Lofty stepped out of the shadows. ‘Are yer all reight, son?’
Terry looked up in surprise. ‘Yes thank you, mister.’
Lofty nodded and jogged off into the darkness.
Stan Coe didn’t see Lofty as he loaded the chicken wire into the back of his Land Rover. Then, as he walked under the weeping willow next to the duck pond towards the bright orange lights of the Oak, he was startled to see a little man in a shellsuit blocking his way.
‘Y’forgot to give them young lads some money for t’guy,’ said Lofty, looking up into the fleshy jowls of the huge pig farmer.
‘Y’what?’ said Stan.
‘You ’eard,’ whispered Lofty.
Stan pushed Lofty, to no avail. ‘Gerrowt m’way.’
‘Ah won’t tell yer again,’ said Lofty quietly and moved closer.
‘Push off, shorty,’ growled Stan and swung a flailing right fist.
Stan could never quite recall what came next, as it all happened so fast. Lofty jinked to the left and, as Stan’s arm whistled over his head, he landed a swift one-two into Stan’s solar plexus. Stan gasped for air and sat down heavily on the edge of the frozen pond.
‘Now, fatty,’ said Lofty quietly, ‘unless y’want a cold swim, ah want yer t’walk back an’ give them lads a pound note.’
‘A pound note?’ spluttered Stan.
‘An’ if y’don’t ah’ll give yer a second ’elping.’
‘All reight, all reight,’ gasped Stan. Lofty helped him to his feet and the heavyweight pig farmer tottered back down the High Street. He paused outside the Hardware Emporium and looked nervously over his shoulder, but Lofty was out of sight behind the willow tree. ‘Er, ah’ve changed m’mind,’ said Stan. He fished a pound note out of his pocket and dropped it in the tin.
‘Cor, thanks Mr Coe!’ said the astonished Heathcliffe.
Stan turned quickly on his heel, hurried back to his Land Rover and drove off in a spurt of gravel.
‘One pound an’ theventy-thix penth,’ said Jimmy, counting out the last coin.
‘Enough for t’fireworks … an’ a toffee apple each on Bonfire Night,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘Ah told yer ah’d gorra plan.’
They stared in Timothy’s shop window one final time, feasting their eyes on the box of fireworks. ‘We’ve done it, ’Eath,’ said Terry.
Heathcliffe looked down at his little brother and smiled. ‘Jump in t’barrow, our kid, an’ me an’ Jimmy’ll wheel yer ’ome.’ Terry clambered in and the boys made their way home in triumph.
In the darkness, Lofty smiled. The music blared out from the Coffee Shop as Nora, having the time of her life, had put a Chuck Berry 1957 classic on the juke-box. ‘Wock and woll music,’ she sang, and the villagers and assorted Pratts joined in. Then he looked at the three boys as they wandered back to the council estate chanting ‘Penny for the Guy’ with every squeak of the wheelbarrow’s wonky wheel. After all, he thought, it’s not asking much … a penny for the guy.
It was just that, on occasion, some people needed a little persuasion.
Chapter Six
Flash Gordon and the Time-and-Motion Expert
We were informed by County Hall that as part of the ‘Better Life’ initiative, the newly appointed North Yorkshire adviser for Efficiency in Schools, Mr Digby Cripps, will be visiting school to complete an Input/Output questionnaire.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 26 November 1982
A VILLAGE HEADTEACHER never knows what a new school day will bring. Friday, 26 November was such a day.
The first harsh frosts had arrived and, as I looked out of the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage, the world seemed still. Beth thought the radio was a distraction in the morning, so the house was quiet as we moved smoothly through our routine of showers, breakfast and, on this freezing day, defrosting her Volkswagen Beetle so she could leave first for work.
