Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  Meanwhile, Sally picked up her Daily Mirror and smiled. ‘At least there’s some good news here,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Anne, looking up from her Yorkshire Purchasing Organisation catalogue and the price of powder paint.

  Sally pointed to the article. ‘It says here that five thousand pensioners have protested in Trafalgar Square against the proposal by Norman Fowler, Secretary of State for Social Services, for the abolition of the state earnings-related pension.’

  ‘Good for them,’ said Anne.

  The full basic rate of pension was £35.80 per week for a single person and £57.30 for a couple, so this had been a topical discussion in recent weeks.

  ‘And it looks like the pensioners have won!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘What do you think of that, Vera?’ It was a mischievous confrontation.

  ‘Well, generally good news,’ said Vera cautiously, ‘but also something of a concern. I heard on the news this morning that the number of people over seventy-five will rise by over a third in the next ten years.’

  ‘Who’s going to look after them all?’ wondered Anne.

  Sally shook her head. ‘The NHS is creaking as it is.’

  ‘I presume people will have to use their savings for a retirement home,’ said Vera.

  ‘Savings!’ exclaimed Sally. ‘On a teacher’s salary?’

  ‘It will be difficult for many who just make ends meet,’ said Anne, trying to establish a middle ground. She looked up at Vera, who had returned to the sink and had begun to wash the hot-milk pan a little earlier than usual. It was clear that she wasn’t quite herself today.

  It was just as the bell rang for school lunch that Ruby had finished setting out all the dining tables. She was later than usual.

  ‘What’s the matter, Ruby?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘It’s my Duggie, Mr Sheffield. ’E’s allus gallavantin’ about wi’ that mature woman.’

  ‘Well, so long as he’s happy,’ I said without conviction.

  ‘Ah’ll be pushin’ up daisies by t’time ’e finds a proper girlfriend,’ continued Ruby.

  ‘A proper girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, y’know – someone ’is own age.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  During school lunch the children in Pat’s class were lining up with their plastic trays. Shirley Mapplebeck always had a kind word for all the children, whereas Doreen Critchley, her formidable colleague, rarely smiled.

  ‘We ’ad strangled eggs f’breakfast, Mrs Mapplebeck,’ said six-year-old Madonna Fazackerly.

  ‘That’s lovely,’ said Shirley with a smile.

  A few places further back in the queue, Billy Ricketts and Scott Higginbottom were exchanging secrets.

  ‘Ah know a swear word,’ said Billy, looking furtively around him.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Scott.

  ‘Friggin’,’ said Billy.

  Scott looked puzzled. ‘Friggin’ … what’s friggin’?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Billy, ‘but my dad says it all the time.’

  The queue shuffled closer to Shirley Mapplebeck, who was serving shepherd’s pie and carrots, alongside Doreen Critchley, who was offering a choice of ice cream or semolina and a spoonful of jam.

  ‘Ah dare you t’say it t’Mrs Critchley,’ said Scott.

  ‘Ah dunno,’ said Billy, looking up at the fearsome sight of Doreen Critchley’s bulging forearms.

  ‘Y’scared!’ said Scott triumphantly.

  ‘Well … d’you know any swear words?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Yes … ’ell,’ said Scott.

  ‘That’s a good ’un,’ said Billy.

  ‘Ah know,’ said Scott. ‘Ah say it all t’time.’

  Billy considered this for a moment. ‘Well if you say ’ell, ah’ll say friggin’.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Scott.

  ‘You go first,’ said Billy guardedly.

  Mrs Mapplebeck served up shepherd’s pie, carrots and a splash of gravy. Suddenly both boys were faced with Doreen Critchley.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Scott,’ asked Doreen, ‘ice cream or semolina?’

  ‘Oh ’ell,’ replied Scott, ‘ah’ll ’ave semolina.’

  ‘GET TO T’BACK O’ T’QUEUE!’ shouted Mrs Critchley.

  Scott ran off clutching his tray. He went to the end of the line and stared at his friend.

