I smiled. ‘Everyone will love him,’ I said and we walked downstairs.
While I ate my cereal at the kitchen table Beth was holding John and flicking hastily through the pages of the Times Educational Supplement. Suddenly she said, ‘This is the one, Jack,’ and picked up a pencil and circled an advertisement on the Primary Headships page. ‘What do you think?’
It read: ‘Badger Hills County First School, Hampshire, Group 4. NOR 165. Required for 1st January 84. Salary Scale £10,572–£11,784. Full details from the Area Education Office in Lymington.’
‘Just think of it, Jack,’ said Beth, ‘a five-figure salary!’
I was unsure how to respond. ‘Well … it’s certainly a lot of money.’
‘And it’s in a beautiful part of my home county,’ she added with a smile. Beth’s parents lived in a lovely cottage in Little Chawton in Hampshire.
I was quiet while I packed my old leather satchel. I loved being a village school headteacher here in North Yorkshire and was happy with my life. Occasionally I found it hard to keep up with Beth. Somehow, as well as being a great mother, she had continued with her degree course and had made it clear that she intended to return to work as soon as she could. Ambition takes many forms and, on occasions, I was left breathless in its wake.
As I was about to leave she kissed me on the cheek and asked suddenly, ‘Jack – what do you think about a nanny?’
‘A nanny?’ I said. ‘Well … it’s a big decision.’
Beth smiled knowingly and, as always, I felt she could read my thoughts.
My journey on the back road to Ragley village lifted my spirits as the early-morning sun broke through and lit up the fields around me. It was a joy to live in this beautiful part of Yorkshire and I wound down my window and drank in the clean air. However, the natural wonders of our world were soon forgotten when I pulled into the school car park. A smart three-door Ford Sierra was in Vera’s parking space.
Vera was sitting at her desk when I walked into the school office, typing an alphabetical list of applicants for the new teaching post on our state-of-the-art typewriter with its golf-ball head.
‘I’ve put the folder of applications on your desk, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘We’ve had a good response.’
The advertisement in the Times Educational Supplement had stated that the closing date for applications for the full-time teaching post at Ragley Church of England Primary School was Friday, 23 September. So today was the final day and the village postman, Ted Postlethwaite, had already delivered the morning mail.
‘And there’s a lady waiting to see you. I put her in the staff-room.’
‘A lady?’
Vera glanced down at her spiral notepad. ‘Yes – a Ms Piddle,’ she said, with an emphasis on the Ms so that it sounded like the buzzing of a bee. Vera had always preferred Miss or Mrs.
‘Piddle?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera with a hint of a smile. ‘Piddle – as in the Dorset river … apparently.’
I glanced up at the clock. It was 8.20 a.m. ‘I had better see her now,’ I said and hurried up the narrow corridor that linked the office to the staff-room.
A short, plump, grey-haired lady dressed in a loud, checked two-piece suit, cream blouse buttoned to the neck, thick unseasonal stockings and low-heeled Blaze Taupe Hush Puppies was waiting for me. She was in the process of stroking a stubby finger over the top of the window frame and appeared to be checking for dust.
‘Hello,’ I said, ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, headteacher. Welcome to Ragley School.’
‘Good morning,’ she replied in a voice that sounded as if she had spent the previous twenty years in elocution lessons. ‘I am Ms Piddle – as in the Dorset river.’
‘Ah, yes, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’m pleased to meet you, Ms Piddle.’
She inspected the tip of her finger, looked up at me as if I had just failed my driving test and shook her head dismissively. ‘Mr Sheffield, I’ll get right to the point,’ she said with a flourish of her official-looking clipboard. ‘I’m here to check on kitchen hygiene and procedure … and perhaps, if time permits, I shall give you some advice on other related matters in accordance with the Health and Safety at Work Act 1974.’
I was beginning to dislike this lady’s abrupt manner. ‘Yes, well, we do have a policy, of course,’ I said, ‘and County Hall has always been pleased with our efforts.’
She selected a green biro from her black leather handbag. ‘I shall examine that as well,’ she said and added a note to her neat chart.
‘Would you like some refreshment – tea or coffee?’ I asked.
