07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  Tom looked up from his computer magazine. ‘“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen”,’ he recited. ‘We did 1984 for my A-level English.’

  Sally scanned the article that included extracts from George Orwell’s vision of a totalitarian future in 1984 and the infamous Ministry of Truth. It described a world, rather like Russia, that was short of shoelaces and razor-blades and reminiscent of post-war London.

  ‘Well, today’s proles live in crowded tower blocks,’ said Sally pointedly. She smiled at Tom. ‘And Tom’s computer will probably replace Orwell’s telescreen in a world where there is no privacy.’

  ‘Oh dear, I do hope not,’ said Vera in dismay.

  I was looking through the Times Educational Supplement and was attracted to the headline ‘Curb the Cane’. ‘There’s a proposal here to end corporal punishment in schools,’ I said.

  ‘It never did me any harm,’ said Tom casually. ‘Kept me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘Well, I’m totally against it,’ said Sally.

  ‘Thankfully, I’ve never had to use it,’ added Anne.

  I thought and neither have I, and it struck me that we were fortunate teaching in this quiet corner of North Yorkshire where the vast majority of children were well behaved, understood right from wrong and loved coming to school. Bullying was almost non-existent and we all worked hard to provide an effective curriculum. It seemed we were a long way from the growing problems within inner-city schools and the difficulties faced on a daily basis by other members of our profession.

  Also, it looked as though our entente cordiale with France had gone out of the window. Under the headline ‘Lamb Ambush’, President Mitterand had apologized profusely following the arrest of two British lorry drivers. They had been kidnapped by Normandy farmers who were demonstrating against cheap food imports and the new Labour leader, Neil Kinnock, had told them it was ‘outrageous’.

  Meanwhile, across the frozen High Street in the village pharmacy, Deke Ramsbottom didn’t look happy. ‘Ah’m still strugglin’ wi’ t’same ol’ problem, Eugene.’

  ‘Well y’better ’ave some more o’ these,’ said Eugene sympathetically. He selected a packet of Germoloids suppositories. ‘These ’ave got an improved formula so they should do t’trick,’ he added.

  ‘Ah’m not sure,’ said Deke. ‘Ah’ve already ’ad some o’ these. Your Peggy gave me a box of ’em.’

  Eugene looked thoughtfully at the packet. ‘What’s wrong wi’ these then?’ he asked.

  ‘They taste rotten, Eugene,’ said Deke, shaking his head.

  ‘Ah,’ said Eugene as the penny dropped. He glanced in the direction of Peggy, who had finished stacking the new stock of Johnson’s Baby Cream. ‘Deke, let’s ’ave a quiet word o’er ’ere.’ He tugged at Deke’s sleeve and they were soon in deep and animated conversation in the far corner of the shop.

  ‘Y’what?’ muttered Deke. ‘Y’jokin’.’

  ‘No, ah’m not, Deke,’ whispered Eugene. ‘That’s where y’put ’em.’

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ grumbled Deke. ‘What’s t’world comin’ to when y’told t’stick bullets up yer arse?’

  ‘It’s 1984, Deke,’ said Eugene quietly, ‘t’world’s changing.’

  At the end of school Betsy Icklethwaite cleaned the blackboard extra quickly. ‘Ah’m in a rush, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a grin. ‘Ah’ve got some shoppin’ t’do on t’way ’ome an’ then me an’ Molly an’ ’Azel want t’see Grange ’ill.’

  ‘Grange Hill,’ I said, ‘is it good?’

  ‘Brilliant, Mr Sheffield,’ said Betsy as she replaced the board rubber on the shelf, ‘but ah’m really worried about Zammo McGuire. ’E’s in a spot o’ bother.’ She rushed off to her coat peg and the classroom was quiet again. I collected a pile of English books for marking and then set off for the entrance hall. We had all decided to check arrangements with Vera for the afternoon tea party at the vicarage to celebrate Joseph’s birthday.

  ‘What about Sunday afternoon?’ asked Sally. ‘I’ve got a recipe for muesli biscuits that I’d like to try out.’

  ‘Shall we come early?’ asked Anne. ‘We can help prepare.’

  ‘Well, Shirley and Doreen from the kitchen said they would come at three o’ clock and set the tables,’ said Vera, ‘and Rupert’s cook, Doris, has done most of the baking – but do come. Many hands will make light work.’

