Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  He walked round my desk and stood by the window. ‘Excellent wheels, don’t you think?’ he said. It seemed an incongruous opening and I wondered if he was being deliberately rude to mask his nervousness. ‘Just bought it,’ he continued. ‘Four and a half thousand on the clock and not much change from ten grand.’

  He turned back to the visitor’s chair, sat down and stretched out his long legs. ‘So, time’s short – what’s the problem?’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Parrish,’ I said.

  ‘Actually, Professor Parrish,’ he interjected quickly with a laconic smile on his face. ‘I’m the senior guy in the Humanities Department at the University of York … but we needn’t stand on ceremony.’

  I remained impassive. ‘As I was saying, Mr Parrish, I appreciate your coming in and, as we were due to meet at twelve, time is indeed short.’ I looked up at the office clock. ‘I’m teaching immediately after lunch.’

  ‘So am I, but we work civilized hours,’ he replied curtly.

  I pressed on. ‘We have a few concerns regarding Katie,’ I said. I outlined some of the issues and finally I showed him Katie’s writing book. He passed it back to me hastily. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ he said, ‘and, of course, we could send her to Easington Primary School.’

  ‘That’s for you to decide,’ I said. ‘We simply want the best for Katie.’

  He gave me a hard stare and stood up. ‘Can I see her before I go?’

  I asked Sally to bring Katie to the entrance hall and I watched father and daughter carefully. It was a meeting of tense silences and unspoken thoughts. There was distance between them.

  As he left he crouched down next to his daughter. ‘Mummy is collecting you straight from school … so don’t worry.’

  As he drove away I walked out with Katie to the playground while a flint wind rattled the silent shutters of my mind.

  At the end of school I was surprised to see Mrs Parrish waiting outside the office door. She looked a little tense, but her news was reassuring.

  ‘Rosie Appleby’s mother has invited Katie for tea,’ she said, ‘so I’m collecting both girls now and driving to Rosie’s. Then I’ll be picking her up later from there.’

  I thanked her for letting me know.

  Rebecca Parrish sat in her car outside Rosie Appleby’s house and anger built up inside her. Simon hadn’t mentioned he had been late in collecting Katie on Monday evening. In fact, recently, there was a lot he hadn’t mentioned. She glanced down at her wristwatch. There were no departmental meetings, so she was free … time that she hadn’t expected to have. She made a decision. Home was up the Easington Road. Instead she drove down the High Street towards York.

  The university car park was dark and she looked up at the Humanities Department building. Bars of light escaped from the closed blinds. She knew the way. It was a long corridor. Fluorescent lights blazed above her. The sign on the familiar door read ‘Prof. S. Parrish’ and she walked straight in.

  A tall, lithesome woman about thirty years old was stretching up to kiss her husband. For a moment there was a frozen tableau of the professor and the student, and for Rebecca Parrish it was as if she had been struck.

  It was only later that she realized why the impact was so great.

  It wasn’t that Simon was holding the woman’s hand and looking into her eyes. Rather it was the fact that it was a tender kiss, a loving kiss, soft and gentle.

  This was no fling, no casual relationship. She was staring at a pair of lovers.

  ‘Now I know why you forgot to pick up our child on Monday evening.’ Quiet words … and cold. Briefly the atmosphere was suffused with acrimony. Then Rebecca Parrish retreated from the room and closed the door.

  That evening, as snow pattered against the windows of the cottage, Beth and I settled down in the lounge for the evening. We were surrounded by white noise … peaceful and calming as we sipped our mugs of steaming coffee.

  Suddenly Beth broke the silence. ‘I’m thinking of changing my car,’ she announced.

  I was surprised. ‘I thought you liked your Beetle.’

  She shook her head. ‘It’s no longer suitable for these winter drives into work and there’s rust everywhere.’

  It seemed the end of an era. ‘What had you in mind?’

  She had circled an advertisement in the Easington Herald. ‘Have a look at this,’ she said. It read: ‘1981 VW Golf CD Diesel, 5 door, blue trim, £2,995’.

  ‘Three thousand pounds,’ I said. ‘A lot of money.’

  ‘But I’m earning more now, Jack, and with part-exchange and easy terms it should be fine.’

