01 Teacher, Teacher!

by Jack Sheffield

  “We’re starting the race now, Mr Brown,” said Joseph patiently.

  “Oh-kay, oh-kay,” said Eddie, not caring for the vicar’s tone and flexing his arms. The tattoo on his right forearm that read ‘SANDRA’, the result of a pre-Winifred liaison with a barmaid at the Butlin’s Holiday Camp in Filey, wobbled like jelly on a plate.

  “Take your marks,” repeated Joseph.

  “Get set!”

  As he raised the whistle to his lips, Ronnie was off like a ferret down a hole.

  A split second later Joseph blew the whistle by which time Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer had launched himself down the track. This caused his expensive leather shoes with the shiny soles to slip on the grass and he promptly fell flat on his face. Meanwhile, Peter Miles-Humphreys trotted off at a steady pace, as he wanted to make sure his designer flared trousers stayed firmly in his socks. Ernie was completely confused, first, by Ronnie setting off before the whistle and, second, by the sight of the posh guy next to him falling down as if he had been shot.

  By now, Ronnie was ten yards in the clear and could taste glory but the sudden shock to his system was enormous. The oxygen in his blood stream was sufficient to carry a tray of five pints of Tetley’s bitter across a smoky room but not to run with the speed of a racing pigeon across an open field. After twenty yards he coughed for the first time.

  Peter was puzzled. The strange little man in the bobble hat was running as if his life depended on it, whereas running had never been an integral part of his own life. He knew for a fact that in the bank running was strictly forbidden. So he continued with his peculiar prancing motion with tiny strides as if he was running in an invisible sack: indeed, had he but known it, this action would have won him many sack races. In this way he progressed down the track and did not disturb the copious amount of trouser material stuffed down his socks.

  Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was in deep panic. Every time he attempted to stand up, his feet shot away from him like Bambi on ice. Five precious seconds had elapsed before he managed to take a few cautious paces and then he began to run. The lack of friction between his feet and the ground took him on a diagonal path across the course and he bumped into Eddie as he inadvertently changed lanes.

  “Oh-kay, oh-kay!” shouted Eddie in disgust.

  Eddie’s prodigious belly bounced like a blancmange inside his Bay City Rollers tracksuit and his slow brain sent a message to his body to stop quickly, climb into his Reliant Robin and go home to watch Coronation Street.

  At the side of the track the children cheered, Ruby shouted encouragement and Felicity Miles-Humphreys screamed as Ronnie’s lead was gradually whittled away by the pitter-patter of Peter Miles-Humphreys and the late charge from Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer. The length of the track had been determined by the amount of whitewash in Clint Ramsbottom’s bucket so fifty yards from the start line, Sally and Jo held the length of twine and waited in trepidation as, with five yards to go, Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer tried with all his might to catch the exhausted Ronnie, and Peter Miles-Humphreys drew level with Ronnie’s shoulder. A split second before he was overtaken, Ronnie fell across the finishing line, wheezing badly. Geoffrey and Peter were declared equal second and Eddie was disqualified for coming to a shuddering halt after thirty yards and not completing the course.

  “Teacher, teacher, my dad won, my dad won,” shouted little Hazel Smith to Anne Grainger.

  Ruby ran with surprising speed to give Ronnie a hug that almost asphyxiated him.

  “My ‘ero!” she said.

  “Ah’m knackered!” gasped Ronnie.

  Peter Miles-Humphreys slumped into a chair next to his wife.

  Nigel patted his father on the back.

  “Well done, Dad,” said Nigel.

  “Was I s-s-s?” stuttered Peter.

  “Second, yes, Dad, you were,” added Nigel.

  “Well run, darling,” said Felicity to Peter, dragging his trouser bottoms out of his socks. “I didn’t know you still had it in you.”

  Eddie Brown was staggering back to his Reliant Robin whilst receiving a tongue-lashing from his wife.

  “You’re a blooming disgrace t’family!” shouted Winifred to Eddie. “If y’were a carthorse, they’d put y’down.”