  ‘And are you sure you don’t mind us bringing John?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s fine,’ said Vera. ‘In fact I’m hoping Sally will bring young Grace.’

  ‘Colin will be pleased,’ said Sally with a grin.

  ‘What about me?’ asked Tom. ‘Shall I bring anything?’

  ‘Just yourself,’ said Vera with a smile, ‘and it will be good to have moral support for Ruby too. I do hope she will feel able to come.’

  On Saturday it was a quiet dawn and a grey light filtered over the sleeping land. The world was waking from the dark abyss of a seemingly endless night and the scurrying of small woodland creatures marked the beginning of another winter’s day.

  Once again Beth and I were up early to feed John, now six months old and with a big appetite. He was the centre of our world.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Jack,’ said Beth after changing his nappy.

  ‘Oh yes, what about?’ I asked as she carried John downstairs.

  ‘A bigger headship,’ she said crisply.

  I groaned inwardly. ‘Really?’ I said to give me thinking time.

  Beth sat John on the kitchen floor. He could sit up unaided now for a few minutes and he smiled up at us.

  ‘Yes, Jack,’ and there was light and anticipation in her green eyes as she put cereal bowls on the table, ‘but not for you – for me.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. This wasn’t what I had expected.

  She gave me a level stare. ‘When I’ve finished my Masters degree I should have a good chance of a bigger challenge, maybe down in Hampshire where my mother could provide child care – and where you could be a village headteacher again, if that’s what you want.’

  I had guessed that one day Beth would want to return to her native county, but not yet … not yet. ‘Is that what you want?’ I asked.

  I guessed she sensed my reticence. ‘Yes, one day,’ she said and we sat eating our cornflakes in silence. It was at times like this that I saw the strength in her. I had come to know Beth as a woman, a wife and a lover, but, increasingly, there were times of reflection. We had shared a pathway but it seemed her ambition was driving us towards different destinations. Love could be a tough companion.

  Now our relationship was like a slow river, steady and reassuring, murmuring its gentle song over the everlasting pebbles … but what is love if not a friend in dark places, a companion in a forest of whispering trees, a haven in a journey of shadows? ‘Then I’ll support you,’ I said and kissed her cheek.

  On the kitchen radio Paul McCartney’s number-one record ‘Pipes of Peace’ was playing for the umpteenth time and Beth hummed along.

  ‘And by the way, Laura rang,’ she said. ‘She’s moved into her new flat in York. I said I’d take John and meet up for lunch.’

  I smiled, but kept my thoughts to myself.

  Three miles away on the Crescent, Anne Grainger was in her bedroom, dressed only in her bra and pants, scrutinizing her figure in front of the full-length mirror. She sighed deeply. The problem was clear to see. She was no longer the shape she once had been. In consequence, following the excesses of Christmas, she had decided to take drastic action. Attracted by an advertisement in her Woman’s Own, she had hurriedly written off to Needletrade International in Croydon, enclosing her measurements and a postal order for £9.95.

  So it was that while John was in the garage making a deathtrap of a gate-leg occasional table, Ragley’s deputy headteacher unwrapped her belated Christmas present to herself. She smiled as she held up her new and fashionable B-Slim Girdle with specially reinforced tummy-control pan
els. ‘Oh dear,’ she murmured to herself, ‘the times they are a-changing … Goodbye forties, hello fifties.’

  After Beth left for York, Bilbo Cottage was quiet, so I decided to drive into Ragley and catch up with some paperwork in school. The back road from Kirkby Steepleton had been cleared by Deke Ramsbottom in his snowplough and I negotiated the three-mile journey carefully. When I arrived in the car park curve-stitching patterns of frost decorated the window panes in their wooden casements and the Gothic bell tower resembled a Christmas cake.

  In the peace of the school office the heavy silence was a cloak of comfort and my thoughts wandered freely. I wrote a lengthy response to County Hall’s discussion paper concerning equal opportunities. This was an issue that was clearly gathering nationwide momentum and the workplace was changing fast.

  At one o’ clock I decided to enjoy some hot food in The Royal Oak, so I locked up the school and headed across the village green. The spiky grass crunched beneath my feet and my breath hung in the air as a misty vapour. The frozen pond, bordered by brittle hoar frost, was covered with a thin sheet of ice, its surface cracked like shattered marble, while above it the bare branches of the weeping willow, like skeletal fingers, shivered in the winter wind.

