01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  Beth looked mildly embarrassed and changed the subject quickly.

  “Where are you going now?” asked Beth.

  “I thought I’d go to The Oak and then come back for the party,” I replied.

  “Then join us, unless you have other plans,” said Beth. “That’s all right with you, isn’t it, David?”

  He gave a tight-lipped smile and a perfunctory nod.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’d love to tag along.”

  It was with mixed emotions that I walked up the High Street. A huge Christmas tree covered in bright lights had been erected in the centre of the village green and Beth laughed like an excited schoolgirl as we walked beside it.

  “Don’t you just love this time of year?” she shouted over her shoulder.

  As I trudged along behind them, David put his arm around her shoulders. He muttered something about ‘profits’ and Beth pushed him away in mock irritation.

  Ahead of us the bright orange lights of The Royal Oak were a welcome sight but my eyes were fixed on the slim figure of Beth, and I knew there was a hint of envy in my heart as the confident David whisked her smoothly through the doorway.

  The pub was heaving and even though Don and Sheila had taken on extra staff, there were queues at the bar. This did not deter the tall, imposing figure of David who ordered drinks in a swift and accomplished manner and managed to drink three ‘whisky chasers’ in the time Beth and I finished a single drink. I noticed that David began to be belligerent when Beth complained that he was getting too loud. Finally, shortly after ten o’clock, David reluctantly got rather shakily to his feet and the three of us walked back to the village hall.

  A memorable night was in store. Old Time dancing was in full swing when we walked in and Old Tommy Piercy was playing the piano. His grandson, Young Tommy, stood alongside, turning the pages of the music. Old Tommy was very proud of the upright Victorian piano that his father had donated to the village hall many years ago. On the underside of the piano lid, within an oval of gold leaf, the name of the makers ‘Archibald Ramsden (Limited)’ was still visible under the proclamation ‘By Royal Appointment’.

  “This is proper dancing,” he shouted to me as we passed him on our way to find a group of spare seats. Sheila the Cook was serving coffee and mince pies alongside John Grainger who was doing a roaring trade at the makeshift bar. Vera was soon at my side and insisted on teaching me ‘The Dashing White Sergeant’ and George and Mary Hardisty guided me through ‘The Gay Gordons’. Finally, I plucked up courage to ask Beth for a waltz and David reluctantly let go of her hand and resumed his drinking.

  Her hair was soft against my face as the lights gradually dimmed and somehow she managed to avoid my size-eleven feet.

  “Is everything all right with you, Beth?” I asked hesitantly.

  A moment of sadness passed across her face.

  “Sorry, Jack, don’t worry. Thanks anyway. David promised to curb his drinking excesses but deep down I know it won’t happen.”

  She gripped my hands tightly and shook her head.

  “I’ve said too much,” said Beth, almost to herself.

  “Please let me help,” I asked.

  Beth took a deep breath and with a brave smile she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll sort things out.” Then she wandered away, deep in thought.

  A short interval was announced whilst the disco was set up and I noticed Beth walking quickly to the back of the hall with David lurching behind her. Whilst I was talking with Vera and Joseph, Anne Grainger tapped me on my shoulder looking concerned.

  “Jack, I think Beth Henderson has a problem.”

  She nodded towards the main doors where Beth was in animated conversation with David who was clearly the worse for wear. Moments later they both left in a hurry.

  “Do you think I ought to see if she’s all right?” I asked Anne anxiously.

  Anne squeezed my arm and smiled.

  “Jack, she might even come back. With luck, she’s telling that obnoxious man where to go. He’s been acting like a pompous oaf all evening.”

  A few minutes later, right on cue, Beth reappeared and sat by the piano.

  I walked towards her and she gave me a tired smile.

  “Sorry, Jack,” said Beth, “as you’ve probably guessed, I’ve just quit as a member of David’s appreciation society. I’ve put him in a taxi and sent him back to Leeds. That’s the last time I’ll be embarrassed by his behaviour.”

  At that moment the lights dimmed again. Clint Ramsbottom’s flickering disco lights illuminated the ceiling like demented traffic lights and the base notes of the Rolling Stones’ ‘Jumping Jack Flash’ made the walls shake.

  Beth stood up and grabbed my hand.

