We ordered rich ground coffee and Beth read her paper while I flicked through the entertaining and diverse articles in the Oxford Times. It was certainly nineteen pence well spent.
House prices had shot up again and first-time buyers could now expect to pay the exorbitant sum of £34,000 for a three-bedroom semi. In the local council elections the Tories were defending a slender lead and that, Energy Secretary Peter Walker confirmed, was the Conservative Party’s top priority.
However, under the advertisements for the local Easter Bonnet Parade with its Easter eggs, bunnies and daffodils was undoubtedly my favourite article. It related to the urgent request for ‘TOAD WARNING’ signs on the local roads after a reported 522 squashed toads had been found, many in the act of mating! A local biology teacher explained that the male toads prefer to stand on the road as it makes their voices carry further to attract females. The deeper the male toad’s voice, the more attractive it is to the female. It appeared they had just come out of hibernation and were raring to go. Sadly, in a multitude of cases, their pleasure was short-lived! In the meantime, the Berks, Bucks and Oxon Naturalist Trust had already put up signs and were leading the way in this vital lifesaving initiative.
Across the table, Beth was engrossed and blowing gently on the surface of her coffee, in that familiar way of hers, prior to sipping it thoughtfully. She had turned her copy of the Times Educational Supplement to the headteacher appointments page. Something had caught her interest and she took a pen from her handbag. ‘Look at this one, Jack,’ she said. She had circled one of the advertisements. It read:
Forest Lodge County First School, Scarborough, Group 5. NOR 235. Required for 1st September 1985. Full details from the Area Education Office, County Hall, Northallerton.
‘Look at the salary,’ she said. It was printed in bold type: ‘Salary Scale £10,572–£11,784’.
I gasped. ‘Five figures – it’s a fortune!’ and I recalled my first salary slip in 1967 informing me I had earned £48.00 for my first month’s work as a teacher. Life, salaries and the cost of living had moved on. The world around me was changing and it appeared I hadn’t quite caught up. It occurred to me that I knew a lot about teaching children to read and write but, unlike Beth, I knew little about financial planning.
We stirred our coffee in endless revolutions, each waiting for the other to speak, but words were few and thoughts were many. Finally I looked again at the advertisement and Beth broke the silence. ‘It would be tough competition,’ she said quietly.
‘Are you thinking of giving it a try?’
‘Why not?’ she asked with a nonchalant wave of the hand.
‘Well, if you want to give it a go, I’ll support you of course . . . but don’t be too disappointed if you don’t get an interview.’
Beth stretched across the table and squeezed my hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll send for an application form.’ She took out her pocket diary and scribbled down the details as we finished our coffee.
I looked at our elegant bone-china cups, empty now. ‘Another?’ I asked.
Beth didn’t hear. She was too engrossed in the advertisement. I attracted the attention of the waitress and ordered another pot of coffee. Then I looked back at Beth. She was twirling a lock of honey-blonde hair around her finger, deep in thought. Her profile was sheer elegance, with fair skin, high cheekbones and lips pursed in concentration. I felt a moment’s sadness. Aspiration is one thing, realism is another. In our world of education women were rarely promoted to higher office and, rather selfishly, I reflected that my life at Ragley School was secure for a few more years.
Finally, Beth looked up with a knowing smile. ‘Jack, think about it . . . I’ve nothing to lose and if I was fortunate enough to get an interview it would be really good experience for the future.’
I was reluctant to state the obvious, but as it turned out Beth had read my mind. ‘I know what you’re thinking . . . as a woman I’ve no chance of a big headship.’
‘I think there’s a lady headteacher of a Group 5 school in Hertfordshire,’ I said in an attempt to offer some encouragement. ‘I read an article about her.’
She looked at me coolly. ‘Perhaps I’ll be the next.’
Her words were soft yet sure, like silk and steel.
By mid-afternoon, after a light lunch by the River Cherwell, we decided on a leisurely conclusion to our tour and I found myself staring at an unwieldy flat-bottomed boat next to a sign advertising ‘PUNTS FOR HIRE’.
