ernie regretted the extra helping of Yorkshire pudding followed by jam roly-poly and custard.

  At the moment the ball hit the back of the net and nestled in the patch of thistles next to Fat Ernie’s wet towel, thermos flask and Tupperware box of sandwiches, the Ragley supporters yelled, “Goal!” They shouted with such force that Vera Evans, feeding the ducks by the village pond, dropped her bag of sliced brown Hovis. With cheers ringing around the ground, Freddie Kershaw blew for full time and the players shook hands and trooped off for a welcome hot bath.

  Burly, rain-drenched Deke Ramsbottom, the Club Chairman, marched over to the jubilant Ronnie and put his arm round his shoulder. “Listen to that, Ronnie,” he said proudly and passed him his silver-plated hip flask. “It warms cockles of my ‘eart to ‘ear supporters shouting like that.”

  “Y’right there, Deke,” said Ronnie, taking a swig of Irish malt. “An’ ah’ll tell yer summat, if Michael Caine’s lads at Rorke’s Drift had shouted like that, them Zulus would ‘ave dropped t’spears an’ buggered off ‘ome.”

  Deke had not seen the film Zulu and didn’t know what Ronnie was talking about but he agreed anyway.

  “C’mon, Ronnie, let’s tek all these ‘eroes t’pub,” said Deke. “It’s time t’celebrate.”

  In the taproom of The Oak, Sheila was serving pints as fast as Don could pull them. Deadly Duggie’s wonder goal had been related countless times and Old Tommy Piercy was racking his brains to recall a finer goal by a Ragley player in the past fifty years. Deke and Ronnie were in pride of place at the corner table near the dartboard. In spite of the heat of the log fire, Ronnie still wore his favourite ‘Billy Bremner’ bobble hat, although by now it was at a rakish angle over one eye.

  Big Dave was reflecting on his penalty save.

  “It were a soft penalty,” said Big Dave.

  “It warra soft ‘un,” agreed Little Malcolm.

  “Your Sharon could’ve saved it,” said Big Dave, smiling at Ronnie and supping deeply on his fifth pint of Tetley’s bitter.

  “She could’ve saved it easy,” said Little Malcolm, matching Big Dave pint for pint.

  Kojak wasn’t easily convinced.

  “Strange ‘e didn’t blast it like ‘e usually does,” he shouted above the din. “e’s never missed one this season.”

  “What did y’say to him, Ronnie, when y’gave ‘im t’ball?” asked Big Dave. “Ah saw y’muttering summat jus’ afore t’penalty.”

  Ronnie pulled out a large dirty handkerchief from his pocket, scattering some old birdseed on the wooden floor. He blew his nose loudly.

  “Nowt special,” he mumbled.

  At that moment, Handsome Rodney, the voluptuous Sharon clinging to his arm, strolled past the taproom door in the direction of the lounge bar.

  Deadly Duggie looked in amazement at his father. “Hey, Dad! That were our Sharon wi’ Goldilocks. Ah thought you’d sent ‘im packing t’other night.”

  “No, he’s not a bad lad,” said Ronnie.

  “Y’could ‘ave fooled me,” said Deadly Duggie. “So when did y’say ‘e could go out wi’ our Sharon?” he added.

  “Oh, ah forget,” said Ronnie evasively.

  Big Dave leaned over to Ronnie and whispered in his ear.

  “It wouldn’t ‘ave been just afore that penalty, would it, Ronnie?”

  Ronnie looked up into the eyes of the giant goalkeeper and winked.

  Big Dave dug him in the ribs.

  “Y’crafty ol’ bugger,” said Big Dave.

  A few moments later buxom Sheila and Don the Barman staggered in with two huge
trays full of pints of frothing beer. The glasses were passed around and at a signal from Big Dave everyone shut up. Ronnie looked up surprised as Deke suddenly lifted his ample backside from the bench seat he was sharing with Ronnie. Sheila turned down the Abba record on the jukebox and Big Dave cleared his throat in an exaggerated manner.

