07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  The major spoke confidently. ‘All jolly good teachers, what?’ He fixed us all with a look of absolute authority. ‘I’m sure the governors and the education office will back the decision of the head and chair of governors.’

  Joseph responded with a gentle smile and then looked at me, presumably for reassurance. ‘Well I’m happy, Jack – clearly the best candidate as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘Anne?’ I asked quietly.

  Anne looked up from stacking the letters of application into a neat pile. ‘I agree,’ she said. ‘Replacing Jo was always going to be difficult, Jack, but I’m sure this will be good for the school. It will complement the team.’

  I took a deep breath and underlined one of the four names on the sheet of paper in front of me. ‘So, if we’re agreed,’ I said, ‘it looks like we have a new teacher.’

  Anne stood up and looked at each of us in turn. ‘I’ll go, shall I?’ I could see the relief on her face.

  ‘Yes please, Anne, it’s time to ask the question … and then I’ll have a word with the others.’

  As Anne left the office to walk through the narrow connecting corridor to the staff-room I glanced up at the clock. It was exactly six o’ clock, the interviews were completed and a new teacher to take over from Jo Hunter had been selected. As chair of the school governors, Joseph was about to offer a permanent teaching post to the successful candidate and we presumed the answer would be ‘Yes’.

  I sighed and reflected on the past twelve hours. It had been an eventful day … a day of important decisions.

  It had begun in the early hours when a reluctant dawn light crept into the second bedroom of Bilbo Cottage. Baby John was three months old now and clearly enjoyed chewing his fists and fingers. He had begun to laugh and I marvelled at his development. He needed feeding and changing and Beth and I moved like slow-motion dance partners. Lack of sleep had become a way of life for us. We had a routine and few words were spoken, simply two tired people, each with their own thoughts, doing what needed to be done.

  A journey begins with one small step – and big decisions sometimes begin with small sentences. So it was that later, over a hurried breakfast of cereal and toast, John was gurgling happily and Beth was sipping at her mug of tea. She looked distracted. Faintly, in the background on Radio 2, Barbara Dixon was singing ‘The Long and Winding Road’. It somehow seemed appropriate.

  ‘Jack, do you think we can manage on one salary?’

  It took me by surprise. ‘Why – what are you thinking?’

  Beth didn’t turn to look at me. ‘It’s just that I have to make a decision about going back to my headship.’

  ‘I thought you had decided to go back in January.’

  She replaced the spoon on John’s plastic tray and wiped his face. ‘I feel different … it’s hard to explain.’

  I put down my mug of black tea. ‘Tell me,’ I urged.

  ‘Well, we may not find a suitable nanny,’ she said, ‘and I enjoy being at home with John.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘So I’ve been thinking … perhaps we should consider me taking the full academic year off and staying here to look after John. The school can survive without me, my deputy’s doing a good job, I can still do my Masters degree – and we would save money on a nanny.’ She broke off to adjust John’s ‘I Love My Daddy’ bib, a present from Ruby. Then she nodded towards our ‘Views of York’ kitchen calendar. ‘But I’ll need to tell the school governors tomorrow so they have a couple of months’ notice to sort out staffing and then let County Hall know.’

  It was an important decision. Once again we were at a crossroads. I leaned over and held her hand. ‘I think that’s a wonderful idea and, yes, I’m sure we can manage. Plenty of others do it.’

  Beth looked relieved. ‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I’ll give it some thought today and maybe we can talk about it again tonight.’

  I looked at the kitchen clock. ‘I have to go,’ I said and kissed her on the cheek. Then I bent to kiss John goodbye.

  ‘And good luck with the interviews,’ she called out as I shut the front door behind me.

  During the drive on the back road to Ragley village my mind was filled with thoughts of what lay ahead. The school that was a cornerstone of my life was about to change, and with it the job I loved.

  Meanwhile, the season was changing and as I drove up the High Street the residents of Ragley were hunched in their winter coats. The temperature was dropping and dark nights and cold winds were upon us. Early frosts had blackened the fragile petals of the last floribunda roses and dead leaves gathered in eddying swirls. In the hedgerows the intricate webs of countless spiders looked like fine lace, while small creatures plundered the red hips of dog roses. A robin, perched on the noticeboard outside the village hall, sang a mournful song while tiny wrens were busy claiming territory and goldfinches searched for seeds in among the teasels. Winter was coming.

