05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  By eleven o’clock the hall was full and the major, in a charcoal-grey three-piece suit, regimental tie and a row of medals on his chest, introduced Ruby’s son. Andy, with his white sergeant’s stripes, looked immaculate in his army uniform with its knife-edge creases.

  Rupert was a brilliant public speaker and Vera looked on in admiration. However, he was also wise in his choice of words and took care not to glorify war – something that was appreciated by all the adults present, including Old Tommy Piercy, who nodded sagely. Rupert merely expressed how pleased we all were that Sergeant Smith had served his country with honour in the Falklands and, thankfully, returned home safe and sound. Ruby was dabbing away the tears, with yet another of Vera’s handkerchiefs, long before the book-presentation ceremony began.

  With something of a lump in my throat, I read out the names of the school leavers in my class. I had watched them grow from tiny infants into confident eleven-year-olds and it was sad to see them go. They came out, one by one, to shake hands with the major and receive their book from Andy Smith, who had a kind, encouraging word for each of them. The books had been chosen by the Parent–Teacher Association to suit the interests of each individual pupil, so the selection included the Narnia stories, model aircraft, modern farm machinery and how to look after a horse.

  The assembly was conducted by Joseph in a calm and sensitive manner and it proved the perfect way to say goodbye to a group of children who were about to take their next step in life. It was also a poignant moment when the group of school leavers bowed their heads and joined in our school prayer for the very last time.

  ‘Dear Lord,

  This is our school, let peace dwell here,

  Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,

  Love of one another, love of life itself,

  And love of God.

  Amen.’

  Finally, Joseph gave thanks to everyone who supported the school, including the governing body and the Parent– Teacher Association, but, particularly, the teachers and the ancillary staff. Vera, in her usual trim business suit, and Ruby, Shirley and Doreen, dressed in bright summer dresses, looked suitably modest when the audience broke into spontaneous applause. I looked across the hall to Anne, who gave me that familiar gentle smile, and I guessed what she was thinking. Somehow, we had survived the round of village school closures and another year had been completed without mishap. I was lucky to have such a loyal and talented deputy headteacher and Anne had made it clear she wanted to remain at Ragley and not seek a headship for herself.

  It was almost lunchtime when the hall emptied and Ruby, Ronnie and Andy walked down the drive together and stopped at the school gate for a word with Old Tommy Piercy.

  ‘Nah then, young Andrew, y’back, then,’ said Old Tom my bluntly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Piercy,’ said Andy, ‘an’ ah’m reight glad.’

  ‘There’s been a lot o’ changes since y’went gallavantin’ off t’fight them Argies,’ said Old Tommy, lighting up his pipe and sucking contentedly.

  ‘So ah’ve ’eard, Mr Piercy,’ said Andy, ‘what wi’ t’ ’eadteacher gettin’ married.’

  ‘An’ Miss Evans gettin’ a man at last,’ added Ronnie for good measure, though Ruby gave him a stern look.

  ‘Mark my words,’ said Old Tommy with a twinkle in his eye, ‘she’ll be a good bit o’ pensioner-crumpet.’

  ‘Oh, Tommy,’ said Ruby, ‘y’can’t say that about Miss Evans. She’s a proper lady … an’ she deserves’er bit o’ ’appiness.’

  However, Old Tommy was a quintessential Yorkshire-man. ‘Well, ah say what ah like an’ ah like what ah say,’ he replied defiantly through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco and walked off down the High Street.

  ‘Mam,’ said Andy, ‘ah wonder ’ow our Racquel’s gettin’ on.’

  ‘She’s fine, luv … Not long now,’ said Ruby, and she linked arms proudly with her elder son as they walked home.

  At lunchtime I went into the kitchen to thank Shirley and Doreen for all their hard work during the year and to confirm arrangements for our after-school party.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley, ‘I’ll get t’Baby Burco fired up an’ sort out all t’best crockery.’ She looked at the formidable Doreen Critchley. ‘An’ Doreen’s made a lovely apple an’ cinnamon lattice tart, special, like. Ah’m sure y’l l like it.’ I looked at the bulging muscles in Doreen’s forearms and agreed that I definitely would.

  Then Shirley made me a large mug of tea just the way I like it, black with a slice of lemon, and together we sat chatting while watching the children on the school field. The ten-year-olds in my class were sitting in a group and discussing who might be tuck-shop monitor next term, while, near by, the fourth-year junior girls were acting out Irene Cara’s ‘Fame’ dance routine. On a much less aesthetic level, the boys who were about to leave Ragley were leaning against the school wall and musing about the craft lessons that were coming their way next term with real woodwork benches. Secondary-school life was suddenly full of new possibilities and Ragley School had begun to appear very small.

