07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Diane,’ said Vera quietly, ‘I have a problem and I wondered if you could help.’

  ‘Of course, Vera,’ replied Diane.

  A few minutes later, Diane smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Vera,’ she said, ‘we’ll sort it.’

  Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Sally was spreading some Outline Low Fat Spread on a cracker and was conscious of Jo looking thoughtfully at the process.

  ‘Only nine hundred and thirty calories per pack,’ said Sally with little enthusiasm.

  Jo offered what she hoped was a supportive smile and returned with relish to her after-lunch Bakewell tart.

  Ms Piddle had clearly seen enough and announced her departure. ‘I am going now, Mr Sheffield, and you’ll have my report next week.’ It didn’t sound promising and there was no time for further discussion.

  When she reached the car park Vera was putting her shopping into the boot of her car. ‘A word, please, Ms Piddle, before you go,’ she said.

  Soon they were deep in conversation.

  After school, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener met Joseph Evans at the school gate. Eleven-year-old Jimmy Poole, who had been in my class last year, walked by with his Yorkshire terrier, Scargill. The frisky little dog immediately took a fancy to the major’s cavalry twills.

  ‘Thtop it, Thcargill,’ lisped Jimmy, ‘that’th naughty.’ He tugged the lead and they hurried away up the High Street.

  The major was soon placated when Vera served them tea in the staff-room. We were due to select the candidates for interview for the new teaching post and the major and Joseph had come to represent the school governors. Rupert, immaculate as ever in a lightweight shooting jacket, crisp white shirt and East Yorkshire regimental tie, was in good spirits. ‘A fine day, Joseph, what?’ he said cheerily.

  ‘Yes, Rupert,’ replied Joseph quietly. Life had never been the same for him since his sister had left the vicarage to marry this larger-than-life ex-soldier.

  I collected the folder of applications while Vera tidied her desk. Joseph took me to one side in the entrance hall as the major went into the staff-room. ‘Just a thought, Jack,’ he said. ‘I know you will think of the school and won’t be swayed by the applicants you know. Obviously, first and foremost we need a first-rate teacher with excellent references, but we also need to look at the skills they can offer. I’m sure we can cover girls’ games but, whether we like it or not, computers are here to stay.’ He made a steeple of his fingers and rested them against his chin. ‘Jack – we really need someone to lead us in the new technology,’ and with a gentle smile he followed me into the staff-room.

  It was seven o’ clock when we finally agreed on the four we wanted to interview. They were Mrs Mary Blaythewaite, age thirty-seven, currently teaching reception in York; Ms Pat Brookside, age twenty-six, infant teacher from Thirkby, and looking for a change; Mr Tom Dalton, age twenty-four, a teacher at a North Yorkshire village school that was due for closure; and Miss Valerie Flint, age sixty, our regular supply teacher. As I drove home I prayed we had made the right choices. Meanwhile, Beth and I had our own choices to make and they were more complex.

  By Friday evening, in the kitchen at Morton Manor, Vera had completed her preparations for her Harvest Festival Cake. She had put cider, apricots and prunes in a bowl and covered it to soak overnight. In another bowl she had mixed apricots, cherries and sultanas in cider for the topping. She put away her ancient weighing scales and brass imperial weights, tidied the surfaces and then made an important telephone call to a certain inspector. It wasn’t long before the matter of an infamous Dundee fruit cake, circa 1982, cropped up in the conversation.

  On Saturday morning I looked out of the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage. A gentle breeze stirred the distant cornfield and the cut stalks swirled in a living pattern as if touched by the breath of God. The countryside had come alive on this sunlit autumn morning.

  Beth came in carrying baby John. She took a deep breath. ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Something Vera said – about the nanny idea.’ I wondered what was coming next. ‘It would have to be the very best for John.’

  The significance dawned. ‘Of course,’ I agreed.

  ‘I was thinking of the expense,’ continued Beth.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I replied, ‘we’ll manage.’

  No more words were needed. Beth smiled and we kissed. Then she wrinkled her nose. ‘And, by the way, your son needs changing.’

