Star Teacher (14 page)

At Shady Stevo's stall I bought two cassette tapes for Beth – Fleetwood Mac's
Rumours
and Simon and Garfunkel's
Greatest Hits
– plus one for myself,
Heartbeats
by my personal favourite, Barbara Dickson.

‘I've jus' seen Santa, Mr Sheffield,' shouted six-year-old Julie Tricklebank, ‘an' 'is fairy gave me this.' She held up a stick of barley sugar.

Mrs Tricklebank smiled. ‘Happy Christmas,' she said, nodding towards a little wooden hut covered in polystyrene snow. Outside was a big sign that read:
SANTA'S GROTTO – admission 10p – Ragley & District Rotary Club
.

Gabriel Book made an adjustment to his white beard, wriggled his toes in his warm socks and checked the time on his Mickey Mouse watch. In his mid-sixties, Gabriel was always the Rotary Club's first-choice Father Christmas. This year he had two new sixteen-year-old assistants, Sharon and Tracy, who for £20 had agreed to give up a free afternoon. Their tacky outfits sported the labels ‘Good Fairy' and ‘Busy Elf'. Unfortunately for Gabriel, Good Fairy would have made a perfect Wicked Witch of the West and Busy Elf was anything but industrious.

‘Just another few minutes,' he said, ‘and then we can pack up.'

Good Fairy stubbed out a cigarette, cleared some of the spray-on snow from the window and stared forlornly at the last group of children. ‘Ah'm sick o' these kids.'

Busy Elf was lounging on a folding picnic chair in the corner by the electric heater. ‘Ah'm bloody freezin' in this outfit.'

Finally Good Fairy got up and opened the wooden door. ‘Next one f'Santa,' she said through gritted teeth.

In walked Mrs Ricketts with Billy and Suzi-Quatro.

‘Hello and a ho-ho-ho,' Gabriel greeted them cheerily.

‘'Ello, Santa,' said Billy.

‘And have you been a good boy this year?'

‘Yes, 'e 'as,' said Mrs Ricketts in a voice that brooked no argument.

Gabriel looked up at the fierce Yorkshirewoman. ‘Er, yes, of course you have.'

‘Ah wanna Optimus Prime,' stated Billy bluntly.

‘Pardon?' said Gabriel.

‘It's a Transformer, Santa,' said Mrs Ricketts. ‘It's all t'rage.'

‘Is it?' asked Gabriel, none the wiser.

‘It changes from a robot to a truck or mebbe an animal,' explained Billy.

‘So it's versatile,' ventured Gabriel, trying to share in the enthusiasm.

‘No, it's a Transformer,' said Mrs Ricketts.

‘Well, I'll look in my toy cupboard at the North Pole and see if I've got one,' promised Gabriel.

‘You'll definitely 'ave one,' said Mrs Ricketts with a knowing look.

‘An' if you 'aven't, Santa, jus' look in m'mam's catalogue,' suggested Billy helpfully.

Perplexed at this turn of events, Gabriel simply nodded.

‘An' ah wanna Godzilla,' added Billy confidently.

‘Godzilla?'

‘Yes, 'e's twelve inches tall an' made o' plastic.'

‘An' there's definitely one up at t'North Pole,' said Mrs Ricketts with a firm stare.

‘Oh, well, yes I suppose there would be.' He turned to Suzi-Quatro and said, ‘Ho, ho, ho.' Gabriel was proud of his ‘Ho, ho, ho' and had perfected it over the years.

Suzi-Quatro stepped forward.

‘And what's your name, little girl?'

‘Santa … she's not
little
,' interjected Mrs Ricketts, ‘she's a good size.'

‘Of course she is,' agreed Gabriel nervously.

‘Ah'm Suzi-Quatro.'

‘Are you?' asked Gabriel in surprise.

‘Yes, she is,' said Mrs Ricketts.

‘Ah'd like a Princess Leia, please, Santa,' said Suzi-Quatro.

‘Really? She sounds important,' said Gabriel.

‘She's in
Star Wars
an' she 'as a posh 'air-do,' explained Suzi-Quatro.

Gabriel looked up at Mrs Ricketts, who nodded. ‘Yes, I think I've got one of those,' he said.

Mrs Ricketts took them by the hand and marched them back to the door.

‘We'll leave a biscuit f'Rudolph,' promised Suzi-Quatro.

‘An' a glass o' sherry f'you, Santa,' added Billy.

