03 Dear Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Hello again, Laura,’ he said and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And this must be Jack.’ He shook my hand with a firm handshake. ‘I’m Tom Bannister. Laura and I go way back. Welcome to Kirk Fenton.’

  ‘Er … thanks,’ I replied, looking round me in wonderment. ‘This is all new to me, I’m afraid.’

  The guard stepped forward. ‘I’ve checked in Miss Henderson’s car, sir,’ he said, tapping his clipboard with a chinograph pencil.

  ‘Roger,’ replied Tom, with a friendly nod, and we set off towards the hangar.

  ‘I’ll see you later, Jack,’ said Laura, her eyes twinkling.

  ‘You grab a coffee and I promise I’ll bring him back in one piece,’ said Tom.

  Laura walked away with the guard and, even more puzzled, I followed Tom.

  ‘We’re only on security level C, Jack, so things are fairly relaxed,’ he explained. ‘It’s not as if we’re at war with anyone at the moment,’ he added with a grin.

  Around thirty planes were lined up in a perfect row outside the hangar. ‘These are our Jet Provosts, Jack,’ said Tom. ‘They used to be piston-driven but now we’re in the jet age. They’re two-seater with duplicate controls, so they’re ideal for training.’

  ‘I’ve seen them flying over the moors,’ I said in awe, ‘but I’ve never been so close to one before.’

  ‘Well, I’ve a surprise for you, Jack. Thanks to Laura, you’re going up in one.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack, it will be fun.’

  ‘I’m speechless!’

  I couldn’t believe my luck and I stared at the planes. Their colour matched the leaden sky, pale grey, except for the vivid red wing tips and fuel tanks. Gathered round the first of the aircraft, members of the civilian ground crew were busy making final checks. One of them glanced up and in a confident, clipped tone said, ‘Alpha-One, ready for take-off, sir.’

  ‘Roger, Dave,’ replied Tom casually. Briefly, I wondered if any of the ground crew might actually be called Roger.

  ‘Alpha-One is the weather ship, Jack,’ explained Tom. ‘It goes up an hour before the students to check on weather conditions.’ He paused and stared at the sky. ‘But we should be fine this morning, clear and cold.’

  An hour later, dressed in a flying suit and helmet, and after a crash course in what not to touch in the cockpit, I sat petrified in my seat listening to Tom’s voice in my earphones.

  ‘Ready for take-off,’ said Tom. His voice seemed strangely tinny.

  ‘Clear for take-off, Alpha-One,’ was the instant reply from the tower.

  We bumped along the runway until our air speed reached eighty-five knots, and I stared in horror as the end of the runway appeared all too quickly. Tom gripped the control column a little tighter and, as our speed flickered up to ninety-five knots, he gently eased it back and we left the ground. I said goodbye to my stomach as rooftops and green fields sped below us and we headed off towards the distant hills.

  Gradually we levelled out and turned north on a course towards Leeming and then east, past Thirkby, over the Hambleton hills and on to the vast flatlands of the Vale of York. Below us, in a beautiful and secluded valley, stood the ruins of the Cistercian monastery of Rievaulx Abbey and the spectacular Ampleforth College, a Roman Catholic school run by a community of Benedictine monks. Then, as we gained height, we approached the Bilsdale television mast near Hartingdale. I knew it was over one thousand feet high but we soared above it.

  Suddenly, there was a message in my headset that I didn’t expect to hear. ‘Do you want to loop the loop, Jack?’

  Through a gap in the thinning layer of strato-cumulus clouds at around two thousand feet we flew into a bright new world of empty blue sky. Below us a hazy carpet of soft grey clouds stretched out in all directions and suddenly the world seemed a distant place.

  We climbed to over five thousand feet and Tom glanced across. ‘Settle back, Jack. Try to relax with your hands on your knees.’

  I did as I was told and glanced furtively in the direction of the sick bag. ‘OK, Tom. I’m ready.’

  The horizon disappeared beneath me and clear sky filled my range of vision. I was completely disorientated when the layer of clouds reappeared upside down and tumbled across the cockpit and I recalled falling backwards from a swimming-pool diving board as a child and tumbling helplessly into the water.

  ‘Geronimo!’ I yelled.

