01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  As I displayed the card on my bedside unit, I remembered why teaching young children is the best job in the world.

  Jimmy Poole had drawn a picture of himself giving me a large green object the size of a saucepan. Next to it was an arrow with the word ‘sweet’. I recalled the gift of a fruit pastille many months ago.

  Jimmy was another good writer and Jo Maddison was outstanding at encouraging the children to write long and descriptive sentences. Any word that they couldn’t spell they wrote in their ‘Word Books’ and either checked in their dictionary or put up their hand to ask Miss Maddison to check for them. Jimmy had written, “Hello, Mr Sheffield, how is your car? We are saving up for a present for you. If you could have anything in the world what would it be? We have 52p.”

  Eventually, reassured that I was looking fine if a little tired, they got up to leave.

  May looked at me wistfully as she said goodbye. She had a wonderful habit of saying the wrong words but still making sense.

  “Dinna worry, Jack, ye will be all right soon,” said May. “It’s just a phrase ye are going through.”

  My mother gave me a kiss, took her sister’s arm and they walked out in step, chattering away with John following close behind.

  John had brought a morning newspaper with him and I settled down to read what was happening in the world outside. A photograph of Arthur Scargill, the left-wing Yorkshire Miners’ leader, dominated the front page. Britain’s 280,000 miners wanted a 41 per cent pay rise, which would give face workers £110 for a thirty-hour week. This was bad news for Jim Callaghan who wanted to keep pay increases down to 5 per cent. I flicked through the sports news and then rested again.

  At five o’clock, Jo and Sally arrived with another huge bag of grapes.

  “We’re the first shift,” said Sally.

  “You’re only allowed two visitors at a time,” explained Jo.

  Suddenly, Jo’s attention wavered.

  “Dishy doctor,” said Jo appreciatively as another teenage clone in a white coat walked by, his flared trousers flapping around his ankles.

  Sally nodded.

  “Bit young for me,” she said, staring after the young doctor whose wavy ringlets hung down over his collar.

  “Excuse me,” I said, feigning disappointment, “weren’t you supposed to be coming to see me?”

  “Sorry, Jack,” said Jo, tearing herself away from the many distractions around her. “Did you like the cards, by the way?”

  The nurses had strung up the cards from the curtain rail so my bed was gradually taking on the appearance of a carnival float.

  “They’re wonderful, Jo, thanks so much. They really cheered me up.”

  Sally looked at the bags of grapes.

  “Are you sure you can eat all these grapes, Jack?” she asked.

  “Please help me out,” I said, thrusting them in their direction. “I’m getting sick of grapes.”

  Sally and Jo had just about finished the whole bag by the time Anne and Vera arrived for the next shift. Anne was her usual reassuring self.

  “Don’t worry, Jack, everything is fine at school and we’re all set for next week’s Centenary. If you feel well enough by then, just call in, but you mustn’t overdo it. Don’t come back too soon.”

  “I’ve got Joseph to lead the assembly on that day instead of you, Mr Sheffield,” said Vera firmly, “so don’t think you have that to prepare.”

  I quickly realized I was faced with two very determined women.

  “Here’s a bag of grapes for you,” said Vera. “Eat them up, they’ll do you good.”

  I tentatively bit into yet another grape.

  “And don’t worry about that precious car of yours,” said Anne. “I called into Pratt’s Garage this morning. Victor was his usual grumbling self but he’ll do a good job for you.”

  The conversation rattled on until at around seven o’clock Vera saw that I looked tired again.

  “Come on, let’s leave him in peace,” said Vera.

  “I’ve asked John to come and collect you if they let you out tomorrow,” said Anne. “Is that OK with you, Jack?”

  I nodded and thanked her. Within minutes I was dozing again.