Ms Piddle wrinkled her nose. ‘Artificial stimulants? No, I think not. My body is my temple.’
More a bungalow I thought, but said nothing.
With a sinking heart I took this irritating little lady into the kitchen. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley in her usual cheerful voice. Shirley Mapplebeck was an excellent cook, worked wonders with limited ingredients and loved her job.
‘Hello, Shirley,’ I replied. ‘This is Ms Piddle from County Hall, here to check on health and hygiene, so perhaps you and Doreen could show her round your kitchen.’
Shirley looked warily at the newcomer while her assistant, the formidable Doreen Critchley, merely flexed her biceps and guarded her territory like an Easter Island statue. ‘We’re spotless in ’ere,’ she said bluntly. Doreen didn’t waste words.
‘We shall see, won’t we, ladies?’ said Ms Piddle. ‘After all, a clean bill of health is all in the detail.’
I prayed that all would go well and hurried back to the office.
The most recent applications for our new teaching post to begin next January were piled neatly on my desk. Vera had created a special file for them and, each time the Revd Joseph Evans, her younger brother and chairman of the school governors, visited school we both scanned the information about each applicant.
‘Thanks for this, Vera,’ I said and began to work my way through the letters and completed North Yorkshire forms.
After registration we all walked quietly into the hall for morning assembly. Anne had put her LP record of the Peer Gynt Suite on the turntable and strains of Edvard Grieg’s ‘Anitra’s Dance’ echoed in the Victorian rafters as the children sat cross-legged on the floor. Joseph Evans, a tall, slim, angular figure with a prominent Roman nose, took the lead and we all finished by reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
As the children trooped out, eight-year-old Barry Ollerenshaw tugged his sleeve.
‘’Scuse me, Mr Evans,’ said Barry politely.
Joseph loved good manners and crouched down beside the eager little boy. ‘What is it, Barry?’ he asked.
‘Well, Mr Evans,’ said Barry, ‘ah was wond’ring why we say “old men” at t’end of prayers?’
Joseph was puzzled. ‘Old men?’
‘Yes, Mr Evans. We allus say it – y’know, t’power and t’glory, for ever an’ ever, old men.’
‘Ah,’ said Joseph as the penny dropped.
‘It’s jus’ that ah don’t know any old men,’ said a confused Barry, ‘’xcept mebbe f’you.’
Joseph smiled. ‘Well, it’s like this …’
Back at Bilbo Cottage Beth was in earnest discussion with the health visitor, a cheerful young woman who was new in the job.
‘He looks fine, Mrs Sheffield,’ she said. John was now eight and a half weeks old. ‘And regarding a nanny – you need to advertise in the local paper and interview a few people. It’s obviously an important decision.’
Beth looked at the cheerful, innocent little boy on her lap and kissed his rosy cheeks. ‘I know …’ she said quietly, ‘… and I’d miss him.’
After changing his nappy Beth strapped John into the baby seat in the back of her light blue Volkswagen Beetle and set off for Ragley and Anne’s classroom. John was about to be weighed, measured and fed as part of Class 1’s health education programme.
At morning break Sally appeared to be dropping a tiny t
ablet into her coffee when I walked into the staff-room. ‘What’s that?’ I asked.
‘It’s Sucron, Jack,’ she explained, ‘an alternative to sugar, four times as sweet, so you use less.’ Then she selected a Garibaldi from the biscuit tin and munched contentedly.
Vera glanced knowingly over her pince-nez but said nothing. She was studying her Daily Telegraph and was equally unimpressed by the photograph of a bespectacled John Selwyn Gummer, who had been appointed that summer by Mrs Thatcher to be Chairman of the Conservative Party. While she would never criticize the venerable Margaret, Vera remained unconvinced that this bookish little man was the ideal choice.
I picked up the Times Educational Supplement and flicked through the pages while I drank my coffee. As usual the weekly journal was full of varied articles, including one entitled ‘Crisis in the Teaching of Handwriting’. It was reported that the majority of sixteen-year-olds were unable to write a decent letter of application for a job. Of more concern was the new training film for teachers advertised under the banner headline ‘What Line to Take on Glue-sniffing?’, and I recalled the rubber glue with its distinct and very appealing pear-drop smell that we used each day in our classrooms.
