07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘It’s a cold day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Prudence, ‘so Jeremy wrapped up warm.’

  I nodded in agreement and folded my newspaper. ‘Very sensible.’

  ‘And how is Mrs Sheffield?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’

  ‘And what about young John William?’

  ‘He’s on solids now,’ I said proudly, ‘… well, more mushy than solid, so to speak.’ A thought occurred to me. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered. I need a jar of Pond’s Cream from the pharmacy.’ I glanced at my watch. ‘I’ll slip out at lunchtime to get it.’

  ‘No need, Mr Sheffield, I’ll ask Mrs Eckersley to call and drop it into school for you. She’s my new part-time assistant – a lovely young lady. Her little girl, Lucy, has just started in Mrs Pringle’s class.’

  I thanked Miss Golightly and the bell above the door rang merrily as I walked out into the cold. Outside the shop Terry Earnshaw and Harold Bustard were peering into the brightly lit shop window. They each had a penny and were discussing the possibility of pooling their meagre resources to select from aniseed balls, gob-stoppers, sherbet dips, coconut lumps, treacle toffee and liquorice laces.

  When I arrived at school a sharp hoar frost had coated the hedgerows like icing sugar and the air was clear and cold. Ruby was sprinkling salt on the frozen steps in front of the entrance door. ‘Cold morning, Ruby,’ I said as I hurried past.

  ‘Nay, there’s cold an’ there’s cold, Mr Sheffield, an’ this is nowt.’ Ruby was a tough lady.

  ‘How’s Ronnie?’ I asked as an afterthought. ‘I’ve not seen him in a while.’

  Ruby leaned on her yard broom and shook her head. ‘’E were like death warmed up this morning. Ah rubbed a bit o’ goose grease on ’is chest las’ night but it did no good. ’E’s goin’ to t’chemist t’get summat t’shift it.’

  I nodded, shivered and went into school.

  ‘Men!’ muttered Ruby under her breath as I walked towards the welcome warmth of the office.

  After hanging up my duffel coat and old college scarf, I went into the staff-room. All the teaching staff plus Vera had arranged to meet briefly before school to confirm arrangements for our Activities afternoon. The aim was to use the particular skills of the teachers to the benefit of all the children and bring into school a few willing and supportive parents and friends. It had worked well in the past so we had decided to try it again.

  ‘So I’m setting up my classroom with a selection of experiments in the physical sciences,’ said Jo with enthusiasm. ‘I’ve got pulley systems, glass prisms, magnets and mirrors, so I’m well prepared.’

  ‘Thanks, Jo,’ said Anne, ‘sounds good.’ Anne was particularly grateful. She had a superb knowledge-base in the natural sciences, and this was reflected in her year-round nature table; however, she was aware that the science curriculum for the children in her care needed to be wider.

  ‘And I presume I’ve got the hall, Jack,’ said Sally. ‘I’ve got some simple props for the drama activities and I could do with projecting the words for the singing on the OHP.’ Our overhead projector looked as though it should be in a museum, but it was a regular teaching aid for Sally, who spent many evenings writing out words, chords and musical notes on sheets of acetate.

  ‘It would help if I could do my sewing in your classroom, Jack,’ said Anne, looking at the long list of volunteers. ‘There’s more room – and you could use my carpeted book corner for your stories and creative writing.’

  So that was it. We were prepared for a break from our usual timetable, enabling mixed age groups to have the chance to experience science, creative writing, stories, sewing, drama and music, with a different range of activities in future weeks. Personally, although I didn’t mention this to the others, I found it difficult. Working with the youngest children in the school was very hard work, with each child demanding individual attention all the time.

  Vera’s official title was ‘part-time clerical assistant’ and, in consequence, she didn’t work at Ragley School on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. However, no one would dream of referring to Vera as a ‘clerical assistant’; she preferred the term ‘secretary’. So it was that after our meeting she went down the High Street to her twice-weekly cross-stitch class in the village hall and then drove into York to Currys showroom, where she purchased an Electrolux 350E vacuum cleaner for £84.95. This was something she would never have been able to afford prior to her marriage to Rupert. The young salesman tried to impress her with a fluent pitch about the super-boost button that provided a thousand watts of energy and the advanced slide control, but Vera gave him short shrift. All she needed to know was that it would clean the vicarage stair carpet without Joseph’s cleaner, Miss Figgins, getting a hernia. Joseph’s current cumbersome model really needed to be relocated to a domestic-appliance museum.

