Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘George says ah’m doin’ well an’ we’re gonna do ’mergency stops soon.’

  ‘He’s a good friend to you, Ruby.’

  ‘Thing is, Mr Sheffield, ’e’s too gen’rous to a fault … allus givin’ me stuff.’

  ‘I’m sure he just wants to help.’

  ‘Mebbe so an’ ah’m grateful, but ah’ve told ’im till ah’m blue in t’face not t’be allus puttin’ ’is ’and in ’is pocket f’me,’ she said forcefully, ‘but would ’e listen? Would ’e ’eck!’

  ‘Well, he’s a kind man and obviously thinks a lot of you.’

  Ruby pondered this for a moment and smiled. ‘’Appen ’e does. Like m’mother allus says, there’s nowt so queer as folk,’ and with that she carried her black bag of rubbish to the boiler house.

  It was good to see Ruby returning to her old self and I walked into the entrance hall. Vera, in a beautiful summer dress of delicate lilac, stood facing Miss Valerie Flint, attaching a rose to the buttonhole of her linen safari trouser suit. ‘An exciting day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I agreed.

  ‘There now, Valerie, straight from my garden,’ went on Vera, ‘a beautiful Rosa mundi with a splash of crimson to match your zest for life.’

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Valerie. ‘A fitting gesture on a special occasion.’

  ‘Yes, the royal wedding.’ Vera smiled up at me.

  ‘Well, actually, Vera,’ said Valerie with a slightly strained look in my direction, ‘I was thinking more of me taking over your secretarial duties. This is outside my comfort zone – I feel like a probationer again.’

  ‘We’re all grateful to you, Valerie, for coming in to help out,’ I assured her.

  ‘Well, I couldn’t let my dear friend miss a royal wedding,’ said Miss Flint with a slight frown. She loved teaching, but taking over in Vera’s office was intimidating to say the least.

  A week ago I had realized that such a staunch royalist as Vera would be heartbroken to miss the wedding of Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson. It was a relief when I heard that her friend, Miss Flint, had offered to take over in the office while Vera was out of school. Vera proposed to leave at 10.30 to go to the village hall to watch it live on the large television. She would also help to prepare the tea party for the villagers and children arriving there after school. She had assured Miss Flint she would be back by afternoon break, much to our supply teacher’s relief.

  Also, as Vera was officially a part-time clerical assistant – although no one would have dreamed of referring to her in that way – she was entitled to the time off.

  ‘Beautiful roses,’ I said.

  Vera had a pale-pink rose in her buttonhole. ‘A “Blush Noisette”, Mr Sheffield, the first rose ever presented to me by Rupert eight summers ago.’ She glanced down and smiled at the memory. There was a clatter of crockery from the kitchen. ‘In the meantime I had better check with Shirley that all is in hand,’ she added.

  We had agreed to loan our crockery and cutlery, plus our Baby Burco boiler, to the village hall committee and Shirley and Doreen were busy in the kitchen counting out plates and beakers prior to them being washed after school dinner and delivered to the village hall.

  ‘Never fear, Valerie, I shall be back to go through your duties once again,’ said Vera over her shoulder as she hurried off.

  ‘Oh dear,’ murmured Valerie.

  It was a busy morning, with the end of term in sight and the children’s report books to complete. Also the children were excited at the thought of a party in the village hall after school.

  For my part, with my interview only twenty-four hours away, I had other concerns. It was a relief that Sally had offered to lead morning assembly and I was able to gather my thoughts at the back of the hall. Her theme was an appropriate one, the ‘Kings and Queens of England’, and this promoted much discussion, particularly concerning Henry VIII, Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth II.

  ‘Will our Queen retire when she gets t’sixty or sixty-five, Miss?’ asked Lucy Eckersley.

  I recalled having the same conversation with Vera, who was adamant that Queen Elizabeth II was in the job for the duration … and that meant life.

  ‘I don’t think so, Lucy,’ said Sally.

  ‘If I was king, ah’d banish cabbage,’ said Rufus Snodgrass defiantly.

  ‘An’ boys,’ added Jemima Poole with feeling.

