“What is it, Mr Sheffield?” asked Ruby. “Y’look proper flummoxed.”
I pressed on, uncertain whether or not Ruby had paid me a compliment.
“I need your help, Ruby,” I said. “Can you do some baking?”
“That sounds reight up my street,” said Ruby enthusiastically.
I explained to Ruby about the arrival of Ping and that it was her birthday. Ruby knew exactly what was needed.
“Ah’ll get all t’ingredients in t’village, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll ‘ave a word wi’ Shirley in t’kitchen. She’ll let us use a mixing bowl an’ t’oven.”
Back in the office, Vera had completed the paperwork and was deep in conversation with Ping’s foster mother.
“Don’t worry about the dinner money,” said Vera. “I’ll sort that out for you.”
It was time to take Ping to the classroom. School assembly was over and the children in my class had taken out their English exercise books and textbooks in preparation for their first lesson of the day. They had learned to get on with their work when I was delayed with the business of headship. Their eyes were wide with interest when Ping came into the classroom.
“Boys and girls,” I said, “this is a new girl in our class and I want you to make her welcome. She has come from a far-off country called Vietnam and her name is Ping.”
Fortunately, no one giggled at the strange name so I pressed on.
“Today is a special day for Ping. It’s her birthday and she is ten years old. So I would like a volunteer to help Ping make a birthday cake.”
Every hand shot up into the air and I made a careful selection.
“Claire Bradshaw and Kenny Flanaghan,” I said.
“Mr Sheffield, will we all get a slice?” asked Anita Cuthbertson. Anita was emerging as the class shop steward.
“That’s up to Ping,” I said with a smile.
Anita fixed Ping with a gritted-teeth smile, the sort she usually reserved for class photograph day. To my surprise, Ping lost some of her shyness and smiled back.
I turned to Ping and her foster parent. “Now, if it’s all right with you, perhaps you would like a tour of the school? Claire and Kenny can show you round.”
The four of them trotted off and it was noticeable that Ping had visibly relaxed. Claire Bradshaw put her arm around her shoulders and said, “Come on, Ping, I’ll show you my tuck shop first, you can help me sell crisps at playtime.”
Twenty minutes later, Ping and her foster parent had finished their guided tour and were standing at the classroom door. Shirley the Cook suddenly arrived.
“Ruby’s told me about this cake, Mr Sheffield. She’s coming back at one o’clock and I was wondering if all the other children might like to make some iced buns. I can stay on a bit and help if you like. It’ll be a bit of a party at the end of school.”
I looked at Ping’s foster parent.
“Perhaps you would like to come back to school this afternoon and join in the cake making?” I asked.
“I would love to,” she said with enthusiasm, “and I should be interested to learn your recipe.”
Shirley beamed as she recognized a kindred spirit. “I’m sure you know many recipes as well,” she said graciously.
Ping’s foster parent bowed modestly, gave Ping a big hug and left quickly.
Ping sat down on the spare chair next to Claire Bradshaw, picked up an English textbook and began to read it quietly.
Soon all the children were writing in their exercise books and I asked Ping to come to my desk. It was an opportunity to get an idea of her ability. There were no records from her previous school and, such was the system, these were unlikely to arrive before the Education Welfare Officer’s next visit.
In the top drawer of my desk, on a sheet of white A4 card, covered in sticky-backed plastic, was a reading test we used throughout the school. The Schonell Word Recognition Test comprised one hundred words typed in groups of ten in order of difficulty. It began with the words ‘tree, little, milk, egg, book’ and progressed to more difficult words. A simple calculation provided the notional reading age of the child when compared to their chronological age. It was a crude tool but in 1978 it was widely used by primary school teachers.
The mispronunciations of particular words were a source of amusement in staff rooms up and down the country. The most common errors were ‘scissors’, pronounced ‘skissors’; ‘soloist’, pronounced ‘socialist’; and ‘canary’, pronounced ‘cannery’.
