Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘I can’t recall,’ he said guardedly.

  Following his talk on ‘Memory’, it seemed an incongruous response and Vera presumed there was more to this than met the eye.

  Later that evening at Morton Manor, Vera and Rupert were relaxing in the lounge.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Vera, putting down her cross-stitch.

  ‘Have you, my dear?’ replied Rupert, without looking up from his Horse & Hound magazine.

  ‘Yes, I have.’

  ‘Well that’s jolly good,’ he murmured, still engrossed in the article on fox hunting in North Yorkshire.

  ‘Yes … about our life together.’

  ‘Well I would say it’s all tickety-boo,’ said her husband absent-mindedly.

  ‘Tickety-boo?’ repeated Vera with a frown.

  ‘Yes, my dear.’ He glanced up from his magazine, ‘You know – all shipshape and Bristol fashion.’

  ‘Really?’ she said. ‘But we see so little of each other these days.’

  Rupert sighed. ‘Why are we having this conversation, my dear?’

  Vera gave him that enigmatic smile he had come to know so well. ‘Because I’m thinking of retirement.’

  ‘Retirement?’ He put down his magazine and gave her his full attention.

  It was Friday morning and the day dawned bright as Beth prepared to leave for the final interview.

  ‘Good luck,’ I said.

  ‘It will be fine,’ she replied, ‘and I’ll give it my best shot.’

  Then she handed me my leather school satchel. ‘I cleaned it with some polish,’ she said with a grin.

  ‘How on earth did you find time for that?’ I asked in surprise.

  I barely recognized it. The brown leather now had a lustrous shine. I kissed her gently and smiled. Love wasn’t simply never having to say you’re sorry … love was cleaning your partner’s satchel!

  On my journey into Ragley I prayed all would go well for Beth. I knew how important this was for her. I also remembered my conversation with Richard Gomersall. There were changes in store for Ragley School – changes that were confidential, at least for now.

  I turned up the radio and hummed along to ‘Money for Nothing’ by Dire Straits.

  Vera had stopped outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores to buy a packet of garibaldi biscuits to replenish the staff-room biscuit tin and a jar of Nescafé Gold Blend. Five-year-old Julie Tricklebank was standing on the pavement stroking her cat, Trixie, who was making a fearful racket.

  Vera was familiar with most of the cats in the village. ‘Why is your cat meowing all the time?’ she asked.

  ‘Ah don’t know, Mrs F,’ said Julie. ‘Ah don’t speak catlangwidge.’

  After being a school secretary for more years than she cared to remember, Vera simply smiled, walked into the shop and joined the queue.

  Mrs Spittlehouse was standing at the counter with her seven-year-old daughter, Rosie. She was looking a little flustered as she searched for her shopping list in her bag. ‘Oh dear, I’m getting like my mother,’ she said, ‘always forgetting things.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Prudence, ‘I’m sure it will come back to you.’

  ‘I know why my gran doesn’t have babies,’ announced Rosie suddenly.

  Everyone went quiet in the shop and Mrs Spittlehouse wished the ground would open up.

  Prudence tried to rescue the situation. ‘And why is that, Rosie?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Well, she’d put ’em down somewhere an’ forget where she’d put ’em.’

  It was later that morning that Joseph Evans visited school for his weekly Bible stories lesson. The theme of ‘Creation’ with Sally’s class seemed to have gone down well and Joseph was feeling pleased with himself. However, as usual, the children were full of questions.

  Charlie Cartwright was insistent. ‘If God didn’t want Adam an’ Eve t’eat them apples, Mr Evans, then why did ’E put ’em on trees in t’first place?’

  Before Joseph could come up with a plausible response, Katie Icklethwaite spoke up. ‘Mr Evans, was there a god before God?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ asked a perplexed Joseph.

  ‘Well … ’ow did God mek ’imself?’

  The bell rang for lunchtime and Joseph breathed a sigh of relief.

  A few minutes later in the staff-room Vera was serving her brother with a much-needed camomile tea. She had been relieved to close her Daily Telegraph, which carried an article about an earthquake in Mexico City that concerned itself less with the loss of life than with the possible damage to the football stadia for next year’s World Cup.

  It was a surprise when Rupert walked in with a beautiful bunch of roses.

  ‘For you, my dear,’ he said with a gentle smile.

