Authors: Jack Sheffield
Star Teacher
It's 1985, and as Jack returns for another year as headteacher at Ragley village school, some changes are in store.
It's the year of Halley's Comet, Band Aid, Trivial Pursuit,
Dynasty
shoulder pads, Roland Rat and Microsoft Windows. And at Ragley-on-the-Forest, Heathcliffe Earnshaw decides to enter the village scarecrow competition, Ruby the caretaker finds romance, and retirement looms for Vera the secretary.
Meanwhile, Jack has to battle with some rising stars of the teaching profession to save his job and his school . . .
Contents
For my Band of Brothers, Roy, Nick and Rob, with thanks for their support over the years
I am indeed fortunate to have the support of a wonderful editor, the superb Linda Evans, and the excellent team at Transworld, including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Jo Williamson, Sarah Harwood, Vivien Thompson, Brenda Updegraff, Lynsey Dalladay and fellow âOld Roundhegian' Martin Myers.
Special thanks as always go to my hardworking literary agent, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour, cycling proficiency and deep appreciation of Yorkshire cricket.
I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel â in particular: Patrick Busby, Pricing Director, church organist and Harrogate Rugby Club supporter, Medstead, Hampshire; Linda Collard, education trainer and consultant, fruit grower and jammaker, West Sussex; the Revd Ben Flenley, Rector of Bentworth, Lasham, Medstead and Shalden, Hampshire; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire's finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; Marilyn Glover, member of the Friends of Takapuna Library, Auckland, New Zealand; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury's, Alton, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, Lead Architect, Strategy & Technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation and Leeds United supporter, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Helen Maddison, primary school teacher and literary critic, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Phil Parker, ex-primary school teacher and Manchester United supporter; Helen Woodhouse, Chief Librarian, Takapuna Library, Auckland, New Zealand; and all the terrific staff at Waterstones, Alton, including Simon (now retired), Sam, Kirsty, Fiona, Daisy and Mandie; also, Kirstie and the dynamic team at Waterstones, York; and all the superb staff at Stratford-upon-Avon Library.
Finally, sincere thanks to my wife, Elisabeth, without whose help the Teacher series of novels would never have been written.
Decisions.
We are all faced with important choices in our lives. Some are based on necessity, others on ambition ⦠but some are based on love.
So it was during the summer of 1985.
My wife, Beth, had made such a decision.
Like me, Beth was a headteacher of a small North Yorkshire village school and the opportunity of a large school headship had arisen in Hampshire. At the end of a dramatic interview, Beth had turned it down.
I had expected her to be sad when she returned home, but it was not so. We put our two-year-old son, John William, in his cot and crept quietly downstairs. On that balmy evening, as the sun set over the distant Hambleton hills, we sat on our garden bench drinking coffee and breathing in the soft scent of the yellow âPeace' roses.
âWhy?' I asked simply.
Beth smiled. âIt didn't feel right,' she said quietly.
The final rays of golden light gilded the hedgerow and caressed her honey-blonde hair. We had reached a crossroads in our life.
âI thought this was what you wanted,' I said.
âPerhaps it was.' She sighed and rested her head on my shoulder. There was a silence that seemed to last for ever. âBut I wanted
you
more.'
I sat back, unsure in a sea of white noise. This was not the response I had expected. Then she looked up at me and gave me that familiar mischievous smile. âAnd then, of course ⦠there's my
mother
.'
Beth had stayed with her parents, John and Diane, in their Hampshire home during her interview. There was often tension between Diane and her equally determined daughter.
I knew when to keep quiet.
That had been six weeks ago and now the school summer holiday was almost over. During August, Age and Experience, those familiar companions, had taken me by the hand and I had moved seamlessly past my fortieth birthday. It was then that I considered my life, my achievements and, not least, my hopes for the future ⦠but they were intertwined with those of my wife. It was a shared destiny and, whatever the pathway, it was one we would walk together. But little did we know what lay ahead. The unknown was just around the corner, decisions would have to be made and there were secrets that would have to be kept.
