06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  About the Book

  As the 1982 school year begins, Jack Sheffield returns to Ragley village school for his sixth year as headteacher. Nora Pratt celebrates twenty-five years in her coffee shop, Ronnie Smith finally tries to get a job, and little Krystal Entwhistle causes concern in the school Nativity play. It’s the time of ET and Greenham Common, Prince William’s birth, Fame leg warmers and the puzzling introduction of the new 20p piece.

  Meanwhile, for Jack, the biggest surprise of his life is in store...

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1. The Problem with Patience

  2. A Decision for Vera

  3. Ruby’s Great Expectations

  4. Roman Holiday

  5. A Penny for the Guy

  6. Flash Gordon and the Time-and-Motion Expert

  7. Penny’s Army

  8. A Wedding in the Village

  9. The Last Christmas Present

  10. The Refuse Collectors’ Annual Ball

  11. Full English Breakfast

  12. The Ragley Book Club

  13. The Cleethorpes Clairvoyant

  14. The Solitary Sidesman

  15. Heathcliffe and the Dragon

  16. Gandhi and the Rogation Walk

  17. Lollipop Lil’ and the Zebra Crossing

  18. The Women’s Institute Potato Champion

  19. Educating Jack

  About the Author

  Copyright

  EDUCATING

  JACK

  The Alternative School Logbook 1982–1983

  Jack Sheffield

  For Linda Evans

  Acknowledgements

  I am indeed fortunate to have the support of a wonderful editor, the superb Linda Evans, and the excellent team at Transworld including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Laura Sherlock, Lynsey Dalladay, Elizabeth Swain, Vivien Garrett, Sophie Holmes, copy-editor Brenda Updegraff, and the ‘foot soldiers’ – fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers and the quiet, unassuming Mike ‘Rock ’n Roll’ Edgerton.

  Special thanks go to my industrious literary agent, Newcastle United supporter and Britain’s leading authority on 80s Airfix Modelling Kits, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour and deep appreciation of Yorkshire cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Patrick Busby, Pricing Director, church organist and Harrogate Rugby Club supporter, Hampshire; Janina Bywater, neonatal nurse and lecturer in psychology, Cornwall; the Revd Ben Flenley, Rector of Bentworth, Lasham, Medstead and Shalden, Hampshire; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire’s finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; George and Gladys Hook, retired majors in the Salvation Army, Alton, Hampshire; Ian Jurd, churchwarden of St Andrew’s Church, Medstead, and local builder, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, Enterprise Architect, Unilever Global Expertise Team and Leeds United supporter, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Sue Maddison, primary school teacher and expert cook, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Sue Matthews, primary school teacher and John Denver enthusiast, Wigginton, Yorkshire; Phil Parker, ex-teacher and Manchester United supporter, Holme-upon-Spalding Moor, Yorkshire; Dr Alison Rickard, General Practitioner, Alton, Hampshire; Elaine Roberts, ex-teacher and gardening expert, Haxby, Yorkshire; Caroline Stockdale, librarian, York Central Library, Yorkshire and all the terrific staff at Waterstone’s Alton and Waterstone’s Farnham, Hampshire, and Waterstone’s York.

  Prologue

  The accident was destined to change our lives.

  Like ripples on a pond after a stone has shattered the surface, all of us were affected by the reaction … some more than others. The tremors washed over the still surface of our thoughts and we all knew that life would never be the same again. It was time for a new direction … it was time for change. By the end of the academic year 1982/83 we would all be leading different lives. It was a year we would never forget, although it began quietly.

  On Wednesday, 1 September 1982, I was sitting alone in the school office. All was silent apart from the ticking of the old school clock that echoed in the Victorian rafters. On this sunlit autumn day my sixth year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin. However, the dawn of a new school year was far from my thoughts. The familiar pattern of our working lives had altered. Through the open office door in the entrance hall I could see Ruby the caretaker’s galvanized bucket and mop, a reminder of times past. Vera the secretary’s desk stood empty and tiny specks of dust settled on its shiny surface. Today was different: it was a morning of memories.

