04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  By ten o’clock, our school hall was full for the final ‘Leavers’ Assembly’. Predictably, it was a tearful one, particularly for the parents whose children were called out one by one to receive the gift of a book donated by the PTA. Saying goodbye to these children was hard enough but knowing that the school might close as well was almost heartbreaking.

  The Revd Joseph Evans, as chair of governors, spoke of these ‘uncertain times’ in his final summary of the school year and there was silence when he said that our fate would soon be known. He thanked the teachers for all their hard work and, particularly, Valerie Flint, for taking over from Sally Pringle in Class 3.

  Anne and Vera looked close to tears when Katy Ollerenshaw closed our last assembly of the academic year with our traditional school prayer:

  Dear Lord,

  This is our school, let peace dwell here,

  Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,

  Love of one another, love of life itself,

  And love of God.

  Amen.

  At the end of school, Vera gave each pupil a sealed manila envelope containing a written report in an A5-size booklet for signing and eventual return by their parents. Once again, I had indulged in polite phrases: ‘could do better’ actually meant ‘rather lazy’ and ‘a little more effort in mathematics would be helpful’ really should have read ‘struggles with long division’. Like most village teachers, I knew my pupils well and the after-school conversations with parents at the school gate were often far more valuable than the official communications.

  Finally, the academic year 1980–1981 came to its close and I thanked Jo and Valerie Flint for all their hard work and wished them a happy holiday. Our school emptied for the last time and I watched the children of Ragley village walk down the drive and out of the school gates. For them there was always a tomorrow under a seemingly endless summer sun – a time of dreams and discoveries, of pigtails and promises. It was an image of childhood that was etched in my mind, forever constant but ever changing.

  Now came the hard part. I wanted Anne and Vera to know about my interview.

  Anne was clearing up the contents of her Home Corner when I walked into her classroom and shut the door behind me.

  ‘Anne, I need to share something with you,’ I said.

  She sat down on one of the low plastic-topped tables and looked at me patiently.

  I plunged in. ‘I’ve got an interview for another headship.’

  There was a long silence. ‘Well, I hope it goes well for you,’ said Anne. ‘Which one is it?’

  ‘Gorse Manor at Scarborough,’ I said. ‘The interview’s next Thursday and, if I get it, the job would start after Christmas.’

  She nodded. ‘My guess is you’ll have a good chance, Jack.’

  ‘Thanks, Anne.’

  ‘I presume this is confidential,’ she said.

  ‘Only Joseph knows at present, and I intend to tell Vera before she goes home, but no one else.’

  Anne looked thoughtful. ‘I understand … and Vera will appreciate being told.’

  ‘It’s been a difficult decision and not knowing Ragley’s fate hasn’t helped.’

  Anne stood up and leant against her teacher’s desk. ‘Would it have made any difference?’ she asked.

  I hesitated. ‘It’s a good opportunity for Beth and me but, in reality, I’m unlikely to get it.’

  She pondered my response for a moment. ‘Well, I enjoy working with you, Jack, but obviously I’m a little sad.’ She walked over and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘It won’t be the same without you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said and walked out.

  Vera was putting on her coat when I walked into the school office. Once again, I shut the door behind me.

  ‘Excuse me, Vera, may I have a word?’ I said. ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Of course, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Vera,’ I began slowly, ‘I spoke to Joseph a few weeks ago in confidence about applying for another headship. He agreed to support my application and I’ve got an interview at County Hall next Thursday for a school in Scarborough.’

  ‘I see,’ she said and sat down at her desk.

  ‘I told Anne a few minutes ago, but I’m not mentioning it to anyone else at this stage.’

  ‘Yes, that’s wise,’ she said and clasped her hands.

  ‘I wanted you to know, Vera, and … I probably won’t get it anyway.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me,’ she said. A knowing look crossed her face. ‘Now I understand why Joseph has looked a little preoccupied lately.’

  ‘He was very understanding,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, he would be – as I am.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera.’

