Big Dave looked puzzled. He had never been into emotions – that was for women. ‘Ah don’t like,’ he said.
‘Men!’ muttered Nellie. As she turned off Nick Berry on the radio she prayed that his message every loser wins applied to ordinary young women like her best friend Dorothy. She picked up her coat and set off for Nora’s Coffee Shop.
I pulled up on the High Street by the General Stores. The sign outside read:
GENERAL STORES & NEWSAGENT
‘A cornucopia of delights’
Proprietor – Prudence Anastasia Golightly
The bell above the door rang as I walked in. Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd were being served. Prudence put a bottle of Sanatogen wine and a TV Times on the counter.
Betty held up the bottle. ‘M’mother swears by it, Prudence. She says it’s ’er brain tonic.’
‘It’s certainly a powerful pick-me-up,’ said Prudence, ‘although I heard the Australians didn’t trust it. In fact they banned it during the First World War.’
‘Well that’s flippin’ Australians for you,’ retorted Betty. She held up her TV Times. ‘In fac’ there’s even a new soap from Australia called Neighbours. We’ve got enough soaps, so I don’t know why we want another one, speshully from them down under.’
Prudence nodded politely. She had a very dear aunt who lived by the sea in Wollongong in New South Wales and didn’t feel inclined to damn the whole of Australasia.
‘It’ll never catch on,’ added Margery for good measure as they walked out.
As always, Prudence had my morning newspaper ready for me. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ and the petite shopkeeper moved up on to the next wooden step behind the counter to be on a level with me.
‘Good morning, Prudence,’ I said and glanced up, ‘and good morning to you, Jeremy.’
Her dearest friend was sitting on his usual shelf next to a tin of loose-leaf Lyons Tea and an old advertisement for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills. Prudence always made sure her teddy bear was well turned out. Today he looked smart in a checked lumberjack shirt, brown cord trousers and a bright blue bobble hat.
‘Oh dear,’ said Prudence glancing at the front page article. ‘There’s more about Jeffrey Archer, I’m afraid.’
The politician and popular novelist had stepped down from his role as deputy leader of the Conservative Party at the start of the week following reports that he had paid a prostitute, Monica Coghlan, to leave the country so that she wouldn’t be questioned by the police about his involvement with her.
‘Yes, I heard about the photograph,’ I said.
The previous Sunday’s News of the World had published a photograph of an intermediary sent by Archer handing over the money at Victoria station and his downfall was swift.
As I turned to leave, Prudence looked around the shop – at that moment there were no other customers. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘I hear things here in my shop and, as you know, I’m not one for trivial gossip.’
I was curious. ‘Of course.’
She lowered her voice. ‘Two men were in earlier today talking about Mr Coe. I was in the back room seeking out some Castella cigars for one of them and I heard the word “revenge”. It really sounded quite unnerving.’
‘Intriguing,’ I said. ‘Perhaps it was nothing,’ I added, not wishing to alarm Prudence. Secretly it occurred to me that Stan Coe had probably collected many enemies over the years. I paid for my newspaper and walked out to my car. The local refuse wagon trundled past and Big Dave Robinson gave me a cheery wave. Sitting alongside him was his cousin, Little Malcolm Robinson, head down and deep in thought. It appeared all was not well.
As I drove towards the school gates I was surprised to see a dark blue Ford Transit parked under the horse chestnut trees by the school wall. It sported the words ‘Junk & Disorderly – E. Clifton of Thirkby’ painted on the side in gold letters. I recognized the tall figure of Edward Clifton. He was the keen amateur astronomer and David Soul lookalike who had given an excellent talk to the children last year concerning the arrival of Halley’s Comet. He was in earnest conversation with Anne Grainger and I presumed our deputy headteacher was arranging another visit.
I parked my car, picked up my old satchel from the passenger seat, took a deep breath and set off to face another school day. It was destined to prove eventful.
In the office Ruby was talking to Vera.
‘So what did you say, Ruby?’
‘Well, ah said ah’d ’ave to ask m’children first an’ ’e said ’e understood. ’E really is a lovely man, Mrs F, ’e were so patient.’
‘I’m so pleased for you, Ruby,’ said Vera with a smile. ‘Mr Dainty is a very fine man.’ She stood up and gave her a hug. ‘I presume this is confidential for the time being?’
