Star Teacher (15 page)

‘So, how do you feel?' I asked. Beth had been working hard since Christmas, learning all she could about her new headship. Many challenges lay ahead.

‘I'm getting there,' she said with a tired smile. ‘It's all new, but I'll be fine. The deputy and head of infants are coming round to the idea of me being their head and we're making progress.'

‘Good to hear,' I said. ‘You'll need their support.'

We walked up Stonegate past the Minster, along Goodramgate and returned to Lord Mayor's Walk. The imposing city wall, built of magnesian limestone, shimmered in the winter sunshine. Built in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, these walls formed almost a complete circuit of this medieval city and stood as a reminder of the days when defences were needed that would repel an invader.

Across the road was my old college, where I had trained as a teacher, and we paused to drink in the familiar view laced with many memories. Suddenly there was a call and an old friend waved in our direction. It was Jim Fairbank, my college tutor from the sixties. He hurried across the road to meet us, a slim, bespectacled figure in a thick three-piece tweed suit with a university scarf knotted round his neck.

‘Jack and Beth – lovely to see you again,' he said, and then stared reflectively at young John. Jim had not married and parenthood was never to be part of his life. ‘And this is your fine son … he's growing fast.'

We shook hands. ‘How are you, Jim?' I asked.

‘Fine, thanks,' he replied, then added, ‘and you've saved me a letter.'

I was curious. ‘Why is that?'

He paused, searching for the right words. ‘We need your expertise, Jack, and I was hoping you might find time to help us out.'

‘Of course,' I said. ‘What have you in mind?'

‘We're short of a tutor this term for one of the modules and you would be perfect. It's six sessions with a focus on classroom management.'

‘I couldn't take time off school,' I said. ‘As you know, I have a class full-time.'

‘We could fit round your teaching commitments at Ragley,' said Jim, ‘and the college would pay for a supply teacher to cover your class, providing your governors agree.'

‘Well – it would have to be out of school hours.'

‘You could start at four thirty,' suggested Beth quickly. She gave me that look I knew so well. ‘It's an
opportunity
, Jack.'

I was captured by her enthusiasm. It also made sense in terms of a possible future employment opening.

Jim smiled. He had reeled in his catch. ‘I'll call you at the start of term,' he said.

We shook hands, loaded up the car and put John in his baby seat. On our way back to Kirkby Steepleton Beth sounded animated. ‘This could be a foothold in higher education,' she said. ‘You never know where it might lead.'

‘I agree,' I replied, ‘and it might be a sign of things to come.'

Silence descended as the miles sped by and we were both immersed in our own thoughts. 1986 stretched out before us and uncertainties in our professional lives had to be met head on. I knew I had to develop a more determined streak. Beth had shown me the way and it was about time she saw my own ambition.

After dropping off Beth and John at home, I set off for Ragley. I had volunteered to help out once again with the scenery for the evening performance of
A Comedy of Errors.
Before that I called into The Royal Oak for some hot food and a drink.

When I walked in, Big Dave and Little Malcolm were enjoying a pint as they propped up the tap-room bar with Ruby's son, Duggie, along with Deke Ramsbottom and two of his sons, Shane and Clint. In the background the television news was chattering away to no one in particular. The newsreader was talking about something called Comic Relief. It followed an outside broadcast from a refugee camp in Sudan that had featured on Noel Edmonds'
Late, Late Breakfast Show
. Founded by comedy scriptwriter Richard Curtis and comedian Lenny Henry in response to the famine in Ethiopia, it sounded a good idea and had caught the imagination of the country.

Meanwhile, Sheila Bradshaw was doing a roaring trade. Rabbit pie was on the menu along with boiled beef and carrots. This was followed by another of Sheila's specialities, spotted dick and custard, perfect on a freezing-cold day.

‘It's goin' down a treat, Mr Sheffield,' said Sheila proudly.

‘It's a proper feast is this,' confirmed an appreciative Deke Ramsbottom as he devoured his perfectly cooked rabbit.

With recollections of
Watership Down
still vivid in my imagination, eating the cast didn't seem appropriate … so I chose the beef.

‘So, big night t'night, Malcolm,' said Sheila.

‘Y'reight there, Sheila,' said Little Malcolm, blushing profusely.