  Meanwhile, outside Pratt’s garage, Ruby had just experienced her first setback as a learner driver. During her mid-morning lesson with George she had driven on to the forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage, where our local mechanic was filling up Deadly Duggie’s hearse with petrol. Duggie had just polished his pride and joy and it stood there gleaming in the morning sunshine. However, Ruby had been a little slow pressing the brake pedal and George’s last-minute attempt to pull on the handbrake had been in vain. The little Austin had bumped gently into the back of the hearse.

  Deadly Duggie ran round the back of his vehicle to check the damage. Fortunately there was only the merest scratch.

  Ruby wound down her window. ‘Sorry, ah didn’t see y’luv.’

  Duggie looked at his mother in astonishment. ‘But Mam, m’flippin’ ’earse is big an’ black an’ eighteen foot long!’ he exclaimed.

  George changed places with Ruby and reversed the car a few feet, then he got out and approached Duggie. ‘Ah’ll see y’right, Duggie, if there’s any damage,’ he said.

  Duggie knew that George was a man of his word and respected him for the offer and, not least, for the care he showed his mother. ‘Nowt t’speak of, George,’ he said. ‘No damage done. Bit o’ spit an’ polish an’ it’ll be good as new.’

  ‘Thanks, Duggie,’ said George and then whispered in his ear, ‘Ah wouldn’t want to upset y’mother,’ and he climbed back into the car. Ruby was still looking concerned. ‘Don’t worry, Ruby,’ George reassured her, ‘we’ll practise emergency stops next time we go out.’

  ‘Thanks, George,’ said Ruby reflectively. ‘Ah don’t want t’pack in cos of a setback.’

  ‘Ah don’t want to ever pack in,’ said George quietly and Ruby stared out of the windscreen at Duggie’s hearse. The road to healing was a long one, but she felt that she was close to journey’s end. Perhaps it was time to sing again.

  It was during afternoon break that Vera reappeared looking like the cat that got the cream. Sally was on duty and I was helping Valerie with the late-dinner-money register while Anne and Pat were checking each other’s report books.

  ‘So what was it like, Vera?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Simply wonderful,’ said an elated Vera. ‘We really do this so well in England, don’t we?’

  ‘Did it all go to plan?’ asked Valerie.

  ‘Of course,’ said Vera. ‘Sarah arrived in a glass coach with her father, Sir Ronald, only a couple of minutes late.’

  ‘What was the dress like?’ asked Pat.

  ‘Quite spectacular,’ enthused Vera. ‘Ivory silk, stitched with crystals and beads to depict her coat of arms of thistles and honeybees, plus a train over seventeen feet long.’

  ‘Sounds magnificent,’ said Valerie.

  ‘Yes,’ Vera went on, ‘and it was fitted beautifully and showed off her slender waist to perfection.’

  ‘I heard it cost eight thousand pounds,’ remarked Sally with a shake of her head. Sally was not a fan of royalty.

  ‘Worth every penny,’ retorted Vera.

  The bell rang and Vera resumed her work as secretary, much to the relief of Miss Flint, who left for the village hall. Meanwhile, we returned to our classrooms. Anne and Pat were discussing the possibility of a marriage in the offing for Pat, while I brought up the rear with Sally, who was grumbling about paying taxes to keep a privileged family in luxury.

  At the end of school the children ran out into the sunshine, where a posse of mothers greeted them and marched down the High Street to the village hall for the royal wedding tea party.


  I was in my classroom completing record books at my desk when Pat and Sally called in.

  ‘We just wanted to wish you well for tomorrow, Jack,’ said Sally.

  Pat nodded and smiled. ‘It goes without saying that I want to continue working with you,’ she said. ‘I owe you a lot and I feel I’m just settling in. Next academic year should be exciting. So I’m looking forward to working alongside you and Sally and Anne.’

  ‘You’ve made a wonderful start in the school and I appreciate your support,’ I said. ‘And thanks to you, Sally.’

  ‘I’m sure it will be fine, Jack,’ said Sally, ‘and you know we’ll be here wishing you all the best.’

  ‘Thanks. I promised to ring Anne when I know the decision and she will get in touch with you all.’

  When they left and closed the door I looked around at my familiar classroom, the books and paintings and the chalk dust at my feet. Ragley School was my life and to lose it would be like the passing of an old friend.