  Suddenly for Vera all thoughts of retirement faded as everyone gathered round to admire the flowers. She felt young again and, for a few brief moments, she was the girl she used to be.

  It was then she noticed Rupert’s latest eccentricity.

  He was wearing two wristwatches.

  The telephone rang and I picked it up in haste. It was Beth.

  ‘What’s the news?’

  ‘I can hardly believe it,’ she said, her voice full of excitement.

  ‘Go on, tell me!’

  There was an intake of breath.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I got the job.’

  Chapter Three

  A Fine Romance

  The headteacher attended a meeting at High Sutton Hall concerning the rationalization of small schools in North Yorkshire. Miss Valerie Flint provided supply cover in Class 4 during afternoon school.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 1 October 1985

  It was the first day of October and the season was changing. Outside Bilbo Cottage robins and wrens were claiming their winter territory and chirping out shrill warnings. In the low sunlight the hedgerows sparkled with the intricate webs of spiders, while the red hips of dog roses gave notice of the dark days ahead.

  However, when I arrived at the school gate a very irate Ruby Smith was not appreciating the wonders of the Yorkshire countryside. Our caretaker and her daughter, Natasha, were in conversation with our local bobby, PC Pike. I pulled up and wound down my window.

  ‘Good morning, everybody,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘I’ve just been informed of a possible theft, Mr Sheffield,’ said PC Pike. At five feet eight and a half inches tall, Julian Pike wasn’t at first sight the most impressive policeman. However, everyone in the village knew that in his big black boots with double insoles, and with a pair of shiny Hiatt handcuffs in the pouch of his leather belt, you didn’t mess with this particular lawman. The copy of his Karate Monthly magazine rolled up in his truncheon pocket confirmed this well-mannered young man as an all-action hero. He was polite and, as he had been trained by Sergeant Dan Hunter in York, everything was done by the book.

  He opened his notebook, licked the tip of his HB pencil and looked admiringly at Ruby’s curvaceous daughter. ‘So, Natasha,’ he said and his cheeks flushed, ‘can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘T’bird ’as bolted, Constable,’ interjected Ruby.

  ‘An’ the ’orse ’as flown,’ added Natasha for good measure, completely unaware that she had inherited from her mother a wonderful capacity for mixed metaphors.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked PC Pike, pencil poised.

  Some clarity was called for. ‘So what exactly has happened, Ruby?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s ’eartbreakin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘One of my Ronnie’s racin’ pigeons ’as gone missin’. Our Duggie told Natasha before ’e went t’work an’ she came t’tell me an’ PC Pike were jus’ passin’ on ’is bike.’

  ‘Ah, so it’s a missing racing pigeon,’ said Julian Pike, trying to restore some semblance of control.

  ‘Yes, Genghis Khan the third,’ recited Natasha with a shy smile in the direction of the handsome bobby. ‘That’s ’is name �
�� it’s written on ’is leg.’

  ‘Our Duggie wrote it wi’ one o’ them indelicate pens,’ added Ruby. ‘Y’know, one o’ them y’can’t rub out.’

  PC Pike nodded and began to write neatly in his notebook.

  Natasha looked appreciatively at Julian’s attempt at a first moustache, modelled on Robert Redford’s Sundance Kid. ‘But ah don’t know ’ow t’spell it,’ she said.

  Julian looked adoringly into Natasha’s eyes. ‘Don’t worry, Natasha, I can spell it,’ he said confidently. ‘I did history at school.’

  ‘Ooooh, ah do like clever men,’ said Natasha.

  Julian blushed furiously and for a moment he was tongue-tied. His love life was a distant memory and he had been bereft of female company for many lonely nights. His previous girlfriend, Monica, a waitress in the Tea Rooms in York, had told him she wanted a boyfriend who didn’t spend his evenings polishing his handcuffs and had promptly left him at the first opportunity for a swarthy Italian carpet-fitter from Halifax.

  I decided to leave this crime with passion and drive on. ‘Good luck,’ I said. ‘I hope Genghis turns up.’

