07 School's Out!

by Jack Sheffield

  Easington School had closed a day earlier than us for the holiday so a few ex-pupils had turned up to support their younger brothers and sisters. Twelve-year-old Heathcliffe Earnshaw was sitting with his mother and Dallas Sue-Ellen on the back row. It occurred to me that little Dallas would be five in November so another Earnshaw would be in the reception class next September – a sobering thought. Heathcliffe gave me a grin when Terry’s name was called out. It was almost seven years since he had arrived at Ragley School from Barnsley with his brother, who could barely say a word. The memories were etched in my mind. Time seemed to have passed by so quickly. These children had known only me as their headteacher. A whole generation had come and gone – it really was the end of an era.

  Last of all was Hazel Smith and Ruby’s tears flowed as the applause rang out. Vera gripped the hand of her special friend as the cheerful eleven-year-old, the image of the young Ruby, strode confidently to the front amidst tumultuous applause and received a beautiful leather-bound copy of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe along with a few reassuring words from the major. I looked round at the rest of the staff. Anne gave me that familiar quirky smile from the other side of the hall, Sally nodded with a yes we feel the same look and Tom appeared genuinely touched, as if he was beginning to understand the wonder of teaching in a village school. Shirley Mapplebeck, the school cook, in her bright summer frock, clutched her handkerchief on her lap, while Doreen Critchley rested a giant callused hand on Shirley’s arm and squeezed it with gentle affection. It was a tiny gesture but huge in its significance and, in that moment, I knew why being a village headteacher was so important to me.

  We were more than a school … we were a family.

  Finally, after our last hymn, ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’, the school prayer was read beautifully by Michelle Cathcart, then Joseph led us in the Lord’s Prayer. Anne put Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the turntable and we filed out. The school leavers stayed behind to show their new books to their parents, who huddled in groups, discussing not so much the happy memories of Ragley School but rather the price of the Easington School uniform.

  The morning passed quickly and the excitement of the children was clear with the summer holiday stretching out before them.

  At lunchtime Anne and I walked out on to the school yard and drank our tea in the sunshine. ‘Another year, Jack,’ she said softly. ‘We’ve survived our fair share of ups and downs.’

  ‘We certainly have,’ I said, ‘and Anne – thanks as always.’

  Ruby arrived at the school gate. It was time to put away the dining tables and she waved as she walked up the drive. ‘Ruby’s definitely getting back to her old self,’ said Anne. ‘She seems to be coping better these days.’

  I leaned against the school wall and reflected on recent months. ‘Vera has been a good friend to her.’

  We sipped our tea and luxuriated in the warmth of the day. Finally, Anne broke the silence. ‘And what do you think about Tom?’ she asked.

  ‘Well, he’s clearly a good teacher,’ I said a little defensively.

  ‘I agree,’ said Anne, ‘but he’s certainly got what you might call a way with the ladies.’ She let the message hang in the air. Around us butterflies hovered above the buddleia bushes in the sunshine and we settled back, each with our own thoughts, to watch the children at play.

  For them the cycle of school life carried on as it always did. They skipped and played and sat contentedly in little groups on the school field. These were the carefree days of endless summers and the forging of innocent friendships. Within the secret garden of childhood, small boys and girls ran around the school field, united by one apparently indisputable fact – they would live for ever.

  At the end of the school day I stood on the steps of the entrance porch and said farewell to the children who were leaving to go to secondary school.

  Michelle Cathcart gave me a home-made card with the message ‘Thank you for being my teacher’ above a beautiful drawing of the school bell tower. Her mother was standing nervously by the school gate, her familiar pink candyfloss hair bright in the sunshine. She blew a kiss, shouted ‘Thank you’ and waved goodbye, and I was touched by the gesture from this troubled lady.

  In contrast, the blunt and gregarious Betty Buttle was suddenly by my side with her twin daughters, Katrina and Rowena. ‘A proper sad day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Thanks f’keepin’ ’em safe.’ The girls gave me a carefully wrapped copy of a fascinating book, The Snickleways of York, with their almost identical signatures on the title page, then hurried off down the drive to continue their inseparable lives.

