Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

‘Well ah might as well be ’anged for a sheep as a lamb.’

  George smiled gently. He knew there was a sorrow to be healed.

  During morning break Vera had other concerns on her mind. ‘I can’t imagine how Margaret is feeling this morning.’

  We all knew that when Vera mentioned Margaret in that tone of voice and with reverence, she meant her political heroine. In a television interview Ted Heath had snubbed the Prime Minister no fewer than three times while refusing to endorse her leadership in the next election. It dominated the news headlines and for once Sally and Vera were united.

  ‘Sounds like sour grapes to me,’ said Sally, ‘particularly after Maggie booted him out.’

  ‘She certainly had her reasons,’ said Vera defensively and moved on to admiring a photograph of the Prince and Princess of Wales, who were due to open Terminal 4 at Heathrow Airport the following month.

  Meanwhile, Sally took her copy of The Healthy Heart Diet Book from her shoulder bag and reflected that it was definitely a bargain at £3.95. However, Sally had selected to follow the Oxford Diet and appeared to be surviving on muesli, oatmeal biscuits and mixed vegetable soup. She looked longingly at the new packet of custard creams in the communal biscuit tin and sighed.

  Pat Brookside was quiet as she read an article in the Times Educational Supplement. It confirmed that Ronald Reagan’s Teacher in Space Project had been abandoned. Christa McAuliffe, with the other six astronauts on the Challenger Space Shuttle, had died as the rocket exploded just after take-off on 28 January. Teachers all over the world had mourned the death of this brave young woman. Pat pondered the fact that fate was occasionally a cruel mistress.

  Our Reading Workshop had resumed after the half-term holiday, with parents and grandparents coming into school to hear children read. It had proved an excellent strategy to progress the children’s reading at the same time as reinforcing links between home and school.

  Six-year-old Julie Tricklebank was sitting next to her grandmother and pointing carefully to each word in her Ginn Reading 360 book. When she had reached the bottom of the page her grandmother smiled. ‘Well done,’ she said, ‘you’re a good reader, Julie. Your mother will be proud of you.’ She looked around her at the old Victorian school hall and memories of times gone by flickered through her mind like an album of black-and-white reminiscences. ‘I was taught to read in this hall,’ she said, ‘when I was a little girl just like you.’

  ‘What was it like then, Grandma?’ asked Julie.

  ‘Well let me think,’ she said. ‘I recall we used to have a wonderful time in the village when I was young. We used to pick wild raspberries, skate on Manor Pond and we made swings in the wood.’

  Julie considered this carefully. ‘Ah wish ah’d got t’know you sooner, Grandma,’ she said.

  Her grandmother smiled and turned back to her reading book. ‘Come on then, luv, one more page.’

  When George and Ruby returned from York they pulled up at the village green in fitful sunshine.

  ‘It’s brightenin’ up a bit,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit a while on your Ronnie’s bench.’

  They walked on to the green, where the delicate branches of the weeping willow caressed the new grass and kissed the glassy surface of the pond. Ruby took off her headscarf before she sat down and gave the brass plaque a cursory wipe. It read:

  In memory of

  RONALD GLADSTONE SMITH

  1931–1983

  ‘Abide With Me’

  She stared at the letters and suddenly her shoulders shook in distress with a paroxysm of sobs. ‘Ah’m sorry, George,’ she said. ‘It comes over me from time t’time.’

  ‘Don’t fret,’ said George softly. ‘Grief is the price y’pay for love. An’ what’s a life wi’out love?’

  ‘’E used t’drink ’is pay packet, George, an’ some Saturday mornings there was never a brass farthing.’

  ‘Oh ’eck,’ said George sadly. ‘It must ’ave been ’ard f’you.’

  ‘But my children never went ’ungry,’ added Ruby defiantly.

  ‘So, ’ave y’given some thought to me teachin’ you t’drive?’

  ‘Ah ’ad a feelin’ you were goin’ to ask me that, George.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Mebbe ah’ve got that extra-century perception.’

  George smiled. ‘Mebbe you ’ave, Ruby.’