As a confident Yorkshireman who misguidedly thought he could turn his hand to any new skill, I was willing to try to propel one of the punts by means of a traditional long pole. Fortunately, Beth had a wiser head and we paid a young man, who steered us expertly from the flat platform at the back of the boat. It was a relaxing way to unwind after our intensive sightseeing tour.
‘So what are you doing about a replacement for Tom?’ asked Beth.
‘I’ve spoken to Joseph, as chair of governors, and to Richard Gomersall at County Hall, and Tom’s post will be advertised next week. Then we’ll shortlist and have interviews, probably in early June prior to a September start.’
‘Let’s hope whoever you select stays a little longer,’ said Beth.
‘Yes, it’s an important decision. I really didn’t think he would leave.’
Beth trailed her fingers in the cool water and stared at the branches above us.
At six o’clock we were back at the hotel and while Beth was in the bathroom I switched on the television.
An animated Church leader was standing in front of a poster emblazoned with the words ‘HANDS OFF OUR DAY OF REST’ as a warning to Sunday traders. It was suggested that the noise would intrude on family worship and families would be split. This was followed by the news of high prices for vegetables after the bitterly cold winter and a reminder of the government’s spending restrictions and their pledge to keep inflation down by limiting public spending. The programme ended with a survey that suggested the compulsory use of seat belts was turning drivers into reckless road-users and encouraging high speeds.
Just as I was about to switch off, we were asked to stay tuned to The New Adventures of Wonder Woman followed by The Noel Edmonds Golden Easter Egg Awards and I wondered where the cheerful and stylishly coiffeured presenter bought his outlandish shirts.
We had decided to have a light meal in the city and then go to the cinema. The curiously named Ultimate Picture Palace was showing Romancing the Stone, a comedy adventure with Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas, and Local Hero, with its haunting music by Mark Knopfler. We settled for Local Hero, with Burt Lancaster as the stargazing head of a giant oil corporation, and I finished up whistling the theme tune all the way back to the hotel.
Over a late-night drink in the bar Beth’s thoughts returned to the cluster of large-school headships that she’d noticed in the Times Educational Supplement.
‘Jack, they were all five-figure salaries,’ she said. ‘It would make such a difference to our future if it eventually came about.’ She leaned forward and held my hand. ‘Think about it – a larger house with an extra bedroom for a start.’
‘You mean for when your parents come to stay?’ I said. I recalled the congestion in Bilbo Cottage whenever we had visitors. ‘I suppose so. As you said, you can’t swing a cat in the kitchen.’
‘Exactly,’ said Beth forcefully, ‘and we may have an addition to our family one day . . . when the time is right.’
I smiled, recalling last night. A little brother or sister for John sounded a good idea to me. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Then I thought back to the view from our leaded bedroom windows at home. ‘But I’d be sad to leave Bilbo Cottage.’
‘Jack, we can’t stand still. We have to move with the times. It’s the eighties and the world is changing.’
I sighed. ‘My mother brought me up to believe in society, and then to leave it better than I found it. “Make a contribution,” she used to say. I suppose that’s what I’m doing in my own s
mall way – teaching children to write, compute, share, be confident and to love learning.’
‘I know, Jack, and I respect you for that. But can’t you see what’s coming? The teaching you’re enjoying now is destined to change. All the signs are there, and if some of the government’s proposals come to pass then the work you love will change. One day it could take away your very soul and I would hate to see that. You can’t stand still for ever. We have to start making plans for the future.’
It was an impassioned plea and I knew deep down that she was right.
Tired after a long day of fresh air and sightseeing, not to mention the Irish coffee nightcap, we went up the elegant staircase to our room. The weather had changed and there was the sound of soothing rain pattering fingertip softly on the panes. There was a chair and small circular table by the window. I tugged the curtains shut a little and sat down. While Beth was undressing I picked up the book of poems she had bought for me and began to read. It was a familiar poem by Robert Browning:
Grow old with me!
