04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  After our ice creams I drove Beth back to Morton and arranged to meet her that evening for a farewell drink in The Royal Oak before we went our separate ways.

  When I returned to Bilbo Cottage, the telephone rang in the hall.

  ‘Hello. Jack Sheffield speaking.’

  ‘Jack, Richard Gomersall here, at County Hall.’

  ‘Oh hello, Richard. This is unexpected,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, well, we don’t get school holidays like you, Jack.’

  I didn’t mention I had been in school all morning and was about to take a class of children on an outdoor education weekend.

  ‘So what can I do to help?’ I asked.

  ‘Actually, Jack, I’m just following up our earlier conversation and I wondered if you had given the Scarborough headship any further thought.’

  ‘I’m still considering it, Richard,’ I said, stalling for time, ‘and obviously appreciate your advice and support.’ I felt I was suddenly turning into a politician. The truth was I didn’t know which way to turn.

  ‘I understand, Jack, and, clearly, there’s no pressure here, just a polite enquiry at this stage. You’ve obviously been earmarked as an up-and-coming headteacher who’s doing a good job in one of our small village schools.’

  ‘That’s kind of you to say so,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘Fine. Let’s leave it at that for the time being, Jack … and good luck in these uncertain times.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ I said.

  ‘We’ll talk again.’

  And the line went dead.

  I didn’t mention the call to Beth when I met her in The Royal Oak. She had been shopping in York and had other things on her mind.

  ‘Jack, I’ve bought a Betamax video recorder. It’s brilliant, you’ll love it. It’s got over three hours’ recording time and a three-day timer.’

  Secretly, I would have preferred Beth to have saved her money for our wedding but I said nothing. In any case, she had changed into a sundress with narrow straps and a jade fabric belt and looked so beautiful. State-of-the-art video recorders held no interest for me.

  ‘I’ll miss you,’ I said simply.

  She sipped her gin and tonic and looked at me thoughtfully. ‘It’s only three days.’

  Her hair tumbled over her suntanned shoulders and I just stared at her.

  ‘And three nights,’ I said with a wry grin.

  Then she leant forward and took off my Buddy Holly spectacles. ‘Perhaps we ought to get you some new wire-rimmed spectacles,’ she said, ‘and maybe one of those black executive briefcases.’

  ‘I’m happy as I am, Beth,’ I said, retrieving my spectacles, ‘and my old leather satchel has a few years left in it yet.’

  ‘If you become a head of a big school, Jack, you’ll need to look the part.’

  I leant back in my chair and stared out of the bay window across the village green towards Ragley School. There were times when the life Beth seemed to want felt more than I could give her. Falling in love had been easy: what followed was proving more difficult.

  On Thursday morning we boarded William Featherstone’s Reliance bus and set off from outside school amid waving parents for our educational holiday. As well as myself and my class, the party consisted of Anne and John Grainger and Jo and Dan Hunter.

  We left York on the A59 road, drove through Harrogate and on to Skipton, the ‘Gateway to the Dales’. Then we headed north through a spectacular landscape of woods and waterfalls. I stared out of the window at the emerging panorama. Spread out before us, and shaped in the Ice Age, was a dale of carboniferous limestone, sandstone and shale. In the grazing land of the upland pastures lay isolated farmhouses and, beyond the hay meadows, the wild rugged moorland stretched out to the purple horizon. It was a perfect mix of natural and man-made beauty with its green fields criss-crossed with limestone walls. Sheep were everywhere on the distant canvas like tiny flecks of white paint flicked from a child’s stiff-bristle paintbrush.

  Soon we were in the heart of beautiful Wharfedale, with its green fields dotted with yellow buttercups, rugged limestone cliffs and the desolate cries of the curlews. Sudden splashes of sunlight illuminated the wild pink roses running riot through the prickly hedgerows, while a silent confusion of moving shadows darkened the winding River Wharfe in the valley below.