  “Y’what?” said Eddie.

  Nineteen

  Seaside Gladys and the Summer Fair

  The Summer Fair raised over £500 and this will be used to buy resources for the new library area.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Monday 26 June 1978

  “S

  easide Gladys tells fortunes,” said Ruby.

  The Summer Fair Committee looked at her in surprise.

  “Seaside Gladys?” said Anne Grainger, looking up from her list of stalls.

  “She’s my aunty in Skegness,” explained Ruby. “She was born on the day Queen Victoria died in 1901 and she says it gave her special powers. She knows what’s going to ‘appen before it ‘appens.”

  “Well, it’s different,” said Anne cautiously. “What does everyone else think?”

  Anne had always chaired these annual meetings and I was determined to stay in the background.

  Conversations broke out everywhere. This was something new.

  “Could be a real money spinner at fifty pence a time,” said Sally Pringle, “and I’ve got a hippy friend with an authentic gypsy caravan.”

  Vera looked less convinced.

  “I’m not sure about fortune tellers,” said Vera and then saw the disappointment on Ruby’s face, “but I’ll take Ruby’s word for it.”

  Ruby smiled, although she wasn’t too clear why Vera should have a problem with her Aunty Gladys.

  There were encouraging nods all around the table so Anne added to her list.

  “Will you let her know please, Ruby?” asked Anne.

  “Perhaps she knows already,” said Sally mischievously.

  Anne read out her list.

  “There’s the usual mixture of parents, staff and villagers who like to help the school. We’ve got Jo’s Prisoner in the Stocks, Tommy Piercy’s Bowls Competition, Big Dave’s Beat the Goalie, Vera and Ruby’s Cross-Stitch Stall, Virginia’s Pony Rides, Nora Pratt’s Cake Stall, Val Flint’s Win a Goldfish, Shirley’s Refreshment Stall, Sue Phillips’ Bash the Rat, the Dads’ Cake Making Competition, half a dozen other stalls yet to be planned by the PTA, plus the Ragley and District Brass Band for the parade in the village and the Fancy Dress Competition.”

  Anne ticked her list as she read them out.

  “Finally, perhaps Sally would organize the gypsy caravan and take the money for Seaside Gladys? That’s all, everybody, thanks for attending, all we need now is a fine day.”

  ♦

  Saturday 24 June dawned bright and clear and by nine o’clock the school field was a hive of activity. Stakes were being driven in the ground, signs were painted and nailed on, Young Tommy Piercy was mowing the bowls strip for his grandad and a brightly painted gypsy caravan was being unloaded from the back of a trailer. A few children peered in the windows thinking that Seaside Gladys was already inside but the blinds were down and no sounds could be heard.

  In the school office, Vera was counting out piles of coins and filling twenty plastic bags so that each stall could begin with a float of five pounds, and Ruby was unpacking a beautiful collection of cross-stitch work.

  “Miss Evans, will you be going in to see my Aunty Gladys?” asked Ruby.

  Vera did not look up from her counting.

  “I don’t think so, Ruby,” said Vera. “I don’t believe in all that hocus-pocus.”

  Ruby looked thoughtfully at Vera and decided that maybe it was something to do with being the sister of a vicar that prevented Vera from fully appreciating her Aunty Gladys. Many years before, Seaside Gladys had told the youthful Ruby that she would meet a handsome stranger and she would be blessed with children. Whilst her Ronnie was not exactly handsome in the generally accepted sense, back in the fifties in his purple drainpipe trousers and thick crêpe-s
oled shoes he once looked as though he could have been. In those pre-bobble-hat days, he had slick, black, Brylcreemed hair with a Bill Haley kiss curl that hung like an inverted question mark over his forehead. Ruby thought he was wonderful and she now had six children to prove it.

  At one o’clock everyone gathered on the village green for the traditional fancy dress parade through the village, from where they would march to the school playground prior to the opening of the Summer Fair by Joseph Evans. Front doors opened and everyone in the village seemed to line the route. The lunchtime drinkers at The Royal Oak came to stand outside as the Ragley and District Brass Band marched by and played ‘Yellow Submarine’ whilst the children followed behind.

