Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. Regardless of having worked together for eight years, Vera held on to the formality of calling me Mr Sheffield. In her world it was the proper thing to do. She smoothed the creases from the skirt of her new Marks & Spencer charcoal-grey, pin-striped suit and held up a letter.

  ‘This came in, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘It looks important … and ominous.’

  ‘Oh dear, what is it?’ I asked, picking absent-mindedly at the frayed leather patches on my herringbone sports coat.

  She passed over a document with the familiar North Yorkshire county crest above the heading ‘Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire’.

  ‘We’ve been through all this before,’ I said. ‘So I wonder what’s new this time?’ Back in 1981 we had been threatened with school closure but had survived and our numbers on roll had increased slightly.

  It was a copious document, definitely bedtime reading. On the first page was an invitation to a meeting of North Yorkshire headteachers at High Sutton Hall on 1 October. I put it in my old leather satchel, completely unaware of the impact it would have on my life and that of our village school.

  Anne Grainger popped her head round the door. ‘Hello, Jack. Pat has settled in and Class 2 looks a picture,’ she said with a reassuring smile. Anne, a slim brunette in her fifties, was our deputy headteacher and her reception class was always full of colour and creativity.

  ‘Thanks, I’ll call in to see her,’ I said.

  Pat Brookside had recently been appointed to teach the six- and seven-year-olds and today was her first day as a teacher at Ragley School. A tall, leggy, twenty-eight-year-old blonde, Pat had taught the infant age range at Thirkby Primary School in North Yorkshire and was a welcome addition to the staff.

  Vera handed the new school registers for Class 1 to Anne. ‘Here’s to another school year,’ she said.

  Anne stared thoughtfully at the smart, pristine registers. ‘Yes, another year,’ she murmured. ‘Let’s hope it’s a good one.’

  Vera looked at her curiously. There was clearly something on Anne’s mind and Vera determined she would pick the right moment to see if she could offer wise counsel.

  I picked up my registers. ‘And I’ll deliver these to Pat.’

  ‘Wish her good luck from me,’ said Vera.

  Sally Pringle, the Class 3 teacher, was in the school hall preparing the music for morning assembly. With her long, wavy red hair, baggy shirt with frilly sleeves, a bright mustard waistcoat and mint-green cord trousers, she cut a distinctive arty figure. She had propped her Tinderbox songbook on a music stand, opened it to number 31, ‘Thank You for My Friends’, and then rehearsed the opening chords on her guitar.

  ‘Morning, Jack,’ she said with a smile. ‘Here we go again.’

  ‘Hello, Sally,’ I replied. ‘All set for another year?’

  ‘Yes, looking forward to it, and good to have a new experienced colleague next door. Pat has already volunteered to give me a few lessons on the computer. And I’m guessing we’ll have a good netball team this year,’ she added with a grin.

  Pat Brookside was in her classroom putting a new HB pencil, a pack of wax crayons and a large sheet of white sugar paper on each desk.

  ‘Morning, Pat,’ I said, ‘and hope all goes well.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack, I’m sure I’ll be fine.’

  Her blonde hair had been brushed back into a flowing ponytail and she had dressed classically in a white blouse, grey pleated skirt and black leather shoes. I felt sure Vera would approve. Two years ago, when we had had a vacancy for a Class 2 teacher, Pat had been a strong candidate and had made the shortlist, but in the end we had appointed a young man named Tom Dalton. However, after a year and a half he had moved on and during the subsequent selection process it was clear that Pat, who applied again, appeared much more confident than when we had first interviewed her. She had been on a computer course and explained something called Windows version 1.0 in great detail. Her knowledge of the primary curriculum was outstanding and she had offered to support extra-curricular activities, including the netball team, if appointed. As a county-standard player herself, this seemed appropriate. At the end of the interview our chair of governors, the Revd Joseph Evans, asked why she wanted to move from Thirkby. ‘I’ve just moved in with a new partner,’ she explained, ‘and he lives close by, in Easington.’

