‘Wonder if ’e’s gorra girlfriend?’ added Margery for good measure, and Diane gave Amelia a knowing look.
Further down the High Street in the General Stores & Newsagent, Prudence Golightly was serving Julie Earnshaw.
‘A tin o’ ’Einz Baked Beans please, Prudence,’ said Julie, ‘an’ a white loaf. That’ll ’ave t’do f’tea.’
‘That’s twenty and a half pence for the beans, Julie,’ said Prudence, ‘and thirty-two pence for the loaf. Was there anything else?’
Julie rummaged in the bottom of her purse and found a couple of spare coppers. ‘An’ a Curly Wurly for our Dallas, please.’ Three-year-old Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw smiled a toothy smile and with practised ease bit off the paper wrapping.
The bell over the door rang urgently and Betty Buttle and Connie Crapper walked in. ‘Guess what?’ said Betty and hurried to the counter. ‘Ah’ve seen ’em what’s come for t’new teachin’ job.’
Prudence hated gossip, except this was definitely interesting gossip. She looked up at Jeremy Bear, her lifelong friend. Yorkshire’s best-dressed teddy bear was sitting on his usual shelf next to a tin of loose-leaf Lyons Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Prudence took great pride in making sure he was always well turned out. Today he was wearing a white shirt, a tartan bow-tie and a striped apron. Prudence decided this gossip was not for Jeremy’s fluffy ears, so she quickly picked him up and put him in the back room. After all, Jeremy was a sensitive soul.
‘So, Betty,’ she asked, ‘what did you see?’
‘Well, there were three women – an’ a young man,’ said Betty.
‘A man!’ exclaimed Julie. ‘What’s ’e like?’
‘A bit like that feller what dived into t’lake wi’ nowt on in Women in Love,’ she said. ‘Y’know –’im who fancied Glenda Jackson.’
‘Oliver Reed,’ suggested Julie.
‘No, t’other one,’ said Betty.
‘Alan Bates,’ said Prudence. ‘It’s one of my favourite films.’
Betty looked thoughtful. ‘Ah’ll grant yer ’is ’air is ’xactly like Alan Bates, sort of manly but floppy at t’same time.’
‘Well, ah thought ’e were more like Robert Redford – but wi’ ’air like Alan Bates,’ said Connie.
‘Are y’sure?’ asked Betty, who was taking some shifting from her dreams. ‘Well, ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt,’ she continued with absolute conviction, ‘ah wish ah were ten years younger.’
There was an awkward silence as the rest of the ladies did the maths and thought more like twenty.
‘So what’s it to be, Betty?’ asked Prudence.
‘Blessed if ah’ve f’gotten now,’ said Betty and everyone laughed.
At the end of school the children ran down the cobbled driveway into the gathering darkness with happy thoughts of a week’s holiday, bonfires and fireworks. Meanwhile, the candidates settled in the staff-room and the interviewing panel – Anne and myself plus Major Forbes-Kitchener and the chair of governors, Joseph Evans – settled ourselves in the office and prepared to interview the first candidate.
Not for the first time, it occurred to me that interviews for a new teacher lacked one thing that was obvious – you didn’t actually see the candidates teach. You relied on gut feeling based on the personality sitting in front of you, the answers they gave and the report of their previous headteacher.
As the time ticked by on the office clock it was interesting that all the interviews were remarkably different. It felt as though Mrs Mary Blaythewaite interviewed us … which of course was a good thing. She was confident and clearly very competent, although I felt there were questions about her flexibility and the capacity she may have to adapt to the needs of our village school. To her credit she made it clear that she had never sought promotion and merely wanted a new challenge teaching early years children in a different school.
I liked the dynamic Ms Pat Brookside from Thirkby. She reminded me of Jo Hunter, and was keen to offer to take over the school netball team, particularly as she herself played for York Ladies. However, she appeared to have a phobia about computers and lacked conviction in her responses to questions about the curriculum. I put it down to nerves, and I saw her as a potentially strong candidate who could definitely develop at Ragley School given the chance.