  I recalled that my own childhood seemed to be made up of play, food, sleep and books – but mainly play. I was a cowboy in the morning, a super-hero in the afternoon and, in bed at night, I would read my Eagle comic and join Dan Dare on his latest interplanetary mission. It was a time of long summer days and imagination knew no bounds.

  As I walked back to my classroom for afternoon school, I reflected that I was about to complete my fifth year as headteacher of Ragley School and the five-year-olds who had arrived with me back in 1977 were now ten-year-olds in my class. In another year’s time it would be their turn to leave for Easington Comprehensive School and I would have been in charge of a complete generation of primary children for a full cycle of six years. They would have known only me as their headteacher and I wondered about my impact on their lives. I knew I had helped to teach them to read and write, to count and paint, to solve problems and to talk with confidence, to share and speak the truth, but more than anything I hoped I had instilled a love of learning.

  At the end of school, Ruby was collecting the waste paper from my office when Petula Dudley-Palmer called by. ‘We’re going to Venice for our holiday, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

  ‘That should be a wonderful experience for the girls,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Petula; ‘I can see us now drifting under the Bridge of Sighs with a gondolier.’

  Ruby was puzzled. She had heard of ‘glue-ear’ but not ‘gondol-ear’. She said nothing, though, and wandered off with her black bag.

  An hour later, the hall was filling up with staff, governors and a few members of the Parent–Teacher Association. The major arrived in his chauffeur-driven Bentley with Joseph as a passenger and they walked in together. The major was still in his three-piece suit but now without the medals, while Joseph was in his summer attire with a cream linen jacket, the obligatory dog-collar and a straw panama hat.

  Sue Phillips got chatting with the major about her family’s forthcoming caravan holiday in Cornwall and Devon.

  ‘It’s a topping place, Susan,’ said the major, pointing vaguely south with his brass-topped cane, ‘and there’s some jolly drives around there.’

  Then there was a cheer as Shirley and Doreen wheeled in the trolley from the kitchen on which the cups and saucers rattled and a Baby Burco boiler steamed merrily. Vera, Sally and Jo had laid out on some of the dining tables a simple buffet, including a large plateful of Vera’s perfect scones and a huge jar of home-made raspberry and strawberry jam. Shirley had prepared a plateful of sandwiches and Doreen, of course, made sure her magnificent apple and cinnamon lattice tart had pride of place.

  * * *

  Under the welcome shade of the horse-chestnut trees by the school gate, eight-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite was telling her sister, four-year-old Katie, about what it would be like when she started school next term.

  ‘You’ll ’ave t’be able t’write y’n
ame,’ said Betsy.

  ‘I can do that,’ said Katie.

  ‘Y’can’t,’ said Betsy.

  ‘Ah can … ’cept f’catti-pull letters,’ said Katie defiantly.

  ‘Y’mean capital letters,’ corrected Betsy.

  ‘That’s what ah said,’ retorted Katie.

  ‘And you need t’know which is your coat peg,’ said Betsy.

  This was unexpected. ‘Oh,’ said Katie, ‘an’ will you ‘elp me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Betsy magnanimously and feeling quite grown-up.

  Suddenly Beth arrived in her Volkswagen Beetle, turned carefully into the school entrance and waved at the two little girls.

  ‘She’s a nice lady,’ said Katie.

  ‘That’s’er who married Mr Sheffield,’ said Betsy with the voice of experience.

  ‘Ah know,’ said Katie, ‘it’s Mrs Teacher.’

  Beth walked into the hall and, as always, a few heads turned. She looked so attractive in her new Debenham’s outfit, a Hawaiian-print dress with a linen straight-style jacket.

  ‘Good to be here, Jack,’ she said and turned to Vera. ‘Can I do anything to help?’

  ‘Well, if you’re brave enough, you could cut Doreen’s lattice tart and serve it out,’ said Vera cheerfully.

  It was a happy occasion and a relaxing end to the school year and, although the sky darkened as we chatted, everyone was in good spirits until gradually, in small groups, people took their leave.

  ‘Don’t wait for me, Rupert,’ said Vera. ‘I’ve got some tidying up to do in the office before I go home.’

  ‘Very well, old girl,’ said Rupert, ‘but perhaps I could offer Joseph a lift.’

  ‘Thank you, Rupert, that would be helpful – and less of the old girl, if you don’t mind,’ she said with mock admonishment.

  ‘Of course, my dear. Message heard and understood,’ and he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Vera.

