Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Oh, well, yes I suppose there would be.’ He turned to Suzi-Quatro and said, ‘Ho, ho, ho.’ Gabriel was proud of his ‘Ho, ho, ho’ and had perfected it over the years.

  Suzi-Quatro stepped forward.

  ‘And what’s your name, little girl?’

  ‘Santa … she’s not little,’ interjected Mrs Ricketts, ‘she’s a good size.’

  ‘Of course she is,’ agreed Gabriel nervously.

  ‘Ah’m Suzi-Quatro.’

  ‘Are you?’ asked Gabriel in surprise.

  ‘Yes, she is,’ said Mrs Ricketts.

  ‘Ah’d like a Princess Leia, please, Santa,’ said Suzi-Quatro.

  ‘Really? She sounds important,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘She’s in Star Wars an’ she ’as a posh ’air-do,’ explained Suzi-Quatro.

  Gabriel looked up at Mrs Ricketts, who nodded. ‘Yes, I think I’ve got one of those,’ he said.

  Mrs Ricketts took them by the hand and marched them back to the door.

  ‘We’ll leave a biscuit f’Rudolph,’ promised Suzi-Quatro.

  ‘An’ a glass o’ sherry f’you, Santa,’ added Billy.

  ‘Well … prob’ly milk,’ said Mrs Ricketts, who liked her sherry.

  With a final ‘Ho, ho, ho’ Gabriel got up while both children were receiving a mystery gift – a packet of fruit pastilles wrapped in tissue paper – from Busy Elf, while Good Fairy rolled another cigarette.

  On Sunday afternoon Beth and I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton while wood smoke drifted up towards a clear, powder-blue sky. When we reached Ragley High Street families were hurrying up the Morton Road towards St Mary’s Church. The Crib Service marked the beginning of the sequence of Christmas services that attracted most of the villagers.

  The church bells were ringing as we lifted John from the car and he walked up the pathway of Yorkshire stone while the snow settled in gentle curves against the church wall. On the noticeboard something attracted Beth’s attention and she smiled. It was another classic from the church secretary and organist, Elsie Crapper. The notice read: ‘Don’t let worry kill you – let the church help.’

  We walked through the Norman doorway and found a space on one of the front pews so that John could have a good view of the Nativity. Vera was moving quietly through the sanctuary of this beautiful church, lighting tall candles. A kaleidoscope of flickering light illuminated the stained glass in the east window and gave a fiery glow to the altar rail of Victorian pine.

  Vera walked over to us and smiled down at John. ‘Welcome to our haven of peace in a busy world,’ she said, then moved on to the two Norman arches on the north side of the nave to light the final candles. Sally was lining up her choir for the first of the carols, while Pat and Anne helped a group of mothers to dress the shepherds, kings and angels.

  When Joseph approached the lectern the sound of children’s voices subsided until only the ticking of the old church clock, installed in 1912 to commemorate the coronation of George V, could be heard.

  Seated at the organ, Elsie Crapper felt composed. She had taken her Valium and all was calm. She played the introduction to ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and Sally’s choir sang the first verse before the congregation joined in. As always, it was music blessed by angels, and the children acted out the timeless story dressed in tea-towel headdresses and halos of bright tinsel.

  Predictably, the gifts for baby Jesus created particular interest. ‘Ah’d ’ave got ’im a Leeds United kit,’ said Stuart Ormroyd.

  ‘Or a nice tin o’ biscuits,’ added Patience Crapper for good measure.

  ‘Who’s t’baby, Mam?’ asked a curious Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw.

  Mrs Earnshaw answered in a hushed whisper, ‘That’s baby Jesus.’

  After a pause Dallas said, ‘Who’s that with ’im, Mam?’

  ‘That’s ’is mother, Mary.’

  Another pause. ‘Mam …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Where’s ’is dad?’

  ‘Shurrup!’

  Soon it was over and parents and children stepped out into the darkness of another winter’s night. The staff stayed behind to help Vera clear up and finally the church was still with the silence of stone. When Beth and I walked out all was quiet apart from the ticking of the ancient clock. As we drove home I wondered how many more Christmases I would experience as the headteacher of our local school.

  These were special times and, as Ruby had said, you couldn’t beat a Ragley Christmas.