  Vera was busy when I arrived at school. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘The list of applicants is on your desk.’

  ‘Good morning, Vera, and thank you. I’m sure everything is in place for today.’

  Vera was her usual confident, well-organized self and she picked up a copy of the programme for the day. ‘All the applicants have been invited to arrive at twelve and sit with the children for lunch. As you suggested, I’ve arranged for Anne, Sally, Jo and myself to meet them and then, as you requested, no doubt you can have a word with them all before afternoon school when they are free to walk around and visit the classrooms. Then Rupert and Joseph will be here at afternoon break to meet them in the staff-room and answer their questions before the interviews commence at the end of school. We’ve timetabled up to thirty minutes each for that.’

  ‘Excellent, Vera,’ I said. ‘I’d be lost without you.’

  Vera gave a modest, unassuming smile, took out her late dinner money tin and register and prepared for an otherwise usual Friday morning.

  It was my turn to supervise morning playtime and once again I was amazed by the children, who seemed impervious to the sharp north wind and the dark clouds rolling in from the Hambleton hills.

  I leaned against the stone wall with a welcome mug of hot coffee and reflected on my life in this community. My time at Ragley School had proved to be a long and busy road shared with countless children and the riches of childhood. I was a teacher of the young and we needed to prepare the children in our care for an uncertain future.

  Suddenly a loud shout shattered my reverie.

  Little Ted Coggins was playing lions-and-tamers with Charlie Cartwright while Jemima Poole watched open-mouthed.

  ‘Ah’m gonna do one o’ m’blood-curdlin’ roars,’ said Ted Coggins proudly. ‘Blood-curdling?’ queried Jemima, discovering yet another new word. ‘Yeah,’ said Ted with bravado, ‘y’can’t beat a bit o’ curdlin’.’

  I walked out to the area of the playground that was sheltered from the bitter wind by the school cycle shed. The Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina, were winding a skipping rope while two eight-year-olds, Mary Scrimshaw and Sonia Tricklebank, stood alongside chanting:

  Pease pudding hot,

  Pease pudding cold,

  Pease pudding in the pot,

  Nine days old.

  O-U-T spells OUT!

  Meanwhile three ten-year-olds, Betsy Icklethwaite, Hazel Smith and Molly Paxton, jumped in and out with skilful steps. I smiled at their zest for life. It was a song of childhood. Adolescence was still a distant world and a journey yet to be made.

  At lunchtime Vera and I were in the school office when she looked out of the window. ‘Here they come,’ she said.

  First to arrive was Mrs Mary Blaythewaite, an experienced thirty-seven-year-old and a strong candidate, as she was currently teaching a reception class at Kingsdale Infant School in York. She was dropped off at the school gate and waved a fond farewell as the driver sped away. A short, stocky lady, she walked purposefully towards the entrance door, where she was m
et by Anne, who took her on a brief guided tour of the school.

  Next to arrive was Valerie Flint, our regular supply teacher and, at the age of sixty, she was by some distance the most experienced teacher. Valerie was generally regarded as ‘a safe pair of hands’ and, having taught every class in the school over the years, she knew Ragley and its children very well. She was met by Vera, both long-standing friends at the Women’s Institute, and they shared the formality of a familiar walk round the classrooms.

  Back in the staff-room Sally and Jo were waiting for the other two candidates. ‘I imagine this must be Mr Dalton,’ said Sally.

  ‘And the netball player,’ added Jo with a grin.

  Two cars had arrived at the same time and eased their way into the last parking spaces in the car park. Ms Pat Brookside parked her 1970s Mini Clubman Estate, picked up a manila folder from the passenger seat and jumped out. She was a tall, slim, leggy, twenty-six-year-old blonde and, on paper, was another particularly strong candidate, having taught infants for the past four years at Thirkby Primary School, where she also ran the school netball team. She paused on the grassy bank that separated the car park from the playground and waited for a battered, rusty and once-royal-blue Renault 4 to squeeze into the space next to her.

  A young man, probably three inches shorter than me at around five foot ten, with broad shoulders and an open, friendly face climbed out.