  The Ragley Rovers football match had been cancelled and the team and supporters were propping up the bar when I walked in.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Don the barman.

  ‘A pint of Chestnut and one of your giant Yorkshire puddings, please,’ I said.

  Clint Ramsbottom sidled up. ‘Ah’ll ’ave a Budweiser, please, Don,’ he said a little sheepishly.

  Don reached down under the counter. ‘Just got ’em in, Clint,’ he said. ‘They’re new. Not tried one m’self.’

  Shane glanced across to the bar. ‘What’s that y’buying, Nancy?’ Clint winced as he always did when his psychopathic brother called him Nancy.

  Don held up the bottle. ‘’E wants a Budweiser.’

  ‘A what?’ shouted Shane.

  ‘Sounds foreign t’me,’ said Old Tommy Piercy. ‘What’s wrong wi’ proper English beer?’

  ‘All m’mates i’ York are drinkin’ ’em,’ said Clint defensively.

  Don removed the metal cap from the top of the bottle. ‘Here y’are then,’ he said with a sigh. ‘What abart a glass – ’andle or no ’andle?’

  Clint shook his head. ‘Y’drink it straight from t’bottle.’

  Sheila leaned over the bar and for a fleeting moment the football team were distracted by her prodigious bosom. ‘A cat could ’ave weed on that bottle,’ she said.

  ‘Or a dog,’ added Big Dave Robinson for good measure.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Ah’ve seen Jimmy Poole’s little terrier weeing on t’enamel buckets outside Tidy Tim’s.’

  ‘There y’are,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Ah’ll ’ave a glass then,’ said a demoralized Clint.

  ‘Ah fought f’this country,’ mumbled Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco, ‘an’ what thanks do y’get – German beer!’

  ‘An’ a pint o’ Tetley’s f’Mr Piercy,’ added Clint hurriedly.

  Mollified, Old Tommy nodded sagely. ‘Ah well, y’only young once, ah s’ppose,’ and he winked at Deke Ramsbottom, who raised his glass in appreciation of Old Tommy’s generous conclusion to what could have been an embarrassing situation. Deke reflected that he hadn’t raised his children to drink foreign beer. ‘What’s t’world comin’ to, Mr Sheffield?’ he grumbled.

  ‘It’s certainly changing, Deke,’ I said.

  ‘An’ did y’know that Lord Mayor o’ London is a woman,’ said Don in disgust.

  ‘They can’t do that,’ said Big Dave, clearly affronted by the suggestion.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, ‘s’not nat’ral.’

  ‘Sez on t’news she’s called Lady Mary Donaldson,’ said Don.

  ‘Never ’eard of ’er,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Well ah think it’s a good idea,’ said Sheila.

  I said nothing and wandered off to a corner table where Sheila served me with a steaming plate of beef and onions in a huge crispy home-made Yorkshire pudding swimming in gravy – a feast on a freezing winter’s day. The conversation at the bar ebbed and flowed and I recalled the equal opportunities paper I had left on Vera’s desk. The Ragley football team had some conceptual catching up to do.

  That evening Beth and I settled down in front of a roaring log fire with a bottle of red wine and watched television. The dashing John Nettles as Bergerac was followed by Terry Wogan interviewing David Attenborough, Randy Crawford and Matthew Kelly. Even though Match of the Day included the opportunity to win £100 worth of Premium Bonds, we switched over to BBC2 to watch a programme about two very unusual men. A man called John Duffy had chosen to be at home with his family to enable his wife to go out to work, while Vic Green, a redundant steel-worker, had to stay at home owing to force of circumstance. A sociologist, Jacqueline Burgoyne, examined the new developments that were challenging traditional roles in family life.

  ‘That could be us one day,’ said Beth with a grin. She snuggled up on the sofa and rested her head on my shoulder. Her hair was soft against my cheek and I pondered what the future would hold for us.

  As we climbed the stairs to bed Beth said, ‘Laura’s been invited to Joseph’s party tomorrow,’ and that gave me something else to think about.

