Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  Alison Gawthorpe was playing with Tracey Higgin-bottom when Madonna Fazackerly strode up to the infant with the blonde ringlets. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

  ‘Alison,’ said the little girl.

  ‘Alison … y’mean like Wonderland?’ said Madonna.

  ‘Wonderland?’

  ‘Yeah, y’know, Alice in Wonderland.’

  ‘No, ah’m jus’ Alison.’

  Madonna tried another tack. ‘Your big sister, Michelle, says you ’aven’t got any stairs in your ’ouse.’

  ‘No, we live in a bungalow,’ said Alison. ‘There’s no upstairs.’

  ‘Your mam and dad mus’ be poor then,’ said Madonna unkindly and walked off.

  By the shelter of the school wall a group of small girls wanted to skip. Mary Scrimshaw was talking to Patience Crapper while she unravelled a skipping rope for her.

  ‘We’ve been doing maths this morning,’ said ten-year-old Mary proudly, ‘and I’m on the blue box.’

  Our School Mathematics Project workcards were graded into coloured boxes and the children gradually progressed through the course depending on their ability. By the time they reached my class the range of ability was already very wide, with the most able children already two years ahead of many in their age group.

  Patience Crapper wasn’t particularly interested in mathematics. She preferred talking about her collection of Barbie dolls. ‘Ah don’t like maths,’ she said.

  ‘I’m doing fractions,’ said Mary as she untied the final knot.

  Patience brightened up at this news. ‘My mummy fell and she ’ad a fraction in ’er leg,’ she said.

  Mary decided to give up on this conversation and let Patience concentrate on winding the skipping rope.

  Mandy Kerslake was talking to her friend Zoe Book in the shelter of the boiler-house doors when Ted Coggins approached. He looked at Mandy as if she had landed from another planet. ‘Hayley Spraggon says you were adopted, Mandy,’ he said. ‘What does that mean?’

  Mandy was a sensitive little girl and she thought for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it means I have two mummys and I live with one of them … but my mummy says I grew in her heart and not in her tummy.’

  Ted had no idea what she was talking about and wandered off to find a boy to talk to who made some sense.

  After Ryan Halfpenny had rung the bell to announce the end of morning break, little Alfie Spraggon was panting hard as he returned to Anne’s classroom and sat down.

  ‘Are you all right, Alfie?’ asked Anne. ‘You sound out of breath.’

  Alfie looked puzzled. ‘No, Miss, ah’ve got a lot more.’

  I should know better by now, thought Anne, and picked up her flashcards of simple words.

  Meanwhile, on the High Street the post delivered by Ted Postlethwaite was beginning to have an effect. In the butcher’s shop Old Tommy Piercy was looking glum. He had received a letter from his sister in Thirkby announcing she intended to visit her younger brother. He was discussing the problem with his grandson.

  ‘What’s she like?’ asked Young Tommy.

  ‘Well … she’s no oil painting.’

  ‘No, ah meant ’er personality.’

  ‘Personality?’ repeated Old Tommy, looking puzzled. ‘She ’asn’t got one.’

  Next door in the village Pharmacy, the morning post had been received with more enthusiasm. Eugene Scrimshaw was excited. His order for a new Star Trek uniform had been confirmed and payment received. He had converted his loft to resemble the flight deck of the Starship Enterprise.

  All that remained was to explain to his wife why it was important to look the part when acting out his fantasies as a Starship warrior.

  He wasn’t confident Peggy would understand.

  Further up the High Street in the Hardware Emporium, Timothy Pratt was equally thrilled. In the post was a letter from his dear friend, Walter Crapper. Walter, a local accountant and, like Timothy, a single man, wanted to prepare a special Christmas dinner as described by Delia Smith. Timothy decided to reply saying he would be delighted to be Walter’s guest and promised to bring his old Meccano set for an after-dinner entertainment.

  By the end of the school day the winter sun was setting, flame red in the western sky, and the children trudged home excited by the thoughts of a fresh snowfall and a weekend of winter sports.

  In the General Stores Prudence hadn’t received a letter, but there was one she would read anyway. It was one she read each evening before she went to bed.

