04 Village Teacher (29 page)

‘There’s lots o’ colours,’ said Ruby, trying to be helpful.

‘It’s just that I’ve forgotten the sequence,’ said Jo.

‘It’s really quite easy,’ said Valerie. ‘It’s remembered by the mnemonic “Richard of York gave battle in vain”.’

Ruby was puzzled. She thought mnemonic was an orchestra.

‘Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet,’ added Anne by way of explanation.

‘Indigo?’ said Jo, staring helplessly at our limited range of colours. The bottles were labelled red, yellow, blue, black and white.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Anne, ‘I know how to make indigo.’ You didn’t teach reception children for twenty-five years without picking up some useful knowledge along the way.

Jo had transformed an unlikely corner of her classroom into a ‘secret garden’. She had draped a large sheet of oatmeal-coloured hessian over a high window ledge and an eighteen-drawer storage unit. This provided the background to a riot of colourful paintings and pastel drawings of flowers and animals. Alongside, the broken base of a swing bin, expertly covered in green crêpe paper, provided a perfect receptacle for a selection of bamboo canes, each with a bright cut-out sunflower pattern attached. Posters of plants, birds and fish were
displayed
under the heading ‘Our Wonderful World’ and, in front, each child was growing mustard and cress on damp cotton wool in individual saucers.

On the wall was a large chart divided into three columns headed
C
LOUD
,
S
UNSHINE
and
R
AINBOW
. Every child’s name was written in felt pen on a piece of white card and pinned in one of the columns. All the children began the day in the Sunshine column; however, if they misbehaved they became a Cloud, but if they excelled or showed a special kindness they became a Rainbow.

Having slipped the dead worm into Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer’s wax crayon tin, Terry was the first of the day to be demoted. ‘Terry Earnshaw,’ said Jo sternly, ‘you will have to be on your best behaviour this afternoon when we go to the university.’ Jo was taking her class to York University to see the film
Fish of the World
as part of Class 2’s project.

Terry put his head in his hands and sighed deeply. It wasn’t much fun being a cloud.

At morning break, in the staff-room, Vera was peering over her new half-moon spectacles at the front page of her
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Doesn’t she look beautiful,’ she said, pointing to a photograph of Lady Diana Spencer.

The BBC had announced that its coverage of the marriage of the Prince of Wales and Lady Diana Spencer on 29 July would be the most comprehensive outside broadcast ever, at a cost of £150,000, with an audience of 500 million. Cliff Morgan, the head of outside broadcast, said the wedding in St Paul’s Cathedral would be the biggest
and
most glamorous event since the 1937 Coronation of King George VI.

‘The Women’s Institute will be organizing a party on the village green,’ said Vera.

‘I’ve heard it will be like the 1977 Silver Jubilee celebrations,’ said Anne.

‘I missed those,’ I said. ‘I arrived here just after them but I heard they were wonderful.’

‘They were,’ said Valerie. ‘We had bunting, party hats, jelly and ice cream, and Vera made some of her wonderful scones.’

Vera smiled at the memory and glanced back at the newspaper. A photograph of Captain Mark Phillips caught her eye. He was arriving at St Mary’s Hospital, Paddington, to visit Princess Anne, who was about to give birth.

‘Well, good luck to her,’ she whispered almost to herself. ‘At least we know she picks sensible names for her children.’

At lunchtime Shirley the cook looked worried. Instead of every child sitting down to a freshly cooked school dinner, ten children had brought packed lunch boxes and were sitting at a separate table.

‘Where’s it all going to end?’ said Shirley, shaking her head in despair. ‘I make good meals, but when they go up from thirty-five pence to fifty pence there’ll be even more opting for pack-ups.’

Local authorities were now no longer committed to providing meals; they were only required to provide food for children having free meals, and a designated
space
to eat packed lunches. While Suffolk schools were experimenting with canteen music and in Hertfordshire they were rearing their own pigs, sheep and chickens, the message was clear. Government cuts were beginning to have an effect on school dinners.

‘I’ll do all I can to support you, Shirley,’ I said, but the truth was that the tide was turning and we both knew we were powerless to resist it.

Meanwhile, Terry Earnshaw had finished his liver, onions, cabbage and mashed potato, followed by spotted dick and custard, and walked outside. It had rained during the morning and there were a few puddles on the playground.