  At morning break Terry Earnshaw and Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer were discussing the future.

  ‘One day I’ll marry a modern man,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘and I’ll have two children and we’ll live in Surrey.’

  Terry pondered the enormity of this statement for a while. ‘Vicky … ’ow d’you mean, modern?’

  ‘Well, he’ll be sensitive and he’ll help me with washing up and decorating and he’ll be able to sew his own buttons on.’

  ‘What about football?’ asked a concerned Terry.

  ‘Oh yes, you could play football and rugby and cricket and tennis and … well, other games, like chess and croquet.’

  Terry had never heard of croquet but didn’t like to mention it. ‘So if I do sewing this afternoon ah can be a modern man when ah grow up?’

  ‘Yes, Terry,’ said Victoria Alice, ‘that would be a start – and it would be wonderful and I would be so proud of you.’

  Terry thought for a moment. Perhaps sewing wasn’t so bad after all.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Kitty Eckersley had called in to the school office. Mother of eight-year-old Lucy, she was a tall, slim thirty-three-year-old with cropped blonde hair, high cheekbones and blue-grey eyes.

  ‘It’s one pound and nineteen pence for the Pond’s Cream, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks very much,’ I said. ‘I really appreciate you taking the time.’

  ‘No trouble, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a smile. ‘Anything to help. My Lucy has been really happy here and she’s settled well thanks to Mrs Pringle.’

  ‘That’s good to hear,’ I said.

  ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘I’ve been talking to Mrs Pringle and Mrs Grainger about the Activities afternoon and I’ve volunteered to help with the sewing group. I’m free on Tuesday afternoons.’

  ‘That’s very kind,’ I said. ‘I’m grateful for your support.’

  Predictably, it was Vera, the fount of all knowledge regarding the villagers, who knew all about Kitty Eckersley’s background. At lunchtime Vera returned to school after a busy morning and we shared a pot of Earl Grey tea.

  According to Vera, Kitty had been born in Wakefield in West Yorkshire and she had a fine reputation as a local dressmaker. She lived on the Morton Road with her husband, David, the art teacher at Easington Comprehensive, and her father-in-law, Winston, a local eccentric and restorer of street organs. In 1968 she had gained her City and Guilds Dressmaking Certificate, followed by the Advanced Certificate a year later. More recently, in 1981, she had passed her City and Guilds 730 Teaching Certificate and now taught adult education classes two nights a week at Easington Comprehensive School.

  ‘That’s wonderful news for the sewing group,’ I said. ‘A real professional in support.’

  Sally was equally enthusiastic, as she had attended one of Kitty’s dressmaking courses at Easington Comprehensive School while Colin looked after their three-year-old daughter, Grace. ‘Yes, it’s a perfect evening class for me,’ said Sally. ‘No examinations, so no pressure.’

  When Kitty arrived I joined Anne and Vera in my classroom while they prepared the materials for the afternoon’s sewing tasks. Kitty was happy to talk about
her life. As a sixteen-year-old she had worked in a shirt factory in Wakefield; by her late twenties she was making silk blouses for the major stores in London, including Debenhams and Harrods.

  ‘It was tough to start with,’ said Kitty. ‘There was a strict apprenticeship. I had to complete fourteen rows of machine stitching on a one-and-a-quarter-inch strip of material, the size of a shirt cuff, and they had to be perfect before they let me loose on real garments.’

  She had learned very early that the north of England, and particularly Manchester, was the perfect place for cotton because in the damp climate it didn’t snap, but eventually she had moved on to polyester threads that had the wonderful capacity to stretch. Her sewing machine was a Willcox & Gibbs from America with a treadle and a motor attached. It was a relic of the Second World War, when it had been used for making uniforms.

  ‘I preferred using crimplene because it didn’t fray in the wash,’ Kitty added with conviction. She had also brought along many of the tools of her trade to show the children, including a tailor’s ham and a wooden dowel covered in fabric to help with pressing the seams of a garment. Best of all, she had examples of simple patterns and materials for three easy-to-make tasks: a heart-shaped lavender bag, a reflective armband on a hoop of thick elastic, and a tissue-holder made from a six-inch-square piece of material folded in half.

  ‘And I always wear these,’ she added with a smile, slipping a pincushion attached to a thick elastic band on her left wrist and a metal thimble on the second finger of her right hand.