  She was about to serve her last customer of the day and Ted Coggins had a difficult decision to make. He had been given some money for his birthday by a visiting aunt and had purchased a Curly Wurly, but he still had a few pence left over. On the bottom shelf of Miss Golightly’s glass case there was a display of many of his favourites. Ted stared in wonder at the Rainbow Drops, Aniseed Balls, Love Hearts, Liquorice Torpedoes, Sherbet Dip Dabs, Gobstoppers, Candy Cigarettes and Black Jacks. He sighed and took a deep breath. ‘Two ounces of Aniseed Balls, please, Miss Golightly.’ If you suck them slow they will last for ever, he thought.

  ‘And how old are you now, Ted?’ asked Prudence as she passed over the bag of Aniseed Balls after adding a few extra for good luck.

  ‘I’m nine, Miss Golightly,’ said Ted.

  ‘I can remember being nine,’ said Prudence wistfully.

  ‘My nana says when people get old they die,’ volunteered Ted.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Prudence, ‘they do.’

  ‘Are you old?’ asked Ted.

  ‘Yes, I’m old compared to you.’

  Ted nodded. ‘Yes, y’definitely look old.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Prudence.

  Ted smiled, slipped an Aniseed Ball into his mouth and walked out, leaving Prudence to reflect on children’s honesty.

  Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd were standing outside the village hall when Petula Dudley-Palmer emerged from Diane’s Hair Salon and walked to her car.

  ‘She’s a reight bossy boots is that one,’ commented Betty.

  ‘Look at ’er,’ said Margery, ‘done up like a dog’s dinner.’

  ‘Mark my words,’ declared Betty with authority, ‘she knows which side ’er bread’s buttered does that one.’

  ‘Well she married a man wi’ plenty o’ brass,’ added Margery.

  ‘An’ jus’ look at that ’ouse she lives in,’ said Betty, ‘all done out like a stately ’ome, wi’ posh curtains an’ fruit in bowls when there’s no one poorly.’

  ‘Mind you,’ sighed Margery, ‘mus’ be nice t’be rich.’

  ‘But bein’ rich doesn’t stop same problems as t’likes o’ us, Margery,’ said Betty. ‘Y’know – ’usbands wi’ wand’rin’ eyes.’

  Amelia Duff had closed up the Post Office and turned at last to her morning’s post. She was pleased that the brochure from her Book of the Month Club had arrived. She thought Geoffrey Smith’s World of Flowers would be an ideal gift for her lover, Ted ‘Postie’ Postlethwaite. However, it was The Book of Love and Sex and The Complete Book of Sensual Massage that caught her eye … and she smiled.

  On the Morton Road, in her state-of-the-art kitchen, Petula Dudley-Palmer was unwrapping a parcel. It was her catalogue order, a sapphire-blue paisley-print dress with long sleeves and white lacy collar, and she wondered when would be a good time to wear it.

  She settled down to read her Woman’s Weekly and an advertisement for Effico Tonic attracted her attention. Apparently it was a remedy for that ‘tired, listless, rundown feeling’ and Petula made a note to buy some. Then, after copying down a recipe for a ‘Yorkshire Treacle Tart’, she began to read a short story about love the ‘second time around’. It was said to be ‘lovelier than the first time’ and Petula wondered if that might be true.

  She heard a car pull up outside and the security lights lit up the driveway. Her husband, Geoffrey, had recently celebrated his executive status by spending almost £15,000 on yet another new car, a 1984 ‘A’ Porsche 944 in black wi
th a sunroof and stereo. She guessed it was to impress his secretary.

  Petula surveyed the material riches that surrounded her and remembered her life when she was a child in Manchester. ‘Just to think,’ she said out loud, ‘I was the girl who queued for broken biscuits.’

  Prudence Golightly had closed her General Stores and was sitting in the back room. She held a letter in her hands, but not one that had been delivered that morning.

  The faded envelope had a postmark dated forty-five years ago in 1940. Since then, Jeremy’s last letter had held a special place in her heart. The brave young Spitfire pilot had not returned to Prudence and behind the closed door of the General Stores it was a time to remember spent promises and misty memories.