  Deke Ramsbottom, pint glass in hand, particularly appreciated the two six-year-olds dressed as the Lone Ranger and Tonto and shouted “Hi Yo Silver, Howay!” much to the confusion of the children concerned. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, dressed as Little Bo Peep, dragged a small wooden sheep behind her on squeaky wheels and Kenny Flanaghan and Tony Ackroyd, in Batman and Robin outfits, fought imaginary foes with fierce cries of ‘Thwack’, ‘Biff’ and ‘Boom’.

  It was a colourful and noisy crowd that walked up the school drive and noticed the strange sight of an authentic Romany caravan parked on the grass next to the school car park. The Revd Joseph Evans declared the Summer Fair open and promised that every penny raised would go towards a new school resource library to be sited in the corner of the hall and including shelving, books, visual aids and a slide projector. Everyone clapped politely, except for Stan Coe who muttered complaints that precious funds were being diverted from the Social Club.

  This was followed by a mini stampede towards the gypsy caravan. Sally was right. This was a popular attraction. She had produced a large sign and propped it on an old wooden easel. It read, “Fortune Telling with Seaside Gladys, only 50p, confidentiality guaranteed.”

  A queue of mothers had already formed by the time Sally sat at her table alongside the wooden steps that had been propped against the caravan. Mrs Winifred Brown, at the front of the queue, didn’t know what ‘confidentiality’ meant but, as long as she was told she would be rich one day, she didn’t mind. No one had seen Seaside Gladys enter and I was tempted to spend fifty pence just to see what she looked like. A black curtain had been draped against the open doorway to add to the air of mystery.

  I was the only member of staff not assigned to a stall. The intention was I could indulge in some public relations and also give each stallholder a ten-minute comfort break at some point during the afternoon. Val Flint was doing a roaring trade on her hoopla stall and was rapidly running out of goldfish. Little Bo Peep was announced as the winner of the Fancy Dress Competition and Jo Maddison was whipping up the crowd into a frenzy as they each paid ten pence for a wet sponge in order to throw it at some poor unfortunate, yet strangely willing, villager locked into the wooden stocks.

  The Revd Joseph Evans saw the funny side of a brief conversation with two boys caught smoking behind the school cycle shed.

  “Do you know where naughty boys who smoke go to?” demanded Joseph.

  “Behind t’cricket pavilion, Mr Evans,” answered one of the boys, quick as a flash.

  A delighted Mr Miles-Humphreys showed off his iced sponge cake topped with Smarties and hundreds and thousands, which won the Dads’ Cake Making Competition. He spent the afternoon explaining how his elder son Rupert should get most of the credit for finding the perfect recipe in his grandma’s Be-Ro recipe book.

  Nora Pratt had supported this event for many years and was concerned at some of the detrimental comments directed towards her cake stall. She had resorted to hastily scribbling a notice and she had propped it up against a tired-looking Dundee fruitcake. It read, ‘All ingredients in these cakes have been passed by the management’. After much giggling and a sudden drop in sales, her big brother, Tidy Tim, whispered something in her ear and the notice was removed forthwith. Tidy Tim paused to create a neat pattern of fairy cakes, with alternate white and pink icing, before he wandered off to try to win a goldfish.

  Meanwhile, the shapely Virginia from the riding school had attracted most of the young men in the village. As she strolled around the makeshift paddock in her skin-tight jodhpurs, a group of adolescent men ogled in appreciation. Clint Ramsbottom wondered what he would look like with a riding hat perched on his long permed locks and whether it would ruin his cool image. He decided not to risk it and went to show his skill at Big Dave’s Beat the Goalie. Sheila Bradshaw, who was having a short break from The Royal Oak, surprised all the men by achieving the top score in the target bowls competition. Most of the men stayed for an extra hour in order to beat her score but no one managed it and Old Tommy reluctantly delivered the prize of a crate of Guinness back to The Royal Oak from whence it came.