Ruby nodded. ‘Ah need t’pick m’moment, speshully wi’ our ’Azel. She took Ronnie’s death the ’ardest an’ ah don’t want ’er upset.’
‘Of course,’ said Vera. ‘I’m sure there will be a good time.’
‘’E wants t’buy me a ring but ah’ve said we need t’wait ’cause of m’children.’
Vera closed the door. ‘Ruby, if you married Mr Dainty would you want to stay on as caretaker?’
‘Dunno, Mrs F,’ said Ruby, staring out of the window. ‘Ah’d miss m’job, an’ t’children … an’ you o’ course.’
Vera smiled at her dear friend. ‘That’s a kind thing to say, Ruby.’
‘Thing about retirement, Mrs F, is that my mother says there’s nothing t’do all day an’ all day t’do it in. So ah’d prob’bly carry on working, but mebbe part-time.’
‘Are you absolutely certain?’ asked Vera.
Ruby thought hard and then nodded. ‘Ah’m certain, Mrs F, absolutely certain … an’ wi’out any fear o’ contraception.’
Vera smiled gently at her friend. ‘Well you can’t be more certain than that,’ she said.
Meanwhile the refuse wagon had reached the leafy road to Morton and Big Dave was becoming tired of his cousin’s downcast mood. ‘C’mon, Malc’, y’not ’xactly a bag o’ laughs this mornin’. What’s up?’
Little Malcolm sighed deeply and shook his head. ‘Ah’m a loser, Dave,’ he said mournfully.
Big Dave glanced across at his diminutive cousin and changed down a gear. ‘’Ow come, Malc’?’
Little Malcolm sighed. ‘Well ah’m jus’ a bin man what can’t get things right.’
Big Dave realized this called for action and he pulled into a layby. ‘But we’re t’best bin men i’ Yorkshire,’ he said proudly. ‘Ev’ryone says so.’
‘Ah know that,’ conceded Little Malcolm, ‘but it’s my Dorothy. Ev’rythin’ ah say … she bites me ’ead off.’
Big Dave switched off the engine. ‘So what’s up wi’ Dorothy?’ he asked. ‘Ah mus’ say ah’ve noticed she’s been a bit quiet lately, but my Nellie goes like that sometimes. It’s ’cause they ’ave ’ormones.’
‘But she’s gettin’ real mardy – sort of irritated,’ lamented Little Malcolm, ‘an’ ah think she said summat abart seein’ Doctor Davenport.’
‘That’s what women do – they’re allus goin’ to t’doctor’s wi’ all them feminine things.’
‘Ah s’ppose,’ admitted Little Malcolm glumly.
‘Jus’ tek ’er out,’ advised Big Dave, ‘that’s what ah do wi’ Nellie. Ah tek ’er to t’pub an’ then mebbe tell ’er ah like ’er ’air.’
‘Ah’ve tried that an’ it dunt work,’ said Little Malcolm mournfully.
‘Well, tell ’er she’s lookin’ slim,’ suggested Big Dave knowledgeably. ‘That never fails. They all love that.’
Little Malcolm considered this for a moment. ‘Mebbe you’ve got summat there, Dave, ’cause ah’ve noticed she ’as been gettin’ a bit on the ’eavy side.’
‘It’s all psychological wi’ women, Malc’,’ said Big Dave, tapping his forehead with a grubby forefinger. ‘You ’ave t’keep ’em ’appy.’
Little Malcolm settle
d back in his seat. He knew Big Dave was doing his best to make him feel better, but he still felt like a five-foot-four-inch loser. ‘OK, Dave,’ he said, resigned to his fate. ‘Let’s c’llect some bins.’
Big Dave smiled: it was another problem solved. He crashed the wagon into first gear and they drove off.
In the school office I had barely hung up my duffel coat and scarf before I sensed the atmosphere. Vera had opened the morning mail and was sitting white-faced with anger. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she said and thrust the letter in my direction.
It was from the School Governor Services Department at County Hall confirming our revised list of governors for the new amalgamated school of Ragley & Morton, commencing January 1987.
The list looked the same apart from two names. One was Mrs Rebecca Parrish, a senior lecturer in education at the college in York, who had become our new parent governor. This was positive news. Her nine-year-old daughter Katie had just moved up into my class and Mrs Parrish’s expertise would prove a welcome addition to the governing body.
