Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Joseph.

  ‘An’ las’ night she left my bedroom door open an’ ah ’eard what she said.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, she said, “Thank God she’s in bed”.’

  Keen to return to the theme of the lesson, Joseph asked Zoe Book to read out her prayer.

  Seven-year-old Zoe touched at his heartstrings when she read her neat printing in a loud clear voice:

  Dear God

  I went to church on Sunday with my Grandad.

  We had a good time.

  Wish you could have been there.

  Love Zoe X.

  ‘That was good of your granddad to bring you to church,’ said Joseph.

  ‘Yes, Mr Evans,’ said Zoe, ‘and he says when he dies he wants to go to heaven.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Joseph. He looked around at the class. ‘And what do you have to be to get there?’

  Billy Ricketts was the first to put up his hand. ‘Six feet under,’ he said.

  Joseph couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry.

  By lunchtime the air was crisp and cold and the sky was primrose blue. It was a clear, still April day in North Yorkshire and we were drinking tea in the staff-room. Anne and I were busy ordering painting materials, Vera and Sally were reading newspapers and Pat was flicking through the pages of her most recent computer magazine.

  Sally began chuckling to herself. She was reading an article in Anne’s Daily Mail concerning the eighteen-year-old tennis star Boris Becker. The young German superstar had proclaimed his love for the American player Susan Mascarin. However, his trainer, Günther Bosch, was not so thrilled … particularly as Becker’s last long-distance telephone call had cost £245.

  Meanwhile, Vera, a fan of The Archers, had different concerns. Dan Archer was due to be killed off next week after thirty-five years in the radio soap opera. Actor Frank Middlemass, who played the part, had tried to soften the blow by explaining that Dan, at the grand age of eighty-nine, had enjoyed a good innings. It brought to mind her earlier thoughts of retirement and she stared out of the window.

  ‘You look preoccupied, Vera,’ observed Anne.

  Vera returned her thoughts to the here and now. ‘Anne, I always think pickled damsons go well with cold roast beef, don’t you?’

  It was incongruous, but we all nodded in implicit agreement.

  Pat looked up from her computer magazine. ‘Guess what,’ she said, excitedly, ‘I’ve got a new computer.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a Commodore 128.’

  ‘And are you pleased with it?’ Anne tried to sound interested.

  ‘Definitely,’ said Pat. ‘It can run 64K, 128K and CP/M software, so it’s really versatile.’

  For Anne and me this was even more unfathomable than the pickled damsons, but we nodded politely and returned to our Yorkshire Purchasing Organisation catalogue and the price of bristle brushes.

  At lunchtime the school playground was filled with happy children playing in the sunshine. Mrs Doreen Critchley, the dinner lady, strode around her empire, keeping order where necessary but occasionally getting involved in unwanted conversations.

  Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw was pulling faces at Scott Higginbottom and Mrs Critchley pointed her finger. ‘Now be’ave y’self, Dallas,’ she shouted. ‘When ah were a little girl my mother said if ah made funny faces it would freeze an’ ah’d stay like that for ever.’

  Dallas studied the grim, square-jawed, florid face of our dinner lady and came to a conclusion. ‘Well, y’can’t say y’weren’t warned, Mrs Critchley.’

  She’ll go far that one, thought Mrs Critchley; then, as an afterthought, Further the better.

  Meanwhile the children were playing in their own special ways. Small boys ran around the edge of the playground pretending to be lorries, Michelle Gawthorpe and Katie Icklethwaite were making friendship bracelets, Damian Brown was demonstrating how to ‘Walk the Dog’ and go ‘Round the World’ with his new yo-yo, while Ben Clouting had tapped 58008 on his calculator, turned it upside down and shown it to a puzzled Ryan Halfpenny.

  During afternoon school Sally was busy with her ‘Weather’ project. She was talking about the Beaufort scale and the strength of wind. The children were writing words such as ‘typhoon’ and ‘hurricane’.

  ‘But these are made-up words, Miss,’ said Charlie Cartwright.

  Sitting next to him, Ted Coggins nodded in agreement. ‘Charlie’s right, Miss, an’ if y’think about words, well … they’re all made up.’

  ‘I suppose they are, Ted,’ said Sally.