  I had to agree. It made sense.

  After a meal of lasagne and a glass of wine we decided to put schoolwork to one side and unwind. We settled down shortly after eight o’clock to watch Dynasty, but my thoughts kept returning to my meeting with Simon Parrish.

  On Thursday morning it was Mrs Parrish who called in before school. She looked pale but composed and requested a private word.

  ‘I’m not intending to beat about the bush,’ she said. ‘I’ve asked my husband to move out.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘So … we’ve separated and Katie and I are staying here in the village. Simon is moving on.’

  ‘Moving on?’

  ‘Yes, with his new partner. Katie doesn’t know yet, but we will tell her this evening.’

  ‘Do you mind me sharing this with the rest of the staff and Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’ I asked. ‘They all have key pastoral roles in the school.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘I know you do,’ I said quietly.

  She smiled. ‘After all, we’re in the same profession. I deal with this frequently. I just didn’t think it would happen to me.’

  ‘So what’s next?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, it’s my intention to keep living in the area because I want Katie to continue at Ragley. Given the disruption she has faced she will need the security your school can offer.’

  She stared out of the window. ‘You have a lovely school, Mr Sheffield, and I’m grateful to you for all your help during this …’ there was a strained smile, ‘… eventful week.’

  At lunchtime I sat in the office looking out at the children playing in the snow on the school field. I saw Katie Parrish talking with Rosie Appleby and reflected that friendship was a simple thing when you were young. I marvelled at their innocence. It was a time of birthdays and bonfires, presents and parties; a time of freedom to climb trees and paddle in streams. In their cocoon of private space they enjoyed the scent of flowers and the breath of freedom.

  Sally called in and we talked about Katie. ‘We see a lot of this, Jack,’ she mused. ‘Sadly, Katie is an innocent in a guilty world.’

  At the end of school Sally spoke to Katie and Rosie as they put on their coats and she was pleased that they seemed relaxed.

  ‘We’re going to watch Blue Peter, Miss,’ said Katie with enthusiasm.

  ‘It’s about York Minster,’ added Rosie.

  Simon Groom, Janet Ellis and Peter Duncan were returning to York Minster after the great fire of 1984 to look at the restoration of the Rose Window.

  Rosie and Katie walked out arm in arm, chattering excitedly.

  On Friday morning rooks squawked their danger cries as the wind began to rattle the branches of their nests. When I arrived at school Mrs Parrish was talking to Vera in the entrance hall.

  ‘We’ve talked about it, Mr Sheffield, and Katie understands what is happening. She thought it might be her fault, but I reassured her it wasn’t.’

  ‘We will keep an eye on her,’ I said, ‘and whenever you wish to talk, we’re here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. She looked at Vera. ‘Both of you.’ As she turned to leave she glanced back. ‘You can learn a lot from a child’s writing.’

  We watched her drive away.

  ‘At least she’s no longer looking through a glass darkly,’ said Vera quietly.

&nb
sp; ‘It seems like the way ahead is clear,’ I replied.

  We both walked back into the office to begin our day’s work.

  Chapter Eleven

  Driving Ambition

  School reopened today following the half-term holiday.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 3 March 1986

  The season was changing and, in spite of a bitterly cold wind, the first signs of a distant spring crept over the high moors. The raucous calls of curlews announced the end of winter as a pale sun touched the land with warmth and light. It was Monday, 3 March, the first day after the half-term holiday, and I felt a new optimism as I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton. Beneath the frozen earth new life stirred and lifted the spirits of the folk of North Yorkshire – with the exception of Victor Pratt.

  He lumbered out of his untidy garage as I pulled up on the forecourt alongside the single pump. ‘Fill her up please, Victor,’ I said, ‘… and how are you?’

  Victor’s face was bright red and he wiped his brow with the back of his oil-smeared hand. ‘Ah’m sweatin’ cobs, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah think ah’m comin’ down wi’ summat.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Ah get ’ot when ah bend down an’ dizzy when ah get up,’ he elaborated. ‘Ah don’t know if ah’m comin’ or goin’.’

  ‘Perhaps you need a pick-me-up from the chemist,’ I suggested, more in hope than expectation.