  Meanwhile, on the High Street, Nora’s Coffee Shop was filling up with the usual lunchtime trade and Elton John’s ‘I’m Still Standing’ was belting out on the old juke-box when Ragley’s favourite binmen walked in.

  Big Dave Robinson and his faithful cousin Little Malcolm Robinson were popular village characters. Big Dave, at six feet four inches, and Little Malcolm, exactly one foot shorter, lived together on the council estate and toured the local villages each day in their refuse wagon. Big Dave went to sit at his favourite table next to the rack of old Sun newspapers while Little Malcolm hurried to the counter and looked up into the eyes of the woman he loved. ‘Two teas, please, Dorothy.’

  Dorothy Humpleby was filing her nails while skimming through her latest Smash Hits magazine. A peroxide-blonde would-be model, she was dressed in a tight, white, see-through blouse, red leather hotpants and her favourite Wonder Woman boots with four-inch heels. As Dorothy was five feet eleven inches tall in her stocking-feet, Little Malcolm found conversations difficult.

  ‘What d’you think, Malcolm?’ enquired Dorothy.

  ‘What about, Dorothy?’ asked a puzzled Little Malcolm.

  ‘M’new image, o’ course,’ retorted Dorothy.

  ‘’Xactly what’s that then, Dorothy?’

  ‘It’s m’new Max Factor extra-long, thick-lash mascara.’

  ‘Oh, er, well … it’s lovely,’ said Little Malcolm.

  Dorothy held up the tube and peered at the writing on the side. ‘An’ it’s ’ypo allergenic.’

  ‘Ah didn’t know you ’ad any allergies, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Ah’m reight sorry.’

  ‘No, y’soft ha’porth,’ said Dorothy, ‘it lengthens an’ thickens.’ Little Malcolm began to blush. He was thinking of something else. Undeterred, Dorothy continued with enthusiasm. ‘An’ it stays all day wi’out smudging,’ she explained. ‘An’ then there’s m’new Endless Shine Nail Enamel, t’ultimate in shiny nails wi’ no chippin’ or peelin’.’

  ‘That’s lovely, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, glancing across at Big Dave, who was mouthing ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘Finally, m’peas de insistence,’ said Dorothy, ‘is m’soft ultra-lipstick wi’ colour an’ gloss t’last ’til closin’ time.’

  Big Dave gave Little Malcolm his ‘big girl’s blouse’ look and Little Malcolm recoiled. ‘So it’s two teas, please, Dorothy,’ he said hurriedly. He also had some news. He was clutching a copy of the Easington Herald & Pioneer and was too excited to remember to ask for two pork pies. He opened the paper and pointed to a dramatic advertisement. ‘It says ’ere, Dorothy, “Tomorrow’s World is ’ere f’you today” … an’ ah think it is.’

  ‘What y’talkin’ about, Malcolm, an’ does Dave want a pie?’ asked Dorothy, reaching for a two-day-old pork pie.

  Undeterred, Malcolm pressed on. ‘If we go t’York we can rent one o’ them new fancy video recorders.’

  ‘An’ d’you want a pie as well?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Er, yes please,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘An’ it says we get six video films rent free.’

  ‘Went fwee?’ said Nora from behind the Breville sandwich toaster. She wasn’t one to miss out on an interesting conversation.

  Nora Pratt, the owner of the Coffee Shop, didn’t miss much. She had long since come to terms with the fact that her inability to pronounce the letter ‘R’ had curtailed, in her view, a blossoming acting career.

  Little Malcolm looked at the list. ‘They’ve got Chariots o’ Fire, Fame, Superman II, T’Love Bug, Annie an’ m’favourite.’

  ‘What’s y’favouwite, Malcolm?’ asked Nora as she scraped the black bits from a cremated cheese sandwich.

  ‘Rocky III,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘Oooh, ah love that Wocky,’ said Nora. ‘’E’s pwoper sexy.’

  ‘An’ ’e’s got big muscles like my Malcolm,’ said Dorothy.

  Little Malcolm loved it when Dorothy said my Malcolm. He went a shade of puce. ‘An’ they chuck in a free blank cassette,’ he added for good measure.

  ‘OK, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, ‘we’ll go.’

  ‘An’ ah’ll ’ave t’go,’ said Nora, looking at the clock. ‘As pwesident of Wagley Am-Dwams, ah’m ’elping wi’ dwama at school an’ ah’ll ’ave t’wush,’ and she grabbed her coat and scarf. ‘An’ don’t fwet, Dowothy, ’cause Wuby’s daughter, Shawon, said she’ll come in to ’elp,’ and she hurried out.

