03 Dear Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘You’ll soon find out, Pratt,’ sneered Stan, grabbing the new sledge-hammer he had just purchased. Then he stormed out, pausing to give me an evil stare.

  ‘Judgement Day, Sheffield,’ he growled as he passed me in the doorway.

  I watched him as he stormed out to his mud-splattered Land-Rover. Stanley Coe, local bully and pig farmer, always seemed to be up to no good. Our paths had crossed in the past and we held each other in mutual contempt.

  Albert Jenkins, local councillor and school governor, was selecting a set of brass hinges in the far corner of the store and had heard the conversation. He walked over to join me by the front door. ‘He’s up to something, Jack,’ said Albert, ‘so watch yourself.’

  ‘I don’t trust him, Albert,’ I said, ‘particularly when he looks so pleased with himself.’

  We both peered thoughtfully through the window as Stan Coe’s Land-Rover thundered off up the High Street.

  ‘He’s always been envious of other people, Jack … “O! beware, my lord, of jealousy”,’ quoted Albert in a sonorous tone.

  It was well known that Albert loved his Shakespeare. ‘Othello?’ I asked.

  ‘Well done,’ said Albert with a wry grin. ‘Act III, scene iii.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m here for a roll of chicken wire,’ I announced and walked towards the counter.

  Albert returned to his brass hinges and Timothy hurried into the back store.

  ‘Here y’are, Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy. ‘Is it f’modelmaking?’

  ‘Yes, Timothy. The children in Mrs Hunter’s class are making their guy for the annual bonfire on Saturday.’

  ‘Yes, ah’m looking forward to it,’ said Timothy. ‘Ah were jus’ saying, y’can’t beat tradition.’

  For the past one hundred years the Ragley village bonfire had taken place on the spare ground between the school and the football field and, each year, the children had made a guy to sit on the top. Excitement was growing as the big day drew near. On my way back to school with the roll of chicken wire under my arm, I paused for a moment beside the village green to reflect upon the ribbon of shops in the High Street that were the life-blood of the village. All the needs of the villagers from a jar of Vic decongestant to a left-handed potato peeler could be purchased here.

  Meanwhile, Tidy Tim walked into the storeroom at the back of his emporium and stared lovingly at the carefully labelled shelves. Then, from the top shelf, he took down the faded red cardboard box that contained his old Meccano set and recalled that Christmas morning in 1953 when, as a thirteen-year-old boy, he had found it at the foot of his bed. The picture on the box cover of an enthusiastic little boy playing with his working model of a crane had fascinated the young Timothy.

  He remembered the excitement of opening it for the first time and seeing the red and green perforated metal pieces; the rods, tyres and wheels; the nuts, bolts, screws and spanners. The manual had advertised extra girders, swivel bearings and driving bands and, throughout the early months of 1954, he had saved his pocket money. Eventually, he had enough parts to construct a miniature, working lawnmower and, finally, his tour de force … a working elevator using a mechanical motor. On the day his mother had bought him his first pair of long trousers, he knew that his journey towards owning his own hardware emporium had begun.

  Timothy had been an avid reader of Meccano Magazine and a member of the Meccano Guild, the Brotherhood of Boys. He had worn his little triangular badge with pride. But in the 1960s, the golden age of construction kits had ended for Timothy. His beloved Meccano had been replaced by cheaper plastic alternatives such as Fischer Technic and K’nex. For Timothy it was the end of traditional construction toys and, after all these years, it still tortured his organized soul.

  So, with a sigh, Timothy replaced his Meccano set neatly on the shelf next to his Airfix Modeller’s Kit and his John Bull Printing Set and, with loving care, rearranged the boxes so that the labels were neatly aligned. Only then did he close the door with a sense of satisfaction. Tidy Tim liked organized cupboards.

  Back in the staff-room, a heated debate was going on. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Vera, pointing to the front page of her Daily Telegraph. ‘The Post Office made a profit of £375 million last year, yet they’re still putting up the price of a first-class stamp to 12p.’

  ‘What about second-class?’ asked Sally.

  ‘That’s going up from 8p to 10p,’ recited Vera while scanning the text, ‘and they’re blaming it on the postmen who have just had a sixteen per cent pay rise.’ She shook her head in dismay and passed the newspaper to Anne.