  ‘Now then, Billy,’ said Mrs Critchley, ‘what do you want?’

  Billy took a deep breath. ‘Well, ah definitely don’t want no friggin’ semolina!’

  Seconds later he joined Scott at the back of the queue.

  ‘You’ll ’ave t’ask y’dad,’ whispered Scott.

  ‘Ask ’im what?’ said Billy.

  ‘T’find out what friggin’ means.’

  ‘OK,’ agreed Billy.

  ‘So no more swearing,’ said Scott.

  Billy nodded and looked anxiously at the queue in front of him. ‘Ah ’ope there’s some ice cream left.’

  I was just finishing my lunch when Anne tapped me on the shoulder. ‘Richard Gomersall is here, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked him to wait in the office.’

  ‘Thanks, Anne.’

  ‘Be warned,’ she said, ‘he looked a little agitated.’

  Our Senior Primary Adviser, in a smart purple cord suit, was sitting on the visitor’s chair and I sat down behind my desk. He was studying his personal copy of the now familiar ‘Rationalization’ document and underlining a specific section.

  ‘Good to see you, Jack, and thanks for your time,’ he said. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m aware of your teaching commitment, so I’ll try to be brief.’

  ‘Thank you, Richard. What can I do for you?’

  ‘I have important news,’ he said, ‘and I’m afraid it affects you.’

  ‘You mean the amalgamation with Morton School?’

  ‘Yes, it’s definite now.’ He looked down at his notes. ‘It will be announced officially next month that, subject to the usual red tape, Morton School will merge with Ragley commencing the beginning of the spring term 1987.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘So in just over a year we’ll have almost another thirty children coming to Ragley?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘You’re aware of the problems of space in our small school, Richard, and I recall you mentioned a Portakabin.’

  ‘Yes, that’s been discussed and you’ll have a temporary classroom added to the site.’

  ‘Temporary?’

  ‘Well, the usual Portakabin. We call them “temporary” but they finish up being permanent. The proposal is it will be sited on the grassy area next to the playground and will house up to thirty children.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘Delivery is proposed for September next year, so everything will be in place for the spring term.’

  ‘I’ve seen a few,’ I said with a wry smile. ‘Large green boxes that are cold in winter and with no running water. I taught in one at the outset of my career.’

  ‘It will be the best we can afford at the time, Jack, but that apart, the implications are considerable.’ He glanced down at the underlined script in his document. ‘The school will be renamed as Ragley and Morton Church of England Primary School.’

  ‘So you’re dropping our “on-the-Forest” after Ragley?’

  ‘Too many words and it doesn’t sit neatly with the addition of “Morton”.’

  There appeared to be a finality to his prepared speech.

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘And there will be a new governing body,’ he continued, ‘with all the usual elections.’

  ‘That will be news to Joseph Evans,’ I said in surprise.

  Richard pressed on. ‘Also, parents will need to be informed in the proper manner.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘That’s vital.’

  ‘And there are transport issues,’ he continued, ticking off his list.

  ‘Transport?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘a bus will be required to bring the children
down the Morton Road … So, lots to prepare for.’

  ‘What about staffing?’ I asked.

  ‘With over a hundred and thirty on roll, and with the anticipated increase in reception-age children in Ragley, the new school will be entitled to another member of staff.’

  I was encouraged. An extra teacher would be more than welcome. ‘What about the Morton staff?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, Miss Proud is in her sixties and she made it very clear she was keen to leave when Miss Tripps retired, so I don’t see a problem there.’

  ‘And the new headteacher, Rufus Timmings,’ I said, ‘what about him? He’s only thirty-something. I presume you’ll relocate him elsewhere?’

  Richard looked surprised. ‘I don’t think you’re quite following. Mr Timmings can of course apply for the new headship of Ragley and Morton Primary School.’

  I stared in disbelief. ‘You mean my job will be advertised?’

  ‘Yes, Jack, and we would of course expect you to apply.’