  ‘Cos ah ’ave t’rely on t’bus to get me int’York t’see our Krystal,’ said Ruby, ‘so it would be wonderful t’drive m’self.’ She had found comfort in her granddaughter and had begun to smile again. Their visits and the companionship of George Dainty had become the breath of life for Ragley’s caretaker.

  Ruby looked around her. Often when she was sitting on Ronnie’s bench, waves of grief would descend.

  ‘Don’t fret, Ruby, worse things ’appen at sea,’ said George.

  Ruby burst into tears again. ‘That’s what my Ronnie used t’say an’ ’e’s pushing up daisies now.’

  George looked fondly at his childhood sweetheart, but he kept his thoughts of Ronnie to himself.

  In the General Stores Betty Buttle was at the counter. ‘Ah’ve jus’ called in for a few bits, Prudence,’ she said. She heard a cat meowing in the back room. ‘An’ ah’ve ’eard ’bout y’cat.’

  ‘Yes, Trio will make a good companion. I went to the cat sanctuary in York and she has such a lovely face.’

  ‘Trio’s a nice name,’ said Betty.

  ‘Yes, they gave her that name because she only has three legs.’

  Betty considered this. ‘Well, she won’t climb over y’fence an’ stray on to t’main road,’ and Prudence smiled in acknowledgement.

  Outside, Duggie Smith was polishing the chrome headlamps on his hearse. It was a magnificent and beautifully restored 1957 Austin FX3 and had recently been resprayed in lamp black.

  His boss, Mr Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, took a large brass watch from the pocket of his waistcoat. A grey-haired man in his mid-sixties, he was dressed in his familiar formal black three-piece suit. He always looked sad these days, fitting for his profession. While he was proud to be president of the Ragley and Morton Stag Beetle Society, it offered little solace in his otherwise lonely existence. He had never fully recovered from losing the love of his life, namely our school secretary, Vera, to the charms of Rupert Forbes-Kitchener.

  ‘Ah’ll be back in ’alf an ’our, Douglas,’ said Septimus. ‘So mek y’self useful while ah’m gone.’

  Little Malcolm Robinson emerged from the Coffee Shop and stood next to Duggie as Septimus walked away up the High Street. An important client awaited.

  ‘My Dorothy’s servin’ up some lovely pasties,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘You ought t’try one.’

  ‘Mebbe ah will,’ said Duggie. ‘Boss won’t be back for a while … so will y’join me?’

  Little Malcolm sighed. ‘Ah wish ah could, Duggie, but ah’m into ’ealthy livin’ now. My Dorothy’s got me drinkin’ that decapitated coffee an’ eatin’ broccoli an’ suchlike. She sez ah’ll be a new man.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell, Malc’,’ exclaimed Duggie, ‘that’s no good t’me. Ah need proper food f’energy. That Tina’s tirin’ me out.’

  ‘So ah’ve ’eard,’ said Little Malcolm. He wandered off to his dustbin wagon and reflected on married life.

  Betty Buttle had arrived in Diane’s Hair Salon and once again Diane was about to attempt the impossible. Betty’s hair resembled a bird’s nest after a thunderstorm. The usual gossip flowed like a never-ending stream.

  ‘That Petula is looking down in t’mouth these days,’ began Betty.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Diane, reaching for the curling tongs.

  ‘Can’t understand it,’ Betty went on, ‘livin’ in a big house in comfort.’

  ‘Yes, it’s a lovely home,’ said Diane as she lit up a cigarette.

  ‘It’s allus been a pigment o’ my imagination,’ said Betty.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Diane, blowing smoke towards the closed window.


  ‘Livin’ in luxury,’ said Betty.

  ‘Well, money’s not everythin’, Betty.’

  ‘Mebbe not, but that Stan Coe’s got plenty o’ brass.’

  ‘So ah’ve ’eard,’ said Diane.

  Betty nodded in agreement. ‘Thing is, ’e’s allus been a wolf in cheap clothin’, ’as that one. ’E’s up t’summat – buyin’ land back o’ t’playin’ fields.’

  Diane smiled. Running the village hair salon was better than EastEnders for intrigue and drama.

  ‘An’ that Duggie Smith is cleanin’ ’is ’earse,’ Betty informed her. ‘E’s a good worker.’

