Star Teacher (31 page)

Meanwhile, a tearful Cheyenne Blenkinsop had fallen while playing leapfrog with four-year-old Joe Burgess, the younger brother of Tom. He had scraped his knees on the playground and Anne was in the entrance hall administering first aid with cotton wool and clean water. The life of a reception class teacher was never dull.

Vera, Sally and Pat were in the staff-room and Vera was getting excited about the forthcoming wedding of Prince Andrew to Sarah Ferguson on Wednesday, 23 July. ‘It's a normal school day,' said Vera, ‘as it's not a public holiday, but I'm sure many will miss work.'

‘I guess people will record it and watch it when they get home,' said Pat.

‘The village hall committee will be doing exactly that,' said Vera. ‘Joyce Davenport is organizing it and they're serving tea from five o'clock onwards for villagers and children to call in and watch it on the large television.'

‘That's a wonderful idea,' said Pat. ‘I'll certainly be there.'

‘Did you know Sarah is descended from Charles II?' announced Vera proudly.

Sally looked up from her
Cosmopolitan
magazine. ‘Didn't he have a dozen illegitimate children?' she asked pointedly.

Vera said nothing and chose to return to her
Daily Telegraph
. Hana Mandlíková had defeated second seed Chris Evert on the Centre Court at Wimbledon to set up a final with Martina Navratilova. Vera sighed deeply and hoped that in the not too distant future another Virginia Wade would emerge. Then she smiled; there was a photograph of Richard Branson giving Margaret Thatcher, her joint-favourite lady along with the Queen, a speedy 60 m.p.h. ride up the Thames in his
Virgin Atlantic Challenger II
. However, when Vera saw that the next article was advertising a ‘chat-up line' for frustrated men, she closed the newspaper quickly and washed the coffee cups.

When the children had returned to their classrooms at the end of morning break, Mrs Snodgrass had called in to inform Anne that young Emily was absent because of chicken pox.

‘Has anyone else had chicken pox?' asked Anne.

Karl Tomkins put up his hand. ‘No, Miss, but ah've 'ad Coco Pops.'

There's always one
, thought Anne.

Across the road in the Hair Salon, Diane was offering Claire Bradshaw the benefit of her wisdom.

‘Y'need t'be careful an' think about y'future,' she said knowingly. ‘Remember that men only want you for one thing. Then if y'let 'em 'ave their wicked way y'don't see 'em f'dust an' they'll be gone faster than Seb bloody Coe.'

Claire thought that Diane was talking from bitter experience and wondered what had happened in her early life. ‘But Kenny's not like that,' she pleaded. ‘'E's carin' an' kind an' 'e'll 'ave a proper job one day an' mebbe even a car.'

Diane sighed and lit a cigarette. ‘Fair enough, luv, but don't say ah didn't give you fair warnin'.'

Claire nodded and they both stared in the mirror. Diane took a puff of her cigarette and put it in the ashtray next to the closed window. ‘So, what's it t'be this week – Bonnie Tyler or Kate Bush?'

Next door in the Coffee Shop, Nora was also considering the future. She was reading her
Woman's Own
and thinking about the royal wedding.

‘In this 'owoscope it says Pwince Andwew an' Sawah will make a lovely match.'

‘'Ow come?' said Dorothy.

‘It's cos 'e's a Pisces an' she's a Libwan,' explained Nora.

Dorothy stared down at her chunky signs-of-the-zodiac charm bracelet. ‘That's jus' perfec', Nora,' she said. ‘If it's written in t'stars then it mus' be right.'

Nora nodded knowingly and looked down again at the text. ‘This astwologer says they'll 'ave two kids, the odd wow, a few tears, but they'll be weally 'appy.'

‘Jus' like me an' Malcolm,' said Dorothy, ‘… 'cept wi'out the rows and the kids.'

At the end of school lunch Vera came to find me in the school hall. ‘Telephone call, Mr Sheffield. It's Mr Fairbank from the college in York.'

I closed the office door and settled behind my desk.

‘Hello, Jack. Have you got a few minutes to spare?'

‘Of course.'

‘I'll come straight to the point. We have a staffing vacancy in the Education Department for next term. I was hoping you might be interested. Your course in the spring term was well received and, with your background of primary-school headship, it could be an ideal move for you.'

‘Thanks, Jim,' I said. ‘I'm obviously flattered that you have thought of me.'

