‘And don’t think that I haven’t worked out that when you call me “Worf” you’re referring to a Klingon-human hybrid,’ snapped Peggy in disgust. ‘Why can’t you find a normal hobby, like Timothy with his Meccano set or Old Tommy with his dominoes?’
‘Sorry, luv,’ said Eugene. He had obviously gone too far this time, but life was always tough when you had to run a shop as well as an inter-galactic spaceship.
Meanwhile, Sally and Pat had got up to leave. As Anne Grainger and Edward Clifton both reached to pick up the empty glasses, Edward’s fingers brushed against hers. It was just a touch.
In their private cocoon, Anne looked at Edward and his blue eyes did not waver. For a moment it was a meeting of minds and Anne wondered if, one day, it might be a meeting of souls.
Finally, I walked to my car as the clock tower of St Mary’s chimed out the hour, followed by another peal of bells to celebrate the events of the day. I stopped and looked up at the school with its familiar tower. This was my school. By this time tomorrow I hoped it would still be so.
It was much later that Vera ventured out into her kitchen garden. She had created it within sight of her kitchen window and it was bordered on three sides by an ancient hawthorn hedge. There was a comfortable bench under a gnarled old apple tree that caught the late-afternoon sun and Vera had taken to sitting there while compiling shopping lists, drawing up the rota for church flowers and, when the light was sufficient, completing a cross-stitch pattern.
‘So here you are, my dear,’ said Rupert. He sat down beside her. ‘What a beautiful evening.’ He looked around at the bountiful garden with its abundance of climbing roses, vegetables and ripe fruit ready for harvesting. ‘You really have worked wonders here in such a short time.’
‘Your gardeners do much of the heavy work,’ said Vera graciously, ‘but I do enjoy this little corner. It’s a haven of peace for me.’ She held Rupert’s hand. ‘It’s a good place to think.’
‘And what’s on your mind, as if I couldn’t guess?’
Vera smiled. It was often the words Rupert didn’t express that had the greatest gravitas. ‘School, of course,’ she said quietly, ‘and what might happen to Mr Sheffield tomorrow.’
Rupert settled back and put his arm around her shoulders. ‘Yes, let’s hope it goes well … but I sense you have something else on your mind.’
There was silence between them while butterflies circled the purple blooms on the buddleia bushes in the nearby border.
Finally, Vera turned to face her husband. ‘If Mr Sheffield does not continue as headteacher … I shall hand in my resignation.’
They sat together for a long time, hand in hand, as the sun slowly descended towards the far-off hills and the shadows lengthened.
Chapter Nineteen
Star Teacher
The headteacher attended for interview at County Hall, Northallerton, prior to the amalgamation of Ragley and Morton schools. A. Grainger (acting headteacher).
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 24 July 1986
It was a new dawn and I had barely slept. A disc of golden light had risen in the eastern sky and the Hambleton hills shimmered in the morning heat haze. I showered quickly and dressed in my best suit. The countryside was waking and a breathless promise hung over the land. An eventful day was in store.
It was Thursday, 24 July, and the interview for the post of headteacher of Ragley and Morton Primary School had arrived. The letter inviting me to attend for interview had stated registration was at 8.30 a.m. at County Hall in Northallerton. I was eager to make an early start and I couldn’t leave anything to chance.
Beth was in the hallway while John built a Lego tower at her feet. She looked cool and elegant in a beige linen suit and a green blouse that exactly matched her eyes. ‘Good luck,’ she said with a reassuring smile.
I kissed her on the forehead and stroked her honey-blonde hair. ‘Thanks, I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘Let’s hope it works out.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ she said, glancing up at the clock, ‘and you’ve got time for breakfast.’
At that moment I couldn’t eat. ‘I may stop in Thirsk. I’ll see how I feel.’
Beth recognized the anxiety; she knew me so well. ‘Do that, Jack. You’ll feel better for it.’
