04 Village Teacher (3 page)

It was all becoming too graphic for me. ‘It looks … terrible,’ I said.

‘Mebbe so,’ said Sid, unconcerned.

‘It might be shit t’you, Mr Sheffield, but it’s our bread an’ butter,’ said Bert philosophically.

‘Oh dear,’ I mumbled, ‘but can you help us, Mr Battersby?’

‘There’s only one thing for it, Sid,’ said Bert.

‘Y’don’t mean …’

‘A’h do,’ said Bert. ‘We’ve no choice.’

‘Y’know what ’appened las’ time?’ said Sid ominously.

‘If we don’t use ’er, we’ve no chance.’

‘Her?’ I asked. ‘Who do you mean?’

‘Well, not ’xactly ’er, Mr Sheffield, it’s more of a what,’ said Bert.

‘That’s reight,’ said Sid solemnly. ‘You tell ’im, Bert.’

He looked me square in the eyes. ‘We’ve no choice, Mr Sheffield. We’ll ’ave t’use Big Bertha.’ He announced it as if he’d just declared war on Russia.

‘Big Bertha!’

‘Best hinvention known to man or beast,’ said Bert.

‘If Big Bertha can’t shift it, nowt can,’ said Sid.

‘ ’Er pounds per square inch is frightening,’ added Bert for good measure.

‘Well, good luck,’ I said hesitantly.

At twelve o’clock, Cathy Cathcart stood up to ring the bell. ‘Posh van coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. Cathy had clearly become the new self-appointed ‘announcer’ for the class. A royal-blue van, spotless and waxed to a high sheen, pulled up in the car park. On the sides, under a distinctive coat of arms, blazed the words
Temple Photography
in gold flowing letters.

A tall, deathly pale, grey-haired and frail-looking man emerged and began to unpack his equipment. I went out and introduced myself.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, handing me
his
card, which announced he was Raymond De ’Ath from Temple Photography in Thirkby.

‘Oh, hello, Mr, er, Death,’ I said.

‘It’s two syllables: De ’Ath,’ he said in a tired voice. ‘I’ll set up in the school hall, shall I?’

It was soon evident that Raymond had lived a life of false enthusiasm. Over many years, countless crying babies and demanding mothers had finally ground down his mental resolve. His catchphrase, ‘Smile for Raymond’, was now a forlorn plea from the heart. As he picked up his tripod, he reflected that the last time
he
had smiled was when his wife had run off with a travelling salesman from Cleckheaton whose aftershave could stop a clock at ten paces.

By the time he reached the school entrance, his optimism was fading fast. Heathcliffe Earnshaw was holding open the door and smiling. At least, it was Heathcliffe’s version of a smile. When Raymond saw the glassy-eyed stare, clenched teeth and contorted grimace he knew another tough day was in store.

‘Ah’ve been learning t’smile all las’ night,’ said Heathcliffe cheerfully.

Raymond gazed back in horror. The boy’s manic expression might have been that of an axe-murderer. Raymond nodded warily and hurried into the school hall, where, before setting up his camera equipment, he hastily swallowed two aspirins.

At afternoon break, Anne was on playground duty and Vera, who had taken charge of directing children from their classrooms to the chairs in front of Raymond’s
screen
in the school hall, was shaking her head in despair. ‘If he says “Smile for Raymond” again, I’ll scream,’ she whispered.

I decided to see how the Battersby brothers were progressing.

‘Nearly done,’ said Bert. ‘We’ve set up Big Bertha.’ The brothers were admiring the ugly contraption as if it were a thing of beauty.

It was then I noticed a gap in the school fence behind the cycle shed. I frowned in dismay. Also, there were cigarette stubs scattered on the ground. However, I was soon distracted.

‘Mr Sheffield,’ said Sid suddenly, ‘we’ve got a little bit o’ summat special.’

He beckoned me to the car park. Puzzled, I followed the two brothers to the back doors of their van.

‘Bit of a sideline, so t’speak,’ said Bert. He smiled and tapped the side of his bulbous nose with a filthy forefinger. Then he opened the doors and a repulsive smell of decay floated out. On the floor was a collection of grubby newspaper parcels. Sid selected one and opened it.

‘We gerrit from a mate in Thirkby, Mr Sheffield,’ said Bert.

‘Best lean bacon y’ll ever see,’ said Sid triumphantly, holding up a rasher between his muddy brown finger and thumb.