  Working with females for most of my professional life had given me an insight into the mysteries of perfume. Vera always wore her traditional and elegant Chanel N°5, whereas the youthful Jo Maddison had begun to wear Charlie by Revlon, aimed at the under-twenty-five market. Even with my back turned, I could recognize who had entered the school office. The staff thought I had got eyes in the back of my head and I didn’t enlighten them. But there was one perfume that I would never forget, and the scent of it was with me now, softening the antiseptic air of the hospital ward. It was Yves Saint Laurent’s Rive Gauche and it was the perfume that I had come to associate with Beth Henderson.

  I opened my eyes and she was standing next to my bed holding a small bunch of summer flowers and her brown leather briefcase. She looked a little tired and her blond hair was windswept.

  “Jack, I had to come and I’m sorry I’m late but I was so worried about you,” said Beth anxiously. “I had to work late at the office and then I came straight here.”

  She held my hand and gently touched my bruised forehead. It was only for a moment in time and I stared into her soft green eyes. I didn’t want to let her go. I felt she sensed my vulnerability and she stood up to collect a vase from a trolley next to the washbasin at the entrance to the ward. She filled the vase with water, arranged the flowers skilfully and placed them on top of the cupboard next to my bed. Then she displayed a few of the cards around the base of the vase.

  “What a lovely collection of cards, Jack,” she said appreciatively. “Aren’t children’s drawings so wonderful?”

  She picked one up and smiled as she read the message.

  “Look at this one, Jack, from a little girl called Amanda.”

  She read out the spidery infant printing.

  “Miss Maddison says me and Jane are going to sing a duel when you come back.”

  We both laughed and she sat down at the foot of the bed and looked thoughtfully at me.

  “I’m so glad you came,” I said and reached for her hand again.

  “You gave us such a shock, Jack, when the news came through to the Education Office. Miss B-H can be an absolute tyrant at times but she’s definitely got a soft spot for you. She’s sent a card and made sure everyone in the office signed it.”

  Beth handed over a large envelope addressed in Miss Barrington-Huntley’s distinctive, expansive cursive handwriting. As usual with everything she wrote, the writing began at the bottom left and raced to the top right with the final flourish of a severe black line to underline the words. The card was full of signatures and messages and included Beth’s signature. But there was no written message from her and I felt a momentary pang of disappointment.

  “Jack, Miss B-H has heard about your Victorian Day to celebrate the centenary of the school and thinks it’s a brilliant idea. She wondered if you might like us both to come along, in costume, of course. Secretly, I think she likes the idea of dressing up. She was also hoping you might like to invite the photographer from the Yorkshire Evening Press. It would be good publicity for the school.”

  “That’s fine with me, Beth,” I said. “Just check it out with Anne Grainger, she’s Acting Head during my absence.”

  A warning bell rang. Visiting time was over. Beth got up to leave and, as an afterthought, she began to rummage in her voluminous briefcase and produced a large paper bag and a small envelope.

  “For you,” she said simply and leaned forward. She stared at me and then slowly and deliberately she kissed me tenderly on the lips. It was a surprise and I felt a thrill pass through me. I closed my eyes and wished the moment would last for ever.

  “Get well soon, Jack,” she whispered softly.

  Moments later I opened my eyes but Beth had gone, leaving only a trace of perfume and the memory of a loving kiss.

  I o
pened the envelope. Inside was a small card with a picture of yellow lilies on the front. I looked inside and in small, neat writing she had written ‘Thinking of you, with love Beth’, and in that moment I felt my life was complete.

  Harry the Comedian, who had obviously unashamedly listened to the whole conversation, shouted from his bed.

  “What’s in the bag, Jack?”

  I opened it and pulled out the biggest bunch of grapes I had ever seen.

  Harry was literally in stitches. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  As for myself, I read Beth’s card again and made up my mind that even if I had to crawl into school for the Victorian Day, I was going to make it.

  Twenty-one

  The Victorian Day and Albert

  School Centenary Day. All children, teachers and governors were in costume. Miss Barrington-Huntley and Miss Henderson (Education Office) visited school (in costume). A photograph of children and staff appeared in the Yorkshire Evening Press. Many people from the village supported the wide range of events. Mr Sheffield returned to school following his road traffic accident to support the event and will return to full-time duty next Monday.