However, the final name on the list was a bombshell. It was the only remaining ex-governor of Morton School – a certain Mr Stanley Coe.
‘Oh no!’ I groaned.
Vera had composed herself. ‘I’ll speak with Joseph,’ she said quietly. ‘Perhaps something can be done.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ I said. ‘I wonder if that’s why he was smiling.’
With a weary tread I set off for my classroom.
It was a few minutes before morning break when our mathematics lesson was interrupted. ‘Big van comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ announced Stuart Ormroyd without appearing to look up from his School Mathematics Project workcard and the properties of equilateral triangles.
A large truck was reversing into the school car park and a man in blue overalls was waving his arms to direct the driver. The sign on the side read ‘COUNTY OFFICE FURNITURE SUPPLIES’. The tables, chairs and storage units for the temporary classroom had arrived.
‘Is it t’furniture for t’new classroom, Mr Sheffield?’ asked an excited Hayley Spraggon.
‘An’ can we watch, sir?’ put in Barry Stonehouse as all heads turned towards the windows.
‘Yes, I’m sure you can,’ I said, ‘but you need to make sure you don’t get in the way.’ I sent a message to Anne, who was on playground duty, to make sure the children kept well back from the procession of furniture.
Meanwhile, Ruby had arrived to put out the dining tables in preparation for our daily Reading Workshop in the school hall. Twirling her bunch of keys, she then set off for the temporary classroom to unlock the double doors. She stood inside, determined all the furniture should arrive in good order.
On the other side of the school wall, the two village gossips, Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd, had stopped to watch the unloading of the furniture.
‘Looks posh,’ said Margery.
‘Ah wonder who’s goin’ in there?’ murmured Betty.
‘Mebbe all t’new uns from Morton,’ suggested Margery.
Betty pondered this for a moment. ‘No, ah think Mr Sheffield’ll want t’put ’em all t’gether. Y’know, Ragley an’ Morton, so they don’t feel left out an’ can mek friends.’
Margery nodded and stared at Anne Grainger, who was in animated conversation with the children.
‘You’ll never guess what ah saw when ah went t’Thirkby market las’ Saturday,’ confided Margery.
‘What’s that then?’ asked Betty.
‘Only Mrs Grainger,’ said Margery, nodding towards our deputy headteacher.
‘So what’s t’do about that?’ asked Betty.
Margery looked left and right to ensure they would not be overheard. ‘Well, she were comin’ out o’ that antiques shop where that big good-lookin’ man works.’
‘Y’mean ’im what gave a talk about that comet?’ queried Betty.
‘That’s the one, Betty, an’ ’e looks spittin’ image o’ David Soul.’
‘Oooh yes,’ said Betty, going weak at the knees. ‘But mebbe she were jus’ shoppin’.’
‘It were more than shoppin’,’ said Margery conspiratorially. ‘They looked all lovey-dovey t’me.’
‘Well who would ’ave thought, an’ ’er a teacher an’ all,’ said Betty.
‘Mebbe so, but ’e could ’ang ’is coat on my bedroom door any day of the week,’ added Margery.
They both sighed and for a moment imagined an afternoon of hot passion with the handsome antiques dealer. The chiming of the church clock up the Morton Road disturbed their lurid thoughts and with a sigh they went their separate ways.
After checking with Vera to see if there were any important messages, I collected my mug of coffee and went out to help Anne supervise the children. A large crowd had gathered, all showing interest as two burly workmen proceeded to unload the new furniture. Slowly but surely it was neatly piled in the temporary classroom to Ruby’s satisfaction. I looked inside. There were smart new rectangular tables with grey Formica tops and trays for the children’s books and pens. The chairs were modern and stacked easily, and the bookcases and the teacher’s desk smelled of new wood. Finally, a huge chalkboard and a collection of large noticeboards were carried in and propped up under the windows, waiting to be fixed to the walls by the next team from County Hall.
When the bell rang for the end of playtime Anne went over to stand with the children in her class. This was an excellent opportunity for language development, so she gathered her children around her and encouraged them to describe the events taking place.
As they walked back inside, Anne looked down at little Walter Popple’s outdoor shoes. ‘Your shoes are on the wrong feet, Walter.’
