02 Mister Teacher (15 page)

Two hours later the shelves were up and I tied my college scarf round my neck and fastened the wooden toggles on my duffel coat. The school seemed a cold and desolate place without the sounds of children and the giant oak door echoed as I banged it shut and turned the key stiffly in the lock. My thoughts kept returning to Sebastian as I retraced my footprints in the snow on the school drive.

At the school gate, I paused and my breath steamed in the cold air. Around me, winter had spread its bitter cloak over Ragley village. The cold wind had stripped bare the branches of the weeping willow on the village green and lichens and mosses had crept over the gnarled roots. I hunched my shoulders and set off towards The Royal Oak. Alongside the frozen pond, the paving stones were covered in dank green moss and a squirrel had cracked open hazelnut shells and left them scattered like countryside confetti under the old holly trees.

Ahead of me, Beth’s snow-covered Volkswagen Beetle pulled up on the far side of the village green. She climbed out with a cheery wave and trudged through the snow towards me. I stopped to enjoy the view. She wore a waist-length quilted ski jacket, a bright-pink bobble hat and scarf, and her denim jeans were tucked into a pair of furry boots. She looked sensational. As we walked into the lounge bar, the heat of the roaring log fire enveloped us like a warm cloak. My spectacles immediately steamed up and, while I cleaned them, Beth found a table. We
selected
potato-and-leek soup, followed by chicken in a basket, from the menu on the chalkboard and I walked over to the bar to order.

The barmaid, Sheila Bradshaw, dressed in her usual low-cut blouse, fluttered her eyelashes and leaned over the bar, notepad in hand. I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and attempted instead to show interest in the sparkling Christmas baubles hanging from her ears.

‘Hello, Mr Sheffield. Nice t’see yer. Y’ll be pleased t’know our Claire’s doin’ real well up at t’big school.’

I had taught Sheila’s daughter last year prior to her moving on to Easington Comprehensive School.

‘That’s good to hear, Sheila.’

‘Ah see y’with Miss ’enderson again,’ whispered Sheila, pressing her prodigious bosom even further over the bar.

‘Er, yes, Sheila. So, please could I have the soup of the day and chicken in a basket for two?’

Sheila scribbled on her pad. ‘An ’ow d’yer like yer breasts, Mr Sheffield?’

‘Pardon!’

‘Big uns or little uns?’

I was beginning to sweat. ‘I don’t quite follow …’ I mumbled.

‘Well, big uns f’you an’ little uns f’Miss ’enderson, ah suppose,’ said Sheila, checking her notepad.

‘Er, oh, I see. Medium is fine, thank you, Sheila,’ I said, trying desperately not to look down.

‘Y’surprise me, Mr Sheffield. Big man like you should ’ave a ’ealthy appetite.’

‘And a half of Chestnut mild and a glass of dry white wine, please,’ I said, changing the subject.

‘I’ll bring ’em over, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Thank you, Sheila,’ I said, relieved that Don, her husband and an ex-wrestler, was pulling pints at the other end of the bar.

‘Anythin’ f’you, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied, adjusting one of her straining bra straps and flashing me another smile.

I was pleased to get back to the table.

In a haze of cheap scent, Sheila served the drinks followed by the piping-hot soup. We broke open the crusty rolls and tucked in. The sounds of children playing on the village green outside drifted in and I looked out of the window. Most of them were in my class and they were throwing snowballs, dragging sledges and rolling a giant snowball.

I put down my spoon. ‘Beth, this might seem a strange question, but …’

She looked up in surprise as I paused mid-sentence. ‘But what, Jack?’ she asked.

‘It’s just that I’ve had an idea.’

Beth sipped her glass of wine and leaned back in her chair. ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense.’

‘It might mean postponing your shopping trip,’ I said apologetically.

‘Nothing could be that important,’ she said playfully.

I looked out of the window again. ‘Beth.’

‘Yes?’

‘How would you like to make a snowman?’

