‘Obviously my little darlings haven’t got fleas, Timothy. They’re not the type. But I just want to make sure.’
‘Well, Miss Evans,’ said Timothy, ‘these are t’latest thing f ’getting shut o’ fleas. It’s t’new range o’ Sherley Flea Bands.’ Timothy selected one from his alphabetical display.
‘It would have to be the best you’ve got, Timothy,’ said Vera emphatically.
‘These are top o’ t’range, Miss Evans,’ said Timothy, taking care to align the cardboard package so it was parallel with the edge of the counter. Tidy Tim liked parallel lines.
‘I see,’ said Vera, opening the box and examining the neat little cat collars.
Timothy read from the side of the packet. ‘It says ’ere “treated with a virulent insecticide”, Miss Evans.’
‘I’ll take three, please,’ said Vera. Nothing was too good for Vera’s cats.
He took Vera’s pound note, counted out the change and then rearranged the remaining cat collars so the boxes were exactly in line. Tidy Tim also liked straight lines.
On Wednesday morning, the first frosts had arrived and, in the tiny porch of Bilbo Cottage, a perfect spider’s web, sprinkled with frozen droplets, sparkled in the sharp sunlight. Sadly, I was not in the mood to appreciate the wonders of nature. A visit from the Senior Primary Adviser beckoned and I prayed it would go well. The future of Ragley School might depend upon it.
I pulled up outside the General Stores & Newsagent, where the owner, Prudence Golightly, was deep in conversation with Vera. It appeared that Margaret Thatcher and her Chancellor, Sir Geoffrey Howe, were clearly having a tough time.
‘I’ll change to an Express this morning, Prudence,’ said Vera, shaking her head indignantly at the range of headlines in the morning newspapers.
The Daily Mail had been a devoted supporter of the government but its headline ‘Maggie must do U-turn’ suggested a change of heart. The Daily Express appeared to be the only tabloid newspaper supporting Mrs Thatcher and it complained bitterly about its ‘fairweather friends’. ‘The Lady’s not for burning’, it proclaimed. ‘We stand right behind Mrs Thatcher.’
I bought my usual copy of The Times and then wished I hadn’t. It featured the complaint that teachers have an easy life and, according to the results of a dubious survey, we enjoyed an average teaching week of only twenty-two hours. I wished the reporter could come and work alongside me.
Just before nine o’clock, Richard Gomersall, the Senior Primary Adviser from County Hall in Northallerton, arrived. A short, slightly-built man in his late forties with a magnificent mane of long wavy reddish-brown hair, he was renowned for his immaculate sartorial elegance. He was wearing a purple corduroy suit with wide lapels and flared trousers and his shirt sported loud vertical salmon stripes and a stiff white collar. A flower-power tie and brown leather Cuban-heeled boots completed the ensemble. Strangely, however, he kept hitching up his trousers with a pained expression.
‘Good morning, Jack,’ he said. ‘I’m here for a brief fact-finding tour.’ He gripped his clipboard tightly in front of him and there were beads of perspiration on his forehead.
‘Hello, Richard,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m teaching this morning, of course, but Miss Evans will assist if there’s anything you need.’
‘Perhaps Mr Gomersall would like to sit down and have a coffee before he begins,’ said Vera cautiously.
Richard Gomersall looked gratefully at Vera and accepted with some relief. ‘Thank you,’ he said breathlessly.
A few minutes later Vera popped her head round my classroom door. ‘I’m just taking Mr Gomersall to the chemist, Mr Sheffield. He’s a little unwell. I’ll be back soon.’
True to her word, she soon returned. Cathy Cathcart looked up from her diagram of an isosceles triangle and announced, ‘Miss Evans coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ I peered out of the classroom window to see Vera sitting primly in her Austin A40 and, beside her, was a smiling and relaxed Richard Gomersall.
He was soon busy making copious notes, visiting each classroom and talking to the children. One of them was Mary Scrimshaw.
‘Mrs Hunter, I’ve just had a chat with little Mary,’ said Richard.
‘Yes, it’s her birthday today,’ said Jo.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I asked her what she wanted for her birthday and she said she wanted her daddy to stay at home and not fly away. She sounded really worried.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Jo.
Five minutes later Jo and Mary were deep in conversation.