  “Listen in, everybody,” shouted Big Dave. “Ah’d like to propose a toast. Today’s been a big day for Ragley Rovers. It’s a while since we’ve beat them cocky sods from Morton.” This was greeted with cheers and resounding thumps on the tables. “Everybody ‘ere played their ‘earts out.” More cheers and table-thumping followed. Big Dave was warming to his speech. “A special well done to Deadly for ‘is wonder goal.” Clint and Shane Ramsbottom grabbed Deadly Duggie’s wrists and held them high in triumph. The whole team cheered, raised their fists and punched the air. A few cheers were beginning to ripple through from the lounge bar where Handsome Rodney, oblivious of the celebrations near by, was telling the voluptuous Sharon that she was the spitting image of Olivia Newton John in Grease. Meanwhile, Deadly Duggie bowed to the baying crowd and modestly pointed to the scars of victory on his forehead. Another ovation rattled the pub windows.

  Big Dave had saved the best till last.

  “An’ now ah want everyone t’be upstanding for t’best football coach in Yorkshire.” Everyone shuffled unsteadily to his feet. Pint tankards scraped on the tabletops. “Ah give you Ronnie Smith.”

  The cheers from the lounge bar almost rivalled those in the taproom.

  “Speech!” yelled Don the Barman.

  “Speech,” shouted everyone at once.

  Ronnie stood up, stepped to one side and leaned back against the dartboard. Then he did something no one had seen him do before. He removed his bobble hat. It was rumoured Ronnie not only went to bed in his bobble hat but had been married in it as well. He held it to his chest like a badge of honour and bowed his head slightly. Ronnie was almost completely bald except for a few grey wisps around his ears. It explained the bobble hat a little more.

  “Ah’ll never forget today,” said Ronnie with watery eyes.

  Everyone cheered. It didn’t really matter what Ronnie said. By now the team would cheer anything.

  “Whilst ah’m real proud of our Duggie’s winning goal, it were a real team effort by all eleven, er, twelve players,” said Ronnie, catching the eye of Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.

  More cheers resounded round the room.

  “But most of all, we used t’right tactics. Like ah said afore, tactics win matches.”

  Tumultuous cheers raised the roof as Ronnie regained his seat.

  Half an hour later, Ronnie was standing in the gents’ toilet, forehead leaning against the white tiles. Handsome Rodney suddenly appeared alongside him.

  “You OK, Mr Smith?” asked Rodney politely.

  Ronnie gazed up blearily at the young blond footballer alongside him, now resplendent in his best flared trousers, John Travolta shirt and Cuban heeled shoes.

  “Aye, lad,” said Ronnie, “all the better f’seeing you miss that penalty.”

  “Ah’d do owt f’your Sharon,” said Handsome Rodney wistfully.

  “Remember the deal,” said Ronnie sternly. “Ah want ‘er back by midnight.”

  “Aye, midnight it is,” said Rodney as he turned and left Ronnie leaning like a flying buttress against the toilet wall.

  Eventually, Don the Barman called ‘Time, gentlemen please’ and Ronnie staggered home with the help of his son, Duggie. Ruby took off his muddy Wellingtons and jeans and helped him into bed. She looked concerned.

  “Ronnie, our Sharon’s gone out wi’ that Rodney from Morton,” said Ruby.

  “Ah know, don’t worry, ah’ve shpoken tuh Rodney,” mumbled Ronnie.

  “But when will she be ‘ome?” asked Ruby.

  “Midnight, eggshatly midnight,” said Ronnie and fell asleep.

  Ruby put on her cotton winceyette nightdress, which her daughters had bought her from Boyes in Ousebridge for £5.50, and listened for the door latch.

  On the stroke of midnight she heard the door slam and the sound of her beautiful daughter as she scurried upstairs to her bed.

  “Goodnight, Sharon,” said Ruby.

  “Goodnight, Mam,” said Sharon.

  Ruby looked down affectionately at her sleeping husband and wondered whether she should remove his bobble hat. She was reassured he had known the time Sharon would come home. As Ronnie began to snore, Ruby smiled and gently kissed the top of his woolly hat. She knew that, whilst he loved his football and smelled like a brewery, he had some good points. Ruby lay back, turned off the bedside lamp and thought how lucky she was to have a husband who always put his family first.

  Meanwhile, Ronnie dreamed on and thought of more tactics.

  Fourteen

  The Boat Girl

  84 children on roll. A new starter arrived, Ping from Vietnam, a temporary placement prior to permanent move to Newcastle.

  The HT expressed concern to the Education Office regarding the process of the transfer of educational records.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday 3 April 1978

  H

  er name was Ping.