‘Well … prob'ly milk,' said Mrs Ricketts, who liked her sherry.

With a final ‘Ho, ho, ho' Gabriel got up while both children were receiving a mystery gift – a packet of fruit pastilles wrapped in tissue paper – from Busy Elf, while Good Fairy rolled another cigarette.

On Sunday afternoon Beth and I drove out of Kirkby Steepleton while wood smoke drifted up towards a clear, powder-blue sky. When we reached Ragley High Street families were hurrying up the Morton Road towards St Mary's Church. The Crib Service marked the beginning of the sequence of Christmas services that attracted most of the villagers.

The church bells were ringing as we lifted John from the car and he walked up the pathway of Yorkshire stone while the snow settled in gentle curves against the church wall. On the noticeboard something attracted Beth's attention and she smiled. It was another classic from the church secretary and organist, Elsie Crapper. The notice read: ‘Don't let worry kill you – let the church help.'

We walked through the Norman doorway and found a space on one of the front pews so that John could have a good view of the Nativity. Vera was moving quietly through the sanctuary of this beautiful church, lighting tall candles. A kaleidoscope of flickering light illuminated the stained glass in the east window and gave a fiery glow to the altar rail of Victorian pine.

Vera walked over to us and smiled down at John. ‘Welcome to our haven of peace in a busy world,' she said, then moved on to the two Norman arches on the north side of the nave to light the final candles. Sally was lining up her choir for the first of the carols, while Pat and Anne helped a group of mothers to dress the shepherds, kings and angels.

When Joseph approached the lectern the sound of children's voices subsided until only the ticking of the old church clock, installed in 1912 to commemorate the coronation of George V, could be heard.

Seated at the organ, Elsie Crapper felt composed. She had taken her Valium and all was calm. She played the introduction to ‘Once in Royal David's City' and Sally's choir sang the first verse before the congregation joined in. As always, it was music blessed by angels, and the children acted out the timeless story dressed in tea-towel headdresses and halos of bright tinsel.

Predictably, the gifts for baby Jesus created particular interest. ‘Ah'd 'ave got 'im a Leeds United kit,' said Stuart Ormroyd.

‘Or a nice tin o' biscuits,' added Patience Crapper for good measure.

‘Who's t'baby, Mam?' asked a curious Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw.

Mrs Earnshaw answered in a hushed whisper, ‘That's baby Jesus.'

After a pause Dallas said, ‘Who's that with 'im, Mam?'

‘That's 'is mother, Mary.'

Another pause. ‘Mam …'

‘What?'

‘Where's 'is dad?'

‘Shurrup!'

Soon it was over and parents and children stepped out into the darkness of another winter's night. The staff stayed behind to help Vera clear up and finally the church was still with the silence of stone. When Beth and I walked out all was quiet apart from the ticking of the ancient clock. As we drove home I wondered how many more Christmases I would experience as the headteacher of our local school.

These were special times and, as Ruby had said, you couldn't beat a Ragley Christmas.

Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle with children from the reception class plus the school choir and orchestra will be supporting the Ragley annual village concert
, A Comedy of Errors
by William Shakespeare, in the village hall on 31 December.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 31 December 1985

Nora Pratt looked at her Alpine leather corset hanging in the wardrobe and sighed. She would have to let it out a little. After all, as president of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, it was important to set a good example.

The annual New Year's Eve concert had arrived and Nora wanted to look her best. She thought how, back in 1977, the corset had fitted perfectly for
Snow White and the Six Dwarfs
, but then the years went by and it had become rather snug by the time of
Jack and the Beanstalk
. During
The Wizard of Oz
it was decidedly tight and during last year's
Dick Whittington
she could barely breathe.

Nora stared at her reflection in the mirror and recalled the highs and lows of her acting career. It was a big day for this determined thespian, who always tried her best. A new era of drama had arrived in Ragley village and she wondered what the reaction would be. Turning to one of William Shakespeare's plays was a journey into the unknown and a far cry from the usual pantomime. However, undeterred by either her inability to pronounce the letter ‘R' or her ever-expanding waistline, Nora was confident she knew her lines and that her moment of stardom would finally be within her grasp.

It was Tuesday morning, 31 December, and the production of Shakespeare's
A Comedy of Errors
was only hours away.

Outside Ragley School the tall horse chestnut trees were bare of leaves and stood like frozen sentinels. The air was clean and sharp, while bright winter sunshine lit up the playground and the frosted tips of the fleur-de-lis on the railings looked like candles on a cake.