  After checking John was sleeping soundly I stared out of the diamond panes of his bedroom window, lost in my own thoughts. A bitterly cold night had descended on the plain of York. The world was silent, all sound muted, and snowflakes drifted like winter confetti over the white landscape. Before me, as far as the eye could see, a spectral world of blue ice was covered in a shroud of newly fallen snow. The countryside was still in the fastness of winter and frozen moonbeams lit up the distant hills in sharp relief … and for a moment I thought of Laura.

  Somehow our destiny had always seemed braided together … like silk and cord.

  On Sunday afternoon when we arrived at the vicarage it was a hive of activity and Joseph was clearly thrilled that so many people had turned up. I met up with Vera in the kitchen while Beth showed off John’s sitting-on-the-carpet skills to an enthusiastic group. Vera and I were both surreptitiously pouring our glasses of Joseph’s home-made peapod wine down the sink. ‘Sorry about this,’ I said.

  ‘It’s probably got a future as a potent oven cleaner,’ said Vera and we rinsed our empty glasses and walked into the hallway. We could see Ruby sitting in the lounge and she gave us a listless wave.

  ‘Jack, I worry about Ruby,’ said Vera.

  I noticed that Vera had called me Jack. We were clearly off-duty and she was in a reflective mood.

  ‘She’s been very quiet at work,’ I said. ‘I wish we could cheer her up.’

  ‘All the ladies at the Cross-Stitch Club have rallied round,’ said Vera.

  ‘And I heard about the Ronnie Smith Trophy,’ I added.

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera, glancing across at Rupert, who was deep in conversation with Joseph about the state of the church roof. ‘Rupert wanted something that would ensure Ronald’s name lived on, so he purchased a lovely football trophy and had it engraved.’

  ‘That was a good idea,’ I said. ‘I think Mr Ramsbottom is going to present it each season to Ragley’s Player of the Year.’

  The murmur of gentle conversation and the respectful clink of fine china and crystal glasses drifted over us in our private space.

  ‘I pray for her every day,’ said Vera, ‘and she has the blessing of a loving family around her.’

  ‘Time is a great healer,’ I added.

  ‘Let’s hope so, Jack,’ said Vera. ‘It’s difficult for Ruby to live in hope when she abides in sorrow.’

  Vera hurried off to do her hostess duties while I wandered into the large, beautifully furnished lounge. I noticed Laura standing on the other side of the room talking to Jo Hunter. As
usual she looked as if she had stepped from the cover of Vogue magazine – casually dressed in skin-tight Burberry jeans, a steel-grey denim jacket and matching waistcoat, and calf-length leather boots. Her long brown hair hung loose over her shoulders.

  She caught my eye and came over. ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said simply and kissed me on the cheek. Her perfume was familiar. Then she straightened the creased collar of my herringbone jacket and stepped back as if considering the improvement.

  ‘You look stunning as usual, Laura,’ I said.

  ‘Nothing much,’ she said. ‘Just our range of casual gear at Liberty.’

  ‘So you’ve moved into York again.’

  She smiled. ‘Just until the summer. A lovely apartment – you must come and see it. Near the museum gardens again … just like old times.’ Her green eyes never wavered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said.

  She sighed. ‘Well, Jack, I need a drink.’

  I whispered in her ear. ‘I wouldn’t recommend the peapod vintage.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry, Jack,’ she murmured, ‘I learned a long time ago what to avoid,’ and she walked away to the drinks table and began talking to Beth.

  Tom Dalton was suddenly standing next to me. His eyes never left Laura as she poured herself a glass of Vera’s mulled wine. ‘Who’s that beautiful woman with Beth?’ asked Tom.

  I put my hand on his sleeve. ‘Tom, that’s Laura and she’s Beth’s younger sister.’ Tom simply stared, clearly captivated by Laura’s confidence and slim figure. ‘… But only by a couple of years,’ I added hastily.

  ‘Jack, I’d love to meet her,’ implored Tom.

  ‘Perhaps later,’ I said. ‘Let’s have a word with the major.’ I ushered him towards the grand fireplace where the major was standing sentry in front of a roaring log fire.

  The party went well and the food was magnificent. Shirley Mapplebeck had brought a savoury hot-cheese dip served with carrot sticks and cauliflower sprigs, while Doris, the major’s cook, had prepared a crisp, creamy crab millefeuille. They were busy swapping recipes.