‘If y’jump off t’school wall it’ll mek a bigger splash,’ said Heathcliffe with the voice of experience. Terry followed his big brother’s logic. After all, Heathcliffe was Ragley School’s champion puddle-splasher.

Terry climbed on the wall and launched himself, but in mid-flight came a roar from the other side of the playground. ‘Terry Earnshaw!’ It was Mrs Critchley and she strode towards the two brothers.

Muddy water splashed everywhere as Terry landed and he looked round anxiously. He knew all too well that when a grown-up called you by your full name it meant trouble.

‘ ’E jus’ slipped, Miss,’ said Heathcliffe quickly.

‘An’ you’re just as bad as y’brother,’ said Mrs Critchley. ‘Go inside, Terry, an’ get dry,’ she shouted, ‘an’ don’t you think ah won’t be ’aving words wi’ your teacher, jus’ you wait an’ see if ah don’t.’

Terry didn’t understand double negatives, or even triple ones for that matter. He just knew that Mrs Critchley was very cross and he was in trouble. Through the office window I saw his forlorn figure walk into school.

‘I’m sorry, Terry,’ said Jo, ‘but Mrs Critchley said you were naughty in the playground so you’ll have to stay in the cloud column.’ Even as she spoke, Jo looked sympathetically at the unhappy little figure and thought of ways he might become a rainbow or at least a ray of sunshine before the end of afternoon school.

Jo Hunter boarded William Featherstone’s Reliance coach with the children in her class, along with three mothers who had volunteered to help, and travelled in to York University to watch the film.

On arrival, like any good primary school teacher, Jo sent all the children to the toilets. The little girls were supervised by the mothers, while Jo waited outside the gents. ‘Off you go, boys,’ she had said. However, unknown to Jo, a scene that would have made an entertaining Giles cartoon was being played out. The eleven small boys stared at the alien scene before them and considered the problem. All the wall-hung urinals were for adults and, therefore, above chest height. From outside came Jo’s plaintive cry ‘Don’t be long,’ so, following Terry’s lead, the taller boys attempted to urinate like firemen hosing a tall building, while the smaller boys gave it up as a bad job and simply did what they had to do against the tiled walls. As the floor took on the appearance of a footbath they heard Jo Hunter’s latest shouted instruction: ‘And
don
’t forget to wash your hands.’ The washbasin taps were too high to reach, so once again they followed Terry’s lead, spat on their hands and wiped them on their shorts. When they all rushed out after less than two minutes Jo Hunter said, ‘Well done, boys.’

Anxious to give credit where credit was due, ‘Terry showed us ’ow t’get our ’ands clean,’ said Damian Brown, who was in Terry’s debt. That morning, Terry had recovered his dead worm from the school dustbin at the back of the boiler house and given it to Damian.

Jo crouched down in front of Terry. ‘I’m very pleased with you Terry,’ she said. ‘That was
very
thoughtful of you.’

Terry beamed. A cloudless afternoon might once again be on the distant horizon. Meanwhile, the boys lined up patiently, pleased to be praised but all silently wondering why it was that girls took so long to go to the toilet.

The film was enjoyed by everyone, with whales, dolphins and sharks drawing gasps of excitement from the large audience of children from all the local schools. However, on the coach on the way home, Terry was horrified at having to share a seat with a girl, namely Victoria Alice.

‘Do you like me, Terry?’ asked Victoria Alice.

Terry stared at her in horror. There was a long pause.

‘I’ll take that as a yes, then,’ said Victoria Alice and stared out of the window.

In spite of the welcome distraction of the Buttle twins each filling a sick bag on the journey back to Ragley, Terry didn’t enjoy the journey back to school.

* * *

Back in class, Terry pulled out all the stops. His writing had much improved in the past year and he could now manage lengthy and coherent sentences. At the end of the afternoon he was proud of his page of careful printing about ‘Fishes of the World’ – particularly the last two sentences, which read: ‘Dolphins are clever. They breathe through an arsehole on the top of their head.’

Later, Jo told Terry how pleased she was that he had used his dictionary to look up ‘dolphin’, ‘breathe’ and ‘through’. It was clear he already knew how to spell the other words.

Before final prayers at the end of the day, Jo made an announcement to the class. ‘Boys and girls,’ she said, ‘Terry was very helpful during our visit today
and
he’s using his dictionary, so … he’s now a rainbow.’

