For this was 1983. Average house prices had shot up to almost £30,000, Margaret Thatcher had been re-elected with a landslide majority and the film Gandhi had won eight Oscars. London police had started using wheel clamps, seatbelts had become compulsory for drivers and front-seat passengers, while Björn Borg had retired from tennis. In popular music, Culture Club’s ‘Karma Chameleon’ was destined to become the United Kingdom’s best-selling single of the year and we said a sad and final farewell to Karen Carpenter and Billy Fury. Microsoft advertised something called Word software, McDonald’s introduced the McNugget and a range of strange dolls by the name of Cabbage Patch went on sale. Meanwhile, in the Bahamas there had been an explosion in the use of a little-known drug called crack cocaine. The world was changing fast, but in the tiny village of Ragley-on-the-Forest life moved at a slower pace and on this perfect September morning the residents of the High Street were going about their business in their own quiet way.
‘Mr Sheffield, Mr Sheffield!’ cried an eager voice. Off to my right, ten-year-old Louise Hartley was turning the corner of School View from the council estate with her sister, nine-year-old Maureen, known affectionately as Little Mo. ‘Please can ah ring t’bell, Mr Sheffield, like y’said?’
‘I promised you could be bell monitor, Louise, so yes you can,’ I looked at my watch, ‘but remember to wait until exactly nine o’ clock. Go and see Mrs Grainger and she will tell you when to ring it.’
‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ she shouted and they ran off to play hopscotch with the Buttle twins.
‘’Ere we go again, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted a familiar voice. Ruby the caretaker in her bright orange XX overall appeared from the cycle shed carrying a yard broom and a black bag. Her cheeks were flushed and she leaned on her broom and waved.
‘Morning, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Thanks for all the hard work.’
She looked, misty-eyed, at the children playing in the playground and on the school field. ‘Our ’Azel’s las’ year,’ she said sadly. ‘M’las’ one at Ragley.’ All of Ruby’s six children had attended our village school and it was the end of an era for our hardworking caretaker.
‘Let’s make it a good one, Ruby,’ I said and hurried back up the drive.
Ten-year-old Terry Earnshaw sped past me. ‘Ah’m Steve Ovett, Mr Sheffield!’ he shouted triumphantly as he ran on to the playground. The British runner had just regained his fifteen hundred metres world record in three minutes 30.7 seconds. Along with Kevin Keegan and his big brother, Heathcliffe, the Olympic athlete was one of Terry’s heroes, and I smiled at his eagerness not to be late.
At nine o’ clock Louise Hartley untied the bell rope from its metal cleat and, as it had done for over one hundred years, the school bell rang out to welcome the children of Ragley village for the start of another school year.
The top juniors in my class soon settled in and, apart from having to send Terry Earnshaw out to wash his hands before we started work, all was well. Once again, as in all the classes, it was a group of mixed ages. The children who had been in my class last year would all pass their eleventh birthday during the academic year, while the younger ones, the nine-year-olds, would have two years in Class 4. Soon they were busy decorating a personalized sticky label on the lid of their tin of Lakeland crayons, putting their names in their New Oxford Dictionary, filling in their reading record cards and labelling their manila-covered exercise books for a variety of subjects. Predictably, many of them had forgotten how to write during the six-week holiday. However, old habits were soon recalled as they wrote their first paragraphs of news … even if the occasional spelling didn’t quite meet expectations.
Nine-year-old Charlotte Ackroyd wrote, ‘We went to France for our holidays. We all got on a fairy and I was sick.’ Tongue in cheek, I wrote the word ‘ferry’ in the margin. Meanwhile, new pupil ten-year-old Lee Dodsworth had visited the local RAF station where his father was an engineer. He wrote, ‘My Uncle Jim showed us his helicopter. My mam says he’s really clever because he can go straight up and hoover.’
