Star Teacher (22 page)

‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,' said Vera. ‘An eventful day is in store.'

‘Yes,' I said, ‘it should be an interesting meeting.'

‘Rupert will be there to offer support,' she added with an encouraging smile.

‘That's good to hear. It's certainly a journey into the unknown.'

She held up a smart spiral-bound booklet. ‘And the programme for the Stratford Conference has arrived.'

‘Thanks, Vera.' I scanned the first couple of pages quickly. Beth and I had both applied to attend the National Headteachers' Conference in Stratford-upon-Avon during the Easter break. It was entitled ‘The Eighties Curriculum' and the emphasis on new technology was significant. The world was changing fast and I needed to catch up.

I went to stand by the window and looked out at the children walking up the cobbled drive and on to the playground. The children of the eighties in my care appeared content and relaxed. Ragley School offered them a secure environment in which to grow and learn, and I was proud to be leading that journey.

For Vera, a busy day of administration lay ahead. She had also offered to assist Joseph with his forthcoming church services. Good Friday was only a week away and there were sermons to write.

Morning assembly was always special on the last day of term. The children were excited at the thought of the forthcoming holiday and the promise of Easter eggs. However, everyone listened intently to Joseph as he told the story of Jesus dying on the Cross followed by the Resurrection. The children were clearly impressed, and when Joseph walked into Class 2 for his follow-up lesson the questions came thick and fast.

‘Do we all die, Mr Evans?' asked Julie Tricklebank.

Joseph sighed deeply. ‘Yes, Julie, we do. It happens to us all. It's just the way of things.'

Zoe Book raised her hand. ‘Then why is my grandad frightened of dying?'

Joseph knew Gabriel Book well and decided he would pick a good moment to discuss this with him. ‘Perhaps he's not really
frightened
… more a little
curious
,' he suggested gently.

‘Our Sammy died last week,' said Patience Crapper suddenly.

‘I'm sorry to hear that, Patience,' said Joseph.

‘An' it were
very
painful,' continued Patience with feeling. She gritted her teeth and pursed her lips as if she had just sucked a lemon.

‘Oh dear,' said Joseph.

‘'E were all squashed,' shouted out Madonna Fazackerly. ‘Ah found 'im on t'road outside our 'ouse.'

‘Squashed?' repeated Joseph, struggling to comprehend.

‘Yes,' confirmed Patience, ‘'e got out of 'is cage an' ran across the road.'

‘Cage?'

‘Yes, our gerbil, Sammy,' explained Patience. ‘'E can run real fast.'

‘That's right, Mr Evans,' chipped in Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw, ‘an' my dad saw it 'appen. 'E said it were faster than shit off a shovel.'

Everyone laughed, except of course for Joseph. ‘You shouldn't say that, Dallas. It's not a nice word.'

‘Ah 'elped t'bury 'im in their garden,' said Billy Ricketts, moving the conversation on quickly.

‘That's good, Billy,' said Joseph, ‘and then he'll go to heaven.'

‘Well,
ah
wouldn't 'ave buried 'im, Mr Evans,' shouted Sam Whittaker defiantly.

‘Why not, Sam?' asked Joseph.

‘Well, ah'd 'ave put 'im on top of a big 'ill.'

‘A hill?'

‘Yes, Mr Evans – then he'd be closer to 'eaven.'

Joseph smiled. ‘That's a good thought, Sam.'

He looked at the eager face of the little boy and realized that no matter how long you taught small children, you never ceased to be surprised.

During morning break Anne had spent twenty pence on a
Daily Mail
and was sipping hot milky coffee while studying the gossip page. ‘This is interesting,' she said. ‘It says here that Sarah Ferguson's stepfather, the Argentinian polo player Hector Barrantes, is coming to the royal wedding.'

This was news that had featured in many of the gossip columns. The wedding would provide the first social meeting between Sarah's father, Major Ronald Ferguson, and Barrantes since the handsome Argentinian had gone off with the Major's wife, Susan.

Sally looked up in surprise. ‘That won't go down well. I heard that her stepdad joined up with the Argentinian force in the Falklands.'

There was a photograph of Prince Andrew in his pilot's uniform. He was standing proudly next to his helicopter during the Falklands conflict.

‘Looks like an eventful wedding is in store,' said Sally light-heartedly.

