A few minutes later I was in the hall talking to Jimmy Poole, now a stocky six-year-old.
“Hello, Mithter Theffield,” said Jimmy. “Do boyth ‘ave to wear capth in thchool?”
Jimmy was wearing his grandad’s flat cap. It was pulled down over his eyebrows and perspiration was running down his face.
“Mithith Grainger didn’t thay take it off, tho I ‘aven’t,” said Jimmy mournfully.
I took the cap off his head, told him to put it somewhere safe and sent him for a drink of water. He wandered off, looking relieved.
A large shadow appeared on the floor beside me. I turned and saw the bull-like frame of Stan Coe.
“Ah’d like a private word, Mr Sheffield,” said Stan Coe, tapping the side of his bulbous nose with a chubby forefinger as a sign of secrecy.
I was intrigued. “Let’s walk on the playground,” I said and ushered him towards the door. We looked an incongruous pair walking around the playground on a beautiful summer’s day: me in my severe three-piece suit and Stan Coe dressed as if he was about to refuse Oliver Twist another bowl of gruel.
“It’s like this,” said Stan with a smile that revealed his brown and broken teeth. “I’ve got a chance to be nominated for the local Council and, if I did, it would be good for you. Ah’d be able to support things like this ‘ere library y’want. So, ah was jus’ checking ah’d got y’support.”
“Sorry, Mr Coe, I couldn’t on those conditions. If I supported you it would be for the right reasons,” I responded quickly and firmly.
“Wow, don’t be too ‘asty,” he said with a voice like syrup. “Jus’ think about it. Outsiders like y’self certainly don’t want powerful enemies in a small village like this, you ‘aving jus’ arrived ‘ere.”
I stopped in my tracks and looked him squarely in the eyes.
“I’ll take my chances, Mr Coe. Now if you’ll excuse me.”
With that, I walked quickly back into school, teeth clenched and inwardly seething.
At ten thirty the Yorkshire Evening Press photographer arrived accompanied by a young female reporter. Stan Coe was soon deep in conversation with her and kept pointing his finger at the spiral-bound notepad as if he was insisting on what was being written. The young woman looked slightly overawed by the heavyweight farmer.
Fortunately, the experienced photographer knew exactly what he wanted and he took a series of photographs, including one of all the children, another of the teaching staff and one of everyone lined up on the playground.
After a short break for the children, a series of ‘workshops’ had been set up in the school hall and children of all ages could choose which one to attend. Jo and Sally had invited some of the senior citizens of the village into school for a coffee and a talk with the children. I listened in on the first discussion group, which included four generations of the Cade family.
Ada Cade was the oldest inhabitant of the village at the age of ninety-one. Her granddaughter, Emily, helped the frail old lady when she needed prompting. Ada told the children that she was one year old when Queen Victoria celebrated her Golden Jubilee in 1887. Her memory was remarkable and she told the children many stories of a world without television, aeroplanes and cars. She had attended Ragley School when it was relatively new and recalled the days off for blackberry and potato picking (which appealed to the children) and the harsh punishments and regular canings (which didn’t). As a teenager in 1904 she remembered meeting her first boyfriend in Lord Mayor’s Walk in York, alongside the city walls. Then, instead of busy traffic, there were only flocks of sheep grazing contentedly. The children were spellbound throughout and later wrote letters of thanks to Ada.
Jo Maddison was working with another group of children who were interviewing Albert Jenkins. Jo was tape-recording the question-and-answer session to use as a teaching resource during follow-up work. Albert told of a time fifty years ago when he was thirteen years old. He had been taken out of Ragley School to become a Fire Tender Worker for the railway in York.
“I was a chimney sweep for the railways,” said Albert. “I used to climb inside the firebox and use a brush and my bare hands to clean it out. All the time I was surrounded by dangerous asbestos. My ambition was to become a train driver and twenty-six years later I fulfilled my ambition.”
Albert produced lots of old photographs of the giant steam engines that he had driven and the children bombarded him with questions.