  (A. Grainger, Acting Headmistress)

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday 14 July 1978

  A

  lbert Jenkins looked like a character from a Charles Dickens’ novel. It was the school Centenary Day and his Victorian costume was perfect in every detail. He took the heavy brass pocket watch from his waistcoat, wound it up, listened for the ticking and nodded to me. “Time for the school bell, Jack.”

  It was Friday 14 July and I had returned to school for the first time since my accident. During my absence, Anne Grainger had done a wonderful job and it seemed as though she had mobilized the whole village to celebrate one hundred years of education in Ragley School. Lofts had been searched for Victorian artefacts; old photographs appeared on the school notice boards and the memories of senior citizens were suddenly in demand. As well as the teachers, many parents had arrived in costume to support the children’s activities, including an imposing Sue Phillips in an authentic Victorian nurse’s uniform and armed with a large metal nit comb.

  All the School Governors had been persuaded by Anne to come ‘in character’. Albert Jenkins was to be a Victorian School Inspector, the Revd Joseph Evans was the Parish Vicar and Stan Coe was secretly very pleased to act the part of local Squire and Landowner. Albert had loaned me an old, charcoal-grey, three-piece suit, complete with watch-chain, in order to ‘blend in’ as a Victorian gentleman and I had been told very firmly by Anne to enjoy the day and not do anything too demanding. Apart from a little bruising around my right eye I was almost back to my old self.

  Albert pointed towards a huge poster with his brass-topped walking cane. “I’ll be enforcing every one of these, Jack,” said Albert with a twinkle in his eye.

  The Victorian School Rules had been written in beautiful cursive handwriting at an angle of sixty degrees on a large sheet of white paper.

  Children must call teachers Sir or Ma’am.

  Children must stand when an adult enters the room.

  Children must use their right hand at all times for handwriting.

  Children must not ask questions.

  Children with fleas or nits must not attend school.

  Children who are late will be caned.

  Children who do poor work will be caned.

  Children who behave badly will be caned.

  It occurred to me that left-handed latecomers with learning difficulties must have had a tough time in Victorian England.

  Albert and I walked on to the school playground where a remarkable sight met our eyes. In the bright morning sunshine, Anne Grainger, Sally Pringle, Jo Maddison and Valerie Flint were standing in line, side by side, and looking very severe. They wore ankle-length black skirts, black shiny boots and frilly white blouses buttoned up to the neck. Valerie Flint, who was in charge of my class, was also wearing a beautiful Victorian brooch that was a family heirloom.

  The children had been transformed, thanks to Anne’s regular practices during the week. Instead of strolling up the drive in their lightweight summer T-shirts, the children had lined up in perfect silence, boys in one line and girls in another. The boys wore collarless shirts, waistcoats, flat caps, baggy shorts cut below the knee, long grey socks and old boots. The girls wore long dresses, white pinafores and bows in their hair and brought sighs of admiration from the large group of mothers at the school gate, many of whom were taking photographs.

  Anne raised a whistle to her lips and blew two short sharp blasts. As if by magic, the children marched into school like clockwork soldiers.

  Anita Cuthbertson giggled as she stepped into the school entrance and Miss Flint boomed, “Children should be seen and not heard, Anita Cuthbertson.” It appeared Miss Flint was taking this very seriously.

  Inside the school hall, all the children had lined up again with their hands outstretched, palms upwards. The teachers walked up and down the lines of children, inspecting the cleanliness of their hands, like officers inspecting the troops.

  Albert and I followed Miss Flint into my classroom. The tables were no longer arranged in groups but in straight lines. The children stood alongside them whilst Miss Flint read out their names in the register and they sat down quietly when their name was called.

  “Now, hands together, eyes closed,” said Miss Flint.

