On Sunday morning over breakfast we caught sight of Rufus again, wearing the predictable three-piece suit but on this occasion sporting a bright bow tie. ‘He just wants to be noticed,’ said Beth.
Miss Barrington-Huntley came over to thank Beth for her contribution. ‘Another successful conference, Beth, and I did appreciate your support.’ She looked out of the window at the sight of Stratford on a bright sunny morning. ‘We needed a cultural venue for such an important meeting.’ She wished us a safe journey home and hurried off to join a group of her colleagues.
After breakfast we checked out and loaded up our luggage. We had a few hours to spare before Beth’s parents joined us, so we decided to explore the town and call into Holy Trinity Church for their morning service.
We left the hotel, crossed Bridgefoot and walked along Waterside by the River Avon, which meanders gently through the town from east to west. Pleasure boats and anglers lined the banks, while early-morning barges, motor boats, canoes, punts and rowing boats gave the river a busy holiday feel. We paused to enjoy the views. In the distance, large farms and estates stretched out to the horizon, famous for their Hereford beef and their racehorses. Sadly, there were few swans left on the river and, according to the friendly concierge in the hotel, this was becoming a concern.
We found Holy Trinity Church in Old Town, in an idyllic setting on the banks of the river. It had a tall, elegant spire and we walked down an avenue of lime trees to the north porch. Here there were many ancient graves, including the burial place of William Shakespeare. I felt the sense of history as Beth and I walked hand in hand into the church and a shroud of silence muted our footsteps on the stone floor. The people of Stratford had worshipped here for over eight hundred years and, as we sat in one of the pews, the prayers of people past echoed throughout the centuries.
It was a simple communion service and the vicar announced various notices, including the forthcoming celebrations on 23 April, St George’s Day, to commemorate Shakespeare’s birthday. He expressed concern regarding the annual Ceremony of the Flags, when dignitaries from all over the world would unfurl their flags … but not South Africa.
From there we called into the Shakespeare Centre with its library, lecture rooms and costume displays. The last time I had visited had been in 1965 when I was a student. After a pleasant walk to Anne Hathaway’s Cottage, the childhood home of Shakespeare’s wife which stands a mile outside Stratford, we made our way back towards the hotel. Children with padded knees and elbows plus safety helmets rode past on BMX bicycles to their local track on the Warwick Road. We enjoyed a final pot of tea in one of the riverside cafés before returning to the hotel reception area.
At one o’clock Diane and John arrived and John William was so excited to see us again, but even more pleased that he had seen boats on the river and a couple of swans.
‘This could be a nice place to live,’ mused Diane.
‘What she means,’ said John, ‘is that it only took two and a half hours to get here – half the normal journey up to Yorkshire.’
Diane gave him a stern look but didn’t pursue the point.
Finally we left the superb Warwickshire countryside behind us and headed north. On the radio Queen were singing ‘A Kind of Magic’ and we hummed along as the miles raced by.
We had John fed and in bed by the time BBC1’s Songs of Praise came on, followed by Hancock’s Half Hour. By coincidence, at 7.50 p.m. on BBC2 the Royal Ballet were performing Romeo and Juliet, so we settled down to watch an alternative version of the story while eating jacket potatoes in front of a log fire.
On Monday morning Bilbo Cottage was a hive of activity. It was the beginning of a new term and Beth and I intended to set off early for school. We were chatting over bowls of Weetabix.
‘Well, Rufus Timmings certainly made his presence felt,’ I said.
‘The advertisement for the Ragley and Morton headship should be in the Times Educational Supplement any time now,’ said Beth. ‘We could work together on your application.’
‘Fine,’ I said. ‘It needs to be impressive. The competition is certain to be tougher than last time.’
‘And we need to keep the college in mind. Your course was well received and by all accounts the students thought your lectures were terrific.’
‘Jim was very generous in his praise,’ I said. ‘That letter he sent was lovely.’