‘'E's a proper star, is our Malcolm,' said Big Dave proudly. ‘'E's doin' Shakespeare. It's one o' 'is comedies.'

The huge figure of Don, an ex-wrestler in his younger days, looked up from pulling a frothing pint. ‘So what part y'playin', Malc'?'

‘Well, it's a bit complicated,' said Little Malcolm. ‘Ah'm this bloke, Antipholus of Ephesus.'

‘Sounds foreign,' remarked Don as he placed the pint of Tetley's on a York City coaster.

‘An' ah've gorra twin brother, but we were sep'rated at birth,' explained Little Malcolm.

‘Bloody 'ell,' said Don, ‘that's upsettin'.'

‘An' t'poor little sod got lost in a storm at sea,' added Big Dave, who, after countless late-night weekly rehearsals after
Match of the Day
, knew the plot down to the last detail.

Don shook his head. ‘Dunt sound much like a comedy t'me, Malc'.'

‘Well, Felicity said 'e wrote comedies an' tragedies, did this Shakespeare bloke – an' this is definitely a comedy.'

‘But there's a 'appy endin',' added Big Dave, eager to support his diminutive cousin.

‘Well ah think it's wonderful,' said Sheila, ‘an' a proper bit o' culture. Jus' what we need in t'village. So tek no notice o' my Don. 'E didn't read no Shakespeare, only comics an' then 'e only looked at t'pictures.' Ragley's favourite barmaid looked up at her great hulk of a husband. ‘'E's not int'
culture
– in fac', 'e wouldn't know culture from wet fish.'

Don thought he knew a lot about fish but decided to keep quiet.

Clint came to the bar to order the next round of drinks. He was sporting his new tattoo and Sheila and Don looked at it with interest.

‘Ah went t'York t'Tattoos-While-U-Wait,' said Clint proudly, ‘an' ah got this.' He bared his arm. The tattoo read: MAKE LOVE NOT.

‘Make love not?' said Sheila. ‘What's that s'pposed t'mean?'

Clint blushed profusely. ‘My arm weren't wide enough so 'e 'ad t'keep goin' round.' The word WAR was hidden under his armpit.

‘Never mind, Clint,' said Sheila, looking at Don's bulging biceps. ‘Big muscles isn't ev'rythin'. A woman likes a bit o'
sensitivity
.' She saw Clint's reaction and added quickly, ‘An' some
men
do too.'

Clint gave her a shy smile and glanced at his brother to make sure he was out of earshot. He leaned over the bar. ‘Duggie's got a new girlfriend an' our Shane's spreading it round that she's a reight slapper,' he confided.

‘So ah've 'eard,' said Sheila. ‘It's that Tina … an' if ah know 'er she won't tek that lyin' down.'

‘She works in t'mattress factory,' said Clint.

‘So mebbe she
will
tek it lying down,' said Don from the far end of the bar.

Clint smiled, picked up the tray of pints and walked back to his brother. Always a fashion icon, Clint had progressed to his Michael Jackson phase. He was wearing an oversized, slouch-shouldered, faded leather jacket with puffy sleeves, black leather trousers and sunglasses. In contrast, Shane was still part of punk subculture, with ripped jeans, a Sex Pistols T-shirt and a denim jacket decorated with safety pins. His Doc Marten boots with air-cushioned soles were his pride and joy. The letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand caught the eye as he lifted his tankard.

Deke looked forlornly at his two sons and whispered to Don, ‘'E's allus in t'shit, is our Shane – it's only t'depth that varies.'

‘Y'reight there, Deke,' agreed Don.

‘All ah wanted were
normal
,' said Deke with a whimsical smile, ‘an' ah finished up wi' a psychopath an' a poofter.'

‘Well your Wayne's a lovely lad, p'lite an' 'ardworkin',' Don consoled him.

Deke nodded thoughtfully. ‘'E's t'only one what teks after me.'

Sheila, with a knowing smile, kept her thoughts to herself.

‘Anyway,' said Big Dave, ‘our Malcolm will be a star t'night.'

Little Malcolm was having his doubts. ‘But ah'm only a bin man,' he said.

Big Dave put down his pint. ‘As ah see it, Malc',' he said, ‘mebbe in t'scheme o' things an' lookin' at it objectively so t'speak … y'reight at t'bottom o' t'pile.'