Ping came and stood beside me and scanned the long list of words. Before I could explain to her what to do, Ping pointed without hesitation at one of the small-print words and said ‘antique’ in a clear, confident voice.
It became obvious to me very quickly that she was one of the very few children in my class who could read every single word on the card.
“What reading book are you reading at the moment?” I asked.
“Swallows and Amazons,” she replied. “It’s a really good story.”
The tears were gone now and her confidence was growing.
I recalled Mrs Brown’s derogatory comments outside the office door. Her daughter, Tracey-Leanne, could barely get a third of the way down the reading test and had a reading age well below her chronological age. Ping’s was well above.
At morning playtime, Ping went off happily with Claire Bradshaw to sell crisps whilst I found Roy Davidson waiting for me in the school office. Roy had a large folder with him, which helped to fill in some of the details of Ping’s life since the fall of Saigon in the summer of 1975. From a United Nations refugee camp in Thailand, Ping had finished up in Hong Kong. It was there her new foster mother had taken responsibility for this little orphan of the war.
At the outset of 1977, Ping and her foster mother had travelled to London where they lived in sheltered housing and Ping attended a local school. It was there her educational records began and her first teacher had written about her ‘excellent vocabulary and good writing and number skills’. The few hundred Vietnamese families that had arrived with her were eventually dispersed around the country and each local authority provided temporary or permanent housing. Ping was due to stay with us for three weeks prior to a permanent move to Newcastle with a small number of other Vietnamese families.
“She will be fine with us, Roy,” I said. “If you get a chance, call back later for a slice of birthday cake.”
Shortly after one o’clock, Shirley the Cook and Ruby the Caretaker were surrounded by groups of children up to their elbows in flour. Vera had collected Ping’s foster parent from their council flat and both had donned aprons and were helping children weigh out the ingredients. Claire Bradshaw and Ping appeared to have struck up an inseparable partnership and were taking turns to stir the Victoria sponge mixture in a large metal bowl. I had borrowed a very fetching blue-checked, North Yorkshire County Council apron and joined in. My lack of knowledge was immediately apparent and the children were amused that I had to ask for directions from Shirley and Ruby.
“I thought teachers knew everything,” said Anita Cuthbertson, shaking her head in bewilderment as a myth was ruined for ever.
Ping’s cake was iced and Ruby helped her write her name in runny pink icing whilst Shirley added ten candles. Ruby explained to Ping about making a wish and I took a photograph of her as she blew out her candles. I shall never forget the delight on her face. The children enjoyed their iced buns and lemonade and Kenny Flanaghan summed up everyone’s feelings as the bell rang for the end of school.
“That were a great afternoon, Mr Sheffield,” he said through a mouthful of crumbs. “Ah’m reight glad Ping came into our class.”
On Friday morning it was the turn of my class to take morning assembly. Word that Ping was going to read a piece of writing from her English book had spread throughout the village, so a larger group of parents than normal filled the back row in the hall. Stories and poems were read out and, finally, Ping stood up to read her piece of writing. Her foster parent leaned forwar
d in expectation. Vera and Ruby, who did not usually attend morning assembly, had crept in, and the brooding presence of Mrs Winifred Brown was visible in the far corner of the assembly hall.
Ping opened her exercise book and began.
“I like Ragley School. It is a nice place. There are lots of books and I like reading books, especially those with a happy ending. Soon I shall be leaving this village. My new mother says we are going to a big city called Newcastle. She says when we get there we can live in peace.”
Ping’s voice was clear and her reading was excellent. The parents at the back of the hall were clearly moved by the direct way in which she expressed herself. I looked across at Vera and Ruby and their eyes glistened with admiration for this little girl. Ping continued in a confident voice.
“I am in Mr Sheffield’s class and I have lots of friends, the best is Claire Bradshaw who lets me help her with the school tuck shop. On my first day here I made a birthday cake. I have never seen a birthday cake before. It had candles on it. Mrs Smith and Mrs Mapplebeck helped me to make it. I tried really hard. Mrs Smith said to me, ‘If a job’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well,’ and she is right. She said I could blow out the candles and make a wish. I can’t tell you what my wish is because if I do it might not come true. So I have only told my mother and father in my prayers.”