  There are three sides to every story; at least that’s how it seemed. After the car crash, Ruby the caretaker said she thought she would never see her new grandchild. Vera the secretary firmly believed the power of prayer had kept them both alive. Meanwhile, the lorry driver who caused the accident and emerged without a scratch, simply blamed the rain.

  Six weeks had passed since that telephone call on the last day of the summer term. Vera’s car had been hit by a skidding lorry on the rain-drenched road to York. Ruby had been the worst casualty, with a damaged pelvis and a broken leg, and was still recovering in York Hospital. The redoubtable Vera had also been badly injured, with fractured ribs and a collapsed lung. Her breastbone had been severely bruised after being crushed against the steering wheel. However, she had returned home and recovered relatively quickly. Since then, as often as she could she spent an hour by Ruby’s bedside.

  Now the summer holiday was almost over and the new academic year beckoned. Vera was ready to return to work and she had arranged for a temporary caretaker to do Ruby’s duties. I took a deep breath and wondered what the school year had in store. It was a day of silent aspirations, a morning of fresh hope. Our familiar world had tilted a few degrees. At first it was imperceptible, but soon it became clear that our lives would change for ever. It began with small steps, but it led to a new pathway and a different journey … and for me, it was an education.

  The clock ticked on. Outside a breeze sprang up and the branches of the horse-chestnut trees that bordered the front of the school shivered in the September sunshine. I sighed as I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, removed the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. Then I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink, wrote the date and stared at the empty page.

  The record of another school year was about to begin. Five years ago, the retiring headmaster, John Pruett, had told me how to fill in the official school logbook. ‘Just keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say what really happens, because no one will believe you!’

  So the real stories were written in my ‘Alternative School Logbook’. And this is it!

  Chapter One

  The Problem with Patience

  86 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. Mrs Earnshaw began duties as temporary caretaker. A blocked sink in the reception class caused minor flooding in the cloakroom area.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 6 September 1982

  ‘WE’VE GORRA PROBLEM, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Connie Crapper. She was standing in the school entrance hall outside the open office door.

  ‘Have we?’

  ‘We ’ave that. Our Patience ’as ’ad ’er ears pierced.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, glancing down at her four-year-old daughter.

  Little Patience Crapper was wearing a Barbie-doll T-shirt, pink leggings, multi-coloured Fame leg warmers and white pixie b
oots. She was also sucking a stick of liquorice and she gave me a black-toothed smile.

  ‘So what exactly is the problem?’ I asked.

  ‘Well we’ve given ’er a nice pair o’ them little earrings jus’ t’get ’er started,’ said Mrs Crapper, ‘an’ ah don’t want Mrs Grainger telling ’er t’tek ’em out.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ I said. ‘Well … I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mrs Crapper, but we don’t encourage the wearing of jewellery.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Mr Sheffield, but ah believe in starting ’em young wi’ t’important things in life. It meks sense dunt it?’

  We both looked down at Patience, who was picking her nose with a liquorice-coated finger. ‘I suppose it depends on what’s important,’ I said and began to clean my black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles to give me thinking time. I didn’t want to offend a parent or upset this little girl on her first day at Ragley.

  At that moment the deputy headteacher, Anne Grainger, arrived from the store cupboard carrying a box of coloured chalks. A slim, attractive brunette, Anne had been a reassuring presence in Ragley School for more years than she cared to remember. With her professionalism and boundless patience she was a wonderful colleague and a loyal supporter. However, it was her ability to turn her class into a world of light, colour and excitement that marked her out as such an outstanding teacher and an example to us all.

