01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  High Sutton Hall was one of the finest Georgian mansions in England. Set in 500 acres of magnificent Yorkshire countryside, it was a country house that provided a reminder of the style and grandeur of bygone days. The lake looked spectacular and the walled garden brickwork was covered in honeysuckle and variegated ivy. Now it had become a welcome retreat for teachers, a place to meet, talk and to recharge batteries. Better still, it also had a reputation for good food and excellent hospitality. The course for newly appointed headteachers in North Yorkshire provided a good opportunity to meet colleagues who were experiencing similar problems.

  We pulled up outside the front door and unloaded the displays of work. Then we parked the car in a small courtyard next to a sign that read ‘Stable Block’. Beth seemed to know her way around.

  “This is the accommodation block, Jack. We can come back later when we’ve checked in.”

  As we walked into the huge entrance hall, a very loud bell rang and dozens of delegates in smart suits walked towards the dining room.

  “Good timing, Jack,” said Beth. “You go ahead and have some lunch while I check in with the advisory team. I’m supposed to be helping with the organization.”

  The smell of pork chops was too much to resist so I walked in.

  There was no one I recognized so I sat at the nearest table and the remaining three seats were soon filled.

  “Hello,” I said, trying to break the ice.

  The curly-haired man to my left looked at me curiously.

  “Have you just started then?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you here before. What school are you at?”

  “Ragley, near Easington,” I said. “I started there last September.”

  “So what sort of floors have you got?” asked the lady on my right. Her hair had been dyed lurid orange and I wondered what her staff made of that.

  “Floors?” I asked in surprise, thinking I had misheard.

  The bald-headed man opposite leaned forward.

  “Yeah, y’know, wood block, plastic tiles over concrete,” he said, abruptly.

  I looked back to the lady. “We’ve got a wood block floor in the hall and old timber floors in the classrooms. Why do you ask?”

  “I was wondering what sort of floor polish you used,” said Orange Hair.

  “It’s in a big tin with some red writing on it, I think,” I explained.

  Bald-head was unimpressed.

  “Y’don’t seem t’know y’stock,” he said, shaking his head.

  “What about high windows over six feet,” asked Curly, “are there many o’ them?”

  I thought hard. It seemed a technical question but I presumed it must have some significance. Not for the first time, I promised myself that I really would read all the weekly circulars that poured in from County Hall and not leave it entirely to Vera to decide what I should read.

  At that moment an elderly man approached our table shaking a soup dish filled with fifty-pence pieces.

  “Collection f’Billy,” he said, rattling the plate in expectation.

  I put a fifty-pence piece on top of the pile of coins.

  Meanwhile a waitress came round and filled everyone’s wine glass.

  A plump man on the next table suddenly stood up and raised his glass.

  “Ah’d like you t’join me in a toast to our friend and comrade, Billy, caretaker at Blackwater Secondary School for twenty-eight years. Please stand.”

  We all lumbered to our feet, raised our glasses and said, “Billy.”

  The toastmaster added his final rallying call.

  “Remember, unity is strength. Us caretakers must stick together. Ah’ll see you all again next year. Thank you and safe journey home.”

  The penny finally dropped.

  I had unwittingly attended the final meal of the previous conference. The rest of the meal continued with me trying to avoid direct answers to questions about automatic boilers and the rate of wastage of paper towels.

  After the meal I returned to the entrance hall and worked with Beth on the display of work. The caretakers took their leave and Orange Hair gave me a puzzled look as she struggled out with her suitcase. An hour later the first headteachers began to arrive and the hall filled again with people whose first question appeared to be the whereabouts of the bar.

  It was almost time for the evening meal by the time we had finished.

  “Come on, Jack, we’ve earned a pre-dinner drink,” said Beth. “Don’t worry about your bags. I asked the porters to put them in your room. You’re in Room 14 and you can collect your key from reception.”