However, three miles away in Ragley village, life was anything but quiet at number 7, School View. Natasha Smith had Status Quo’s hit, ‘Caroline’, blasting out at full volume on Mike Read’s Radio 1 show, while Ruby ate a Lion Bar and drank a cup of sweet tea for her breakfast. Ruby was well again and looking forward to resuming her work in December. In contrast, in her mock-Tudor home in the Crescent, Anne Grainger was swaying her hips to Barry Manilow singing ‘I Wanna Do It With You’ on Terry Wogan’s breakfast show as she sliced a banana to go with her Weetabix. Meanwhile, in the peaceful kitchen at the vicarage, Vera was eating a slice of lightly buttered toast while listening to Thought for the Day on Radio 4. Sadly, it did not ease her busy mind as she stared at the calendar on the wall and the bold red circle round the date of her wedding next month. In the hallway, Joseph looked equally tense, but not because of forthcoming matrimony: he was taking school assembly this morning and it rarely turned out as expected.
As we all eased our way through our pre-school rituals, we were blissfully unaware of what was in store. This was not destined to be a usual Friday.
A car had skidded into the hedge on the back road to Ragley and I helped the driver push it back on to the road. The hazardous journey took much longer than usual, so it was almost 8.40 a.m. when I drove through the school gates and up the cobbled driveway that sparkled in the grudging daylight. George Hardisty, the local champion gardener, had put away his lawnmower for another year and the folk of Ragley-on-the-Forest nodded with understanding: winter had begun.
Parked next to Vera’s Austin A40, in front of the No Parking sign on the boiler-house doors, was a car I didn’t recognize. However, as I hurried across the playground, a dejected Jimmy Poole was waiting for me with an empty shoebox in one hand and a perforated lid in the other. He clearly didn’t feel the bitter cold as he stood there in his short trousers staring around him helplessly.
‘What is it, Jimmy?’ I asked. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘My tortoithe ith mithing, Mithter Theffield,’ said Jimmy.
‘Your tortoise?’
‘Yeth, Mithter Theffield … Flath Gordon.’
‘Flash Gordon? You have a tortoise called Flash Gordon?’
‘Yeth, Mithter Theffield,’ said a tearful Jimmy, ‘an’ he’th my betht friend.’
‘Oh dear. And did you bring him to school this morning?’
‘Yeth, Mithter Theffield. ’E wath in thith box, an’ ’e ethcaped. He’th quick for a tortoithe, ith Flath.’
‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that, Jimmy.’ I glanced back at the strange car and made a decision. ‘Jimmy, have a good look round for him but don’t go out of school. Perhaps some of your friends can help. I’ll talk to you later about it … and I’m sure Flash will be safe.’
Jimmy wandered off looking desolate, but it was a problem I would have to solve later. As I walked into the entrance porch Mrs Earnshaw was scattering salt on the frozen steps. In her thin overall and headscarf she didn’t appear to be troubled by the sub-zero temperatures and the bitter north wind. ‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
It was clearly an offer I couldn’t refuse, particularly from a tough lady from Barnsley who happened to be holding a heavy yard broom. ‘And what’s that, Mrs Earnshaw?’
‘Ah wouldn’t trust that feller from t’office as far as ah could throw ’im.’
Looking at Mrs Earnshaw’s substantial biceps, it occurred to me that she could probably throw whoever-it-was quite a distance.
‘And who’s that, Mrs Earnshaw?’ I asked.
‘’E thinks ’e’s a proper little Shylock ’Olmes does that one,’ she said, leaning on her broom and glowering towards the entrance door, ‘but ’e didn’t get one o’er me.’
‘Who is it that you mean?’
‘’Im what’s askin’ questions an’ keeps lookin’ at ’is watch.’
‘Oh … and what did he ask?’
‘’Bout when did ah start work.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘Ah told ’im straight, ah’ve been workin’ since ah
were fifteen.’
Good answer was the thought that flickered through my mind. ‘Oh well, I had better see who it is.’
‘An’ one more thing, Mr Sheffield: one o’ t’toilets in t’infants’ cloakroom is all frozzed up. T’other one’s fine so ah’ll ’ave another go in a bit.’
Vera was sitting at her desk opening the morning mail with a brass letter-opener when I walked into the school office. She looked up sharply. ‘There’s a gentleman to see you, Mr Sheffield,’ she glanced at her shorthand pad, ‘a Mr Cripps. Seems quite a forceful little man. I’ve put him in the staff-room with a cup of coffee. He says he’s on official business from the office. I told him he must speak to you first.’
‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, checking the time on the office clock. ‘I’m glad you were here to meet him. I’ve been a bit held up this morning, what with icy roads and lost tortoises.’ The experienced Vera never flinched at this news. When you’ve been a school secretary for over twenty years, nothing surprises you any more. I hung my duffel coat and threadbare college scarf on the hook on the back of the door. ‘I’ll see him now,’ I said.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Vera automatically flicked open her spiral-bound shorthand notepad to the next clean page and selected a perfectly sharpened HB pencil from the 1977 Jubilee mug next to her wire in-tray. ‘Ah, good morning Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ she said. I stopped in my tracks. The Chair of the Education Committee in Northallerton rarely rang for a polite chat.
‘Fine, thank you,’ said Vera, ‘and how’s Felix?’ I wondered who Felix was … perhaps a new friend. ‘Oh dear, yes, I’m not surprised,’ said Vera. ‘May I suggest a flea collar? It worked beautifully for me,’ she continued, from which I deduced Felix wasn’t Miss High-and-Mighty’s new gentleman-friend. ‘Yes, he’s here now. It’s Miss Barrington-Huntley for you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.
I walked over to her desk, took the receiver from her with practised care, so that the twirly cord did not knock over the framed photograph of her three cats, and took a deep breath. ‘Good morning, Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ I said with forced calm.
‘Jack,’ there was a riffling of papers, ‘how are you?’
‘Fine, thank you, Miss Barrington-Huntley, and how are you?’
‘Busy, Jack, very busy as per usual.’ She had obviously found the memo she was looking for and began to read. ‘A new temporary adviser, Mr, er … Digby Cripps, will be in Ragley School today as part of the county survey into “A Model of Teacher Efficiency”.’
‘Really,’ I said, with a sinking feeling. ‘That sounds interesting.’
‘Yes, Jack, I’m sure it will be,’ she said pointedly. ‘Part of the County’s “A Better Life” initiative, you understand. So please make him welcome. He’s had some mixed responses so far.’
‘Actually, I think he’s here already,’ I said.
‘Yes, I’ve heard he’s something of an early bird.’
‘So, what do we need to know at this stage?’ I asked.
‘Nothing really, Jack. Just do what you normally do and answer his questions and – I’m sure I don’t need to say this – make sure nobody on your staff wastes any time today, if you know what I mean.’
‘Oh, well, of course. I’m sure that would never happen,’ I said, feeling a little hurt by the suggestion.
‘Jack, that didn’t quite come out as I intended, but it was meant well. You’ll understand when you meet him.’
‘Fine, we’ll do our best as always, Miss Barrington-Huntley.’
‘I know you will, Jack, and,’ she gave a deep sigh, ‘goodbye and good luck.’ There was a click at the other end of the line.
‘Vera, it appears Mr Cripps is doing a survey.’
‘About what, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Vera.
‘Into how efficient we are.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. She shook her head sadly and returned her letter-opener to her top drawer in its usual place between the long-arm stapler and her box of treasury tags. ‘The cheek of it,’ I heard her mutter as I walked through the little corridor that led from the office to the staff-room.
Meanwhile, out in the playground, Heathcliffe Earnshaw was gathering a tortoise search-and-rescue team comprising his little brother and the Dudley-Palmer sisters.
‘’E’s lotht,’ said the distraught Jimmy. ‘Flath ’ath gone.’
‘Don’t fret,’ said Heathcliffe, taking control. ‘We’ll find ’im.’
‘’Ow fast does ’e walk?’ asked Terry, looking across the school field.
‘Very thlow … but fatht for a tortoithe,’ said Jimmy.
‘What does he look like?’ asked Elisabeth Amelia. ‘I mean, is he large or small?’
‘Thort of thmallith-medium,’ said Jimmy. ‘My thithter put a thplath of red paint on ’ith thell,’ he added mournfully, ‘tho ’e thould thtand out.’
‘And what does he like to eat?’ asked the perceptive Victoria Alice.
‘All thorth … grath an’ fruit an’ thtuff,’ said Jimmy.
‘We could work this out mathematically,’ said Elisabeth Amelia confidently. ‘If we know his speed we could draw a circle.’
‘A thircle?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, ‘and he’ll be somewhere in that circle.’