  Half an hour later I had completed all the record books. At the end of term, each pupil would receive a sealed manila envelope containing a written report in an A5-size booklet that had to be signed by the parent and returned to school. It was an arduous but important task, and particularly helpful for those parents who worked long hours and rarely had the opportunity to visit school and communicate as much as they would have liked. Like most village teachers, I knew all my pupils well and it was the brief after-school conversations, usually at the school gate, that were often far more valuable than any written reports.

  Finally, I left everything prepared for Miss Flint to take over my lessons tomorrow and, on impulse, walked into Anne’s classroom.

  She had just finished tidying the Home Corner and had begun to prepare large individual folders of artwork and writing for each child to take home at the end of term.

  ‘Hello, Anne. I thought I would confirm that all is well for tomorrow.’ Anne would be acting headteacher for the day.

  She sat down on one of the low, plastic-topped tables and looked at me patiently. ‘It will be fine, Jack. Val Flint knows what she’s doing and you’ll be back on Friday for the final Leavers’ Assembly. I’ll make sure everything is prepared for that. The PTA have delivered the books for each school leaver and Joseph is leading assembly.’

  There was a pause and she walked over to the window. ‘I hope tomorrow goes well, Jack.’ She appeared tense and almost tearful. I guessed she was simply tired.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and I’ll ring you when I have news.’

  She nodded and stared out at the empty playground. ‘It’s a strange feeling,’ she said quietly. ‘I can’t imagine Ragley without you. You really must get the job for the sake of everyone. It really does affect us all.’

  I felt there was a hidden message. Anne had never sought a headship and was happy in her role as deputy. We had forged an effective partnership over the years and I wanted it to continue.

  ‘We’ve made a good team,’ I said, ‘and you know how much I have appreciated your work over the years.’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure what I shall do if you don’t get the job.’ She forced a smile. ‘Good luck,’ she said quietly.

  When I walked into the office Vera was giving the framed photograph of her three cats a final polish before leaving her desk in its usual immaculate state. She looked up at the clock. ‘I’m going now, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Are you calling into the village hall before you go home?’

  ‘Yes, no doubt I’ll see you there.’ She looked up at me with a steady gaze. ‘And best wishes for tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera. I’ll ring Anne with any news and she will contact you.’

  Suddenly, outside, there was the familiar rattle of a galvanized mop bucket.

  ‘Well, at last,’ said Vera. ‘Just listen to that.’

  Ruby was singing ‘Edelweiss’.

  It felt as though we had witnessed her life come full circle.

  We stood there in silence listening to her clear voice. Then there was a long pause and, in the distance, the bells of St Mary’s rang out. Vera smiled and squeezed my arm. ‘For whom the bell tolls, Jack,’ she said quietly.

  The village hall was almost full when I walked in. The television had been set up on the stage and a semicircle of chairs had been arranged for the grown-ups to watch the broadcast in comfort while children sat cross-legged on the floor.

  The ladies of the village hall committee, many of them also members of the Women’s Institute, had provided an impressive afternoon tea in the marquee. Cold meats, pork pies, pickles, hard Wensleydale cheese and freshly baked bread had been laid out on a snow-white cloth. There were dainty cucumber sandwiches and a host of butterfly buns and pastries that would attract the children. Jugs of home-made elderflower cordial, orange juice and lemonade stood alongside. It was a veritable feast and it included a huge plateful of Vera’s raspberry-jam tarts.

  Vera, Joyce Davenport and a few ladies from the village hall committee were serving tea and cake at the back of the hall and bright bunting decorated the trestle tables. Elsie Crapper was handing out little flags for the children to wave and Clint Ramsbottom, in his imitation Sylvester Stallone aviator sunglasses, had taken charge of the television set and had tuned it in to perfection. He had videotaped the ceremony and was replaying what he described as ‘the best bits’. Two large speakers on either side of the stage ensured everyone could hear.

  I collected a cup of tea and stood to one side as David Dimbleby explained there was a worldwide television audience of five hundred million watching the events unfold in Westminster Abbey and that the US First Lady, Nancy Reagan, and the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, were among the guests. I saw Elton John sitting with his wife, Renate, on the front row, along with Michael and Shakira Caine and David Frost and Lady Carina. Billy Connolly and Pamela Stephenson appeared happy to be on the fourth row.