Tom Dalton was remarkably calm and relaxed for such a young man. He had taught a range of age groups in his short career and his village school was about to close, so he was looking for a new post with some urgency. He answered the major’s questions about school discipline with confidence and Joseph was clearly impressed with his views on the inevitability of a forthcoming common curriculum for schools and how we would need to adapt. Anne asked him about a quirky addition to his application form. Tom had entered The Times Classroom Computer Competition. ‘Yes,’ he confirmed enthusiastically, ‘and the prize is an Atari 600XL computer with a 16Kb RAM memory,’ at which Anne glanced across at me and smiled.
Miss Valerie Flint was frank as always. ‘I know why I’m here, Joseph,’ she said at the end of her interview, ‘and you know what you’ll get from me – order, loyalty and good teaching.’ She was a remarkable lady and I knew the final choice would be a difficult one.
An hour later I felt relieved as I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton. Selecting a new member of staff, particularly in such a small school as ours, was a vitally important decision. However, I knew we had made the right choice. To be effective for the children in our care, it was important we worked as a team and made the most of each other’s strengths. I relaxed as I pulled into the driveway of Bilbo Cottage and when I opened the door the appetizing smell of delicious cooking floated out to meet me.
Beth was in the kitchen, preparing a shepherd’s pie in that particular way I loved so much, simple but effective. She had cooked the onions, removed them from the pan, fried the meat, removed the fat, added a stock cube and tomato purée, then thickened and seasoned to perfection. I dropped my old leather satchel in the hallway, walked into the kitchen and put my arms round her waist. ‘Good to be home,’ I said, ‘and what a wonderful smell.’
‘Me or the cooking?’ she asked as she spooned the food on to two Denby plates.
‘Both,’ I said and nuzzled her neck. ‘John OK?’
‘Yes, he’s fast asleep.’
We sat opposite each other at the old pine table. Beth had also found a bottle of Muscadet, a sharp French white wine, in the ancient spare fridge in the garage and she poured a liberal measure for us both.
‘What’s the occasion?’ I asked.
Beth swirled the wine in her glass and stared at it as if for inspiration. ‘Jack,’ she said at last, ‘I’ve spoken to my chair of governors and to Miss Barrington-Huntley at County Hall and both have agreed.’
I put down my glass. ‘Agreed?’
She sipped her wine before delivering the enormity of the next statement. ‘I’m staying at home, Jack, to look after John for the rest of this academic year.’
For me it was a relief. ‘But that’s great news,’ I said, ‘and I’m sure it’s the right decision.’
She gave me a tired smile. ‘So, as long as we can manage …’
‘We’ll be fine, Beth,’ I assured her with as much conviction as I could muster.
The reality was that, although I was a headteacher, Ragley was a relatively tiny school so my pay grade was very low. There were young policemen, trainee gas-fitters and pop salesmen earning more than me. While it was the job I loved, it came at a price. However, we touched our glasses across the table with a satisfying clink, drank deeply and began to enjoy the welcome hot food.
Beth looked up. ‘Sorry, Jack,’ she said, ‘but I’ve not asked yet about the interviews.’
‘They went well,’ I said, ‘and I’m happy with the outcome.’
‘So who got the job?’
‘The young guy from York – Tom Dalton.’
‘What’s he like?’ asked Beth.
<
br /> ‘He’ll be fine,’ I said.
Little did I know it then, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Chapter Five
A Friend in Need
County Hall sent the document ‘Towards Cooperation – a Vision for the Implementation of a Core Curriculum for Small Schools in North Yorkshire’ to all village schools in the Easington area and requested responses from all headteachers.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 11 November 1983
WE ALL NEED a friend … perhaps some more than others.
Timothy Pratt was sorting his socks.
Three colours he thought. A pair for all seasons and every occasion.
He stared in admiration and, in that moment of sheer bliss, he knew contentment in every fibre of his organized soul. It was satisfying to create perfection and this was it.
Timothy’s bedroom above his Hardware Emporium was functional, some would say minimalist. It comprised a big iron-framed bed with highly polished brass knobs on each corner, an old wooden carver chair, a Contiboard bedside table and a pine chest of drawers painted with anti-dust varnish. Everything was in its place and Timothy was content in his world.