I put a copy of the supplementary letter I had attached to my application form in my jacket pocket and bent down to pick up John. ‘Happy birthday, John,’ I said. ‘I’ll try to get back for your party.’ I gave him a hug and he said, ‘Bye-bye, Daddy,’ and kissed me on the cheek. Beth smiled and wiped the residue of porridge from my face.
It was John’s third birthday and Beth had arranged to get home in good time from her school for his party. The timings for me were unknown. I walked out to my car, tapped the chrome-and-yellow AA badge on the grille for good luck, and prayed today would go well.
I drove north on the A19 towards Sowerby and Thirsk, en route to Northallerton and skirting the North Yorkshire moors. As the miles sped by I looked back on the academic year that had passed. It had begun with spoken messages that had to remain confidential, followed by a series of secrets and surprises. Finally the denouement was approaching and the endgame was in sight.
I glanced at my watch. The early-morning traffic was sparse and I realized I had time to spare. A short break in Thirsk seemed a good idea and I pulled into the cobbled square outside a quaint tea shop. I found a table by the window and settled down with a pot of tea and a toasted teacake. A lady had discarded her Daily Express as she left and I picked it up. The headline read, ‘FABULOUS FERGIE – a loving kiss for the radiant royal bride’. The reporter noted that tears of happiness ran down her freckled face under her sequinned pure-silk veil. However, it was William, the four-year-old future king, who stole the show by sticking out his tongue at the bridesmaids and playing with the elastic band on his saucy sailor hat. There was a detailed description of the bridal dress, but I had other things on my mind and I closed the newspaper and replaced it on the table whence it came.
I stared out at the line of rooftops and tall chimney pots. They formed a sharp division beneath the long ridge of the Hambleton hills that towered like a guardian over this quaint market town. The deep-purple bell heather was blooming, laced with the dark-green invasive bracken. I stared out at the sleeping land … and I wished it could last for ever.
Refreshed by the break and the clean air of the high moors, it was time to move on and I turned on to the A168 towards Northallerton. Beyond the ditches and hawthorn hedgerows, black-faced sheep wandered freely, looking curiously in my direction. Soon I was on the outskirts of the sprawling town of Northallerton, and County Hall was in my sights.
I pulled into the familiar car park of the imposing building. After checking in at reception I was directed up a huge marble staircase to the first floor. There, behind a large desk, was a severe-looking lady in a grey suit who bore a distinct resemblance to Rosa Klebb, the fearsome Russian agent in the James Bond film From Russia with Love. Sadly, she shared a similar demeanour.
‘Your name?’ she asked in a sharp, clipped tone. Wasted words or pleasantries were not part of the diminutive lady’s vocabulary.
‘Jack Sheffield,’ I said, ‘here for interview for the Ragley and Morton headship.’
The formidable administrator jabbed her pen over her right shoulder towards the door behind her. ‘Wait through there and you will be called for interview in due course.’
The reception room was furnished like a stately home with a large dark mahogany table in its centre and a collection of hard, uncomfortable chairs lined against the walls. A circular, oak-framed clock with Roman numerals ticked off the minutes and added to the funereal atmosphere.
Two women I didn’t recognize were already there, sitting on opposite sides of the room. They looked up briefly as I took a seat. There was a murmured ‘Good morning’, but nothing more. By 8.45 a.m. there were six of us waiting in silence, three men and three women. Rath
er like in a doctor’s waiting room, we had all spaced ourselves around the perimeter of the room as far as possible from one of the other candidates.
Gradually, one or two of them opened up and offered an introduction. There was a plump, voluble, grey-haired man who explained he was a village-school headteacher from Doncaster in South Yorkshire and a mature lady whose school was being closed down and this was her fourth interview. The other two women were a young and clearly dynamic deputy headteacher in her early thirties and a tall, slim lady of about my age who was a headteacher of a small village school. She was also from South Yorkshire and clearly knew the Doncaster headteacher. He had expressed surprise to see her and his cheeks flushed as they exchanged greetings. Then they settled back with their own thoughts.
Finally, there was Rufus Timmings, who sat in eerie silence listening to the occasional snippets of conversation but offering nothing in return. He appeared calm and supremely confident.