  I recalled how Joseph had blinked at the directness of this positive and forthright young woman, and I smiled at the memory.

  Pat had arrived early in her Mini Clubman Estate and proceeded to put the finishing touches to the displays in her classroom. They included a nature table; a collection of science experiments; posters of simple computer exercises; and a collection of model cars, boats, steam engines and aeroplanes for her ‘Transport Through the Ages’ project.

  ‘This looks wonderful, Pat,’ I said. ‘Well done.’

  She picked up a replica of the Flying Scotsman. ‘My partner is still young at heart,’ she said with a smile. ‘David is proud of his train set.’

  David Beckinsdale was a newly qualified general practitioner and worked in our nearby market town of Easington. Vera had mentioned that, as a handsome six-foot-three-inch thirty-year-old, he was considered quite a catch.

  ‘If you need anything, just let me know,’ I said. ‘Here are your attendance and dinner registers.’

  ‘Thanks Jack,’ she said and a flicker of concern crossed her face. ‘Anne mentioned that Vera is a bit of a stickler regarding record-keeping.’

  ‘Well, if it helps, I’ll do my registers quickly and send them in to you while you’re introducing yourself to the class and setting them off on an activity. Then you can have a look at my registers and begin your own.’

  She sighed with relief. ‘I would appreciate that.’

  ‘And, by the way, Vera asked me to say “Good luck”.’

  ‘She’s a lovely lady,’ said Pat as she placed a red and a black ballpoint pen alongside her registers.

  ‘Between you and me, Pat,’ I said quietly, ‘we would be lost without her.’

  Pat looked at her wristwatch. ‘Almost time for the bell.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said with a smile and hurried out.

  A few minutes after nine o’clock I walked into Class 4. The nine- and ten-year-olds were sitting quietly at their desks as I began to read out the register.

  ‘Damian Brown,’ I said.

  There was no response.

  A few of the children became animated.

  ‘Ah’ve seen ’im, Mr Sheffield,’ called out Ryan Halfpenny.

  ‘So ’ave I,’ added Sonia Tricklebank.

  ‘’E were buying sweets, Mr Sheffield,’ volunteered Frankie Spraggon.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let’s carry on … Stacey Bryant.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Ben Clouting.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Lucy Eckersley.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield … an’ ah think ’e’s ’ere, sir.’

  There was a gentle tap on the door as Vera walked in with Damian Brown. He was red-faced and panting. ‘Damian has finally arrived, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera pointedly.

  ‘Good morning, Damian,’ I said.

  ‘G’mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ replied an unconcerned Damian. He hurried to my desk and slapped down his dinner money. ‘Here y’are, sir,’ he said with confidence and a big smile.

  Vera sighed and shook her head. ‘You need to explain to Mr Sheffield why you are late.’

  Damian pondered this for a moment. ‘Well it’s like this, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘y’started before ah got t’school.’

  Vera looked up at me, presumably reflecting on the logic of youth, and whispered, ‘Well you can’t say fairer than that,’ then walked back to the office with a huge grin on her face.

  After registration, the children were eager to know their monitor jobs. These carried significant status for the eldest pupils in school. Following a live
ly debate, Lucy Eckersley and Ben Clouting took charge of the Tuck Shop; Stacey Bryant and Harry Patch became Library monitors; Sonia Tricklebank with her spotlessly clean hands would look after the hymn books; Damian Brown and Frankie Spraggon nodded in satisfaction when given responsibility for paintbrushes; the tall netball captain Dawn Phillips was delighted to clean the blackboard; Ryan Halfpenny thought all his birthdays had come at once when he became the official ringer of the school bell; and, finally, the lightning-quick Barry Ollerenshaw smiled as he was selected to be the pupil who delivered messages to the other classrooms.

  After distributing a Reading Record Card to each pupil along with a variety of exercise books, an HB pencil, a rubber, a Berol rollerball pen, an Oxford First Dictionary, a tin of Lakeland crayons and a wooden ruler, we began our lessons.

