♦
The taproom of The Oak was crowded and dense with cigarette smoke. Big Dave the Goalkeeper squeezed his six-feet-four-inch frame onto the bench seat next to the dartboard and surveyed the room. The darts team reluctantly removed their darts and retreated to the bar. No one ever played darts when Big Dave was sitting that close to the board. A hush gradually descended on the room. Little Malcolm the Midfield Maestro perched next to him like King Lear’s clown and unrolled a creased school exercise book from the pocket of his council donkey jacket. He licked a thick pencil-stub as he anticipated the first words of wisdom.
“I propose we ‘ave a kitty and them’s nearest bar gets pints in,” proclaimed Big Dave.
“ere ‘ere,” agreed Little Malcolm.
This first motion was greeted with enthusiastic cheers and everyone put a note or coin into the big ashtray proffered by Norman ‘Nutter’ Neilson, the hard-tackling full-back, whose nickname apparently derived from the regularity with which he would fell opposing forwards by butting them between the eyes.
“I propose we get this conti, er, constitu-er-ation written up afore we start any serious suppin’, else secra’ty’ll be kaylied afore we’ve done,” announced Big Dave.
“ere ‘ere,” shouted Little Malcolm, already halfway down his first pint.
“ere ‘ere,” chorused the congregation as they settled down for the business ahead. Several conversations broke out at once, suggesting how to write a constitution.
“You’ve got to name the club for a start off,” shouted Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball-Wizard.
“That’s right, that’s ‘ow my wife’s Monday Circle started off when they wrote their constitution,” mumbled Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, the number twelve who always turned up, even for away games.
Don the Barman looked up from behind the pumps. “What were you doing at Monday Circle, Stevie, male striptease?”
Stevie coloured slightly. “Was I hellus like? I was stuck in t’kitchen wi’ dog, listening to them bloody giggling an’ yakking all night.”
“C’mon, let’s get this thing written,” shouted Big Dave. “It’s more like frigging constipation than constitution, all bloody talk ‘n no action!”
“Horder, please, let’s ‘ave horder!” yelled Little Malcolm, eager to show solidarity.
Big Dave rose to his feet, glass of ale in one goalkeeper fist, his eyes searching the oak beams for inspiration. A hush fell on the whole taproom and the silence was just becoming unbearably long when he announced in his best toastmaster voice, “Number One!”
Little Malcolm jotted this down, licked his pencil then looked up, full of eager anticipation.
Big Dave coughed affectedly. “This club shall be known as the Ragley Village Men’s Keep Fit Club.”
Little Malcolm scribbled furiously as the audience considered this opening declaration.
“Hold on, not so fast. Y’can’t say that nowadays,” declared Kojak knowingly.
“How come?” demanded Big Dave, annoyed at the intervention.
“Y’can’t say MEN’s club, ‘cause of that sex act,” explained Kojak, bald head glistening sweatily.
“Sex act?” asked Big Dave.
“Yes, that 1975 sex incrimination act,” continued Kojak, his status growing by the second.
“Discrimination, y’mean,” corrected Supersub who boasted a Certificate of Secondary Education in English Language. “It’s t’make women think they’re equal to us men.”
There was a stunned silence as if everyone had been told the earth really was flat. Clint Ramsbottom, farm labourer and local hippie, shook his Kevin Keegan look-alike hair-do in despair.
“That’s really heavy, man,” he said.
Clint’s big brother, Shane, who was also proud to be named after one of his mother’s favourite American cowboys, put his arm around Clint to console him. Shane, like his brother, was a farm labourer but with more muscles.
“Don’t worry, Nancy,” said Shane affectionately. He called his brother ‘Nancy’ ever since Clint had been to Diane’s Hair Salon for his perm. As Shane had fists like coal shovels Clint had not complained.
But it was Big Dave who showed true leadership by recovering first.
“All right, all right, ah know it’s ‘ard to tek in,” he said. “Now listen in.”
Once again, all eyes were on the giant goalkeeper.
“Number one,” continued Big Dave. “This club shall be known as the Ragley Village Keep Fit Club.”