  A mile away on the Crescent, Anne was listening to Radio 2 while chopping a banana to add to her Weetabix. Terry Wogan had just told the nation that Cyril Smith, the heavyweight Liberal MP, had stormed out of a meeting with party leader David Steel. However, Anne was much more impressed with the news that actress Joan Collins, at the age of fifty, had been voted one of the ten most desirable women in America. The Irish raconteur also mentioned that the Everly Brothers had performed the night before in a reunion concert at the Albert Hall and he introduced an old favourite, ‘Cathy’s Clown’; Anne, word perfect, sang along and swayed her hips.

  Meanwhile, her husband John was engrossed in his Woodworker magazine and the new range of Nobex mitre saws. As she sat down at the kitchen table, Anne smoothed the seat of her figure-hugging tracksuit bottoms and wondered about her life.

  Back at Morton Manor a contented Vera was listening to the news bulletin on Radio 4. She was concerned to hear that a man with a knife had been overpowered outside Buckingham Palace by a heroic policeman wielding nothing more than a rolled-up umbrella. Equally worrying for Vera was the report on Captain Mark Phillips and Princess Anne. They had flown to Australia, where he was due to ride in the Melbourne Cup three-day event. However, it appeared the couple would be apart for their tenth wedding anniversary and Vera reflected on the problems of other people.

  However, the main problem that had caused this proud lady such concern was about to be solved. The doorbell rang – Diane the hairdresser had arrived. She unpacked her bag in the room Vera used for her sewing. ‘Now, Vera,’ she said, ‘just relax and we’ll sort you out.’

  Vera, fingertip softly, touched the distinct grey-white roots at her temples. She had been embarrassed for some time as her beautiful wavy hair had finally succumbed to the remorseless wheel of time. The thought of treating it in public view was unthinkable to Vera and, as she relaxed under Diane’s expert care, she wondered if vanity really was a sin.

  Meanwhile, in the kitchen the major was eating his cornflakes and scratching his shin. ‘Feels like a jolly old flea bite,’ he said to himself. ‘Probably that dratted little Yorkshire terrier in the village, what?’

  It was an eventful weekend. Following some careful financial accounting Beth advertised for a nanny and Jo Hunter volunteered to be our babysitter so that Beth and I could go to the Harvest Supper.

  The evening was a success and Vera’s cake was judged to be the best she had ever made. The major forgot to blame the unfortunate Scargill as the threat of flea bites was overlooked and remembered to praise Vera on the beauty of her perfectly coiffured hair.

  On Monday morning when I walked into the school office, Vera was on the telephone. ‘Thank you, Miss Barrington-Huntley,’ she said, ‘I’ll inform Mr Sheffield.’ I stopped in my tracks. The chair of the Education Committee at County Hall rarely got in touch to pass the time of day.

  Vera replaced the receiver and gave a calm smile. ‘Good news, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Miss Barrington-Huntley called to say well done.’

  ‘Really? Whatever for?’

  ‘Our Health and Hygiene report was …’ she glanced down at the shorthand on her pad, ‘… outstanding in all areas’.

  ‘That’s wonderful, Vera! What did you say?’

  Vera smiled with the contentment of the ultimate problem-solver, touched her hair lightly and said, ‘Simply that – it’s all in the detail, Mr Sheffield.’

  Chapter Three

  Ruby and the Coffin Polisher

  Mrs Hunter invi
ted the grandparents of children in Class 2 to visit school this morning as part of her portrait-painting activity. Preparations were made for the annual Parent Teacher Association Jumble Sale on Saturday, 8 October. Parents sorted jumble after school in preparation for an 11.00 a.m. start on Saturday. County Hall requested copies of our history syllabus in preparation for their working paper towards a common curriculum.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 7 October 1983

  ‘MRS F – AH’M worried about my Ronnie,’ said Ruby the caretaker. She stood by the office door absent-mindedly polishing the brass handle, a familiar pose when Ruby wished to discuss her dysfunctional life.

  Vera looked up from searching in our huge four-drawer filing cabinet for a spare copy of our history syllabus following a request from County Hall. ‘And what is the problem, Ruby?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, ’e’s jus’ bone idle, Mrs F, allus was, allus will be,’ said Ruby sadly. Ronnie Smith was Ruby’s fifty-two-year-old husband and his life revolved around his racing pigeons, managing the Ragley Rovers football team and propping up the bar in The Royal Oak.

  ‘How is the job going at the funeral parlour with Mr Flagstaff?’ asked Vera.

  ‘’E’s goin’ in late t’day,’ said Ruby. ‘Sez ’e’s poorly.’

