Vera refused to read the article about John McEnroe, who had told assembled VIPs to ‘Shut your fat mouths’ at the French Tennis Championships.
‘Let’s hope they ban him from Wimbledon for life,’ she said with feeling.
Suddenly Tom popped his head round the staff-room door. ‘I’m off now,’ he said, ‘and thanks, Miss Flint. I’ve left the programme of work for the afternoon on my desk and the children know what’s expected.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Miss Flint.
‘Any plans for the weekend, Tom?’ asked Sally.
Tom paused before replying. ‘Well, I should be seeing Laura tomorrow afternoon when I get back from the course.’ He looked hesitantly at me. ‘She’s coming round to help me buy some furniture for my flat in York.’ He pulled out an advertisement from his pocket. ‘A bit dear, but it looks good.’ It read: ‘Cavendish-Woodhouse All-in-One Living Room £499.95’.
Everything went quiet until the ever-positive Sally broke the ice. She stood up and walked out into the corridor with him. ‘Let’s have a look,’ she said.
I said nothing, Vera frowned and Anne looked concerned.
The afternoon finished quietly, with me completing a few more of my termly reading tests. Louise Hartley had just read the final line of the Schonell Graded Word Reading Test, namely: rescind, metamorphosis, somnambulist, bibliography and idiosyncrasy. It was a spectacular achievement by this hardworking girl from a single-parent family and I knew her father would be proud.
I cleared my desk, updated the school logbook and set off in my Morris Minor Traveller as the weather was changing. The journey over the moors on the Ripon road was dramatic, as dark, heavy cumulus clouds built up over the Hambleton hills.
At last I drove through the giant wrought-iron gates and along the long, winding gravelled driveway and past the beautiful lake. High Sutton Hall was just as I remembered it, a fine Georgian mansion set in five hundred acres of magnificent Yorkshire countryside. Just beyond a walled garden covered in honeysuckle and variegated ivy was a sign that read ‘Stable Block’ and I pulled in to the old cobbled square that was now used as a car park.
It was good to be here again. This was a special place, a wonderful retreat for teachers to meet, share ideas and enjoy excellent hospitality. It was a reminder of the grandeur of bygone days. However, it was still an oasis in the wild North Yorkshire moors and, above my head, a lone kestrel, like a prince of the sky, hovered menacingly, searching out its prey.
By six o’ clock all the local headteachers had arrived to swell the audience of recently appointed teachers who had been there during the day, and smiles of recognition were exchanged as we settled in our seats. There was an air of expectancy as Miss Barrington-Huntley thanked us for our attendance and emphasized the importance of today’s meeting.
The main lecture featured North Yorkshire’s charismatic Senior Primary Adviser, Richard Gomersall. It was a concise summary of the new demands that were coming our way in the primary curriculum. As he repeated the term ‘value for money’, it was clear to us all that a brave new world was on the horizon and it would be people like Tom Dalton and his peer group that would be leading it. There were supplementary presentations by other advisers, including an intriguing one concerning extra-curricular activities and the minefield of possible pitfalls. The closing remarks by Miss Barrington-Huntley merely confirmed the challenges that lay ahead.
Dinner was a relaxed affair, with no one from the same school sharing a table with a colleague. So it wasn’t until shortly before nine o’ clock that I met up with Tom in the spacious bar and could ask him about his afternoon talk to the rest of the group. We ordered two pints of John Smith’s bitter and sat in one of the comfortable alcoves.
He looked a little anxious and kept glancing out of the bay window as he sipped his drink.
‘So, how did it go?’ I asked.
He looked hesitant. ‘Well, I think it went well, Jack – but you can never tell.’
‘Tom, you’re way ahead of everyone here in the new technology, so it’s good for your career and the reputation of Ragley School that you’ve been invited to speak.’
‘Yes, I met Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ he said with a sense of awe and wonder.
‘And what did she say?’
‘Simply “Well done” … and that I was fortunate to be at Ragley and to make the most of my time there.’
I understood the hidden message. Miss Barrington-Huntley had marked his card.
Then the unexpected happened.