The best is yet to be . . .
And I hoped it would be so.
Chapter Fifteen
Belly Dancing for Beginners
The Revd Joseph Evans visited school to teach Class 4.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 19 April 1985
It was early morning and a cloud of mist formed a gauze of droplets over the sleeping land. Outside Bilbo Cottage a thrush was pecking at the tilled soil of my bed of raspberries and the scolding cries of a blackbird pierced the air as it tried to crack a snail’s shell. Beth had carried John into the garden to hear the first cuckoo of the year and yellow-orange tulips brightened the tubs in our entrance porch.
It was a lovely morning and we had arranged for Natasha Smith to babysit for us that evening so that we could have a relaxing meal together. I had a meeting after school at St John’s College in York, where I had agreed to provide a series of lectures to final-year students. A programme needed to be arranged, so we had decided that I would drive back from York and meet Beth at seven forty-five for dinner in The Royal Oak.
All seemed well until, during breakfast, we heard the patter of the morning mail falling on the mat. After that, life wasn’t quite so serene. One of the letters for Beth had a Northallerton postmark and she opened it quickly.
‘It’s the Scarborough headship,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t got an interview.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said and gave her a hug, ‘. . . but there’ll be others.’
I could see her mind ticking over. The disappointment was palpable, but her jawline was firm as she read the letter again. ‘Yes, I’m sure there will be,’ she said. ‘It’s just frustrating that we live in a world where some people clearly don’t believe a woman can do a job as well as a man – better in some cases.’
I knew what she meant. It seemed as if, in terms of promotion, there was a glass ceiling for talented women such as Beth. ‘Let’s talk tonight,’ I said.
A busy day was in store, hopefully with a relaxing conclusion.
The journey to school was always a delight at this time of year. On Ragley High Street creamy-white almond blossom was bursting from the tight buds on the trees outside the village hall. It was a bright image of hope, while on the village green a canopy of new green leaves on the weeping willow provided dappled shade over Ronnie’s bench.
It was Friday, 19 April and the end of the first week of the summer term. As I drove into the school car park bright yellow forsythia beside the school gate lifted the spirits. By the time I had parked my car it was a crystal-clear morning and every detail of the Hambleton hills was sharp and defined. There were no clouds, just a vast blue sky over the plain of York.
I met Mary Scrimshaw on the entrance steps. She had brought an armful of tall stalks of almond blossom for the nature table and a bunch for Vera for church. She smiled and hurried in to knock on the door of the office, where Vera was already hard at work.
Half an hour later Mary, along with the rest of my class, was reciting the eleven times table and I noticed Sam Borthwick looking puzzled. ‘What’s the matter, Sam?’ I asked.
‘Ah were jus’ wond’rin’ why we do tables ev’ry day, Mr Sheffield.’
‘They’re very useful in life, Sam,’ I said.
‘But why don’t we use calculators?’ he pleaded. ‘Ah got a Casio f’Christmas.’
‘Well, we use those as well,’ I said, ‘but one day your calculator might not work and then you’ll appreciate knowing your tables.’
Unconvinced, he carried on chanting, number perfect.
Meanwhile, in Anne’s class the twins were doing a sixteen-piece jigsaw together, ‘Flowers of the Hedgerow’. Hermione was left-handed and Honeysuckle used her right. In perfect harmony, piece by piece, they worked together. The final piece of cow parsley was slipped into place as I approached their table.
‘Well done,’ said Anne.
‘Shall we . . .?’ said Honeysuckle.
‘. . . do another one?’ finished Hermione.
Billy Ricketts had brought in a bottle of milk and two straws. The spare one was to demonstrate his new skill each morning playtime when he would lie on his back on the school field and blow through the straw to levitate a single spherical chocolate Malteser on a cushion of air. Meanwhile his admirers, Dallas and Madonna, would watch this scientific phenomenon with open-mouthed amazement. They also hoped one day he might offer them a Malteser. However, in Billy’s view girls were girls and in the currency of life their support did not equate to the gift of a precious sweet.