  Ms Brookside gazed at the handsome newcomer and smiled. ‘I’m here for interview,’ she said.

  ‘So am I,’ replied the young man with a sheepish grin.

  Tom Dalton was twenty-four years old and the youngest candidate. He wore a smart if slightly crumpled dark grey suit, blue denim shirt, a cheerful red tie and recently polished black shoes. His dark, shaggy hair flopped over his beetle brows and hung over his collar.

  Both of them paused to look up at the bell tower and then smiled at the children playing on the playground. Sally and Jo went out to meet them and took them in to school lunch. The children were intrigued by our new visitors and were full of questions as they queued up with their plastic trays. Shirley the cook served them with sausages, mashed potato, carrots and a splash of gravy while Doreen added a hefty slice of sponge cake and lurid purple custard.

  ‘So none o’ you are one o’ them vegetarians, then,’ announced Doreen with a voice of doom. Only the bravest vegetarian would have replied ‘Yes’. Then they settled down with the groups of children round the Formica-topped trapezoidal tables for their pre-interview meal.

  Ms Brookside was soon in conversation with nine-year-old Harold Bustard.

  ‘So what have you been doing this morning?’ she asked.

  ‘We’ve been doin’ Moses wi’ t’vicar, Miss,’ said Harold bluntly.

  ‘And what do you know about him?’

  ‘’E comes in ev’ry Friday,’ said Harold.

  ‘No,’ said Ms Brookside with a smile, ‘I meant Moses.’

  ‘Oh well – what m’mam says,’ answered Harold.

  ‘Really – and what does she say?’

  ‘She says ’is real name were Charlton ’Eston an’ ’e were reight ’unky.’

  Half an hour later I was in the entrance hall. One of the doors led to the school stock cupboard and I walked in and propped the old wooden ladder against the top shelf. The cupboard was an Aladdin’s cave of powder paint, frieze paper, corrugated card, manila exercise books, countless boxes of white chalk, bags of clay, crêpe paper, large sheets of card, tins of Lakeland crayons, rolls of coloured foil and boxes of HB pencils. We needed A4 notepads, Berol pens and manila folders for each member of the interviewing panel and I had told Vera I would collect them.

  When I came out I saw Tom Dalton on the other side of the double doors that led from the entrance hall to the school hall. He had been stopped in his tracks by the inquisitive six-year-old Charlie Cartwright. ‘’Ello, Mister, are y’looking for t’teachers?’

  ‘Yes, I am. I’m Mr Dalton and I’m here to visit your school and talk to Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Well, Mr Dalton,’ said Charlie politely and in the manner of an official tour guide, ‘after dinner they all go to t’staff-room for a cup o’ tea.’

  ‘Thank you very much … and what’s your name?’ Tom asked.

  ‘Charlie. Ah was named after m’dad – ’e’s called Frank,’ said Charlie.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Yes, but ev’rybody calls ’im Charlie. M’mam says it’s ’cause ’e walks funny.’

  ‘Oh I see.’

  Charlie was obviously weighing him up and came to a decision. ‘Mister,’ he said in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘would y’like t’see my pet?’

  Tom Dalton grinned and crouched down so his head was on the same level as Charlie’s. ‘Yes, let me see,’ he said.

  Charlie produced a matchbox from the pocket of his thick corduroy shorts and opened it as if it were a rare casket of precious jewels. Inside was a wriggling and very active spider. ‘This is Sammy,’ he said with reverence, ‘an’ ah’m goin’ t’make him better.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong with him?’ asked Tom, peering closely into the box.

  ‘’E’s gorra limp,’ said Charlie, ‘’cause of ’im only ’aving seven legs.’

  Tom studied the limping spider. ‘And how many do you think he is supposed to have?’ he asked.

  ‘Eight,’ said Charlie in surprise. ‘Ev’rybody knows they ’ave eight – four on each side. That ’elps ’em balance.’

  ‘I see,’ said Tom. There was a moment of silence as he looked from the spider to the little boy whose lips were pursed in anxiety. ‘I can see you’re worried about him,’ he added.

  ‘I am,’ said Charlie, ‘an’ ’e’s not ’ad any dinner. Ah couldn’t find any dead flies, only live ones, an’ ah can’t catch ’em.’