  ‘Not like ’is father,’ said Diane.

  ‘’E does a bit o’ part-time work, does Duggie,’ said Betty, ‘an’ ah’ll tell y’summat f’nothing,’ she added defiantly.

  ‘What’s that, Betty?’

  ‘’E painted my kitchen ceiling better than that Michelangelo did ’is sixteenth chapel.’

  ‘Well, y’can’t say fairer than that,’ acknowledged Diane.

  ‘Anyway, Ruby’s picking up now that she’s seein’ that George Dainty,’ Betty continued.

  ‘’E’s a lovely man.’

  ‘An’ ah’ve jus’ seen ’em sittin’ on Ronnie’s bench,’ added Betty.

  ‘Well, good for ’er,’ said Diane. ‘She deserves some ’appiness.’

  ‘Yes, but she struggles wi’ ’er legs, does Ruby,’ confided Betty. ‘Ah reckon she’s got them very-close veins.’

  ‘So what’s it t’be?’ asked Diane, staring into the mirror at Betty’s mini-haystack of unruly hair.

  ‘Like that Angie in t’Queen Vic in EastEnders, please, Diane.’

  This was a popular choice for some of Ragley’s more mature ladies and Diane smiled encouragingly into the mirror. ‘OK, Betty,’ she said, ‘settle back for a perm.’

  When I walked into the office Vera had just put down the telephone.

  ‘Mr Gomersall rang from County Hall, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘What did he have to say?’

  Vera glanced down at her shorthand notes on her spiral-bound pad. ‘He said the meeting regarding the amalgamation of Morton and Ragley has been arranged for later this month, on Friday evening, twenty-first March.’

  ‘And what’s the venue?’ I asked.

  Vera gave me a sombre look. ‘In the lion’s den … Morton village hall. He said he would represent County Hall and there would be opportunities for questions from the floor. He expects you to be there, along with Mr Timmings and all the various school governors.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It’s in the diary,’ she said, ‘and I’ll tell Joseph and Rupert to be well prepared.’

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said.

  At the end of school Ruby hurried in to see Vera.

  ‘Guess what, Mrs F?’ she said. ‘George Dainty said ’e’d give me drivin’ lessons.’

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Vera with a self-satisfied smile. It was good when plans came together.

  ‘’E’s given me a vote of continence, Mrs F,’ continued Ruby.

  Vera blinked but remained composed. ‘I’m so glad he has confidence in you, Ruby.’

  Ruby walked out to collect her mop and galvanized bucket, humming happily to herself.

  Vera looked up again as there was another tap on the door. It was Joseph and he looked grey with anxiety.

  ‘What is it, Joseph?’ she asked.

  ‘I thought I would come in to tell you in person,’ said Joseph. ‘Wilfred Bones has just telephoned me to say the vacant school governor post at Morton School has been filled.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Stanley Coe, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Vera. ‘Just what we didn’t want. I can’t imagine what Mr Sheffield will say.’

  As I drove out of Ragley towards home, blue-grey spirals of wood smoke curled into the air and in the distance could be heard the forlorn hooting of an owl. The sombre sound seemed appropriate.

  The news of Stan Coe’s appointment had shocked us all. After his removal from our governing body all those years ago we had hoped he would never darken our door again. His return to a position of influence was a concern, and I had no doubt he would do his best to prevent my appointment as headteacher of the new school.

  I turned on the radio. Diana Ross was singing ‘Chain Reaction’, but I wasn’t hearing the words.

  That evening Beth and I settled down after putting John to bed. For Beth the news of Stan Coe had been unwelcome and we had decided not to discuss it. However, Beth had a surprise of her own.

  ‘Jack, I’ve been looking at our joint income and I think we can afford to take out a loan for an extension.’

  ‘An extension!’

  ‘Yes, the kitchen is too small and we need another bedroom for visitors, or maybe one day an addition to the family.’

  Suddenly I was interested. ‘Another child?’

  Beth looked thoughtful. ‘I’m not getting any younger and perhaps it would be good for John to have a little brother or sister.’

  ‘I’m all for it,’ I said enthusiastically, ‘but what about the new headship?’

  ‘That’s the drawback. I really need at least a year or two to knock the school into shape and develop effective systems that will last and in which the staff have confidence.’

