Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Vera.

  ‘Times they are a-changin’ an’ all that,’ continued Mrs Fazackerly in a sing-song voice.

  ‘Are they?’ asked Vera. It was our secretary’s turn to look puzzled.

  ‘’E’ll be five nex’ Friday.’

  Vera glanced at her calendar of the flowers of Yorkshire and wrote ‘10 January 1981’ in the date-of-birth column of her admissions register.

  ‘An’ ’e’s gorra lot o’ talent, ’as our Dylan,’ said Mrs Fazackerly proudly.

  ‘That’s encouraging,’ said Vera politely.

  ‘’E ’as that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘’E’s a born musician, is my Dylan,’ said Mrs Fazackerly with pride. She looked down at her son, who was picking his nose and then sucking his finger.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ said Vera without conviction.

  ‘Yes, ’e plays wi’ ’is ocarina in t’bath.’

  It takes all sorts, thought Vera.

  A few minutes later Mrs Blenkinsop was Vera’s next customer. She had brought in her son. Like Dylan, he was approaching his fifth birthday. Judy Blenkinsop was also eight months pregnant.

  ‘Do sit down, Mrs Blenkinsop,’ said Vera.

  ‘Thank you kindly, Mrs F,’ she said. ‘Ah think ah’ve got another rugby player in ’ere.’ She patted her enormous tummy and sat down heavily in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘What’s matter, Mam?’ asked the little boy.

  ‘Y’know what’s matter – ah’m ’avin’ a baby.’

  ‘Mam … can we ’ave a puppy instead?’

  Vera considered it time to move on. She opened her admissions register once again. ‘Now, your son’s first name please, Mrs Blenkinsop.’

  ‘Cheyenne,’ said Mrs Blenkinsop.

  Vera was still for a moment, pen poised. ‘Cheyenne?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Mrs Blenkinsop. ‘We wanted ’im t’stand out.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ said Vera without any trace of emotion.

  At nine o’clock Ryan Halfpenny rang the bell and the children hurried into their classrooms.

  There was a tap on the office door and Vera glanced up to see Ruby polishing the handle. It was a sure sign she wanted to talk, so Vera put her register to one side.

  ‘How are you, Ruby?’

  Ruby stopped cleaning the shiniest piece of brass in North Yorkshire and shuffled into the room, closing the door behind her. ‘Ah’m still worried ’bout our Duggie, Mrs F.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Vera. ‘I saw him parking his hearse outside the Post Office and he appeared content with his life.’

  ‘Yes, ’e’s a good lad an’ ’e’s doin’ well at t’fun’ral parlour, but ’e’s still lost where women are concerned … particularly that mature woman ’e’s started seein’.’

  ‘You mean a different mature woman?’ asked Vera, recalling Duggie’s previous liaison.

  ‘Yes, ’er from t’shoe shop in Easington ’as gone off t’pastures new. She took up wi’ ’im what owns t’dry cleaners in Helmsley. By all accounts she wanted summat more permanent an’ she pressed ’im summat rotten.’

  Vera decided not to comment on the owner of a dry cleaners being pressed. ‘So he’s moved on with his life,’ she said.

  ‘’E ’as that,’ said Ruby, stuffing her chamois leather into the copious pocket of her pinny. ‘In fac’, our Duggie’s allus been that way inclined, Mrs F,’ she added with feeling. ‘Y’know, rollin’ ’is own oats so t’speak. Prudence reckons it’s a phrase they all go through.’

  ‘I’m sure it is,’ said Vera. ‘So who is the new woman in his life?’

  ‘It’s Tina from Thirkby. She works in t’mattress factory an’ at weekends in that tattoo parlour in Gillygate.’ Ruby shook her head. ‘It’s beyond my apprehension.’

  Vera recalled with amusement seeing the sign ‘Tattoos-While-U-Wait’ in the shop window the last time she had visited York. ‘I know the shop but not the lady,’ she said.

  ‘She’s no lady,’ said Ruby. ‘She’s been round t’block too many times.’

  ‘I see,’ said Vera once she had interpreted the meaning.

