06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Ah were caught short in t’middle o’ m’writing,’ said Barry with a strained expression. ‘We ’ad prunes f’breakfast.’

  Mr Cripps added a note to his list and moved on to Class 3 and their Africa topic lesson. When he walked in, the children had just stopped making a list of animals and Sally had picked up her guitar and her Okki-Tokki-Unga songbook of action songs. She had turned to number eleven, ‘The Animal Fair’, and the children were singing ‘The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees’. The cacophony of sound from a selection of percussion instruments added to the excitement. Mr Cripps shook his head, wrote a question mark against the title ‘Topic Work’ and walked across the corridor to my classroom, where Shirley the cook had just popped her head round the door. ‘M’jelly’s not settin’, Mr Sheffield,’ she said anxiously. ‘When you’ve got a minute, can yer ’ave a quick look at t’big fridge?’ I noticed that Mr Cripps selected a green biro and scribbled yet another note … and so it went on.

  At a quarter past ten, in school assembly, Anne began to play the piano. On wild and windy mornings such as this, she always chose what she described as ‘calming music’ to relax the children. Joseph glanced nervously at Mr Cripps and launched into the story of the Good Samaritan, then decided to review the story with what he considered to be pertinent questions.

  ‘Now boys and girls,’ he said, ‘if you saw a poor person injured and bleeding, what would you do?’

  No one moved or offered an answer while they grappled with this unpleasant vision. Finally, Joseph pointed at little Ben Roberts. ‘So, what would you do, Benjamin?’

  ‘Well …’ there was a long pause until finally Ben nodded with realization. ‘Ah think ah’d be sick.’

  ‘So would I,’ said Mary Scrimshaw.

  ‘And me too,’ added Sonia Tricklebank for good measure.

  This was followed by the Lord’s Prayer with the usual deviation from the script. Rufus Snodgrass was chanting, ‘Our Father, who art in Devon, Harold be thy name …’ totally oblivious of any errors.

  During morning break Anne was tearing up wallpaper books in order to use the paper for the afternoon painting session. Our school budget had been cut again. Meanwhile, Mr Cripps was standing in the corner of the classroom, making notes and looking anxiously at his watch …

  * * *

  At lunchtime, I was sitting at my desk in the school office reading a circular entitled ‘History in a Common Curriculum – A Vision of the Future’, and wondering how we would squeeze in the rest of the curriculum around it.

  ‘I’m still getting used to these new twenty-pence coins,’ muttered Vera from the other side of the room as she made neat little piles of late dinner money on her desk, double-checked the amount and added the figures neatly in her register. Suddenly the telephone on her desk rang. ‘Mrs Sheffield for you,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘How’s it going, Jack?’ asked Beth in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’ve just heard about the time-and-motion expert.’

  ‘Not well,’ I said. ‘He’s finding fault with everything.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Beth, ‘he’s coming to us next week so Miss B-H says.’

  ‘Well good luck,’ I whispered. ‘Bye, darling.’

  Mr Cripps suddenly appeared from the short corridor that led from the staff-room, via the staff toilets, to the school office. ‘A personal call, Mr Sheffield?’ he asked in an accusing tone.

  ‘My wife,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, I see,’ he said almost triumphantly and, after checking his watch, added a few more comments in red biro to the complex chart on his clipboard.

  Later, in the staff-room, Vera was scanning the headlines in The Times. She was relieved to see a photograph of the Queen Mother, now aged eighty-two, smiling after an operation to remove a fish bone from her throat. Then she frowned when she read that Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers, had declared that industrial action was inevitable following the announcement of the proposed closure of up to sixty pits.

  It was then that Mr Cripps reappeared. ‘Where are the rest of the staff, please?’ he asked. ‘They don’t appear to be working in the classrooms in preparation for afternoon school.’ He glanced again at his watch and made another note.

  ‘They’re out in the playground,’ said Vera coldly.

  ‘And why is that?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask them for yourself,’ said Vera.

  ‘I shall,’ he said and hurried outside.

  I was with Anne, standing by the school gate, when Mr Cripps appeared, wrapped in a brown duffel coat and an Essex University scarf. ‘Can you explain what is happening?’ he said rather abruptly. ‘Why are all the teachers outside the school building?’

  ‘We’re organizing a search for a missing pet,’ I said.

  ‘It’s a tortoise,’ explained Anne.

  ‘A tortoise?’ said Mr Cripps. ‘Oh I see,’ and a faraway look came into his eyes.

  ‘It goes by the name of Flash Gordon,’ I added, ‘and the little boy who owns it is very upset. We need to find it before it gets dark.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mr Cripps. ‘I used to have a tortoise, so I can imagine how he feels. They’re remarkable animals,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Herbivores of course … so perhaps we should begin in the hedgerow.’

  ‘You seem to have empathy for these creatures,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I studied them as part of my degree,’ he said with authority. ‘Did you know, for example, that they have both an endoskeleton and an exoskeleton?’

  ‘Well, er, not offhand, no,’ I replied hesitantly.

  ‘Yes, they are the most wonderful animals … quite fascinating really, particularly as they are diurnal animals with a tendency to be crepuscular.’

  Anne glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. I knew she was thinking the same as me. At some time in his erudite past, this strange man had swallowed a dictionary.

  ‘Sadly, it’s time for the bell,’ I said.

  Mr Cripps was clearly preoccupied. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘We’d have a better chance with more pairs of eyes. However, I have a few ideas so I’ll stay out a little longer.’

  Anne gave me a wide-eyed stare but said nothing. I guessed what was on her mind. Perhaps this irritating little man really did have a heart.

  At three o’clock there was a tap on my door. It was Mr Cripps and he appeared agitated. ‘I need a word, Mr Sheffield … now, if you please.’

  It sounded urgent. ‘Very well, Mr Cripps,’ I said and walked to the doorway.

  ‘I think I’ve found Flash,’ he said, his eyes suddenly wide with excitement.

  ‘Really? Where?’

  ‘Under my car. There’s definitely something there.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘It’s getting dark.’

  ‘We need a torch,’ he said, his voice trembling with excitement.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I said and leant round the classroom door. ‘Boys and girls,’ I said, ‘I have to go out for a moment and I’ll let Mrs Pringle know.’

  There was a murmur of interest. ‘And I want Jimmy to come with me, please.’

  Jimmy stood up hesitantly. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘Mr Cripps thinks he might have seen your tortoise.’

  ‘Now, boys and girls,’ I announced, ‘while we’re out I want you to write down your thirteen times table, please.’

  There were a few grumbles of discontent.

  ‘But we only do up t’twelve, Mr Sheffield,’ said Theresa Buttle plaintively.

  ‘Well, this will be good practice,’ I said confidently, with an attempt at a reassuring smile.

  ‘But y’never buy thirteen eggs, Mr Sheffield,’ said the ever-practical Joey Wilkinson.

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dean Kershaw, ‘an’ my mam says thirteen’s unlucky.’

  ‘An’ there’s no number thirteen in our street,’ said Tracy Hartley.

  ‘So can we do twelve times, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Sarah Louise Tait.


  They were quick to see my hesitation and Jimmy was chomping at the bit.

  ‘How about nine times, Mr Sheffield?’ said Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, ever the practical peacemaker. ‘That’s a tough one. And I think it has a pattern, because the digits always add up to nine.’

  I was impressed with both her mathematical acumen and her negotiation skills and paused before answering.

  ‘’Ow d’you mean all t’digits add up t’nine?’ piped up Theresa Buttle.

  ‘Elisabeth is correct, boys and girls,’ I said, ‘so well done.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Very well, do the nine times table and then we’ll look at the pattern Elisabeth is talking about.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ they all chorused.

  ‘Very impressive,’ said Mr Cripps. I smiled … it was good to feel valued.

  At the end of school Jimmy Poole approached Mr Cripps and took the lid off his shoebox. Inside, Flash looked content as he munched on a lettuce leaf provided by Shirley in the kitchen.