  ‘Goodbye, Sir,’ said Lee Dodsworth politely and he gave me a tiny model of a Morris Minor Traveller, destined to be a paperweight on my desk for the next thirty years. He strode off confidently, not knowing that a remarkable destiny as a jet pilot awaited him.

  Charlotte Ackroyd gave me an apple. I smiled in puzzlement. ‘But you’re not leaving,’ I said. ‘You’re coming back next year.’

  ‘Ah know, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘but mebbe y’can keep me in mind t’be tuck-shop monitor next year.’

  ‘We’ll see, Charlotte,’ I said and slipped the apple in my pocket. While I didn’t encourage bribery, initiative was always appreciated.

  Finally, Terry Earnshaw was standing on the step next to me. ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Ah’m looking forward to t’big school, but ah’ll allus remember Ragley.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy being with your brother again,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘Ah will, sir. It’s not t’same wi’out ’im,’ and he ran off down the drive to begin the rest of his life and countless years of hard graft in all weathers.

  One by one the teachers left.

  Sally Pringle gave me a hug as she left to hurry home to share her precious summer break with her daughter, Grace, while Anne gave me my annual kiss on the cheek and a wry smile. I knew what she was thinking – six weeks with a DIY fanatic wasn’t the stuff of dreams for the hardworking deputy headteacher of Ragley School.

  Meanwhile, Vera tidied her desk as she always did. ‘Rupert said if you and Beth and John have time to call in before you go down to Hampshire, you’re more than welcome.’

  ‘Thank you, Vera, we shall,’ and she gave me that knowing look I recognized so well.

  She paused in the doorway. ‘And Jack, I’m making a summer fruit cornucopia – and that is not to be missed,’ she added with a smile and walked out to the car park.

  The last knock on my door was at 6.30 p.m. and Tom Dalton came in. ‘Thanks for your support, Jack,’ he said and shook my hand.

  I put down my pen. ‘What are your plans for the holiday?’

  He looked at me curiously for a moment, presumably trying to decode any hidden message. ‘I’m helping my father build a patio at his house in Bishopthorpe and then I’m having a couple of weeks’ touring in France with some old college friends.’

  ‘Sounds good, Tom.’ I looked at him as he leaned against Vera’s desk, hands in the pockets of his cord trousers and his old St Peter’s School tie loose around the unbuttoned collar of his denim shirt, ‘… And I’m glad you’ve settled so well at Ragley. If there’s any help you need next year, then let me know.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said, ‘I appreciate that and, yes, Ragley’s a wonderful place to work.’ He walked to the door and then hesitated. ‘And I doubt I’ll be seeing Laura – she says she’s very busy at the moment.’

  There was an awkward silence. ‘Well … see you next term,’ I said.

  It was half an hour later when I made my final entry in the school logbook. I wrote, ‘School closed today for the summer holiday and will reopen on Monday, 3 September.’ Then I put the top on my fountain pen, blotted the words, closed the leather-bound tome and returned it to the drawer in my desk.

  I stared around me at the walls of the office I knew so well and recalled the events of the past year, the triumphs and the tragedy. In the echoing emptiness of this Victorian school t
he faces of past pupils and teachers stared out from the neat rows of photographs, captured in a moment of their youth and living on in an image of earlier times. Finally, I locked up the school and drove away, leaving the academic year 1983/84 behind me.

  Back at Bilbo Cottage Beth was full of news following her visit to Hartingdale.

  ‘Guess what, Jack?’ she said as she hurried from the kitchen. ‘I’ve got the perfect childminder – a highly recommended lady with a son at secondary school. She called in to see me at Hartingdale and we got on well. It’s all fixed for next term.’

  It was a relief. ‘Perfect,’ I said as I hung my jacket on the hall stand.

  Beth fingered the frayed cuffs and then peered out of the window at my precious car. ‘Jack, the Morris Minor is getting like your jacket – too old for purpose – and we’ve got a long journey down to Hampshire next week.’

  I looked at my herringbone jacket with its worn leather patches on the elbows. It was ten years old, familiar, comfortable – like an old friend. However, my Morris Minor Traveller was something much more special; the thought of changing it was sacrilege. ‘Perhaps we ought to change yours, Beth,’ I said. ‘After all, the Beetle is looking decidedly rusty.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said the ever-practical Beth and I realized I had got off lightly.