To my surprise Laura walked into the bar and all heads turned. She was wearing a chic checked blouse and waistcoat, a pencil-thin, figure-hugging grey skirt, high-heeled black leather shoes and a fake moleskin long-line jacket – in marked contrast to the standard two-piece business suits worn by the female delegates.
‘Hello, Tom. Good directions – I found it easily.’ She turned to me, stretched up and ran her long slender fingers down the lapels of my jacket, then straightened my crumpled tie. The scent of Opium perfume filled my senses and her soft brown hair brushed against my face. Finally, she stood back to admire her work. ‘That’s better, Jack.’
‘I didn’t know you were coming here,’ I said.
Laura smiled. ‘Just an impulse thing, Jack.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Tom said he would be finished by nine and I was free.’ She looked at Tom. ‘There’s a hotel in the village if you want to go out for that drink.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Tom, ‘that is if you don’t mind, Jack.’
Laura looked at me with challenge in her green eyes. ‘We don’t need Jack’s permission – and it’s only a drink.’
I chatted with a group of headteachers I knew and exchanged stories over a few more drinks – more than I was used to. It was around ten thirty when I decided to go back to my room.
The evening was warm and sultry and, in the distance, lightning flashed and thunder boomed. I closed the curtains to shut out the night and, after undressing, I slipped on a pair of boxer shorts and lay on my bed. It was good to relax and I picked up the novel that Laura had bought me for Christmas, The Thorn Birds by Colleen McCullough; soon I was immersed in the life of the Australian outback, where the beautiful Meggie made Ralph de Bricassart the centre of her life. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. I picked up the paperback and padded barefoot across the carpet. I guessed it was Tom and opened the door wide. I was wrong.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Laura. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. Her hair was damp and hung in wild strands over her face. She smiled at my surprise and glanced down at my novel. ‘Good story,’ she said. ‘I hoped you might read it one day.’
‘Why are you here, Laura?’
She stepped forward, leaned against the door jamb and put her cool fingers on my bare shoulder. ‘Jack, I don’t want to drive home,’ she swayed a little and I guessed, like me, she had enjoyed one drink too many, ‘not in this weather … and I’ve had a few drinks.’
Outside, sheet lightning split the ebony sky, followed almost immediately by the boom of thunder, and the earth shook under giant footsteps. The storm was almost upon us.
‘There are spare rooms here,’ I said. ‘Just have a word with reception and there should be no problem.’
‘I’ll do that,’ she said and fixed me with that confident and rebellious level stare I knew so well, ‘… and I’ll see you later.’
By mid-morning on Saturday the first of the summer storms had passed and the tension of oppressive heat had gone. I drove home through a refreshed land where only the distant cry of a pheasant disturbed the peace of the countryside. In the hedgerows, the cow parsley sparkled with cuckoo spit and the magenta bells of foxgloves nodded in the gentle breeze. The closed fists of sycamore leaves had unfurled in the summer sunshine, while at their feet the scent of wild garlic drifted from the shady woodland floor. The world appeared content once again.
When I arrived back at Bilbo Cottage John was asleep in his cot and Beth was setti
ng the table in the dining room. Diane had obviously settled in quickly and was in the kitchen preparing a simple lunch of carrot and parsnip soup and home-made soda bread, all transported via a triumph of Tupperware from her kitchen in Hampshire.
‘Hello, Jack,’ she said. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’
‘Smells wonderful,’ I said and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
‘How was the conference?’ said Beth.
‘Fine … Miss High-and-Mighty was asking after you.’
Beth collected our only matching soup spoons from the dinner service in the Welsh dresser, a welcome wedding gift, two years ago, from the Parent Teacher Association. ‘He means Miss Barrington-Huntley, Mother,’ said Beth, ‘chair of the Education Committee.’
‘She wanted to know how your Masters degree was progressing. I told her you only had your third year to complete, along with the dissertation.’
‘Interesting question,’ said Beth.
‘She also asked if you were definitely returning to work in September.’
Beth looked up at me. ‘I hope you said yes.’
‘I did.’
Diane paused from serving up the soup. ‘Pity you don’t live closer,’ she said quietly, with a glance at Beth, ‘then I could be your childminder.’
