06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Not long to the big day, Vera,’ said Penny. ‘I’m sure you’ll be very happy.’

  ‘Thank you, I know we shall,’ said Vera.

  ‘And Rupert is a very fine man,’ added Penny.

  Vera paused and smiled. ‘Yes he is … just a different sort of major.’ She opened the door that led to the staffroom and beckoned us through. ‘You won’t be disturbed in there, Mr Sheffield.’ Vera went back to her desk in the office to answer the early-morning calls while I poured two cups of coffee in the relative quiet of the staff-room. I noticed Penny looked tired and I soon understood why.

  ‘So what can I do for you, Mrs Boothroyd?’ I said.

  ‘Do call me Penny, everyone else does,’ she said with a gentle smile.

  ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘and I’m Jack.’

  She sat back, sipped her coffee and wrestled with her thoughts as if deciding where to begin. ‘I’ve been up all night,’ she said, ‘dealing with a difficult case.’ Then she put down her coffee cup and clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘There’s a young woman, early twenties, not married, Maggie Sparrow from Leeds. Apparently, a week ago she moved into one of those old rented dwellings in Cold Kirkby, that tiny hamlet between here and Kirkby Steepleton and then, two nights ago, her partner abandoned her. He was fond of a drink and I think she’s relieved he’s gone. He tended to be violent, by all accounts.’

  There was clearly more to come and I settled back in my chair as a fresh flurry of snow pattered against the window. ‘She’s living in dreadful conditions. One of my female officers heard about her and called in. After she reported back to me, I arranged for Maggie to stay at my house last night and I sent a team of cleaners to get the property habitable.’ Penny looked me squarely in the eyes and I knew we had reached the denouement. ‘The thing is, Jack, she has a six-year-old daughter, Rosie, and I was hoping you could take her in as a temporary admission.’ She picked up her coffee cup and sat back. ‘So, ideally, I need you to inform the Education Welfare Officer as soon as possible because, at the moment, this is one of those cases with no paperwork … no records. It’s as if she’s off the radar, so to speak.’

  My mind was racing with the official ramifications. Immediate action was essential, but I had to be mindful of the future paper trail. ‘Penny, I’ll contact Roy Davidson straight away,’ I said. ‘He’s a wonderful supporter of the school and he’ll know how to handle this. In the meantime, bring them in and we’ll admit the child if that’s what the mother wants.’

  We finished our coffee and headed back to the school office. Penny put her hand on my arm. ‘I’ll be back at lunchtime, Jack, and, whatever the outcome, we must keep mother and daughter together. You’ll understand when you meet them.’

  It occurred to me that this was all in a day’s work for Major Penny Boothroyd and I had to admire her energy and professionalism. She was used to a knock on her door by destitute wanderers and ex-prisoners, all wanting food, shelter and money. It was something she took in her stride. However, there was clearly more to this case. I was soon to find out.

  At morning break Roy Davidson arrived. A tall, gaunt man in his late forties with a shock of prematurely grey hair, he had helped us many times in the past. As our local Education Welfare Officer, his knowledge of specialist educational support was second to none.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Roy,’ I said. ‘I’ve briefed Anne Grainger so she knows the situation.’

  ‘That’s fine, Jack.’ He checked his spiral notepad. ‘You mentioned a six-year-old … Rosie Sparrow.’ I nodded. ‘I’ve already contacted the office and explained the early intervention of the Salvation Army. They want me to go out to see the mother and child and I’ve asked Mary O’Neill from Social Services to check out the property in Cold Kirkby. I’ll call back later today when I’ve got some background and we can decide where to go from there.’ We shook hands and he was gone. The wheels were turning.

  At twelve o’clock Penny Boothroyd was in the entrance hall with a nervous fair-haired woman in her early twenties and a small child wrapped up warm like an Eskimo. Vera showed them through to the staff-room and Penny did the introductions.

  ‘This is Ms Maggie Sparrow and her lovely daughter, Rosie, Mr Sheffield,’ said Penny. She gave me a postcard with the name ‘Rosie Sparrow’ printed neatly on it along with her date of birth.

  ‘Welcome to Ragley,’ I said. ‘Please sit down and we can talk.’

  Vera fussed around serving tea, orange juice and biscuits, then closed the door quietly.