Walter was puzzled. ‘No, they’re not, Miss – they’re on mine!’
Anne smiled, but the smile quickly disappeared as, beyond the school wall, she saw a familiar Ford Transit driving slowly past the village green and the driver giving her a hesitant wave. There were decisions to make in her life and some of them were difficult.
At lunchtime we gathered in the staff-room, where Vera had prepared a pot of tea and laid out a plate of her home-made oat crunch biscuits. She poured the tea and, to her dismay, noticed that Sally Pringle was reading the Guardian.
‘Makes for dismal reading,’ observed Sally. ‘Average house prices have shot up to almost forty thousand pounds, a gallon of petrol is now one pound eighty-nine and the rate of inflation is now three point four per cent.
‘Oh dear,’ said Anne.
‘We’ll never afford our own home at this rate,’ said Pat reflectively.
‘Life is getting more difficult under Maggie,’ added Sally pointedly.
Vera kept quiet and wiped the draining board.
Sally looked across to her. ‘And there’s a report about something called “mad cow disease” … but never fear, Vera, I don’t think they’re referring to our Prime Minister.’
Not worth a reply, thought Vera as she dried the cups with her favourite tea towel.
Everyone sank into their own thoughts.
Pat was marking some of her children’s writing and trying to decipher six-year-old Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw’s writing. It was clear that Dallas was still using her own version of phonics. She had written ‘arwentart afta me metantatipi’ and Pat deduced it meant ‘I went out after my meat and potato pie’.
At least she’s trying to write, thought Pat as she carefully printed out the correct sentence.
During afternoon school the children in my class continued with their history project. I was helping Sigourney Longbottom to use the index in the back of one of the reference books we had borrowed from the mobile library. It was then that I noticed her answer to one of the questions. In response to ‘In which battle did King Harold die?’ Sigourney had written, ‘His last one.’ I decided to discuss this with her after conceding that, technically, she was correct.
As I walked away I overheard Claire Buttershaw lean across the desk and say, ‘Sigou
rney, your hair’s all messy. Do you want t’borrow my brush? I’ve got one in my bag.’
‘Thanks,’ said Sigourney and she ran her fingers through her spiky, unkempt hair. ‘Ah learned a long time ago that when yer mam’s mad at you, don’t let ’er brush yer ’air.’
Very true, I thought.
At afternoon break Vera was busy preparing a note for parents confirming the half-term holiday dates and the arrangements for the Parent Teacher Association bonfire.
I was on duty, so I collected a mug of tea and walked out on to the playground. Two seven-year-olds, Billy Ricketts and Sam Whittaker, were talking about girlfriends.
‘’Ave you got a girlfriend?’ asked Billy.
‘No, ah don’t like girls,’ said Sam. ‘So, ’ave you got one?’
‘No, ah don’t like ’em, they’re all soft an’ can’t play football.’
‘Y’right there,’ agreed Sam.
‘But my big brother ’as got a girlfriend,’ said Billy. ‘’E went out wi’ ’er for t’first time las’ night. ’E said it were a date.’
‘A date?’
‘Yes, that’s what ’e said it were.’
‘Is ’e seein’ ’er again?’
‘Dunno,’ said Billy. ‘But ’e knows about girls. ’E said if y’tell ’em enough lies, y’get a second date.’
‘Oh, ah see,’ said Sam … but he didn’t.
‘Ah think ’e’s in love,’ added Billy knowingly.
‘What’s love?’ asked Sam.
‘M’brother says it’s when y’buy a girl some flowers ’cause if y’don’t y’get told off.’
Sam considered this for a moment until something caught his attention on the other side of the playground. ‘Alfie Spraggon’s got a spider in a matchbox.’
‘Cor!’ said Billy. ‘Let’s go,’ and they ran off to investigate another of life’s mysteries.
It was ‘Story Time’, the last lesson of the day, and I was reading Dragon Slayer: The Story of Beowulf by Rosemary Sutcliff, an inspirational author who had spent most of her life in a wheelchair. The children were spellbound as the Anglo Saxon epic unfolded, and it was at times like this I remembered why teaching was the best profession in the world. Also, on occasions, it could be the most amusing.
Happiest Days Page 6
