02 Mister Teacher (29 page)

In London, Margaret Thatcher announced to her husband, Denis, ‘I feel a sense of change and an aura of calm,’ and Denis looked surprised.

In Yorkshire, Vera announced to her brother, Joseph, ‘I think it’s about time I sampled a bottle of your wine,’ and Joseph looked astonished.

So, on a sunlit day in May 1979, two women achieved their life’s ambition. Margaret Thatcher, the fifty-three-year-old grocer’s daughter, became the United Kingdom’s first woman Prime Minister; Vera Evans, the fifty-six-year-old vicar’s daughter, became President of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.

With equal forcefulness both women promised significant change. Margaret Thatcher pledged a complete transformation of British industry, including drastic reform for trade unions. Vera Evans, in her maiden speech, confirmed she would revolutionize the present catering
system
by introducing her new set of elegant white crockery that boasted a distinctive green-patterned ring round all the cups, saucers, side plates, milk jugs and sugar bowls.

Also, following many complaints relating to soggy biscuits, a new Marks & Spencer’s air-tight biscuit tin would be purchased, with a separate compartment for chocolate digestives.

Meanwhile, in her office, Margaret Thatcher was looking at wallpaper catalogues.

Chapter Eighteen

Kel and Stinger

A group of ‘Travellers’ have camped just outside Ragley village on the Kirkby Steepleton Road. Joseph Starkey has joined Class 4 and Roy Davidson, EWO, has offered Section 11 support. This will commence after the Spring Bank Holiday on Monday, 4 June
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 24 May 1979

THE SMELL OF
wood smoke drifted through my car window and I slowed as I approached the bend in the road. On a broad, grassy area of wasteland stood a brightly painted gypsy caravan and, next to it, crouched over a camp fire, a young boy was cooking breakfast.

It was shortly before eight o’clock on Thursday, 24 May. Our one-week Spring Bank Holiday was only two days away and I was in good spirits. The three-mile drive from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village was
always
picturesque, but on this bright and breezy day the countryside looked especially beautiful. I sped the first mile through open pasture-land, ignored by the grazing cattle and sheep, until I reached the avenue of sycamore trees. The longer days and the warm weather had broadened the leaves and the road ahead was dark with shadows.

In the dappled shade, three cobs – the traditional, sturdy, short-legged horses favoured by gypsies – munched the grass. Two were black and white, one was brown and white, and all were strong-boned, with the build of miniature shire-horses. Next to the caravan stood a swarthy, stocky man, who was whittling wood, and a slim, black-haired woman, who was erecting a makeshift washing-line. As I drove past, the boy glanced up and pushed his unkempt, wavy black hair from out of his eyes. He was small and wiry, with skin the colour of a walnut. He waved and gave me a smile that would have brightened up the darkest day. I waved back and wondered where they were heading.

During morning playtime, my question was answered.

‘There’s a gypsy lady who would like to see you,’ said Vera, very evenly and with no sense of prejudice. ‘She has a delightful eleven-year-old boy she would like to enrol. I knew you would want me to contact Mr Davidson, and he’s calling in later today.’

Vera’s efficiency never failed to amaze me. Roy Davidson was our Education Welfare Officer and his knowledge of specialist educational support was second to none.

In the office was the little boy I had seen by the camp fire. His mother was a striking Romany woman.

‘Thank you for seeing us, sir. This kind lady said you might be able to ’elp us,’ she said politely.

Vera smiled in acknowledgement. ‘This is Joe Starkey. He’s old enough to go into your class, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Mrs Starkey says they expect to be in the area for most of the time up to the summer holidays.’

Young Joe Starkey gave me that broad smile again.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Miss Evans will take all the necessary information and then I’ll show you round.’

Long before lunchtime, the gregarious and confident Joe looked relaxed as he sat next to Tony Ackroyd and listened intently to the mathematics lesson. I had written ‘36 x 7’ on the chalkboard.

‘So, what’s thirty-six multiplied by seven?’ I asked.

Jodie Cuthbertson’s hand shot in the air, which surprised me. ‘My sister’s got one o’ them new calc’lators, Mr Sheffield. She could tell you, dead easy.’ Jodie always meant well.

‘Thank you, Jodie, but does anyone know the answer?’

Joe Starkey looked around him, while everyone scribbled in their mathematics books, and raised his hand.

‘Yes, Joe?’

‘It’s same as twenty-one dozen, Mr Sheffield,’ said Joe. ‘So it’s two hundred an’ fifty-two.’

