07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  However, unknown to Thelma, Charlie hadn’t finished. He selected a small brush and began adding dirty brown dots of paint with gay abandon. Jo was going round the class, encouraging each child. Slightly puzzled, she leaned over.

  ‘Finishing touches, Charlie?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs ’Unter,’ replied Charlie, continuing with impunity.

  ‘So what are you doing?’ asked Jo.

  Charlie’s brush tapped up and down with the demeanour of a demented woodpecker. Georges Seurat had required three and half million dots to complete his masterpiece. Charlie needed a mere fifty-seven.

  ‘Ah’m paintin’ all t’wrinkles, Mrs ’Unter,’ he explained enthusiastically.

  Jo smiled and reflected that children never ceased to surprise you.

  In the funeral parlour in Easington an unexpected opportunity had arrived for Ronnie Smith.

  ‘It’s a rush job, Ronnie – cash in hand,’ said Septimus. He took a large brass watch from the pocket of his black waistcoat and looked anxious. ‘Time’s short,’ he added.

  ‘’Ow much, Mr Flagstaff?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘Finish it by six o’ clock tonight and there’s a tenner for you.’

  ‘A tenner?’

  He tapped the side of a prestigious top-of-the-range mahogany coffin. ‘I need it polished, Ronnie, and I’m in a rush … so is it a deal?’

  ‘Good as done, Mr Flagstaff,’ said Ronnie.

  After school lunch, in the staff-room Anne and I were making a chart of the children’s reading ages and Vera was sipping Earl Grey tea and reading her Daily Telegraph. Jo and Sally were in Jo’s classroom pegging up the wet paintings on a temporary washing line made of thick string.

  Vera looked content. She was studying an article about the wreck of the Mary Rose, the Tudor warship that sank off Southsea in 1545. It had gone on show for the first time, with the ship’s hull being sprayed with icy water for eighteen hours each day. Then she frowned when she turned the page. ‘Oh no,’ she said and looked up to ensure Sally was not in the room. ‘Here’s that ginger-haired Welshman again. I’m so sorry he’s been elected leader of the Labour Party.’

  During afternoon school I walked into Jo’s class, where the children were busy doing the mathematics lesson that would have taken place in the morning but for the portrait-painting session. Jo was sitting at a trapezoidal table with her youngest group of budding mathematicians as they worked their way through a long multiplication workcard from the green box of the School Mathematics Project.

  She scribbled a figure on a piece of card. ‘And this is the remainder,’ she said with a confident smile. The usual follow-up rhetorical question was not far behind. ‘So the remainder is?’ she asked.

  There was a hesitant silence, finally broken by, ‘Ah know what a remainder is, Miss,’ from the enthusiastic six-year-old Ted Coggins. ‘It’s what pulls Santa’s sleigh.’

  Jo gave me a sheepish well I’m trying my best glance.

  I smiled and passed on the message: ‘Vera says she has time to mount the portraits on the big display board in the entrance hall if you want to send them along.’

  Jo looked relieved. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘that’s terrific. I’ll do it now.’

  ‘She also said if you could make sure they’re all labelled with the subject and artist’s name it will help.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Jo and returned to the difference between reindeer and remainder.

  Shortly before the end of school a posse of willing mothers arrived in the entrance hall and began to sort the jumble for tomorrow’s sale.

  Meanwhile, in my classroom, the Buttle twins appeared to be in a hurry.

  ‘It’s a long walk back to t’farm, Mr Sheffield,’ said Katrina.

  ‘An’ we want t’be ’ome by twenty past four,’ added Rowena, hastily packing her bag.

  ‘And why is that?’ I asked.

  They both looked at me as if I lived on another planet. ‘’Cause it’s SuperTed and the Inca Treasure,’ they said in perfect unison and ran off down the school drive.

  Ruby arrived to empty the bin. She looked preoccupied and Hazel gave her a hug.

  ‘An’ what y’doin’ now, luv?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Ah’m off t’Molly Paxton’s ’ouse, Mam, t’watch Blue Peter. Ah think Peter Duncan’s mekkin’ a model out o’ matchsticks.’

  Ruby smiled. ‘OK, luv, you get off an’ don’t be late ’ome f’tea.’

  Two hours later, Ruby rushed home and cooked egg and chips for Ronnie and Hazel.

  Ronnie looked unimpressed. ‘This dunt look much for m’tea, Ruby,’ he said disconsolately. ‘Ah’m gettin’ like a bag o’ bones.’

  ‘Well mebbe y’should work a bit o’ overtime f’Mr Flagstaff an’ then we’d ’ave some brass t’buy some chops for a change.’