‘Usu’lly a pound,’ said Bert.

‘But t’you, fifty pence,’ added Sid.

After staying long enough to express polite interest, I retreated quickly with a mumbled apology.

* * *

Back in the school hall, I mentioned the damaged fence to Vera.

‘I’ll ask Mr Paxton to fix it,’ she said. John Paxton was Ragley’s handyman.

‘Perhaps he could plant a couple of shrubs as well to fill the gap, Vera.’

‘Good idea. I’ll arrange it,’ she said.

‘You know, Mr Sheffield,’ added Vera thoughtfully, ‘someone may be using it as a short cut from the council estate.’

‘Smile for Raymond,’ said the photographer once again. Vera visibly winced and hurried off to collect the last group of children.

At a quarter to three, Anne popped her head round the staff-room door. ‘Excuse me, everybody,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep all the children outside. Doctor Death says we’re ready for the whole school photograph on the playground.’

Raymond De ’Ath ceremoniously placed five chairs in a line and ushered me to the chair in the centre. Anne sat on my right, Vera on my left, and they were flanked by Jo and Sally. Then he asked Katy Ollerenshaw to stand directly behind me, and the rest of the children were placed on either side, in descending order of height, to create a pyramid of faces. Anne’s children sat cross-legged in front.

There was a long pause while Raymond disappeared like a furtive ostrich under his black cloak. ‘Now assume a pose, please,’ said a muffled voice.

‘Damian Brown, don’t forget to smile,’ said Jo in a
commanding
voice and I recalled my conversation with Mrs Brown.

‘OK, Miss,’ grumbled Damian, ‘but m’face is ’urting.’

‘Shall we say “Cheese”, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Tracy Crabtree.

‘We said “Sausages” last year, sir,’ said Darrell Topper helpfully.

Sally started to giggle and Anne joined in.

‘Quiet now, please,’ said Mr De ’Ath.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ said Vera, losing patience.

‘Are you ready?’ he mumbled with a final twist of the lens.

Vera could stand it no longer. ‘If he says “Smile for Raymond” once more I swear I’ll—’

‘OK, everybody … smile for Raymond.’

Then, in a split second, everything happened at once.

Behind the crouching photographer, round the corner of the cycle shed, Big Bertha cleared the blocked drain with a huge bang and a brown geyser of water plumed into the air. This was immediately followed by a loud scream and Mrs Winifred Brown appeared from behind the shed like a drowned rat with a damp cigarette hanging from her lips. Instantly, eighty-seven children, four teachers and one secretary burst into laughter and a camera shutter opened and closed.

Now, many years later, when I look at school photographs of times gone by, one stands out. In among the serious faces, teachers and pupils that have come and gone, there is one photograph that stands out from the rest. Above a neatly typed label, ‘Ragley School 1980’, it shows the
happiest
group of staff and pupils you could ever wish to meet.

They are united in one accord.

All of them are smiling for Raymond.

Chapter Two

The Brave New World of Vera Evans

Miss Evans received training on our new school typewriter. The Revd Joseph Evans took his weekly RE lesson. The PTA Annual General Meeting was followed by a ‘Metric Mathematics’ event to introduce our School Mathematics Project to parents
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 24 September 1980

MISS VERA EVANS
always made perfect scones.

In the vicarage kitchen all her utensils and ingredients were laid out neatly on the marble work surface. Having taken her faithful
Be-Ro Home Recipes
:
Scones, Cakes, Pastry & Puddings
from the pine shelf of cookery books next to her gleaming Aga cooker, she opened it to page 6, ‘Be-Ro Rich Scones’, and propped the stiff but well-worn pages against her ancient brass weighing scales. Her two-and-a-half-inch-diameter cutter, with which she would press out exactly twelve scones, sparkled in the autumn
sunshine
that streamed through the leaded panes of the arched kitchen window. Then she picked up her favourite wooden spoon, selected a spotless mixing bowl and began. Puccini’s ‘Humming Chorus’ from
Madam Butterfly
was playing softly on her radio and, appropriately, she hummed along. It was Saturday morning, 20 September, and Vera was content in her world.

Vera had never married and she lived with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the vicarage on Morton Road. It was a beautifully furnished and spacious house and Vera took pride in keeping it spick-and-span. Her life was one of tidiness and order and even her three cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, were well-behaved. Her favourite, Maggie, a black cat with white paws, was named after Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, Vera’s political heroine. Hers was a quiet, serene life of church flowers, school administration and Women’s Institute meetings.