  On Saturday morning I had some shopping to do in Ragley and I called in to Nora’s Coffee Shop for some welcome refreshment. Phil Collins was singing ‘Take a Look at Me Now’ on the juke-box and the teenagers Claire and Anita gave me a wave. Ever since watching Flashdance they had taken to wearing baggy sweatshirts that hung off one shoulder. The ensemble was completed with their ballet flats.

  As Nora served me with a frothy coffee she nodded towards Dorothy, who was sitting with Little Malcolm, Big Dave and his fiancée, Nellie. ‘Weally intewesting, Mr Sheffield,’ said Nora, never one to miss out on a bit of gossip. ‘Ah think Dowothy’s gonna get mawwied at last.’

  I settled down at a spare table within earshot of Ragley’s favourite refuse collectors.

  ‘A joint wedding?’ said a surprised Big Dave.

  ‘That’s reight, Dave – you an’ Nellie an’ me an’ Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, who appeared quicker on the uptake on this occasion.

  ‘On t’same day,’ added Nellie for clarification.

  ‘It’ll be wonderful,’ said Dorothy, flashing her new engagement ring.

  ‘It were Nellie an’ Dorothy’s idea, Dave,’ explained Little Malcolm.

  ‘Ah weren’t thinkin’ o’ rushin’ things,’ said Big Dave lamely.

  Nellie gave Big Dave her don’t mess wi’ me look and he recoiled from the impact. ‘Dave, d’you love me or not?’ She pointed to Dorothy’s garish engagement ring. ‘’Cause it’s obvious Malcolm loves Dorothy.’

  ‘O’ course ah do,’ said Big Dave.

  Malcolm pulled a crumpled copy of the Easington & District Advertiser out of his pocket. ‘Look at this, Dave,’ he said. ‘It looks perfec’. We could give Dorothy an’ Nellie t’oneymoon of a lifetime.’

  ‘An’ it would be proper romantic,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘’Ow much?’ asked Big Dave. It was crucial to get the important items sorted first.

  ‘’Ave a look,’ said Little Malcolm.

  The advertisement read:

  SUPER SAVER OCTOBER HOLIDAY TO BENIDORM £59.00 HOTEL TORRE DORADA

  Full board at the Poncente beach

  All bedrooms have a bath/wc Swimming pool

  Midlands Airport/Coventry

  Big Dave frowned. ‘Where’s Coventry?’

  ‘Dunno, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, ‘it sez in t’Midlands – so it’s down south somewhere, but there’ll be buses.’

  ‘Or trains mebbe – nowt but t’best f’my Nellie,’ said Dave, ‘… s’long as it’s not ’xpensive.’

  ‘Well me an’ Malcolm can save up,’ said Dorothy and Malcolm nodded in rapturous agreement.

  ‘It sez October,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘That’s reight, Dave,’ said Nellie, ‘so … what’s it t’be? Shall we get married in October?’

  The binmen of Benidorm looked at each other and nodded.

  Little Malcolm had finally got the woman of his dreams and Big Dave had got a cheap holiday with a woman who could recite football’s offside rule.

  ‘OK, you’re on,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘Well, let’s celebrate wi’ a drink,’ said Nellie, looking out of the window at The Royal Oak.

  Big Dave rooted in his pocket for some small change. ‘OK, Nellie luv, ’ow abart a mug o’ tea?’

  My next port of call was the butcher’s shop. Beth’s list included a large joint of ham, intended as our contribution towards the feast that awaited us at her parents’ house in Hampshire.

  It was soon clear that Old Tommy was very proud of his cured York ham. Maurice Tupham reared a few select Large White pigs in his back yard and fed them on brewer’s spent grain, carefully matured over six months. Old Tommy knew this was the true secret of York ham. The meat, lean and rose-pink, was on display in the window. It had been smoked in the traditional way over wood shavings and herbs to produce a rich, salty ham with a dry texture and distinct flavour. It was Old Tommy’s masterpiece and the trademark of the master butcher. ‘Teks a lifetime t’learn ’ow t’get ’am as perfec’ as this,’ he said as he wrapped up a huge joint for me. Then he sighed deeply. ‘Nostalgia … nostalgia,’ he murmured. ‘It ain’t what it used t’be.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Piercy,’ I said. ‘Anyway, must rush.’

