01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  Strangely, she was evasive. I had always found her to be the most honest and open of people but her round face was flushed when she spoke to me.

  “Our ‘azel isn’t as strong as the others, Mr Sheffield,” she said quickly. “She ‘as a lot of ups ‘n downs.”

  “It seems a shame, Ruby,” I said. “She enjoys school so much.”

  Ruby seemed to drift into a little world of her own and muttered quietly, “The first ‘n last were an accident but ah love ‘em all.”

  I said goodnight to Ruby and decided it was a mystery that would have to wait to be solved. Little did I know that a much sharper detective than me was already investigating the problem.

  It was when I mentioned little Hazel Smith’s absences to Vera that she frowned and said, “There’s more to this than meets the eye, Mr Sheffield.” Then she delved into her large, metal filing cabinet and flicked through the neat, colour-coded labels that only she understood.

  The problem of Hazel’s absences came to a head when the Education Welfare Officer called into school on his weekly visit. Roy Davidson was a caring man who knew all the problem families in the area and did his best to help them. He went into Vera’s office where she presented him as usual with the class attendance registers. After checking the rows of diagonal lines and circles alongside the name of every child, he queried the recent absenteeism of Hazel Smith.

  “This is unusual, Jack,” he said, counting the number of neat little circles against Hazel’s name. “I shall have to follow this up, especially as she is absent today.” Vera looked at me and frowned. I caught her stare and she gently shook her head.

  “Will you leave it with me until next week, Roy,” I asked. “I’ll have a word with Ruby.”

  Roy seemed happy with this arrangement and went off to visit a family of travellers who had just arrived on the outskirts of the village in their mobile caravans. Vera was deep in thought.

  “What is it, Vera?” I asked.

  Vera smiled knowingly. “I know what’s wrong with little Hazel,” she said.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Nothing,” said Vera, “nothing at all.”

  “Then why is she absent?” I asked.

  “It’s Ruby,” said Vera slowly. “She’s lonely.”

  “Lonely?” I said in surprise.

  “Yes, I could see this coming. It must be difficult for her going back to that empty house,” said Vera. “Don’t worry, I know what to do.”

  With that, she turned on her heel and began to make some telephone calls.

  At twelve o’clock. Vera and I walked into the school car park at the rear of the school. She stared approvingly at my Morris Minor Traveller with its emerald-green body, ash wood frame and gleaming chrome bumper bar.

  “You keep it so clean and there’s not a spot of rust on it,” said Vera in admiration.

  “It’s my pride and joy,” I replied with false modesty, buffing up the old yellow and chrome AA badge on the grill with my handkerchief.

  We climbed in and drove towards York. After three miles, I began to feel anxious as we reached the outskirts of Kirkby Steepleton. A house purchase was a big decision but I felt reassured as we pulled up outside a pretty cottage with a large, rambling garden full of blackberry and redcurrant bushes. The cheerful sign on the gate said ‘Bilbo Cottage’ and the bright red front door had a shiny brass knocker in the shape of the head of a roaring lion. A tiny, grey-haired lady answered and clasped Vera’s hand in the manner of an old friend.

  “Hello, Vera, it’s good to see you,” she said as we stepped into the hallway. Then she looked up at me. “And this must be the new headmaster.”

  I smiled and shook hands.

  “I’m Millicent Merryweather but everyone calls me Milly,” she said with a smile that lit up the room.

  I fell in love with the house immediately and Vera was clearly pleased with my enthusiasm. There were two bedrooms with sloping ceilings, a spacious study full of books and a spotless kitchen with leaded windows. Within fifteen minutes we had agreed the price of £12,000, to include all curtains and carpets and subject to a survey. It seemed appropriate that we shook hands on the deal in the hallway next to the large photograph of Milly’s late husband, Roger, resplendent in his major’s uniform and military moustache. It appeared that he, too, had given the transaction his blessing.

  Before we left, Vera suggested that I had a closer look at the garden while she and Milly chatted in the oak-beamed lounge. The garden was a haven for wild birds and the holly bushes beside the well-kept lawn tugged at my clothes as I wandered to the furthest corner and looked back at the house. I sat on a wrought-iron garden seat, and breathed in the fragrance of the pale yellow floribunda roses around me. A faded white plastic label was attached to one of them and on it, in spidery cursive writing, was the single word ‘Peace’. At last I felt at home.

  As we drove back to Ragley, Vera still had other things on her mind. She was also clutching a large canvas bag that I had not noticed before.

  “Just pull into School View please, Mr Sheffield. We’ve got enough time,” said Vera. Even in off-duty moments, she still insisted on my formal title although she preferred me to call her Vera.

  “I want a quick word with Ruby,” she added. “Just come to the door with me but let me speak to her privately.”

  Vera picked up the canvas bag and strode purposefully up the garden path to Ruby’s door. I followed a pace behind, taking care not to trip over the old motorcycle parts that littered the overgrown lawn. Ruby looked surprised to see us.

  “Oh it’s you, Miss Evans, do come in. I’m sorry it’s a bit untidy,” said Ruby, looking a little flustered. “I’ve just got back from the Co-op with our ‘azel, they’re selling children’s shoes at £1.99.”

  “Hello, Ruby. Don’t worry, I’m here with some good news for you,” said Vera with a reassuring smile, “and don’t mind Mr Sheffield, he’s just giving me a lift.”

  I felt like a spare part so I sat on the arm of a threadbare sofa near the fireplace. Hazel ran in from the kitchen clutching a bag of crisps. She looked pleased to see me and thrust the packet under my nose.

  “Teacher, teacher, do you want a crisp?” she yelled excitedly.

  “Thank you, Hazel,” I said and took one.

  For some reason Hazel was always so excited she began every sentence with the words ‘Teacher, teacher’ when she was addressing a member of staff. Hazel clearly loved life and lived it with breathless enthusiasm. She appeared unconcerned that I was there and had settled on the carpet to watch the television. Pipkins, a pre-school glove puppet show featuring Hartley Hare, had just finished on Yorkshire Television so Hazel pressed a burton to switch to BBC1. It was ‘Closedown’ time but Hazel clearly didn’t mind as she stared contentedly at the flickering image of the smiling blond-haired girl on the test card.

  As Vera and Ruby went into the kitchen and closed the door behind them, I spotted a faded black-and-white photograph on the mantelpiece that showed a slim and youthful Ruby with a cascade of beautiful wavy, chestnut hair down to her waist. She wore a crown and was waving a white-gloved hand to an unseen crowd. Underneath the photograph were the words ‘Ragley Village May Queen 1950’. Twenty-seven years, six children and an uncontrollable passion for Rowntrees Lion Bars, Kit Kats and Smarties had gradually ravaged and bloated that youthful frame. Ruby had become a very big lady.

  Minutes later, Vera emerged from the kitchen followed by a red-faced Ruby who was now clutching the canvas bag and dabbing away a few tears with a tissue.

  Vera gave me a knowing look and said, “Mr Sheffield, you can go on if you like. Ruby and I will follow you in a few minutes. We’ll bring Hazel for afternoon school and then we’ve got things to discuss.” She tapped the canvas bag reassuringly and Ruby hugged it as if it was something very precious.

  At the end of school I was in my classroom, marking problem solving of a different type. The top maths group had to work out how long it took for a snail
that travelled only two centimetres every ten minutes to get to the top of a sunflower that was two metres tall. Whilst I was pleased that most of the children had got it right, I was more pleased that they had asked why the snail wanted to get there in the first place. I had just finished putting red ticks on the last exercise book, which included a lovely drawing by Jenifer Jayne Tait of an exhausted snail, when I heard the first verse of ‘Climb Every Mountain’ echoing down the corridor.

  Ruby sounded in good spirits, and I walked out to meet her.

  “Climb every mountain,” sang Ruby.

  She looked up and rested on her mop.

  “I was pleased to see Hazel back at school this afternoon,” I said.

  “She’s fine now, thanks, Mr Sheffield,” said Ruby. “She won’t be away no more, thanks to Miss Evans.”

  I was curious.

  “Miss Evans?”

  “Yes, she brought me Mrs Merryweather’s cross-stitch kit in a big sewing bag,” explained Ruby. “She said that Mrs Merryweather wanted me to ‘ave it because she ‘ad ‘eard I was good at sewing an’ she doesn’t need it any more. So I’m going to go to Miss Evans’ Cross-Stitch Club every Tuesday and Thursday morning at ‘alf past ten in the village ‘all.”

  Ruby looked as though she had just got eight draws on the football pools.

  ♦

  A few days later, at the end of school, Anne and I were in the school office looking at a catalogue of library furniture and Vera was filing the last piece of paper from her desk so that, as always, she left it clean and tidy. A timid knock on the door attracted our attention.

  “Come in,” said Vera.

  Ruby’s red face appeared sheepishly round the door.

  “Hello, Ruby,” said Vera cheerfully.

  “ello, Miss Evans,” said Ruby. “Would you like me to empty your bin?”

  Anne and I buried our heads in the catalogue.

  “Of course, Ruby,” said Vera. “That’s very kind of you.”

  Vera picked up the wickerwork basket full of crumpled carbon paper, card off-cuts and torn brown envelopes, and passed it to Ruby.

  “And how is Hazel today?” asked Vera.

  “She’s fine, thank you,” said Ruby as she took the bin into the corridor to empty it into a black plastic bag. Anne and I looked on in amazement as Vera went to collect her coat.

  When Ruby came back into the office she replaced the bin, fumbled in the voluminous pocket at the front of her apron and put a tiny parcel on Vera’s desk.

  “Goodnight, Miss Evans,” said Ruby.

  Vera walked back into the office, buttoning her navy blue overcoat.

  “Goodnight, Ruby,” said Vera as she noticed the parcel that had been placed on the clean white blotting pad in the centre of the desk.

  Vera undid the thick white string and opened the brown wrapping paper. Inside was a small wooden photo frame from with glass removed. In its place was a piece of card over which was stretched a piece of cotton cloth. On the cloth was a beautiful piece of cross-stitch work. It was a picture of a black cat with distinctive white paws.

  Vera looked at it for a long time and then placed it carefully on the desk next to the precious photograph of her cats.

  In the distance we could hear Ruby as she resumed her cleaning.

  Above the clatter of her galvanized bucket, the sweet sound of Edelweiss drifted down the corridor.

  Three

  Parents’ Evening

  Parents’ Evening. 7.00 – 9.00 p.m. 72 of 80 children were represented.

  A successful evening. All teachers contributed towards a display of work in the school hall.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday 22 October 1977

  “N

  othing can possibly go wrong, Jack,” said Anne as she carefully arranged a display of Plasticine animals in her classroom, “so go and talk to Vera. You’re making me nervous.”

  Anne was right. I was agitated. It was half past six on Wednesday 12 October and my first Parents’ Evening was due to begin at seven o’clock. Parent-teacher interviews were stressful at the best of times and even more so when you were a newly appointed headmaster.

  It was reassuring that Jo and Sally appeared so relaxed. They were chatting with Vera who was sitting behind a desk at the entrance to the main hall. Vera looked as if she was in charge of passport control. Every parent would have to check in with her before they looked at the displays of work in the hall, corridors and classrooms.

  Vera was engrossed in the front-page article of the Yorkshire Evening Press.

  “She’ll go far that woman,” she said with a voice full of admiration.

  “Who will?” asked Sally as she looked at the typed list of interviews on Vera’s clipboard.

  “Margaret Thatcher,” said Vera. “Look at that lovely suit she’s wearing. She always looks so smart.”

  Sally stared at the front-page photograph. “Marks & Spencer isn’t my style,” she said disdainfully. Sally was wearing a trendy floral blouse with a brightly patterned skirt and a vivid orange waistcoat.

  Jo looked up from the adjustments she was making to the stopwatch she used for netball matches, which would enable her to time the five-minute interviews accurately.

  “Who’s the choirboy with the long hair next to her?” asked Jo.

  Vera adjusted her steel-framed spectacles and peered closely at the text.