  “I’d like to dance,” she said with sudden enthusiasm. We suddenly found ourselves in the midst of all the twenty- and thirty-somethings who were trying to ‘strut their stuff’. At least that’s what Clint Ramsbottom told us we were doing over his squeaky microphone. A wild half-hour ensued culminating in the Beatles’ ‘Twist and Shout’, which almost raised the roof.

  “Where do you get all your energy from?” I asked breathlessly as we left the dance floor.

  “I am a PE specialist don’t forget,” said Beth coyly.

  We regained our seats as Deke Ramsbottom grabbed the microphone and announced the raffle.

  The tickets were drawn by Ada Cade, Ragley’s oldest inhabitant at ninety-one years old, with the help of Vera. Each prize-winner had to walk up to the stage to receive his or her prize and everyone received a raucous ovation. Vera won a bottle of wine, Ruby won six free tennis lessons and Beth won one of the booby prizes, a doll with plastic underpants by the name of Ken. The biggest cheer of the night went to Ronnie Smith who won a free hair-do at Diane’s Hair Salon.

  At five minutes to midnight, John Grainger helped Clint Ramsbottom to tune in his huge ghetto blaster to the sound of Big Ben. Joseph Evans and I stood on either side of Beth, hand in hand, as we linked up with the huge circle of villagers. We sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and then Big Dave and Little Malcolm pulled the strings of a football net and dozens of coloured balloons tumbled down around us.

  Big Ben chimed out twelve o’clock and cries of ‘Happy New Year’ filled the hall. Couples hugged each other, Joseph Evans shook my hand, and Anne Grainger gave me a kiss on the cheek and wished me good luck.

  Suddenly I was face to face with Beth.

  I felt awkward and held out my right hand to shake hers.

  “Happy New Year, Jack,” she said with a smile that lit up the room.

  “Happy New Year, Beth,” I shouted above the din, “and thanks for a lovely evening.”

  Then she stretched up on her tiptoes and kissed me softly on the cheek.

  As the balloons bounced off my head, I suddenly thought that 1978 had begun in the most perfect way possible.

  Ten

  Genghis Khan and the Keep Fit Club

  Refuse collections in 1978 will take place on Mondays. Agreement was reached for the refuse vehicle to use the school driveway during lesson time only.

  83 children on roll.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday 9 January 1978

  “I

  t’s Genghis Khan, Mr Sheffield. He’s gone missing!”

  It was my first telephone call of the Spring Term and I stared at the receiver.

  “Has anybody rung you, ‘cause it’s been two days now?” asked the frantic caller.

  It was someone in a call box because I had heard the beeps as they put their money in.

  “Who’s speaking please?” I asked.

  “It’s me, Mr Sheffield, Ronnie, Ruby’s husband.”

  He sounded really distressed.

  “Hello, Ronnie,” I said. “You’d better explain. What’s all this about Genghis Khan?”

  “Nowt’s been going right f’me lately,” mumbled Ronnie, “an’ now this.”

  I looked at the pile of paperwork in the wire tray that Vera had told me I must do at lu
nchtime. I sighed and made a decision.

  “Would you like to call in between twelve and one, Ronnie?” I asked.

  There was a pause.

  “Will our Ruby be there, Mr Sheffield?” asked Ronnie hesitantly.

  “Not until one o’clock when she puts the dining tables and chairs away,” I explained.

  There was another pause.

  “Ah’ll come at twelve o’clock, if that’s all right,” said Ronnie. “Thanks a lot, Mr Sheffield.”

  “By the way, Ronnie,” I asked quickly, “who’s Genghis Khan?”

  But the line was dead.

  At a quarter to twelve Big Dave and Little Malcolm’s dustbin wagon crunched over the frozen cobbles as it reversed slowly up the drive for the weekly collection of rubbish. Shirley usually gave them a cup of tea as they parked their wagon out of sight by the kitchen door and took their lunch break.

  “Bin men are ‘ere,” called out Anita Cuthbertson, looking up from her spelling test. Anita didn’t miss a thing. Whilst she had problems with her spelling and had just put three ‘f’s in ‘photography’, she could identify different shades of lipstick at forty paces.

  At twelve o’clock the bell rang for school dinner and Anita was collecting the exercise books.