  ‘I’m sure you can do it,’ I said, ‘and your governing body seem really supportive.’

  ‘Yes. I’m not sure what their reaction to me taking maternity leave would be, but let’s just keep it in mind for now. I’m thinking towards the future.’

  ‘Yes … the future.’

  ‘I’m guessing you want to stay here at Bilbo Cottage,’ said Beth.

  I looked at the cramped kitchen with its battered units and ageing appliances. ‘I love this place … it’s our home.’

  ‘But what about your work, Jack? Do you anticipate being at Ragley for the rest of your career?’

  ‘Well, I’m certainly going to fight for the new headship,’ I said defiantly. ‘I’ve worked hard there and I want to finish what I’ve started. Even so, I may not have the choice.’

  ‘Exactly,’ she said firmly.

  ‘So if necessary I shall consider alternatives.’

  Beth looked impressed. ‘What about the college? You seem to enjoy teaching the students.’

  ‘I do – but my heart is bound up with Ragley School.’

  ‘What about ambition?’

  ‘Ambition?’

  ‘Yes, Jack. Where do you want to be in, say, five years’ time?’

  ‘With you,’ I said simply.

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, I do have ambition … perhaps it’s different to yours, but it’s just as determined.’

  ‘So would you consider a bigger headship?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘Or moving into higher education?’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘And the extension?’

  ‘Gary Spittall in Anne’s class – his dad is a builder,’ I said. ‘I’ll ask him to call by.’

  Beth smiled and went to prepare a nightcap.

  It was very early on Saturday morning and Beth and I luxuriated in the warmth of our bed. John was still sleeping and the weekend stretched out before us.

  ‘How shall we start the day?’ I asked a little mischievously. I pushed a few locks of hair from her face and kissed her softly.

  Beth gave a wry smile. ‘Well I could rush downstairs to make your favourite porridge.’

  I thought back to the impecunious students at the college. ‘That’s the problem with porridge,’ I said.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Beth.

  ‘You can have too much of a good thing.’

  She looked up at me curiously. ‘Are you sure? We might wake John.’

  I nuzzled her neck and the scent of roses filled my senses.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I whispered.

  Chapter Twelve

&nbs
p; Eighties Man

  School closed today for the Easter holiday and will reopen on Monday, 7 April. A meeting was held in Morton village hall to discuss the amalgamation of our local schools.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 21 March 1986

  The view from our bedroom window in Bilbo Cottage heralded the changing season and a time of new life. It had been a slow, reluctant dawn, but as the mist lifted there was the promise of a fine day. It was Friday, 21 March, a long winter was over and spring had touched the land with soft fingertips.

  The journey to school was uplifting at this time of year and I wound down the windows of my Morris Minor Traveller and drank in the heady scents. Beneath the sharp buds of the hawthorn hedgerows, the blunt arrowheads of daffodils were bursting through the woodland floor. The first cuckoo had announced itself, rooks cawed in the high elms and George Hardisty was preparing his vegetable patch for a crop of early potatoes.

  Our world had come alive again. On Ragley High Street primroses brightened the grassy banks and above the school gate the sticky buds on the horse chestnut trees were bursting open. I was full of optimism as I drove into school. It was the last day of the spring term and all appeared to be well on this perfect morning.

  However, hopes are sometimes quickly dashed – as I was about to discover. It was the day of the meeting in Morton village hall to discuss the amalgamation of our two village schools. The wonders of nature soon dissipated as I considered the challenges ahead.

  On arrival at school I looked down at my shabby suit and scuffed shoes. According to Beth, my apparel was looking ‘tired’ and she was determined to bring me into the eighties. A shopping trip into York had been planned for Saturday morning. ‘Clothes maketh the man,’ she had said in that determined tone I knew so well. I had been too preoccupied to notice the splashes of poster paint on my baggy trousers and the chalk dust that impregnated my frayed cuffs. It was time to make a few changes and, hopefully, a new era awaited.

  Vera was busy at her desk, completing the numbers-on-roll form for County Hall. It had been a short term owing to an early Easter and a two-week holiday stretched out before us.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘An eventful day is in store.’