However, for Vera, our true-blue supporter of the monarchy, this was no laughing matter. She shook her head. ‘Oh dear – whatever will Prince Andrew think?'

Meanwhile, on the playground, Pat Brookside's communication skills were about to be tested. Damian Brown was registering his disapproval of Hayley Spraggon and Michelle Gawthorpe. The two girls were playing cat's cradle with a loop of string.

‘Girls is soppy, Miss,' he complained.

‘Oh dear, Damian,' said Pat, determined to make him think again. ‘Mr Sheffield wouldn't be pleased with your grammar. It should be girls
are
soppy.'

‘So you think so as well,' said Damian with a grin.

Pat's tone changed abruptly and Damian realized quickly that you didn't mess with our new teacher.

As we were leaving the staff-room I spotted a rusty blue 1975 Reliant Robin coming up the drive and parking outside the boiler-house doors. It was the familiar shambolic figure of the local area art adviser, Norman Knight. With such a name it had occurred to me that he would have been better suited to be our history adviser, but Norman had followed a more esoteric career. Also, his ill-fitting lime-green corduroy suit made
me
look like the personification of sartorial elegance.

A corner of the entrance area had been transformed by Sally into a semi-permanent display of the best of our children's art under the bright label ‘The Ragley Art Gallery'.

‘Hello, Jack,' Norman said as we shook hands. He was a short man with long, unkempt fair hair, big expressive hands and a ready smile. He looked at his wristwatch. ‘Just a flying visit I'm afraid. We're having a display of the best artwork in North Yorkshire up at County Hall.'

This was clearly an opportunity for the school. ‘Help yourself, Norman,' I said. ‘Just let Sally know what you've taken. She's in her classroom and I'm teaching now.'

He stared up at eight-year-old Charlie Cartwright's painting. ‘Wow! Look at this,' he said. ‘Absolutely
perfect
. This is a magnificent example of vibrant colour and the innocence of youth. There's an immediacy about the brushstrokes … a real talent.' He was genuinely enthused. ‘This is definitely just what we're looking for.'

‘That's good to hear, Norman, so, as I said, help yourself and see Vera if you want a coffee.'

He nodded in acknowledgement as he removed the painting from the wall and then smiled as he turned it over. In Anne's neat writing it read ‘
A Pig in a Field
by Charlie Cartwright'.

At lunchtime I joined the dinner queue. Shirley Mapplebeck and Doreen Critchley were turning out boiled eggs as fast as they could cook them. A huge delivery of fresh local free-range eggs had arrived that morning and Shirley thought it would make a welcome change. It also kept the older children busy helping the infants open up the shells to reveal the golden yolks.

Karl Tomkins had just enjoyed a runny boiled egg and approached the serving table for a second helping.

‘Thanks, Mrs Mapplebeck,' he said, but he didn't return to his seat.

‘What is it, Karl?' asked Shirley.

‘Will you die, Mrs Mapplebeck?'

It wasn't the question Shirley had expected, but our cook took it in her stride. She had been serving food to small children long enough not to be disconcerted by their unlikely observations. ‘Yes, luv,' she replied, ‘we all do.' She picked up a sharp kitchen knife and sliced off the top of his egg.

Karl selected a couple of toast soldiers from the giant aluminium tray and stared in blissful satisfaction.

‘Why do you ask?'

Karl looked up. ‘Well, Mrs Mapplebeck, will y'teach me 'ow t'do runny eggs before y'go to 'eaven?'

Ruby was in the entrance hall talking to Sally. She was holding an advertisement from the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
. ‘Ah've brought this t'show Mrs F,' she said. ‘George 'as jus' bought it.'

It read: ‘1970 Austin 1100, harvest gold, good runner, over 30 m.p.g.'.

Sally didn't mention it was the car to which Basil Fawlty gave ‘a damn good thrashing' in the ‘Gourmet Night' episode of
Fawlty Towers
way back in October 1975. It was her favourite episode and, at the time, she considered this model resembled the Mini's rather bookish big brother.

‘Great news, Ruby,' she said. ‘When is your first lesson?'

‘This afternoon,' said Ruby, full of excitement. ‘Ah've got m'predicatable licence an' some learner plates, an' George is tekkin' me round t'quiet roads on t'way t'Easington. Ah'm meeting 'im in t'Oak for a bit o' lunch. 'E said ah need t'be relaxed afore we set off.'