For a moment no one moved. Everyone in the hall was silent. Ruby’s eyes were red and she rubbed them with her dumpy knuckles. Vera took off her spectacles and dabbed her eyes gently with a tiny lace handkerchief. Shirley gripped her hands tightly together and bowed her head. Ping turned the page of her exercise book and continued to read.
“When I was a little girl there was a war in my country. Saigon is a big place in Vietnam and that was my home. My mother and father and all my relations had to leave quickly. We sailed in a small boat across the South China Sea. It was very dangerous and everyone was frightened of pirates. The sea was very big. In the atlas in the library, it says the sea is a quarter of a million square miles but we still found our way. We landed in Thailand. All my family died because they had no food. They gave me some water and I was the only one left. Before she died, my mother was too weak to walk but not too weak to smile. I will always remember her smile. It was like the candles on the cake.”
Ping closed her book and sat down.
At the back of the hall and without warning someone began to clap. It was Sheila Bradshaw, Claire’s mother. With the exception of Mrs Brown, the mothers around her joined in and, like a forest fire, it spread around the hall. Children and adults alike began to applaud. It had not happened before and was all the more special because of it.
Roy Davidson, the Education Welfare Officer, had arrived at school during the assembly and was standing at the door of the hall. As the children went back to their classrooms, he came over to me.
“Jack,” he said, and gripped my arm, “count the successes and enjoy every child.”
I looked at him curiously.
“That’s what my boss said to me when I started this job and I’ve never forgotten it.”
So that’s what we did. We enjoyed Ping’s contribution to Ragley School and she enriched our lives.
A few weeks later we waved goodbye to her and she continued to send long letters to Claire Bradshaw and in this way we kept in touch with her progress.
Now, many years later, I still get Christmas cards from old pupils of Ragley School. A particular one is always immediately distinguishable by its American stamp. It is from a talented paediatrician who was once a frightened little girl. I will never know if the wish she made when she blew out her candles ever came true, but I like to think that it did.
Each year, when she signs the card, she does not use her married name. She simply signs it ‘Ping’.
Fifteen
The Headteachers’ Training Course
HT attended the training course for newly appointed HTs at High Sutton Hall.
School invited to display a selection of artwork and children’s writing.
Miss Flint in Class 4 – afternoon session only.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday 14 April 1978
I
t had been a stressful week. Everyone in school seemed to have a sore throat and the end of term couldn’t come soon enough. On top of that, the phone had never stopped ringing. Without Vera’s help, teaching my class and answering a hundred and one queries would have been impossible.
It rang again as I was making a lemon and honey drink during afternoon break.
“Hello,” I croaked.
“Hello, Jack, Miss Barrington-Huntley needs a favour.”
It was Beth Henderson ringing from the Education Office. My spirits lifted a little. She sounded her usual animated self.
“It’s about this weekend’s course for newly appointed headteachers.”
It was Thursday 13 April and I was due to leave after school the following day for a residential conference at High Sutton Hall.
“Hello, Beth, good to hear from you again,” I said, trying to sound cheerful. “How can I help?”
Beth’s name was on the list of delegates for the course and I was hopeful of spending some time with her. For my part, I knew I was completely infatuated with her but she behaved as if we were just good friends. It was clear we enjoyed each other’s company but we had not progressed from a meal or an evening at the Theatre Royal in York. When we said goodnight, it was accompanied by a simple kiss on the cheek but never any more than that. I guessed that Beth had been badly hurt by her break-up with David but it never cropped up in conversation and I was unwilling to probe further.
Beth sounded in a hurry.