At morning break I was on playground duty and the children were excited at the prospect of going to Billy Batt’s International Circus. The travelling company of performers had set up their big top, thanks to the major, on the land near Old Morton Manor House. Conversations around me were dominated by the strange world of acrobats, clowns, trained animals, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers, plate-spinning jugglers, a human cannonball and, even, a flea circus.
Richard Gomersall walked out on to the playground with Anne. ‘Thanks for everything, Jack,’ he said and tapped his clipboard. ‘I’ve got all I need. Everyone has been helpful, especially Miss Evans, and we shall, of course, keep you informed.’
I knew if he had anything to say about school closures he would tell me. This obviously wasn’t the time. We shook hands and he walked to the car park.
‘Well, let’s hope we’ve survived,’ I said.
Anne gave me a probing look. ‘Jack, I’ve just spoken to Jo and we think we know what’s wrong with Mary Scrimshaw.’
Two minutes later I smiled. Everything was clear.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll deal with it,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll have a word with Mrs Scrimshaw when she collects Mary.’
At the end of school Vera was handing out the tickets for the circus when Mrs Scrimshaw tapped on the office door. I stepped out into the entrance hall.
‘What a relief, Mr Sheffield. Mrs Grainger an’ Mrs ’Unter ’ave told me what was troubling our Mary, so ah’ll ’ave a word wi’ Eugene. ’E means well with ’is stargazing, ah s’ppose. Mary just took it t’wrong way.’
‘I’m pleased we found out in the end,’ I said.
‘An’ ah got m’circus tickets from Miss Evans when she called in today. She ’ad a poor man with ’er who’s ’aving a ’ernia operation next week.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, suddenly realizing why Richard Gomersall had looked so distressed. ‘Did he need pain-killers?’
Mrs Scrimshaw laughed. ‘No, ’e needed a new surgical truss. ’Is elastic ’ad gone on ’is old one!’
* * *
When I walked into the office Vera was just replacing the receiver.
‘That was Mr Gomersall ringing to say thank you for accommodating him today, Mr Sheffield. He was very complimentary and said that visiting Ragley had proved to be …’ she glanced down at her spiral-bound pad with a hint of a smile, ‘an uplifting experience.’
At seven o’clock I was sitting next to Beth in a huge striped marquee. Tiered seating surrounded a circus ring that had been liberally covered with sawdust, and a ringmaster in his red coat and black top hat was cracking his whip and telling us we were about to see the finest entertainment on earth.
It lived up to expectations, with Vera and Joseph almost leaping out of their seats as the clowns pretended to throw water over them. Dan Hunter was invited to test the strength of the iron bars before the circus strongman bent them and Sally said she felt her baby kick when the human cannonball was fired across the arena. Meanwhile, Anne sat up and took interest in the blond-haired horse trainer who had a strong resemblance to David Soul.
The ringmaster cracked his whip again and announced, ‘Please welcome Professor Potts and his amazing flea circus.’
A tall gentleman in a black frock-coat and a stovepipe hat walked to the centre of the ring, pushing a large box on wheels. In bright paint on the side it read: PROFESSOR POTTS PHANTASMAGORICAL CIRQUE DE PUCES.
‘Cirque de puces?’ I said.
Beth whispered in my ear, ‘It’s French for flea circus.’
The professor had learnt his trade at Jeffries Flea Circus at Bingley Hall in Birmingham in the 1950s and his claim to fame was an appearance on the British Pathé News at the cinema. He opened his box and arranged a miniature gun carriage and a collection of tiny carts.
‘Ladies and ze gentlemen et les enfants, my fleaz will now perform ze amazing feat for you.’ Everybody clapped. ‘A volunteer, s’il vous plaît. Iz eet a birthday for un enfant in ze audience?’
Eugene Scrimshaw, on the front row, waved and a very excited Mary and her mother went to stand alongside the flea circus.
‘Sadly, my fleaz from Florida, zay ’ave all died from ze cold.’ There was a communal sigh of disappointment, although it was noticeable that Vera did not join in. ‘So I now use ze Yorkshire fleaz,’ he announced triumphantly.
This was greeted with huge applause and a standing ovation from the Ragley Rovers football team on the back row.
‘Y’can’t beat Yorkshire f ’fleas,’ shouted Big Dave Robinson. ‘We breed ’em tough up ’ere.’