  Sarah Ferguson spent four minutes walking slowly down the aisle to Edward Elgar’s Imperial March while two thousand guests looked on. It was interesting to note that, unlike Diana, Sarah agreed to obey her husband when reciting her wedding vows.

  We were told that ninety minutes before the ceremony the Queen had conferred the title of Duke of York on Prince Andrew, last held by King George VI and traditionally reserved for the sovereign’s second son. Prince Edward was the best man for his twenty-six-year-old brother and Prince Charles read the lesson. The service was conducted by the Archbishop of Canterbury, Dr Robert Runcie, and everything appeared to be perfectly rehearsed, even though Sarah stumbled by repeating one of her husband’s middle names. Finally, the bride marched Andrew down the aisle and winked at two of her former boyfriends.

  At the back of the hall, Petula Dudley-Palmer was about to walk up the High Street to meet her husband when she spotted her neighbour, Pippa Jackson, queuing for a cup of tea.

  ‘It’s the interview tomorrow for the headship of the school,’ said Petula.

  ‘I heard he might be going back into academia,’ said Pippa.

  Next to the picture of the Queen on the Scouts’ noticeboard was a map of the world. Behind them, Betty Buttle studied it thoughtfully. ‘Where’s that then?’ she murmured. Academia sounded like a far-off place.

  As I left the village hall, the bells of Westminster were ringing and the young couple were no doubt thinking not so much of the wedding party at Claridge’s hotel but rather their honeymoon in the Azores and a long life together.

  The marquee on the village green outside The Royal Oak was full of villagers who preferred to buy an alcoholic drink and then sit at one of the picnic tables and enjoy the late-afternoon sunshine. Much of the conversation concerned the royal couple, but teenagers Claire and Anita had pop royalty on their minds. At the end of June they had attended the Wham! Final Concert at Wembley Stadium, where the duo had performed for the last time in front of seventy-three thousand adoring fans. Nearly a month later, Claire and Anita were discussing all the details of
their special day out for the thousandth time.

  As I walked across the village green I saw the astronomer Edward Clifton carrying a tray of drinks to a table where Anne, Pat and Sally were sitting.

  Behind the trestle table where Don had set up a barrel of Chestnut Mild, he was talking to Big Dave and Little Malcolm. It was clear the tall David Soul lookalike had created some interest.

  ‘Who’s ’e then?’ asked Little Malcolm.

  ‘Ah ’eard Mrs Pringle saying t’my Sheila summat abart ’e’d gorra doppelgänger,’ said Don.

  ‘That’ll upset Old Tommy,’ said Big Dave, ‘what wi’ all ’is war medals.’

  ‘’Ow come?’ asked Don.

  Big Dave shook his head in dismay. ‘Well, when ’e finds out ’e’s gorra German car.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  I decided not to intervene, bought a half of Chestnut Mild and stood for a while surveying the summer scene.

  Petula Dudley-Palmer had been joined by her husband, Geoffrey, at one of the tables. Their daughters were attending private music lessons in York at St William’s College and Petula was about to leave to collect them.

  ‘Why don’t we go out for an expensive meal tonight?’ suggested Geoffrey.

  ‘Let’s see how the girls feel,’ said Petula.

  ‘Or you could use your new video recorder around the house and gardens,’ said Geoffrey eagerly.

  Petula sighed and got up to leave. ‘I’ve passed it on to Elisabeth to use for one of her history projects at school.’

  Geoffrey was perplexed. ‘But it was a special anniversary gift.’

  ‘Anniversary?’ said Petula. ‘Of what exactly, Geoffrey – your indiscretions?’

  ‘Please …’ said Geoffrey. ‘I was wrong … so wrong.’

  Petula gave him a level stare. ‘Yes, you were.’

  ‘And I’m sorry,’ he added, but Petula had walked away.

  A different kind of conflict was occurring at the next table. Peggy Scrimshaw was not happy. Eugene had worn his new Star Trek uniform under his white coat. When Peggy told him it wasn’t appropriate to serve in a chemist’s shop dressed in such a way he had sworn at her in Klingon.