When it was over I shook his hand.
“Albert, that was wonderful, the children loved it. Thank you so much, I had no idea you had worked on the railways.”
“Seeing their faces made it all worthwhile,” said Albert.
He looked at me intently.
“Are you all right, Jack? If you’re feeling tired we can get you home.”
“No, I’m fine, thanks, and I wouldn’t want to miss today,” I said.
Albert was a perceptive man.
“Something’s troubling you, I can tell,” he said. “I saw you with Stanley just before the photograph. Is that it? Has he been putting pressure on you?”
I said nothing and stared at the ground.
“The old fox,” exclaimed Albert. “It’s the Council election, isn’t it? He’s been canvassing everybody who is anybody in the village. Don’t let him get to you, Jack.”
“I just want to do my job well,” I said cautiously.
“I understand, Jack,” said Albert, looking at me carefully. “Words without thoughts never to heaven go.”
“Shakespeare,” I said.
He nodded but still looked thoughtful as we walked over to John Pruett’s workshop. John had taken the old school logbooks out of the safe in the vicarage and displayed them on a table in the middle of the hall. He had a captive audience and held up a large, leather-bound tome.
“This is one of the collection of school logbooks,” said John. “Since 1878 every headteacher has recorded the life of Ragley School.”
He turned the gold leaf pages with quiet reverence and held up the first volume.
“Here’s one of the earliest entries from the first volume,” said John. “First February 1878, the outside toilets are frozen and the rooms have been fumigated with sulphur candles.”
John selected another volume, pointed to the date, 1901, and read another entry.
“Today lice were observed crawling in the children’s hair.”
The children groaned and began to scratch their heads. John called Sue Phillips over to show everyone her fierce-looking nit comb.
“And this is one of my first entries,” continued John. “17 September, 1946, electric lights were installed today and the children cheered.”
John lined up the volumes neatly so that the children and visitors could look through them.
“So please have a look. Every teacher’s name, every holiday, every special event, even every punishment is in here.”
Albert suddenly put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ve had a thought, Jack. I’ll catch you later.”
With that, he picked up one of John Pruett’s logbooks and began to flick through the pages.
Beth was suddenly at my elbow.
“Come and look at this, Jack.”
She tugged my sleeve and we walked into my classroom. It was like stepping back one hundred years. Miss Flint was leading a writing lesson and the children were dipping their scratchy, metal-nib pens into inkpots and copying the sentence, “Good handwriting is essential if you wish to become a clerk.”
“Upward strokes are light,” said Miss Flint, “downward strokes are heavy.”
The efforts of the children were extraordinary and even the voluble Anita Cuthbertson had barely spoken a word all morning.
“They’ve really entered into the spirit of the day,” whispered Beth. “You must be proud of them all.”
I looked down into her green eyes and decided it was time to take the plunge.
“Could I have a brief, private word with you before you leave?”
“Of course, Jack. Miss Barrington-Huntley and I have to attend meetings this afternoon at County Hall so we’re leaving at twelve o’clock. I’ll see you then,” said Beth.
Then she smiled and went to sit next to Miss Barrington-Huntley who was working with Vera and Ruby. They were teaching children to sew intricate patterns around the edge of small white handkerchiefs.
“Jack, I need a word.”
It was Albert and he looked triumphant. He had a school logbook under his arm with a sheet of paper marking a page.
I followed him into the staff-room where he opened the book.
“It was when John mentioned punishments, Jack. After that it was just a matter of working out when and then finding the record.”
“Sorry, Albert, but I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.
“Just listen to this,” said Albert and he began to read from the logbook.
“Tenth November 1932, Stanley Coe (age ten years) was caned and excluded from school for three days for persistent bullying of girls.”
“Albert!” I cried. “How on earth did you find that piece of news?”
“Stanley has always been a bully, Jack, particularly at school. I knew he had been punished when he was about ten years old and I also knew he was born in 1922. The rest was simple detective work.”