  ‘Roger, Jack,’ replied a calm voice in my headphones.

  Then a giant fist appeared to be pushing me through the seat. The weight of my helmet crushed into my skull and, at four times gravity, I couldn’t raise my hands from my knees. I was utterly helpless.

  With a life-jacket on top of my flying suit the cockpit had gradually become uncomfortably hot, but at that moment cold, naked fear froze my bones.

  A minute or two later, when terror had given way to exhilaration, it was all over and, after a smooth landing, my stomach returned to normal. Tom helped me out of the cockpit and we walked back towards the barrier, where Laura was waiting. She rushed towards me, her green eyes full of excitement, and hugged me.

  ‘Oh, Jack, how was it? I couldn’t believe the loop the loop!’

  I held her, feeling elated. ‘It was fantastic. Thank you so much.’

  Tom stood quietly alongside. ‘Thanks, Tom,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘It really was an amazing experience.’

  ‘My pleasure, Jack. I hope we meet up again sometime.’ He turned to Laura, who was still gazing up at me. ‘ ’Bye, Laura, and best wishes to your father.’

  Laura stretched up and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll tell Dad when I see him.’

  Then she took my arm, led me back to her car and we raced off down the country lanes and back towards York.

  Outside Bilbo Cottage Laura leaned over, looked at me intently and kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’m dashing now but I’ll see you at the Dean Court,’ she said, ‘seven o’clock sharp.’

  ‘See you soon,’ I shouted as she drove away.

  In the Dean Court’s luxurious entrance Laura gave her charcoal-grey maxi-length coat and her cyclamen-pink scarf to the receptionist and the maître d’hôtel showed us to our table. I looked across at Laura in the flickering candlelight. She looked stunning in a sheer black dress, straight from Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  ‘You look sensational,’ I said, ‘and I love the perfume.’

  ‘Opium by Yves Saint Laurent,’ she said, ‘and you don’t look bad yourself, Jack.’ Then she leaned over and removed my large, black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles and put them on the white linen tablecloth. ‘There, now you look almost handsome,’ she said, her green eyes full of mischief.

  The meal was excellent and the Bordeaux wine complemented the tasty Yorkshire beef. The conversation ebbed and flowed with easy banter until we were nibbling at cheese and biscuits and then Laura went quiet as if deep in thought. Finally she said, ‘Did you know it’s a special day today, Jack, leap-year day … the day women can propose to men.’

  ‘So I heard,’ I said. ‘Sally told us all about it at school.’

  Then Laura gave me that special look I had come to know so well and, once again, her green eyes reminded me of Beth. ‘How would you feel if someone proposed to you on 29 February?’ She stretched her right hand across the table and laid it gently on top of mine.

  I laughed. ‘That would never happen to me.’

  ‘It might,’ said Laura softly and she stared at me intently.

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ I laughed. ‘I’m not the marrying kind, Laura.’ I picked up my glasses and put them back on.

  For a few brief moments the colour drained from her face and she turned away, her green eyes moist. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt. I realized that our months of friendship had meant more to Laura than they had to me … much more.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said and, unexpectedly, she laughed loudly. ‘I know you aren’t the marrying kind.’ She looked down and began to fiddle wit
h the clasp of her handbag. ‘Oh, you didn’t think I was proposing to you, did you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I replied, though in reality I wasn’t quite so sure.

  The next few seconds seemed like hours. Laura looked at her wristwatch. ‘I’m tired now, Jack. I think I’d like to go home.’

  The evening had come to an abrupt end.

  ‘Yes – it has been a long day. I’ll pay the bill.’

  Laura got up quickly and walked towards the reception area where Abba’s ‘Knowing Me Knowing You’ was playing softly in the background. The maître d’hôtel ordered our coats to be retrieved and looked concerned when he saw Laura’s face. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir?’ he asked. I nodded and he accepted his tip, bowing politely, and we stepped out into the cold night.

  We walked to the gate of Laura’s flat near the Museum Gardens and said goodnight. Then she walked to her front door without looking back.