  “Mr Smith’s ‘ere,” said Anita.

  I glanced out of the window. Scarecrow-thin Ronnie was walking furtively up the drive, looking left and right. His Leeds United bobble hat seemed to be pulled further down his head than usual. I walked quickly to meet him at the school entrance but Ronnie seemed reluctant to come in so I stepped outside to talk to him.

  Vera peered out of the office window.

  “Don’t forget these letters for signing, Mr Sheffield,” she called out sternly.

  “I’m just having a quick word with Ronnie, Vera. I won’t be long,” I replied defensively.

  “Oh, and Mr Dudley-Palmer said he would like to call in later,” said Vera. “It’s a personal matter, he says.”

  She gave me a disgruntled look and closed the window. Vera didn’t like me to be distracted from important paperwork except when Beth Henderson rang. Then Vera’s mood changed, for she clearly approved of this new liaison.

  “She’s a delightful young woman, Mr Sheffield,” announced Vera during morning break to a captive audience, “and you really must try to persuade her to join the church choir. She’s a leading member of the New Earswick Operatic Society and has the most wonderful voice.”

  The other females on the staff were intrigued that I had ‘found someone’ and were full of interest. Beth and I had been to the cinema and had enjoyed a meal together since the New Year’s Eve party, but in a small village it was difficult not to be noticed. A few tongues had begun to wag, not least in my own staff-room.

  But that was furthest from my mind as Ronnie and I strolled round to the back of the school, shivering in the January wind.

  “So what can I do to help, Ronnie?” I asked.

  “Like ah sed, Mr Sheffield, it’s Genghis Khan, ‘e’s gone,” said Ronnie with a haunted expression.

  This was becoming too much to bear.

  “Who exactly is Genghis Khan?” I asked.

  “Now then, Ronnie.” We both jumped. Big Dave’s foghorn voice was unmistakable, even through mouth-fuls of cheese sandwich.

  “ave y’been caught going round back o’ bike sheds again?”

  Little Malcolm’s head popped round the kitchen door.

  “Hiya, Ronnie,” he yelled, “ah’m sorry about your Genghis, ‘ave y’found him yet?”

  “Shurrup, Malcolm,” hissed Ronnie, looking at the open kitchen door. “Ah don’t want our Ruby to know he’s gone, ‘e cost me thirty quid did Genghis an’ now she’s nagging me for a new three-piece suite.”

  “Will somebody please tell me, who is Genghis Khan?” I asked.

  “Me champion racing pigeon,” said Ronnie, “e flew off an’ never came back to me loft.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry about that, Ronnie, but what is it that you want me to do?” I asked.

  “Well ‘e’s tagged is our Genghis an’ ah’ve put school telephone number on ‘is leg,” explained Ronnie. “Ah’d no choice. Our phone’s been cut off an’ in t’Easington ‘n District Pigeon Club y’can’t race ‘em if there’s no number. Ah never thought ‘e’d go astray. If our Ruby finds out ah put t’school number on his leg she’ll kill me.”

  Ronnie’s head sank onto his chest and he scratched the top of his yellow, blue and white bobble hat in anxiety.

  “Don’t worry, Ronnie, if someone telephones, I’ll let you know straight away.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr Sheffield. I appreciate you ‘elping us out,” said Ronnie.

  “Just one thing, Ronnie, why did you call him Genghis Khan?” I asked.

  “Don’t tha’ know about Genghis Khan, Mr Sheffield?” asked Big Dave.

  “Ah thought a schoolteacher would know about Genghis,” said Little Malcolm. “Wouldn’t y’think so, Dave?”

  Dave cuffed him playfully round the ear, causing Malcolm to drop his pork pie on the frozen grass.

  “e were reight famous were Genghis,” explained Ronnie, “e were fust wi’ a pigeon post an’ ‘e used it t’send messages to ‘is army.”

  “It’s a good name fur a champion racer, Ronnie,” said Big Dave.

  “T’is that,” agreed Little Malcolm, wiping the frosty mud from his pork pie on the sleeve of his donkey jacket.

  “I ‘ope ‘e comes ‘ome soon,” said Ronnie. “Ah’ve enough on me plate wi’ this constitution I ‘ave to write.”