“So what do we do now?” I asked.
“I think we should take him down a peg or two, don’t you? But first, let’s show this to Joseph.”
The vicar was thrilled when he read the extract.
“I’m not sure that revenge is a particularly Christian thing to do,” said Joseph, “but somehow, with that infuriating man, it doesn’t seem to matter.”
“Let’s invite him in,” said Albert, “and strike while the iron is hot. Jack, will you do the honours?”
It wasn’t difficult to find Stan Coe who was loud in every sense of the word.
“Mr Coe, could you come into the staff-room for a quick meeting with the other governors?”
Stan looked puzzled as he walked in.
“What’s all this then?” he asked gruffly.
“Stanley, we’ve heard that you don’t support the idea of a new school library, is that so?” asked Albert.
Stan glowered at me. “Money would be better spent in the village. He’s raising so much through that bloody PTA that there’s none left for t’Social Club.”
“Even so,” said Joseph, “after careful consideration we have decided to support your application to be a County Councillor.”
Stan wasn’t expecting this. Suddenly a smile creased his face.
“Well, ah’m glad you’ve come t’your senses,” said Stan.
“There’s just one proviso,” said Albert.
Stan looked vacant.
“One what?” asked Stan.
“You have to print this at the bottom of your election leaflets.”
Albert lifted the logbook, pointed to the extract and shoved it under his nose.
Stan looked as though he was going to internally combust. He writhed in confusion and his anger left him speechless. An oath left his lips as he stormed out of school.
“About time he was excluded again,” said Joseph with a saintly smile.
I glanced at the clock. It was twelve o’clock.
“Please excuse me for a moment,” I said.
Beth was waiting for me in the entrance hall.
“Can we talk outside?” I asked.
She gave me a curious look and we walked towards the car park.
“Beth, I’ve been meaning to ask you something for quite some time now.”
Beth stood quietly. Her green eyes looked thoughtful.
“This may be inappropriate,” I continued, trying to find the right words. “But it’s crossed my mind a few times now.”
Beth stood patiently.
“Would you say we’ve got on quite well?” I asked.
“Yes, Jack, we’ve become good professional colleagues,” Beth teased.
The words ‘professional colleagues’ seemed to hang in the air.
“Oh,” I said, feeling a little deflated.
“What exactly is it, Jack, that you want to say?”
I took a deep breath. Miss Barrington-Huntley had emerged from school and had begun to walk towards the car park. It was now or never.
“Well, I was wondering if you would be interested in a holiday in France?”
She shook her head.
“I understand,” I said hurriedly.
“No you don’t, Jack. I just thought I would have to wait another hundred years before you asked. So I was thinking of asking you to come to Cornwall with me.”
“Why not do both?” I blurted out before I had time to think.
Beth smiled and squeezed my hand.
At that moment, Miss Barrington-Huntley arrived, hitched up her voluminous skirt and squeezed into the passenger seat of the Beetle.
“And what are you two plotting, votes for women?”
“No,” said Beth quietly, “I’ve already voted.”
Twenty-two
Teacher, Teacher
83 Children on roll. Ten 4th-year junior children left the school today and will commence secondary education at Easington in September. The under-fives who will join the Reception class in September visited school with their parents. The cycle shed and bell tower will be re-painted during the school summer holiday.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday 21 July 1978
“T
eacher, teacher, can I ‘ave some more beef ‘n’ sewage pudding, please?”
Hazel Smith’s vocabulary was clearly taking after her mother’s and it was impossible to refuse her eager request. Even after three terms in school, Hazel still began all her sentences in the same excited way.
I spooned some more beef stew and an extra suet dumpling onto her plate. It was Friday lunchtime, 21 July, the last day of the school year, and Shirley the Cook had made an extra effort to provide a really good school dinner.
For half of the children in my class, the fourth-year juniors, it was their final day at Ragley and in September they would all go into the first year at Easington Comprehensive School. It was a daunting prospect for them, even though they had enjoyed a few preliminary visits. After lunch they had all wandered back into the classroom to talk to me, reflecting on their favourite memories.