He pulled open the left-hand top drawer, peered in and sighed. Order from chaos was Timothy’s mantra. So it was that his recently ironed pairs of black socks were placed on the left-hand side, in the middle were perfect piles of blue socks and finally, on the right, equally neat pairs of grey socks. He had black socks for funerals and weddings, blue socks for summer and grey socks for winter. Twice a year the villagers of Ragley changed their clocks: however, the owner of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium also changed his socks. There were almost forty-seven million people in the country but few had a sock drawer like Tidy Tim. Timothy’s was not only colour-coordinated – it was also in alphabetical order.
However, the life of Timothy Pratt was about to change and his sock drawer was destined never to be the same again.
It was Friday, 11 November and the first frosts had arrived. Outside Bilbo Cottage a coating of frozen mist had settled on the fading leaves of the once-bright dahlias and in the vegetable patch a few neglected onions had gone to seed. Dense morning fog had descended over the Vale of York and the acrid smell of woodsmoke hung heavy in the air.
Beth and John were leaving to spend the weekend with Beth’s parents at Austen Cottage in Little Chawton, the pretty little village in Hampshire where they lived. I watched her walk out to her pale blue Volkswagen Beetle. She looked a perfect English beauty in her white polo-neck sweater, a suede fleece, blue skin-tight denim jeans and fur-lined leather boots. A flurry of decaying autumn leaves swirled at her feet as she strapped John into his baby seat.
‘Stay safe,’ I said.
‘We shall,’ said Beth. ‘Will you survive without me?’ she added with a grin.
‘Well, I’ll get a full night’s sleep,’ I said and kissed her goodbye.
As she drove away I reflected on the past couple of weeks.
During the half-term holiday family and friends had gathered for John’s christening in St Mary’s Church. I had collected my Scottish mother Margaret and her sister May from their house in Leeds and that evening they had stayed with Joseph at the vicarage as there was no room in our tiny two-bedroom cottage. Beth’s parents, John and Diane Henderson, had accepted Vera and Rupert’s kind invitation and they had enjoyed the experience of staying overnight at the elegant Morton Manor. Beth’s younger sister, the dynamic and vivacious Laura, had travelled up from her London flat and stayed in the Dean Court Hotel in York. Laura had been asked to move from her post as Assistant Manager of Liberty in London to take over as temporary Manager of the fashion department at their large department store in York for a few months. So she had taken the opportunity to seek out a stylish apartment in the city centre on a short-term let.
The service had gone smoothly and John slept for most of it, only waking when Joseph poured water on him from a baptismal shell. When he made the sign of the cross on his forehead John thought it was feeding time and tried to suck Joseph’s finger, much to the amusement of the congregation. It was followed by a low-key but happy and convivial family tea at Bilbo Cottage. Since then Beth had been busy with her latest assignment for Leeds University and I had prepared my scheme of work for the new half term.
When I drove up the High Street Miss Lillian Figgins, known as Lollipop Lil, was on duty as our road-crossing patrol officer and she waved a cheerful greeting. The zebra crossing at the top of the High Street had become part of our village life as the traffic became a little busier each year.
Lillian loved her job and also, thanks to Vera, she was now the regular housekeeper at the vicarage, where she looked after the increasingly lonely Joseph Evans. She often thought of this kindly man as she braved all, and hoped they might be friends one day. Talking to the children each day was the highlight of Lillian’s life; she had soon learned all their names by heart and enjoyed the brief conversations she had with them as they marched across the road.
‘Ah gorra sticker, Miss,’ said Rosie Spittlehouse with enthusiasm, showing her the bright sticky label on the first page of her writing book.
‘Well done, Rosie,’ said Lillian, waving her across. ‘Y’mam’ll be proud.’
‘An’ ah got one as well,’ said six-year-old Mandy Kerslake.
‘An’ Mandy’s my best friend,’ said Rosie.
‘That’s lovely,’ said Lillian. ‘It’s good to have a friend.’ A mud-covered Land Rover’s horn peeped … an’ ’e’s not one o’ ’em, thought Lillian.
It was Stan Coe, local pig farmer and the bane of Lillian’s life. ‘Gerra move on,’ he shouted. He was always in a hurry and she had to grit her teeth to avoid shouting back at him.
One day she thought, one day …
Vera was already hard at work dealing with the morning post when I walked in.