At the far end of the room was a heavy oak door with a brass plate that read: Room 109. As it opened, we all looked up, each torn from our private reverie. Rosa Klebb was standing there with the look of an executioner who enjoyed her work.
She glanced down at her grey clipboard. ‘Miss Arnold,’ she said, ‘this way,’ and the mature lady got up and followed the Russian secret agent into the unknown.
Rufus spoke up for the first time. ‘Alphabetical order,’ he said knowingly.
The tall lady from South Yorkshire looked at him and nodded. I thought she said, ‘Obviously,’ but I couldn’t be sure.
Thirty minutes later the interviewee reappeared and, if anything, looked more stressed than when she went in.
‘Mr Hardisty,’ said Rosa Klebb. The plump man heaved himself to his feet and walked with head held high to meet his fate. He returned twenty-five minutes later and was quickly followed by the young female deputy, who clipped across the marble floor in astonishingly high heels.
Then it was my turn. I walked into a vast room, where an isolated wooden carver chair looked lonely in the centre of the floor, facing a big, curved desk. Five faces were staring at me intently, and I knew them all. From left to right, they were Bernard Pickard, the Assistant Chief Education Officer; Richard Gomersall, Senior Primary Adviser; Miss Barrington-Huntley, chair of the Education Committee; Joseph Evans, chair of governors at Ragley School; and, to my complete astonishment and dismay … Stanley Coe, presumably representing the governing body of Morton School. I wondered what had happened to Wilfred Bones. It occurred to me in that moment that I had already lost twenty per cent of the votes.
I waited politely behind my chair. Miss Barrington-Huntley looked her usual imposing self. ‘Do take a seat, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, and so it began.
The interview flew by. Each member of the panel was invited to ask an opening question, followed by a battery of more demanding queries offered up by Miss Barrington-Huntley.
Bernard Pickard asked, surprisingly, why I had applied, as he had assumed I would be ready to move on. I explained I loved my school and had unfinished work there. Richard Gomersall wanted to know how I would accommodate the demands of the wider curriculum, particularly information technology. As he had led much of the in-service training, he nodded when I repeated the main substance of his courses.
All seemed to go well until Stan Coe made a broad hint that discipline was a current problem at Ragley and wanted to know what I would do about it. I countered his accusation with facts about the high standards of honesty and good behaviour that underpinned our school ethos. He didn’t look happy and glowered in my direction.
Joseph Evans interjected with a less demanding question. He asked what amendments, if any, would occur when the title ‘on-the-Forest’ was dropped from the name of the new school and, once again, I responded cautiously, relying on local knowledge and the recent directive from County Hall. ‘Also, Mr Sheffield,’ added Joseph, ‘I note you are proposing to undertake a higher degree course at York University.’
‘That’s correct,’ I said. ‘It’s a Masters in Educational Management, part-time and spread over three years.’
Miss Barrington-Huntley looked at me intently. ‘That’s quite a commitment, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is.’
She leaned forward in her chair. ‘So could you tell us why you intend to take on this extra workload?’
I was on familiar ground here. ‘I wish to improve myself as a professional and, in doing so, strive to ensure that all our children achieve their potential. Realistically, I don’t expect it will provide me with all the answers … but it will enable me to ask the right questions.’
Miss Barrington-Huntley sat back in her chair and smiled. Then there was an imperceptible nod of acknowledgement but no more. The chair of the Education Committee was a formidable lady and didn’t take prisoners. She then went on to make it clear that I was faced with strong competition and that their task was to find the best candidate, regardless of me being the ‘sitting tenant’.
She glanced left and right, paused, shuffled the papers in front of her and asked if I had any questions. I turned it round with a statement saying that if appointed I would do everything I could to ensure that County Hall kept their promise regarding the additional classroom and extra staffing. I sensed this might have been a mistake, as Bernard Pickard, who had been making copious notes throughout, looked up sharply in surprise and with no attempt to hide his displeasure.
I walked out with mixed feelings, but felt I had done myself justice.