  It was good to relax over a drink and I began to realize how much I enjoyed Beth’s company. The bar was full of headteachers, still in suits and looking forward to a relaxing weekend.

  “Look,” said Beth, pointing to the other side of the bar, “there’s tonight’s speaker sitting with Miss Barrington-Huntley. It’s the stress guy from America, Professor Sylvester Quinn.”

  Miss Barrington-Huntley fussed around him like a mother hen. Professor Quinn was almost bald, looked about sixty, and wore what could only be described as a baggy lumberjack shirt. The raised heels of his brown winkle-picker boots compensated for his diminutive frame and he waved his black cheroot cigar in the air as he chatted in animated fashion and sipped his double whisky.

  Miss Barrington-Huntley was hanging on every word.

  After dinner, Beth and I were amongst the last to walk into the lecture hall. As usual, all the back rows were completely filled. After a hard week in school, a couple of drinks and a good meal, no one wanted to be too visible. The headteachers who had arrived early sat smugly in the knowledge that they could switch off their brains, avoid eye contact with the speaker and be first into the bar at the end of the talk.

  There were two remaining seats on the front row and Beth and I sat down. To my right an eager young woman sat with clipboard at the ready, pen poised. She was waiting for words of wisdom that would transform her ramshackle collection of creaking huts in the middle of a boggy field into a centre of excellence. To my left, beyond Beth, sat three men who had affected a glassy-eyed stare that suggested keen interest in the forthcoming lecture. However, I suspected their minds were focused on whether High Sutton Hall had a television set and if there was a good pub and a fish and chip shop within a ten-minute drive.

  They soon livened up when an unexpected bonus appeared. Professor Sylvester Quinn had a distinct nervous twitch that manifested itself in a wink of the left eye. Apparently this only seemed to appear when he was under pressure and, because he was under pressure, he was unaware of the problem. Throughout his career and his long travels across the American states, no one had mentioned this to him. As Miss Barrington-Huntley waded through her carefully prepared introduction, she became aware that every time she paused and gestured towards the principal speaker, he winked at her. Miss Barrington-Huntley felt like a young teenager again as she spoke with glowing praise of the American icon.

  “As Professor Quinn states in The Stress-Free School and The Storm before the Calm,” said Miss Barrington-Huntley, quoting from her notes, “‘know your stress, know yourself’.”

  She glanced to her left and Professor Quinn nodded slowly in an all-knowing sort of way as if he had just discovered penicillin. Then he gave her a big wink. Miss Barrington-Huntley’s cheeks reddened as she regained her seat and an unenthusiastic smattering of applause greeted the vertically challenged lumberjack.

  “Hi, everybody,” said the professor, whilst removing his spectacles so that they hung on a long chain around his neck. “I’m pleased to meet all you folks in York-sheer,” he continued in his mid-west drawl, “especially, mah dear friend, Fiona.”

  He turned to Miss Barrington-Huntley and gave her another big wink. For good measure he gave another big wink to the front row and began to jangle the keys in his pocket. This seemed to be another of the professor’s irritating habits.

  “So what causes stress and, what’s more, what can we do about it?”
said Sylvester with another rattle of his keys and a big wink to Miss Clipboard who was writing furiously.

  Professor Quinn switched on his overhead projector and the large black image of a dead fly that was stuck to the transparent plate was projected onto the screen. Blissfully unaware that the star of a cheap sci-fi movie appeared to be perched on his bald head, he stood in front of the white screen, rattled his keys, winked at the three men on the front row and asked us to close our eyes.

  “Now, think about a stressful experience you have had recently,” he said in a hypnotic voice, “and ah wan’ you to fix it in your mind.”

  I peered through half-closed eyelids at the people around me. They appeared to be doing the same.

  “Have you done that?” said the rattling, winking American. “Now, write it down.”

  “Can we open our eyes first?” asked a desperate voice from the back row. It was clear he thought this lecture was developing into a waste of good drinking time.

  The American professor ignored the interruption and pressed on regardless.