  ‘Mebbe so,’ said Victor, brightening up, ‘but first ah’m goin’ t’Ruby’s mother for a bottle of Uncle Billy’s tonic. That’ll put me right.’

  ‘I could ask Ruby to collect it for you and then I’ll drop it in when I’m passing,’ I said, trying to be helpful.

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield, but ah’ve got young Kenny Kershaw comin’ to ’old t’fort for me later this morning. ’E’s a good lad and ah’m thinkin’ o’ trainin’ ’im up t’be a mechanic. You’ve got t’give young uns a chance.’

  ‘Very true,’ I agreed.

  ‘Ah’ll sithee,’ he said and took out a dirty handkerchief to wipe his brow.

  ‘Get well soon, Victor,’ I said as he gave me my change.

  As I drove away I thought about Victor’s words and the cycle of life in the village. A new generation was finding employment in a difficult world.

  Meanwhile, in the High Street, Heathcliffe Earnshaw was finishing his paper round and he gave me a wave as I turned into school. I paused before driving through the school gate. The willow had come back to life on the village green and at the base of its trunk the spears of narcissi were forcing their bullet heads through the dense layer of leaf mould. It was a sight to refresh the soul and I felt encouraged as I drove up the cobbled drive.

  Ruby was sweeping the entrance porch and leaned on her broom as I approached.

  ‘Good morning, Ruby,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fair t’middlin’,’ she replied.

  ‘Better weather now,’ I remarked.

  ‘Mebbe so, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, ‘but on t’news this morning it said we were in for adverb weather conditions … so it dunt look promising.’

  ‘Oh well, here’s to a good day,’ I said, trying to be cheerful, but Ruby was in one of her sombre moods again.

  She propped her yard broom against the wall and pushed a few stray strands of her curly chestnut hair under her headscarf. ‘To tell you t’truth, Mr Sheffield, ah’m beginning t’feel t’cold these days.’ She looked down at her threadbare coat and gave a wan smile. ‘It’s been an ’ard winter an’ ah could do wi’ a warm coat wi’ lots o’ installation.’

  ‘Come inside, Ruby, and warm yourself,’ I said. ‘I’m sure we can find time for a hot drink.’

  ‘Thank you kindly, but ah said ah’d meet George Dainty in Nora’s for a coffee,’ and she took her broom inside to her caretaker’s cupboard.

  Vera was busy filing in the office when I sat down at my desk. She had stacked the morning’s post neatly under my brass paperweight and I began to sort through it.

  A few minutes later there was a tap on the door. It was Ruby. ‘Ah’m getting off smartish, Mrs F,’ she said, oblivious to my presence. ‘Ah’m seeing Mr Dainty in t’Coffee Shop.’

  ‘That’s lovely, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘He’s a good friend.’

  ‘Strange,’ pondered Ruby. She was clearly thinking about her changing circumstances. ‘Ah spent a life wi’ my Ronnie, Mrs F, living on t’never-never an’ now ah’ve met a man wi’ a load o’ brass.’

  ‘You certainly have,’ said Vera.

  ‘Yes, Mrs F,’ said Ruby and, after glancing in my direction, she lowered her voice. ‘So … what do you think of ’im?’

  I pretended to be immersed in the latest recommendation from County Hall for making sure our future half-term holidays coincided with the local secondary school.

  ‘He’s a very kind and generous man,’ said Vera. ‘He always helps towards our church funds.’

  Ruby smiled. ‘Yes, ’e’s become a good friend. In fac’ ’e’s tekkin’ me into York later t’day t’see our little Krystal.’

  Vera nodded knowingly. ‘That’s lovely, Ruby. It’s important to spend time with your granddaughter.’

  ‘Our Duggie was s’pposed t’be givin’ me a lift but ’e announced this mornin’, large as life, ’e ’ad summat important t’do for t’funeral parlour. ’E never plans ’is life does Duggie, jus’ like his dad wi’ channel vision.’

  ‘Never mind, Ruby, just go and enjoy your time with Mr Dainty.’

  Ruby paused by the door on her way out. ‘It’s times like this ah wish ah could drive … but it’s too late for me.’