Back in the waiting room, Rufus Timmings was trying to judge my demeanour. ‘Mr Bones was unwell,’ he said with a broad smile, ‘so Mr Coe stood in at the last minute.’ He strutted into his interview as if the job were already his. Sadly, he returned the same way, with a self-satisfied look on his face.
Rosa Klebb read out the last name on her list. ‘Miss Wainwright,’ she said and the tall lady walked serenely into Room 109.
The plump gentleman from Doncaster smiled as the door closed behind her. ‘Jenny Wainwright,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘I appointed her straight from college. She was my star teacher and I knew then she would go far.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘I just never imagined that one day I would be applying for the same job as her.’
Miss Wainwright’s interview lasted significantly longer than anyone else’s and she emerged looking entirely cool and collected.
The clock was ticking round to one o’clock when Rosa Klebb appeared and asked for the man from Doncaster, the mature lady and the young deputy headteacher to join her outside. She reappeared alone and looked at the three of us. ‘You are requested to attend a final interview this afternoon, commencing two o’clock. In the meantime a trolley of refreshments will be provided for you.’
It was a subdued trio that drank tea and coffee and nibbled at sandwiches with an indeterminate filling. I was irritated that Rufus had known his ally, Stan Coe, would be on the panel and intrigued by Jenny Wainwright, who seemed to take everything in her stride. Promptly at two o’clock the humourless Rosa Klebb reappeared and didn’t require reference to her clipboard. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
I was first in and pleased it would soon be over. The second interview included a new face on the panel. She was introduced as Ms Cleverley, a recent senior appointment as deputy to Miss Barrington-Huntley, and she dominated the following thirty minutes. She had short cropped hair and angular features, with high, prominent cheekbones. Her stare was both intense and searching, and her questioning was demanding and incisive. In part it related to how I would respond to some of the initial proposals made by the new Secretary of State for Education, Kenneth Baker.
‘Why do you want this headship, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Ms Cleverley.
‘I love Ragley School – it’s been my life.’
Ms Cleverley scribbled a note. ‘That would appear to be an emotional response,’ she said curtly, ‘and there are other headships … larger ones than Ragley village.’
�
�I have unfinished business,’ I said.
‘Really? What might that be?’
‘County Hall has regularly praised Ragley School as a good example of work of a high standard in all subjects, particularly in English, mathematics, information technology and the creative arts. So I wish to complete the curriculum reform I have begun with the children in my care.’
‘And when will that be?’
I returned her level gaze. ‘I’ll know,’ I said simply.
Miss Barrington-Huntley could sense the impasse and interjected. ‘Time is up, Mr Sheffield, and thank you for your responses. The question we ask all candidates is, of course, may we presume that if offered the post you intend to accept?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
When I walked out I hoped Ms Cleverley would question the other candidates with equal rigour.
Then all I could do was wait. Rufus Timmings went in and thirty minutes later reappeared not looking quite as confident as before, unlike Miss Wainwright, who was in there for almost forty minutes. I wondered why she was taking so long. When she returned, once again she relaxed into her seat with a calm, assured confidence.
We sat there in silence while the clock ticked on. From Room 109 there came a faint murmur of voices but no discernible words. A shaft of sharp sunlight streamed through one of the high, circular windows and motes of dust hovered like tiny fireflies, floating without purpose or direction. Time went by. It felt like an eternity.
The norm was for the successful candidate to be summoned first and formally offered the post. So we waited for Rosa Klebb to return with her clipboard and invite one of us to follow her back into Room 109. Finally, the door creaked open and to my surprise it wasn’t Miss Clipboard but rather Miss Barrington-Huntley with a stern expression on her face.
There was a pause as she measured the import of her words. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but there’s a lengthy debate going on and we still have much to discuss.’ She saw the reaction from the three of us. ‘So, with this in mind, I shall contact you all by telephone this evening with our decision. Thank you, and I wish you a safe journey home.’ With that she closed the door firmly. It was unusual to say the least and simply served to draw out the uncertainty and tension.
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