  I parked my Morris Minor Traveller in my usual space, picked up my old leather satchel and looked back down the cobbled drive. Our caretaker, Ruby, had a heart of gold and was loved by children and staff alike in Ragley School. Natasha was one of her six children. Thirty-four-year-old Andy was a sergeant in the army; thirty-two-year-old Racquel was the proud mother of three-year-old Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle; thirty-year-old Duggie was an undertaker’s assistant with the nickname ‘Deadly’; twenty-five-year-old Sharon was continuing her long-term engagement to Rodney Morgetroyd, the Morton village milkman with the Duran Duran looks; twenty-three-year-old Natasha worked part-time in Diane’s Hair Salon; while twelve-year-old Hazel had just started her second year at Easington Comprehensive School. Ruby loved them all and had toiled to put food on the table and clothes on their backs. Throughout it all her beer-swilling, chain-smoking, unemployed husband, Ronnie, had offered little support. It seemed he spent more time with his beloved pigeons than with his hardworking wife. Finally, Ronnie had died on the last day of 1983 and Ruby’s life had changed for ever.

  Vera was busy in the office when I walked in. ‘I’ve arranged for Miss Flint to do supply cover in your class this afternoon, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks, Vera. I’ll be leaving after lunch for High Sutton and I’ve read this at last.’ I rummaged in my satchel and held up the rationalization document.

  ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t affect us,’ she said pointedly. ‘Joseph said there were rumours circulating after church last Sunday concerning the future of Morton School.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘Yes, there were a few tongues wagging.’ She examined my reaction. Vera was a very perceptive lady.

  ‘Oh well,’ I said, ‘I’m sure we’ll know more after the meeting.’

  It was a busy morning in my class and there were a few minutes to spare before the bell for assembly. I decided on a quickfire round of questions for my class, which didn’t get the response I expected.

  ‘What’s the chemical formula for water?’ I asked.

  Frankie Spraggon’s hand shot up. ‘H, I, J, K, L, M, N, O, Mr Sheffield,’ he said confidently.

  ‘Pardon? What do you mean?’

  Frankie looked puzzled. ‘Well, las’ week, sir, you said it were H to O.’ It occurred to me that perhaps my communication skills weren’t all I wished them to be. ‘An’ Mrs Smith ’as lost ’er racing pigeon,’ he added for good measure.

  The question-and-answer session was replaced by a variety of possible sightings of the errant bird until, at 10.15 a.m. sharp, Ryan Halfpenny rang the assembly bell.

  It was Pat Brookside’s turn to lead the morning assembly and she had decided to focus on the theme of ‘Honesty’. Soon she was telling the famous story of George Washington and all the children were captivated. Then came the denouement.

  ‘But then,’ said Pat, ‘George Washington went out and chopped down his father’s precious cherry tree.’

  The children gasped. This was clearly serious.

  ‘Flippin’ ’eck,’ muttered Billy Ricketts and Patience Crapper in unison.

  ‘And do you know what George Washington did?’

  Hands shot up everywhere.

  ‘’E ran away, Miss,’ said seven-year-old Scott Higgin-bottom.

  ‘No,’ said Pat with gravitas. ‘He told his father the truth.’

  There was a stunned silence, finally broken by an exclamation from Sam Whittaker. ‘Cor!’ he said.

  ‘What ’appened nex’, Miss?’ asked Rosie Spittlehouse, unable to contain herself.

  ‘Well,’ continued Pat, ‘and this may surprise you … but his father didn’t punish him.’

  There was a gasp of incredulity.

  ‘So, everybody think hard,’ said Pat as the moral of the story was finally revealed. ‘Why didn’t George’s father punish him?’

  ‘Ah know, Miss,’ called out Ted Coggins.

  ‘Well done, Ted.’ Pat gave him an encouraging smile. ‘So what do you think?’

  ‘Mebbe,’ said Ted thoughtfully, ‘cos George were still ’oldin’ that big axe that y’mentioned.’

  Pat sighed deeply. ‘Good try, Ted,’ she said with feeling and then explained the true reason. Finally, it was time to cut her losses. ‘Hands together, eyes closed,’ she said.

  Over morning coffee Pat was a little deflated as a result of her aborted attempt to develop the concept of honesty, and an article in Vera’s Daily Telegraph rubbed salt into the wound. It appeared that Lambeth Borough Council was desperate to employ computer programmers and offer them a remarkable £1,500 on top of their basic £8,100 salary. She sighed and, for once, wondered if she was in the right profession. However, soon she was engaged in conversation with Sally about other events. Alex Higgins, the snooker player, had been arrested at his home in Cheshire following a ‘breach of the peace’ complaint, while Robert Maxwell, the publisher, was determined to sue the International Thomson Organization after the collapse of the deal to buy the Withy Grove printing group.