  I had a sinking feeling as I asked the obvious question.

  “What constitution, Ronnie?”

  “It’s for a keep fit club for t’football team,” said Ronnie. “From this year, County Council ‘ave stopped t’evening classes so we ‘ave t’form a private club afore we can use facilities at the big school. Every new club ‘as to ‘ave an official constitution.”

  “Aye,” said Big Dave, “an’ we’re meeting in t’Oak tonight at seven o’clock to write it.”

  “Aye, we are,” said Little Malcolm. “We ‘ave t’get fit, ‘cause we ‘aven’t won a game yet.”

  “We’ve drawn two,” said Ronnie defensively. As team manager he was proud of his team.

  Big Dave put a giant arm round Ronnie’s frail shoulders.

  “Don’t worry, Ronnie. Me an’ Malcolm will see to this concertina thing we ‘ave t’write. You go look f’Genghis an’ ah’ll see yuh in t’pub later.”

  Ronnie looked up and smiled weakly at his trusty captain.

  “Thanks, Dave,” said Ronnie. “Ah’ll see y’later.”

  With a slightly more confident demeanour, Ronnie wandered off and I returned to Vera’s paperwork.

  Beth telephoned to ask if I would like to meet her later that evening at the New Earswick Folk Hall after the operatic society’s rehearsals. I agreed a time and you could have heard a pin drop as Anne, Jo, Sally and Vera gave each other knowing and meaningful looks.

  At the end of school we had our weekly staff meeting. A busy year lay ahead. We planned the week in May for the School Camp in the Yorkshire Dales and the date of the Summer Fair in June. We also discussed our contribution towards the special celebration in July of the centenary of the school. Anne suggested a Victorian School Day and Jo and Sally were enthusiastic. Sally said she would get a few parents to help her with costumes and Jo said she would invite some of the oldest inhabitants of the village into school for a coffee morning and arrange for the children to interview them.

  The meeting rambled on until well after six o’clock and ended with Anne’s stock report, which included the fact that the educational suppliers had delivered twelve pairs of slippers to the school and twelve pairs of football boots to the local retirement home.

  We had just finished when there was a tap on the door.

  I looked outside into the corridor. There was Ruby tidying the entrance hall in preparation for the first session of the year for the v
illage Brownies.

  “Excuse me, Mr Sheffield. Mr Dudley-Palmer’s just driven up outside,” said Ruby.

  Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was proud of his Datsun Bluebird Mark II, for which he had just paid the extravagant sum of £2,978.00. Whenever he picked up his daughter, Elisabeth Amelia, he loved to show me its state-of-the-art extras, including reclining front seats, tinted glass, a push-button medium-wave radio and, best of all, a boot interior light. With a roar like an angry lion, Mr Dudley-Palmer gave a final rev of the engine and turned off the ignition.

  He walked into the entrance hall with a cage under his arm.

  “Hello, old chap,” he said. “I was surprised when the telephone number turned out to be the school’s. Your Genghis Khan somehow found his way into my new pigeon loft. I didn’t know you raced pigeons but you have an absolute corker here.”

  Ruby’s eyes were on stalks. She looked from me to Mr Dudley-Palmer and back to Genghis Khan, contentedly fluttering in his cage.

  “Ah know that bird,” she said aghast. “Ah’ve seen our Ronnie wi’ that pigeon. Ah can tell by t’colour. It’s the one he’s just bought, ‘e said ‘e got it cheap.”

  Mr Dudley-Palmer looked confused.

  “I say,” he said, “would you consider selling it? It would be a fine addition to my stock.”

  “It’s a bit complicated,” I stuttered.

  “I don’t want to haggle, old chap, so how about fifty pounds?” said Mr Dudley-Palmer, reaching for his wallet.

  A slow smile crossed Ruby’s flushed face as she leaned on her broom.

  Quickly, she thrust out her plump hand.

  “It’s a deal,” she said and the five crisp ten-pound notes disappeared magically into the pocket of her apron.

  Mr Dudley-Palmer, delighted with his purchase, roared off into the night and Ruby looked suspiciously at me.

  “Wait till I see our Ronnie,” she muttered ominously. “Y’can’t trust men.”

  I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes to seven and I had a good idea where I might find Ronnie.