  ‘I wish you luck, Mr Sheffield, and I’m sure you will do well in interview.’ Her eyes scanned the office as if for the first time. ‘I thought this might happen.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Yes, once school closures became imminent. So I decided that, if you moved on, I should retire.’

  ‘That would be a sad day for Ragley School,’ I said.

  She gave me a weak smile. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘but, even if the school remained open, I wouldn’t want to start again with another headteacher.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Vera,’ I said. ‘You’re a marvellous secretary and I couldn’t have managed without you.’

  She stood up, took a tiny lace handkerchief out of her handbag and dabbed her eyes. ‘I imagine Beth must be pleased,’ she said.

  ‘She’s keen for everything to be settled so that we can get married.’

  ‘I see,’ she said and looked up at me curiously. Then she walked to the door and paused with her hand on the handle.

  ‘What is it, Vera?’ I asked.

  ‘Jack … Thank you once again for your support and friendship.’ She had called me by my first name.

  ‘I should have been lost without you, Vera,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I know all good things come to an end,’ she said, ‘and I wish you luck …’ she opened the door and looked back, ‘but, remember, only you will know if you’ve made the right decision.’

  When she had gone only the ticking of the school clock disturbed the silence. I sat down at my desk, opened my bottom drawer, took out the logbook and wrote my last entry of the academic year.

  On Wednesday, 29 July, early-morning clouds were slow to clear. There wasn’t a breath of wind and a hot, muggy day was in store. It seemed as though the world had slowed to a stop for the royal wedding and 700 million people were about to watch the day’s events unfold.

  At eight o’clock Vera switched on Radio 4 to listen to Wynford Vaughan-Thomas while she added chopped banana to Joseph’s morning Weetabix. At that moment, in the village hall, Timothy Pratt arranged the chairs in perfectly straight lines and on the stage Albert Jenkins tuned in a huge television set to BBC 1 and Angela Rippon. Meanwhile, in the taproom of The Royal Oak, Don Bradshaw switched on the television set and selected ITV. He knew his customers: Big Dave and the Ragley cricket team preferred Selina Scott.

  At half past ten Beth and I parked in the school car park and walked down Ragley High Street, which was lined with colourful bunting, and into the village hall. Shirley Mapplebeck and Doreen Critchley were serving tea and cake and the seats were filling up quickly. The front rows had been occupied for the last hour by the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute. Beth and I sipped our tea, munched on delicious Dundee cake and watched the television.

  ‘Our turn next,’ said Beth as Lady Diana waved to the crowds. Over half a million people had lined the streets of London.

  I smiled and looked around the hall. ‘And this hall would be perfect for our wedding breakfast,’ I whispered.

  ‘Not sure it’s big enough, Jack,’ said Beth.

  I looked at her and realized she was serious.

  Then there was a communal gasp from the ladies of the Women’s Institute when the youthful twenty-y
ear-old Lady Diana emerged from her glass coach.

  ‘What a beautiful dress,’ said Vera.

  Designed by David and Elizabeth Emmanuel and made of ivory pure silk taffeta and old lace, it was a spectacular creation. The sweeping train, 25 feet long, cascaded down the steps of St Paul’s.

  ‘And such lovely flowers,’ said Joyce Davenport, dabbing tears from her eyes. Lady Diana carried a bouquet of stephanotis, white orchids and lilies of the valley, with gold roses in memory of Lord Mountbatten. Everything was perfect.

  When the Archbishop of Canterbury, Robert Runcie, began with the words ‘Here is the stuff of which fairy tales are made,’ Beth squeezed my hand.

  There followed much discussion among Vera and her friends about Princess Margaret’s deep-peach silk dress and the fact that Princess Anne had quickly regained her figure after giving birth to her daughter three months ago. Happily, the Queen Mother in sea green and the Queen in aquamarine passed the Women’s Institute rigorous test of appropriate dress sense.