Morning assembly was always a special occasion at the beginning of a school year, with the new starters, sitting cross-legged in the front row, waving to their older brothers and sisters. Anne played the piano while we sang ‘Morning Has Broken’ and I welcomed everyone and promised exciting times ahead. Sally accompanied ‘Kumbaya’ on her guitar and finally ten-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite, the tallest girl in the school, who, predictably, had volunteered to be Class 4 blackboard monitor, led us in our school prayer.
Dear Lord,
This is our school, let peace dwell here,
Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,
Love of one another, love of life itself,
And love of God.
Amen.
At half past ten Louise Hartley rang the bell for morning playtime and I followed a stream of excited children out of the classroom for our first morning break of the school year. I had volunteered to do playground duty and my opening task was to remove a stick of chalk from Madonna Fazackerly’s tight little fist after she had drawn a pig on the door of Ruby’s store cupboard.
Meanwhile, in the staff-room Vera had prepared mugs of hot milky coffee and was reading her Daily Telegraph, shaking her head in dismay. An opportunist thief had stolen Daley Thompson’s decathlon gold medal from his parked car. Happily, her favourite newsreader, Angela Rippon, was recovering nicely from a riding accident in which she had broken both her wrists and was about to return to broadcasting. ‘I’m so glad she’s getting better.’
‘Anything interesting in the paper, Vera?’ asked Jo.
Vera shook her head and pointed to the front page. ‘Well, I’m afraid that ginger-haired Welshman has emerged as the principal candidate for the leadership of the Labour Party,’ she remarked with more than a hint of disapproval.
‘I like Neil Kinnock,’ said Sally, who didn’t share Vera’s political views. ‘He talks sense and of course red hair is distinctive.’ She shook her Pre-Raphaelite curls in defiance.
‘Margaret will soon show him the door,’ said Vera. She looked across the staff-room at Sally. ‘But of course I do agree that red hair can be very striking … regardless of colour-coordination difficulties.’
Sally simply smiled reflectively and returned to her list of possibles for the school orchestra.
At twelve o’ clock the bell rang for lunchtime and I called in to the office to see if there were any messages. As I walked in the telephone rang.
‘For you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, holding out the receiver. ‘It’s Mrs Sheffield.’
‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said.
She walked to the window and I sat in her chair. ‘How’s John?’ I asked.
‘Fine,’ said Beth, ‘I’ve just fed him.’
Our baby son, John William, was now six weeks old and growing fast.
‘I think he’s just discovered his hands, Jack,’ added Beth. ‘He’s staring at them now.’
‘I wish I was there,’ I said. ‘You sound tired.’
‘Hmmn … your son could drink milk for England,’ she replied a little wearily.
Beth was breastfeeding the baby every four hours and our lives had changed. Broken sleep made us constantly tired, but it was remarkable watching him grow. He had begun to ‘coo’ and gurgle and make happy noises when he was feeding, and had recently survived his first cold. At four weeks he had smiled properly and now he had a kick like a mule. It appeared he was destined to be a very active little boy.
‘I shouldn’t be too late tonight,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of paperwork but I can do most of it at home.’
‘Fine,’ said Beth, ‘see you later, and when he goes to sleep I’ll get on with my next assignment.’ Beth was taking maternity leave from the headship of her village school but was still finding time to complete a part-time Masters Degree in Education at Leeds University.
‘Bye,’ I said. ‘Don’t overdo it.’
There was a chuckle down the line
as she rang off.
After checking the latest circular about a proposed common curriculum for all schools in England I decided to catch up with Jo Hunter in the staff-room. We discussed the possibility of arranging a half-day for her to visit Priory Gate Junior School to familiarize herself with her new teaching post.
‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said and we went to the office to check our list of proposed dates in the school diary. Vera was looking out of the window and shaking her head in dismay. A little white van had driven on to the car park and a short man in a flat cap and grubby white overalls climbed out, opened the rear doors and surveyed his collection of paint buckets and balls of string.