  “All would like you to find a partner with whom you can share your problems. Choose someone you don’t know. Tell them what causes you stress and then they must come up with two solutions. Then vice versa, so to speak. You will feed back to the whole group in ten minutes. Your time starts now.”

  A suppressed groan echoed across the room. The three men on my left homed in on Beth and engaged her in conversation.

  Meanwhile, Miss Clipboard leaned forward and caught my eye and I recalled why movie stars wear sunglasses.

  She looked at me with the intensity of a Belgian detective, read my name label on my lapel and said, “So, what causes you stress, Jack?”

  I pondered for a moment to think of a relevant reply.

  “Difficult parents,” I said.

  “That’s easy,” she said and scribbled on her pad.

  “According to Professor Quinn, your two solutions are, number one, deep breathing and number two, avoiding negativity.”

  I breathed deeply. But it didn’t seem to help. I still thought the lecture was a waste of time.

  “Now it’s my turn,” she said eagerly.

  I sighed and thanked my lucky stars that I hadn’t been asked to play Monopoly with her.

  “So what gives you stress?” I asked meekly.

  “American professors who have no idea what it’s like to teach thirty-five children in a cardboard box,” she answered. “They’re so self-opinionated! It makes me furious!”

  “Oh!” I said as she walked to the back of the room.

  I looked at my blank sheet of paper and then at Beth alongside me. The three men had surrounded her like bees round a honey pot. All of them wanted to be her partner.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I already have a partner.”

  Beth came and sat in the seat vacated by Miss Clipboard.

  “Is that what I am, Beth?” I asked quietly. “Your partner?”

  She lowered her eyes and looked as though her thoughts were far away.

  “I’ve been hurt a few times, Jack,” she said, “and I don’t want to spoil what we’ve got,” she explained and squeezed my hand.

  It was the first time she had opened up to me and I wanted to put my arms around her and tell her everything would be fine. Unfortunately, Miss Barrington-Huntley’s voice boomed out, “One minute left, everybody,” and the moment was lost. Beth blinked and sat up in her seat.

  I wasn’t the only one who had lost his audience. Professor Quinn was now nervously rocking backwards and forwards as the ten minutes drew to its close and all the delegates were sitting with their arms folded, waiting for something to happen. He also made the mistake of selecting Miss Clipboard to begin the feedback. She had moved to the back row and took the opportunity to attack the educational theorists who issued advice from ivory towers.

  “Large classes, poor pay and too much government interference,” she said. “That’s what causes stress and I can’t see how all this theory is going to help.”

  Miss Barrington-Huntley looked horrified, while the rocking, rattling and winking Sylvester had clearly lost the plot.

  “I agree!” shouted a male voice from the back row. At least one of them had stayed awake.

  “You need to breathe deeply and avoid negativity,” mumbled the professor but with little conviction.

  The lecture ended thirty minutes early. Both Professor Quinn and Miss Barrington-Huntley looked as though the Gestapo had just questioned them.

  With a brave smile, Miss Barrington-Huntley waved a copy of Professor Quinn’s latest stress-bashing masterpiece, American Stress.

  “Don’t forget, Professor Quinn will be signing copies of his new book in the bar.”

  He sold three copies.

  Apparently Miss Barrington-Huntley had two sisters.

  ♦

  The next morning, after breakfast, a group of cold head-teachers huddled in small groups in the courtyard in front of the stable block for the walk around the grounds. Hot coffee and a warm fire were certainly preferable to a forced march disguised as a ‘team-bonding’ exercise. It was a cold, cloudy morning and everyone was dressed in Wellington boots, old trousers and warm coats. That is, everyone except me. I was still dressed in my suit and looked and felt very much out of place.

  Beth came up to me looking concerned. I was too cold and stressed to notice the subtle way in which her pink scarf matched her bobble hat and that the cut of her jeans emphasized her shapely figure. I felt my sore throat returning and I began to sneeze.