  On my way home I collected Natasha Smith from Ruby’s house. She had agreed to look after John while Beth and I went to the cinema. When we arrived at Bilbo Cottage Beth was preparing some home-made leek and potato soup while skimming through the Habitat brochure. There was a photograph of a large wooden train at £10.95 and Beth circled the order number.

  At 6.30 p.m. we drove into York, parked near Micklegate and walked to the cinema. Pat had arranged for us all to gather in the foyer before the film and it was good to relax together. I met Pat’s partner, David, and learned much about his busy life as a young general practitioner. Everyone had arrived apart from John Grainger. Anne explained that he was ‘busy’.

  The film, A Room with a View from the novel by E. M. Forster, was excellent and everyone appeared to enjoy their night out. For me the plot was fascinating. Lucy Honeychurch, played by Helena Bonham Carter, was on holiday in Italy with her cousin and chaperone Charlotte Bartlett. Charlotte, played by Maggie Smith, was manipulative, conventionally English and reminded me of my mother-in-law, Diane. Her younger cousin was carefree and free-spirited and reminiscent of Beth’s sister, Laura. I kept these thoughts to myself while Beth rested her head on my shoulder.

  At the end Vera announced to everyone that Judi Dench, Daniel Day-Lewis and Denholm Elliott were superb in their roles and English actors were the best in the world. The patriotic Rupert agreed wholeheartedly.

  Vera was also impressed with Pat’s partner, David the young doctor, who was polite, cheerful and engaging. ‘You make a lovely couple, my dear,’ she told Pat as we parted to make our way home.

  Colin and Sally Pringle dropped off Anne on The Crescent and, once again, the house no longer felt like a home as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

  John was sitting in the lounge. ‘I’m home,’ she said.

  ‘Did you have a good time?’ he called out.

  ‘Yes, thanks,’ said Anne. ‘Would you like a hot drink?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ replied John.

  While Anne took off her coat in the hallway she reflected on her life. Youth was now a mere memory. The brief passion she had experienced long ago with John Grainger, the handsome woodcarver, was long past. When they had first met the world had seemed a smaller, more intimate place.

  As she stared into the mirror an attractive woman looked back at her. Her body was still firm and shapely and she wondered if there ought to be more to her life. Being a teacher at Ragley School was her vocation and she loved the children in her care. Each day was different and brought fresh challenges. It was just that, when she arrived home and heard John enthuse about his latest DIY project, she felt tired of the routine of it all. Excitement was reserved for teaching a child to read or helping a five-year-old write his first sentence. Here in her home there was no joy and she realized that she wanted more … before it was too late.

  Anne shivered. Suddenly she felt cold. It was as if she had been standing in the shadows for too long.

  As she walked into the kitchen she thought of Edward Clifton. He had called into school with some photographs of the famous comet. However, he had explained that owing to poor visibility the sightings were not spectacular. When Anne was alone in the entrance hall he asked if she might be able to visit his antique shop in Thirkby.

  She blinked away a few tears as she stirred two mugs of Ovaltine for their usual night-time drink. Her heart was cool and there were times when her very soul felt shuttered and bare. She carried the mugs into the lounge. In an hour they would both be dreaming … but she would be awake.

  It was late by the time I had driven Natasha back to Ragley and returned home. She was looking forward to a weekend of part-time hairdressing, then a Saturday evening watching Cilla Black’s new show, Blind Date, and wishing it was her selecting the man of her dreams.

  Snow was falling, covering the villages of North Yorkshire in a cloak of silence. Beth was in her dressing gown and had prepared hot milky bedtime drinks. We sat quietly for a while.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s late,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, I know there’s something.’

  ‘Well, there was a certain letter in today’s post … it got me thinking.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘County Hall requested we take Stan Coe on to our governing body.’

  Beth put down her mug and looked aghast. ‘I hope you said no.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, Vera sent a letter straight back.’

  ‘And?’

  I smiled. Beth was so perceptive. She knew me so well.

  ‘It made me reassess what I really want.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, village politics can be wearing sometimes. Perhaps I should reconsider my professional future.’

  Beth squeezed my hand. ‘I understand … but it’s late,’ she said. ‘Let’s discuss it over the weekend.’

