Star Teacher (24 page)

I made the tea anyway and sipped contentedly as I considered the day ahead. We had a treat in store after the conference. I had booked two seats at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre for a production of
Romeo and Juliet
and I settled back to read a synopsis of the familiar plot of the starstruck lovers.

Shortly after seven o'clock Beth slipped into the tiny shower and my attempts to join her proved fruitless, so I sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the television and watched the Open University. Advanced calculus was interesting but not as stimulating as sharing a shower with a very desirable woman.

An hour later over breakfast Beth was busy making last-minute notes in preparation for her workshop. I picked up a copy of the
Stratford-upon-Avon Herald
that had been discarded on a coffee table outside the dining room. I soon discovered that you definitely got your eighteen pence worth from this local newspaper. ‘Where Is Society Going?' blared the headline. The editor was concerned that Good Friday had not been observed appropriately. Supermarkets had opened their doors and it had been business as usual for the local factories. Environmental issues were also to the fore. The pupils of Stratford-upon-Avon Grammar School for Girls were making a case for a bottle bank to recycle glass following a recent survey they had carried out. Meanwhile, on the property page, I sighed when I saw the price of a beautiful semi-detached cottage. It would have been perfect for Beth, John and myself, but I guessed the price of £37,950 was way beyond our means.

I flipped through the pages to the Arts section for a review of
Romeo and Juliet
and found it under a lively article about apartheid protestors wanting South Africa banned from the forthcoming Shakespeare birthday celebrations. It was a mixed review. The theatre critic had not pulled any punches in his article, ‘Excess and Incongruity in
Romeo and Juliet
'. While Sean Bean and Niamh Cusack in the title roles received praise, he considered that theatregoers would be either appalled or merely intrigued by a production that drew telling parallels between contemporary society and Shakespeare's Verona.

Beth had closed her notebook. ‘Come on, Jack,' she said, glancing at her wristwatch, ‘time to go.'

There was a crescendo of voices as over two hundred delegates filled the huge lecture hall and Beth and I found seats near the back. On the stroke of nine the conference began with a powerful speech from the Birmingham headteacher. He described the current educational scene and seemed to think that the time in office for Sir Keith Joseph, Secretary of State for Education, was drawing to a close and that a minister such as Kenneth Baker, one of Thatcher's favourites, would eventually take over. I wondered about his source of information. The emphasis throughout was on headteachers being prepared for a changing world and the Prime Minister's recurring theme of ‘value for money'. The world of education in the eighties was changing fast.

After less than enthusiastic applause, he introduced the next item: six short presentations by colleagues whom he described as the next generation of leaders. They included young deputy headteachers and a couple of recently appointed heads. He looked down at his list. ‘Please welcome our first speaker, who is the headteacher of a small village school in North Yorkshire … Mr Rufus Timmings.'

There was a gasp from Beth. ‘Why didn't Miss B-H mention this?' she whispered.

‘Perhaps she didn't know,' I said, though I found it hard to believe.

‘This will be a feather in his cap,' said Beth ominously. She sat back and looked troubled. ‘Jack … you need to keep an eye on him.'

Rufus walked confidently to the lectern, immaculate as ever in his three-piece suit. He scanned the audience with his blunt, round face, bright-red cheeks and grey fathomless eyes, behind which brooded an alert intelligence.

‘My paper is entitled “Meeting the Challenge” and copies are available,' he said clearly into the microphone. Like a well-rehearsed politician, the words flowed right through to his big finish. ‘Change is unsettling,' he told us in a patronizing manner, ‘and it is natural to resist it – but change can also be
enabling
. We need to recognize it as a tool for improvement.' He looked up at his audience. ‘Do remember that our world of education is governed by a
limited
budget, necessarily so in times of austerity, but if we embrace the new opportunities we can make
more from less
.'

There was a muttering of discontent from those around me.

Then he turned to the senior advisers and education officers on the front row. ‘Finally, colleagues … we need to
rationalize
to survive.'