The bright lights of the hospital pierced the darkness and streamed through the windows of the Children’s Ward onto the patch of frozen snow immediately outside Sebastian’s window. Night had fallen quickly and more snow was forecast. Panting with exertion, Beth and I put the finishing touches to our giant snowman. It had taken an hour of hard work, during which time more and more faces had appeared at the windows; patients, nurses, doctors and curious visitors all gazed down on us. Staff Nurse Sue Phillips, at the end of her shift, had instructed one of her trainee nurses to find a large hat and a scarf from the children’s dressing-up box and a carrot for a nose, while Beth had picked some black stones from a pile of builder’s rubble to use for eyes and a mouth.

Sebastian’s parents had arrived to see in the New Year with their brave little son and they sat on either side of him as the snowman took shape. When we had finished we looked up at the window and Sebastian waved. The look on his face made it all worthwhile.

At the other windows alongside, people were clapping and Beth and I waved in acknowledgement. It was a good feeling, one I shall never forget. Beth looked up at me, her cheeks bright and tears of cold streaming down her face. I wiped them away with the edge of my scarf.

‘Thanks, Beth,’ I said. ‘A job well done.’

‘Beats shopping,’ panted Beth.

So it was that, just before midnight on the last evening of 1978, Beth and I found ourselves in among hundreds
of
late-night revellers in Duncombe Place outside York Minster. The New Year’s Eve Dance in Ragley village hall was forgotten as we left the hospital and had a meal in the Royal Station Hotel. We didn’t feel like dancing.

It was a strange meal with many silences, as we reflected on the experiences of the past few hours. When we did talk, it was about Sebastian and what might happen to him. We both prayed he would be well again one day. Then, in silence, we walked towards Stonegate hand in hand, attracted by the bright lights and the decorated shops, and into Parliament Street, where we sat on a bench and Beth rested her head on my shoulder.

‘Makes you appreciate what we’ve got, Jack,’ said Beth quietly.

I nodded and wondered if there was more to what she meant. ‘He loved the snowman,’ I said.

‘It made today really special,’ said Beth, as she snuggled closer.

Eventually, we walked slowly up Petergate, crossed the road by the Minster and continued in front of the black-and-white frontage of St William’s College. Soon we were in the Minster Gardens with its giant trees frozen and still, when, above our heads, the bells of the Minster rang out and announced the New Year.

A year ago Beth had gone to the New Year’s Eve Dance in Ragley village hall with another man but at the end of the evening we had shared the last dance. Tonight she had been my partner for the whole evening and I was blissfully happy. As the bells rang out and the crowds in front of the west doors of York Minster sang ‘Auld Lang
Syne’
, Beth stretched up and kissed me tenderly on the lips. We hugged each other for a long time.

‘You’re a good man, Jack Sheffield,’ she said.

‘Happy 1979, Beth,’ I whispered in her ear. ‘May your dreams come true.’ I held her closer, not wanting to let her go.

‘Happy 1979, Jack,’ said Beth.

She was smiling as, hand in hand, we walked through the crowds and I wondered what the new year would bring.

Chapter Ten

The Plumbers of Penzance

The school was closed for the morning session only, owing to the toilets freezing because of the severe weather. The temperature today was minus sixteen degrees centigrade
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 11 January 1979

THE HEADLINE OF
the front page of the
Sun
screamed, ‘CRISIS? WHAT CRISIS? – Rail, lorry, jobs chaos – Jim blames Press’.

Prime Minister Jim Callaghan was having a hard time. However, Scott Walmsley was more interested in the photograph of the scantily clad young woman on page three as I approached his little white van.

It was Thursday, 11 January, and we had been back at school for a week. Every day was colder than the one before. The crates of milk in the school entrance had frozen and forced the silver-foil tops off the top of
the
bottles. This morning the temperature had fallen to minus sixteen degrees centigrade and the school toilets had frozen.

Ruby, dressed like an Eskimo, had met me in the entrance hall with the news that, even with the school boiler going flat out, the pipes in the children’s toilets were still blocked with ice. She had telephoned the Walmsley Brothers, Ragley’s finest, and only, plumbers.