  ‘Tally ho. Come on, Joseph,’ said Rupert. ‘We’ve got our marching orders.’ He put his hand on Joseph’s shoulder. ‘Just a couple of errands before going home, old chap, and then I’ll drop you off at the vicarage.’

  ‘Thank you, Rupert,’ said Joseph. He turned to Vera and gave her a gentle smile. ‘See you soon,’ he said and the two men walked out together to the waiting Bentley.

  ‘Please Sir!’ It was Beth tugging my sleeve and looking up anxiously at the hall clock. It was 5.55 p.m. ‘My mother’s train gets into York at half six.’ She picked up her handbag, gave Vera a quick hug and, with a wave, hurried out to the car park and drove into the High Street behind the major’s car.

  Finally, only Anne, Sally and Jo were left in the staff-room, winding down with a cup of tea, and Vera and I were in the school office. It was quiet as we completed our end-of-year tasks. However, Vera was comfortable with silence: for her it spoke volumes.

  I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk and took out the ancient leather-bound school logbook. Then I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink and stared at the next clean page. The academic year 1981/82 was almost over and I was about to pen the last entry of the school year.

  I had just decided what to write when Ruby burst into the office. ‘Miss Evans, Miss Evans!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s our Racquel! T’baby’s comin’ an’ she’s been rushed into ’osp it a l.’

  Vera remained calm and quickly summed up the situation. ‘Where are Ronnie and Andrew?’ she asked.

  ‘Dunno, Miss Evans,’ gasped Ruby frantically. ‘They’re not at ’ome. Ah think they went t’York wi’ Andy’s mates.’

  ‘Can I help?’ I said.

  Vera looked out of the window and stared up at the gathering storm. ‘No, you stay here, Mr Sheffield. It will be better if I take Ruby,’ and she picked up her coat and handbag and the two women dashed out to the car park. It was 6.05 p.m.

  The sultry calm lay heavily on the land and, amid the heat of pressure, a stifling electric tension was waiting for the moment of release. It came with ragged fingers of fiery lightning and the boom of heaven’s marching army. The storm had arrived and, as Vera and Ruby drove down the High Street towards York, the first heavy splashes of rain bounced off the top of the car. Moments later the rain fell harder and there was a flash of lightning followed a few seconds later by a crash of thunder. The storm was overhead now and the York road became slick with running water.

  Up ahead the major’s Bentley slowed. Cars were putting on their headlights and pulling off the road to seek safety. Beth was anxiously peering through her windscreen as her wipers failed to clear the deluge of water. She glanced down at her wristwatch. It was 6.10 p.m.

  ‘Are we goin’ t’get there in time, Miss Evans?’ asked a desperate Ruby.

  Vera was trying to remain calm but she could barely see the road ahead. ‘Don’t worry Ruby,’ she said: ‘not far now.’

  Back in the school office, I wrote, ‘School closed today and will reopen for the new academic year 1982/83 on Monday, 6 September 1982.’ Then I blotted the page carefully, closed the logbook and locked it in the bottom drawer of my desk.

  I sighed. Another year was over and I had now completed five years as headteacher of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School. There was a rattle of crockery from the staff-room and I went to join the others.

  The approaching lorry braked suddenly to avoid getting too close to the car in front and then its back end began to aquaplane across the rain-soaked carriageway.

  Seconds felt like slow-motion minutes but the driver saw what was coming and tried desperately to veer to the left and on to the grassy verge, where the near-side tyres spun helplessly.

  The words tumbled out: ‘Oh, please God …’

  The crash of the rear offside of the lorry hitting the car’s bonnet was like a bomb blast. Then there was flying glass, the crunch of metal, a final scream and … darkness.

  I was in the staff-room with Anne and Sally, while Jo was collecting her coat, when the telephone rang. It was 6.45 p.m.

  ‘I’ll get it,’ called Jo from the cloakroom area.

  We heard a hurried mumble of words from Jo and then, ‘Oh, no … oh, no!’

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ said Anne.

  Sally was first to react. She walked through the little corridor to the school office and Anne and I hurried behind her. ‘What is it?’ asked Sally.

  Jo, her face ashen, was staring at the receiver.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Anne.

  Jo replaced the receiver as if in a dream. ‘It was Dan,’ she said quietly. She looked up at us as if seeing us for the first time. ‘There’s been an accident … water on the road … a lorry skidded … two cars are involved.’

  ‘Is anyone hurt?’ asked Sally.

  Jo took a deep breath, as if searching for the words, and stared at us for what seemed like an eternity. ‘Yes,’ she said simply.

  Her eyes were soft with sorrow.

  And in a heartbeat our lives had changed for ever.