The polite applause was muted from the headteachers but distinctly enthusiastic from the senior figures at the front.

The speakers that followed ranged from a young woman who was proud to be teaching small children in a tough area of Newcastle to a deputy head from a large school in leafy Surrey where a city banker had joined the governing body and was transforming the school's finances. The contrast was considerable and made me appreciate my good fortune in teaching in Ragley village.

Over a welcome cup of coffee Beth and I were joined by two female headteachers from Nelson in Lancashire and we discussed the contributions so far.

‘I rated the Newcastle head,' said one of them, ‘but she's got her work cut out.'

‘There were some terrific ideas for parental involvement,' said the other.

Suddenly Rufus Timmings was by our side and looking at Beth. ‘I'm in your group after coffee,' he announced, ‘and I'm happy to volunteer to compile our findings on the flipchart.' He pulled out a large felt pen from his pocket. ‘I'm well prepared,' he added and strutted off to engage one of the senior advisers in conversation.

‘Do you know him?' asked one of the ladies from Lancashire.

‘He works in our area,' I said.

‘Hard luck,' she said pointedly, as a bell rang and we hurried off to our seminar groups.

Beth didn't look particularly pleased when we met up again for a buffet lunch.

‘He was insufferable, Jack,' she said. ‘Way too full of his own importance.'

‘He must walk around with a prepared presentation in his pocket,' I said.

‘According to Miss B-H, he stepped in at the last moment,' she added, ‘but don't worry – we've got his measure.'

I smiled. Beth was exhibiting that familiar combination of steely determination and silky tenderness that I knew so well.

The afternoon session went smoothly. We split into working parties and I learned much from colleagues employed in a wide variety of local authorities.

Then it was back to the lecture hall for the plenary session. A junior minister from the Department of Education delivered a carefully worded lecture on a curriculum appropriate for mixed-age classes. Once again, the emphasis was on making effective use of the new technology. ‘Can a two-teacher school be justified on educational grounds?' he asked. He quoted examples of previous amalgamations with average savings estimated at £3,900. He was unconvincing and appeared removed from reality.

‘Another twit from Eton,' grumbled a Lincolnshire headteacher in the row behind. ‘He wants to spend a week in my school.'

However, the conference ended on a positive note when the Birmingham headteacher reappeared and gave a superb motivational speech that included a few pointed barbs aimed at the government minister.

As we left, Beth nudged me and nodded towards the stage. I saw Rufus chatting with the minister as if they were old friends.

Back at the hotel we telephoned Beth's parents and enjoyed a conversation with young John. He was beginning to form clear sentences now, even though past tenses were still to be acquired. ‘I eated ice cream, Daddy, and feeded ducks,' he said. He seemed happy and content.

Later, while we changed to go out, the television flickered with the sound turned down – the usual Saturday early-evening entertainment of
The Muppet Show
and
The Dukes of Hazzard
. We wrapped up warm on this cold evening for the short walk to one of the pubs near the theatre. It was full of American tourists and, from the chatter around us, most of them appeared determined to enjoy a taste of Olde England.

The entrance to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre was thronged with people and we queued next to a large poster advertising the forthcoming production of
The Winter's Tale
with Jeremy Irons as Leontes. I marvelled at this wonderful place, and at the astonishing legacy of the world's greatest playwright who had been born and died in this little market town. I felt privileged to be here.

We had reserved seats in the dress circle for this opening production of the Royal Shakespeare Company's Stratford season and soon we settled down to one of Shakespeare's most famous plays. The set for
Romeo and Juliet
was not what I expected, consisting of severe vertical structures similar to the high-rise concrete of modern cities. It was a struggle to imagine there could be ‘a grove of sycamores' nearby. Motorbikes and lively music were in evidence along with the substitution of flick knives for swords, and I wondered what the Bard would have made of it. The highlight for Beth was, predictably, Sean Bean's handsome Yorkshire Romeo, who seemed to capture the excesses of a young lover. However, for me it was Michael Kitchen's Mercutio that stole the show.