  ‘An’ by all accounts she’s givin’ ’im a free tattoo.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘An’ you’ll never guess where,’ whispered Ruby conspiratorially.

  ‘In the tattoo parlour?’ suggested Vera.

  ‘No … on ’is bum.’

  Meanwhile, in Class 3 Sally had begun the day with mathematics and was busy doing some simple algebra with a group of children who required special help.

  ‘Now write this down in your exercise books,’ she said. ‘X plus ten equals fifteen.’ She paused while they scribbled in their books. ‘So, boys and girls, what is X?’

  Charlie Cartwright put up his hand. ‘Miss, how do you spell X?’

  Sally sighed deeply. ‘Let’s start this again,’ she said.

  At 10.30 a.m. Ryan Halfpenny rang the school bell to announce morning break. Anne was on playground duty and when I walked into the staff-room Vera was stirring hot milk in a pan. Pat was scanning the front page of Vera’s Daily Telegraph.

  ‘It says here we’re living longer,’ said Pat. ‘Life expectancy for men has improved to sixty-eight and it’s seventy-six for women.’

  ‘Good news,’ said Vera, hoping Rupert would exceed the average.

  Pat continued to scan the newspaper. ‘Yes, but during 1986 it says we’ll have two million vehicles on the roads and smoking will account for a hundred thousand deaths at a cost of a hundred and seventy million pounds to the NHS.’

  ‘Let’s be optimistic,’ said Vera. ‘Our Prime Minister has said we should rejoice because of rising house prices and unemployment levelling out.’

  Sally somehow remained silent. Unlike Vera, the venerable Margaret was not her favourite politician.

  Eager to change the subject, Pat pressed on. ‘I see Bob Geldof isn’t included in the New Year’s Honours List.’

  After the successful Live Aid concert, Bob Geldof had been bitterly criticized by backbencher Nicholas Fairbairn, who had made his position clear. He had said, ‘I am unimpressed by people who get glory out of misery. Why should this fool receive an award?’

  Sally shook her head in dismay. She had spent twenty pence that morning on a Daily Mirror and Bob Geldof was front-page news. ‘Well, according to my paper Mr Geldof was a citizen of the Irish Republic and his efforts were on behalf of people outside the Queen’s influence.’

  Pat read on. ‘And David Steel the Liberal leader said he had ruffled too many feathers.’

  Vera said nothing. She merely smiled as she served our milky coffee. After all, when it comes to entertainers, what’s Bob Geldof compared to the lovely, clean-cut Bruce Forsyth? she thought.

  She looked up. ‘And how is John?’ she asked. ‘Still enjoying his DIY?’

  Anne sighed deeply. ‘Well, at Christmas he finally decided to embrace the eighties.’ She rummaged in her shoulder bag and took out a newspaper cutting. It was a large advertisement that read: ‘Amstrad VHS Video £299.90 – instant recording at the touch of a button’.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ I said.

  ‘And you’ll be able to watch Starsky & Hutch again and again,’ said Sally with a mischievous grin.

  Anne blushed. The thought of David Soul had that effect on her. ‘Yes, perhaps,’ she said cautiously. She was recalling the last telephone call from Edward Clifton. He had been very persuasive.

  After morning break Pat Brookside was in the hall watching a BBC science programme with her class. I helped her wheel away the television at the end of the lesson. ‘Isn’t it exciting? What an opportunity for a teacher. I would love to be Christa McAuliffe,’ she said.

  The thirty-seven-year-old mother of two had been selected from over ten thousand entries in the NASA Teacher in Space Project and was set to become the first member of the public in space. Later in the month she was due to join six other astronauts in the Space Shu
ttle Challenger.

  Back on terra firma, across the road in Diane’s Hair Salon, Betty Buttle had decided she wanted a new hairstyle for 1986.

  ‘Ah want t’look like Linda Evans,’ she said.

  Diane looked in the mirror at Betty’s haystack of hair. It looked as though she had been dragged through a hedge backwards. ‘Y’mean ’er in Dynasty wi’ t’big shoulders?’