‘That’s what ah was gonna say,’ said Heathcliffe quickly, not wanting to relinquish his leadership to a girl who happened to be on a higher box of workcards in the School Mathematics Project. ‘So let’s get ev’ryone to ’elp,’ he added.
‘Good idea, Heathcliffe,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, who had always admired this rough diamond from Barnsley with the spiky blond hair and a taste for adventure.
‘Thanks, Lizzie,’ said Heathcliffe with a grin. He looked around for little Ted Coggins and spotted him in the playground having a dramatic slow-motion fight with Charlie Cartwright with what appeared to be invisible Star Wars light sabres. ‘Hey … Ted!’ shouted Heathcliffe. ‘Do one o’ yer whistles.’
Little Ted was happy to oblige. He rammed the second finger of each hand between his teeth and produced his now-famous ear-splitting whistle. Moments later, a horde of excited children had been recruited and were searching the school field, flowerbeds and cycle shed.
In the staff-room, attracted by a whistle that sounded like a steam train, Mr Cripps was standing by the window, looking out on to the playground and wondering why all the older children seemed to be shuffling around in a huge circular conga line. It struck him as meaningless and he made a few more notes on the grid-patterned sheet of A4 paper that was attached to his grey clipboard with a large bulldog clip.
‘Good morning … Mr Sheffield, I presume,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It resembled one you would use for deep-sea diving while telling the time in fifteen different countries. He wrote some neat little numbers with a black biro on his chart. ‘Did you know your staffroom clock is one minute slow and your office clock is one minute fast?’
‘Er, no I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Good morning, and welcome to Ragley.’
Digby Cripps was a short, rotund, bearded man wearing thick, circular John Lennon spectacles, a dated flower-power shirt and a crumpled brown cord suit with a range of coloured pens in the top pocket. He looked as though he had just presented a 1970s Open University mathematics programme on BBC2 at two o’clock in the morning entitled ‘Advanced Calculus’.
He ignored my greeting. ‘I’m sure you remember this,’ he said and pulled a newspaper cutting out of his briefcase. The headline read ‘Value for Money? Teachers work a 22 hour week’.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘negative press is always disheartening.’
‘Negative, maybe, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘but is it true we ask ourselves?’
‘I presume you’re joking,’ I said.
‘I never joke,’ he said blandly and I was beginning to believe it. He wrote another note, this time using a red biro.
‘Well, what can we do to help?’ I asked.
‘I need to quantify
the number of minutes devoted to each essential subject of the curriculum on my input– output checksheet and then extrapolate the data analysis using our new dedicated computer at County Hall. So it will be necessary to observe each class.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said … but I didn’t.
‘Is this your timetable?’ he said, pointing with his biro towards an A2 sheet of squared paper on the noticeboard. I was proud of my neat, colour-coded chart showing the days of the week and blocks of time for English and mathematics for each class, along with physical education, assemblies, topic work, radio broadcasts and our weekly religious education lessons with Joseph. The fact that, in reality, our actual timetable varied according to the interests of the children or the weather was something I didn’t want to share at that moment.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said.
‘So, according to this, your first lesson begins at five minutes past nine.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And before that you do registration.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘And the bell goes at nine a.m.’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Mr Sheffield, according to my watch it is now one minute past nine and my watch is correct every morning as per Greenwich Mean Time.’ He began to write again on his clipboard.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’ I rushed to the bottom of the belltower, dragged the ancient rope from the metal cleat on the wall and began to pull on it. Another school day had begun … sadly, later than usual.
* * *
Mr Cripps spent the next hour visiting all the classrooms. In Class 1, Anne was reading the wonderful Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck and twenty eager faces stared up at her, following every word.
He seemed impressed, until Katie Icklethwaite asked him, ‘’Scuse me mister, what are you doing?’
‘I’m watching what you’re doing and then I write it down,’ said Digby.
‘An’ ’ave y’got a proper job as well?’ asked Katie.
Digby didn’t stay to hear the end of Beatrix Potter’s classic tale. He moved on to Jo’s class. In the corridor outside, seven-year-old Barry Ollerenshaw was queuing for the toilet. ‘And why are you waiting here?’ asked Digby.
06 Educating Jack Page 8