I went up to see John, who was sleeping peacefully, although he had rolled in his sleep to the bottom of his cot with his head pressed against the wooden bars. I moved him gently to make him more comfortable, then went back downstairs to the dining room and tucked in to the wholesome food.
‘Delicious soup, Diane,’ I said, ‘and I love the bread.’
‘Home-made,’ she said simply.
‘Mother makes it every Sunday down at home, Jack,’ said Beth a little wistfully.
We ate in silence for a while and my thoughts wandered.
‘I’m hoping to see Laura later,’ said Diane suddenly.
Beth stood up and began collecting the soup bowls. ‘I rang her apartment in York last night but I couldn’t make contact.’
‘Probably seeing that young man I keep hearing about,’ said Diane pointedly. ‘What’s his name, Jack?’
I stared down at the tablecloth and noticed the stain was there. I covered it with my placemat and wondered if it would remain for ever.
‘Tom Dalton,’ I replied quietly.
Chapter Eighteen
A Bolt from the Blue
Pupils’ individual report books went out to parents for signing and return. The headteacher and staff visited York Minster after school to offer help following the fire during the early hours of the morning.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday, 9 July 1984
‘JACK – THE MINSTER’S on fire!’
It was 6.00 a.m. on Monday, 9 July and Beth was giving John his early feed in the kitchen at Bilbo Cottage. I hurried downstairs in my dressing gown. The newsreader on the radio sounded urgent and I turned up the volume.
‘In the early hours of this morning,’ he said, ‘a massive fire engulfed York Minster. The roof of the thirteenth-century south transept has been destroyed and there are fears for the magnificent Rose Window. Latest reports say that over one hundred firefighters are struggling to bring the blaze under control. The cause of the fire is unclear, but it may be the result of a lightning storm.’
I looked at Beth. ‘This is terrible,’ I said and glanced at the kitchen clock. ‘I think I’ll go down there before school and ask if they need volunteers this evening.’
Beth looked concerned. ‘Well do be careful, Jack – and I’ll ring Vera and Joseph. I’m sure they would want to know.’
As I approached York it looked like a war zone. A huge pall of smoke hovered over the city and there was the sound of sirens in the distance. I parked in Lord Mayor’s Walk and walked under Monk Bar and on to the Minster. The police had cordoned off the immediate area and large crowds were gathering as the news spread. It was a dramatic sight. I had never seen so many firemen in one place. Above me the West Tower soared into an acrid smoke-filled sky and I stared in awe at this wonderful building, revered by man and, seemingly, built by gods.
I caught sight of the tall figure of Sergeant Dan Hunter and waved to him. He ducked under the protective cordon, his uniform soaked and covered in ash. ‘Bad business, Jack,’ he said shaking his head.
‘You look exhausted.’
He gave me a tired smile. ‘I got here at three o’ clock, the roof collapsed shortly before four.’ We both stared up at the south transept. ‘It sounded like the end of the world, Jack, molten lead and debris everywhere. Those firefighters are brave guys.’ A team of firemen on giant ladders were spraying the stonework around the famous Rose Window in order to cool it, while dark pools of water spread at our feet.
‘I’m sure a lot of volunteers will turn up,’ I said. ‘I thought I would come down after school.’
Dan scanned the crowds. ‘You’ll need to go round to Chapter House Yard,’ he said. ‘We’re keeping the public well back from here for safety reasons.’
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘and good luck.’ We shook hands and he hurried off.
I pressed through the growing crush of onlookers and found the yard, where a group of clergy were piling books and rugs. An old friend, Canon Henry Fodder, was there and clearly distressed. ‘Hello, Jack,’ he said with a sigh. His grey hair was plastered to his face. ‘It’s too dangerous to go back in now, but we have managed to retrieve a great deal.’ He gestured towards a neat pile of crosses and candlesticks gathered in haste from the six altars and stacked on a tarpaulin.
‘I’m sure everyone will rally round,’ I said. ‘This has always been a special place.’ I looked up at the glory of this great building. ‘My mother brought me here as a boy and told me it was one of the great cathedrals of the world.’