  I shall never forget our first meeting. It was Monday 3 April and the season was changing. The grip of winter had passed and the heavy rains of March had gone. Bright yellow forsythia brightened the school driveway and lifted my spirits as I drove into school. The first parents were dropping off their children at the school gate and hurrying to work. Everything looked familiar, a day like any other. Except this day was destined to be different. It was the day I met Ping.

  Clutching the hand of her foster parent, she was waiting for me to arrive in the entrance hall. I opened the office door and asked them to go in. The little girl stood like a broken fawn. Her skinny legs were trembling and the biggest oval, brown eyes I had ever seen were holding back the tears. She was ten years old and I had never seen a more frightened child.

  Her brown Vietnamese face was framed beneath straight-fringed, jet-black hair. It possessed a serene kind of beauty. But behind the innocence of childhood lay visions of death. I soon learned that her mother had died of disease and malnutrition and her father had drowned during a desperate flight across the South China Sea. He had been an irrigation engineer in the Mekong Delta with proud dreams for an improved rice crop and self-sufficiency for his country. When their tiny craft finally sank, Ping was part of the human flotsam picked up by another vessel.

  Her Vietnamese foster parent spoke in clear, precise English. She was clearly a well-educated woman.

  “This is Ping,” she said. “She is a very good girl. Please can she come to your school?”

  A telephone call on the previous Friday afternoon from Roy Davidson, our Education Welfare Officer, had warned me to expect a new arrival. He explained that a few Vietnamese refugees had arrived in the area and were expected to secure permanent homes in Newcastle in a few weeks’ time. Our job was to provide a little security in the interim. This was commonplace with the children of travellers who occasionally came into Ragley and Morton, parked their caravans on waste ground, stayed a short while and then moved on. However, a child from overseas was something new for all of us.

  I didn’t know then that in the short time Ping was to be in Ragley School she was destined to become our best ten-year-old reader and a remarkable poet. I smiled and gestured towards the two visitor’s chairs.

  “Of course,” I said. “Please sit down.”

  Unfortunately, Ping’s arrival had swept around the gossip mongers at the school gate. An abrupt knock at the door was unwelcome at that moment. I opened it to be met by the considerable bulk of Mrs Winifred Brown. Vera had gone to work in the staff-room, Anne was choosing the hymns for school hymn practice with Sally on the piano and Jo was preparing her classroom for her first lesson. I stepped out into the corridor and hastily pulled the door closed behind me.

  “I’m afraid I’m very b
usy at this moment, Mrs Brown. If you could just wait until – ”

  But Mrs Brown was in no mood for waiting.

  “I’m ‘ere on be’alf of a lot o’ parents,” she announced. “We don’t want no Vietnams ‘ere, if you please. They’ll bring our kids down to their level. So we don’t want no Boat People ‘ere.”

  As a headmaster I had learned to hold my temper on many occasions and at that moment I realized I was at breaking point. This kind of ignorant bigotry had been fuelled by some of the tabloid press and Mrs Brown was more gullible than most. I took a deep breath and told her that I was disappointed to hear her views and that I could not see her until the end of the week.

  “We’ll see about that,” she shouted as I closed the door in her face.

  Ping’s foster parent looked anxious at the sound of raised voices.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “everything will be fine. Ping is very welcome here and I’m sure she’ll soon make friends.”

  The inner office door opened and Vera walked in from the staff-room. She seemed to have summed up the situation very quickly and had heard the confrontation with Mrs Brown. Vera smiled at Ping.

  “What a beautiful little girl,” she said. “Welcome to Ragley. Now, who would like a cup of coffee?”

  Ping’s foster parent looked surprised but relieved.

  “Yes please, you are very kind,” she said politely.

  Minutes later, Vera had taken over in her usual inimitable style and had begun to complete a new admissions form.

  “Did you say Ping’s date of birth is 3 April 1968?” asked Vera.

  Ping’s foster parent nodded in agreement.

  “Mr Sheffield, Ping is ten today,” announced Vera. “We must do something special for her birthday.”

  I looked at Ping and had an idea.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Ruby. She was singing ‘My Favourite Things’ as she put away her dustpan and brush at the end of her morning shift.

  “Ruby, can you do me a favour, please?” I asked.

  Ruby locked her store and looked at me inquisitively, her face flushed after sweeping and dusting the entrance hall.

 

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