  The children recited the Lord’s Prayer and then Miss Flint asked a monitor to give out a map of the British Empire to each child. In complete silence, the children used a pink colouring pencil to colour in the countries of the Empire. Next door, in Sally Pringle’s classroom, we could hear the children chanting their tables whilst Sally beat out the rhythm on her desk with a wooden cane.

  At a quarter past nine, the whole school assembled in the school hall and Joseph Evans, with a slightly whimsical air, told the children the purpose of the school.

  “You come to school,” said Joseph, “to prepare yourself for future work. Always remember your place in life. You must show respect to the important people in the village. They include the Squire, the landowners, the factory owners and the vicar.”

  Joseph smiled sheepishly at this whilst Stan Coe, sitting at the side of the hall, beamed from ear to ear.

  Then Claire Phillips read out a simple prayer.

  “Lord teach a little child to pray,

  And fill my heart with love,

  And make me fitter every day,

  To go to heaven above.”

  Anne stood up, thanked the vicar, and the children filed quietly back to their classrooms.

  “That’s what they should be like every day, seen and not heard,” said Stan Coe to the Revd Evans.

  Joseph looked embarrassed by the remark.

  “That’s a little harsh, I think, Stanley,” said Joseph. “We need to listen to children to know how to help them.”

  “Rubbish!” grunted Stan. “Anyway, what time is this photographer coming? Ah’ve got things t’do.”

  Joseph looked at his watch. “The Yorkshire Evening Press reporter said ten thirty. Mrs Grainger has arranged for all the children and staff to assemble on the playground, so you will have to wait until then.”

  I had never seen Joseph angry before and he walked briskly out of the hall and into the staff-room where Vera had just welcomed Miss Barrington-Huntley and Beth Henderson.

  ♦

  It was like suddenly arriving on the set of a BBC costume drama. All three ladies looked magnificent. It was immediately obvious that they had all hired specialist costumes. They stood admiring each other’s attire.

  “You look stunning, Miss Evans,” said Miss Barrington-Huntley. “I love the jewellery and the elegant shawl.”

  Vera smiled graciously.

  “Thank you,” she said, “and both of you look absolutely perfect. Deep purple and lilac go so well together.”

  Albert and I followed Joseph into th
e staff room and stood in admiration.

  “Thank you for coming,” I said. “You all look wonderful.”

  I could barely take my eyes away from the sheer elegance of Beth’s outfit.

  “I’ve got Miss Barrington-Huntley to thank,” said Beth modestly. “She knew the perfect costume shop in Northallerton. According to the owner these dresses are copies of those worn by Emmeline Pankhurst and her daughter, Dame Christabel Pankhurst, the famous suffragettes.”

  “Ah, we must remember to be polite, ladies,” said Miss Barrington-Huntley mischievously, “here’re three eligible men who have the vote and make all the decisions in Victorian times,” She beckoned me to sit in a chair. “Now, how are you, Jack? You gave us all quite a scare. I do hope you’re not overdoing it.”

  I was surprised to be called by my first name. Miss Barrington-Huntley looked genuinely concerned and her fearsome reputation seemed distant as she pulled a chair alongside and looked at me enquiringly.

  “I’m much better now, thank you,” I said, “and it’s good to be back in school on such a special day. Anne has done a wonderful job in my absence.”

  “I know, Jack, word does get back to me, you know.” Miss Barrington-Huntley glanced across at Beth. “Miss Henderson never seems to stop telling us what wonderful things go on here in Ragley.”

  The piercing look that I remembered from my interview was there again but this time it was softer and her eyes were creased with a hint of a smile. I wondered if there was more to the remark.

  “You’re welcome to tour the school if you wish before the photographer comes.”

  “Excellent idea,” said Miss Barrington-Huntley. “May I start in Mrs Grainger’s class? I would like to see how that little boy from Barnsley has progressed,” and she walked off with Beth towards Anne’s classroom.