Little Malcolm firmly crossed out ‘Men’s’.
“But ‘ow y’gonna keep women out?” persisted Kojak. “They might apply to be members and then ‘ow y’gonna put ‘em off?”
Big Dave drank deeply, considering the problem. Suddenly he slammed down his empty glass in triumph.
“I know what!” he cried.
Little Malcolm looked up with a start.
“Number One!” shouted Big Dave with a self-satisfied grin. “This club shall be known as the Ragley Village Keep Fit Club and all members must use the same showers!”
Little Malcolm scribbled again and a loud chorus of cheers welcomed Big Dave’s inspired addition. Only Kojak did not look happy. He scratched his bald paté thoughtfully until an idea struck him. “Ah, but wait on,” he said, “what about Dorothy Humpleby?”
“Who the ‘ell’s Dorothy Humpleby?” someone shouted from the back.
“She ‘elps out at Nora’s coffee bar,” explained the ageing ball-wizard, “an’ she would join just for t’showers.”
“If she joins so will I,” shouted Don the Barman.
“Whashabout your Sheila, I’ll shcrub ‘er back anytime,” added a drunken voice from the back.
Sheila giggled and made a quick exit to the lounge bar. Big Dave supped on his second pint thoughtfully until, undeterred, he produced yet another ace.
“NUMBER ONE!” A hush settled on the throng.
Big Dave took a deep breath. “This club shall be known as the Ragley Village Keep Fit Club and all members must use the same showers, AND…each member must pass a test of physical fitness.”
“‘ere ‘ere,” cried Little Malcolm.
Big Dave sat down with a self-satisfied grin on his stubbly face.
“old on, ‘old on,” persisted Kojak. “Not so fast. What about that Virginia what gives riding lessons?”
“Thash a funny virgin,” shouted Drunken Voice.
“Y’know,” continued Kojak, disregarding the laughter from the back, “that Virginia with the big thighs what works at the riding school. She’s fitter than anybody ‘ere. She runs bloody marathons!”
Suddenly everyone was shouting at once as the inebriated audience recalled local females who were both fit and liberated. It was a moment of crisis for Big Dave and he lumbered shakily to his feet once again. His leadership was at risk and this battle of words with the bald-headed Pole was threatening to go into extra-time. He cleared his throat with exaggerated force for a final onslaught.
“NUMBER ONE!” he roared and thumped his fist on the table. Even the chatter in the lounge bar seemed to cease.
“Number one,” he repeated with slow deliberation. “This club shall be known as the Ragley Village Keep Fit Club and all members shall use the same showers and each member must pass a test of physical fitness AND…”
All eyes were on Big Dave. You could hear a pin drop. Little Malcolm held his breath, pencil poised.
“AND…the Chairman’s decision shall be final!”
“ERE ‘ERE,” cheered Little Malcolm.
Kojak opened his mouth like a baffled goldfish and closed it again when he could find no answer.
“ERE ‘ERE!” chorused everyone, including a few interested spectators in the lounge bar.
Unanimous approval broke like a tidal wave over the taproom and Big Dave’s chairmanship was confirmed once and for all. More kitty money jingled and fluttered into the ashtray. Don pulled pints with renewed vigour and Big Dave’s joy wa
s unconfined. Little Malcolm rolled up his exercise book with a triumphant flourish and put it in his pocket. The drink began to flow once again and no one considered that the constitution might conceivably be extended to a second point. The ordeal was over and it was time to relax.
The taproom door opened and Ronnie walked in, shoulders hunched, and I ordered him a pint of best bitter.
He sat down beside me and looked around nervously like a fugitive on the run.
“No sign o’ Genghis,” he said mournfully. “Ah’ve been asking round t’other lads wi’ pigeon lofts but ‘e’s not turned up.”
He supped his frothing pint without enthusiasm.
“The lads seem ‘appy enough,” he said, taking a little consolation from the raucous group of footballers at the other side of the room.
“Ronnie, I’m not quite sure how to put this but I’ve got some good news and some bad news,” I said gently.