  ‘And prescription charges are going up as well, from 45p to 70p,’ said Anne. ‘Where will it all end?’ She passed the newspaper to me and I glanced at the front page.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Sally.

  I read the headline. ‘SELLING OFF SCHOOL BUILDINGS AND LAND COULD BE THE KEY TO REORGANIZATION.’

  ‘Sounds ominous,’ said Anne.

  ‘It gets worse,’ I said. ‘It says, “The cuts in local authority spending mean twenty-one thousand fewer teachers and the closure of small, uneconomical schools.”’

  ‘That might mean some in the Easington area,’ said Sally with a look of concern. With inflation running at 17 per cent and entrepreneurs buying up school land, the future looked ominous.

  ‘That reminds me,’ said Vera, taking a smart spiral-bound booklet from a large County Hall brown manila envelope. ‘This has just arrived.’ The title, The Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire, sent a chill down my spine. That evening it was still on my mind until seven thirty, when I was faced with the choice of Top of the Pops with Mike Reed on BBC 1 or Charlie’s Angels on ITV. It was no contest. I settled down with a large mug of black tea for an evening with Farrah Fawcett.

  Next morning I called in for petrol at Victor Pratt’s garage. A liquid rainbow reflected in the dark pools of oil and rainwater on the forecourt as I pulled up beside the single pump and rummaged in my pocket for a ten-pound note. Victor was the elder brother of Timothy Pratt, and renowned for his lack of humour and constantly untidy state. Beneath the smears of grease and engine oil, his stubbly face was set in its customary scowl.

  ‘Good morning, Victor. Fill her up, please.’

  ‘Ah’ve got that trellis elbow again,’ said Victor as he unscrewed my filler cap.

  I winced as he put a greasy handprint on my recently polished rear window.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor,’ I said, trying to sound suitably concerned.

  ‘All this cold an’ wet, it sets off m’pneumatics.’

  ‘Are you coming to the bonfire?’ I said, trying to move on to something more positive.

  ‘Never miss it, Mr Sheffield,’ he said gruffly. ‘Ah allus ’elp our Timothy wi’ t’fireworks. Me an’ Timothy an’ John Grainger ’ave done it f’years. It’s tradition.’

  School was a hive of activity when I arrived. Jo Hunter was working in the hall with her husband, Police Constable Dan Hunter. Dan was taking assembly on the theme of the firework code and Jo was helping him mount some large posters. They were hoping to move out of their rented flat in Easington and had just begun to search for a home of their own, but with average house prices leaping to £17,000 they were finding it difficult. Dan was a huge six-feet-four-inch rugby player and, as always, he looked very smart in his navy-blue uniform with a small coat of arms on each collar.

  ‘Thanks, Dan,’ I said. ‘This is really important for the children.’

  ‘A pleasure, Jack, especially as I can be on duty and spend time with my lovely wife.’

  Jo grinned and looked up, full of admiration for her handsome husband. With his fashionable long sideburns and droopy seventies moustache, he resembled one of the mean lawmen chasing Robert Redford and Paul Newman in The Sting.

  The assembly went well and Dan answered all the children’s questions in his relaxed style. He was drinking coffee in the staff-room when he looked out o
f the window at the spare ground beyond our school field. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that supposed to be common land?’

  Two workmen were hammering large posts into the ground. Alongside was a muddy Land-Rover and in the trailer behind was a roll of chainlink fencing.

  ‘It always has been,’ said Vera, looking concerned.

  ‘And that’s exactly where the PTA will be building the bonfire tomorrow,’ said Anne.

  ‘I’d better check this out,’ said Dan and he walked out to his little grey van and drove off. Ten minutes later he was back, looking puzzled. ‘You’ve got a problem, Jack,’ he said. ‘Stan Coe says there’s an old statute that entitles him to the land and he’s fencing it off. I’ll get back to the station and let them know what’s going on.’ Dan drove off and Vera stared out of the window with grim determination on her face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera calmly. ‘I know just the person who will sort this out.’

  At twelve o’clock a large shiny, chauffeur-driven, classic black Bentley purred into the school car park and a tall athletic sixty-one-year-old man leapt out of the back seat and strode confidently into school. Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, as usual, looked the immaculate country gent in his tweed sports jacket, lovat-green waistcoat, regimental tie, cavalry-twill trousers with knife-edge creases and sturdy brown brogues polished to a military shine. He tapped on the office door, walked in and placed his brass-topped walking cane on the high Victorian window ledge.