I walked out to meet him. ‘Good afternoon,’ I said. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, the headteacher.’
He shook my hand. ‘Name’s ’Umble, Mr Sheffield, Percy ’Umble … line-marker extra-ordinaire. Straight lines guar’nteed.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr Umble,’ I replied.
He removed his flat cap and looked at me quizzically. ‘It’s ’Umble, Mr Sheffield, beggin’ y’pardon – with an aitch … ’Umble by name an’ ’umble by nature.’
‘Ah, Mr Humble,’ I said, emphasizing the aitch. ‘Thank you for coming. We’ll send the children on to the school field for afternoon playtime so they will be out of your way.’
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ he said and then he sniffed the air like a French wine-taster. ‘Perfec’,’ he whispered, almost to himself. ‘No wind.’
‘No wind?’ I asked.
‘Yes, ah allus sweep t’playground where m’lines are goin’ so there’s no dust when ah’m painting. Y’see, Mr Sheffield, ah’m what y’call a perfectionist … there’s straight an’ there’s straight – an’ my lines are straight.’
‘That’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’
‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield, ’umble is as ’umble does.’ And with the accuracy of an Egyptian pyramid-builder he began to mark out the playground.
When I walked back into school I noticed to my surprise that in Class 1 Anne was on her hands and knees in the Home Corner. She was washing the classroom walls.
‘Don’t ask,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘You’d think I was experienced enough not to take my eyes off a group of children mixing powder paints.’ A line of bright-red handprints stretched round the walls and across the door.
‘Who was it?’ I asked.
‘Madonna,’ said Anne tersely as she dipped a sponge in her bowl of soapy water. I decided to leave her to it. It wasn’t the moment to discuss arrangements for the afternoon, when the school playground would be out of bounds.
Back in the staff-room Sally was marking a pile of exercise books and sharing with Jo a passage of writing by eight-year-old Mary Scrimshaw. The local pharmacist’s little daughter had written, ‘My Uncle Terry’s an accountant so ’e knows a lot about moths.’
When I walked in Sally looked up. ‘Jack, sorry to spoil your day, but that new girl, Madonna, has been in my classroom and almost exterminated Tarzan and Jane.’ Sally’s goldfish were a popular addition to her nature table. ‘She dropped that ammonite from Robin Hood’s Bay into the aquarium … but don’t worry, it’s all sorted and I told Mrs Critchley to keep an eye on her.’ Doreen Critchley was our dinner lady and, as Mr Critchley could confirm, she didn’t take prisoners.
‘Oh dear,’ I said. Someone needed to break the news to Anne.
At a quarter past three the parents of the new starters came into Anne’s class to collect their children. Anne explained that everyone should leave by the side entrance of the school to avoid the playground.
Meanwhile, Ruby the caretaker had arrived at the top of the cobbled school drive ready for her evening work. She paused to chat with Yvonne Higginbottom, who had just collected her five-year-old son, Scott. Yvonne had spent eighteen pence that morning on a Daily Mail and she took it out of her shopping bag and pointed to the headline: ‘Diana in New Baby Mystery’. Princess Diana had left Balmoral suddenly without either Prince Charles or fourteen-month-old Prince William for a private visit to a London clinic.
‘She might be ’aving another baby,’ said Yvonne.
‘Ah wunt be s’prised,’ said Ruby. ‘She wants another as sure as eggs is eggs.’
Yvonne nodded in agreement, as Ruby had a significant source of information. It was well known in the village that Ruby was a dear friend of Vera the secretary, who seemed to know everything about the royal family. They both looked at the stooping figure of Percy Humble on the playground as he completed yet another perfectly straight line. ‘What’s Van Gogh up to?’ enquired Yvonne.
‘Ah’ll be glad when ’e’s gone,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah don’t like people messin’ wi’ m’playground.’
‘Men,’ said Yvonne dismissively, ‘who needs ’em?’