‘There’s no doubt he would have you in his Education Department in the blink of an eye. You could be a senior lecturer in Primary Education and have secure employment and an increase in salary. We could even share a car into York.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I’m determined to give Ragley my best shot first of all.’
Beth was quiet as she looked down at John. He had moved on to munching a banana while a brief pang of nostalgia touched my thoughts. I knew that, in my professional career, my happiest days had been spent at Ragley.
We heard a car pull up outside and the patter of footsteps as Mrs Roberts arrived for another day of childminding. John’s face lit up. He loved her, and a day of play and sleep and food stretched out before him.
Beth’s look softened as she watched our son’s reaction. Our childminder’s contribution to our lives was worth its weight in gold, but I knew it pulled on Beth’s heartstrings each time she kissed him goodbye.
‘Let’s talk about it tonight,’ she said.
As she got into her car to drive to York there were unspoken words. Deep down I knew she was right, but at that moment I didn’t want to think about losing my precious school and I regretted the silence between us.
In the school office Vera was sitting at her desk and studying her admissions register. ‘We’ve passed one hundred on roll, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a smile. ‘I would never have believed it. The school has really grown.’
‘And more to come in a year’s time,’ I reminded her.
Vera pondered my response as if there was some hidden meaning. ‘Yes, our work gets busier year by year.’ She lifted the pile of morning post with a wry smile. ‘And may I say, Mr Sheffield, that you look very smart today.’
I glanced down at my new suit and black brogues. ‘Well it’s thanks to Beth,’ I said, ‘… her choice.’
‘Beth always did have good taste,’ said Vera.
I smiled. ‘We decided it was time for me to be an eighties man.’
‘Really, Mr Sheffield … well, I do think you have succeeded.’
So it was that, with a spring in my step, I set off to my classroom for the first day of the summer term.
Chapter Fourteen
The End of Days
The Revd Joseph Evans visited school to teach a Bible studies lesson in Class 2. We received the updated Health & Safety policy for North Yorkshire schools.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 18 April 1986
I opened the diamond-paned windows of our bedroom. The heady scent of wallflowers wafted on the breeze and the distant hills were gilded with golden light. Soon a new dawn would race across the sleeping land. It was Friday, 18 April and Kirkby Steepleton looked refreshed on this perfect morning. However, my mind was unsettled. Ragley School was no longer the secure home it had always been. There were uncertainties in my professional life and decisions to be made about the future.
It was there on the breakfast table, the advertisement I never thought I should read. The Times Educational Supplement was open at the headteacher appointments page and circled in red pen was ‘Headteacher required for Ragley and Morton Church of England Primary School, North Yorkshire, to commence January 1987. Application forms from County Hall, Northallerton.’
I had completed the application form and supporting letter last night and I checked it once again before putting it into a large envelope. ‘Well, let’s hope for the best,’ I said as I sealed it.
‘You’ll certainly get an interview,’ said Beth, ‘and there would have to be an exceptional candidate to deprive you of the post.’<
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I smiled at her level of conviction. ‘Let’s hope so.’
She leaned across the table and pressed her hand on top of mine. ‘Jack, we all evolve and change in subtle ways. If you want to be a village schoolteacher so be it and I’ll support you. It’s obviously a job you love and you’re good at it. Just don’t stand still. There are new challenges out there.’ She looked up at me thoughtfully. ‘How about doing a Master’s Degree at the university? It would be a new stimulus for you. You would meet like-minded people and the qualification could be a passport to a fresh opportunity in the future.’
‘Yes, it makes sense,’ I agreed.
Beth stood up and cleared away the cereal bowls. ‘The world of education is changing and maybe this Timmings guy is a sign of things to come … a new breed of managers who haven’t got your skills as a teacher but can impress an interviewing panel. There’s a revised curriculum on the horizon and it’s rushing towards us like an avalanche. People like Timmings are going to be the ones jumping on the bandwagon. We musn’t underestimate him.’