“Miss Barrington-Huntley wants you to arrive at lunchtime,” she explained. “I told her about your lovely artwork and children’s writing and she would like it for a display in the entrance hall. Is that OK? I know it doesn’t give you much time, so I thought I could call in tomorrow to give you a hand and offer a lift to High Sutton. We could travel up together.”
Whilst some of my more worldly colleagues would have politely declined; as a young, inexperienced headmaster I was flattered by the request to show off the work of my school. Much more than that, it was also an opportunity to talk to Beth again.
“That’s fine, Beth,” I said. “I’ll get Miss Flint to cover for me tomorrow afternoon and I’ll be ready at the end of morning school.”
“That’s marvellous, Jack, I knew you would help. Sorry about the short notice but it’s been a bit hectic here. It should be a good weekend. We’ve got Sylvester Quinn, the Stress Management guru from America, giving the lead lecture on Friday night.”
“That’s just what I need at the moment,” I said mournfully. What I really wanted to say was that I was delighted Beth was going as well.
“By the way, Jack, there’s a walk around the grounds on Saturday morning. Something to do with ‘team-bonding’, so don’t forget your wellies.”
“Thanks for the reminder, Beth, I’ll pack them tonight.”
She rang off and I asked Vera to locate the course information from the filing cabinet. I wanted to be well prepared. The headed notepaper looked very grand and included the itinerary for the weekend, a helpful map and some photographs of the magnificent hall and its grounds.
On Friday morning I packed a holdall with some clothes for the weekend and bundled my Wellington boots, thick socks, old gardening trousers and a waterproof anorak into a large black dustbin liner. I threw them into the back of my Morris Minor Traveller and set off very early for school.
There was a lot to do. I took down a display of pastel drawings from my classroom and stuck a collection of beautifully illustrated children’s poems into an A3 sugar-paper folder. I stapled the pages together using the long-arm stapler and wrote the title ‘Poems by children of Ragley School’ on the front cover in thick felt pen. Gradually, the pile of work filled the large cardboard boxes in the entrance hall and I stacked them behind the front door ne
xt to my holdall and the black plastic bag.
Beth was punctual. She was waiting for me at twelve o’clock in the school office and she and Vera were reading the local newspaper. Vera had just spent seven pence on a Yorkshire Evening Press and was thrilled to read the headline, ‘Mrs Thatcher says a five per cent swing will win the next election’. Vera was trying to convince Beth that Mrs Thatcher would be the answer to all the country’s problems. Beth looked relieved to escape.
“I’ve just met the little Vietnamese girl,” said Beth. “She was cleaning out the rabbit hutch with another girl. Isn’t she a wonderful speaker, Jack? I’ve heard a lot about her.”
The telephone rang and Vera beckoned me over.
“Miss Barrington-Huntley for you, Mr Sheffield,” said Vera, holding out the receiver.
I groaned. It was always the case that when you were in a hurry to leave school, someone always telephoned. Beth pointed to the pile of children’s work.
“I’ll load up, shall I?” she asked.
“Thanks, there’s my holdall as well,” I said, grabbing the receiver, “and a black bag with my wellies.”
Miss Barrington-Huntley sounded stressed.
“Have you organized the display work with Miss Henderson?” she asked.
“Yes, we’re loading it now,” I said, looking out of the window. Beth was struggling to put the cardboard boxes into the back of her slightly rusty, pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle. Then she threw the holdall and the black bag in the boot.
Minutes later we were off. It was the first time Beth had driven me in her car and I became aware of the scent of Rive Gauche perfume and her fast, competent driving as we sped along the Ripon road. The stress of school and the irritating sore throat were soon forgotten as we chatted about music, a shared interest in historical buildings and what was going to happen to her when her one-year secondment ended and she returned to her deputy headship. I was almost disappointed when, at five minutes to one, High Sutton suddenly came into view. The hall was spectacular and we slowed down as we crunched over the long, winding gravel driveway. The grassy banks were studded with daffodils and the mature trees stood like giant sentinels in the vast silence of this beautiful place.
01 Teacher, Teacher! Page 16