Beth and I had driven into school so that I could collect the last post of the year before driving on to York to do some shopping. John was wrapped up warm in his pushchair and Beth pulled his woolly hat over his pink ears. ‘How about a hot drink in Nora's Coffee Shop?' she suggested.

‘Good idea,' I agreed, and I unbuckled John and let him totter over the village green. He loved making tiny footprints on the white frost. I noticed his speed was increasing as he grew older and stronger, and I put on a spurt to keep up with him. I picked him up to cross the High Street and we walked into the Coffee Shop. On the juke-box, Bruce Springsteen was telling everyone that ‘Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town'. The fact that the man in the red suit had been and gone seemed to have passed unnoticed. Today there were much more important visitors, not least Felicity Miles-Humphreys, who was in animated conversation with Nora.

I walked to the counter while Beth found the old wooden communal highchair and set it up next to a corner table.

‘It's a bit scawy,' said Nora. ‘All this Shakespeawian dialogue is a bit diffewent – it teks a lot o' concentwation t'get it wight.' Nora was playing the part of Adriana, wife of Antipholus of Ephesus.

‘You will be wonderful, darling' said Felicity. ‘In fact, I perceive a
triumph
.' As artistic director and production manager of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, Felicity knew the importance of encouragement. ‘We are introducing classical drama to the masses, my dear, and those with a little
savoir faire
will appreciate it.'

Nora nodded uncertainly. She could neither understand
savoir faire
nor, indeed, pronounce it, but Felicity had never let her down.

‘So, what's it t'be, Felicity?' she asked.

‘A filter coffee with hot milk and one of your simply scrumptious fruit scones,' said Felicity with dramatic emphasis but little belief. ‘We shall need vital energy for our dress rehearsal this afternoon.'

Nora turned to Dorothy, who was rehearsing her lines next to the coffee machine. ‘A fwothy coffee an' a fwuit scone, please, Dowothy,' and Dorothy reluctantly put down her crumpled script.

It was my turn.

‘Two coffees, please, Nora, and a small glass of warm milk for John,' I said.

‘Coming wight up, Mr Sheffield.'

After a couple of minutes the tall figure of Dorothy tottered over on her high heels and put a tray of welcome drinks on the table.

‘Good luck tonight, Dorothy,' said Beth.

‘We'll be there to support,' I added, trying to be encouraging.

‘Ah'm reight excited,' said Dorothy. ‘Me an' my Malcolm are in it an' we've been practisin' ev'ry night.'

‘So what's your part?' I asked.

‘Ah'm Nell, Nora's kitchen wench,' she said, ‘an' ah wear this proper wench's outfit, which is reight short, wi' m'Wonder Woman boots an' m'chunky charm bracelet on a bit o' balin' twine round m'neck.'

‘Sounds perfect,' I said.

‘M'first
actin
' part, Mr Sheffield,' added Dorothy with gravitas.

‘Well done,' I said. ‘I'm sure both you and Malcolm will be terrific.'

‘An' 'ere's a digestive biscuit f'John,' she said with a smile.

‘Thank you,' said Beth, ‘… and hope it goes well.'

Beth and I always enjoyed our visits to York, the jewel in Yorkshire's crown, and soon the west towers of the Minster came into view.

We parked in Lord Mayor's Walk next to the ancient walls and walked up Gillygate and on into the city centre. After completing our shopping we stopped in St Helen's Square outside Bettys Café Tea Rooms, noticeably without the expected apostrophe in ‘Bettys' on the large ornate sign, and stared in the window. John became excited when he saw the display of mouthwatering cakes, pastries and hand-made chocolates. We were ushered to a table next to the huge curved windows, elegant wood panelling and art deco mirrors.

The waitress who served us wore a starched white apron and neat little cap, and looked as if she had just stepped out of the pages of one of Agatha Christie's novels. I ordered toasted teacakes and a boiled egg and toast soldiers for John. As a special treat, this was followed by a plateful of Yorkshire Fat Rascals – fruity scones filled with citrus peel, almonds and cherries. Beth poured the tea, which was served in a silver teapot with a matching sugar bowl, silver tongs and a delicate tea strainer. Everything looked perfect. It was as if we had stepped back into a bygone era of white linen and silver service, which, sadly, was lost on John, who ate as if we had starved him for the past week.