It was then that Freda Fazackerly rushed up the drive, dashed into Anne’s classroom, grabbed Madonna and left by the usual route through the main door. Predictably, Madonna ran off, stepped on to the wet paint and balanced precariously on the newly painted lines before wandering off towards the school drive.
‘Oy!’ shouted Percy Humble. ‘Gerrof m’lines.’
‘Who rattled your cage?’ shouted Freda Fazackerly in response. Little Madonna stuck out her tongue and they both walked down the drive, oblivious of the trail of small white footprints behind them.
‘Ah’ll swing f’that one,’ said Ruby as she rushed into school for her mop and bucket.
Anne and I stood by the staff-room window and stared out as Freda Fazackerly took Madonna’s hand and strode out towards the council estate. Meanwhile, Ruby set about cleaning up the mess.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera with a reassuring smile, ‘we’ve survived the first day.’
It was six o’clock when I had finished enough of the day’s paperwork to leave for home, three miles away in Kirkby Steepleton. As I drove out of the school gate Freda Fazackerly was walking across the village green from the shops. She was gesticulating, so I slowed and wound down my window.
‘Well, Mr Sheffield,’ she shouted, ‘did she mek’er mark?’
I recalled the graffiti, the handprinted wall, the near-death experience for two goldfish and the white footprints that now decorated the playground.
‘Yes, Mrs Fazackerly … she did,’ I yelled back.
As I drove away the thought occurred to me that some days were better than others. At least I hoped so.
Chapter Two
The Wisdom of Vera
The Revd Joseph Evans recommenced his weekly RE lesson. Major Forbes-Kitchener, school governor, visited school to discuss the applications for a new teacher at Ragley School and tomorrow’s Harvest Supper. The newly appointed Easington Area Health & Hygiene Inspector visited the school kitchen. County Hall requested responses to their discussion document ‘A Common Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools’.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 23 September 1983
VERA HAD A problem … and she couldn’t solve it.
She paused for thought, staring at her reflection in the leaded windows of Morton Manor. Pale shafts of morning sunlight danced across the spacious grounds while, through the branches of the high elms, a parliament of rooks stared down unforgivingly with beady eyes.
It was Friday, 23 September, the day before the annual Harvest Supper in the village hall, and Vera was finding it difficult to concentrate on the list of ingredients for her Harvest Festival Cake. With a sigh she placed the shopping list in her leather handbag, put on her coat and silk scarf and set off in her new Austin Metro for what was destined to be a most eventful day at Ragley School. Vera prided herself on being the supreme problem-solver, but just occasionally one came along that surpassed even her great wisdom.
Nine months ago Vera had lived with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the beautifully furnished vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church on the Morton Road. Her life had been one of careful routine and or
der. However, last December she had married Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, a rich widower and owner of the magnificent Morton Manor. It had proved to be a dramatic change for Vera, even though she had brought with her the comforting companionship of her three cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie. Her favourite, Maggie, a black cat with white paws, was named after her political heroine Margaret Thatcher. However, while her busy life continued to be filled with the twice-weekly Cross-Stitch Club, church flowers and Women’s Institute meetings, her world had changed. Vera had a problem and it wouldn’t go away – and it wasn’t simply the fact that Maggie had fleas.
A few miles away, in the second bedroom of Bilbo Cottage in Kirkby Steepleton, I was becoming a moderately proficient changer of nappies. Our second bedroom had been decorated by Beth during the latter part of her pregnancy and it was now baby John’s nursery. The cot was in the corner and a plastic changing mat adorned the floral-patterned sofa.
‘The health visitor is coming this morning, Jack,’ said Beth. Even at this early hour she looked stunning in a cream sweater and tight, stone-washed jeans that emphasized her natural beauty. Her honey-blonde hair caressed her high cheekbones.
‘Just routine, I expect,’ I replied.
‘And don’t forget I’m bringing John into school later this morning to help with Anne’s Growing Up project.’
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