There was a hint of a smile on his unshaven face. ‘Jack,’ he said and put his hand on my shoulder, ‘she was right – and with God’s help we shall prevail.’
Back at Bilbo Cottage Beth had prepared a cooked breakfast for me. ‘I guessed you might need this,’ she said and gave me a hug. ‘I’ll keep it warm while you shower.’ I certainly needed one. My clothes and hair stank of woodsmoke. ‘So how was it?’
I shook my head. ‘As bad as you can imagine.’
‘On the news they said it was a group of unknown teenagers who raised the alarm,’ said Beth, ‘otherwise it would have been a lot worse.’
‘Lucky they did,’ I said. ‘The quick response looks as though it saved the West Tower.’
‘Laura lived only a stone’s throw away,’ said Beth. ‘She left just in time.’
I had heard that Laura had returned to London. ‘How is she?’ I asked.
‘Not sure,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll probably ring her later.’ She sounded perplexed. ‘Come to think of it, she’s been very quiet for weeks now – probably pressure of work back in London.’ I went upstairs deep in thought. Life was a hall of mirrors: nothing was as it seemed.
It was later than usual when I drove into Ragley village.
‘Gerra move on!’
Miss Lillian Figgins, our Road Crossing Patrol Officer, defended her zebra crossing with the zeal of a lioness protecting her cubs. She stared back at Stan Coe in his mud-splattered Land Rover and shook her head in dismay. ‘Wait y’turn, Stanley Coe,’ she shouted as she guided a group of children across the road.
It was a hot and humid morning and Stan Coe removed his greasy flat cap, wiped his balding head with a dirty handkerchief and shouted once again. ‘Y’like a little ’Itler on that crossing. Some of us ’ave work t’do.’ The local pig farmer was well known in the village as a boorish bully and he had few friends. He blasted his horn as he accelerated away and Lollipop Lil wished that one day he would get his come-uppance.
Before school, the staff-room was buzzing with the news.
‘I heard the sirens in the early hours, Jack,’ said Tom. ‘Then it was as if a bomb had landed. I got dressed and went out with some of my neighbo
urs to see the fire. The flames must have been a hundred feet high.’
‘Joseph and Miss Figgins are getting a lift into York at lunchtime with Wilfred Noggs, the churchwarden, to see if they can help,’ said Vera, ‘and I shall go straight from school.’
‘John is already down there with his woodworker’s toolkit,’ said Anne, ‘and I’ve agreed to drive down there this evening with Sally and meet up with Tom.’
I glanced at the clock. ‘Time’s up, everybody – we’ve got children to teach.’
In morning assembly Sally managed to lift our spirits. She had purchased a new songbook, Jukebox, a selection of thirty-three pop songs, and was strumming along to number 26, ‘There Is a Happy Land’. The children laughed as they sang:
Charlie Brown’s got half a crown,
He’s going to buy a kite.
Jimmy’s ill with chicken pox
And Tommy’s learned to ride his bike.
I paused as I listened to the enthusiastic chorus of ‘There is a happy land where only children live’ and reflected how true it was. Their world really was a precious place, a magical time of giants, princesses, dragons and tall towers – a home for dreams within the cocoon of childhood.
In contrast, shortly before lunchtime in Tom’s class, Rufus Snodgrass put down his pencil and shook his head. ‘Ah’m strugglin’,’ he said.
‘Why is that?’ asked Tom.
Little Rufus stared down at the empty page. ‘Well, ’cause you’ve asked us t’write about my favourite pet.’
‘That’s right, I did,’ said Tom.
‘But ah can’t think of anything,’ pleaded Rufus.
‘You’ve got a hamster, haven’t you?’ asked Tom.
‘Yes, but ah still can’t write,’ said Rufus in despair.
‘Why’s that, Rufus?’
‘Well, Mr Dalton, ’cause all ah can think of is m’mam shouting at m’big sister f’gettin’ pregnant.’
Tom looked out of the window as the breeze whipped the branches of the horse chestnut trees at the front of school and considered that there were days when teaching was a complex profession.
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