The academic year 1985/86 had begun quietly on a perfect morning. It was Saturday, 31 August and I was sitting at my desk in the school office. Warm, late-summer sunshine slanted in through the windows. The beginning of the autumn term for the children of the village was a few days away and I was sifting through the post that had come from County Hall.
Meanwhile, on the office wall, the clock with its faded Roman numerals ticked on. In spite of the usual apprehension, I had always found the dawn of a new school year to be an exciting time, but little did I know that a battle was about to commence. The end of a world I had come to love was threatening like a far-off thunder cloud, and a year of secrets and surprises lay in store.
However, on that distant autumn day, all seemed calm as my ninth year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin.
Up the Morton Road the church clock chimed midday. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, removed the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. Then I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink, wrote the date and stared at the empty page.
The record of another school year was about to begin. Eight years ago, the retiring headmaster, John Pruett, had told me how to fill in the official school logbook. âJust keep it simple,' he said. âWhatever you do, don't say what really happens, because no one will believe you!'
So the real stories were written in my âAlternative School Logbook'.
And this is it!
New Beginnings
96 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. Ms Pat Brookside, our newly appointed teacher, took up her post in Class 2 with responsibility for computer studies and physical education. A meeting of headteachers to discuss the âRationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire' has been arranged for 1 October.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 4 September 1985
âMornin', Mr Sheffield,' said a formidable lady with the build of a Russian discus-thrower.
âGood morning,' I replied with some trepidation. I was standing at the gate, welcoming the children as they arrived to begin another school year.
The lady took a final drag of her cigarette, crushed the glowing tip between a thumb and forefinger and flicked the stub into the hedgerow. Her bright floral dress sported cut-away sleeves to accommodate her huge biceps. At six feet tall she gave me a level stare. âAh'm Mrs Spittall,' she said cheerfully. âFreda Spittall, that is ⦠an' my Gary starts t'day.'
âPleased to meet you, Mrs Spittall.' I removed my black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles and polished them, wondering what was coming next.
Mrs Spittall's four-year-old son was dressed in what appeared to be an assortment of hand-me-down clothing. Gary was wearing an outsize
Star Wars
T-shirt, baggy grey shorts that hung way below his knees, York City football socks and scuffed sandals.
â'E'll grow into his clothes soon enough, ah reckon,' said his mother. â'E's gonna be a big lad.'
I nodded in agreement. Already Gary was as tall as many of our six-year-olds.
âWell, welcome to Ragley School, Mrs Spittall,' I said. âIf you'll just go into the office and see our secretary, we can get Gary registered.'
âThank you kindly,' she replied and glanced down at her son, who had begun to pick his nose with enthusiastic and well-practised dexterity. â'E's a good lad, is our Gary, but 'e's goin' through one o' them awkward
phrases
.'
âIs he?' I asked.
Gary was now sucking the finger that had been excavating his left nostril.
Mrs Spittall pondered for a moment. âPer'aps ah ought t'mention to y'secretary about 'is
'abits
.'
âHabits?'
âYes, 'e teks after 'is dad,' she said with a sigh.
âDoes he?'
â'E picks 'is nose.'
âOh dear.'
âAn' 'is ears.'
âReally?'
âAn' any other horifice that teks 'is fancy.'
âAh, I see.' I wondered what Vera in the school office would make of this. â
I'll
pass on your information, Mrs Spittall, so don't worry about discussing it with Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.' It seemed to me that some things were best left unsaid.
They set off up the school drive, Mrs Spittall striding purposefully towards the entrance hall while Gary began to scratch his bottom.
I glanced at my wristwatch. It was just after 8.30 a.m. on Wednesday, 4 September 1985, the first day of the autumn term, and my ninth year as headteacher of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.
It was a perfect morning of late-summer sunshine. I looked around me and relaxed in the welcome shade beneath the avenue of horse chestnut trees that bordered the front of our village school. As always on the first day of the school year, I felt a little apprehensive as I wondered what might be in store. Around me, excited children, suntanned after a long summer holiday, skipped by and waved a greeting as they hurried towards the schoolyard. Our tarmac playground was bordered by a low stone wall topped with high, wrought-iron railings decorated with fleur-de-lis. I watched the children as they gathered in groups. It was a time for old friendships to be rekindled and new ones to be forged.