On Sunday morning over breakfast we caught sight of Rufus again, wearing the predictable three-piece suit but on this occasion sporting a bright bow tie. ‘He just wants to be noticed,' said Beth.

Miss Barrington-Huntley came over to thank Beth for her contribution. ‘Another successful conference, Beth, and I did appreciate your support.' She looked out of the window at the sight of Stratford on a bright sunny morning. ‘We needed a cultural venue for such an important meeting.' She wished us a safe journey home and hurried off to join a group of her colleagues.

After breakfast we checked out and loaded up our luggage. We had a few hours to spare before Beth's parents joined us, so we decided to explore the town and call into Holy Trinity Church for their morning service.

We left the hotel, crossed Bridgefoot and walked along Waterside by the River Avon, which meanders gently through the town from east to west. Pleasure boats and anglers lined the banks, while early-morning barges, motor boats, canoes, punts and rowing boats gave the river a busy holiday feel. We paused to enjoy the views. In the distance, large farms and estates stretched out to the horizon, famous for their Hereford beef and their racehorses. Sadly, there were few swans left on the river and, according to the friendly concierge in the hotel, this was becoming a concern.

We found Holy Trinity Church in Old Town, in an idyllic setting on the banks of the river. It had a tall, elegant spire and we walked down an avenue of lime trees to the north porch. Here there were many ancient graves, including the burial place of William Shakespeare. I felt the sense of history as Beth and I walked hand in hand into the church and a shroud of silence muted our footsteps on the stone floor. The people of Stratford had worshipped here for over eight hundred years and, as we sat in one of the pews, the prayers of people past echoed throughout the centuries.

It was a simple communion service and the vicar announced various notices, including the forthcoming celebrations on 23 April, St George's Day, to commemorate Shakespeare's birthday. He expressed concern regarding the annual Ceremony of the Flags, when dignitaries from all over the world would unfurl their flags … but not South Africa.

From there we called into the Shakespeare Centre with its library, lecture rooms and costume displays. The last time I had visited had been in 1965 when I was a student. After a pleasant walk to Anne Hathaway's Cottage, the childhood home of Shakespeare's wife which stands a mile outside Stratford, we made our way back towards the hotel. Children with padded knees and elbows plus safety helmets rode past on BMX bicycles to their local track on the Warwick Road. We enjoyed a final pot of tea in one of the riverside cafés before returning to the hotel reception area.

At one o'clock Diane and John arrived and John William was so excited to see us again, but even more pleased that he had seen boats on the river and a couple of swans.

‘This could be a nice place to live,' mused Diane.

‘What she means,' said John, ‘is that it only took two and a half hours to get here – half the normal journey up to Yorkshire.'

Diane gave him a stern look but didn't pursue the point.

Finally we left the superb Warwickshire countryside behind us and headed north. On the radio Queen were singing ‘A Kind of Magic' and we hummed along as the miles raced by.

We had John fed and in bed by the time BBC1's
Songs of Praise
came on, followed by
Hancock's Half Hour
. By coincidence, at 7.50 p.m. on BBC2 the Royal Ballet were performing
Romeo and Juliet
, so we settled down to watch an alternative version of the story while eating jacket potatoes in front of a log fire.

On Monday morning Bilbo Cottage was a hive of activity. It was the beginning of a new term and Beth and I intended to set off early for school. We were chatting over bowls of Weetabix.

‘Well, Rufus Timmings certainly made his presence felt,' I said.

‘The advertisement for the Ragley and Morton headship should be in the
Times Educational Supplement
any time now,' said Beth. ‘We could work together on your application.'

‘Fine,' I said. ‘It needs to be impressive. The competition is certain to be tougher than last time.'

‘And we need to keep the college in mind. Your course was well received and by all accounts the students thought your lectures were terrific.'

‘Jim was very generous in his praise,' I said. ‘That letter he sent was lovely.'