  ‘Perhaps we should let Sammy spin his own web,’ suggested Tom quietly. ‘I bet he could do it, even with seven legs. He looks a strong spider to me.’

  ‘Mebbe so,’ said Charlie.

  ‘There were a lot of spiders’ webs in the hedgerow by the school gate when I arrived. If we put Sammy there he would be among his friends.’

  ‘An’ ah could look t’see ’ow ’e’s gettin’ on at t’end o’ school,’ said Charlie, clearly warming to the idea.

  ‘We could do it now,’ said Tom.

  There was a pause and a sigh from the little boy. ‘OK, Mister – an’ thanks.’

  As they walked down the drive Vera was in the office locking away Class 2’s late dinner money which Sally had just delivered. Sally was staring thoughtfully out of the window.

  ‘Looks like Charlie Cartwright has taken a liking to Mr Dalton,’ she said.

  Vera smiled. ‘Yes, it’s good to see,’ and she looked approvingly at the young man with the confident manner and engaging smile. ‘And he is rather handsome, I suppose.’

  ‘Handsome?’ said Sally. She picked up her dinner register and grinned. ‘Vera, he’s absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.’

  The events in school had not gone unnoticed in the village. Friday was always a busy day in Diane’s Hair Salon. Diane had just sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale on Amelia Duff’s hair as a setting lotion before adding a colourful collection of giant plastic rollers. Then she glanced up at the clock. ‘Margery will be here any minute,’ she said and went into the little kitchen to boil some water for a hot drink.

  Meanwhile Amelia relaxed in her chair and skimmed through a recent edition of Woman’s Weekly. After reading an article about television heart-throb Anthony Valentine, she was studying the instructions for a cut-out and ready-to-sew pinafore dress when Margery Ackroyd walked in. Margery was a dedicated gossip: for her it was a way of life and she couldn’t wait to share her news.

  ‘We’ve seen ’em, Amelia – all four of ’em – large as life,’ she said excitedly as she sat down on the second of the pair of hairdresser’s chairs.

  ‘An’ who’s that then?’ shouted Diane from the kitchen.

  ‘T’new teachers, D
iane,’ said Margery, ‘come for interview t’tek over from Mrs ’Unter.’

  ‘And what are they like?’ asked Amelia.

  Diane reappeared with two cups of coffee and put each one on the shelf below the large mirror. ‘Let’s ’ear it then, Margery,’ she said and settled down on the bench seat in the corner. She leaned back, lit up a John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette, took a contented puff and relaxed. Diane knew from past experience that there was no point starting Margery’s hair while she had a story to tell.

  ‘Well, there was Miss Flint who we all know,’ said Margery, ‘in that safari trouser suit that she likes, an’ two women who looked all right, ’cept one could ’ave been Miss World,’ she took a sip of her coffee, ‘… an’ a man.’

  ‘A man!’ exclaimed Diane, suddenly full of interest.

  ‘An’ ’e’s a looker,’ added Margery in a knowing way. ‘’E reminds me o’ that Richard Chamberlain.’

  ‘I loved The Thorn Birds,’ said Amelia. ‘It was so romantic.’

  ‘Yes, well ’e’s not ’xactly like Richard Chamberlain but ’e ’ad that walk … y’know, like Richard Gere.’

  ‘Oooh, now y’talkin’,’ said Diane appreciatively.

  Amelia tossed her Woman’s Weekly on to the coffee table, unable to contain herself. ‘Oooh, Richard Gere … I saw An Officer and a Gentleman twice last year, once with Ted and once with the brass band,’ said Amelia, warming to the discussion. ‘It’s my favourite film.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Margery, staring dreamily into the mirror, ‘probably more Richard Gere than Richard Chamberlain.’

  Diane pinched the end of her cigarette and left it in the ash tray on the window sill. She decided to bring their attention back to hairdressing. ‘Well, it looks as though we’re all agreed on Richard Gere, then … So what’s it t’be, Margery?’

  ‘An Olivia Newton-John please, Diane – but like she ’as at t’end o’ Grease, not t’beginning,’ said Margery.

  Diane smiled and reached for her extra supply of rollers.