  Even so, Anne appeared preoccupied. There was clearly something on her mind. ‘Good morning, Connie,’ she said with a fixed smile and turned to me with a knowing look. ‘Mrs Crapper was in my class twenty years ago, in the Sixties, Mr Sheffield. You know her mother-in-law, Elsie, who plays the organ in church.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ I said, recalling our Valium-sedated organist and perhaps understanding for the first time why her nerves were always frayed.

  Anne crouched down and took the little girl’s sticky hand. ‘And this must be Patience,’ she said cheerfully. ‘We’re painting pictures today in our class.’

  ‘Ah ain’t gonna paint,’ said Patience bluntly.

  ‘Oh well,’ said Anne quickly, ‘we’ve got some lovely coloured chalks.’

  ‘Ah ain’t gonna chalk,’ retorted the little girl.

  Mrs Crapper beamed with pride at this response. ‘She knows ’ow many beans mek five, does our Patience,’ she said, which, in terms of mathematical accuracy, as we were soon to discover, was actually far from the truth.

  ‘Oh well, there are lots of lovely new books to read,’ said Anne with a reassuring smile.

  ‘Ah ain’t gonna read,’ said Patience as she swallowed the last piece of liquorice and then looked up appealingly at her mother. ‘Ah wanna big-shit,’ she mumbled.

  I looked in alarm at Mrs Crapper and then at Anne, who remained surprisingly calm.

  ‘AH WANNA BIG-SHIT,’ shouted Patience, going red in the face.

  Mrs Crapper rummaged in her bag, pulled out a packet of milk chocolate digestive biscuits and gave one to Patience, who began to lick off the chocolate.

  ‘Ah … a biscuit,’ I said as realization dawned.

  Anne gave me a wide-eyed look. ‘Well, lots to do,’ she said as she stood up and set off for her classroom. ‘And Connie, when you collect her at a quarter past three,’ she added, apparently as an afterthought, ‘we’ll have a word about the earrings.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. It was a problem solved, or at least shelved, and, not for the first time, I gave thanks for having such a superb deputy headteacher, even if she didn’t quite appear to be her usual relaxed self.

  As Mrs Crapper dragged Patience back to the playground, in the distance, up the Morton Road, the church bells of St Mary’s chimed once to indicate the half hour and I smiled ruefully. It was exactly 8.30 a.m. on Monday, 6 September 1982, and my sixth year as headmaster of Ragley Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  I walked into the school office where Vera Evans, the secretary, was sitting at her immaculately tidy desk, labelling the new attendance and dinner registers, a pair for each of our four classes. Vera, a tall, elegant sixty-year-old, stood up and pressed the creases from the skirt of her smart Marks & Spencer’s two-piece light-grey business suit. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘I’ve prepared the registers and …’ she gave me a wry smile, ‘I see you’ve met the Crappers.’

  I sat down at my desk opposite her and smiled. ‘Interesting lady,’ I said.

  ‘Just like her mother-in-law, I’m afraid,’ said Vera. After over twenty years as school secretary, Vera knew every family in the village.

  ‘And the little girl is well named … she’d try the patience of a saint,’ I said.

  ‘Through patience a ruler can be persuaded and a gentle tongue can break a bone, Mr Sheffield,’ recited Vera. ‘Proverbs, chapter twenty-five, verse fifteen.’ Vera seemed to have a quote from the Bible for every eventuality.

  ‘Oh well, Vera, let’s hope for a better year than the last one.’

  She smiled wistfully and bowed her head. I noticed her beautifully permed hair was now greying at the temples. However, while the cool fingers of time had touched this remarkable lady, she showed no sign of losing enthusiasm for the job she loved. ‘I agree,’ she said with feeling.

  ‘And how are you, Vera?’ I asked.

  She looked out of the window into the distance. ‘I’m fine, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said reflectively. ‘Fully recovered and ready to begin.’ I smiled as Vera continued to call me ‘Mr Sheffield’. She had always insisted this was the proper manner to address the headteacher. ‘I just wish Ruby could be here as well,’ she added with a hint of sadness. ‘But she’s making good progress and I’m going to visit her again this evening.’ Vera had been a regular visitor to York Hospital and we had heard that Ruby would be home soon, although resuming her duties as caretaker would take more time.