It quickly became apparent that, while Joe’s reading and writing were weak, his mental arithmetic was excellent.

At lunchtime, I sat down with a group of the children in my class including Joe Starkey. As we ate our beefburgers, chips and mushy peas, I asked them to tell me what they intended to do during the Spring Bank Holiday.

Tony Ackroyd, eager as usual, put up his hand. Unfortunately, this was the hand holding his fork and he startled Mrs Critchley.

‘Watch what y’doin’ wi’ that fork, Tony Ackroyd,’ snarled Mrs Critchley. She walked to the next table and glowered at the eight innocent faces. ‘Now then, who’s s’pposed to be one o’ them vegetarians?’

Wisely, no one spoke. In Mrs Critchley’s eyes, vegetarians were either communists or, worse still, from the southern counties.

Undeterred, Tony Ackroyd lowered his fork and continued. ‘Ah’m goin’ t’Saturday morning cinema, Mr Sheffield. It’ll be great. There’s
Zorro, Tom and Jerry
an’
Champion the Wonder ’orse
.’

Mandy Ollerenshaw appeared excited. ‘We’re getting a new push-button telephone, Mr Sheffield.’

I recalled the considerable psychological pressure put on consumers by Buzby, the orange cartoon bird in the advertisements for Trimphones. It looked like the Ollerenshaws had been converted to the concept that ‘a Trimphone gives style to your home’.

‘Ah’m gettin’ a new top wi’ a designer label …’ Jodie Cuthbertson paused to give this the full effect, ‘and it ’as t’label on the
outside
.’

Labels on the outside seemed an interesting gimmick
but
, even in this strange world of glam rock, platform shoes and denim jeans – flared from the knee and, apparently, known as loons – I couldn’t imagine it catching on.

‘My dad’s gorra skin’ead ’aircut,’ said Dominic Brown triumphantly.

Menacing skinheads with crew cuts and bovver boots had recently begun to become more fashionable, and I guessed that, if you had the misfortune to live with Winifred Brown, you needed something to keep your spirits up.

Joe Starkey, clearly a boy with a good appetite, had polished off his beefburger, scraped the last of his rhubarb crumble and pink custard off his plastic tray and raised his hand.

‘Yes, Joe?’

‘Ah’m goin’ t’Appleby ’orse Fair, Mr Sheffield,’ said Joe.

Mandy Ollerenshaw put down her spoon and gazed at Joe. She had fallen in love with Joe from the moment she had first offered him a cheese-and-onion crisp.

‘When we get t’Appleby we all go to Gallows Hill,’ said Joe excitedly.

‘Gallows Hill!’ said Mandy, in alarm. ‘That sounds awful.’

‘Don’t be frightened, Mandy,’ said Joe gently. ‘It’s really a lovely place.’

It was good to see the caring side of Joe’s character. Mandy relaxed and listened intently to her swashbuckling hero. She knew she would never, ever, eat rhubarb
crumble
again without remembering the way Joe had said her name.

‘There’s about five thousand of us an’ fifteen ’undred caravans. An’ we all know each other like a big family. There’s a big river there called t’River Eden where ’orses get washed. Then we run ’em up and down t’main street shoutin’, “Mind yer backs. Mind yer backs”. It’s mainly gypsy cobs, but sometimes trotters and pacers, and we earn a lot o’ money.’

‘It sounds wonderful, Joe,’ I said.

Joe’s face simply beamed with pride. He clearly loved telling stories about his unusual life.

Back in the quiet of the staff-room, Jo was reading the local paper. ‘It says here they’ve just made a baby in a test tube,’ she said, astonished.

‘Let’s hope they’ve given it a better personality than my Colin,’ said Sally.

‘And there’s more about that dreadful Yorkshire Ripper,’ continued Jo. ‘And this woman is his eleventh victim.’

‘I pray to God they catch him,’ said Vera.

There was an uneasy silence as we all considered this blight on our lives.

‘That gypsy boy looks a livewire,’ said Sally, lightening the gloom. ‘What was he saying to you at lunchtime, Jack?’

‘He’s looking forward to going to Appleby Horse Fair.’

‘He’s sure to enjoy it. Appleby Fair is the best-known of all the fairs attended by Romany gypsies,’ said Sally,
our
amateur historian. ‘It was given the protection of a charter by King James the Second in 1685.’

‘Impressive,’ said Jo.

‘They’re interesting people,’ said Sally. ‘Every summer, they camp near my village and do the fruit-picking.’