Sally put down her Art & Craft magazine. ‘Let me show you the back-page article, Jack – it’s hilarious.’
The witty educationalist Ted Wragg had written a satirical response to the proposal that ‘Teachers should be awarded points and the best teachers should be paid more!’ However, in amongst the shared laughter when Sally read it out there was the nagging doubt that our educational world was changing and that even the daftest ideas might one day come to pass.
In the middle of all this there was a tap on the door and Doreen Critchley came in. ‘’Scuse me, Mr Sheffield.’ She had a face like thunder.
‘Yes, Doreen?’ I asked somewhat apprehensively.
Doreen had the build of a professional weightlifter and the only thing she hated more than men was a bossy woman. ‘Someone ’ad better come into t’kitchen afore ah throttle that woman,’ she said. ‘She’s upsettin’ Shirley summat rotten.’
Vera was the first to respond. ‘I’ll go,’ she said.
‘And I’ll join you,’ I added. We followed Doreen into the kitchen.
Ms Piddle, looking animated, was waving her finger at Shirley as if reprimanding a child. Our school cook seemed dejected but Ms Piddle was in full flow.
‘Now, Mrs Mapplebeck,’ she said, opening and shutting cupboard doors, ‘we must also ensure that your protective clothing is properly looked after and that adequate first aid facilities are available.’
‘We need t’get on wi’ t’Spam fritters and t’treacle sponge,’ said Doreen gruffly.
‘Plenty of time for that,’ replied Ms Piddle. ‘Now,’ she continued, ticking her list, ‘I have to check toilets, washing facilities and drinking water.’ She gave a sinister Cruella de Vil smile. ‘It is all in the detail, dear,’ she repeated, adding a note to her list, this time using a red biro.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked.
Ms Piddle looked me up and down. ‘It is important to always comply with the rules, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.
Before I could reply Vera stepped forward. ‘We’ve always found that it is important to note that legal information must be used with a degree of caution,’ she said.
‘Perhaps so, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener, but may I remind you that in the Bible it says “Wisdom is the principal thing”,’ retorted the officious Ms Piddle.
Words such as ‘red rag’ and ‘bull’ came to mind. Vera clearly bristled with indignation. ‘Yes, Ms Piddle, I am familiar with Proverbs, chapter four, verse seven.’
‘Oh, are you?’ said a surprised Ms Piddle and retreated towards the fridge door.
‘Yes,’ said Vera firmly. She took another step towards the now-hesitant inspector and fixed her with a steely stare, ‘but it goes on to say “therefore get wisdom: and with all thy getting … get understanding”.’
Ms Piddle was not to be outdone. ‘Yes, but we need knowledge, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener – knowledge,’ she said with emphasis.
Shirley looked crushed. Doreen, a glowering presence, leaned forward but Vera stepped between them. ‘What exactly do you mean, Ms Piddle?’ she demanded. Ms Piddle gave her a hard stare but Vera’s eyes never flickered.
The inspector picked up a ripe tomato from the chopping board and held it aloft as if she had just declared peace in our time. ‘For example, knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit,’ she said with a confident grin.
Vera took the tomato from her, rinsed it under the tap and placed it back on the chopping board. ‘Yes, Ms Piddle,’ she said quietly, ‘but wisdom is knowing not to put it in a fruit salad,’ and she turned on her heel and walked out.
‘Perhaps we could have a word before you go, Ms Piddle?’ I asked.
‘It will be after school lunch,’ she replied haughtily, ‘and then I shall go home to write my report.’
In the school entrance the mood was different. Beth had arrived and John was gurgling and bubble-blowing in his pushchair.
Sally and Anne were leaning over and tickling John’s chin when Vera and I joined them. ‘I think he looks like you, Beth,’ said Sally.
‘Definitely your eyes,’ added Anne.
‘And maybe Jack’s square chin,’ suggested Vera.
I rubbed my chin ruefully, hoping this was a compliment.
‘He’s certainly got your smile, Jack,’ said Anne.
‘And John William is a perfect name,’ confirmed Vera.