  Ronnie fingered the ten pound note in his pocket. ‘Ah work m’fingers to t’bone as it is, Ruby.’

  ‘Y’could spend less on them cigarettes,’ said Ruby.

  Ronnie looked aghast, removed the cigarette from his lips, coughed twice and said, ‘It’s me only pleasure, Ruby, my love. Y’wouldn’t deprive me o’ that.’

  Ronnie had begun smoking Woodbine cigarettes at the age of twelve and had progressed to roll-ups during his teens. Once the children had come along he had smoked his way through countless packets of Kensitas cigarettes in order to collect sufficient coupons for a child’s swing, a slide and a dartboard.

  ‘An’ beer,’ added Ruby sharply. ‘You’ll drink that pub dry one day.’

  ‘That’s jus’ me bein’ sociable, Ruby,’ protested Ronnie. ‘Ah ’ave me position t’up’old as manager o’ football team. Ah ’ave responsibilities. Anyway, ah’m off now.’

  ‘Well wear a clean vest in case y’get knocked down an’ go to t’ospital,’ shouted Ruby.

  ‘Ah’ll ’elp y’wash up, Mam,’ said Hazel.

  After updating our history syllabus for County Hall I tidied my desk and locked the school. Beth had taken John down to Hampshire to visit her parents so I decided to have a meal at The Royal Oak on the way home.

  It was full of regulars, including Ronnie and the Ragley Rovers football team. Sheila Bradshaw, the landlady and barmaid, was pulling pints with her usual dexterity and chatting with the customers. She was wearing tight black leather hotpants, a royal-blue boob tube and a gravity-defying bra that supported the best cleavage in the village. Her mascara had been applied liberally to create her favourite Dusty Springfield look and she smiled as I approached the bar.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ she asked.

  ‘A pint of Chestnut please, Sheila,’ I said, placing thirty pence on the counter.

  ‘An’ is there owt else y’fancy?’ she asked with a secret smile.

  When I looked up at the chalkboard menu it was clear that Pete the poacher had paid a recent visit. As well as the regular dishes, today’s list included smoked squirrel and smoked partridge. ‘I’ll have chicken and chips in a basket please,’ I said quickly. Sheila pulled on the pump and fluttered her false eyelashes. ‘Ah like a man who knows what ’e wants. She’s a lucky woman, that wife o’ yours.’

  ‘Don looks busy,’ I said, keen to change the subject, as her red-faced husband appeared once again from the direction of the cellar.

  ‘’E’s jus’ put another barrel on,’ said Sheila and then leaned provocatively over the bar. As usual, I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and stared at the bottled shandy on the shelf behind her. ‘It’s a ’ectic night, Mr Sheffield,’ she added. ‘E’s been up an’ down more than a bride’s nightdress,’ and she gave me a wink.

  In an earlier life Don had wrestled under the slightly disconcerting title of The Silent Strangler, so it was wise never to upset him. ‘Thanks, Sheila,’ I said as the massive frame of her husband appeared at her elbow and collected some empty glasses from the bar.

  ‘Evening, Mr Sheffield,’ said Don. ‘’Ow’s little un shaping up?’

  ‘Fine thanks, Don,’ I replied. �
�He’s more than ten weeks old now.’

  ‘Ah remember our Claire when she were that age, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila wistfully. ’Er skin were soft as silk.’

  ‘John can hold a rattle now,’ I added proudly, ‘and he loves sitting in his bouncer chair.’

  ‘Well, mek t’most of it ’cause they soon grow up,’ said Don, ‘an’ then y’trouble starts.’

  ‘Shurrup, y’big soft ha’penny,’ said Sheila. ‘Y’know nowt.’

  I glanced up at the television perched on a shelf above the tap-room bar. Assorted members of the football team were watching Culture Club perform their number-one record ‘Karma Chameleon’.

  Ronnie walked in and glanced up at the television. ‘Ah reckon ’e’s a poofter,’ he said bluntly and ordered a pint of Tetley’s bitter. It was then that something caught his eye. Thelma Badstock was sitting at a corner table, rummaging in her handbag. She looked up and smiled. Ronnie removed his Leeds United bobble hat, nervously flattened a few wisps of greying hair and walked over. ‘’Ello, Thelma. Y’back then,’ he said.

  ‘Been a long time, Ronnie,’ she said. ‘Ten years.’