  ‘Good morning, Jack,’ he said and shook my hand in a crushingly firm grip. The major had replaced Stan Coe as a school governor.

  ‘Good morning, Major,’ I said. ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice.’

  He looked at Vera, bowed slightly, and his steel-blue eyes noticeably softened. ‘Good morning, Vera,’ he said. ‘You’re well, I hope … what?’

  Vera blushed slightly. ‘Yes, thank you, Rupert. I do hope you can help us in our hour of need.’

  The major glanced out of the window at the distant field where the two workmen had fixed the chain-link fencing to the wooden stakes. Then they climbed back in the Land-Rover and drove away. ‘So what’s that ruffian Coe up to now?’ he said.

  ‘He told PC Hunter that he was taking advantage of an old statute,’ said Vera.

  ‘Sounds jolly underhand, what?’ said the major.

  ‘It certainly does,’ I said.

  ‘Rupert, we can’t let this man get away with this,’ said Vera in a determined voice.

  The major’s keen eyes narrowed as he walked to the door. ‘Jack, let’s investigate.’

  Minutes later we both leaned on the school fence and surveyed the fenced-off land. Attached to one of the posts was a sign that read PRIVATE LAND.

  ‘The blighter!’ exclaimed the major, ‘and, by the way, Jack, the next field up the Easington Road belongs to me.’ He pointed to a distant gateway in the hedge. ‘My daughter Virginia keeps a few of her horses there.’ Next to a sturdy five-barred gate I could just make out a tall white post with a sign attached but it was too far away to read.

  We returned to the staff-room and the major moved smoothly into operations mode. ‘With your permission, Jack, and of course yours, Vera, we’ll make this office the command centre.’ Vera smiled and I nodded. ‘Good. Now let’s get to it, what?’ He sat at my desk, picked up the telephone and dialled a well-rehearsed number. ‘Torquil, old chap,’ said the major, ‘I need a favour.’

  Ten miles away in the County Council Planning Office, Torquil Lovejoy carefully unrolled an ancient tithe map of 1841 on his beautifully polished desk and focused his attention on the area, known as ‘The Strays’. A few months short of his fortieth birthday, Torquil was at the peak of his career. He was renowned for his brilliant mind and his attention to detail was second to none. Within a matter of minutes he had found exactly what he was looking for and dialled the number given to him by the major.

  ‘This is it, Major,’ said Torquil. ‘In 1965 the Government passed an Act of Parliament making provision for a “Register of Commons”.’

  ‘Jolly good, Torquil old chap … but what does it mean?’

  Torquil traced a beautifully manicured finger towards a green shaded area on the map of Ragley. ‘If a sufficient number of individuals register their right of access within five years, this claim is overturned.’

  ‘And what’s “a sufficient number”, Torquil?’

  ‘Possibly ten or fifteen, I suggest, Major,’ said Torquil.

  ‘You mean a protest march, what?’

  ‘Something like that. Maybe tomorrow morning before Coe puts any livestock in the enclosure. Perhaps I should come along, Major.’

  ‘Well done, old chap. See you at the Manor at nine hundred hours.’

  ‘I’ll be there, Major.’

  ‘Good show, Torquil.’

  The major replaced the receiver and stood up. ‘Jack, my boy,’ he said, ‘it’s time for esprit de corps.’ Before leaving, the major put Vera in charge of communications and Jo was told exactly what to say to PC Dan Hunter.

  A few minutes later the chauffeur-driven Bentley pulled up outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. When the major walked in, Timothy immediately stood to attention and puffed out his chest. His army cadets training of twenty-five years ago was still a vivid memory.

  ‘At ease, Timothy,’ commanded the major with a wry smile. ‘Now, tell me this. Have you got any broom handles?’

  ‘Ah’ve just ’ad a delivery o’ fifty, Major,’ said Tidy Tim.

  ‘Excellent. Now, there’s something I need you to do.’

  Timothy listened carefully to his instructions and knew immediately that he was the perfect man for the job.