  ‘Miss, Miss,’ called out Katie Icklethwaite, ‘what does the wind do when it’s not blowin’?’

  Sally smiled. The unexpected always made the job fun.

  I was on playground duty during afternoon break when little Ted Coggins came up to me and stared at the sky. The weather had changed and it was clear that Ted, after Sally’s lesson, was observing it with a new appreciation.

  ‘It’s mizzling, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

  I looked out at the damp sheen on the cobbled driveway and nodded. ‘Yes, it is.’

  The sons of local farmers had their own vocabulary for the weather. It was certainly a fine drizzle but I preferred Ted’s interpretation. It was definitely mizzling.

  Then I spotted two ten-year-olds from my class standing by the school gate and waving frantically.

  ‘Come and look at this, Mr Sheffield,’ called Dawn Phillips.

  ‘It’s PC Pike,’ shouted Mary Scrimshaw.

  An unlikely scene was unfolding on the other side of the village green and I hurried down to join them.

  Our local bobby, PC Pike, armed with a dustbin lid and a rolled-up copy of Karate Monthly, was providing a convincing impression of a Roman gladiator. He was outside The Royal Oak doing battle with an angry dog.

  ‘It’s a black Labrador cross,’ said the knowledgeable Dawn.

  ‘It definitely looks cross,’ agreed Mary.

  ‘I recognize it,’ said Dawn. ‘It belongs to Mr Bones. He lives on Cut Throat Lane off the Morton Road.’

  Julian Pike seemed to have the situation under control by the time the huge frame of Don the barman appeared and together they tied the dog to the castiron foot-scraper outside the pub entrance. He gave me a thumbs-up, returned his magazine to his truncheon pocket and came over just as Ruby arrived to check the school boilers.

  ‘Our Natasha finishes work at six o’clock,’ she said.

  I noticed that the diminutive bobby blushed profusely at the mention of Natasha’s name and I guessed a budding romance might one day be in the offing.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know, Mrs Smith,’ he replied politely.

  ‘It looks like the dog belongs to Wilfred Bones,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, that’s what Don thought. I’ll let him know,’ said our eager policeman. ‘In fact, I’ve just seen Mr Bones going into Stan Coe’s farmhouse. His dog must have escaped from his car.’

  When I walked back into class I wondered what Stan Coe’s business was with the chair of governors of Morton School.

  At 3.15 p.m. the infants finished school for the day and parents arrived in the cloakroom area outside Anne’s classroom to collect their offspring. Five-year-old Tracey Higginbottom was buttoning up her coat.

  ‘You’re growing up fast,’ said Mrs Higginbottom. ‘You’re getting old,’ she added proudly.

  Tracey thought about this. ‘Well, Mam,’ she said, ‘ah’ve been gettin’ old since ah were born.’ She looked at her mother’s swollen tummy. ‘Mam, why is your tummy getting fat?’

  ‘Because there’s a baby growing inside,’ said Mrs Higginbottom.

  Tracey looked at her mother with a new appraisal. ‘So what’s growing in your bottom, Mummy?’

  Half an hour later the bell rang to signal the end of the day for the older children. There was excitement among the girls as they prepared for their netball match, while two ten-year-olds in my
class, Ben Clouting and Harry Patch, were deciding which house they should go to.

  ‘Come to ours,’ urged Ben. ‘We’ve got Buckaroo an’ Operation an’ KerPlunk.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘but I’ve got “Horace and the Spiders” on our ZX Spectrum computer and I’m up to the second level.’

  It was no contest and the boys ran off to Harry’s home.

  In that moment I realized my world of Meccano and model trains was being usurped by virtual reality.

  In the churchyard Madonna Fazackerly was standing next to her mother while she placed some flowers on her father’s grave.

  ‘’E were a lovely man, were your granddad,’ said Mrs Fazackerly quietly.

  Madonna stared at the gravestone and then at the pebbles beneath. ‘Mam, can we dig ’im up so ah can talk to ’im?’

  ‘No, luv,’ said Mrs Fazackerly, wondering what they taught them at school. ‘Once y’buried you ’ave to stay in t’ground.’

  ‘Mebbe ’e went to ’eaven,’ suggested Madonna helpfully and stared up at the sky.

  Mrs Fazackerly thought back to her father’s three jail sentences, drinking and womanizing. ‘Let’s go to t’Coffee Shop,’ she said.