  We drove into the cobbled main square of Grassington village to eat our packed lunches and parked next to an ancient stone horse trough surmounted by an old iron water pump. The air was familiar, sharp and cold and the passing of years had not changed the small shops in this timeless community. As I ate my sandwiches, I smiled at the rickety sign outside Mervyn the Barber’s shop. It read, ‘Gentleman’s Barber, Clogger, Tonsorial Artist, Antiquarian, Poet, Chiropodist, Phrenologist and Botanist’.

  ‘Food tastes better ’ere, Mr Sheffield,’ said Cathy Cathcart with her familiar Stonehenge smile and zest for life. She had put a pickled gherkin in a marmalade sandwich and was munching on it happily. New experiences were always a treat for Cathy.

  Meanwhile William walked sedately up the narrow main street to the Devonshire Arms to partake of a more traditional Ploughman’s lunch.

  An hour later we were on our way again on the B6160 past the looming menace of Kilnsey Crag, the pretty village of Kettlewell and Aysgarth Falls. Finally our destination was in sight and the children were full of excitement. Here there were no traffic sounds, only birdsong, the whisper of the wind and the music of tumbling becks. Beyond, in the far distance, among limestone scars and gritstone crags, the brooding bulk of Addleborough lay like a sleeping giant. At its feet huddled the tall stone houses and winding cobbled streets of Askrigg village, centred round the thirteenth-century church of St Oswald. With its history of clock-making and hand-knitting, it already had its place in Yorkshire folklore but the television series All Creatures Great and Small had made it famous.

  Askrigg Low Mill Residential Youth Centre was an old mill that had been superbly converted. Valerie Flint had told us it had won design awards for its innovative use of space and we soon realized it was the perfect base for a group of energetic children. After settling into our dormitories we set off up the steep hill to explore the village. Next to the cobbled marketplace and the stone market cross we found Skeldale House, the television home of James Herriot. A few paces further on was the King’s Arms, a popular William Younger’s public house known as the Drover’s Arms in the television series.

  It was fun recognizing the locations and, after a huge evening meal of shepherd’s pie and fresh vegetables, we slept like logs under a starry Yorkshire sky.

  Friday was a full and adventurous day. Across the river from Hawes village we scrabbled up the side of the beck until we reached the roaring waterfall of Hardraw Force, the highest single-drop waterfall in England. The bravest children, led by Darrell Topper and Katy Ollerenshaw, clambered fearlessly like mountain goats behind the cascading torrent while the others watched from a safe distance.

  On the way back, we stopped in the beautiful village of Bainbridge, outside the white-fronted Rose and Crown Hotel. The children drank lemonade and played in the wooden stocks on the broad village green. Then the landlord invited us in to see the famous hunting horn hanging above the bar. He told the children that once this was a dense forest with deer and wild boar and that each evening, between Holy Rood and Shrovetide, the horn was blown to guide weary travellers to safety. Then, inevitably, the children took turns to blow it.

  On school journeys, usually something happens that makes them memorable. Saturday was destined to be such a day.

  Following a fascinating visit to the rope-makers in Hawes during the morning and a delicious fish-and-chips lunch in the marketplace, we drove through the high wild peaks up to Countersett, to the banks of Semerwater. The bearded, experienced warden of Low Mill was waiting for us with his huge trailer stacked high with two-person Canadian canoes. After a talk on safety, he gave everyone a life-jacket and we were off for a thrilling afternoon o
f canoe-racing. We took turns so that there was always an adult with a pupil in each canoe. Dan proved the most popular partner for the children as his boat always seemed to go the fastest and he rubbed it in by humming the theme tune from Hawaii Five-O as he raced past us. It was a group of happy, red-faced, slightly damp and very tired children who clambered back on to the bus for our return journey to Low Mill.

  We were just outside Askrigg village when the unexpected happened. A dark-blue, open-top classic car with chromium wire wheels and a hugely powerful engine overtook us. The driver wore a checked flat cap and waved to William in acknowledgement for giving him space to pass. The lady next to him, with a silk headscarf to protect her hair in the stiff breeze, turned and smiled at the children.