  I joined in when the discussion turned to Halley’s Comet. Excitement had been building, as the famous comet was due to reappear next month. Its last visit had been in 1910 and, with this in mind, I had begun an astronomy topic with my class. This important event was often regarded as a once-in-a-lifetime experience, but I realized that many of the children would still be around when it appeared again in the twenty-first century.

  Meanwhile, outside on the schoolyard, Anne was on playground duty when she heard Patience Crapper being unkind to the chubby, red-cheeked Julie Tricklebank. Julie was munching her way through a bag of crisps.

  ‘You’ll be fat when y’grow up,’ shouted Patience, ‘an’ y’won’t be able t’run.’

  Julie considered this for a moment. ‘Yes but ah’ll be able t’roll,’ she replied defiantly.

  Good answer, thought Anne as she stepped in to deal with this first hint of bullying.

  Ruby was in the General Stores and had shared the news about her missing racing pigeon with Prudence Golightly. Unfortunately, Deirdre Coe, the unpopular sister of Stan Coe the local pig farmer, was leaving the shop at that moment and, as always, spoke up in an unpleasant manner.

  ‘They’re vermin, them pigeons,’ she declared, her double chin wobbling in indignation. ‘An’ my Stanley will shoot ’em if they fly over our land.’ The door crashed behind her and the little bell jingled madly.

  ‘Take no notice, Ruby,’ said Prudence. ‘I’m sure it must be very distressing for you.’

  ‘Ah’m sick o’ that Deirdre Coe,’ complained Ruby. ‘In fac’, if looks could kill ah’d be dead as a doornail ten times over.’

  ‘So, definitely deceased then,’ said Prudence sympathetically but with a wry smile.

  ‘Ah told ’er pacifically t’keep ’er nose out o’ my business,’ Ruby continued.

&nb
sp; ‘Take no notice,’ Prudence said again. ‘Now then, Ruby, I’ve got that lovely crusty bread that you like …’

  Ruby walked up the High Street to the village green, then decided to rest her legs for a short while and sit on the bench that had been dedicated to her late husband. She found solace sitting here and enjoyed recalling happier times, even though they were few and far between.

  ‘Y’look deep in thought,’ said a familiar voice. It was George Dainty, a short man in his early fifties with a ruddy face and a gentle smile. He removed his flat cap to reveal his balding head. ‘Now then, Ruby, may ah sit down?’

  ‘O’ course, George.’

  ‘Ah ’ope nowt’s troubling you,’ he said and moved a little closer.

  Ruby sighed. ‘Well, there’s a lot goin’ on.’

  ‘Y’can tell me,’ he said gently.

  George had become a well-loved character in the village. As a young man he had shown entrepreneurial spirit when he left Ragley to open his own shop, The Codfather, a popular and lucrative fish-and-chip shop in Alicante in Spain. He had returned to his home village a couple of years ago and bought a luxury bungalow on the Morton Road. Rumour had it he was a millionaire, but George never spoke about his wealth. However, it was well known he had thought highly of Ruby ever since she had been the village May Queen as a young girl. It was on that day that the teenage George had fallen in love with the pretty girl with the wavy chestnut hair and the ready smile.

  ‘You’ve been crying,’ said George tenderly.

  Ruby rubbed her cheeks with dumpy, work-red fingers. ‘Ah cry a lot these days.’

  George rummaged in his pocket, pulled out a large handkerchief and offered it to Ruby. She blew her nose vigorously and loudly.

  ‘You keep it,’ he said and Ruby put it in the pocket of her old raincoat.

  ‘Our Duggie’s racin’ pigeon ’as gone astray,’ explained Ruby. ‘’E promised ’is dad ’e would look after ’em.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Ruby. Ah’m sure t’bird’ll turn up.’

  ‘Mebbe so, George.’

  George glanced over his shoulder. ‘’Ow about a nice cup o’ coffee in Nora’s?’

  Ruby looked down the High Street towards the clock on the village hall. ‘Ah’m not due back at school ’til jus’ afore twelve t’put dining tables out,’ she said.