  After the door had closed I saw Vera smile. ‘We need to give Ruby a focus, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘something to concentrate her mind … and I think I may have the answer.’ She proceeded to dial a local number.

  George Dainty was surprised to receive a telephone call from the vicar’s sister, but he listened intently and nodded thoughtfully when he finally replaced the receiver.

  ‘There,’ said Vera, ‘that should do it.’

  In the next village Rufus Timmings was standing outside Morton School and considering the school sign. His name was emblazoned in gold paint, followed by a string of letters that indicated he had a Bachelor of Education degree plus a number of obscure certificates and diplomas. He smiled in satisfaction. It made him appear to be North Yorkshire’s best-qualified academic.

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Timmings,’ growled a voice behind him.

  Rufus turned round and looked up into the weathered jowls of a heavily built, fierce-looking man.

  ‘Oh, good morning. Can I help?’ asked Rufus, slightly perturbed at the sight of this sixteen-stone Yorkshireman who stank of last night’s beer.

  ‘Ah’m ’ere to introduce m’self … ah’m Stanley Coe from Coe Farm in Ragley.’

  Recognition dawned for Rufus. ‘Ah, Mr Coe, I’ve been expecting you,’ he said.

  ‘Ah thought y’might,’ said Stan. He pulled out an envelope from the inside pocket of his donkey jacket. ‘Ah’ve just ’ad this letter confirmin’ ah’m t’new local authority governor.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rufus, ‘our chair of governors, Mr Bones, was informed of your appointment by County Hall.’ He paused to appraise this local farmer. ‘So, welcome to Morton School. Would you like to come in?’

  ‘No, ah’m off to t’abattoir, so ah can’t stop.’

  Rufus looked at him, slightly puzzled. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Mr Coe, I’m surprised you want to be a governor here.’

  Stan gave him a shifty look. ‘An’ why’s that?’

  ‘Well, with all the upheaval.’

  ‘Up’eaval,’ said Stan with a grin. ‘That’s why ah’m ’ere, lad.’

  Rufus did not appreciate being called ‘lad’ but let it go. ‘Well that’s good to hear, but there are challenging times ahead.’

  Stan weighed up this young man with his smart suit and soft features in
the same way he assessed which of his animals would be slaughtered. ‘Mr Bones mentioned about the ’eadteacher’s job bein’ advertised for t’new school.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Rufus. ‘That’s the official procedure with it being an amalgamation of the two schools.’

  Stan stroked the side of his bulbous nose with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘An’ tell me, Mr Timmings – will you be applying for t’job?’

  Rufus puffed out his chest. ‘But of course, Mr Coe, I certainly shall.’

  Stan recognized raw ambition with a hint of cunning when he saw it and he looked up at the school sign. ‘Then let’s mek sure your name is painted over t’top o’ present ’eadteacher’s name.’

  Rufus Timmings watched Stan Coe climb back into his Land Rover and roar off towards Easington.

  Both men were smiling.

  On the juke-box in the Coffee Shop, The Bangles were singing ‘Manic Monday’ and George Dainty was thinking they were probably right. His response to Vera’s request had to be handled carefully. When Ruby came in he bought two frothy coffees and she sat warming her hands on the steaming mug.

  George thought to himself that there was no time like the present.

  ‘Ruby, ah was wond’ring if y’fancied learnin’ t’drive?’

  ‘Pard’n?’

  ‘Yes, y’know … you drivin’ an’ ah could learn you.’

  Ruby shook her head in bewilderment. ‘An’ pigs might fly, George.’

  ‘No, ah’m serious,’ he said. ‘It would give y’that independence y’need so y’could visit York an’ suchlike an’ see little Krystal when y’fancy.’

  ‘It’s a bit late in t’day f’me,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m not a spring chicken any more.’

  ‘Mebbe not, Ruby,’ said George firmly, ‘but you could conquer anything if y’put y’mind to it.’

  ‘D’you really think so?’

  George stretched out his hand and laid it gently on top of Ruby’s work-red, swollen fingers. ‘Ah do,’ he said simply.

  ‘Well, ah can’t say ah ’aven’t given it some thought.’

  ‘Go on, luv – nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained.’