Amid a smattering of applause led by Victoria Alice, Terry beamed from ear to ear.

On the way home, Heathcliffe and Terry called in at the General Stores once again and Heathcliffe spent the remaining two pence on two liquorice bootlaces.

Terry watched carefully as Heathcliffe expertly unrolled his long strand of liquorice and put one end in his mouth. Then, with a look of pure pleasure on his face, he began to suck slowly like a contented armadillo. Terry, a mirror image of his big brother, did exactly the same and together, in silence, they walked back through the ditches and fields and arrived home with happy pink faces and pitch-black tongues.

* * *

‘So what did y’do today, boys?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw when finally they sat down at the kitchen table.

Heathcliffe looked at Terry and remembered cutting hazel twigs with his dad’s penknife; a Milky Way and a free barley sugar; a lesson in toad conservation; his brother being told off by Mrs Critchley and a liquorice bootlace.

Terry looked at Heathcliffe and remembered fighting with swords; sucking a gobstopper that changed colour until it resembled a small white pebble; Miss Duff’s bright-red bucket; something that looked like a frog but with a different name; giving Victoria Alice his dead worm; making puddles on the tiled floor of the biggest toilet he had ever seen in his life; watching a film on a big screen with sixteen-foot-high sharks; recovering his dead worm and, best of all, becoming a rainbow.

‘Well?’ said Mrs Earnshaw as she shovelled two fish fingers on to each plate.

‘Nowt,’ said her sons in well-rehearsed unison.

She stood there, frying pan and spatula poised in midair. ‘Y’must’ve done summat,’ she said.

Heathcliffe relented. ‘Well, ah cleaned t’blackboard,’ he said.

Mrs Earnshaw put another fish finger on Heathcliffe’s plate.

Terry observed this unexpected development and remembered the highlight of his day. ‘Well, that’s nowt: ah were a cloud an’ then ah were a rainbow.’

His mother, thinking to herself that they taught them some peculiar things at school these days but it sounded
as
though they had learnt something useful, placed the remaining fish finger on Terry’s plate.

It occurred to Terry that, in fish finger currency, rainbows ought to have more value, but he said nothing and waited his turn for the tomato ketchup.

At nine o’clock both boys were tucked up in bed.

‘Mam, my bed’s getting too small,’ said Terry.

‘Ah know, luv,’ said Mrs Earnshaw. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get a bigger one one day.’ She turned out the light.

‘Mam!’

‘What now, Terry?’

‘Can ah tell y’summat?’

‘No, Terry. Shut yer eyes and get some sleep.’

‘Jus’ one thing, Mam.’

‘OK. What is it?’

‘Ah liked being a rainbow, Mam … Ah started off as a cloud an’ then ah did summat good … an’ then ah were a rainbow.’

‘That’s lovely. Now, goodnight and God bless.’

There was silence in the boys’ bedroom. Then, from the other side of the bedroom came the familiar click of Heathcliffe’s three-colour torch and, under the covers, he began to read his
Superman
comic.

‘ ’Eath’?’ whispered Terry.

‘What?’ muttered Heathcliffe.

‘Are you gonna get married?’

‘No!’

Long silence …

Heathcliffe was puzzled. ‘Why? Are
you
gonna get married?’

‘No!’ said Terry.

Long silence …

‘Why not?’ asked Heathcliffe.

‘ ’Cause it’ll be too much of a squash in this bed.’

Long silence …

‘ ’Eath’,’ whispered Terry.

‘What?’ mumbled Heathcliffe.

‘Ah were a rainbow t’day.’

There was the sound of Heathcliffe turning the page of his comic. Then in a muffled voice he muttered, ‘Better than being a bleedin’ cloud.’

Terry nodded in acknowledgement, pulled the covers over his head, closed his eyes and, just before he fell asleep, he smiled.

He loved it when his big brother taught him new words.

Chapter Eighteen

Angel of Mercy

A PTA working party put up shelves in our new library resource centre. Class 4 will be leaving on Thursday, 4 June to take part in an outdoor activities weekend at Askrigg Low Mill Residential Youth Centre in Wensleydale
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 3 June 1981

‘I BELIEVE EVERYONE
has a guardian angel, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, ‘so I’m sure all this work won’t be wasted.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ I said.