Ronnie stared at me, a puzzled look in his eyes.
“What’s the good news?” he asked.
“Well, the constitution you were worried about has been written and Genghis has been found.”
It was almost sad to see his face so wreathed in smiles.
“Fantastic, Mr Sheffield, fan-blooming-tastic!”
He drank deeply from his pint.
“Oh, an’ what’s the bad news?”
“Well, it’s a message from your Ruby,” I said gently.
Ronnie’s eyes were like saucers as he slowly placed his pint pot on the table.
“A message from our Ruby, what message?” he asked, looking like the prisoner in the dock.
I put my arm round his shoulder.
“She says to let you know that Genghis Khan has just bought you a new three-piece suite!”
Ronnie almost ran out of the door.
In years to come, his football team commented that it was the only time in living memory that Ronnie ever left a half-filled glass of Tetley’s bitter.
Eleven
Elvis and the Student Teacher
A Yr 2 student, Miss Erica Twigg, commenced her teaching practice in Mrs Grainger’s class.
Mr J. Fairbank from the College visited school.
County Hall requested a copy of the section in our school handbook entitled ‘The School Curriculum’ following the government’s recent ‘audit’ of the curriculum in primary schools.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday 6 February 1978
I
t was eight o’clock on a cold February morning and Miss Erica Twigg was waiting for me in the school entrance on the first day of her teaching practice.
I hung up my thick brown duffel coat and old college scarf and smiled down at the tiny figure before me.
“Good morning, Erica, how are you?” I asked.
“Hello, Mr Sheffield, I’m fine thank you,” she said a little nervously.
Miss Twigg certainly lived up to her name. She was a frail twenty-year-old who looked as though a gust of wind would blow her away. Her brown mousy hair was scraped back from her pale face into a tight ponytail. At five feet two inches tall she could easily have been mistaken for one of the eleven-year-olds in Class 4.
“My tutor has asked if you will check my planning,” she said.
The enormous ring binder that she passed to me looked almost too heavy for her to carry. I scanned the carefully printed title on the cover.
It read: Erica Twigg, Year Two, Second Teaching Practice, Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School, Reception Class, Tutor – Mr J. Fairbank, February 1978.
I walked into the office with her and began to trawl through the huge folder, neatly sectioned with coloured tabs. It had been prepared with the care of the Domesday Book. Page upon page of copious notes described every lesson she had planned. Neat lists of equipment down to the last crayon and sharpened pencil accompanied each activity. It was a folder of which she could feel justly proud.
“Well done, Erica,” I said. “This is an outstanding effort. You must have worked very hard to achieve this.”
Erica flushed with embarrassment and breathed a sigh of relief.
“I spent most of the Christmas holidays on it,” said Erica. “I realized how important preparation is on my first teaching practice so I didn’t want to leave anything to chance this time.”
Erica had visited Anne’s class on three occasions before Christmas and had told us she intended to return to her parents’ home in Lincoln to complete her preparations during the holidays. The folder was full of hints and suggestions from her tutor, Mr Fairbank. I smiled as I read his helpful notes in the margin, beautifully written in red ink. Jim Fairbank had been my tutor in York in the mid-sixties and the care and support he gave to his students was second to none.
“You’re fortunate having Mr Fairbank as your tutor,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied enthusiastically. “He’s really supportive. The last thing he said to me before I left was that I should never underestimate children because they will always surprise you.”
“That’s very true,” I replied and recalled that was the last thing Jim had said to me prior to my teaching practice.
The main project in the folder was entitled ‘Ourselves’. It included a visit by the school nurse plus a request for a few babies to be brought into class. The babies were to be measured and weighed, and then their feeding habits were to be investigated. There was a substantial amount of cross-curricular work and firsthand experience. It looked really good and I knew Anne would be impressed.
“Show your work to Anne Grainger and discuss it with her, Erica,” I said. “She will help to organize the proposed group work. Good luck, work hard and enjoy it,” I added with a reassuring smile.