‘It said in the paper,’ said Sally, our fount of miscellaneous facts, ‘that the most popular names in 1982 for boys were James, Edward and William.’
‘And what about girls?’ asked Beth.
‘Elizabeth, Louise and Jane,’ supplied Sally with perfect recall.
‘I like all of those,’ said Beth with a mischievous grin in my direction and they all set off to Anne’s classroom.
At twelve o’ clock Louise Hartley rang the bell to announce lunchtime and I walked into the entrance hall, where Beth was preparing to leave with Vera.
‘I’m just going to the General Stores, Mr Sheffield. I won’t be long.’
‘And I’ll see you tonight, Jack,’ said Beth.
John, after an hour of celebrity status, had fallen asleep in his pushchair and I stooped to kiss him goodbye.
‘Thanks for coming in, Beth,’ I said, ‘and see you later, Vera.’
As they walked out to the car park the perceptive Vera looked inquisitively at Beth. ‘You seem preoccupied, Beth – is all well?’
‘I’m wrestling with the problem of going back to work next term,’ explained Beth. ‘The health visitor recommended a childminder or that I should advertise for a nanny to look after a six-month-old baby at the cottage.’
‘You would need good references, Beth,’ said Vera cautiously. Beth looked longingly at the sleeping baby. ‘It’s just that …’
Vera put her arm round Beth’s shoulders. ‘You would miss him if you went back to work.’
Beth nodded and sighed. ‘Yes, I would.’
There was a heavy silence. ‘I understand,’ said Vera quietly.
‘I’m not sure we’d manage on just Jack’s salary,’ added Beth suddenly.
‘Many do,’ replied Vera.
‘I suggested a bigger headship this morning,’ Beth told her.
‘And what did he say?’ asked Vera.
‘You know Jack,’ said Beth simply.
‘I do, my dear – I do.’
Just then Ms Piddle came out to her car, opened the boot and searched in an executive black briefcase for a document.
‘I know that lady,’ said Beth mysteriously.
‘Oh yes?’ asked Vera.
‘She’s a member of the Hartingdale WI and there was a lot of fuss last year about her competition entry in the annual fête.’
‘Really?’ exclaimed Vera, suddenly very interested. ‘Tell me more.’
In the
staff-room Sally was taking a slightly malicious delight in seeing a photograph of Kenneth Baker, the Minister for Information Technology, who was looking clearly perplexed as he tried to get to grips with one of the new computers. She smiled up at Jo and passed her the newspaper. ‘Good to see I’m not the only one struggling with the new technology,’ she said.
Jo looked up from her Heinemann catalogue advertising computer software and nodded. ‘Even Ladybird books are going micro,’ she said.
‘Micro?’ murmured Anne from the other side of the staff-room. A whole new world with strange vocabulary had arrived.
Vera crossed the High Street and walked into Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Fortunately there were no customers around. ‘Timothy, I need a quiet word,’ she said.
Tidy Tim took the hint and ushered Vera to the private space behind the tall shelf of Black & Decker orbital sanders and heavy-duty grinders. He touched the side of his nose with a beautifully manicured finger. ‘Y’word is my command, Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ he said.
‘I’m afraid it’s fleas again, Timothy – and this time it’s Maggie.’
The gravitas of Vera’s words struck home. Maggie was her favourite cat. ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ Timothy reassured her. ‘Ah took delivery today of the new range of improved Sherley’s Super Flea Band – ’specially f’superior cats.’
Vera nodded in appreciation of the recognition that Maggie was undoubtedly no ordinary cat. ‘But will it work, Timothy?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I can’t have fleas at Morton Manor. The major would never forgive me.’
Timothy unwrapped one of the boxes. ‘Here y’are,’ he said. ‘Guards against fleas for up t’five months.’
‘Thank you, Timothy,’ said Vera gratefully, ‘I do appreciate your support … and, of course, your discretion.’
The next stop was Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, but opportunity beckoned when Vera saw Diane Wigglesworth outside her Hair Salon, enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Diane was sitting on a folding chair and skimming through the pages of an old sixty-pence copy of Hair Flair magazine. She had half an hour before Petula Dudley-Palmer was due to have an Irene Cara.
07 School's Out! Page 3