‘I ought to mention that I'm aware of the forthcoming headship interviews for Ragley and Morton.'

‘Yes, although I've not heard yet if I've been shortlisted.'

There was a pause. I suspected Jim knew more than he was saying. ‘I'm sure you will have a good chance, but it was, after all, an
open
advertisement and the school will be a popular one. The shortlist will no doubt include some strong candidates.'

‘Perhaps it will, Jim, but I couldn't comment.'

‘Of course, I understand.'

‘What exactly is the college post?'

There was a shuffle of papers. ‘The official title is Senior Lecturer in Primary Education and it will include all the usual duties, including lectures, pastoral duties and teaching-practice supervision, where you will obviously have considerable credibility. The salary is higher than your current pay scale and in time, at your age, there would be a significant opportunity for promotion to Principal Lecturer.'

‘It sounds attractive,' I said.

‘Yes, give it some thought, but I need to know as soon as possible and certainly before we close for the summer break.'

‘Thank you, I'll do that.'

‘Well, good luck, Jack. I hope it goes well for you and, if it doesn't, at least there is the possibility of an alternative professional future.'

I put down the receiver and stared out of the window.

It was encouraging news, but not what I really wanted. Deep down I knew I needed to keep the job I loved.

It was lunchtime in The Royal Oak and Chris de Burgh was singing ‘The Lady in Red' on the juke-box when Deke Ramsbottom arrived. He had arranged to meet his sons for a lunchtime pint. The television was on above the tap-room bar and they were discussing the recent World Cup.

‘Turn down that warblin', please, Don,' said Deke. ‘It's 'ard t'concentrate.'

‘What's t'matter?' asked Don and he turned down the volume control on the juke-box.

Deke pointed up at the television set. ‘It's that bloody Maradona.'

‘Should be banned,' said Don shaking his head.

Diego Maradona's ‘Hand of God' goal, which had helped Argentina to beat England 2–1 in the World Cup, was being replayed. Even though Gary Lineker had followed up his hat-trick against Poland in Monterrey with a goal for England, it had been in vain. The little curly-haired Argentinian had scored both goals and Argentina had gone on to beat West Germany in the final, much to the disgust of the Ragley Rovers football team.

‘In fac', turn it off, Don,' said Deke. ‘Ah'd rather 'ear that warblin'.'

Clint Ramsbottom arrived at The Royal Oak in a state of blissful harmony. He was listening to a Boy George compilation on his Sony Walkman. New technology had changed the life of this fashion-conscious farmhand ever since he had witnessed the sight of the Ragley ladies' jogging group trundling down the High Street a few years ago. On that memorable day he had stared in amazement at Petula Dudley-Palmer in her fashionable Olivia Newton-John headband, but not because of her skintight Lycra jogging bottoms. Instead he was captivated by the pair of thin wires that culminated in tiny earpieces. Petula had been jogging in time to Abba's ‘Mamma Mia', while Clint had been carrying his ghetto blaster over his shoulder. It was the size of a small chest of drawers and he had put it down on the pavement. In that moment his life had changed and he had joined the music revolution of the eighties.

There was a familiar swishing sound as Clint entered the bar in his nylon fluorescent lime-green shellsuit. It had a round collar, a zip down the front, puffy sleeves and elasticated wrists. Down the front were pink arrows. His Nike trainers were worn with the tongues sticking out. Clint was inspired by David Bowie and Duran Duran, with a bit of Michael Jackson thrown in for good measure. Most evenings he practised his moonwalk on the linoleum kitchen floor, grabbing his crotch in a suggestive manner. Although he looked like a prisoner from a futuristic science-fiction film, Clint thought he was the coolest man in Ragley.

Deke looked at his son in despair. ‘Where's y'brother?' he asked.

‘Jus' pulled up outside on 'is tractor, Dad,' replied Clint.

When his eldest son walked in Deke looked at him with equal puzzlement. Shane had splashed his stonewashed jeans with bleach to make them look even more distressed. His baseball cap, worn back to front, sported the word ‘BAD'. Shane had also taken to shoving a shuttlecock down the front of his jeans to impress the girls who frequented the bars outside York station. Sadly, it didn't seem to have the desired effect … in fact, his private parts had suffered a severe chafing.

Deke wondered again why he had been blessed with such dysfunctional sons. Don came up to serve them. ‘Right, lads,' said Deke, ‘what you 'avin'?'

‘Pint,' said Shane.