  Soon the children were busy with their first piece of writing while I heard each child read to me and then selected an appropriate graded reading book.

  ‘M’fingers ’ave f’gotten ’ow t’write, Mr Sheffield,’ declared Damian.

  ‘So ’ave mine,’ agreed Ryan Halfpenny.

  This was often the case after the summer holiday. However, those who had not picked up a pencil for six weeks battled on and soon rediscovered their individual writing style.

  When it was time for morning assembly my children carried their chairs into the hall and arranged them in a line at the back. The little ones in Anne’s class sat cross-legged on the floor while she sorted her sheet music on the piano.

  I took the opportunity to call into Pat’s classroom and was pleased to see that all the children seemed to be busy using their School Mathematics Project workcards. Pat was busy with a group of more able children doing some work on tessellation patterns. However, I noticed in the corner of the room six-year-old Sam Whittaker was sitting on the floor under his Formica-topped table. He was clutching a pencil tightly and counting to himself, then finally writing numbers in his mathematics exercise book. He was out of Pat’s line of vision, so she had not noticed the little boy’s strange behaviour. It was well known that Sam was one of our best-behaved pupils and I remembered Anne saying that he always did as he was told.

  I crouched down next to him. ‘Sam,’ I asked quietly, ‘why are you sitting on the floor?’

  ‘Ah’m doin’ m’sums, Mr Sheffield,’ he answered, without looking up. He was clearly engrossed in his work.

  ‘Yes, but why aren’t you sitting at your desk?’

  ‘Miss said we weren’t to use our tables, sir.’

  ‘Ah … I see,’ and I explained the different meanings of ‘tables’ while he settled once again in his seat.

  Sally Pringle smiled as I popped my head through the open doorway of her classroom. She was busy winding up an English lesson concerning the structure of sentences and all the children were attentive. It was clearly going well.

  ‘Give me a sentence beginning with “I”,’ she asked them.

  Eight-year-old Ted Coggins was the first to put his hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, Ted,’ said Sally, clearly pleased with the boy’s enthusiasm.

  ‘I is …’ he began.

  ‘No,’ interrupted Sally, ‘it should be “I am”.’

  Ted frowned. ‘Are y’sure, Miss?’

  ‘Positive, Ted,’ said Sally. ‘Now, try again.’

  ‘OK, Miss,’ said Ted and he took a deep breath. ‘I am … t’ninth letter of t’alphabet.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sally and I hurried away while she apologized and Ryan rang the bell for morning assembly.

  The first assembly of the year was always a special time. The new starters waved to their older brothers and sisters. Some of them played with their wobbly teeth, while others stared in astonishment at the huge school hall and the crush of children. Gary Spittall had placed his index finger in the ear of the boy in front and I gave him a warning look.

  All went well, the children sang with gusto, Sally advertised her choir and orchestra, and when I asked Pat to introduce herself the girls’ netball team looked on in admiration. Finally, Sonia Tricklebank recited 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.

  I was on duty during morning break while the staff gathered in the staff-room and enjoyed a welcome cup of milky coffee. Vera was reading her Daily Telegraph and was pleased that her favourite politician, Margaret Thatcher, had reshuffled her Cabinet and demoted Home Secretary Leon Brittan to Trade and Industry. Meanwhile, Norman Tebbit, Douglas Hurd, Kenneth Baker and rising star Kenneth Clarke appeared to be moving to the fore.

  Sally was keen to know more about Pat’s handsome partner and Anne seemed preoccupied with her own thoughts. There had been harsh words with her husband, John, before school this morning and she wondered how it could be resolved.

  At lunchtime I telephoned home to see how Mrs Roberts, our childminder, was getting on with young John William. Beth had persuaded the parent from Hartingdale, who had looked after John last year, to continue. All seemed well and I thought about how fortunate it was for Beth and me that we had such a loving and reliable lady to care for our son during the school week. Then I rang Beth’s school and her secretary said she was busy in a meeting but would ring back. When she did so she was relieved that John was content with the familiar Mrs Roberts.