  I sat back, aghast at the thought. ‘So, it will be a choice between Rufus Timmings and myself?’

  Richard sighed. ‘Not exactly. We have to do this properly. You must appreciate that anyone can apply. Early in the summer term there will be an open advertisement in the Times Educational Supplement, with interviews before the school closes in July. That provides all parties with plenty of time to prepare for the launch of the new school.’ He stood up. ‘I know this is a lot to take in, Jack, but you’ve been a good servant to Ragley and I’m sure that will be taken into account.’

  For a moment I was lost for words. I walked with him to the door. He paused in the doorway and shook my hand.

  ‘Well, thank you for letting me know,’ I said.

  ‘Remember, all this is strictly confidential.’

  ‘What about my staff?’ I asked. ‘Surely I can pass on this news?’

  He sighed. ‘Just put their minds at rest. This is the beginning of a long process and it will be debated at length during the coming year in the two villages and up at County Hall. Give them the bare bones of what is likely to happen and we’ll take it from there. Don’t mention the headship implications at this stage. Let’s take one thing at a time. It will begin with a letter to all parents, staff and governors and there will be a statement in the local papers.’

  I stared out of the office window as Richard climbed into his Jaguar and roared off towards the Morton Road.

  Vera came back in and caught sight of my ashen face. ‘What is it, Mr Sheffield?’ she asked. ‘Not bad news, I hope?’

  ‘We need to have a staff meeting, Vera,’ I replied, ‘as soon as possible.’

  In the General Stores Ruby was stocking up on tinned peaches and Bird’s custard. ‘These are for my Aunty Alice – she’s coming t’visit,’ she said. ‘She swears by ’er peaches. Them an’ a bit o’ custard an’ she’s in ’eaven.’

  ‘That’s lovely,’ said Prudence. ‘I heard she worked hard in the war looking after the refugee children.’

  ‘Yes, she’s full o’ tales o’ those days,’ said Ruby wistfully. ‘An’ o’ course, regular as clockwork she would roll up ’er most precious possession an’ run into t’Anderson shelter.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Prudence, curious at the sudden turn in the conversation.

  ‘It were ’er Spirella corset,’ said Ruby. ‘It were made t’measure an’ she were a big girl, were my Aunty Alice.’

  Ruby picked up her bag of shopping and trotted off, leaving Prudence to reflect on how the war had taken away the love of her life. As she tidied up the shelf of tinned fruit she wondered what life would have been like if the young pilot, Jeremy, had come home.

  At 4.30 p.m. the last children had gone home and Ruby was cleaning the classrooms. I had decided to have a private word with her later. There was a sombre mood in the staff-room and I guessed my expression was sufficient to suggest I had significant news.

  ‘Thanks, everybody, for staying behind,’ I said, ‘but something very important cropped up today and I need to share it with you.’

  Everyone went quiet.

  ‘Richard Gomersall called in with the results of a recent meeting at County Hall. As part of their rationalization process a few of the smaller village schools in North Yorkshire will be closed during the next couple of years.’

  There was an intake of breath. ‘Not us, surely?’ asked Pat. ‘I’ve only just arrived.’

  ‘No, it’s not Ragley,’ I said quickly. ‘It’s Morton School.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera.

  ‘And the children from Morton will be coming here.’

  ‘Here?’ said Anne in surprise.

  ‘But we’re bursting at the seams as it is,’ said Sally.

  ‘And with all the new building on the Easington Road there will be a lot of reception-age children in the pipeline,’ added Anne.

  ‘Yes, they’ve considered that,’ I said. ‘A Portakabin will be erected next year and our staffing will be increased by one teacher to accommodate the increased numbers.’

  So it went on. The conversation ebbed and flowed as the implications for our professional lives sank in. As requested, I decided not to share the headship issue at this stage; it would wait until I had more information. An hour later we dispersed. ‘And remember, it’s confidential for the time being,’ I added as a final thought.

  Vera and I were the last to leave. ‘By the way,’ I said, ‘I’m so sorry but you asked for a private word this morning and we never got round to it.’