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ mumbled Little Malcolm through a mouthful of candy-floss.
It was a strange act as the fleas were too small to be seen. We could only presume that Mary saw them as she encouraged them to pull carts up a ramp. At the end Mary waved goodbye to her tiny friends, Professor Potts got the biggest cheer of the night and we all went home, tired but happy and ready for an early night. All, that is, except Vera, who inspected her cats very carefully and made sure their flea collars were perfectly secure.
At the end of school on Friday I was chatting with Anne, Sally and Vera in the staff-room when Jo came in, clutching a sheet of paper.
‘Jack,’ said Jo. ‘Have a look at this. It’s exceptional. Mary Scrimshaw’s suddenly coming on in leaps and bounds again with her writing. And she’s developing a wonderful imagination.’
Jo handed me a sheet of A4 paper and I smiled as I read the large, neat, infant printing. Mary had written:
Daddy and Mummy took me to the circus.
It was my birthday.
I am 7.
The best bit was the man with the fleas.
The man loved them like Daddy and Mummy love me.
When I grow up I will have fleas and I will love them too.
But I will always love Mummy and Daddy best.
When they kiss me good night Mummy smells of nice soap.
Daddy says one day he will take me to the stars.
I’m glad I’m me.
I pulled on my duffel coat and old college scarf, picked up Mary’s writing, and walked across the High Street. It was the time of the dying of the light and dusk settled like a purple cloak over the rooftops of Ragley village.
The pharmacy was quiet and Mrs Scrimshaw was tidying the shelves. ‘Mrs Hunter wanted you to see this,’ I said.
Minutes later she dabbed her eyes as she read her daughter’s words. ‘It’s wonderful, Mr Sheffield. Thank you for showing it to me.’
There was a scamper of feet on the stairs and Eugene appeared with Mary. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘We’ve jus’ been looking at t’stars through m’telescope.’
‘I can see where Mary gets her imagination from,’ I said with a smile.
He lifted up Mary in his arms and opened the door for me. Peggy came to stand beside them and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield. We’re all right now.’
As I walked across the forecourt Mary called out, ‘ ’Bye, Mr Sheffield.’ Then she raised her little right hand, separated her second and third fingers into a V-shape and gave me a passable imitation of Mr Spock’s Vulcan salute. Eugene and Peggy laughed and, in perfect unison, they raised their right hands and joined in.
It was an image I shall always remember – the three of them standing together in the brightly lit shop window. Beneath the twinkling stars and the silent, inky-black world of space, they were a family again.
Chapter Seven
Jilly Cooper and the Yorkshire Fairies
Rehearsals went ahead for the school Christmas entertainment. County Hall requested a copy of our scheme for mathematics for their ‘common curriculum’ working party.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 5 December 1980
‘IT’S USUALLY SOMETHING boring,’ said Sally with a tired grin. She leant against the staff-room door and rubbed her aching back. She had now passed the thirtieth week of her pregnancy and standing in front of a class was taking its toll.
‘Yes. I know what you mean,’ said Anne. ‘My John’s just the same. He bought me a toolkit last year.’
It was Friday lunchtime, 5 December, and Christmas preparations were beginning in earnest. I stopped winding the handle of our Roneo spirit duplicator. On the master sheet on the cylindrical drum was Cathy Cathcart’s drawing of a fat robin for our Christmas entertainment programme and it occurred to me that it wasn’t only Sally who looked pregnant. ‘What’s boring?’ I asked.
‘Colin’s Christmas present,’ said Sally. ‘It’s always cheap perfume or a jumper that’s too small. Still, he means well.’
Vera was recording late dinner money in her register. ‘He may surprise you,’ she said with a reassuring smile but slightly false optimism.
Sally shook her head. ‘Unlikely. You know Colin.’
‘My Dan bought me underwear last year,’ announced Jo, without looking up from her ‘How to make a Christmas snowflake mobile’ article in our monthly Child Education magazine, ‘and it fitted perfectly.’
Anne, Sally and Vera looked at Jo with a mixture of amusement, appreciation and horror … and in that order.
‘I don’t think John would know where to start with a present like that,’ said Anne. ‘Anyway, you won’t believe what he’s giving me for my Christmas treat.’
Suddenly, I was interested. ‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘I could do with a few ideas for Beth’s present.’