‘Bloomin' 'eck,' sighed Little Malcolm.

‘So t'only way is up,' said Big Dave with an encouraging slap on his back.

The afternoon dress rehearsal in the village hall was not going well. I was putting the finishing touches to a sheet of plywood on which I had painted a stormy sea with the deck of a sinking ship in the foreground. I was quite proud of the result, considering I only had a four-inch brush, two tins of matt emulsion, blue and white, and some leftover brown Ronseal paint.

Around me it was the usual chaos, with few of the cast having a suitable costume, while Ted Postlethwaite as Dromio of Syracuse had not turned up because he was still busy delivering post.

In desperation, Felicity announced, ‘Let's take five,' which turned out to be twenty minutes of drinking sweet tea and eating Elsie Crapper's dubious home-made flapjack with the consistency of damp cardboard.

Felicity's lanky son, Rupert, was playing the part of one of the twins, Antipholus of Syracuse. ‘I'm not happy, Mother,' he declared, hitching up his baggy green tights. ‘Do you think it was wise to select a
Shakespeare
play?' He had given this a lot of thought recently while deciding on which side to wear a pair of rolled-up socks in his string underpants.

‘Of course, darling,' said Felicity with forced enthusiasm. ‘We owe it to our calling to educate the proletariat.'

Elsie Crapper had vacated her prompter's chair behind the curtain and Rupert sat down. ‘But what about Nora?' he asked. ‘She can't say her Rs,' he said in disgust. ‘It's just not professional.'

‘I know, darling,' said Felicity, ‘but we have to make allowances.'

‘And that bin man who's supposed to be my twin brother is twenty years older than me,' protested Rupert.

‘A little make-up has solved that, my dear.'

Rupert shook his head. ‘But he's a foot shorter … the audience will
notice
.'

Felicity looked at her gangling son, the supermarket shelf-stacker and would-be actor, and wondered where she had gone wrong. Then she adjusted her scarlet headband and desperately ran her fingers through her long, frizzy, jet-black hair. She stared at the protrusion in his tights and leaned forward. ‘And please remove that unlikely bulge, Rupert,' she whispered. ‘The shape is unnatural.' She didn't mention that a chipolata would have been more appropriate and hurried off to the kitchen, her tie-dyed kaftan flowing behind her. A camomile tea beckoned.

The curtains fluttered and Elsie Crapper returned to find Rupert rummaging in his tights. Her cheeks flushed and she went to find her handbag and her new supply of Valium.

By seven o'clock the village hall was full to bursting and a few extra folding picnic chairs had appeared, carried by the latecomers without tickets. A Shakespeare play was definitely something different and not to be missed. Beth and I had left Natasha Smith looking after John back at Bilbo Cottage and we joined Vera and her husband on the third row. The sense of anticipation was considerable.

‘Isn't it wonderful?' said Vera. ‘Shakespeare comes to Ragley.'

Having seen the dress rehearsal, I responded with a polite smile.

As usual, the well-lubricated Ragley football team had vacated the tap room of The Royal Oak and occupied the back row.

Timothy Pratt's big moment arrived as he turned up the brightness on his single spotlight, the curtains fluttered and Felicity Miles-Humphreys appeared, looking fraught. ‘Welcome to the annual production of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society,' she announced.

This was greeted by guarded applause. As Old Tommy had reminded his customers, ‘Shakespeare isn't everyone's cup of tea.' The only consolation was that the cost of tickets had remained at fifty pence.

‘This evening we embark on a new pathway for the thespians of our village,' continued Felicity.

Ruby was on the front row with her daughter Hazel. ‘What's a thespian, Mam?' whispered Hazel.

‘Never you mind, luv,' said Ruby cautiously, misunderstanding the word ‘thespians'. ‘Everybody's different.'

Felicity pressed on. ‘I thought it would help to set the scene, as this is
different
to past years.' Previous productions were done and dusted in an hour and a half, including an interval. Time was of the essence, so Felicity had decided to cut to the chase and act as narrator for the abbreviated version of the play.

‘Aegeon, a merchant of Syracuse, has been condemned to death,' she announced.

‘Bloody 'ell!' said Old Tommy. ‘Ah thought it were s'pposed t'be a comedy.'

Felicity was undeterred. ‘But he has been granted one day to raise the thousand-mark ransom.'