  ‘Excuthe me, Mr Crippth,’ said Jimmy, ‘but thank you for finding Flath.’

  Digby had forgotten what it was like to be thanked. Ever since he had taken on his new role, he had been treated like public enemy number one and few people ever offered him a kind word. ‘Well, I appreciate you telling me,’ he said, looking down at Jimmy’s tearful face. ‘That’s very polite. And I’m sure Flash will be well looked after.’

  ‘Oh yeth thir, he’th my thpethial friend,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ah won’t lothe ’im again, ah promith.’

  Mr Cripps looked at the slight figure of Jimmy Poole clutching his cardboard box as if his life depended on it and for the first time that day he smiled.

  At four o’clock we all gathered in the staffroom to hear Mr Cripps’ report.

  ‘Well, at one stage, Mr Sheffield, I have to say it was an unsatisfactory report,’ he said, looking at his copious notes and shaking his head as if someone had just died.

  ‘If we look at actual curriculum-driven activity, there would appear to be some shortfalls. For example, the deployment of staff wasn’t entirely efficient, with your reception teacher spending seven minutes tearing up a wallpaper book and the headteacher checking for electrical faults in the kitchen. Children had to queue for the toilet during an English lesson and the lateness of the bell accounted for three times eighty-six wasted minutes … over four negative hours.’

  Vera looked furious, Anne shook her head in dismay, Jo appeared puzzled and Sally was flexing her fingers as if she were about to throttle someone. I sighed. This was bad news.

  ‘However,’ said Mr Cripps, taking a deep breath, ‘I’ve taken into account the extenuating circumstances.’

  ‘Really?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I have.’ He checked his clipboard again. ‘For example, the missing tortoise accounted for the bell being late, morning playtime overrunning, children off-task just before afternoon break and the temporary redeployment of the headteacher and teaching staff. So, overall, I’m happy to report that Ragley School will receive an excellent report.’

  When his Morris Marina drove out into the darkness, Vera made everyone a welcome cup of tea and we all relaxed. ‘An eventful day,’ I said.

  ‘So much for time-and-motion,’ said Anne.

  ‘And lost tortoises,’ chuckled Jo.

  ‘Well, never judge a book by its cover,’ said Sally.

  ‘Or a man by his clipboard,’ added Vera with a wry smile.

  A few days later a parcel arrived at school with a Northallerton postmark. Inside was a book entitled How to Look After Your Tortoise.

  The dedication read: ‘For the Ragley School library with happy memories of my visit to your highly efficient school, Digby Cripps’.

  Chapter Seven

  Penny’s Army

  Roy Davidson, Education Welfare Officer, visited school today to discuss the proposed admission of six-year-old Rosie Sparrow owing to ‘exceptional circumstances’. Mrs Earnshaw began her final week as temporary caretaker prior to Mrs Smith’s return to full-time duty on Monday, 13 December. Class 1 completed their final rehearsal for their Nativity play which will take place on Wednesday afternoon, 8 December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 6 December 1982

  ‘ANY CHANGE FOR a good cause, gentlemen?’ asked the diminutive lady in the Salvation Army uniform.

  The members of the Ragley Rovers football team stood up out of respect for this familiar visitor to the taproom of The Royal Oak. ‘C’mon lads, dig deep f’Sally’s Army,’ said Big Dave. It was Sunday evening, 5 December, and Beth and I had just enjoyed one of Sheila’s steak specials at the bay window table in the lounge bar. Beth had seemed a little quiet during the past week and I presumed that, like me, she was consumed with schoolwork, along with end-of-term reports and the run-up to Christmas.

  Major Penny Boothroyd rattled the coins in her collection tin as she moved round the room and then approached our table. As always, she looked immaculate in her navy-blue two-piece uniform, a matching blue bonnet with a red ribbon and polished black court shoes. She wore a crisp white blouse fastened at the collar with a silver Salvation Army brooch and at its centre was a red shield to denote her officer status. At the age of fifty she was one of the most experienced members of the Citadel, the local Salvation Army church. ‘Thank you, everyone,’ said Penny, ‘and a merry Christmas.’