  ‘Thank you for seeing us, Mr Sheffield,’ said Maggie. She was dressed in faded jeans, old leather boots and a knitted sweater. Her khaki coat had leather patches on the elbows and looked far too big for her. It had the appearance of a hand-me-down workman’s coat. She was almost bird-like in her quick movements, but it was clear from the outset that she guarded her child with a fierce determination. ‘I want to do my best for Rosie,’ she said, ‘my daughter.’ The tiny girl was staring at the biscuits and orange juice and then looked up at her mother. ‘Yes, go on poppet,’ said Maggie, ‘have a biscuit if you’d like one and then we must thank the kind lady.’

  Penny leant forward, keen to commence the main business. ‘We’re here to seek a short-term solution, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Maggie is faced with demanding circumstances in a new home in a tiny hamlet off the beaten track where she knows no one. She wants to seek employment in the area and her current address is on the border of the catchment area of three local primary schools. Cold Kirkby is a little remote, but if I have a word with William Featherstone I’m sure he’ll add it to his school coach run.’

  ‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and, of course, we should be only too happy to admit Rosie … if that’s what you want.’

  The girl appeared a little dispirited, but she had the same grey eyes as her mother and she stared back at me with the innate curiosity of a six-year-old.

  ‘She can read and write well, Mr Sheffield,’ said Maggie proudly. ‘I taught her myself. You see, we’ve travelled a lot.’

  There was a tap on the staff-room door. It was Anne Grainger with six-year-old Jemima Poole. The little girl was carrying a familiar shoebox with the name ‘Flash Gordon’ written on the side.

  ‘Hello, I’m Anne Grainger, the reception class teacher,’ she said with a reassuring smile. ‘I wondered if Rosie would like to see Jemima’s tortoise.’ Rosie’s eyes widened with excitement.

  ‘It’s my brother’s,’ said Jemima.

  Anne crouched down next to the little girl. ‘Would you like to see where he lives in our classroom when he’s in school?’

  Rosie looked up at her mother. ‘You go if you like, Rosie,’ said Maggie, ‘and I’ll come in a minute.’

  ‘And I’ll be your friend,’ added Jemima and held out her hand. Rosie took it and the two little girls followed Anne out of the room.

  It was as if a weight had been lifted from Maggie Sparrow’s shoulders. ‘Thank you,’ she said, rubbing the tears from her eyes with the knuckles of her work-red hands. ‘I appreciate the support.’ There was silence for a moment as she gathered herself. ‘You see, Mr Sheffield,’ she took a deep breath, ‘my mother deserted me and put me into foster care. I don’t want that to happen to my Rosie.’

  So that was it, I thought. Her sea-grey eyes were steady and there was steel in the demeanour of this young woman. Although downtrodden and ‘damaged’, she was not beaten and I admired her inner determination, her desire to do the best for her daughter. She had the strength of a mother.

  When we walked into Anne’s classroom, Rosie’s coat was hanging on a peg and she was sitting at a small trapezoidal table with Jemima Poole. They were modelling Plasticine animals for the class Nativity scene and both little girls appeared relaxed, engrossed and content. Anne stood up and said quietly to Maggie, ‘She’s fine, no need to worry, and we can give her a school lunch if you wish.’

  ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Grainger,’ she said. ‘I’m really grateful.’

 
We went to stand by the classroom door while Maggie said goodbye to Rosie. ‘I’ll be back soon, my little poppet,’ she said and gave her a kiss on the forehead. Rosie gave her a smile that almost broke my heart and then happily resumed work on her model, which appeared to have morphed from a small cow to a large sheep.

  Penny nodded in satisfaction. ‘I’ve arranged for some temporary work for Maggie in the kitchens at the Citadel,’ she said quietly, ‘just until the new year and then she can look for something more permanent.’ Penny looked at her wristwatch. ‘So I thought we would go there now, if that’s all right with you, and I’ll call back at lunchtime.’

  At twelve thirty Sally Pringle was in her classroom completing a final rehearsal before Wednesday’s Nativity play and strains of ‘Little Donkey’ echoed through the school. I was with Jo, Anne and Vera in the staff-room and an inquisitive Jo was full of interest in our visitor.

  ‘I don’t know much about the Salvation Army,’ said Jo.