  Thelma opened a pack of Regal King Size, selected a cigarette and beckoned to Ronnie for a light. She cupped her long fingers round his shaking hand, then leaned back and crossed her legs. ‘Ah prefer them mental cigarettes now, Ronnie, but these allus settle me nerves,’ she said huskily.

  ‘So what y’doin’ back ’ere?’ asked Ronnie.

  ‘Movin’ on wi’ me life,’ said Thelma. ‘That Norman Badstock were as twisted as a corkscrew … ran off wi’ ’is secret’ry.’

  ‘Ah’m sorry, Thelma,’ said Ronnie. ‘Do y’want a drink?’

  Thelma laughed. ‘That teks m’back, Ronnie. Remember back in t’fifties when y’used t’buy me them erotic drinks like Cinzano Bianco?’

  ‘Ah remember,’ said Ronnie.

  ‘Ah’ll ’ave a double G an’ T,’ said Thelma. ‘’Ave you ’ad y’tea yet, Ronnie, ’cause ah fancy summat t’eat.’ She opened her purse.

  ‘No – ah’ve got brass,’ said Ronnie, pulling out his ten pound note.

  ‘In that case ah’ll ’ave steak an’ chips an’ peas,’ said Thelma quickly.

  ‘That’s what ah fancy,’ said the affluent Ronnie and he hurried back to the bar.

  Twenty minutes later they were tucking into two well-done steaks and swapping stories. ‘So y’still wi’ Ruby then?’

  Ronnie nodded but didn’t look up from making a chip butty.

  ‘What’s y’job, then, Ronnie?’ asked Thelma.

  ‘Ah’m in t’furniture … ’igh quality.’

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Thelma. ‘Like they say – don’t ’ide y’light under a bucket.’

  She delved into her battered handbag and in among the clutter found a dog-eared photograph with the year 1951 scrawled on the back. The subject was a smiling eighteen-year-old Thelma leaning against the seafront railings at Morecambe and smoking a cigarette.

  ‘Ah ’ad a lovely Terylene pleated skirt,’ she said, ‘an’ them Twinco sunglasses cost me one an’ ninepence.’

  ‘Y’look a stunner, Thelma,’ said Ronnie in appreciation.

  Thelma studied the detail of her younger self. ‘Ah used t’smoke Capstan in them days an’ ah moved on t’Rothman’s King Size when ah got a proper job,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s a shame ah didn’t meet you then, Ronnie.’

  Ronnie fingered the change in his pocket. ‘’Ow about another drink, Thelma?’

  ‘Oooh, ah do like a gen’rous man,’ said Thelma, re-crossing her legs.

  By ten o’ clock Ronnie was half drunk and completely broke. He made his excuses and wandered home under an ethereal night sky. When he fell asleep on the bed and began to snore Ruby removed his shoes but left on his bobble hat. After all … the nights were getting chilly.

  On Saturday morning it was a slow dawn and a grudging grey light spread over the sleeping land.

  In Ruby’s household, on Mike Read’s Radio 1 show, ‘I’m Still Standing’ by Elton John was blasting out while Ruby and Hazel made a breakfast fry-up. On the Crescent, in Anne’s kitchen, Terry Wogan on Radio 2 had just introduced Peabo Bryson and Roberta Flack singing ‘Tonight I Celebrate My Love’ and Anne sang along while imagining David Soul tapping on her bedroom door. Meanwhile, at Morton Manor, Vera was listening to Édouard Lalo’s Concerto for Cello and Orchestra on Radio 3’s Morning Concert while enjoying a slice of toast with home-made marmalade.

  The Earnshaw household was also waking up.

  ‘Terry,’ shouted Mrs Earnshaw, ‘’ave y’washed be’ind yer ’ears?’

  ‘Yes, Mam,’ said Terry quickly. It was a regular question posed by his mother and he had never quite understood its significance. He was happy that he had given an honest answer and felt no regret whatsoever that he hadn’t bothered to wash the front of his ears, not to mention his face. In the meantime, he was looking forward to the jumble sale. Before he left school yesterday he had noticed a model Darth Vader with a broken light sabre in a cardboard box of toys and he was hoping to add it to his collection.

  By the time I left Kirkby Steepleton the sun had come out and lit up Twenty-acre Field on my way into Ragley. Joyce Davenport, the doctor’s wife, and a friend were stooping under the shade of a huge oak tree and they waved as I drove past. They were gleaning stalks of corn missed by the combine harvester. Their intention, I discovered later, was to make decorative stars for the Christmas WI stall. However, my thoughts were elsewhere. The School PTA annual Jumble Sale was always a popular village event and a busy morning was in store.