  ‘Well, Mrs Earnshaw seems to have settled in quickly to the temporary caretaker’s job,’ I said, ‘so we should be fine until Ruby’s return.’

  ‘Yes, although she’s had to bring her little girl in with her, I see,’ added Vera with a frown.

  ‘I think it’s just for today.’

  She sighed, took the cover from her electric typewriter and began to type her first letter of the school year. There was no doubt that Vera was the heartbeat of Ragley School and a wonderful secretary. Recently, we had all been thrilled that she had at last found true love. After a lifetime looking after her brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, our local vicar and chairman of the school governors, she had finally accepted a proposal of marriage from Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, a retired soldier and local landowner in his early sixties. Rupert’s wife had died many years ago and he had found a new happiness with our school secretary.

  ‘Also, just a thought, Mr Sheffield,’ added Vera, looking up from her desk with a wry smile, ‘but I wonder if I might be allowed to ring the school bell this morning. When I was in hospital it crossed my mind that I have never rung it before and it would be a way of announcing that my prayers had been answered … something of a symbolic gesture you understand.’

  ‘A wonderful idea, Vera,’ I said. ‘You can let the whole village know that you’re back where you belong … fit and well.’

  Ragley’s two other teachers suddenly walked into the office to collect their registers. Jo Hunter immediately gave Vera a hug. ‘We’re so pleased to have you here again safe and sound,’ she said. Jo, a diminutive, athletic twenty-seven-year-old, taught the top infant class and took responsibility for physical education and science. She flicked her long black hair from her eyes and picked up her registers.

  ‘And we were so worried,’ said Sally Pringle, giving Vera’s hand an affectionate squeeze. Sally was a tall, freckle-faced forty-one-year-old with bright ginger hair and a penchant for bright colours. Today she was wearing a frilly lime-green blouse, purple cords with a generous elasticated waistband and a vivid yellow waistcoat. Sally had never quite grown out of her flower-power days and, much to Vera
’s disapproval, loved outlandish outfits. She had also never quite regained her figure following the birth of baby Grace, now nineteen months old and leading Sally’s mother a merry dance as she looked after her very mobile granddaughter. Meanwhile, Sally had returned to teaching the lower junior class, the eight-and nine-year-olds. She loved her work, especially art, music and history. ‘By the way,’ said Sally, ‘what’s up with Anne? She looks a bit preoccupied.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jo, ‘a bit out of sorts … not like her.’

  Vera looked up as if something had just occurred to her, but then, with a shake of her head, she handed Sally her new registers. ‘Anne’s probably got a lot on her mind,’ said Vera, ‘perhaps with the new admissions.’

  I glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘I think I’ll go out to check on the early arrivals,’ I said.

  The old oak entrance door creaked on its Victorian hinges as I walked under the archway of Yorkshire stone with the date 1878 carved on its rugged lintel. The tarmac playground was bathed in September sunshine and surrounded by a low wall topped with high wrought-iron railings and decorated with fleur-de-lis. Around me, energetic children, healthy and sunburned after their summer holiday, waved in acknowledgement as I walked down the cobbled drive to the school gate. I breathed in the clear Yorkshire air and felt that familiar deep sense of contentment. There is a steady and reassuring rhythm to the life of a village headteacher. The autumn, spring and summer terms follow on in a regular pattern and the heartbeat of the seasons formed the framework of our life in this village community. It was also the job that I loved, and I smiled as I watched the children playing.

  In the playground four girls from my class were enjoying the morning sunshine. Alice Baxter and Theresa Buttle were winding a skipping rope while Amanda Pickles and Sarah Louise Tait skipped like newborn lambs and chanted an old rhyme: