01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  I had the inner glow of the successful social worker as I watched this domestic drama unfold. By the time I had added a few suggestions about how to help Claire with her mathematics at home and confirmed the dates of the cycling proficiency practices, two more couples were hovering. However, Mr and Mrs Phillips looked eager to leave anyway.

  “Thanks for your time, Mr Sheffield. We’ll get home now and tell Claire the good news,” said Mr Phillips as we shook hands.

  “This is just the news we needed,” said the buoyant and ever-smiling Mrs Phillips. “I can’t tell you what a weight you’ve lifted from my shoulders. I’ve been ever so worried about her. Many thanks, Mr Sheffield.”

  They were gone and soon forgotten as I launched myself into my next interview. The next couple had settled down as if they intended to stay all night and I found it difficult to get a word in edgeways. Dad went on at length about his recent hernia and Mother was anxious to know if I possessed a cure for arthritis. As they got up to leave, Dad took my pen and jotted down the address of their friend in the Lake District in case I was ever in that region. I had no time to mention their son’s petty kleptomania or the fact that my pen had mysteriously disappeared.

  Anita Cuthbertson’s father came alone and sat down as if he carried the worries of the world on his shoulders.

  “I’m afraid your Anita tends to talk a lot in class,” I said apologetically.

  He shook his head in despair.

  “You should live with ‘er mother, Mr Sheffield,” he said sadly. “Ah never get a word in edgeways.”

  I felt sorry for him as he wandered off.

  Suddenly, Mrs Sheila Bradshaw, chic and stunning in a silk blouse that left little to the imagination, bounced in briefly from The Oak with a large flask clutched to her prodigious bosom. She flashed an inviting smile as she stooped and placed the welcome refreshment next to my chair.

  “Just a little something t’keep your spirits up, Mr Sheffield. I can’t stay ‘cause we’re packed in both bars. Anyway, thanks for all you’ve done for our Claire. Bye f’now.”

  A few heads turned as she swept out, hips swaying with exaggerated confidence, leaving behind her the lingering scent of Lentheric Musk that was only dissipated when Stan Coe, fresh from his pig farm, squeaked by in his damp Wellingtons and glowered at me. He had made it clear he didn’t approve of ‘outsiders’ having positions of influence in the village.

  “oneymoon’ll soon be over,” he muttered ungraciously as he passed within earshot.

  As the evening wore on I found myself repeating the same little phrases but somehow I remained coherent as the concourse of assorted faces came and went. There were faces that stared at me with stern, hypnotic intensity; faces that smiled apologetically for taking up my time and faces that looked as if they had heard it all before and wondered why they kept attending this annual ritual.

  There were fathers who had been forced to squeeze into suits that were too tight for them and fashion-conscious mothers who sported new catalogue outfits under the public glare of the hall lights. I spoke to parents whose professional qualifications far exceeded mine, and others who were barely literate. I also received a letter of apology from Mrs Betty Buttle, delivered by her friend from the council estate, Mrs Middleton, who was on her way to a bingo evening in York. The letter read:

  Dear Sir, please excus me from Open Nite but I have bunions with spastic tendencies and my walking is panefull. Yours truly, Betty Buttle.

  I later learned that Mrs Buttle’s unique affliction to her pedal extremities did not deter her from winning £73.50 for a ‘full house’ at the Bingo Parlour. She announced, at her celebration in The Oak, that this had only been achieved after ‘sweatin’ on Kelly’s Eye Number One and Two Fat Ladies Eighty Eight for a full five minutes’.

  A jingle of bells suddenly seemed incongruous and I looked up to see an unlikely sight. A short man dressed as a cowboy approached me and the tiny bells on his spurs jingled as he walked. His bright red shirt was decorated with golden thread, beautifully stitched in the shape of an eagle and his brown leather waistcoat sported a highly polished sheriff’s badge. He removed his broad-brimmed cowboy hat and sat down.

  “Howdy, ah’m Wayne’s dad,” he said.

  I quickly gathered my composure and looked down at my list.

  “Oh, it’s Mr Ramsbottom,” I said. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  “Call me Deke,” he said. “Everyone else does.”

  “Deke?” I asked.

  “Yup,” he said. “Short for Derek.”

  “Oh, OK, er, Deke.”

  “Hope you don’t mind the cowboy gear,” he said, “but ah’m on in half an hour.”

  “On?” I asked. “On what?”

  “No, on where,” he said. “Ah’m singing at t’Bluebell.”

  “Oh, and what do you sing?” I asked and then wished I hadn’t.

  “Er, well, y’know, cowboy songs,” he explained.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I suppose that should have been obvious.”

  “That’s OK, Mr Sheffield,” said Deke. “Ah just called in to say thank you for helping our Wayne with his reading. He seems to be coming on at last.”

  “Thanks, Deke,” I said.

  “I wish you’d taught my big lads,” he continued, stroking his stubble chin, “they’re no good at reading.”

  “You have other sons?” I asked.

  “Yup, Shane and Clint,” said Deke. “We named ‘em all after cowboys.”

  “Good idea,” I said, not entirely convincingly.

  “Anyway, ah’ll ‘ave t’go, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m on soon, doing the theme from Rawhide wi’ me big whip. So ah’ll sithee.”

  He rose from his chair and shook my hand.

  “Goodnight, er, Deke,” I mumbled.

  With that, he jingled out into the darkness whistling ‘Ghost Riders in the Sky’.

  Later I met parents who were sympathetic and others who were blatantly aggressive and pitched abuse as if I was a coconut shy. There was also Mr Miles-Humphreys who had an unfortunate name for one so cruelly blessed.

  “Nigel is working really hard,” I said enthusiastically but Mr Miles-Humphreys shook his head.

  “He’s having problems with his m-m-m – ”

  “Mathematics?” I suggested.

  “N-no, m-m-m – ” he tried again.

  “Music?” I guessed again.

  “N-no, m-m-m-m-m – ” His face was going red.

  I was running out of subjects.

  “M-m-mother!” he spluttered.

  Predictably this interview ran late and two or three couples were anxiously glancing up at the clock when, at the third or fourth attempt, he managed to bid me a hesitant goodnight.

  Eventually, the last couple took their leave and I turned off the classroom lights, picked up the unopened flask and strolled tired, happy and relieved into the staff-room. Anne, Jo and Sally were already there, discussing the night’s events. We shared the contents of the flask, which turned out to be coffee liberally spiced with malt whisky, and then sank into our chairs like contented kittens to enjoy our unexpected nightcap.

  Problems and light-hearted stories were exchanged as we finished the coffee cocktail and washed up. Soon Anne and I were left in school checking windows, doors and lights when I noticed a letter on my desk.

  “It’s from Mrs Phillips,” Anne explained. “Her neighbour dropped it in.”

  Puzzled, I read the letter.

  Dear Mr Sheffield,

  I regret that my husband and I will be unable to attend Parents’ Evening to see Claire’s work but he has his evening class and I’m on night shift at the hospital. Thank you for all you have done for Claire, particularly with the netball, we were all very proud about that.

  Yours sincerely, Mrs Sue Phillips.

  I read the signature again and stared blankly at the neat script.

  “Everything all right, Jack?” asked Anne as she finished folding the tea towel. I passed her the letter.r />
  “It’s from Mrs Phillips saying she can’t come to Parents’ Evening but I saw her at my first interview.”

  Anne shook her head. “That wasn’t Mrs Phillips, Jack,” replied Anne. “I saw who arrived first and there’s certainly no mistaking that blond hair anywhere.”

  This made no sense to me.

  “Blond hair! Well, who was it then?” I asked.

  Anne smiled. “Joy Malarky, of course.”

  “Mrs Malarky!”

  My mind whirled with thoughts of blond hair, another Claire and mistaken assumptions.

  “Oh no!” I exploded. “I’ve just given Claire Phillips’s report to Claire Malarky’s mum and dad and they were so pleased they’ve gone home to make her a new bedroom!”

  Anne gave me that familiar infectious grin and jangled the bunch of school keys.

  “Come on, Jack. Never mind. Let’s see what tomorrow brings,” she said.

  My journey home to Kirkby Steepleton was troubled by the thought of what the consequences of my mistake might be.

  The next morning Claire Malarky came straight up to me bubbling with enthusiasm. She looked a different girl.

  “Thank you, Mr Sheffield, for saying all those nice things to my mam and dad,” she said. “They were really pleased and I’m going to have the little bedroom to myself instead of sharing it with my big sisters. I’ll get some sleep at last.”

  I was pleased with her sudden enthusiasm but puzzled by her comments.

  “Why do you have difficulty sleeping, Claire?” I asked.

  “Because my sisters listen to records till really late every night and I daren’t tell. But everything’s all right now.”

  The truth of my first ever parent-teacher interview as a headmaster never came to light. Anne, with true professional restraint, kept my mistake to herself and only the occasional knowing wink whenever interviews were mentioned reminded me of my blunder. Claire Malarky suddenly changed into an eager, receptive pupil and her work improved at a dramatic rate. For fate had bestowed upon her at exactly the right moment the two things she needed most: encouragement and a good night’s sleep.

  ♦

  Ten years later, on an April morning, when a gusting wind tossed the great banks of daffodils around York’s ancient walls, I met Claire shopping with her mother. Claire had become an attractive young woman but I barely recognized her for now her hair was a startling blond. She bubbled with enthusiasm about her college course and her plans to become a teacher of domestic science. I noticed just how much like her mother she had become, particularly with her new hair colouring.

  “Your hair’s lovely, Claire. In fact, you look just like sisters.”

  Mrs Malarky laughed.

  “Mr Sheffield, you say the nicest things. But don’t you know where I get my blond hair from?” she asked.

  “One of your parents, or grandparents?” I suggested innocently.

  They both giggled like schoolgirls.

  “Not quite, Mr Sheffield, actually I get it from Boots the Chemist.”

  They walked away arm in arm, blond hair flying in the wind, and I was left to reflect upon the fortuitous mistake that had changed their lives.

  Four

  The Carrot Champion

  County Hall sent representatives of the new grounds maintenance scheme to inform me of the enforced retirement of Mr George Hardisty, School Groundsman, at the end of the month when he reaches the age of 65. The school governors supported the HT’s letter of complaint.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Wednesday 19 October 1977

  I

  t was 19 October and a strange clicking noise floated on the warm breeze of an Indian summer through the open staff-room window. I glanced up from my Harvest Festival notice and immediately sensed trouble.

  Two young men wearing smart business suits were measuring the school field. One carried an impressive-looking clipboard and scribbled copious notes while the other pushed a clicking trundle wheel around the edges of the flowerbeds.

  Curious, I walked out to meet them.

  The one with the clipboard and dark, pinstriped suit walked briskly over to me and proffered a limp, reluctant handshake.

  “Simon Elliott, Management Support Group Services,” he announced in a confident clipped tone. “This is my assistant, Mr Jeremy Feavers.” He gestured towards a gangling young man sporting a fluffy attempt at a first moustache.

  “Once we’ve measured up and completed the data analysis, you’ll get a copy of the new work schedule,” he continued confidently. “You’re the headmaster I presume?” He looked at my creased suit with some disdain.

  “Yes, I’m Jack Sheffield,” I replied, “but I don’t know anything about a new work schedule. So why are you here?”

  He looked sympathetically at me with the aloof boredom of undoubted superiority. “It’s the new system for County Grounds maintenance,” he explained. “It was described in the last County circular.”

  I stared blankly as he pressed on with his well-rehearsed speech. He was now in full flow. “You’ll be one of twenty-seven schools in the Easington area to be maintained by a mobile team of six groundsmen who will visit you once every fortnight. It will be more efficient and it will cost less.”

  It was a statement that apparently brooked no argument. I stared uncomprehendingly.

  “But what about our school groundsman, Mr Hardisty?” I asked.

  Mr Elliott looked increasingly irritated and checked one of the lists attached to his black, executive clipboard.

  “Ah yes, no problem at all,” he said. “He’ll be retired next month when he’s sixty-five.”