  Chapter Eight

  A Comedy of Errors

  Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle with children from the reception class plus the school choir and orchestra will be supporting the Ragley annual village concert, A Comedy of Errors by William Shakespeare, in the village hall on 31 December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 31 December 1985

  Nora Pratt looked at her Alpine leather corset hanging in the wardrobe and sighed. She would have to let it out a little. After all, as president of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, it was important to set a good example.

  The annual New Year’s Eve concert had arrived and Nora wanted to look her best. She thought how, back in 1977, the corset had fitted perfectly for Snow White and the Six Dwarfs, but then the years went by and it had become rather snug by the time of Jack and the Beanstalk. During The Wizard of Oz it was decidedly tight and during last year’s Dick Whittington she could barely breathe.

  Nora stared at her reflection in the mirror and recalled the highs and lows of her acting career. It was a big day for this determined thespian, who always tried her best. A new era of drama had arrived in Ragley village and she wondered what the reaction would be. Turning to one of William Shakespeare’s plays was a journey into the unknown and a far cry from the usual pantomime. However, undeterred by either her inability to pronounce the letter ‘R’ or her ever-expanding waistline, Nora was confident she knew her lines and that her moment of stardom would finally be within her grasp.

  It was Tuesday morning, 31 December, and the production of Shakespeare’s A Comedy of Errors was only hours away.

  Outside Ragley School the tall horse chestnut trees were bare of leaves and stood like frozen sentinels. The air was clean and sharp, while bright winter sunshine lit up the playground and the frosted tips of the fleur-de-lis on the railings looked like candles on a cake.

  Beth and I had driven into school so that I could collect the last post of the year before driving on to York to do some shopping. John was wrapped up warm in his pushchair and Beth pulled his woolly hat over his pink ears. ‘How about a hot drink in Nora’s Coffee Shop?’ she suggested.

  ‘Good idea,’ I agreed, and I unbuckled John and let him totter over the village green. He loved making tiny footprints on the white frost. I noticed his speed was increasing as he grew older and stronger, and I put on a spurt to keep up with him. I picked him up to cross the High Street and we walked into the Coffee Shop. On the juke-box, Bruce Springsteen was telling everyone that ‘Santa Claus Is Comin’ to Town’. The fact that the man in the red suit had been and gone seemed to have passed unnoticed. Today there were much more important visitors, not least Felicity Miles-Humphreys, who was in animated conversation with Nora.

  I walked to the counter while Beth found the old wooden communal highchair and set it up next to a corner table.

  ‘It’s a bit scawy,’ said Nora. ‘All this Shakespeawian dialogue is a bit diffewent – it teks a lot o’ concentwation t’get it wight.’ Nora was playing the part of Adriana, wife of Antipholus of Ephesus.

  ‘You will be wonderful, darling’ said Felicity. ‘In fact, I perceive a triumph.’ As artistic director and production manager of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, Felicity knew the importance of encouragement. ‘We are introducing classical drama to the masses, my dear, and those with a little savoir faire will appreciate it.’

  Nora nodded uncertainly. She could neither understand savoir faire nor, indeed, pronounce it, but Felicity had never
let her down.

  ‘So, what’s it t’be, Felicity?’ she asked.

  ‘A filter coffee with hot milk and one of your simply scrumptious fruit scones,’ said Felicity with dramatic emphasis but little belief. ‘We shall need vital energy for our dress rehearsal this afternoon.’

  Nora turned to Dorothy, who was rehearsing her lines next to the coffee machine. ‘A fwothy coffee an’ a fwuit scone, please, Dowothy,’ and Dorothy reluctantly put down her crumpled script.

  It was my turn.

  ‘Two coffees, please, Nora, and a small glass of warm milk for John,’ I said.

  ‘Coming wight up, Mr Sheffield.’

  After a couple of minutes the tall figure of Dorothy tottered over on her high heels and put a tray of welcome drinks on the table.

  ‘Good luck tonight, Dorothy,’ said Beth.

  ‘We’ll be there to support,’ I added, trying to be encouraging.

  ‘Ah’m reight excited,’ said Dorothy. ‘Me an’ my Malcolm are in it an’ we’ve been practisin’ ev’ry night.’

  ‘So what’s your part?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah’m Nell, Nora’s kitchen wench,’ she said, ‘an’ ah wear this proper wench’s outfit, which is reight short, wi’ m’Wonder Woman boots an’ m’chunky charm bracelet on a bit o’ balin’ twine round m’neck.’