“School Camp was great, Mr Sheffield,” said freckle-faced Kenny Flanaghan. “I ‘ope we do things like that at the big school.”
“Last week was good when we dressed up as Victorians,” said chatterbox Anita Cuthbertson. “Mind you, pretending to be good was hard work,” she added thoughtfully.
“Sports Day was brilliant,” said the tall and leggy Claire Phillips, “especially when Mrs Smith won the egg and spoon race.”
“I’d like to come back next Bonfire Night, Mr Sheffield,” said the budding artist and musician, Jenifer Jayne Tait, “and help to make the guy. I bet we won’t do anything like that at Easington.”
“Ah’ll miss my tuck shop,” said the plump and practical Claire Bradshaw sadly. “What a time to have to leave, just when ah’d introduced different flavoured crisps.”
“Food up there’ll be different,” said Claire Malarky. “Don’t get me wrong, Mr Sheffield, ah like Mrs Mapplebeck, an’ she’s a great cook an’ all, but at big school y’can go into Easington an’ buy chips wi’ loads o’ ketchup.”
The group pondered on this culinary delight until the silence was broken by one of Wayne Ramsbottom’s rare sentences.
“Ah’ll miss spam fritters,” said a forlorn Wayne. He sounded positively suicidal and everyone considered this catastrophic announcement. Fortunately, Wayne was rarely downbeat for long. With a father who wore spurs and a cowboy hat, you needed a sense of humour.
“Mind you,” said Wayne, “chips in Easington might be OK.”
There were a few nods of optimism and slowly they meandered out together for what remained of th
eir last lunch-break at Ragley. I followed them out of the main entrance to get some fresh air and I watched them as they walked onto the school field. They sat down in a circle, boys and girls together, bonded at last by their imminent departure from this stage of their lives.
Briefly, they were a united group. The carefree days of primary school were over and they were sad to see them go. Having the same person teaching them each day for a whole year was now a thing of the past. They would meet specialist Mathematics and English teachers and a whole host more. Some they would love and some they would hate. Forty minutes would become the length of a lesson whether they were enjoying it or not and they wouldn’t question why. Adolescence was just around the corner just as sure as long trousers, make-up and teenage acne. This was the tenth group of fourth-year juniors who had left me in my career and it occurred to me that I was on a strange treadmill where I got older each year but the children stayed the same, only their faces were different. I also knew it was a treadmill I had chosen and one I enjoyed.
The hot sun was on my neck as I walked around the edge of the playground. A group of carefree five-year-olds were playing ring-a-ring-o’-roses and Mrs Critchley, the dinner lady, had joined in. I leaned against the wrought-iron railings under the welcome shade of the horse chestnut trees that were now heavy in leaf and dipped their branches over the warm tarmac beneath my feet. In a shady corner, four ten-year-old girls were deep in conversation. They were negotiating who would run the school tuck shop next year. In six weeks’ time they would become the oldest pupils in the school and they relished the responsibilities that came with their newly acquired status.
On the village green, tiny toddlers collected daisies and their mothers helped them to make daisy chains. In front of The Royal Oak, Old Tommy was sitting on a bench by the village pond, smoking his pipe and feeding the ducks. Down the High Street, outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Tidy Tim was arranging a neat line of inverted besom brooms so they looked like guardsmen on duty outside Buckingham Palace. Next door, Nora Pratt was receiving a cut-price delivery of two-day-old jam doughnuts from the Bakery in Easington. The door of Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop jingled as Young Tommy carried out Emily Cade’s carrier bag, containing a leg of local lamb and two pounds of pork and beef sausages, to the boot of her white Ford Escort. Sleepy summer was upon us and life beyond the school walls was progressing at a gentle pace. My first year at Ragley was almost over and I felt I was beginning to know and understand this beautiful little Yorkshire village.
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