  Vera paused and nodded gently. ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ she said quietly. ‘Another time perhaps.’

  ‘Very well, Vera, but I’m here when you need me.’

  ‘Actually it was a personal matter – something close to my heart – but it will keep.’ And she buttoned up her coat and walked out to her car.

  I completed the logbook, checked the windows and locked up the school. It had been a day full of unexpected surprises, and my future in the job I loved was under threat.

  Vera was quiet that evening as she sat in the kitchen listening to the evening news. A reporter was discussing the recent riots in Tottenham on the Broadwater Farm Estate where PC Keith Blakelock had been murdered in brutal fashion. It had been a terrible business that had shocked the nation and Vera thought there were more pressing problems than her decision on retirement.

  On The Crescent, Anne was also listening to the news as she prepared an evening meal without any enthusiasm. She and her husband had barely communicated since she arrived home. Sadly, it was becoming the norm. John was reading The Complete Encyclopaedia of DIY and Home Maintenance, while Anne stared at her reflection in the kitchen window and considered her life.

  In the vicarage Joseph was reading his well-thumbed Bible and preparing his next sermon. He had just returned from the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk or, as it was known locally, ‘God’s Waiting Room’. One of the residents, a member of the Parish Church Council, was very ill and Joseph had provided solace and gentle words.

  His heart lifted when Vera called in to speak to him and shared the news of the staff meeting. However, when she left he felt he was drowning in a sea of uncertainty. He missed his sister, his lifetime companion. Vera had moved on in her life and he had remained behind. There were times he felt like a shepherd in the wilderness. Once his life had been sure and strong, filled with the zeal of a young man. Now, with stiffening joints, he missed the clarity of his youth and the happy times shared with Vera. On this dark and lonely night only the ticking of the clock disturbed the silence of the vicarage.

  Bilbo Cottage was also silent, and I went to bed unaware I was not the only one experiencing the solitude of secrets.

  Chapter Five

  It’s All in the Stars

  Mr Edward Clifton, amateur astronomer, visited school and gave a talk in assembly concerning Halley’s Comet.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 8 November 1985

  A frozen m
ist hung over the land like a cold blanket and the smell of wood smoke was in the air. The weather had changed and a long winter was in store. The villagers of Ragley found their warmest coats before setting off for Prudence Golightly’s General Stores and the welcome smell of freshly baked bread. It was Friday morning, 8 November, and the first harsh frosts heralded the coming of winter.

  On the back road from Kirkby Steepleton I stared through the windscreen at the leaden sky and the torn rags of cirrus clouds. It was a familiar sight – one I had witnessed many times. However, complacency is a relaxed companion. Recently we had enjoyed a variety of visiting speakers in morning assembly, including Lollipop Lil, our road-crossing patrol officer, and PC Pike with his ‘Don’t Speak to Strangers’ slide-show. Today was destined to be different and I glanced up once again at the vast sky over the plain of York.

  It seemed an unlikely day to consider a visitor from outer space.

  Just before I reached Ragley I called into Victor Pratt’s garage and pulled up by the single pump. Our local car mechanic shuffled out in his greasy overalls.

  ‘Just a couple of gallons, please, Victor.’

  ‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  He didn’t look well but I tried to be positive. ‘So no more shooting pains, Victor?’ I asked.

  ‘No, them’s all gone.’ Suddenly he doubled up in a paroxysm of coughing.

  ‘Oh dear, that sounds bad.’

  ‘It’s m’chest, Mr Sheffield,’ he explained. ‘Ah’ve got them pneumonics.’

  I considered this turn of events. ‘Perhaps you ought to see Doctor Davenport,’ I suggested.

  He shook his head as he removed the nozzle. ‘No, ah’m goin’ t’see Ruby’s mother,’ he said. ‘What she don’t know about pneumonics ain’t worth knowin’.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ I said.

  ‘Bit of ’er mother’s goose grease’ll soon put me reight, Mr Sheffield, as true as true can be.’