  Discussion in The Royal Oak had a different emphasis. Dorothy was telling Little Malcolm that a copy of the bride’s dress would shortly be on sale in Debenham’s in London at the bargain price of £450. She was unaware that Little Malcolm’s more immediate priority was that a pint of Tetley’s was now costing him thirty pence.

  ‘ ’E’s proper ’andsome is that Charlie-boy,’ said Sheila, her voluptuous figure straining in her flag of St George blouse.

  There was no doubt that thirty-two-year-old Prince Charles looked the part in the full dress uniform of a naval commander. Margery Ackroyd, who never missed a thing, spotted that, in the marriage ceremony, both Charles and Diana fluffed their lines. Charles omitted to mention that the goods with which he endowed her were worldly ones while Diana promised to take ‘Philip Charles’ instead of ‘Charles Philip’.

  As they walked back down the aisle, everyone in the taproom waved flags and York City scarves in time to Elgar’s ‘Pomp and Circumstance’.

  Finally there was a communal ‘aaaahh’ when Charles kissed his bride on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. That was the signal for everyone to gather on the village green, where the ladies of the Women’s Institute were serving glasses of home-made lemonade and Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast was doing a roaring trade. Soon, the children of Ragley were all seated at trestle tables, enjoying jelly and ice cream. The sights and sounds of the village in celebration were all around us as Beth and I relaxed with Anne and John Grainger on a line of hay bales under the weeping-willow tree by the duck pond.

  Morris dancers went through their repertoire and Captain Fantastic amused the children with his Punch and Judy show, although it seemed Ruby and her grown-up daughters enjoyed it just as much.

  Meanwhile in the beer tent, Big Dave was regaling the Ragley cricket team with a blow-by-blow account of England’s victory over Australia at Headingley. Ian Botham had just scored 149 runs and the old foe couldn’t score the 130 they needed for victory. England cricket was once again on top of the world and life for all of us was just that little bit sweeter.

  I was standing in the queue for Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast when I overheard an interesting conversation. Deke Ramsbottom was helping out Old Tommy and supplying him with nips of whisky from his hip flask, while Ernie Morgetroyd and his son Rodney, the Morton village milkmen, were trying to score points off their Ragley neighbours.

  ‘Ah ’eard your school might be closing,’ said Ernie.

  ‘Nay, not in my lifetime,’ said Old Tommy.

  ‘An’ y’village teacher is from a long way off, so they say,’ said Ernie.

  ‘That’s reight,’ said Rodney. ‘West Riding, ah were told.’

  ‘Nay, ’e’s one of us,’ retorted Old Tommy. ‘ ’E’s played cricket f ’Ragley an’ ’e’s marrying that nice-looking teacher from Morton.’

  I smiled and looked back at Beth in her summer frock.

  ‘An ’e taught my Wayne t’read,’ added Deke.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, that is summat,’ said Ernie.

  ‘ ’Ow d’you mean?’ asked Deke, looking puzzled.

  ‘Ah thought your Wayne took after ’is dad,’ said Ernie, with a chuckle: ‘thick as chips.’

  Deke roared with laughter and Old Tommy slapped another large piece of crackling on Ernie’s plate.

  By six o’clock the crowds had drifted home and Ruby and little Hazel settled down to watch The Sound of Music on BBC 1, while the older Smith sisters stayed in The Royal Oak to watch John Travolta strut his stuff in Saturday Night Fever and sing along with the Bee-Gees.

  Later, when Beth kissed me goodnight, she whispered, ‘Good luck tomorrow, Jack.’

  Before I went to bed I looked through a copy of my letter of application and the information about the school. It didn’t help and sleep was elusive.

  On Thursday morning, under a beautiful summer sky, I set off in my Morris Minor Traveller. Dressed in my best suit and polished black shoes, I felt a little conspicuous when I called into the General Stores in Ragley High Street.

  Nora Pratt was in front of me, clutching a Woman’s Own in one hand and a twenty-pence piece in the other. ‘A Woyal Wedding Souvenir, please, Pwudence,’ said Nora. She looked at the photograph of Charles towering over Diana on the front cover. ‘ ’E must be stood on a box,’ said Nora in surprise, ‘ ’cause she’s weally tall.’