However, little did she know it, but, at that very moment, changes were in store for the secretary of Ragley School. A revolution was about to take place and Vera’s world would never be the same again.

A mile away in the Ragley School office I was looking at a typewriter, the like of which I had never seen before.

‘It’s an ergonomically designed, golf-ball head, IBM Selectric – and a bargain at three hundred pounds,’ said Mr Joy, the salesman, with a voice like a machine-gun. He was clearly ex-army and looked very smart in his white shirt, grey suit and military tie. Unfortunately, his straight black, Brylcreemed hair, parted on the right,
and
his toothbrush moustache gave him an uncanny resemblance to Adolf Hitler.

‘There’s no carriage return,’ I said, looking puzzled. ‘So how will my secretary know how it works?’

‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said confidently, ‘we have ways of making it work …’ He was even beginning to sound like Hitler. ‘The platen remains stationary, Mr Sheffield,’ he added with a stony face. ‘It’s the golf-ball that moves side to side.’

‘Platen?’

‘The round rubber cylinder,’ he explained, pointing. ‘It’s a state-of-the-art machine, Mr Sheffield, guaranteed to make your secretary’s work the envy of the village.’

I nodded in agreement but secretly guessed Vera would have preferred her bramble jelly to be the envy of the village. ‘The young lady at County Hall said, if I came in to school to receive delivery on Saturday morning, you would give a demonstration.’

‘Ah, not exactly, sir. I’m the advance troops, so to speak.’

It felt like I was undergoing military manoeuvres. ‘So will someone come to show our Miss Evans how it works?’

‘Certainly, sir. Never fear, reinforcements will be here,’ recited Mr Joy. ‘Mr Grubb, our customer-service engineer, will visit next Wednesday at nine hundred hours precisely. He will provide installation and basic training.’

‘Oh, well, thank you, Mr Joy,’ I said, staring uncertainly at the strange machine.

He added a note in his diary and shook my hand firmly. ‘So thank you for coming in at the weekend, sir. I’m sure
you’ll
find everything to your satisfaction.’ He locked his black executive briefcase and walked out to his car.

When he drove off, it occurred to me that Joy was an unfortunate name for a Hitler look-alike with no sense of humour.

I looked at the sleek, classic grey typewriter and decided to carry it through to the staff-room coffee-table ready for examination by Vera and the rest of the staff on Monday morning. Then I replaced Vera’s Royal Imperial typewriter exactly where it had been on her highly polished desk, adjusted the photograph of her three cats, locked the school and drove home to Kirkby Steepleton.

On Monday morning we all gathered in the staff-room and stared at our new marvel of the modern world.

‘It’s fantastic,’ said Jo, our resident scientist, who loved new technology. She was itching to get her hands on it.

‘There’s no carriage return,’ said a bemused Anne, ‘and it’s not as tall as Vera’s typewriter. Makes you wonder how they fit it all in.’

‘It looks sort of … squashed,’ said Sally reflectively, ‘as if someone’s sat on it.’

‘Is there an instruction book?’ asked the eager Jo.

‘No, and we’d better not fiddle with it,’ I said pointedly. ‘There’s an engineer coming on Wednesday to show Vera how to use it.’

We all looked at Vera, who shook her head. ‘Progress,’ she muttered and walked quietly down the tiny passageway to the school office. Everyone exchanged glances but said nothing. Soon we heard the familiar tap-tap-tap of Vera’s trusty manual typewriter as she typed out the
agenda
for Wednesday’s PTA Annual General Meeting, followed by the
ker-ching
as she swept the chromium arm of the carriage return. A few minutes later she wound out the Gestetner master sheet from the typewriter, smoothed it carefully on to the inky drum of the duplicating machine, peeled off the backing sheet and wound the handle to produce the copies of the agenda. It was a routine Vera could have done in her sleep. Sadly, routines change.

On Wednesday morning a watery sunlight filtered through the wind-torn clouds and cast a tapestry of flickering shadows on the land below. The drive on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village was always a pleasure on an autumn morning and I wound down the window as I trundled along. The last of the ripe barley, soon to be harvested, shimmered in the gentle breeze. Fields of russet gold swayed in sinuous rhythm in perfect harmony with the light and shade. It was a sight that lifted the spirit and satisfied the soul. However, while there was peace on earth, goodwill to all men was to be in short supply in the school office.