  “What’s wrong, Jack? Where’re your wellies?” asked Beth in a concerned voice.

  I looked at her and my anger softened. It was just that whenever I was with her, life seemed to backfire on me.

  “Beth, do you remember putting a black dustbin liner in your car along with my holdall?”

  Beth nodded.

  “And do you remember two girls had just cleaned out the rabbit hutch?”

  Beth nodded again, still looking puzzled.

  “Well, I’ve just looked in my wardrobe and opened the black bag. Guess what was in it?”

  Beth’s eyes widened.

  “Oh no,” she said, “it wasn’t! It couldn’t be!”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, rabbit droppings!”

  So for the rest of the morning I tiptoed around the edge of streams, avoided cowpats and silently froze to death. Whilst the loan of the pink scarf was welcome, it did little to enhance my rugged outdoor image.

  Shortly before lunch, Beth and I walked into the bar. Beth bought the drinks while I huddled in front of the log fire. Slowly warmth began to reach my fingertips and toes. Professor Quinn looked as though he had spent the morning trying to get to the bottom of a bottle of malt whisky.

  “Hi there, mah good friend,” he shouted across the bar. “Had a good morning?”

  I must have looked as though I wanted to throttle him.

  Beth arrived with the drinks, squeezed my hand and whispered in my ear, “Remember, Jack, take a deep breath and avoid negativity.”

  Sixteen

  The School Camp

  22 children from the top class will be attending a five-day camping holiday in Skythorns near Grassington, commencing Monday 22 May. All members of the teaching staff, plus John Grainger, have agreed to accompany the party.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday 19 May 1978

  “D

  efinitely diesel,” said the spotty-faced garage attendant.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Yeah, definitely diesel,” confirmed Spotty Face. “Ah know me engines, ah do. Y’can tell by t’sound, they tick over different.”

  I had driven Victor Pratt’s huge wagon into the forecourt of a small garage on the outskirts of Skipton. It was Saturday 20 May, the weekend before the school camp, and the wagon was full of tents, tools, cooking equipment, boxes of food and a giant marquee. The College in York had provided all the equipment and Miss Twigg and three of
her student friends had volunteered to give up their Spring Bank Holiday to do the cooking. Anne Grainger’s husband, John the woodcarver, had offered to help me collect all the gear from the College and then transport it to our campsite in the Yorkshire Dales.

  We had planned to meet Deke Ramsbottom and his sons, along with a posse of parents, at lunchtime in the little village of Skythorns just outside Grassington. They had volunteered to prepare the campsite prior to the arrival on Monday morning of the twenty-two children in the top class.

  It was a beautiful, sunlit Saturday morning and everything had gone well so far.

  “What do you think, John?” I asked. “It didn’t occur to me to ask Victor about his wagon and he’s a man of few words anyway. I was just grateful for the loan of his vehicle.”

  “Sorry, Jack,” said John. “I’ve no idea. I don’t even know what a diesel engine sounds like.”

  I scratched my head. The last time I had driven a wagon was when I was a student and I had delivered Corona pop around the streets of Leeds. The pop wagon was always full of fuel when I took it out. Victor’s had been nearly empty.

  It was time to make a decision.

  “OK,” I said to Spotty Face, “fill her up.”

  I should have known better. On a lonely road, half a mile from Skythorns village, the battered old wagon finally spluttered to a halt. I looked around for help but the quiet road was deserted. In the distance I spotted a five-barred gate set into the limestone wall beyond which a narrow track led to a small cottage. Wood smoke was billowing out of the chimney so I set off to ask for help whilst John stayed with the wagon.

  An old farmer was repairing a dry-stone wall and he was clearly an expert. I had learned as a boy that a Pennine wall is constructed from two walls that are bound together by large stones called ‘throughs’ and topped with capstones.

  His black-and-white sheepdog barked a welcome and trotted up to me.

  “Heel, boy!” the farmer shouted and the dog obeyed instantly.