  ‘Sounds perfect,’ I said.

  ‘M’first actin’ part, Mr Sheffield,’ added Dorothy with gravitas.

  ‘Well done,’ I said. ‘I’m sure both you and Malcolm will be terrific.’

  ‘An’ ’ere’s a digestive biscuit f’John,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Beth, ‘… and hope it goes well.’

  Beth and I always enjoyed our visits to York, the jewel in Yorkshire’s crown, and soon the west towers of the Minster came into view.

  We parked in Lord Mayor’s Walk next to the ancient walls and walked up Gillygate and on into the city centre. After completing our shopping we stopped in St Helen’s Square outside Bettys Café Tea Rooms, noticeably without the expected apostrophe in ‘Bettys’ on the large ornate sign, and stared in the window. John became excited when he saw the display of mouthwatering cakes, pastries and hand-made chocolates. We were ushered to a table next to the huge curved windows, elegant wood panelling and art deco mirrors.

  The waitress who served us wore a starched white apron and neat little cap, and looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of one of Agatha Christie’s novels. I ordered toasted teacakes and a boiled egg and toast soldiers for John. As a special treat, this was followed by a plateful of Yorkshire Fat Rascals – fruity scones filled with citrus peel, almonds and cherries. Beth poured the tea, which was served in a silver teapot with a matching sugar bowl, silver tongs and a delicate tea strainer. Everything looked perfect. It was as if we had stepped back into a bygone era of white linen and silver service, which, sadly, was lost on John, who ate as if we had starved him for the past week.

  ‘So, how do you feel?’ I asked. Beth had been working hard since Christmas, learning all she could about her new headship. Many challenges lay ahead.

  ‘I’m getting there,’ she said with a tired smile. ‘It’s all new, but I’ll be fine. The deputy and head of infants are coming round to the idea of me being their head and we’re making progress.’

  ‘Good to hear,’ I said. ‘You’ll need their support.’

  We walked up Stonegate past the Minster, along Goodramgate and returned to Lord Mayor’s Walk. The imposing city wall, built of magnesian limestone, shimmered in the winter sunshine. Built in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, these walls formed almost a complete circuit of this medieval city and stood as a reminder of the days when defences were needed that would repel an invader.

  Across the road was my old college, where I had trained as a teacher, and we paused to drink in the familiar view laced with many memories. Suddenly there was a call and an old friend waved in our direction. It was Jim Fairbank, my college tutor from the sixties. He hurried across the road to meet us, a slim, bespectacled figure in a thick three-piece tweed suit with a university scarf knotted round his neck.

  ‘Jack and Beth – lovely to see you again,’ he said, and then stared reflectively at young John. Jim had not married and parenthood was never to be part of his life. ‘And this is your fine son … he’s growing fast.’

  We shook hands. ‘How are you, Jim?’ I asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks,’ he replied, then added, ‘and you’ve saved me a letter.’

  I was curious. ‘Why is that?’

  He paused, searching for the right words. ‘We need your expertise, Jack, and I was hoping you might find time to help us out.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘What have you in mind?’

  ‘We’re short of a tutor this term for one of the modules and you would be perfect. It’s six sessions with a focus on classroom management.’

  ‘I couldn’t take time off school,’ I said. ‘As you know, I have a class full-time.’

  ‘We could fit round your teaching commitments at Ragley,’ said Jim, ‘and the college would pay for a supply teacher to cover your class, providing your governors agree.’

  ‘Well – it would have to be out of school hours.’

  ‘You could start at four thirty,’ suggested Beth quickly. She gave me that look I knew so well. ‘It’s an opportunity, Jack.’

  I was captured by her enthusiasm. It also made sense in terms of a possible future employment opening.

  Jim smiled. He had reeled in his catch. ‘I’ll call you at the start of term,’ he said.

  We shook hands, loaded up the car and put John in his baby seat. On our way back to Kirkby Steepleton Beth sounded animated. ‘This could be a foothold in higher education,’ she said. ‘You never know where it might lead.’

  ‘I agree,’ I replied, ‘and it might be a sign of things to come.’

  Silence descended as the miles sped by and we were both immersed in our own thoughts. 1986 stretched out before us and uncertainties in our professional lives had to be met head on. I knew I had to develop a more determined streak. Beth had shown me the way and it was about time she saw my own ambition.