  “But Mr Hardisty does an excellent job for us and doesn’t want to retire,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief.

  Mr Elliott was obviously tiring of this conversation. “You’ll be informed in due course, as will Mr Hardisty. I’ll be back with our report next week, Mr…er…”

  He turned on his heel and beckoned to his partner. They walked briskly back to their Miami Blue Ford Capri XL, wound open the windows and sped away in a spurt of loose gravel.

  I stared around me at the bright flowerbeds and neatly trimmed hedges. Mr Hardisty’s regular care was evident everywhere and now it seemed he was to be discarded like a shabby overcoat. I decided to visit him after school.

  George Hardisty was a true ‘man of the soil’ and he tilled an honest land.

  Each morning he did two hours’ work as school groundsman and, although only a month from his sixty-fifth birthday, he was straight-backed, lean and incredibly fit. His strength was astonishing for such a slight man and his ruddy, weather-beaten face shone with health. Beneath the battered and frayed flat cap a pair of clear blue eyes twinkled with the joy of simple pleasures.

  Five years previously he had come down from his sheep farm on the high, bleak, heather-covered tableland of the North Yorkshire Moors. He left behind the ironstones, grits, shale and limestone of the uplands for the gentle and fertile plain of York. He and his wife Mary had bought a tiny, tumbledown two-roomed cottage with its cluster of outbuildings on the Hambleton Road just outside Ragley village. They had transformed it into a picture-postcard home with the summer colour of bright geraniums and the autumn fire of Virginia creeper, rampant on its whitewashed walls.

  But it was the adjoining acre of land that created most interest. The once-neglected wasteland had now been cleared and transformed into the finest fruit and vegetable garden for miles around. Envious local gardeners peered over the neatly trimmed hawthorn hedge to watch the progress of his peas, cabbages and giant onions. But no one ever saw his carrots.

  These were very special.

  In fact, they were quite extraordinary.

  George had devoted his life to perfecting the growth of a strain of veritable monsters. Since his arrival in the area, his carrots had won first prize every year at all the local agricultural shows and his many rivals wanted to know the secret. It was widely acknowledged that George Hardisty was, without
doubt, the supreme carrot champion.

  Mary Hardisty answered the door. Her heavy arms were lightly sprinkled with flour and there were beads of perspiration on her forehead. A faded blue headscarf covered her grey hair. She grinned in recognition.

  “Oh, Mr Sheffield, what a nice surprise, come on in. Ah’m all of a lather. It’s a baking session today,” she said, patting her ruddy face and rosy cheeks with her flour-covered fingers.

  “Thank you, Mrs Hardisty, but I don’t want to trouble you. I was wondering if Mr Hardisty was about. I need to have a word with him,” I explained.

  She rubbed her hands on her apron and stepped out on to the small back yard of weathered flagstones. Shielding her eyes from the low October sunlight, she scanned the rough, brick path that wound its way through the outbuildings. She shook her head. “He’ll be in his precious garden, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m not jesting, he sees more of them vegetables than he does of me. He only comes in when he’s hungry.”

  The smell of delicious home baking drifted through the open doorway. I sniffed appreciatively. “It certainly smells good, Mrs Hardisty.”

  She opened the door wider and beckoned me into the linoleum-covered hallway. Wellington boots covered in fresh mud stood neatly on newspaper just inside the doorway.

  “Just hold y’horses, Mr Sheffield, while ah get y’something,” she said as she scurried into the dark kitchen. There was a clattering of heavy oven doors. Moments later she reappeared carrying a huge slab of piping-hot apple pie wrapped in a clean, white tissue. “Here y’are, just something t’keep y’going while y’finding him,” she said.

  “Thank you very much, Mrs Hardisty, that’s really kind of you.” I wandered off, stooping under heavily laden fruit trees, contentedly munching on the most scrumptious apple pie I had ever tasted and found Mr Hardisty kneeling down alongside a row of enormous onions. Strangely, he didn’t seem surprised to see me.

  He pushed back his cap and mopped his brow with the darned cuff of his faded, brown tweed jacket.

  “Ow do, Mr Sheffield?” he said.