  A familiar figure appeared on the driveway during the late afternoon. I recognized the summer dress and the honey-blond hair. Beth looked relaxed as she saw me and pointed to the gypsy caravan.

  “That looks interesting,” she said.

  “Good to see you, Beth, thanks for coming.”

  Beth had just returned from an advisers’ course at High Sutton Hall and I hadn’t seen her for a few days.

  “It’s for a good cause today, Jack, so I’m going to work my way around the stalls, including the fortune telling. You never know, I might meet a tall, dark stranger one day who will sweep me off my feet.”

  She looked up at the uncontrollable palm tree of brown hair that sprang from the crown of my head. Self-consciously I tried to flatten it but I knew it was a waste of time.

  “Are you having your fortune told, Jack? It might be interesting.”

  “I doubt it, I’m not sure I believe in that sort of thing.”

  “Give it a try, Jack, you’ve nothing to lose,” said Beth in a determined voice.

  “I’ll see,” I said hesitantly. “Anyway, I’m supposed to be giving people time off from their stalls, so I’ll see you later.”

  I wandered away reluctantly as Beth went off to queue for Seaside Gladys.

  I took over from Val Flint and gave the last goldfish to a little boy who failed repeatedly to throw a hoop over any of the tin cans. Ruby left her cross-stitch stall and walked over to talk to me.

  “Are you going to see my Aunty Gladys, Mr Sheffield?”

  “I’m not sure, Ruby. Maybe at the very end, I’ll pop my head in to say thank you.”

  “Mr Sheffield, ah think y’should go, Aunty Gladys is very good at lookin’ inside people.”

  I sensed I would regret it but Ruby looked so keen for me to try.

  “OK, Ruby, I’ll do it.”

  Beth saw me walking towards the caravan.

  “I’m going to have a go,” I shouted to her.

  “Good luck, Jack,” said Beth and then as an afterthought, “it’s really quite revealing.”

  I paid my fifty pence to Sally and walked up the steps. It was surprisingly dark and humid inside the caravan. There were narrow bench seats on either side and I sat down beside a circular table covered with a lace tablecloth and on which a crystal ball reflected the flickering light from a strange, patterned candle with a pungent flame. As my eyes slowly adjusted I saw a pack of playing cards that appeared larger than normal placed face down on the table. Opposite me was an old lady with a red headscarf, huge dangly earrings and a face like ancient parchment.

  “Hello, young man,” said Seaside Gladys. “Now, tell me what’s on your mind. You appear troubled.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said defensively, “it’s just a busy day.”

  She stared at me intently. I felt as if she was looking right through me. Her long scarlet fingernails touched the pack of cards. “Perhaps my Tarot cards can help you to find the path that you seek and the partner that waits for you.”

  “I promised Ruby I would come to see you,” I said, eager to change the subject, “and I’ve only got a few minutes.” Even so, I was intrigued by the comment about
a partner waiting for me.

  “It’s Mr Sheffield, isn’t it?” said Seaside Gladys with a knowing smile.

  She handed me the pack of cards.

  “Please shuffle the cards, Mr Sheffield, and don’t worry, this won’t take long.”

  Misspent evenings as a student meant I was used to shuffling cards but this pack was larger and there were more cards than I expected. In my haste they scattered on the table before me.

  “Sorry,” I said and gathered them up quickly.

  “Don’t worry, just shuffle them and, when you feel happy about it, pass them back to me.”

  I took a deep breath, shuffled them slowly and deliberately and passed them back to her.

  “I know there are many things on your mind, Mr Sheffield, but just relax for a few minutes. I’ve done this many times before and, you never know, it might just help.”

  There was a hint of a warm smile from this strange old lady and I began to relax as she turned the cards over one by one. I noticed they had strange pictures on them and they were unlike any cards I had seen before. She put three in a pile in the centre of the table and then placed four around it like the points of a compass. After forming a cross shape, she then placed a column of four cards to the side from the bottom to the top. One or two of the cards were reversed so the picture was upside down and easier for me to read.