  ‘Well, it was founded by William Booth,’ said Penny, sipping her Earl Grey tea.

  ‘He was a remarkable man,’ said Vera. ‘He certainly helped a lot of people. I remember reading that, as a Methodist minister during Victorian times, he was appalled by the poverty around him so he decided to dedicate his life to helping the poor, particularly those in hazardous occupations such as making matches. Sadly, at the time, many of the poor women in those factories died of “Phossy Jaw”.’

  ‘Phossy Jaw?’ said Jo.

  ‘Necrosis of the bone,’ explained Penny, ‘caused by the toxic fumes of the phosphorus … a terrible death.’

  ‘So Booth built a modern factory,’ said Vera, ‘with large windows, a rest room, a canteen and a place for the workers to wash their hands.’

  Jo nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s quite a story,’ she said.

  ‘And we’re still trying to help those in need today,’ said Penny.

  ‘Like Maggie and Rosie Sparrow,’ said Anne, and Penny looked out of the window. More snow was falling and a bitter wind was blowing towards the village of Cold Kirkby.

  Two miles away, Penny Boothroyd’s team of volunteers had transformed Maggie Sparrow’s tiny rented cottage. A morning’s hard work had resulted in a clean kitchen, curtains in the single bedroom and a welcoming log fire in the lounge. Although sparsely furnished, it was now a home.

  The hamlet of Cold Kirkby comprised six terraced dwellings and a few farm buildings. The nearest shops were a mile away in Kirkby Steepleton, a long walk on a winter’s morning, but William Featherstone had rerouted his daily coach journey so Maggie and Rosie could now get to school and into York. Mary O’Neill, our local Social Services Officer, had telephoned to say all was well and she would monitor the situation. She asked if I could attend a hastily arranged case conference at five o’clock in their offices in Easington, our local market town.

  At the end of afternoon school, Sally Pringle popped her head round Anne Grainger’s door. ‘Anne,’ she said with a grin, ‘thanks, you’ve done my choir a favour.’

  ‘Really?’ said Anne as she displayed a collection of chalk snowflake patterns on black sugar paper.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘the new little girl has the voice of an angel.’

  ‘Rosie Sparrow?’

  ‘Yes. She’s bright as well. I’ve given her a verse of “Away in a Manger” to sing solo.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ said Anne, and Sally hurried back to her classroom. ‘Angel,’ murmured Anne to herself. She picked up a wire coat-hanger and, with the experience of a teacher of small children, bent it into the shape of a halo. ‘Good idea … now where’s that silver tinsel?’

  At six o’clock the case conference was over and I sat back and admired the highly professional contributions made by Mary O’Neill and Roy Davidson. The Head of Services had also questioned Penny Boothroyd, resplendent in her major’s uniform, and the detailed sequence of events had been recorded. The safety of Rosie Sparrow had been secured and, following an impassioned speech by Penny, there was unanimous approval for mother and daughter remaining together. It was a job well done, and Penny and I left side by side.

  We walked under the frozen trees towards the car park and on to a small stone bridge. Beneath us the dark, icy waters of the Foss flowed south towards the great River Ouse and the city of York ten miles away. ‘He leads me beside still waters,’ Penny said quietly as we paused on the bridge. Her words were like a caress in the darkness, a soothing gesture in a world of shadows.

  I nodded in understanding. ‘The Twenty-third Psalm,’ I said.

  She smiled and stared thoughtfully at the dark tumbling waters beneath our feet. ‘Life’s like that, rushing along with the current,’ she said, almost to herself. ‘The water that flows past is different today than yesterday. For me, Jack, it’s the river of grace, leading me to the still waters where life will be restored.’

  Penny was on a journey I could barely comprehend, but she had chosen her pathway. There was an inner strength at the core of her soul, and somehow she had found peace in a raging world.

  On Wednesday afternoon the hall was packed with parents for one of the highlights of the school year. The children in Anne’s class were presenting their Nativity play and many mothers had their hankies at the ready. Soon there wouldn’t be a dry eye in the house.