Scott wound down the window as he saw me doing an impression of Bambi on ice across the school car park. Grinning, he pointed at the picture of the well-endowed page-three girl. ‘She could defrost my pipes any day, Mr Sheffield.’

I guessed this was good weather for plumbers.

‘Our Luke’s checkin’ out t’damage,’ said Scott, nodding towards the school boiler-house door, which was ajar, from where the clanging of metal could be heard. ‘’E’ll fix it.’

‘How long will it take?’ I asked anxiously.

In the time-honoured manner of all plumbers, Scott shook his head sadly, sucked air through his teeth and uttered the immortal line, ‘’Ard t’say.’

He wound the window back up, propped his newspaper on the steering wheel and began to unscrew the top of his flask. It was good to know he had such confidence in his brother.

I thought I might get more sense out of Luke, who, I was told, was the brains of the outfit. When I walked into the boiler house, Luke was tapping some of our Victorian pipework with a giant spanner. He looked a pale shadow
of
his swarthy brother in his hand-knitted, khaki balaclava and matching fingerless gloves.

‘Good mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said Luke politely. ‘You’ve ’ad some good work done on this old beauty.’ He tapped the cast-iron door of the giant boiler appreciatively and I recalled Jim, the boiler man, from Harrogate who had repaired it during our last emergency, just over a year ago.

‘Good morning, Luke,’ I said. ‘Thanks for coming out in such atrocious weather.’

‘Glad to ’elp, Mr Sheffield. Ah were a pupil ’ere, y’know. If y’can’t ’elp your old school, it’s a poor do.’

The longer I worked in Ragley, the more I realized the importance of the village school to the community.

‘I can’t open school until the toilets are working, Luke. So when do you think you can fix it?’ I asked, stamping my frozen feet in the coke dust on the concrete floor.

‘Ah should have y’up ’n’ runnin’ by this afternoon, Mr Sheffield. But, y’ll ’ave to close f’this mornin’, ah’m afraid,’ he said, checking one of the pressure gauges.

I sighed. I had never had to close the doors of our school before. Little did I know that, on this arctic morning, fifty other headteachers in North Yorkshire were about to make the same decision.

With chattering teeth, I walked back into the school entrance hall.

‘They’re a reight pair, them two,’ said Ruby, shaking her head.

‘Why is that, Ruby?’ I asked.

‘Let’s jus’ say Ruth Walmsley were unlucky in love,’
explained
Ruby. ‘Ah went t’school wi’ Ruth. She were a couple o’ years older than me an’ she were a lovely lass. Well, she were till she met that Frenchman.’

‘What was the problem?’ I asked.

‘What it allus is, Mr Sheffield, an’ no offence intended,’ she said forcefully.

‘What’s that?’ I asked, still none the wiser.

‘Men!’ grumbled Ruby, and walked off, shaking her head in annoyance.

Anne popped her head round the office door.

‘Shall I start ringing parents, Jack, to tell them we’re closed this morning?’ she said, clutching her ‘Telephone Numbers in Emergency’ book.

‘Yes, please, Anne,’ I said, ‘and I’ll put a large notice at the school gate.’

Suddenly, there was the sound of a loud wolf whistle from the car park. Sally and Jo were walking up the drive.

‘This should be interesting,’ said Anne, looking out of the office window. ‘Sally doesn’t take prisoners.’

Sally walked over to the white van and hammered on the driver’s window. Whatever she said appeared to have effect and Scott’s ardour rapidly changed from hot to tepid.

‘Flaming cheek!’ said Sally, as she stomped into the office. ‘Talk about fancying yourself!’

‘What did he say?’ asked Jo, pulling off her bobble hat and gloves.

‘He said it was you he was whistling at and not me.’

‘So what did you say?’ asked Jo.

‘I told him your boyfriend was a six-foot-four-inch policeman.’

‘Bet that shut him up,’ said Jo, reaching for the kettle.

‘Yes, it did, but I’m still a bit fed up,’ said Sally.

She took off her sheepskin coat, flung it over a chair and began to warm herself in front of the gas fire. ‘I’ve definitely got to start slimming,’ she grumbled, patting her thighs disconsolately.