04 Village Teacher (11 page)

‘I called in for those headache tablets, Mrs Scrimshaw,’ I said.

‘Oh yes, sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, looking distracted. ‘Ah’ve got ’em ’ere,’ and she selected a packet of extra-strength aspirins from behind the counter. ‘There y’are: these’ll do t’trick.’ I put a pound note on top of the ancient till. Mrs Scrimshaw dropped the tablets into a small white paper bag and gave me my change. ‘Y’know, Mr Sheffield, ah met ’im in toiletries in Boots the Chemist,’ said Peggy with a wistful glance. ‘Ah thought ’e were normal then. Anyway, our Mary will be seven tomorrow and we’re all off to t’circus. She’s real excited. Let’s ’ope it cheers ’er up.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and I hope you have a lovely time.’

As I left she turned her attention to stacking boxes of Setler’s indigestion tablets but, sadly, in her case they were not bringing instant relief.

On impulse, I turned left past Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and walked into Nora’s Coffee Shop. Dorothy Humpleby was standing behind the counter, fiddling with her pendulous earrings and swaying to Randy Crawford’s ‘One Day I’ll Fly Away’.

Dorothy regarded me dispassionately. ‘Y’looking down in t’dumps, Mr Sheffield.’

‘I’ve got a headache, Dorothy,’ I said.

Nora Pratt walked in from the back room, carrying her
coat
and scarf. She was also clutching her script for the forthcoming Ragley annual pantomime. This year it was
Jack and the Beanstalk
.

‘Please could I have some water, Dorothy?’ I held up the packet of aspirins. ‘I’ve just got these from the chemist.’

‘OK, Mr Sheffield, coming up,’ said Dorothy and she put a glass of water on the counter. ‘ ’E’s a right one is that chemist,’ she added and resumed fiddling with her earrings.

‘ ’E loves ’is
Star Twek
does Mr Scwimshaw,’ said Nora as she stuffed her script in her shopping bag.

I put two tablets in my mouth and swilled them down.

‘By the way, Mr Sheffield, Nora gorrit reight about that murderer,’ said Dorothy.

‘Pardon?’ I gulped.

‘Y’know … about who shot JR.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Nora beamed with false modesty as she pulled on her coat. She was delighted she had been the only person in the village to guess correctly who had shot J. R. Ewing in
Dallas
. A week ago the whole country had been glued to their television screens to discover it was Kristen who had shot television’s greatest villain.

‘Ah told yer it was Kwisten,’ said Nora. ‘Ah was weally sure.’

‘Well done, Nora,’ I said.

‘Well, it couldn’t ’ave been that Victorwia Pwincipal,’ said Nora. ‘It ’ad t’be Bing Cwosby’s daughter.’

And with that she marched out, leaving the door
jingling
behind her. In the darkness she began to sing the Neil Diamond song that was moving up the charts and was due to be a real tearjerker in the forthcoming pantomime. As she crossed the High Street, Nora looked up to the heavens and, in a piercing voice, sang, ‘Love on the wocks …’

Meanwhile, Little Malcolm walked to the juke-box, put in his five-pence piece, selected F13 and stood by the counter to wait for Dennis Waterman’s ‘I Could Be So Good For You’. ‘Two more teas, please, when y’ready, Dorothy,’ he said, ‘… an’ this record’s f ’you,’ he whispered.

‘Ooh, Malcolm. Ah love it when y’surprise me,’ said Dorothy, loud enough for every customer to hear.

Little Malcolm blushed furiously and rummaged in his donkey jacket for some more change.

‘Gerra move on, lover boy,’ shouted Big Dave from one of the far tables. ‘It’s like waiting f ’Christmas.’

‘So what’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ she asked.

I surveyed the tired-looking display of pies and cakes. ‘A coffee and a bacon sandwich, please, Dorothy.’

A large mug of bubbling foam appeared on the counter. ‘Here y’are, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ll bring y’buttie straight over,’ she said, while fluttering her false eyelashes at Little Malcolm.

I walked over to an empty table where a copy of the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
had been left behind. The editor was proud of his eye-catching headlines and this one, ‘An end to castration’, was no exception. Next to a photograph of a young pig that looked as if it was about to burst into tears, the paragraph read, ‘The British Veterinary
Association
called for an end to the castration of young pigs. In the past it was done because of the lingering smell that occurred in mature boars. Now pigs are slaughtered so young that the smell no longer occurs.’