‘This looks important, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, handing me a smart spiral-bound document with a distinctive North Yorkshire County Council crest. It concerned the proposal that small schools should work together towards a new core curriculum. There was an accompanying letter from Miss Barrington-Huntley, chair of the Education Committee.
‘According to this, Vera, we have to team up with another school and do some in-service work together,’ I said.
‘Which school?’ she asked.
I scanned Miss High-and-Mighty’s letter. ‘It simply says we need to work together “as friends in the spirit of cooperation”.’
‘In that case, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera pointedly, ‘we shall need to choose our friend carefully.’
It was a busy morning and, as my class was doing a Second World War project, we joined Sally’s class in the school hall for their weekly ITV television programme How We Used to Live. It was an excellent twenty-minute broadcast featuring some of the major historical social events between 1936 and 1953. The discussion afterwards was fascinating and, with the Argentine conflict fresh in our minds, Betsy Icklethwaite asked if there was an alternative to war.
Afterwards the children’s writing produced some poignant memories. Charlotte Ackroyd’s composition was beginning to show great improvement but it was clear she needed to use her dictionary with more care. She had written, ‘During the war my Aunty Pauline lived in London so she had to be evaporated and my granddad was captured and was put in a constipation camp.’ I corrected the misspellings with a wry smile.
At morning break Jo was full of enthusiasm. She had come across an advertisement in an article in her weekly science magazine and was eager to share her news. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘there’s a Sinclair ZX Spectrum Computer for £129.95 on sale here. It looks to be a bargain and it comes with MEP cassettes in maths, problem-solving and reading.’
‘It certainly looks impressive,’ I said. ‘Let’s discuss it at the next staff meeting.’
Sufficiently mollified, she hurried off to prepare her next lesson.
On my way back to class two ten-year-ol
ds, Michelle Cathcart and Louise Hartley, were in the school library and eagerly exchanging stories when I spoke to them.
‘Guess what, Mr Sheffield?’ said Louise.
I didn’t have a chance to reply.
‘Me an’ Louise are friends now,’ said Michelle.
I smiled at their new-found enthusiasm. ‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ I said.
‘Well, we’re the same age,’ explained Michelle.
‘An’ our birthdays are in t’same week,’ added Louise.
‘That’s a good reason,’ I said.
‘An’ Louise ’elps with t’library work,’ said Michelle.
‘An’ sometimes ah let Michelle ring t’bell,’ said Louise.
‘An’ we both like Wham!’ said Michelle.
‘An’ David Bowie,’ said Louise.
‘An’ Kajagoogoo,’ said Michelle.
‘An’ ’Eaven 17,’ said a bright-eyed Louise.
‘Heaven 17?’ I repeated, puzzled. ‘I’ve not heard of them.’
‘Ah thought teachers knew everything,’ said a smiling Louise.
‘Anyway, Mr Sheffield,’ said Michelle, keen to move on, ‘t’main reason we’re friends is ’cause we’re t’same … but different.’
‘Different?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Louise, ‘Michelle ’asn’t got a father and ah’ve not got a mother.’
‘But between us we’ve got one of each,’ said Michelle.
‘So that makes us friends,’ concluded Louise and they wandered off back to class for a lesson on reflection and refraction followed by a lively half-hour of mental arithmetic without the use of a Casio calculator.
After lunch in the staff-room, Anne and I made a list of children whose reading ages were below their chronological age, with a view to giving them extra help. Conversely, Sally and Jo identified our most able children with a view to ensuring their programmes of work were sufficiently demanding.
Then, while we relaxed over coffee, Vera, Sally and Jo scanned my morning paper, gleaning news according to their interests. Vera was concerned to note that US President Ronald Reagan only worked a three-hour day, whereas Sally read the latest article about the protests on Greenham Common. Not only had the first missile-launchers been unloaded, but the first cruise missiles were expected later in the month. Protesters had been informed that those who got too close would be shot! Meanwhile, Jo was heartbroken. The man who in her opinion was the world’s most eligible bachelor, thirty-four-year-old Richard Gere, had got engaged to a Brazilian beauty. ‘Oh damn,’ she said out loud, much to Vera’s surprise.
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