  ‘No, not ’er,’ said Betty. ‘It’s that Linda what sells second-’and books in Easington market. She said she came in ’ere before Christmas to ’ave ’er roots done. It looked like ’er what jumps out of a ’elicopter in a jumpsuit that shows off ’er bum.’

  ‘Anneka Rice?’

  ‘That’s ’er.’

  Diane turned to check her shelf of hairspray. Hair-dressing was evolving and it was becoming difficult to keep up.

  After lunch I was in the office. The telephone rang and I picked up the receiver. ‘Ragley School,’ I said.

  ‘Jack, it’s Jim Fairbank here from the college.’

  ‘Jim … a happy New Year,’ I replied. ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks, and best wishes to you for eighty-six.’

  ‘So, what can I do to help?’ I asked.

  There was a riffle of papers. ‘I’m trying to complete the timetable for the temporary tutor we need for the coming term. The students are back this week.’

  ‘Well, you know I’ll help if I can,’ I said.

  ‘Could you do Tuesday afternoons commencing the twenty-first of this month?’

  I looked in my diary. ‘Yes, that should be fine.’

  ‘Speaking of governors,’ Jim said, ‘I’m aware of the situation at Morton School.’

  ‘Are you?’ I wondered how much he knew. Jim had many influential friends.

  ‘Yes, I know the chair at Morton, Wilfred Bones. We sit on various committees.’ There was a pause as he seemed to be searching for the right words. ‘So … beware. He is a tough negotiator. He told me the governors at Morton consider the school’s closure to be the death of the village.’

  ‘Rather extreme,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Jack, but feelings are running high. In the meantime, do call in if you want to discuss the course further, but you’ve got the syllabus.’

  ‘I’ll be well prepared,’ I assured him.

  ‘I know you will … and thank you once again.’

  At 3.45 p.m. the bell rang for the end of school and, when I walked through the cloakroom area, Jemima Poole and Rosie Appleby smiled up at me as they put on their winter coats.

  ‘Me an’ Rosie are ’avin’ tea at our ’ouse, Mr Sheffield, an’ we’re watchin’ telly,’ said Jemima.

  ‘What will you be watching?’ I asked.

  ‘Roland Rat,’ she said, ‘an’ ’e’s moved.’

  ‘Moved?’ I didn’t follow.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ confirmed Rosie. ‘Roland’s on BBC now.’

  The fact that Britain’s favourite rat had defected to the BBC had passed me by and, once again, I became privy to the secret world of childhood where puppets were more important than politicians.

  Billy Ricketts had put on his coat and scarf and was clutching a tall plastic model that looked like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

  ‘It’s Godzilla, Mr Sheffield, an’ ’e can roar right loud,’ said Billy.

  He proceeded to make a passable imitation of a meat-eating dinosaur at the top of his voice and Pat, looking flustered, appeared. ‘What’s that noise?’ she asked.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘my fault. It’s Godzilla.’

  ‘I’ll be glad when Godzilla becomes extinct,’ whispered Pat.

  ‘An’ ah got Blaster, Inferno an’ Skids, Mr Sheffield,’ continued the enthusiastic Billy.

  I had no idea what he was talking about and he ran off.

  ‘They’re Transformers, Jack,’ explained Pat. ‘I’ve heard nothing else from him all day.’

  ‘Transformers?’

  Pat grinned. ‘You’ve obviously never met Optimus Prime,’ and she hurried back to her classroom.

  I realized that Pat and her infant children lived in a different world to me. In my class Barry Ollerenshaw and Ryan Halfpenny had received BMX bikes for Christmas and these I understood.

  It was six o’clock and the school was quiet, so I decided to telephone Beth. She picked up on the first ring.

  ‘How has it gone?’ I asked.

  ‘Hang on a moment.’ There was a clunk as the receiver was placed on her desk and I heard her footsteps, followed by the closing of a door. ‘That’s better,’ she said. ‘I can talk now. I’m operating an open-door policy, so most of the staff have called in at the end of the day to share a concern or a proposal for developing the curriculum … Busy, but satisfying.’

  ‘So no problems?’

  There was a pause. ‘Well … I’ll need to work on the head of the infants department. She’s clearly resistant to change and keeps mentioning she’s had ten years’ more experience.’