Everyone suddenly had an opinion on life on the road, but then there was a tap on the door. It was Roy Davidson, our Education Welfare Officer. He was a tall, gaunt man in his mid-forties with a shock of prematurely grey hair. His support for Ragley School was considerable and his local knowledge was legendary. I walked into the school office with him and he came straight to the point.

‘It’s Section Eleven,’ said Roy simply.

Section 11 was the name of the local authority’s provision that enabled schools to offer specialist support. This was usually in the form of a peripatetic teacher who would visit school for around two hours per week.

‘Joe Starkey obviously needs help with his reading and writing,’ said Roy, looking at the handwritten report from his last school.

‘We’ll do what we can, Roy.’

‘Problem is, Jack, I doubt he will stay around for long,’ he said. ‘I’ve met the father and he seems very wary. He says they get the blame for any local trouble that may occur.’

‘What are Joe’s chances of attending secondary school?’ I asked.

Roy looked serious and shook his head. ‘Almost
negligible
. Not many of them stay in education after primary school. Latest estimates suggest there are around ten thousand children of gypsies and travellers not registered for education in English schools. I doubt Joe Starkey will be here for long.’

‘OK, Roy. I’ll keep you informed.’

Secretly, I made my mind up to persuade Joe’s parents that continued education for Joe was vital.

The opportunity came sooner than I thought.

The following morning, I drove to school earlier than usual and the familiar smell of wood smoke was there again. By the side of the road, next to the caravan, was a large wicker basket with a sign in front of it that read ‘FOR SALE’. I pulled off the road, walked towards the basket and looked in it at the posies of lucky heather, carved animals and bags of clothes pegs.

‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Joe. He was crouched over his camp fire.

‘Hello, Joe,’ I said.

Mrs Starkey walked down the steps of the caravan. I glimpsed inside and saw a raised double bed with a set of drawers underneath. Over a small stove, a mantelpiece, ornately carved and covered in gold leaf, gave the interior an aura of grandeur. A mirrored cupboard reflected the bright morning light and on a small wooden table sat a china pot filled with fresh wild flowers. It looked neat and tidy.

Mrs Starkey appeared pleased to see me, whereas Mr Starkey kept his thoughts to himself.

‘Please sit down, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘You’re welcome to join us for a little bit of breakfast.’

Mr Starkey brushed some wood shavings from the top of a small wooden stool and placed it next to the fire. It felt like a place of honour, reserved for a special guest. ‘Please sit down,’ he said.

It seemed disrespectful not to comply.

Mr Starkey leaned back against one of the large yellow wheels of the caravan and began to whittle away with a razor-sharp hunting knife. A two-pronged clothes peg miraculously emerged from the finger-width branch in his strong hands. With a careless flick of the wrist, he threw it into the wicker basket next to him and immediately began to carve another.

Joe looked up from the food he was preparing. ‘We allus ’ave some bread wi’ a little bit o’ kel an’ stinger, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.

‘Kel and stinger?’ I asked.

Joe smiled and pointed to a block of cheese and the onion he was peeling. ‘Cheese an’ onion, Mr Sheffield,’ he translated. ‘We call it kel and stinger.’

I decided to grasp the opportunity. ‘I was just thinking about Joe’s education, Mr Starkey. He should be starting secondary school next September.’

Joe glanced up at his mother and father as if to judge their reaction.

Mrs Starkey was cutting thick slices of fresh bread. She stopped to ruffle Joe’s black, wavy hair. ‘’E’s a good boy is our Joe,’ she said. ‘’E works ’ard an’ ’e’s good wi’ ’orses.’

‘An’ ’e can barter wi’ men twice ’is age,’ said Mr Starkey proudly.

‘I was hoping you would give him the chance of an education.’

Mr Starkey stopped his whittling and studied me with eyes that were deep pools of wisdom. ‘Joe ’as t’work,’ he said.

‘But he’s only eleven years old, Mr Starkey.’

‘It’s our way,’ he said simply.

Mrs Starkey put a slice of bread on an enamel plate and passed it to Joe. ‘We ask f’nothing an’ we expect nothing,’ she said.

Joe kept his head down, stirred the onions with a fire-blackened wooden spoon and then put a portion of sizzling, golden-brown fried onions on the slice of bread. Alongside it, Mrs Starkey added a generous slice of crumbly Wensleydale cheese. Suddenly, I felt ravenous.

It was a strange breakfast, very different from sitting in the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage and eating Kellogg’s Cornflakes from a china cereal bowl.