  A few minutes before eleven o’ clock the school hall was a hive of activity. As usual, Vera was helping Ruby scavenge jumpers, skirts, boilersuits and footwear before the doors opened.

  ‘These’ll do nicely f’our ’Azel, Mrs F,’ said Ruby, holding up an almost-new pair of stout winter shoes.

  ‘We’ll put them safe in a bag under my desk,’ said Vera and they both hurried into the school office.

  ‘My Ronnie’s comin’ round t’collect what ah bought,’ said Ruby.

  Vera looked at her dear friend and closed the office door. ‘Let’s sit down for a minute,’ she suggested.

  Ruby sat down, took out yesterday’s monogrammed handkerchief, dabbed her eyes and stared out of the window. ‘He once bought a record f’me, Mrs F – that Max Bygraves singing summat abart a pink toothbrush.’

  ‘I remember it,’ said Vera.

  ‘An’ ’e sed ’e’ll tek me t’London one day,’ added Ruby wistfully.

  ‘That would be lovely, Ruby,’ said Vera quietly.

  ‘Ah’ve never been t’London,’ Ruby went on with a sigh.

  ‘It’s a wonderful place,’ said Vera.

  ‘Ah’d love t’see all them sights – y’know, Nelson’s Colon, Piccalilly Circus, that Convict’s Garden … all them famous places.’

  Vera smiled and nodded. ‘Yes, Ruby.’

  ‘Ah think ’e means well, Mrs F – but ’e does nowt. Goin’ t’work never suited ’im. It’s like transplantin’ a flower that doesn’t tek.’

  Vera said nothing but thought volumes.

  In the entrance hall a group of women were looking at the display of Class 2’s art work. ‘Y’can tell who they are, can’t you?’ said Connie Crapper, mother of five-year-old Patience, appreciatively.

  Mary Cartwright, mother of six-year-old Charlie, wasn’t so sure. ‘M’mother won’t be pleased,’ she said, looking dubiously at little Charlie’s portrait of his grandma Thelma. With the addition of the wrinkles it resembled a pineapple with earrings. ‘Anyway, c’mon,’ continued Mary, ‘ah’ve jus’ seen an Orville the Duck on t’toy table.’

  Ronnie followed Betty Buttle and Margery Ackroyd into the entrance hall and they stopped and laughed when they saw Thelma’s portrait. ‘Flippin’ ’eck – what a picture!’ exclaimed Betty.

  ‘That’s jus’ perfect,’ said Margery. She looked into the school hall, where Thelma had sidled up
to the bemused bachelor Maurice Tupham.

  ‘An’ she’s lookin’ for ’usband number four by all accounts,’ added Betty.

  ‘Well, y’know what they say about Thelma,’ said Margery.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Betty.

  ‘Badstock by name an’ bad stock by nature,’ said Margery and they set off arm in arm.

  Ronnie watched them walk away to the stall displaying leather boots, pink stilettos and Doc Marten boots. He sighed and put his hands in his pockets. He had no money, only a single cigarette in a crumpled packet, and he walked out and leaned against the school wall. From the office window Vera and Ruby saw him light up, hunch his shoulders and stare at his shoes.

  ‘Shall we go back out?’ asked Vera.

  ‘It’s too much argy-bargy f’me, Mrs F,’ said Ruby. She looked tired.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in,’ said Vera.

  It was little Hazel Smith. ‘’Scuse me,’ she said politely to Vera and then turned to her mother. ‘Mam, ah cut m’finger ’elpin’ Terry mend ’is light sabre.’

  ‘I’ll get a plaster,’ said Vera and hurried off to the staff-room.

  Ruby held up Hazel’s finger and kissed it. ‘Love ’eals wounds better than Elastoplast,’ she said.

  There was silence between them until Hazel looked up at her mother. ‘Mam – ah know what love is,’ she said thoughtfully.

  ‘An’ what’s that, luv?’

  ‘It’s what meks y’smile when y’tired,’ said Hazel.

  Ruby looked at her youngest daughter and realized she was growing up. ‘Mebbe y’reight – in fac’, y’spot on.’ And she leaned over and gave her a hug.

  Chapter Four

  Important Decisions

  Interviews were held today for the post of the new teacher for Class 2 commencing January 1984. The interviewing panel comprised the Revd Joseph Evans, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, the deputy headteacher Mrs Anne Grainger and the headteacher. School closed for a one-week half-term holiday and will reopen on Monday, 7 November.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Friday, 28 October 1983

  ‘I THINK IT’S the right decision, Jack,’ said Anne. I looked round the school office. The interviews were over and it was time to make a choice.