  Penny approached our table and Beth put a pound note in the tin. ‘That’s very generous, Mrs Sheffield,’ said Penny and paused.

  ‘What is it, Mrs Boothroyd?’ I asked.

  ‘I need a word, Mr Sheffield,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s important. Can I call in to school tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ I said. ‘We’re busy with the Nativity play this week, so how about before school starts, say at half past eight?’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Penny, ‘and God bless you.’

  When Beth and I got up to leave, I returned our glasses to the bar. Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his usual stool and looked up at me curiously. He noticed my sombre mood. ‘Better t’enjoy t’bright days, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘rather than t’brood over t’dark uns.’ I didn’t know it then, but they were destined to be prophetic words.

  * * *

  On Monday morning the bitter sleet of a freezing December rattled against the kitchen windows of Bilbo Cottage and the old timber casements shook in protest. Winter had gripped the northern landscape in its cold fist.

  For some reason Beth had got up an hour before me. ‘Difficult journey today,’ I said, peering through the frosted diamond panes, ‘so do be careful.’ She was leaning against the worktop seemingly in a world of her own. I walked over and held her in my arms. ‘I’ll make some tea, shall I?’

  ‘Yes, Jack, that would be lovely … and don’t worry, I’m not quite myself this morning. It will be fine when I get to school.’ She looked a little pale but, after her hot drink, she completed her usual routine of packing her files in her smart black executive briefcase and, although she spent a little longer than usual over her make-up, all seemed well.

  Her pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle was frozen solid and I went out, breathed on the key, turned it stiffly in the door lock and then started the engine. After I had scraped the ice from the windows she came out, wrapped in a warm coat and scarf, and I kissed her before she left. For a moment I thought she looked a little preoccupied as she drove steadily out of the driveway and past the cottages of Kirkby Steepleton with their smoking chimneys. It was at times like these I understood the true meaning of love. Our journey towards marriage and a life shared had been one of sunshine and storms, of calm and fury, but, in the end, we had found something very special. When she left it was always the same: a few moments of sheer emptiness until I focused once again on Ragley School and the children in my care. Then, at night, when we were together again at the end of a busy day, it was good to relax as man and wife. It simply felt … right.

  It was time to leav
e. I put on my duffel coat and scarf, locked up the cottage, threw my battered old leather satchel on the passenger seat and coaxed my Morris Minor Traveller out of the driveway. As I drove on the back road to Ragley the world around me was still and silent. The bare branches above my head were archways of frozen fingers against a sky that promised more snow. As I drove past the village green, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was supervising a group of his gardeners and stable-hands as they erected the enormous Ragley Christmas tree. This was an annual gift from the major and on Wednesday evening the whole village would gather beneath its brightly coloured lights for the annual ‘Carols on the Green’, accompanied by the Salvation Army brass band. It was a popular event that marked the onset of the Christmas festivities. In the meantime, another busy day lay ahead, beginning with a meeting.

  Penny Boothroyd arrived promptly and, in her smart uniform, she looked very purposeful. She was carrying a book with gold-blocked letters that read Orders and Regulations for Corps Officers of the Salvation Army and I guessed this was official business.

  We shook hands and Penny saw me looking at the matching hexagonal blood-red patches on her lapels, each with a silver metal badge in the shape of a letter ‘S’. She smiled and tapped each one in turn. ‘Save to serve,’ she said. Then she pointed to the epaulettes sporting her major’s crest in the shape of a fiery sun on which a cross had been set with seven stars underneath. ‘Blood and fire, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, touching the badge with reverence, ‘and, of course, the seven stars,’ she added quietly. ‘They represent the seven sayings of Jesus on the Cross.’

  I remained quiet, aware of the gravitas of her words. It was clear her uniform was full of powerful symbolism. This was a very special lady and, on cold days such as this, her army of soldiers went out to spread the word of God.

  Vera came into the office and broke the silence. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘There’s coffee in the staff-room. And good to see you, Penny.’ They greeted each other like old friends … two ladies who had devoted their lives to a Christian way of life. There was mutual respect here.