  ‘There’s more t’life, Mr Sheffield, than tryin’ t’mek it go quicker,’ he shouted after me.

  Across the High Street, next to the village hall noticeboard, Vera was in conversation with Joyce Davenport, who had just displayed details of their most recent charitable activity. It announced that the Ragley and Morton WI were supporting the June Whitfield Knit and Sew Charity Bazaar. However, their animated discussion did not concern the forthcoming task of knitting teapot and egg cosies but rather the fact that the treasurer had run off not only with the WI funds but also with the secretary’s husband.

  Entirely oblivious to this story of sexual dalliance, outside Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium Ruby had bumped into George Dainty. They appeared relaxed together and Ruby was smiling. It was good to see her at ease. She appeared to have found a new friend in this gentle, kindly man and they both waved as I clambered back into my car and drove home.

  Tuesday, 24 July was a special day. It was John’s first birthday and we packed the car very early and set off for a few days in Hampshire, to be followed by a visit to my mother, Margaret, and her sister, May, in Leeds. As we drove south out of Yorkshire we turned on the radio and joined in with the cult Alice Cooper hit of over ten years ago. There was a sense of freedom in our souls as we sang ‘School’s out for summer, School’s out for ever’ as the miles swept by and Ragley School was left far behind.

  It was early afternoon when we sampled the delights of Hampshire, a beautiful county of water meadows and dense forests. Soon we saw the sign for Little Chawton and drove into a classic English village. Outside The Cricketer public house a few young men were quenching their thirst with the distinct amber local brew. On the village green families were enjoying their picnics while toddlers played hide-and-seek round the old cast-iron hand pump. We turned left at the church with its square Norman tower and arrived at a familiar row of thatched cottages faced with red brick and Hampshire flint.

  Austen Cottage was a mellow brick-and-beam building and the tall, grey-haired John Henderson came out to meet us. ‘Welcome home,’ he said to Beth as he embraced his daughter.

  ‘Lovely to be here, Dad,’ said Beth.

  Our son yelled to be free of the restraints of his car seat. ‘You have a very active grandson,’ said Beth as she unstrapped him. ‘He’ll be into all your cupboards.’ She carried John into the kitchen, where Diane broke off from stirring a huge pan of watercress soup to greet her grandson with a tender
kiss.

  ‘Prepare yourself for a feast, Jack,’ said John as he helped me with the luggage. ‘Diane’s been baking for the past week.’

  Laura was in the entrance hall. She was casually dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and appeared preoccupied as she hugged everyone. Diane glanced at her occasionally as we gathered in the kitchen. John could walk confidently now and immediately began to climb the stairs. For the next half-hour it was a full-time job keeping track of his whereabouts as he explored the cottage.

  After lunch, while he slept, I sat in the lounge with Beth and her father. Diane had slipped out to find Laura, who had gone to her room. Across the landing Laura’s door was ajar. She was standing in front of the full-length mirror, staring thoughtfully at her reflection. A shaft of bright sunlight streamed across the room and lit up her still figure as if she were on a stage in the spotlight.

  Laura looked thoughtfully at the slim woman staring back at her. Then she slowly spread her fingers across her stomach. She held them there and pressed gently, fingertip softly, as if searching for an answer to an elusive question.

  ‘My God … what have you done?’ she said to herself.

  She stared at her reflection, her eyes suddenly moist with tears.

  The door creaked and a voice said, ‘Laura – what is it?’ Diane stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind her.

  ‘Not now, Mother,’ said Laura distantly.

  Diane stood by the door, staring at her younger daughter while Laura was as still as her reflection.

  ‘I know you,’ said Diane.

  ‘Do you, Mother?’

  ‘Laura – I’ve always known you.’

  Diane walked slowly across the room. She stood beside Laura and looked into the mirror. ‘So … are you?’

  There was silence between them, two women in a tableau of confusion.

  Finally, Laura murmured almost to herself. ‘A child … a teacher’s child.’