‘Well, you know John loves his steam trains, don’t you?’ said Anne. ‘The Keighley and Worth Valley Railway are running “Santa Steam Specials” every Sunday in December. So we’re going this weekend!’
‘That sounds great,’ I said, warming to the idea.
‘I think Anne was hoping for something a little more romantic, Jack,’ said Sally.
‘Too right,’ retorted Anne.
Vera frowned and stirred her Earl Grey tea noisily.
‘Dan’s going on the train to Leeds tomorrow to buy my present,’ said Jo. ‘Why not ask John and Colin to go with him? Should be a good day out for them and Dan would enjoy the company.’
‘Mmm, yes, good idea,’ said Sally. ‘I’ll mention it. Dan might point him in the right direction.’
‘So what are you giving Beth for Christmas?’ asked Anne with a mischievous grin.
I gathered up the pregnant robins, stacked them on the coffee-table and pondered for a moment. ‘Not sure yet, Anne … but maybe a trip to Leeds would be a good idea.’
During the afternoon my class made good progress on our huge ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ frieze. Apart from Cathy Cathcart painting two tortoises to represent two turtle doves and Carol Bustard decorating the three French hens with rather fetching navy-blue berets and a string of onions, it turned out fine.
At afternoon playtime, Sally was looking tired.
‘Come and sit down,’ said Jo, jumping up and grabbing her coat and scarf. ‘I’ll do your playground duty.’
‘Thanks, Jo,’ said Sally, collapsing into the nearest chair. ‘You’re an angel.’
Sally was soon engrossed in an article in Vera’s December 1980 issue of Yorkshire Life. ‘It says here that Jilly Cooper is on tour in the north of England to publicize the launch of her latest novel, Class,’ said Sally. ‘Pity I won’t see her. I don’t think she’s coming to York.’
‘I love Jilly Cooper,’ said Anne.
‘I’m reading Bella at the moment,’ said Sally.
‘Wha
t’s it like?’ asked Anne.
‘Brilliant!’ said Sally. ‘It’s about this sexy actress called Bella Parkinson and she meets a rich, handsome guy called Rupert Henriques who fancies the pants off her.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Vera disapprovingly and, with a noisy clatter of crockery, she began to collect the teacups.
Sally leant over to Anne and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I’ll pass it on to you when I’ve finished.’
Anne nodded and grinned. While David Soul in Starsky and Hutch would always be her heart-throb, Rupert Henriques sounded to be a sufficiently interesting diversion from yet another tale of John’s woodcarving exploits.
That evening over a fish-and-chips supper, I watched the BBC news with Beth.
It featured Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, playing snooker at the Press Club in London as part of her eightieth birthday celebrations and another complaint about the behaviour of the Press towards Lady Diana Spencer. Meanwhile, Anna Ford informed us, with suitably repressed humour, that Ian Botham, the twenty-five-year-old England cricket captain, had been banned from driving for a month and fined eighty pounds after being chased in his Saab by the police up the M5 motorway for 17 miles. Mr Hywell Jenkins for the defence had informed the court he was ‘a little excited at being made captain’.
Suddenly, the phone rang. It was Dan Hunter.
‘Jack, I’m going into Leeds tomorrow to buy a Christmas present for Jo. Do you fancy coming?’
‘I’d better check with Beth,’ I said.
‘Don’t bother, Jack. She’s going into York with Jo. Colin and John are tagging along as well.’
‘Sounds like a good day out.’
‘I’ll pick you up around nine. See you then.’
‘So, you’re going Christmas shopping with Dan?’ said Beth with a smile. ‘I hope you select some appropriate gifts.’
‘Is there anything in particular you want?’ I asked hopefully.
A straight answer was too much to hope for. ‘Surprise me,’ said Beth coyly. ‘I certainly intend to surprise you.’
For the rest of the evening I racked my brains but no inspiration was forthcoming.
On Saturday morning at nine o’clock a two-tone-green Wolseley Hornet pulled up outside Bilbo Cottage. Dan was at the wheel and Colin and John were on the back seat. We parked in York railway station and queued up for a newspaper. I bought my usual Times; Dan bought the Sun; John spent twelve pence on a Daily Mail and Colin bought a Do It Yourself home improvement magazine and four KitKats.
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