Beth was passionate and determined. I said nothing. It was a lot to take in.
The end of the world I loved seemed to have arrived.
Meanwhile, in the spacious kitchen of Morton Manor Vera was sipping Earl Grey tea and checking a letter she had written. It was addressed to ‘Governor Services’ at County Hall and in her neat copperplate writing she had chosen her words carefully. She had been troubled by the meeting at Morton village hall and it had rankled with her that such a dreadful man as Stanley Coe could cause problems. She had decided not to tell Jack that Stan was whipping up support for Rufus Timmings to be the new headteacher.
The envelope matched the writing paper to perfection, two subtle shades of lilac, and she slipped the letter inside, sealed it carefully and put it in her handbag. For now she would keep the contents of the letter to herself.
She stood up and looked with some satisfaction into the small mirror next to the window. Now there were threads of silver in her hair but she had disguised them well thanks to the regular visits of Diane the hairdresser. In the background Kiri Te Kanawa was singing ‘Ave Maria’ on the radio and Vera hummed along.
The door opened and Rupert walked in from his morning ‘constitutional’ as he called it; namely, a brisk walk to the nearby stables and some welcome fresh air. He slipped off his dark-green Burberry trenchcoat, draped it over the back of his carver chair at the head of the huge oak table and put his arm around Vera’s shoulders.
Vera glanced up with appreciative eyes. Rupert looked every bit the part of a country squire in his brown cord trousers, a crisp white shirt, regimental tie and a bottle-green V-necked sweater. As always, his brown leather shoes were buffed to a military shine.
Old habits, thought Vera.
‘So, my dear,’ said Rupert, ‘have a good day at school.’ He kissed her gently on the cheek and then stood back as he recognized that her mind was elsewhere. ‘Are you still going ahead with retirement? Whatever your choice, I’ll support you.’
Vera paused and fingered the Victorian brooch at her throat. ‘Thank you, Rupert,’ she said quietly, ‘but I’ve decided to put it on hold for the time being.’
‘The school will have to do without you one day, Vera,’ he said firmly, ‘so why not now?’
‘Because I believe that at this time I’m needed more than ever.’
‘Really, how so?’
Vera picked up the silver tea strainer with her long delicate fingers and placed it with precision to rest on the rim of her husband’s china cup. ‘A cup of tea, Rupert?’
The Major recognized the tug of loyalty and the hidden message of unspoken words. ‘Yes please, old girl,’ he teased. He recognized a professional secret even in his own kitchen.
Vera glanced briefly at her husband and his knowing blue eyes and the love and devotion that lay beneath. He was honest and strong and trying hard to disguise his natural chauvinism as the years went by. An old wine with a new label.
Then she picked up the silver tongs and dropped a single cube of sugar into his cup. ‘Perhaps just one sugar,’ she said. ‘We agreed you would cut down.’
In response, Rupert selected a thick slice of crusty bread, spread English butter with generous enthusiasm and applied a liberal layer of Yorkshire honey. For a moment he stared suspiciously at Vera’s croissant with its merest hint of apricot jam. In Rupert’s eyes this was vaguely continental and not entirely English, but he loved her in spite of her faults. Love conquers all, he thought … even an old warhorse. ‘Heard and understood, my dear,’ he said.
Vera turned her attention to her croissant and the conversation was over.
No names, no pack drill, thought Rupert.
He knew intuitively that Vera was in possession of a professional confidentiality and he respected the act of not sharing it … not even with the one you loved.
On The Crescent there was also a reluctant silence in Anne Grainger’s kitchen. Her husband John had left for another day of woodcarving, dovetail joints and sawdust. She stared at her reflection in the kitchen window and recalled the young teacher that used to look back at her. Then she touched the first hint of grey at her temples and sighed.
The passing of time was remorseless.
Outside, in the early-morning light, the last of the mist was slowly clearing from the fields beyond the Easington Road, but here, inside her brightly lit kitchen, her emotions were drowning in a sea of fog.