  After dropping off Beth and John at home, I set off for Ragley. I had volunteered to help out once again with the scenery for the evening performance of A Comedy of Errors. Before that I called into The Royal Oak for some hot food and a drink.

  When I walked in, Big Dave and Little Malcolm were enjoying a pint as they propped up the tap-room bar with Ruby’s son, Duggie, along with Deke Ramsbottom and two of his sons, Shane and Clint. In the background the television news was chattering away to no one in particular. The newsreader was talking about something called Comic Relief. It followed an outside broadcast from a refugee camp in Sudan that had featured on Noel Edmonds’ Late, Late Breakfast Show. Founded by comedy scriptwriter Richard Curtis and comedian Lenny Henry in response to the famine in Ethiopia, it sounded a good idea and had caught the imagination of the country.

  Meanwhile, Sheila Bradshaw was doing a roaring trade. Rabbit pie was on the menu along with boiled beef and carrots. This was followed by another of Sheila’s specialities, spotted dick and custard, perfect on a freezing-cold day.

  ‘It’s goin’ down a treat, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila proudly.

  ‘It’s a proper feast is this,’ confirmed an appreciative Deke Ramsbottom as he devoured his perfectly cooked rabbit.

  With recollections of Watership Down still vivid in my imagination, eating the cast didn’t seem appropriate … so I chose the beef.

  ‘So, big night t’night, Malcolm,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Y’reight there, Sheila,’ said Little Malcolm, blushing profusely.

  ‘’E’s a proper star, is our Malcolm,’ said Big Dave proudly. ‘’E’s doin’ Shakespeare. It’s one o’ ’is comedies.’

  The huge figure of Don, an ex-wrestler in his younger days, looked up from pulling a frothing pint. ‘So what part y’playin’, Malc’?’
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  ‘Well, it’s a bit complicated,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Ah’m this bloke, Antipholus of Ephesus.’

  ‘Sounds foreign,’ remarked Don as he placed the pint of Tetley’s on a York City coaster.

  ‘An’ ah’ve gorra twin brother, but we were sep’rated at birth,’ explained Little Malcolm.

  ‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Don, ‘that’s upsettin’.’

  ‘An’ t’poor little sod got lost in a storm at sea,’ added Big Dave, who, after countless late-night weekly rehearsals after Match of the Day, knew the plot down to the last detail.

  Don shook his head. ‘Dunt sound much like a comedy t’me, Malc’.’

  ‘Well, Felicity said ’e wrote comedies an’ tragedies, did this Shakespeare bloke – an’ this is definitely a comedy.’

  ‘But there’s a ’appy endin’,’ added Big Dave, eager to support his diminutive cousin.

  ‘Well ah think it’s wonderful,’ said Sheila, ‘an’ a proper bit o’ culture. Jus’ what we need in t’village. So tek no notice o’ my Don. ’E didn’t read no Shakespeare, only comics an’ then ’e only looked at t’pictures.’ Ragley’s favourite barmaid looked up at her great hulk of a husband. ‘’E’s not int’ culture – in fac’, ’e wouldn’t know culture from wet fish.’

  Don thought he knew a lot about fish but decided to keep quiet.

  Clint came to the bar to order the next round of drinks. He was sporting his new tattoo and Sheila and Don looked at it with interest.

  ‘Ah went t’York t’Tattoos-While-U-Wait,’ said Clint proudly, ‘an’ ah got this.’ He bared his arm. The tattoo read: MAKE LOVE NOT.

  ‘Make love not?’ said Sheila. ‘What’s that s’pposed t’mean?’

  Clint blushed profusely. ‘My arm weren’t wide enough so ’e ’ad t’keep goin’ round.’ The word WAR was hidden under his armpit.

  ‘Never mind, Clint,’ said Sheila, looking at Don’s bulging biceps. ‘Big muscles isn’t ev’rythin’. A woman likes a bit o’ sensitivity.’ She saw Clint’s reaction and added quickly, ‘An’ some men do too.’

  Clint gave her a shy smile and glanced at his brother to make sure he was out of earshot. He leaned over the bar. ‘Duggie’s got a new girlfriend an’ our Shane’s spreading it round that she’s a reight slapper,’ he confided.