  Petula Dudley-Palmer was equally excited. She had just purchased Delia Smith’s Complete Cookery Course from her Book of the Month Club for a mere fifty pence. It was on special offer and, as Petula worshipped Delia as her ultimate kitchen goddess, it had been an opportunity too good to miss. She had decided to try out ‘Spanish pork with olives’ for Geoffrey’s evening meal and had written two cloves of garlic and a green pepper on her shopping list.

  However, by the time she had stepped out of her revolutionary power-shower, donned her dressing gown and unpacked her new state-of-the-art Design Centre electric hot-tray, ordered from her Littlewoods catalogue, she realized it was time to get dressed for the Activities event at school and an afternoon of creative writing. After all, as president of the Ragley Book Club, she needed to be seen and heard.

  The sewing group was hard at work and Terry was really enjoying making a pair of reflective armbands. Victoria Alice and Maureen Hartley were in the same group and sewing neat stitches down the side of their tissue-holders.

  Kitty Eckersley had given them wonderful support and they had enjoyed her stories.

  ‘Well done, Terry,’ said Kitty, ‘that’s excellent work – your mother will be thrilled.’ She looked at Little Mo’s sewing. ‘And so will yours, Maureen.’

  ‘No she won’t, Miss,’ said Little Mo quietly.

  ‘Oh, why not?’ asked Kitty innocently.

  ‘She’s in ’eaven,’ said Little Mo simply and without looking up from her sewing.

  Kitty bit her lip and glanced at the intense little dark-haired girl. She was reminded that honesty can break your heart.

  That night in the Earnshaw household everyone was settling at the kitchen table for an evening meal.

  ‘What did y’do at school t’day, boys?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘Nowt,’ said the two boys in unison, eyeing up the single Spam fritter on their plate and wondering if there would be two each.

  ‘Y’must ’ave done summat,’ she persisted.

  ‘Done summat,’ echoed little Dallas
Sue-Ellen.

  Everyone ignored her.

  ‘Ah did some woodwork,’ said Heathcliffe and Mrs Earnshaw shovelled an additional fritter on to his plate.

  ‘An’ what about you, Terry?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

  Terry was wearing his reflective armbands proudly. ‘Ah did some sewing.’

  ‘Sewing!’ exclaimed Mr Earnshaw. He put down his Racing Post. ‘SEWING … f’BOYS!’

  ‘Well ah think it’s a good idea,’ said Mrs Earnshaw and gave Terry a second fritter.

  ‘What y’learning sewing for?’ asked an incredulous Mr Earnshaw.

  ‘Well, when ah grow up, Dad, ah’m gonna be a modern man,’ said Terry earnestly.

  ‘What’s t’world comin’ to?’ muttered Mr Earnshaw.

  ‘An’ we’ve started d’mestic science – cookin’ an’ suchlike,’ added Heathcliffe for good measure.

  Mr Earnshaw gave his sons a look of disgust and buried his head back in his paper.

  ‘Well, ah’m proud of y’both,’ said Mrs Earnshaw and made sure the boys received a larger spoonful of mushy peas than Mr Earnshaw. ‘Don’t grow up like ’im,’ she added, ‘… a bloody dinosaur.’

  ‘Bloody din’saur,’ repeated Dallas Sue-Ellen.

  That night in bed Heathcliffe switched on his three-colour torch and began to read his Roy of the Rovers Annual.

  ‘Heath’,’ said Terry from his single bed on the other side of the room.

  ‘What?’ asked Heathcliffe, not looking up.

  ‘What’s a modern man?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘D’you think we’ll both be modern men when we grow up?’

  ‘Dunno,’ said Heathcliffe again.

  ‘Heath’,’ said Terry.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘What’s d’mestic science?’

  ‘Mekkin’ cakes an’ suchlike,’ muttered Heathcliffe.

  ‘Ah think ah’ll mek cakes and do sewing when ah grow up,’ said Terry.

  ‘Ah’m not,’ said Heathcliffe firmly.

  ‘’Ow come?’ asked Terry.

  ‘Ah’m gonna get married instead.’

  While Terry was thinking this through Mr Earnshaw shouted from the next bedroom, ‘Turn that light out – an’ shurrup!’