  “It’s a sixteen-year-old boy called William Hague,” said Vera. “It says here he made a speech at the party conference in Blackpool and he received a standing ovation.”

  “Looks a bit like one of the Boomtown Rats to me,” said Jo, unimpressed.

  Vera was not to be put out of her stride. “The reporter says he was like a young Winston Churchill.”

  “He’s got too much hair for that,” said Sally with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Wonder what he’ll be when he grows up,” mumbled Jo, still fiddling with the stopwatch.

  “He’s interested in the law,” said Vera, scanning the rest of the piece. “Pity, we’ll never know if he might have made a good politician.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Well, I’m going to do a final check of my reports, so good luck, everybody,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.

  We walked off to our various classrooms and left Vera grumbling about Prime Minister Jim Callaghan and North Sea oil revenue as the hall clock ticked round to seven.

  My throat was dry and I couldn’t recall being as nervous since my interview.

  I looked around my classroom. I’d done my homework and I was ready.

  A list of parent-teacher interviews lay before me and the children’s desks were piled high with individual collections of folders and reading books. For the tenth time I rearranged the two tiny reception chairs in an attempt to conjure up an arrangement conducive to informal discussion. Everything was prepared and I told myself there was no need to be nervous but my stomach was churning as I saw the first parents walking up the driveway.

  I glanced down at my list and tried to forecast the problem interviews. The child who had given me the most headaches was undoubtedly Claire Malarky and I hoped to see her parents. Sadly, they had not booked an appointment. It was usually the case that the parents you most needed to see never made an appearance.

  There were three girls in my class called Claire but there the similarity ended. Blond-haired, cheerful Claire Phillips was popular, hard working and captain of the netball team. Her parents were due in first at seven o’clock so a pleasant start to the evening was assured. Plump, ginger-haired Claire Bradshaw, the landlord’s daughter, was cheerful, good at mathematics, very trustworthy and ran the school tuck shop. Brown-haired Claire Malarky was unsociable, moody, careless and arrived each day sullen, listless and inattentive. She was a real problem.

  The first two parents arrived a few minutes before the appointed hour. I tried not to appear too eager and gave them the opportunity to stroll around the classroom while I attempted to work out
who they might be. They stopped next to one of Claire Phillips’s paintings and studied it appreciatively. It suddenly became obvious who they were. The mother had that unmistakable blond hair and lovely smile just like her equally attractive daughter. I rose confidently to meet them.

  “Hello, it’s Claire’s mum and dad, isn’t it?” I said cheerfully.

  “Yes, that’s right, Mr Sheffield. We came early to have a word. We’ve heard a lot about you, haven’t we, Ken?”

  She gave me that enchanting smile again and I relaxed with that pleasant feeling of inner security, knowing this would be the perfect interview to start off the evening.

  They sat down with something of a bump on the small chairs and I launched into my first report.

  “Well, I’m pleased to tell you that Claire is working really hard and puts enormous effort into her work. When you get home tonight please be sure to tell her how pleased you are and I’m sure she’ll respond to your encouragement.” Father looked a little confused but nodded in agreement.

  “Well, if you think it’ll do any good, Mr Sheffield. I must say, this comes as a bit of a surprise to us. She’s had some poor reports in past years.” This puzzled me slightly because I was under the impression that Claire Phillips had been a consistent worker and a very popular girl throughout her school career.

  “She’s obviously taken to Mr Sheffield’s teaching,” added Mother thoughtfully, hands clasped together in an angelic pose. I could see where her daughter’s good looks came from.

  She turned to her husband and looked at him intently.

  “We must get that bedroom organized for her, Ken. We’ve put it off too long. Let’s start this weekend. It’ll be a lovely surprise for her and a way of saying well done for all her hard work at school. It might even be a turning point. I’m sure she’s got it in her.”

  She leaned forward and squeezed her husband’s arm encouragingly. Mr Phillips pondered the problem and then nodded slowly.

  “You’re right, you know. It’s been all work for months and I’ve given her no attention at all,” he said. “I’ll take a few days off and make a really good job of it.”