  As I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton I felt too much had been left unsaid. It was a sad end to an exhilarating day. Laura’s life appeared to have clearly defined borders; mine simply had frayed edges. Above me a sickle moon, alone in the vast ebony sky, looked down over the plain of York like a silent sentinel. There was peace on the land but no longer between Laura and myself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nicholas Parsons and the Rhubarb Triangle

  County Hall requested a copy of our scheme of work for mathematics in support of their proposal for a ‘common curriculum’ for schools in North Yorkshire.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Wednesday, 5 March 1980

  ‘HE CAN’T POSSIBLY like rhubarb!’ said Vera emphatically.

  ‘But ah read it in our Ronnie’s News of the World, Miss Evans,’ insisted Ruby: ‘ ’e definitely likes rhubarb.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Vera, taking off her coat. She stared thoughtfully out of the staff-room window. ‘It never occurred to me he would like such a thing. He’s not really the type,’ said Vera.

  ‘Fifteen, sixteen … Who likes rhubarb? … seventeen, eighteen,’ asked Jo as she turned the handle of the Roneo duplicator.

  ‘ ’Im on t’telly what gives away that posh furniture,’ said Ruby, as she absent-mindedly polished the handle of the staff-room door.

  ‘You may be right, Ruby. I remember reading something like that in the Radio Times,’ continued Jo, while sniffing the Roneo spirit appreciatively.

  ‘Mind you, I’ve got a wonderful recipe,’ mused Vera to herself.

  ‘What’s all this about rhubarb?’ asked Sally, rummaging through the Art and Craft magazines on the coffee table until she found a pull-out poster on ‘How to make clay coil-pots’.

  Anne and I were huddled next to the gas fire and we were making a final check of the summary of our scheme of work for mathematics. Intrigued, we looked up from the section on ‘special needs provision’.

  ‘I wonder if Prudence at the General Stores has some rhubarb in stock,’ said Vera, thinking out loud. ‘I’d need to make it today and take it with me tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Make what?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Take it where?’ asked Sally.

  Vera, clearly preoccupied, walked from the staff-room, down the little corridor past the staff toilets and opened the door to the school office. Then she paused and called over her shoulder, ‘Rhubarb crumble, of course.’

  It was Wednesday lunchtime, 5 March, and Vera was obviously in a world of her own. The snow and ice had gone but now heavy rain lashed against the window and dark grey clouds scudded across the bleak sky towards the distant line of the Hambleton hills. Anne turned up the gas fire again and shivered as the windows shook in their Victorian casements. ‘That so-called “common curriculum” will be here one day,’ she muttered as she scribbled notes next to the section on ‘Early Numbers’.

  I picked up my copy of The Times from the staff-room coffee table and scanned the front page. There was a large photograph of Peter Walker, the Minister for Agriculture, being presented with a fluffy white lamb by an irate French farmer following talk of a ‘lamb war’ between England and France. It was clear from their expressions that the entente was not so cordiale. Alongside was a photograph of Prince Charles, nattily attired in riding breeches, in preparation for an amateur race at Cheltenham on Saturday. He was going to ride a horse called Sea Swell and the odds were ten to one. I was surprised that Vera, as a fervent royalist, hadn’t commented on it but it was clear her mind was elsewhere.

  Meanwhile, Anne was flicking through the local paper, the Easington Herald & Pioneer. ‘Look at this, everybody,’ said Anne, pointing to an advertisement that had been circled in red ink. It read: ‘Meet Nicholas Parsons in the Cavendish Furniture Store in York on Thursday, 6 March, at 11.00 a.m.’

  ‘Now we know why Vera is so agitated,’ said Sally.

  ‘It’s Nicholas Parsons,’ I said, ‘the handsome and debonair Sale of the Century man.’

  ‘Vera’s perfect English gentleman,’ said Jo with a grin, looking up from her duplicating.

  ‘And she’s going to make him a rhubarb crumble,’ added Anne with a chuckle.

  We all laughed and I wondered what the television star would have made of the impact he had created in Ragley School.

  I walked through to the office, where Vera was pacing up and down the carpet and casting anxious looks out of the window. ‘Of all the days for Joseph to use the car!’ she exclaimed. Her brother had dropped her off at school that morning and then set off to attend an ecclesiastical meeting in York. He had looked so preoccupied that it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had forgotten all about his sister. Suddenly the telephone on my desk rang out with shrill urgency.