Later that day, at half past two, the bell went for afternoon break and Anita Cuthbertson was on the lookout as usual.
“There’s a man in a suit coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,” she said.
The slim, angular man in a sober, grey suit and black shoes with highly polished toecaps was just as I remembered him. He carried the same ancient black leather briefcase and had a coat and scarf over one arm. It was Jim Fairbank, Senior Lecturer in Education from the teacher training college in York.
I hurried to the school entrance hall and shook his hand.
“Welcome to Ragley, Mr Fairbank,” I said, “good to see you again.”
Apart from a slight greying at the temples he looked just as I remembered him.
“Hello again, Jack. Congratulations on the new job, and please call me Jim,” he said. “I’ve just called in to see if Miss Twigg has settled in. She was a little nervous when she returned after Christmas.”
“She’s in safe hands with Anne in Reception, Jim,” I said, “and, thanks to you, she is certainly well prepared.”
A gentle smile flickered across his face for a moment and he nodded in acknowledgement. We walked into the office and sat down. Jim opened his briefcase, took out his notebook, unscrewed the top of his fountain pen with his long, slender, artistic fingers and proceeded to make flowing notes in the most perfect of italic scripts. His careful habits had not diminished over the years. All the time he asked me perceptive questions. Finally, he put the top on his pen and asked in his polite rhetorical manner, “May I observe her ‘Story Time’ at 3.00 p.m., Jack? It would give me an idea of how well she relates to the children.”
When Jim and I walked into the Reception classroom a few children had remained inside during playtime in order to help Miss Twigg clear up the paint pots and easels. Eager four- and five-year-old children immediately surrounded us. Little Terry Earnshaw, the Barnsley Boy, now speaking at last, grabbed Jim’s jacket.
“Are thee ‘is grandad?” asked Terry, pointing at one of his little friends.
Jim smiled down at the little boy. “No, I’m not,” he replied.
“Tha looks like ‘is grandad,” said Terry, not to be outdone.
Then he pointed at Miss Twigg. “Hey, mister, we’ve got a new
teacher.” He walked over to Miss Twigg and grabbed the student’s hand. “Here she is,” said Terry, “she’s called Miss Twit.”
Erica Twigg crouched down beside him. “No, it’s Miss Twigg, not Twit. But that’s a good try,” said Erica, looking more relaxed than I had ever seen her. She glanced down at Terry’s scuffed shoes.
“Oh, your shoe laces are undone, Terry.”
She tied them in a neat bow.
“And they’re all wet as well. I bet you’ve been playing in puddles,” said Miss Twigg.
Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, the eloquent five-year-old, was standing alongside, completely engrossed and sucking her thumb. She watched Miss Twigg as if she was about to split the atom.
“The secret,” said Miss Twigg with a final flourish, “is to tie a double bow.”
Little Elisabeth looked up puzzled and took her thumb out of her mouth. “Why is it a secret?” she asked.
But Miss Twigg was already shaking hands with Jim.
At that moment Anne Grainger burst into the classroom, grabbed Terry by the hand and whisked him towards the toilets.
“Excuse me!” said Anne breathlessly. “I’ll explain later.”
Moments later she reappeared.
“Too late!” she said. “Sorry about that, but one of the children told me that Terry had just wet his pants again.”
“Oh no!” cried Erica as realization dawned. “That’s probably why his shoelaces were wet!”
She looked up at Jim. “You did say we should expect surprises, Mr Fairbank.”
Jim smiled politely.
“What I mean to say,” she continued, “is that I’ve just shaken hands with you!”
They looked at each other, laughed and Anne led them both to the staff washroom.
As I was the only one left in the classroom when the children came back in from playtime, I gathered them all on the bright red off-cut of carpet in the classroom Book Corner. Anne hurried in with Terry, now wearing clean, dry shorts from the ‘Spare Clothes for Emergencies’ box. Miss Twigg reappeared and picked up the big picture storybook of The Three Little Pigs. She settled down on a low stool and in a slow, serious and dramatic voice she began, “Once upon a time there were three little pigs.”
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 12