  Dan and I were on the front seat of our coach. ‘Hey! Look at that,’ he said, ‘a 1964 Alvis TE21 drophead coupé … the car of my dreams.’ Dan was a great classic-car enthusiast.

  We watched it roar off into the distance, when, suddenly, a startled sheep appeared out of the ditch and ran headlong into the narrow road. There was a screech of brakes, the sheep bounded to safety, the car mounted the grass verge and crashed into the limestone wall with a crunch of metal and a burst of steam.

  Seconds later we pulled up behind them and Dan leapt out and opened the passenger door of the sports car. He quickly assessed the situation.

  ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

  ‘I think we’re fine … No broken bones,’ said the man behind the wheel.

  ‘Oh, thank you for stopping,’ gasped the woman in the passenger seat.

  They were clearly shaken but, thankfully, unhurt. However, the car was in no fit state to continue their journey.

  ‘It’s not a write-off but it will take some time to repair,’ said Dan, crouching down beside the damaged wing and burst tyre.

  The smart, well-dressed couple, both, I guessed, in their fifties, looked concerned. ‘I’m Edward and this is my wife, Dominique,’ he said.

  She was a strikingly beautiful woman with long dark hair and soulful eyes. ‘We’re so grateful,’ she said. ‘You really are an angel of mercy.’ There was the merest hint of a French accent.

  We shook hands. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, a headteacher from York, and we’re staying in the next village,’ I said, ‘so why don’t you come back with us and we can phone from there and get your car towed to the nearest garage?’

  Edward smiled. ‘An excellent idea,’ he said and glanced up at the onrushing dark clouds, ‘and not a moment too soon, by the look of the weather.’

  Edward and Dominique stayed the night at Low Mill while their car was towed into Hawes village to be repaired. Outside, a fierce summer thunderstorm raged, but, happily, we were safe inside. Showered and changed and with spiky damp hair and dry clothes, the children enjoyed giant portions of steak-and-kidney pie followed by rhubarb crumble and custard and then settled down together in the common room to write up their daily diaries.

  Dominique had made friends with Anne and they were sharing stories about school life, while Edward, who obviously knew much about the history of the area, began to tell a group of the children a fascinating story about Semerwater. He was clearly a well-read man and an experienced public speaker. Soon, the rest of the children gathered round and all became engrossed.

  ‘An angel came down from heaven to a city of spires, fine buildings, large houses and busy shops,’ said Edward in a dramatic voice. ‘The angel was disguised as an old man and went from house to house, seeking shelter and food. At every house in the city he was turned away until at last he knocked on the door of an old cottage where the crofter, poor as he was, let him in and gave him food, water and a place to rest.’

  Outside there was a flash of lightning, followed closely by the roar of thunder. The children snuggled closer together, eyes wide and full of interest.

  ‘The angel suddenly appeared in a blaze of light,’ said Edward, ‘and shouted in a great voice to the valley below, “Semer Water rise, Semer Water sink, and swallow all save this little house that gave me meat and drink.” And so a great flood came and covered up the whole village.’

  The children stared in a mixture of horror and amazement. There was no doubt that Edward was a gifted storyteller and Dominique smiled quietly to herself and whispered something to Anne.

  ‘All except for the crofter’s cottage,’ said Edward, ‘and folk still say that beneath the dark waters the sound of the church bells can still be heard.’

  There was silence and all of us were secretly glad we were safe and together in this warm room and away from the winds that howled mournfully across the lonely hillsides. Then everyone clapped, the spell was broken and tired children went off to their beds.

  ‘Wonderful story, Edward. Thank you,’ I said.

  ‘No, Jack, thank you … The quality of mercy is not strained,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,’ I replied.

  ‘Ah, good to meet a fellow lover of Shakespeare,’ he said.

  ‘And your children really do enjoy books,’ said Dominique, gesturing towards our box of information books about bird life, wildflowers, geology and photographs of the Dales. ‘They use them well … and Anne has told me all about your terrific library.’

  It was a relaxing end to our visit to the Dales and the following week the children painted pictures of giant waterfalls and wrote dramatic stories about canoe-racing. One morning before the start of school I was in the office with Vera, who was opening the morning mail.