  After a lifetime of unemployment for Ronnie, last year Vera had managed to get him a job by using her influence with an old friend, Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, the local funeral director. So it was that Ronnie had finally joined the ranks of the employed as a part-time coffin polisher. ‘Mr Flagstaff won’t be happy if he’s absent,’ commented Vera.

  ‘That’s what ah told ’im, Mrs F,’ said Ruby and she dabbed away a tear with the corner of her fluffy duster. ‘But does ’e listen? Does ’e ’eck.’

  Vera took pity on her dear friend, closed the drawer of the filing cabinet and sat down. ‘Come in and tell me about it.’

  Ruby walked in, shut the door and began to cry. Vera offered her a lace-edged monogrammed handkerchief and Ruby accepted it gratefully. She blew her nose like a snorting buffalo and sat down in the visitor’s chair. When she offered to return the handkerchief Vera politely refused. It was shortly after nine o’ clock on Friday, 7 October and life was proving difficult for our school caretaker.

  Ruby was a popular member of the Ragley community and a cheerful sight skipping round the school with her mop and galvanized bucket, singing songs from her favourite film, The Sound of Music. Ruby and Ronnie had six children. Thirty-two-year-old Andy was a sergeant in the army and thirty-year-old Racquel was the proud mother of Krystal Carrington Ruby Entwhistle, who, at just over fourteen months, was Ruby’s pride and joy. Ruby’s other four children shared their cramped council house. Twenty-eight-year-old Duggie, nicknamed ‘Deadly’ as he also worked for the local undertaker, was content to sleep in the attic; twenty-three-year-old Sharon was engaged to Rodney Morgetroyd, the Morton village milkman with the Duran Duran looks; and twenty-one-year-old Natasha worked part-time in Diane’s Hair Salon. Finally, the youngest in the family, ten-year-old Hazel, was in her final year at Ragley School. Feeding her large family was always a struggle for Ruby.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the High Street, Ronnie was rubbing his stomach and leaning on the counter of the village pharmacy. Eugene, the eccentric pharmacist who wore a Star Trek outfit under his white coat, looked concerned.

  ‘Ah gorra upset stomach, Eugene,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Mebbe y’should go to t’see Doctor Davenport,’ said Eugene.

  ‘No thanks. Ah jus’ think one o’ them pints ah ’ad last night were a bit off,’ said Ronnie. ‘It were either t’seventh or mebbe t’eighth, so ah jus’ need summat t’get me back on t’straight an’ narrow, so t’speak.’

  Eugene looked on the shelf behind him and selected some Bisodol tablets. ‘These are f’indigestion, Ronnie. So see ’ow y’get on an’ come back if y’not better.’

  ‘Thanks, Eugene,’ said Ronnie with a pained expression. ‘It’s tough being a man – y’know, never complaining.’

  Eugene glanced nervously to make sure his wife Peggy was not within earshot. ‘Y’reight there, Ronnie. We’re martyrs, you an’ me.’

  It had been a busy morning in my class. I had spent time hearing every child read, updating record cards and helping Terry Earnshaw understand the mysterious world of fractions. Finally, at a quarter past ten, Louise Hartley rang the bell for morning assembly and the children put away their School Mathematics Project workcards and exercise books and we filed into the hall.

  Around twenty extra chairs had been put out as Jo Hunter had organized a portrait-painting activity with her class and had invited the children’s grandparents to come in. They strolled up the drive, chatting in happy groups and recalling the days when they used to attend the village school before the Second World War. Also many of them dropped off bags of jumble in the entrance hall in preparation for tomorrow’s annual PTA Jumble Sale. The last to arrive was a stick-thin peroxide blonde with hard features, a pink polo-neck sweater, tight black miniskirt and high heels. She took a last puff of her cigarette, tossed it on the entrance steps, crushed it with the pointed sole of a black stiletto and tottered in.

  I leaned over to Jo. ‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘Thelma Badstock,’ said Jo, ‘Charlie Cartwright’s grandma.’ She glanced left and right, then leaned over to whisper, ‘Vera told me she has just divorced her third husband.’