A moment later, Dorothy arrived. ‘ ’Ere’s y’bacon sandwich, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

I stared at it, glanced back at the photograph of the tearful pig and winced. Suddenly I’d become a vegetarian.

Next door, in Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Vera was deep in a conversation about fleas with Timothy Pratt. Timothy was the younger brother of Nora and, owing to his fanatical need for order and symmetry, was known as Tidy Tim.

‘Obviously my little darlings haven’t got fleas, Timothy. They’re not the type. But I just want to make sure.’

‘Well, Miss Evans,’ said Timothy, ‘these are t’latest thing f ’getting shut o’ fleas. It’s t’new range o’ Sherley Flea Bands.’ Timothy selected one from his alphabetical display.

‘It would have to be the best you’ve got, Timothy,’ said Vera emphatically.

‘These are top o’ t’range, Miss Evans,’ said Timothy, taking care to align the cardboard package so it was parallel with the edge of the counter. Tidy Tim liked parallel lines.

‘I see,’ said Vera, opening the box and examining the neat little cat collars.

Timothy read from the side of the packet. ‘It says ’ere “treated with a virulent insecticide”, Miss Evans.’

‘I’ll take three, please,’ said Vera. Nothing was too good for Vera’s cats.

He took Vera’s pound note, counted out the change and then rearranged the remaining cat collars so the boxes were exactly in line. Tidy Tim also liked
straight
lines.

On Wednesday morning, the first frosts had arrived and, in the tiny porch of Bilbo Cottage, a perfect spider’s web, sprinkled with frozen droplets, sparkled in the sharp sunlight. Sadly, I was not in the mood to appreciate the wonders of nature. A visit from the Senior Primary Adviser beckoned and I prayed it would go well. The future of Ragley School might depend upon it.

I pulled up outside the General Stores & Newsagent, where the owner, Prudence Golightly, was deep in conversation with Vera. It appeared that Margaret Thatcher and her Chancellor, Sir Geoffrey Howe, were clearly having a tough time.

‘I’ll change to an
Express
this morning, Prudence,’ said Vera, shaking her head indignantly at the range of headlines in the morning newspapers.

The
Daily Mail
had been a devoted supporter of the government but its headline ‘Maggie must do U-turn’ suggested a change of heart. The
Daily Express
appeared to be the only tabloid newspaper supporting Mrs Thatcher and it complained bitterly about its ‘fairweather friends’. ‘The Lady’s not for burning’, it proclaimed. ‘We stand right behind Mrs Thatcher.’

I bought my usual copy of
The Times
and then wished I hadn’t. It featured the complaint that teachers have an easy life and, according to the results of a dubious survey,
we
enjoyed an average teaching week of only twenty-two hours. I wished the reporter could come and work alongside me.

Just before nine o’clock, Richard Gomersall, the Senior Primary Adviser from County Hall in Northallerton, arrived. A short, slightly-built man in his late forties with a magnificent mane of long wavy reddish-brown hair, he was renowned for his immaculate sartorial elegance. He was wearing a purple corduroy suit with wide lapels and flared trousers and his shirt sported loud vertical salmon stripes and a stiff white collar. A flower-power tie and brown leather Cuban-heeled boots completed the ensemble. Strangely, however, he kept hitching up his trousers with a pained expression.

‘Good morning, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’m here for a brief fact-finding tour.’ He gripped his clipboard tightly in front of him and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.

‘Hello, Richard,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m teaching this morning, of course, but Miss Evans will assist if there’s anything you need.’

‘Perhaps Mr Gomersall would like to sit down and have a coffee before he begins,’ said Vera cautiously.

Richard Gomersall looked gratefully at Vera and accepted with some relief. ‘Thank you,’ he said breathlessly.

A few minutes later Vera popped her head round my classroom door. ‘I’m just taking Mr Gomersall to the chemist, Mr Sheffield. He’s a little unwell. I’ll be back soon.’

True to her word, she soon returned. Cathy Cathcart looked up from her diagram of an isosceles triangle and announced, ‘Miss Evans coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ I peered out of the classroom window to see Vera sitting primly in her Austin A40 and, beside her, was a smiling and relaxed Richard Gomersall.

He was soon busy making copious notes, visiting each classroom and talking to the children. One of them was Mary Scrimshaw.

‘Mrs Hunter, I’ve just had a chat with little Mary,’ said Richard.

‘Yes, it’s her birthday today,’ said Jo.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘I asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she said she wanted her daddy to stay at home and not fly away. She sounded really worried.’

‘That’s interesting,’ said Jo.