‘Lager an' lime,' said Clint, and Don gave Deke a knowing glance.

On the High Street Margery Ackroyd was passing the time of day with Betty Buttle when Deirdre Coe stopped to look in the window of Old Tommy Piercy's butcher's shop.

‘Ah wouldn't trust 'er as far as ah could throw 'er,' said Betty.

‘She's too knowin' by 'alf, is that Deirdre,' said Margery.

Betty nodded. In the pecking order of gossipmongers, this was damnation indeed.

Ruby and George had pulled up by the Post Office and Ruby got out of the driver's side. George took her place and, as he drove up the Morton Road, Betty and Margery watched Ruby as she waved goodbye.

‘'E's not 'xactly what you'd call a 'eart-throb, is 'e?' remarked Betty.

‘Accordin' to Ruby's mother, 'e med a fortune in Spain,' said Margery.

‘Old Tommy said t'batter on 'is fish were t'nectar of t'gods,' said Betty.

Margery nodded. ‘Well 'e should know.'

‘She's allus 'ad t'count 'er pennies, 'as Ruby,' continued Betty.

‘An' 'er mother could stretch a shillin',' added Margery for good measure.

On the other side of the road, the new, slimline Petula jogged by in her latest leisure suit and matching headband.

‘An' 'ere comes Miss Moneybags,' said Betty.

‘She's all parquet floors an' shag-pile rugs,' contributed Margery.

‘Very true,' agreed Betty, ‘but word 'as it 'er 'usband is beggin' for forgiveness.'

They watched as Petula disappeared up the Morton Road.

‘Well … good for 'er,' said Margery.

‘Mebbe she's not so bad after all,' acknowledged Betty.

In the centre of York Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was looking for an expensive gift for his wife in Dixons camera shop. He had left his executive office at the Rowntree's factory and for once he hadn't sent out his secretary to buy the present for him. He was approached by a young male assistant with a ponytail and a nose that rivalled both Barry Manilow and Concorde. ‘Can I help you, sir?'

‘I'm interested in this,' said Geoffrey, pointing to the display case.

‘Yes, it's our top-of-the-range Auto-Focus Camcorder,' said Ponytail, ‘a bargain at one thousand one hundred and ninety-nine pounds.'

It was rather more than Geoffrey had anticipated, but he had to do something extravagant to regain Petula's attention.

‘Why is it so expensive?' he asked.

Ponytail had rehearsed his sales pitch. ‘It's got three hours of playback, a batt'ry an' a carry case, sir.'

‘I see,' said Geoffrey, unconvinced.

Ponytail moved effortlessly into another gear. ‘Sir, wi' point-an'-shoot technology an' eight-millimetre video, plus a six-times power lens, y'looking at t'
future
.' It was time for the ace in the pack. ‘An' sale ends t'morrow, sir.'

Geoffrey nodded. ‘I'll take it,' he said.

Ponytail was delighted. ‘Good choice, sir.' He began to wrap up the gift. ‘And don't f'get, we 'ave
forty years
of experience in photography at Dixons.'

‘And how long have you worked here?' asked Geoffrey.

Ponytail smiled. ‘Since Tuesday, sir.'

It was two o'clock and Ruby had enjoyed a successful driving lesson with George. They had practised reversing and she was enjoying a new confidence.

She was sitting on Ronnie's bench and the tranquil peace on the village green had become a cloak of comfort for her. It was good to pause and reflect on the few happy times in her life. Around her, butterflies landed on clumps of nettles in the hedgerow and spread their delicate wings. Tall lupins swayed in the gentle breeze and trailing pelargoniums and lobelia brightened the colourful tubs outside The Royal Oak. As her thoughts drifted she began to hum ‘Edelweiss' from
The Sound of Music
softly to herself.

It was then that Ruby noticed the glowering sky in the distance. Dark clouds were gathering over the Hambleton hills and suddenly the air seemed full of menace. She stood up and hurried back towards her home on School View.

In school, Ryan Halfpenny rang the bell for afternoon break while all the staff closed their classroom windows and made preparations for an indoor playtime.

When the storm arrived, forked lightning split the sky and thunder shook the earth. It was a hailstorm from hell, a malevolent torrent. Rain battered the school roof like steel shards. The bright white lightning was followed almost immediately by the boom of heaven's fury. We were at the centre of the storm and the school drive had become a channel of rushing water. Lightning flashed again.