There were decisions to make and thoughts that were not for sharing.
I called in at the General Stores on my way into school and Betty Buttle was at the counter.
‘No, ah’m goin’ upmarket, Prudence,’ she was saying. ‘Ah’d like t’tek a prescription out for that Cosmopolitan magazine. Ah’ve jus’ read one in Diane’s an’ it’s my type o’ readin’ … y’know, for t’modern woman.’
She walked out, pleased with her decision, and the bell over the door jingled.
‘The world’s changing, Mr Sheffield,’ remarked Prudence. ‘It’s hard to keep up.’
‘Yes, I agree,’ I said as Prudence handed me my newspaper.
‘There used to be a pattern to the day, but that’s come to an end. I’m never sure what the next customer will want and I used to know, well … everything.’
As I walked out of the shop she called after me, ‘At least you won’t change, Mr Sheffield.’
Then she looked up at Jeremy Bear in his new spring outfit. ‘And neither will you.’
At nine o’clock the bell rang to announce the start of another school day and the children hurried to their classrooms. Outside on the High Street Lollipop Lil had finished her stint as Road Crossing Patrol Officer and the children had crossed in safety for another day.
She was peering into the boot of her rusty Citroën 2CV, which she referred to as her ‘Tin Snail’. It was her metal pet, with headlamps like the eyes of a surprised owl. She was collecting for the church bring-and-buy sale and wondering what to do with a pre-National Health Service wooden leg and an electric candle that she presumed would be useless in a power cut. She smiled at the relics from the seventies, including a SodaStream with the slogan ‘Get Busy with the Fizzy’, a broken Teasmade and a fondue set. There was also a rusty egg slicer that she used to find so wonderfully satisfying with its mandolin strings. They created perfect rings that fitted exactly in her picnic sandwiches. An almost new copy of Geoffrey Smith’s World of Flowers caught her eye and she determined she would purchase this for herself. The last item she had collected, from Prudence Golightly, was a cast-iron nutcracker designed in the form of two shapely female legs. For the sake of modesty Prudence had knitted a pair of pink stockings and Lil smiled, impressed with both the endeavour and the perfect fit.
It was 9.30 a.m. when Ryan Halfpenny announced without appearing to look up from his drawing of an isosceles triangle, ‘Austin Metro coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’
‘It’s my mum, sir,’ said Dawn Phillips.
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Ryan, scratching his head.
A few minutes later Staff Nurse Sue Phillips tapped on my door and gave me that ‘Can I have a quick word?’ look.
As always, Sue was immaculate in her light-blue uniform with a spotless white apron starched stiff as a board. She looked every inch our school nurse with her sensible, black lace-up shoes and a navy-blue belt that sported a precious buckle depicting, appropriately, the God of Wind.
I walked to the open doorway while Dawn gave her mother a shy smile. ‘Hello, Sue,’ I said. ‘What is it today – nits, hearing, eyesight, height, weight?’
‘Nits today, Jack,’ she replied with a grimace. ‘There’s an outbreak locally so I thought I would call in to do a quick check.’
‘You’re always welcome,’ I said, ‘even with your metal nit comb.’
‘I know,’ she said with a grin.
‘Would you like a hot drink before you begin?’
She glanced at her watch. ‘No time … and I’m afraid there are changes ahead. Cutbacks are in the pipeline, so you’ll see less of me.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘that’s bad news.’
‘I know, all good things have to end sometime.’ She picked up her medical bag. ‘Anyway, I’ll nip round the classes now if you don’t mind and I should get back from the hospital in time for this afternoon’s netball match. Pat Brookside has certainly got them playing well.’
She hurried off to Anne’s classroom while I reflected on how lucky we were to have such a high level of support and was saddened that it may be coming to an end.
In Joseph’s weekly Bible studies lesson the six- and seven-year-olds in Class 2 were discussing prayers.
Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw raised her hand. ‘Mr Evans, my mam prays ev’ry night.’
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