A few minutes later Vera walked with Ruby out of school and across the village green to where an Austin 1100 was parked outside The Royal Oak.

‘It's ideal, Ruby,' said Vera, ignoring the sizeable patches of rust on the doors.

‘An' it's been well looked after. Jus' one lady owner.'

‘That's reassuring.'

‘An' she were a reight posh lady, Mrs F,' said Ruby. ‘George said she were one o' them repercussionists, ah think 'e said, y'know … in one o' them orchestras in Leeds.'

‘Well, good luck, Ruby, and do let me know how it goes.'

Back in school, the members of the lunchtime chess club were enjoying another half-hour of concentration and combat. Pat and Anne were taking turns to supervise and Anne was helping the Jackson twins with some of the basic moves.

As Hermione and Honeysuckle began their game, Anne stared out of the window of the library area. Daffodils were thrusting their blue-grey spears towards the sun and lambs were bleating in the fields. Her attention returned to the pieces on the chessboard and she smiled. She had been a pawn for too long, or perhaps, at best, a bishop that could move in straight lines, rather like the castle that was the embodiment of John. The love they once shared had died long ago and only embers of affection remained.

Whereas Edward Clifton was
different
. He was a knight who could leap over anyone who stood in his way. Perhaps it was time to be a queen who could
choose
the direction she wishes to travel.

She was empowered by the thought. The choice was hers and hers alone.

Seeking similar empowerment was Petula Dudley-Palmer as she donned her jogging suit and headband and inserted her Olivia Newton-John music video,
Let's Get Physical
, into the video recorder. Petula was aware that her husband Geoffrey had sought companionship with his secretary. After a period of low self-esteem, Petula had decided to get fit and take a positive view of her life.

She was also an avid fan of the Green Goddess on BBC1's
Breakfast Time
. Most mornings she would stand in front of the television screen stretching, curling and generally leaping around. Each day she felt a little better about herself … and Geoffrey had begun to take notice.

Ruby was in The Royal Oak, standing at the bar while George was outside fixing the learner plates to the front and back of Ruby's new car. Sheila and Don were serving drinks to the regular lunchtime crowd.

‘Good luck wi' y'driving, Ruby,' said Sheila.

‘Thanks, Sheila, ah'm looking forward to it,' said Ruby.

‘Ah were jus' thinkin' that your Natasha's a good girl,' continued Sheila. ‘Ah saw 'er in Diane's this morning. Ah was 'oping she might tek up wi' that nice young policeman.'

‘So was I,' said Ruby, ‘but there's a problem.'

‘Why, what's t'matter?' asked Sheila.

‘Well, first of all she needs t'tell that window cleaner that she's not interested in 'im,' said Ruby. ‘Y'know, 'im wi' a wooden leg.'

‘That mus' be difficult,' said Don.

‘Difficult? It's 'eartbreaking!' said Ruby.

‘No, ah meant it mus' be difficult t'climb 'is ladder,' explained Don apologetically.

‘Bugger 'is ladder,' said Sheila and slapped her giant of a husband with a tea towel. ‘Tek no notice, Ruby, 'e 'asn't got t'brains 'e were born with.'

George arrived and looked at the menu. ‘'Ow about summat posh, Ruby?' he said. ‘Like scampi an' chips?'

‘Oooh, yes please, George,' said Ruby. ‘Ah like
erotic
food now an' again.'

It was six thirty and I was on my way to Morton while Barbara Dickson sang ‘Another Suitcase In Another Hall' on the car radio. I wondered what might lie in wait for me.

Morton village hall was a smaller version of the one in Ragley. There was a stage at one end and a kitchen with a serving hatch at the other. Rows of chairs had been arranged and most of them were filled by the time I arrived. A trestle table had been set up on the stage and Richard Gomersall was arranging his prepared text and making last-minute amendments. He was flanked by Joseph Evans, representing the governing body of Ragley School, and Wilfred Bones, the chair of governors at Morton. Mrs Joyce Davenport, the doctor's wife and minutes secretary for the Morton governing body, was a picture of composure as she sat at the end of the table with pen poised. She scanned the audience and gave the briefest of smiles towards her dear friend Vera before returning to her notebook.