  ‘Goodness me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Wonderful news, Mr Sheffield: we’ve received a cheque for five hundred pounds!’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘That’s right, and the only stipulation is it must be spent on books for the school library.’

  ‘It sounds like a dream come true, Vera,’ I said, ‘but who has sent it?’

  ‘A Lord and Lady Stannington from Northumberland,’ she said, scanning the crisp, headed writing paper with a distinctive coat of arms at the top of the page.

  ‘Lord and Lady?’

  She passed me the letter. It read:

  Dear Mr Sheffield,

  Thank you for being our angel of mercy. We wish success to everyone at Ragley School and trust the enclosed cheque will help to fill your library with further wonderful books – especially Shakespeare! Remember …

  ‘The quality of mercy is not strained,

  It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven’.

  With best wishes,

  Edward and Dominique Stannington

  I looked at Vera in disbelief and she smiled. ‘As I said, Mr Sheffield, everyone has a guardian angel.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Guardians of Secrets

  End-of-school-year reading tests were completed. Mrs Pringle wrote to the governing body to confirm she will return to full-time teaching in September 1981. All the children painted a picture for the annual Church Fête art competition entitled ‘My Happiest Day at Ragley School’.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 26 June 1981

  AN EARLY-MORNING MIST covered the distant fields like a cloak of secrets.

  I opened my bedroom window and breathed in the clean summer air. The scent of roses drifted up to greet me and wisteria clung to the window frame like a lover’s embrace. Basking in the sunshine, bright-winged butterflies spread their lace wings on the sturdy stems of the buddleia bushes.

  It was seven o’clock on Friday, 26 June, and there were decisions to be made – decisions that would determine the rest of my life.

  Over my breakfast cereal I opened the envelope once again and spread out the contents. The letter with the coat of arms of North Yorkshire County Council looked impressive and I scanned the first line: ‘Headteacher required for Gorse Manor Primary School, Scarborough, to commence January 1982 …’ Attached was a two-page application form requesting information about the schools I had attended, long-forgotten GCE results, degree classifica
tions, details of my current post and a request for a handwritten letter in support of my application. The closing date was Friday, 3 July, only one week away. I gathered up the papers and the envelope and put them in my jacket pocket.

  The playground was already full of early arrivals when I arrived at school. Boys were kicking a ball around the school field and pretending to be Liverpool beating Real Madrid in the European Cup Final, while on the tarmac playground the Buttle twins were winding a long skipping rope. Girls were taking turns to skip while chanting out a rhyme:

  ‘One man went to mow,

  Went to mow a meadow.

  One man and his dog,

  Stop, bottle o’ pop, fish an’ chips,

  Ol’ Mother Riley an’ ’er cow,

  Went to mow a meadow.’

  I almost envied the children with their fantasy football and skipping rhymes. They were enjoying the long carefree summer days of a seemingly endless childhood and I wondered what would become of them. In our own way, and with an unwritten curriculum, we had taught them to read and write, share a box of crayons, eat with a knife and fork, recite their own poetry and be proud of their own precious gifts. We had uncovered the mysteries of long division, shared stories of magical lands, made colourful kites and flown them in a powder-blue sky.

  There was a rhythm to the life of a village teacher, shaped by school terms and seasons. The autumn term had the bounty of a harvest festival and Bonfire Night, with its hot soup and sparklers, rockets and Roman candles. Then there was the excitement of Christmas with carols and cards, mulled wine and mince pies, parties and presents. The spring term brought with it the Jack Frost patterns on the school windows along with the smell of damp wellingtons lined up by the radiators. Summer term was always one of mixed emotions, with school trips, cricket matches, fêtes and fairs, followed inevitably by the final farewells to the school leavers.

  I knew I loved teaching but what would it be like to manage a large school? My skills were in the classroom not in the unknown world of timetabling, political dog-fighting, financial management and education committees. I felt as if I was on an annual carousel where the children remained constant; only the faces changed year by year … So many children, so many faces.