  ‘Well, lots to do, Jack,’ she said, ‘must go.’

  ‘See you later.’

  There was a slight pause before she replied. ‘We need to do well this year, Jack – it’s important for both of us.’

  When she rang off I pondered over the anomaly that was my dynamic and ambitious wife. In recent months she appeared to have dismantled her career and reassembled it. It was as if she was determined to seek a new destiny and, not for the first time, I felt a little lost as I wondered what went on in the mind of a woman. After all these years it remained a mystery.

  I opened the office window and heard the familiar foghorn voice of our dinner lady, Mrs Doreen Critchley. Nine-year-old Hayley Spraggon had given her little brother, Alfie, a sharp push as he infiltrated her skipping game.

  ‘Don’t hit y’brother like that,’ shouted Mrs Critchley across the playground.

  ‘Ow ’bout if ah ’it ’im a bit softer, Miss?’

  I smiled and returned to my paperwork.

  Alfie Spraggon was a popular and honest little boy. During afternoon school he was typing on the new school computer, which was in Anne’s classroom for the afternoon. I had called in while Sally was in the school hall talking to all the children in Class 3 and Class 4 about the use of musical instruments and the opportunity to join the choir.

  ‘What are you doing, Alfie?’

  ‘Ah’m writing a story,’ he said. He didn’t look up. He just continued hitting the keys.

  ‘And what’s it about?’

  ‘Dunno, sir, ah can’t read yet.’

  Ask a daft question flickered through my mind and I hurried on to speak to Anne.

  It was six o’clock when I drove the three miles to Kirkby Steepleton and pulled into the driveway of Bilbo Cottage. I thanked Mrs Roberts and she drove off back to Hartingdale. I had just finished singing ‘The Wheels on the Bus’ and ‘Incy Wincy Spider’ to a delighted John when Beth walked in. In her smart business suit and Cagney & Lacey coat with padded shoulders she looked her usual slim, attractive self, if a little tired. She picked up John and hugged him.

  It was after we had put him to bed and enjoyed an evening meal that I remembered something. ‘Oh, forgot to mention – there’s some post for you on the hall table.’

  Beth sifted through the letters and, spotting an envelope with the familiar North Yorkshire County Council crest, she opened it quickly.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s from the office.’

  I lo
oked up. Official mail was usually delivered to school … unless …

  Beth smiled. ‘Jack … it’s about that Group Four headship in York.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘The one I really want.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve got an interview.’

  Chapter Two

  A Day to Remember

  The Revd Joseph Evans called to say he would resume his weekly RE lessons on Friday of this week. The headteacher forwarded the school’s response to County Hall’s discussion document ‘A New Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools’.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Thursday, 19 September 1985

  ‘It’s my spectacles again, my dear,’ said Rupert.

  Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, in his mid-sixties, was one of the richest men in North Yorkshire and a prominent member of the Ragley School Board of Governors. A widower for many years, he had fallen in love with Vera, our school secretary, and they had married in December 1982. It had been a dramatic change for Vera, who for many years had been content living with her brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the beautifully furnished vicarage, a place of order and peace. However, Vera had adapted to her new life and established routines that included the Women’s Institute, the twice-weekly cross-stitch club and coordinating the beautiful flower arrangements in St Mary’s Church.

  It was early morning on Thursday, 19 September and Rupert, smartly dressed as always in a white shirt, regimental tie, lovat-green waistcoat, cord trousers and highly polished brown shoes, was looking harassed.

  Vera glanced up from her Women’s Institute notice and sighed. ‘They’re on your forehead, Rupert.’

  Rupert fumbled for them and stared in surprise. ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘the last place I would have looked,’ and hurried off into his study.

  Vera looked after him thoughtfully and turned her attention back to the poster on the hall table. It read:

  Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute

  ‘Our Memory Makes Us Who We Are’