  It was Anne’s turn to take assembly and she had brought one of her classical LPs into school. With the utmost care she wiped the surface of the vinyl record with a soft cloth and placed it on the rubber turntable of our music centre, a Contiboard contraption on castors with two huge speakers on the lower shelf. She selected 33 revolutions per minute, raised the plastic arm and lowered the sharp stylus on to the surface of the spinning record in exactly the correct groove. Moments later Johann Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major echoed in the lofty roof space. As always, it proved a calming influence on the children as they walked in and sat down cross-legged on the polished wood-block floor.

  It was a happy occasion during which four-year-old Julie Tricklebank and five-year-old Rosie Spittlehouse held up their paintings upside down and no one noticed the difference. After the bell for morning playtime our visitors cheered when Shirley wheeled out a trolley with a steaming Baby Burco boiler, a battered aluminium milk jug, a bowl of sugar, a variety of crockery and a tin of digestive biscuits.

  On the council estate at 7 School View, Ronnie was looking preoccupied while Ruby, tired after her morning shift, was drinking a mug of tea as she sat on their battered sofa.

  ‘Y’should be gettin’ off t’work,’ she said.

  ‘Where’s t’plate wi’ t’breadcrumbs?’ he asked.

  Each day Ruby collected every breadcrumb and spare scrap of food and piled it on an old chipped 1953 Coronation plate, then Ronnie took it out to feed his racing pigeons. ‘In t’kitchen where it usually is,’ she replied.

  Ronnie reappeared with the plate and headed for the back yard.

  ‘’Ang on a minute, Ronnie,’ said Ruby, ‘ah need a word.’

  ‘What’s that, luv?’ enquired Ronnie guardedly.

  ‘Our ’Azel needs new shoes.’

  Ronnie shook his head forlornly. ‘Sorry, luv, ah’ve nowt t’spare. There’s not much goin’ on at t’fun’ral parlour. Things’ll pick up in winter.’

  ‘She needs ’em now, Ronnie,’ said Ruby.

  ‘It’s t’school jumble sale t’morrow,’ said Ronnie, opening the back door. ‘We’ve allus done well out o’ that.’

  Ruby shook her head in dismay. ‘Ronnie – dresses and jumpers is fine but ah don’t want our ’Azel ’aving t’wear other people’s shoes,’ she said. ‘It’s not good for ’er feet.’

  ‘Beggars can’t be choosers, luv,’ said Ronnie and slipped out, shutting the door behind him.

  So that’s what it’s come to thought Ruby. She put down her mug on the arm of the sofa and s
tared at her work-red hands.

  Back in school, the children in Class 2 were wearing outsize, paint-splattered shirts back-to-front and were hard at work painting portraits of their bemused grandparents. As usual, some showed great skill and attention to detail, whereas others applied more paint to their faces and hands than to the large A2 sheets of thick white sugar paper. A few unwitting advocates of the French Post-Impressionist school were emerging, not least six-year-old Charlie Cartwright, who was about to discover the art of pointillism. Although he had never heard of Georges Pierre Seurat and his famous large-scale painting Un dimanche après-midi à l’Île de la Grande Jatte, the little boy sat there with bristle brush poised, studying his Grandma Thelma intently.

  ‘An’ what y’painting now, Charlie?’ asked Thelma, who, at the age of fifty, couldn’t recall having her portrait painted before. She had once enjoyed a brief passionate affair with an interior decorator from Grimsby but the only thing he had painted was her bedroom ceiling.

  ‘Ah’m paintin’ y’face, Grandma,’ said Charlie. He pursed his lips in concentration and stared even more closely than before.

  ‘Can ah ’ave a look?’ asked Thelma.

  ‘Yes, Grandma,’ said Charlie.

  Thelma was impressed. Charlie had mixed a splash of red into a small saucer of white poster paint and stirred it vigorously to create a delicate fuchsia pink. The representation of Thelma’s artistically enhanced face made her look thirty years younger. ‘Oooh, that’s lovely, Charlie – what a clever lad you are,’ she said with enthusiasm. ‘An’ you’ve got me earrings jus’ right.’ Thelma was proud of the pair of large plastic strawberries that hung from her pierced ears on long, thin pendulous chains.

  The painting looked finished so she stood up. She was dying for a cigarette and she looked at the other grandmothers with a self-satisfied smile on her face. In her eyes her portrait made her look much younger than this motley crew. ‘Ah’m off now, luv,’ she said and, after smoothing the miniskirt over her skinny hips, she picked up her imitation leopard-skin handbag and walked out of school.