  She picked up the two mugs and carried them into the kitchen while I stared at the dying embers of the log fire. I sensed my private thoughts would soon become public knowledge. Ragley village was a small community and secrets did not remain hidden for long.

  Chapter Seven

  A Ragley Christmas

  School closed today for the Christmas holiday, with 96 children on roll and will reopen for the spring term on Monday, 6 January 1986. Parents and friends of school attended the Christmas carol service and all children took part in the afternoon Christmas party. The school choir and children from Class 1 will perform at the Christmas Crib Service at St Mary’s Church on Sunday afternoon, 22 December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 20 December 1985

  I awoke to a dawn of silence and light. Overnight snow had covered the vast plain of York and left behind a stark and desolate world. It was Friday, 20 December, the last day of the autumn term, and a Ragley Christmas beckoned.

  At eight o’clock the sun was rising, gilding the distant hills and bringing light to Ragley High Street. On my way to school I called into the General Stores, where Prudence Golightly was putting the final touches to Jeremy Bear’s Christmas outfit. His cardboard sleigh had been covered in kitchen foil.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said the tiny shopkeeper from the top step behind the counter, where she was on a level with me.

  ‘A dozen mince pies for the staff-room please, Miss Golightly.’

  ‘Freshly made,’ said Prudence as she filled a box with the festive pastries.

  ‘And a happy Christmas, Jeremy,’ I added.

  ‘He’s so excited,’ said Prudence, looking lovingly at the bear and adjusting the collar of his red shirt. ‘He has asked Santa for some new wellingtons and a warm cardigan.’

  Twelve-year-old Jimmy Poole, an ex-pupil of mine, was behind me in the queue. His Yorkshire terrier, Scargill, was outside, tied up to the frame of his BMX bicycle. Jimmy still had his lisp. ‘Ah’ve asked for a Tharp Thientific Calculator for Chrithmath, Mr Theffield,’ he said.

  ‘Well I hope Santa visits your house, Jimmy.’

  ‘Tho do I,’ said Jimmy with a knowing smile.

  I paid for the mince pies and collected my newspaper. The headlines confirmed that the spirit of Christmas did not extend to Defence Secretary Michael Heseltine
. He was at loggerheads with Margaret Thatcher over the future of the Westland helicopter firm. Likewise, Environment Secretary Kenneth Baker was under fire following the new rates support group scheme to bring local government expenditure under control.

  When I walked into the entrance lobby Ruby hurried from the hall carrying an empty cardboard box. She had clearly been busy.

  ‘Ah’ve ’ung up all m’presents on t’tree, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  It was a tradition for Ruby to purchase a small gift for every child in the school, even though she could ill afford them. She had wrapped a packet of sweets in North Yorkshire County Council tissue paper and hung each gift on our Christmas tree, which dominated the corner of the school hall.

  ‘Well done, Ruby,’ I said. ‘It’s really kind of you.’

  ‘It’s a special time for all t’kiddies,’ she said. ‘They’re only young once.’ She looked back at the Christmas tree. ‘An’ y’can’t beat a Ragley Christmas.’

  By half past eight Pat was helping Anne in her classroom. A rehearsal for the forthcoming Nativity in church on Sunday had been arranged. Pat was repairing a plywood manger while Anne was attaching a large cardboard star to a bamboo cane. Sally was in the school hall setting up music stands for morning assembly, so I went into the office to check on the morning post.

  Vera was busy with two new parents and their eight-year-old daughter, Katie Parrish. Like her mother, the young girl was tall and fair-haired. Her parents, both lecturers in York, had just moved into a large cottage on the Easington Road. Mrs Parrish had telephoned earlier in the week to ask if Katie could get to know Ragley school prior to starting full-time in January.

  The meeting went smoothly, apart from the father making it clear he was in a hurry. He appeared to be dressed for a gunfight at the O.K. Corral, with a brown suede waistcoat over a collarless shirt and a long black coat that swirled around his Cuban-heeled boots. His long hair had a centre parting. However, Mrs Parrish was supportive and very grateful that Katie had the opportunity to settle in.

  ‘We would like to thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, with a stern look towards her husband, who was on his way out. She turned to Vera. ‘We also appreciate your support, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener, especially on such a busy day for you.’