  The telephone rang in the office. It was Beth.

  ‘Had a good day?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘And did you post the application?’

  ‘Vera did it for me at lunchtime. She said she had to go to the Post Office.’

  ‘Good news,’ said Beth. ‘So it’s begun, and I know you’ll do well.’

  Her words were full of hope and love … like a spring of fresh clear water.

  ‘Thanks, Beth, and don’t worry, I’m very determined.’ For me ambition had never been a comfortable companion, but I knew it was time to change.

  An hour later Vera and I were finishing off some paperwork for County Hall.

  ‘You ought to be getting home,’ I said, glancing up at the clock.

  ‘Yes, that’s finished now,’ she said as she filed away the latest version of the county’s Health & Safety policy. She collected her coat and put it on.

  ‘By the way, Vera, I heard from PC Pike that Wilfred Bones was paying a visit to Stan Coe today.’

  Vera pursed her lips. ‘Up to no good, I should warrant.’

  ‘Yes, it does make you think.’

  ‘There’s no doubt Stan Coe has clearly got it in for Ragley School, and you in particular,’ said Vera. ‘He’s never recovered from being removed from our governing body.’

  ‘He may have some influential friends,’ I said. ‘I’ve heard Wilfred Bones is in the same Rotary Club as some of the senior people up at County Hall.’

  Vera looked thoughtful. ‘Let’s hope Wilfred sees him for what he really is. I’ll speak to Rupert – Mr Bones is not the only one with influence.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera.’ I stood up and walked over to the window. ‘I should be lost without you.’ I stared out at the school grounds and fields beyond.

  She turned back to me and smiled. ‘Have faith and by God’s grace, Jack, we shall find a way … never fear.’

  It was rare for Vera to call me by my first name and the significance wasn’t lost on me.

  She gestured with her hand around the office. ‘Do you ever look beyond the here and now to a far horizon? Perhaps you should.’ As she put on her scarf and buttoned her coat she paused by the door. ‘This is not the end of days, Jack, merely the beginning of a new adventure.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Heathcliffe’s Scarecrow

  School closed today for the May Day Bank Holiday and will reopen on Tuesday, 6 May. Reading tests were completed throughout the school. Children in Classes 3 and 4 are due to take part in an exhibition of maypole dancing on the village green on May Day. The school staff agreed to contribute towards the village scarecrow competition.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 2 May 1986

  It was Saturday, 3 May and the season was moving on. I opened the bedroom window and the soft balmy air brought with it the sweet scent of spring flowers. Under the kitchen window the bed of tulips with their bronze and yellow cups shone in the soft sunlight. I could hear the bleating of lambs while rooks wheeled lazily above the tall limes and a woodland carpet of bluebells.

  It was a perfect morning to make a scarecrow.

  The event had captured the imagination of the village. May Day was always a popular celebration in Ragley, but the idea of a scarecrow competition organized by the Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute had added an extra dimension to the occasion and every organization was expected to make a contribution. So the teaching staff of Ragley School had agreed to meet for an hour or so on Saturday morning to make a scarecrow to be erected by the school gate. However, before I could set off Beth confronted me with unexpected news.

  I was outside Bilbo Cottage preparing to leave for Ragley while Beth was strapping John into his child seat in her car. Suddenly she returned to the house and reappeared with two black plastic bags. She dumped them on the Yorkshire-stone paving by the ‘Zéphirine Drouhin’ climbing rose that was scrambling up the trellis next to the front door. Then she rummaged inside one of them and pulled out my favourite herringbone jacket. ‘I’m finally taking it to the charity shop in Easington,’ she said firmly.

  It was a parting of the ways, the end of an era and there was nothing I could do about it. Beth was determined and I recognized the firm jaw and pursed lips.

  ‘But there’s a bit of life left in it,’ I protested.

  ‘It’s going, Jack,’ she said simply.

  ‘Oh well,’ I said. It was like saying farewell to an old friend.

  ‘It’s had its day,’ she said, shaking her head in dismay. I looked in the bag. She had added my favourite grey baggy trousers, a thick checked winter shirt and an old flower-power tie to the collection. ‘Don’t forget,’ she said, ‘you’re an eighties man now.’