  ‘Here’s your Times, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence, ‘and may I say how smart you are looking today.’

  I put twenty pence on the counter, hurried out and glanced at the headline ‘Day of romance in a grey world’ over a photograph of the famous kiss on the balcony. It certainly felt like a grey world as I drove towards Northallerton and my date with destiny.

  Once again I walked under vast Corinthian columns and my footsteps echoed on the wide marble stairs of County Hall. Richard Gomersall, the Senior Primary Adviser, greeted me. His sartorial elegance put my plain grey suit to shame.

  Three men and two women were the other candidates. They all looked smart, calm and confident. There was little communication between us as we waited our turn to enter Room 109. The last time I had been in this room was when I was interviewed for the headship of Ragley School four years ago. So much had happened since.

  The interview was chaired by Miss Barrington-Huntley and each member of the nine-strong panel asked two questions each. The chair of governors of Gorse Manor was clearly impressed that I actually enjoyed teaching. That apart, it was an unremarkable interview and I had little difficulty answering their questions about curriculum development, leadership and school discipline.

  By lunchtime one of the candidates had decided the post was not for him and withdrawn. Lunch with the school governors was next, followed by an afternoon interview for those of us who had been selected to go forward to the next stage.

  I was leaning against a marble pillar when Richard Gomersall tapped me on my shoulder.

  ‘Can you come with me, please, Jack?’ he said.

  He opened a door, beckoned me to enter and then walked away. The office was spacious and beautifully furnished and Miss Barrington-Huntley was standing by the window and staring out. She held a sheet of paper in her hand.

  ‘Come in, Jack.’

  I shut the door. She walked to her desk and sat down.

  ‘Please,’ she said and gestured to one of the high-backed chairs that were arranged in an arc around her desk.

  I sat down and she placed the sheet of paper on the leather-bound blotting pad in front of her. Then she stared at me and appeared to be weighing her words. ‘Jack, you had a good interview this morning. There’s no doubt the panel are aware of your strengths. How do you think it went?’

  ‘From my point of view it went well,’ I said. ‘It appeared the chair of governors was interested in my willingness to take on a teaching commitment.’

  ‘That’s right. The present head has been very active in the classrooms and he’s keen for this to continue.’

  I said nothing b
ut relaxed a little in my seat.

  ‘You will be aware that it is at this stage I have a word with each candidate to confirm whether or not they would accept the post if it was offered … should they be invited to go forward to the afternoon. It may be, of course, that only one person will go forward.’ She glanced down at the sheet of paper. ‘However, I thought it wise to share a few thoughts with you before we go any further.’

  I was curious. This was unexpected.

  ‘Jack … I know how hard you have worked at Ragley School and we’re all very grateful for your efforts.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said and wondered what was coming next.

  ‘There’s no doubt that the post at Gorse Manor would be a much bigger challenge for you. Even so, you have shown that you have the appropriate leadership and management qualities required for a post such as this.’

  I couldn’t work out whether she was trying to let me down gently, although my instincts were telling me otherwise.

  ‘I’m also aware of your personal circumstances and know that your career decisions also have an impact upon Beth.’ She smiled. It had always been obvious that this formidable and powerful chair of the Education Committee had a soft spot for Beth. ‘And, of course, Beth has made a good start at Hartingdale.’

  ‘She’s very happy there, Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ I said, ‘and, of course, we both want to stay in North Yorkshire.’

  There was silence as she picked up the sheet of paper on her desk and stared at it. ‘I have here a press statement that will be made available today to the governing body of every school in our area prior to it appearing in tomorrow’s Yorkshire Post and local newspapers.’

  She looked me squarely in the eyes. ‘I thought it only fair to share this information before you progress further with the interview process for Gorse Manor. I know that it must have been difficult for you trying to plan your professional future, not knowing the fate of Ragley School.’