  ‘Vera, it’s Joyce Davenport for you,’ I said, handing over the receiver. Joyce was the local doctor’s wife and the vice-president of the Women’s Institute. She was also one of Vera’s most loyal and trusted friends.

  ‘Vera, is that you?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Joyce,’ said Vera. ‘It’s unusual for you to ring me at school.’

  ‘I simply had to tell you straight away, Vera,’ said Joyce, sounding very agitated. ‘It’s that dreadful woman Deirdre Coe. You know how she always tries to grab the limelight.’

  ‘What’s she up to now?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Well, she’s only invited that irritating little entertainer chappie from Easington, Troy Phoenix, to run her stall at tomorrow night’s bring-and-buy sale. She’s determined to make more on her stall than anybody else … and especially you, Vera.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. ‘Well, I appreciate you letting me know. I must go now, Joyce. Goodbye and thank you.’ She knew that, as president of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, it was very important to set an example. Ever since Vera had demoted Deirdre Coe to the role of cupboard secretary she had been a thorn in her side.

  I glanced at my watch. It was twenty past twelve, almost an hour before afternoon school restarted. ‘Come on, Vera, I’ll take you home and we can call into the General Stores on the way.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Sheffield – that’s very kind.’ Vera collected her coat, scarf and handbag and we drove out of school into the High Street.

  Half a mile away, in Stan Coe’s kitchen, his sister Deirdre was on the telephone and putting the final touches to her plans.

  ‘Troy, make sure y’wear y’posh clothes like y’did when y’introduced t’Ragley talent contest. Y’looked a proper star in them sparkly flares,’ said Deirdre, while chewing greedily on a gammon, chutney and pickle sandwich.

  ‘Leave it t’me, Deirdre. Ah’ll knock ’em dead,’ replied the confident Troy.

  Deirdre replaced the receiver and wiped the dribbles of chutney from her chin with the frayed sleeve of her cardigan. ‘OK, Miss la-de-dah Evans,’ she said out loud, ‘let’s see who’s top dog now.’

  Deirdre was absolutely confident that by inviting Troy Phoenix, the Easington entertainer, to come along to the annual bring-and-buy sale, s
he would show the rest of the ladies just who was the real influential force in the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.

  Troy, known locally as Norman Barraclough, made a living selling fresh fish from his little white van. It had to be said that, although Troy was an entertaining local celebrity, it was wise not to stand too close as the strong smell of Whitby cod permeated every pore of his diminutive, fishmonger’s frame.

  In the General Stores & Newsagent, Prudence Golightly was always pleased to see Vera. ‘Good afternoon, Mr Sheffield, and my dear friend, Vera. How are you today?’

  ‘Hello, Prudence. Fine, thank you,’ said Vera and then, as an afterthought, she glanced up at the teddy bear on the shelf behind Prudence, ‘and, er … good afternoon, Jeremy.’

  Prudence beamed. ‘And what can I do for you today, Vera? You seem a little rushed.’

  ‘I need some rhubarb, Prudence, for a special crumble. It would need to be your best-quality rhubarb.’

  Prudence looked thoughtful. ‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ she said, ‘I’ve only got rhubarb in tins – that is, until Maurice delivers some more. He gets it delivered every week from his brother in Leeds, you know.’

  ‘Maurice?’ said Vera.

  ‘Yes, Maurice Tupham just across the street,’ said Prudence, pointing. ‘It’s the blue door.’

  ‘Shall I go across to ask him?’ I said.

  ‘Say I sent you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence.

  ‘I’d better come with you,’ said Vera, ‘and thank you, Prudence. Perhaps you could put a tin on one side for me just in case.’

  Maurice Tupham was a quiet, retired man in his sixties who kept himself to himself. He had few visitors and, though he doffed his flat cap to Vera when he left church each Sunday morning, he had never spoken to her. However, his passion in life was rhubarb and, when Vera asked him if he had any, it was as if we had said, ‘Open sesame!’ Seconds later we had been ushered into his Aladdin’s cave – except, on this occasion, the treasure was rhubarb. He had a fresh batch in his kitchen and held up a handful of the tall slim bright-red stalks. He sniffed the air appreciatively like a connoisseur and smiled.