In Class 4 Joseph had arrived for a short lesson on the New Testament but was soon explaining to Frankie Spraggon that it wasn’t ‘Father, Son an’ Holy Goat’, though Frankie had his mind on other things.
‘Ah saw a dead badger this morning, Mr Evans,’ he said.
‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph.
‘’As ’e gone t’badger ’eaven, Mr Evans?’ yelled Harold Bustard excitedly.
‘Don’t shout, please, Harold,’ said Joseph.
‘Do animals ’ave a diff’rent ’eaven, Mr Evans?’ asked Sonia Tricklebank.
‘An’ is it t’same as ’uman ’eaven?’ enquired Ben Roberts. The debate was gathering momentum and Joseph was becoming a little flustered.
‘There wouldn’t be enough room, would there, sir?’ said Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer quietly.
‘Stands t’reason,’ agreed Sam Borthwick.
‘Ah ’ope there’s no rats in ’eaven, Mr Evans, ’cause ah ’ate rats,’ said Mo Hartley mournfully.
‘An’ spiders,’ added Mary Scrimshaw for good measure and wincing visibly.
Conversations broke out everywhere concerning beetles, bee stings, the force-feeding of sprouts at Christmas and how do clouds support your weight.
The bell for morning break came as a blessed relief for Joseph and not for the first time he wondered if he would ever understand how children’s minds worked.
When I walked into the staff-room Vera was boiling a small pan of milk. ‘I don’t know quite what to make of it,’ she said. ‘I walked to school this morning because it was such a lovely day and I noticed a crowd of ladies outside the Coffee Shop. Nora has a large poster on the window advertising a “ladies only” night tomorrow.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ said Sally.
‘And what did it say?’ asked Anne.
‘You’ll never believe it,’ said Vera as she poured the hot milk into our mugs. ‘“Belly Dancing for Beginners”!’
‘I saw it once on holiday,’ said Tom and then considered it best to leave it at that.
‘Well, we’ve not had that before in the village,’ said Anne cautiously, sensing Vera would disapprove.
‘Yes, not quite the done thing,’ said Vera, ‘but it is 1985 . . . and I suppose young women are different these days.’
And those in their forties have still a bit of life in them, thought Sally.
Across the High Street i
n the Coffee Shop, Nora was excited.
‘Ah saw a big cwowd looking intewested, Dowothy,’ she said, ‘so well done.’
It was Dorothy who had come up with the idea. ‘Ah knew they would be, Nora,’ she said. ‘Brenda said belly dancing would bring new romance into m’life wi’ Malcolm.’ Nora considered there was already enough romance in the adjoining bedroom but kept this thought to herself. ‘An’ she knows things, does Brenda,’ continued the animated Dorothy, ‘’cause ’er ’oroscopes are always right.’
Brenda Crackett, a muscular, big-boned forty-year-old with a different boyfriend every week, worked in the bread shop in Thirkby. Brenda’s claim to fame was that she had won the Gawthorpe World Coal Carrying Championship by carrying a sack of coal two thirds of a mile to the finish at the maypole on Gawthorpe’s village green. Also, for a little extra cash, she wrote the weekly horoscope article in the Easington Herald & Pioneer under the pseudonym Gypsy Fortuna. Dorothy’s star sign was Aquarius and she was always thrilled when she read that Malcolm, as a vertically challenged Gemini binman, had cause for optimism in his otherwise mundane life. However, Brenda also gave occasional but highly memorable belly-dancing performances in The Pig and Ferret. It had proved another source of income and an opportunity to entertain a vigorous young farmhand for the weekend. Brenda definitely lived life to the full.
Outside in the High Street, Betty Buttle was in the mobile library van perusing the Mills & Boon section. She had just returned a well-thumbed paperback. The writeup on the back cover had spoken of lust and betrayal in the Belgian Congo. Betty thought it was likely to be a sort of Hercule Poirot with a few suspender belts thrown in but, sadly, that hadn’t proved to be the case and she had given up by page six.
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