  Saturday morning dawned bright but bitterly cold and I arrived at school just before nine o’clock. With the last sighs of autumn a flurry of golden brown leaves swept across the cobbled driveway and came to rest under the creaking eaves of the cycle shed. Like tired tumbleweed, they had made their final journey. As they settled in a patchwork quilt of reds, browns, ochres and yellows the wind became sharp and cold. I stepped out of my car, fastened the top toggle of my duffel coat and wrapped my old college scarf a little tighter. Over the school field a grey mist was slowly clearing and a dusting of frost had coated the petals of the bright dahlias outside Anne Grainger’s classroom. With seamless transition autumn had departed and winter had arrived.

  A mile away, the major looked out of the window of Old Morton Manor House and surveyed his estates. In the elegant lounge his daughter Virginia was serving coffee to Torquil Lovejoy, who smiled with satisfaction at the detailed official document he had brought from the County Planning Office. ‘All in order, Major,’ he said and replaced it in his briefcase. Alongside him, Vera Evans put a final tick against her neatly typed list of villagers. The grandfather clock chimed. ‘It’s time,’ said the major.

  * * *

  Meanwhile, in Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Timothy and Nora Pratt had been working since dawn. Tidy Tim had nailed an A3 sheet of stiff card precisely two and a quarter inches from the top of each broomstick, while his sister Nora had painted the words SAVE OUR FIELD in neat letters.

  Their elder brother Victor had also made an early start. He was in his shed at the back of his garage applying some red-oxide primer to his 1908 Aveling and Porter tandem steam-driven road roller. The top of the funnel stood ten feet above the ground and was rimmed with a gleaming brass collar. He had bought it from a scrap yard many years ago and it was his pride and joy. Victor stood back to admire his handiwork and looked at his oil-smeared wristwatch. He smiled grimly. It was time.

  By nine thirty, the school was a hive of activity. Jo and Dan Hunter, significantly not in uniform, were in the staff-room with Anne and Sally. Meanwhile, Anne’s husband, John Grainger, was outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium stacking the broomsticks and placards into the back of his rusty Cortina Estate. In the school kitchen, Shirley the cook and Mrs Critchley were making Yorkshire parkin. Into t
he large mixing bowl she added black treacle, soft brown sugar, oatmeal and ginger. ‘Ginger’s f’warming y’blood, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley knowingly.

  Ruby the caretaker was watching closely. ‘That’s reight,’ she added. ‘My mam calls it “cut-an’-come-again cake”.’

  In the last house in the village, Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer picked up his car keys from the hall table and sighed deeply. He didn’t like protest marches but Miss Evans had been persuasive. Also, following Petula’s latest spending spree in Leeds, she had insisted they wore matching his and hers Daks Charisma raincoats in camel beige with a brightly checked lining. Petula Dudley-Palmer said that at £169 each they were a bargain and made them look a cut above the rest of the villagers: ‘Image is everything, dear.’ But when Geoffrey looked at their reflection in the windows of their Rolls-Royce, he secretly believed they looked like Swedish porn stars.

  At precisely nine forty-five, Torquil Lovejoy collected Timothy Pratt from his Hardware Emporium and they drove down the High Street to Coe Farm. An apoplectic Stan Coe stared in astonishment at the County Planning Office letter presented to him by Torquil. Minutes later Stan had donned an oilskin coat and his wellington boots and roared off in his Land-Rover.

  Peter and Felicity Miles-Humphreys were running late.

  Peter, the stuttering bank clerk, looked at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. ‘H-h-hurry up, F-Felicity. M-Miss Evans said t-ten o’clock.’

  ‘But I want to look my best,’ shouted Felicity from upstairs as she rummaged through her selection of kaftans.

  Felicity was the producer of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society and had just returned from West Scrafton, a beautiful, unspoilt village in the Yorkshire Dales. She had been an extra during the filming of the third series of All Creatures Great and Small. When Christopher Timothy and Carol Drinkwater had driven through the centre of the village in their Morris 8 Tourer, Felicity had been told to walk out of a barn and watch them go by with a long-suffering expression. Fortunately, after living with Peter for twenty years, she had perfected long-suffering expressions. When they arrived in the school car park, Nora Pratt gave them a broomstick-placard and they joined the throng. It seemed the whole village was on the march.