  Sally Pringle propped her teacher’s copy of Carol, Gaily Carol on her music stand, picked up her guitar, put the plectrum in her mouth while she flicked through the pages, selected number three, ‘Little Donkey’, and began to strum. The choir included Rosie Sparrow dressed as an angel in a white tablecloth and with a circlet of silver tinsel in her hair. It was soon clear to everyone that she had the sweetest voice, a good memory and a perfect sense of rhythm.

  The surprise, however, was the casting of baby Jesus. After a little cajoling from Vera, Anne had agreed that the very lively Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle, now four and a half months old, could act the part of baby Jesus. Ruby’s daughter, Racquel, had made sure the little girl had been fed and changed and, right on cue, between scene one and scene two, she placed her, fast asleep, in a small cot that Anne had converted into a manger.

  Ruby was sitting in the front row. ‘Wild ’orses wouldn’t ’ave kept me away, Mr Sheffield,’ she had said on arrival. ‘An’ it’s good t’be back,’ she added. Next to her was a spare seat, reserved for Vera. Since the accident they had become even greater friends. Now there was an unbreakable bond between them.

  Meanwhile, Maggie Sparrow was in the back row sitting next to Penny Boothroyd, who was now out of uniform and blended in like one of the many grandmothers. Maggie leant forward as Sally strummed the introduction to ‘Away in a Manger’ and when little Rosie sang her solo she could no longer hold back the tears.

  Fortunately it was largely a trouble-free Nativity … that is until the very end. The shepherds looked the part in their tea-towel headdresses, the kings delivered their gifts and Mary and Joseph remembered their lines. However, no one had thought to mention to little Ted Coggins, playing the part of Joseph, that he shouldn’t actually unwrap the gifts that the kings had placed with great ceremony at the feet of baby Jesus. Consequently, there were a few giggles in the audience when Ted removed the shiny giftwrap to reveal not gold, frankincense and myrrh but rather a tin of spaghetti, an empty Persil packet and a box of Aqua Manda Golden Body Rub. Also, no one had explained to little Krystal that hers was a passive part. So it tended to distract from the general dignity of the occasion when she filled her nappy and the Nativity concluded on a decidedly toxic note. Vera winced slightly and held a handkerchief to her nose, clearly concerned that, while entirely understandable, it really was inappropriate behaviour for the Son of God.

  At the end, Joseph Evans stood up and said a few words of thanks to Mrs Earnshaw, our temporary caretaker, whose contract had come to an end prior to Ruby’s return to full-time duty next week. He presented her with a hamper of food from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores on behalf of the school govern
ors, and everyone joined in the applause. As she returned to her seat she gave Ruby a kiss on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ she whispered in her ear. ‘T’money came in ’andy.’

  Finally, as the crowds dispersed, little Barry Ollerenshaw was puzzled by the three iconic gifts and approached the Revd Joseph Evans. ‘Ah feel sorry f’Jesus, Mr Evans,’ said Barry.

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Well, Jesus jus’ got that gold and frankincense and t’other one … no real presents.’

  And, once again, Joseph was stuck for words.

  As the families returned to their homes, meals were prepared and thoughts returned to the events of the day.

  In the Earnshaw household, Mrs Earnshaw was glowing with pride as she fried sausages in a large pan. ‘Eric, our ’Eath an’ Terry sang their ’earts out.’

  ‘S’good, is that,’ said Eric, not raising his eyes from his Racing Post.

  The boys were at the kitchen table writing their Christmas lists. Terry was writing as if his life depended on it, whereas the economical Heathcliffe had merely written one word: ‘Everything’.

  ‘Terry,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘why are you writing such a long list for Father Christmas?’

  ‘Well Mam … it’s jus’ in case ah don’t believe in ’im nex’ year.’

  Meanwhile, up the Morton Road, in her state-of-the-art kitchen, Petula Dudley-Palmer was watching the new television station, Channel 4. The first advert was for a Kenwood Gourmet ‘that even makes ice cream’ and Petula knew she must buy it.

  Her husband, Geoffrey, a chief executive at the local chocolate factory, was also interested in this new television station. He thought he would mention at the next board meeting that, at £75 for a ten-second advertisement, this could revitalize sales of Lion Bars.

  Likewise, Betty Buttle was tuned in to the same channel and considered the Co-op advertisement with interest. With Nescafé at 96 pence and ninety-nine teabags for 64 pence, she decided she might have to take her business away from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent and into the new supermarket in York.