  It was faint praise and did little to raise my spirits.

  Three miles away black bags were also in evidence in the Earnshaw household.

  ‘What y’doin’, Mam?’ asked twelve-year-old Terry.

  ‘Ah’m tidying up,’ said a red-faced Julie Earnshaw.

  There was a pause while Terry looked up at his big brother Heathcliffe. Both boys had puzzled expressions.

  ‘Why … who’s comin’?’ asked Heathcliffe.

  Julie shook her head. ‘That’s t’problem livin’ in this ’ouse,’ she said.

  ‘What is, Mam?’ asked the boys in unison.

  ‘Men,’ she said gruffly. ‘An’ put y’dirty socks in t’washin’ basket.’

  Terry grinned. ‘No, Mam, ah tried that an’ they keep coming back.’

  The two boys collected their coats.

  ‘There’s some cake in t’kitchen y’can ’ave,’ shouted Julie.

  Heathcliffe and Terry stared at the Victoria sponge.

  ‘’Alf each,’ said Terry.

  ‘You cut … an’ then ah’ll choose my ’alf,’ said Heathcliffe with the wisdom of Solomon.

  So the intrepid duo, each with a fistful of cake, headed for the front door.

  ‘We’re off out, Mam,’ shouted Heathcliffe, but at that moment their mother neither heard nor cared.

  Beth pulled up in Ragley High Street outside the General Stores, opened the boot and took out her shopping bags and the collapsible pushchair. Before she could erect it John began to yell for attention and food. Sighing, she was unstrapping him from his car seat when suddenly the cavalry arrived in the form of the Earnshaw brothers.

  ‘Can ah ’elp, Mrs Sheffield?’ asked Heathcliffe politely.

  ‘We could put y’pushchair up,’ offered Terry. ‘We ’ad a lot o’ practice wi’ our Dallas.’

  ‘Thanks, boys,’ said Beth, ‘that’s very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘’Ow’s Mr Sheffield?’ asked Heathcliffe as he tightened the wheel nuts on the arms of the pushchair.

  ‘Well, ac
tually he’s making a scarecrow with the other teachers,’ said Beth with a wry smile and nodded towards the school.

  ‘We’d like t’mek a scarecrow,’ said Heathcliffe with heartfelt pathos, ‘but m’mam said there were no old clothes t’spare.’

  ‘Ah bet we could’ve made a good ’un,’ said Terry wistfully.

  Beth had a thought and rummaged in the back of her car. ‘Well, boys,’ she said, ‘perhaps these might help,’ and she handed over the black bags.

  Heathcliffe looked inside. ‘Cor, thanks a lot, Mrs Sheffield. These are perfec’.’

  Beth was in a good mood. Now she could do her shopping at leisure without the need to drive to the charity shop. ‘And here’s ten pence each for being so helpful,’ she said.

  As Beth walked away with John, Heathcliffe made an executive decision. ‘You look after t’clothes an’ spend your ten pence on some sweets. Ah’ll keep t’other ten pence f’later. Ah’m off t’see Tidy Tim t’get some more stuff for t’scarecrow.’

  ‘OK, ’Eath’,’ said Terry and the boys went their separate ways.

  When I arrived outside the entrance of Ragley School Anne was stuffing wastepaper into an old pair of her husband’s blue overalls and Pat was doing the same with a pair of her partner’s discarded hiking socks. Sally was painting a cheerful face on a brown paper bag and had found an old sailor’s hat to wedge on its head.

  ‘Jack, you can tie him on to one of the broken chairs if you like,’ said Pat, handing over a ball of baling twine. ‘Then we can sit him outside the school gate.’

  Ruby had stacked a pile of old wooden chairs next to the cycle shed for removal by Big Dave and Little Malcolm.

  ‘And then we’re going for a coffee,’ said Anne.

  ‘Vera is working with her Women’s Institute friends outside the village hall,’ said Sally. ‘Apparently, they’re the favourites.’

  ‘They’ve got an actual mannequin,’ said Pat, ‘so they’re taking it very seriously.’

  It wasn’t long before we had a figure that resembled a drunken sailor sprawled on a chair outside the school gate. It was a token effort, but at least we had tried, and we walked across the road to Nora’s Coffee Shop with a sense of achievement.