Five minutes later Jo and Mary were deep in conversation.

At morning break I was on playground duty and the children were excited at the prospect of going to Billy Batt’s International Circus. The travelling company of performers had set up their big top, thanks to the major, on the land near Old Morton Manor House. Conversations around me were dominated by the strange world of acrobats, clowns, trained animals, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, plate-spinning jugglers, a human cannonball and, even, a flea circus.

Richard Gomersall walked out on to the playground with Anne. ‘Thanks for everything, Jack,’ he said and tapped his clipboard. ‘I’ve got all I need. Everyone has
been
helpful, especially Miss Evans, and we shall, of course, keep you informed.’

I knew if he had anything to say about school closures he would tell me. This obviously wasn’t the time. We shook hands and he walked to the car park.

‘Well, let’s hope we’ve survived,’ I said.

Anne gave me a probing look. ‘Jack, I’ve just spoken to Jo and we think we know what’s wrong with Mary Scrimshaw.’

Two minutes later I smiled. Everything was clear.

‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll have a word with Mrs Scrimshaw when she collects Mary.’

At the end of school Vera was handing out the tickets for the circus when Mrs Scrimshaw tapped on the office door. I stepped out into the entrance hall.

‘What a relief, Mr Sheffield. Mrs Grainger an’ Mrs ’Unter ’ave told me what was troubling our Mary, so ah’ll ’ave a word wi’ Eugene. ’E means well with ’is stargazing, ah s’ppose. Mary just took it t’wrong way.’

‘I’m pleased we found out in the end,’ I said.

‘An’ ah got m’circus tickets from Miss Evans when she called in today. She ’ad a poor man with ’er who’s ’aving a ’ernia operation next week.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, suddenly realizing why Richard Gomersall had looked so distressed. ‘Did he need pain-killers?’

Mrs Scrimshaw laughed. ‘No, ’e needed a new surgical truss. ’Is elastic ’ad gone on ’is old one!’

* * *

When I walked into the office Vera was just replacing the receiver.

‘That was Mr Gomersall ringing to say thank you for accommodating him today, Mr Sheffield. He was very complimentary and said that visiting Ragley had proved to be …’ she glanced down at her spiral-bound pad with a hint of a smile, ‘an uplifting experience.’

At seven o’clock I was sitting next to Beth in a huge striped marquee. Tiered seating surrounded a circus ring that had been liberally covered with sawdust, and a ringmaster in his red coat and black top hat was cracking his whip and telling us we were about to see the finest entertainment on earth.

It lived up to expectations, with Vera and Joseph almost leaping out of their seats as the clowns pretended to throw water over them. Dan Hunter was invited to test the strength of the iron bars before the circus strongman bent them and Sally said she felt her baby kick when the human cannonball was fired across the arena. Meanwhile, Anne sat up and took interest in the blond-haired horse trainer who had a strong resemblance to David Soul.

The ringmaster cracked his whip again and announced, ‘Please welcome Professor Potts and his amazing flea circus.’

A tall gentleman in a black frock-coat and a stovepipe hat walked to the centre of the ring, pushing a large box on wheels. In bright paint on the side it read:
PROFESSOR POTTS PHANTASMAGORICAL CIRQUE DE PUCES
.

‘
Cirque de puces
?’ I said.

Beth whispered in my ear, ‘It’s French for flea circus.’

The professor had learnt his trade at Jeffries Flea Circus at Bingley Hall in Birmingham in the 1950s and his claim to fame was an appearance on the British
Pathé News
at the cinema. He opened his box and arranged a miniature gun carriage and a collection of tiny carts.

‘Ladies and ze gentlemen
et les enfants
, my fleaz will now perform ze amazing feat for you.’ Everybody clapped. ‘A volunteer,
s’il vous plaît
. Iz eet a birthday for
un enfant
in ze audience?’

Eugene Scrimshaw, on the front row, waved and a very excited Mary and her mother went to stand alongside the flea circus.

‘Sadly, my fleaz from Florida, zay ’ave all died from ze cold.’ There was a communal sigh of disappointment, although it was noticeable that Vera did not join in. ‘So I now use ze Yorkshire fleaz,’ he announced triumphantly.

This was greeted with huge applause and a standing ovation from the Ragley Rovers football team on the back row.

‘Y’can’t beat Yorkshire f ’fleas,’ shouted Big Dave Robinson. ‘We breed ’em tough up ’ere.’

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ mumbled Little Malcolm through a mouthful of candy-floss.