  ‘Will it become an issue?’

  ‘Definitely not, Jack,’ said Beth firmly. ‘At the moment I’m just choosing my battles.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, recognizing the determination in her voice. Almost imperceptibly, a subtle shift had taken place.

  ‘Anyway, why don’t you treat yourself to a meal in The Oak on your way home and I’ll pick up a takeaway? I’ll be late. Also, I’ve spoken to my mother. John is fine and she sends her love. She knew late nights would be the order of the day for us.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Good to hear. See you later.’

  I replaced the receiver and leaned back in my creaking, leather-covered wooden chair. Then I stared across the room at the neat rows of framed school photographs on the office wall and reflected on changing times.

  ‘Love can move mountains,’ Vera had once said to me. It appeared the foundation of our marriage was changing; the tectonic plates had moved.

  Then I filled my fountain pen with Quink ink and shivered. Above my head, a mosaic of frost patterns etched the windows of the school office in their Victorian casements.

  I took the school logbook from my bottom drawer, opened it to the next clean page and wrote the date, Monday, 6 January. The record for 1986 in the history of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School had begun.

  It was after seven o’clock when I walked across the frozen village green towards The Royal Oak. The cold was intense. The grass beneath my feet crunched like brittle shards of glass and the water in the pond was iron.

  The blast of hot air in the bar area was welcome. Aled Jones was on the juke-box singing ‘Walking In The Air’ but no one seemed to be listening.

  In a haze of Old Holborn tobacco Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his favourite stool by the bar below the signed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott.

  ‘Good evening, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

  ‘Stop blowing smoke over Mr Sheffield,’ ordered Sheila from the other side of the bar.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Old Tommy. ‘Ah used t’smoke Player’s Navy Cut, untipped – proper fags – but now ah’m a pipe man, y’can’t beat it.’ He took the pipe from his lips and rested it in the Tetley’s ashtray.

  ‘Would you like a drink, Mr Piercy?’

  ‘Is t’Pope Catholic?’ said Sheila. She was wearing a skintight crimson blouse with most of the top buttons undone. The finest cleavage in North Yorkshire was there for all to see.

  ‘Two pints of Chestnut, please, Sheila,’ I said, ‘and something hot to eat.’

  ‘Special tonight is steak an’ kidney pie wi’ mash,’ said Sheila as she hand-pulled the pints.

  ‘That sounds fine to me,’ I said, taking out my wallet.

  The television was flickering above the tap-room bar. The newsreader seemed in good spirits as he announced that Britain was in third place in the World Happiness League. ‘We are four times as happy as the West Germans,’ he added.

  ‘An’ so we bloody should be,’ said Old Tommy as he supped on his ale.

 
‘’E’s a reight Job’s comforter, is Tommy,’ said Sheila.

  Deke Ramsbottom approached the bar. The news-reader had moved on to the sports news. ‘Ah see Man U are top again,’ said Deke. Manchester United had increased their lead at the top of the First Division by beating Burnley 1–0.

  Old Tommy, a curmudgeonly Yorkshireman, scowled and changed the subject. He looked up at Deke. ‘Ah ’eard young Duggie ’as tekken up wi’ that Tina from Thirkby.’ Following the death of Ronnie Smith, Deke had taken Duggie under his wing.

  ‘Yes, ’e ’as,’ said Deke.

  It was well known in the village that Tina had a reputation. She could be found every Friday night in the summer leaning against the picket fence that surrounded the Ragley cricket pitch with the intention of meeting a different young man each week.

  ‘She’s flattened some grass in ’er time ’as that one,’ said Old Tommy knowingly. As he mowed the square on the cricket field, Tina’s summertime trysts with all the young bucks in the village had become a familiar sight. He had personally witnessed her enjoying very vocal sexual encounters with two opening batsmen, three fast bowlers and a wicket keeper, not to mention the occasional umpire.

  ‘Ah ’eard she puts it abart a bit,’ said Don from behind the bar.

  ‘Y’reight there, Don,’ said Old Tommy. ‘She’s insatiated.’

  It was almost ten o’clock when I finally drove home. By coincidence, Bob Dylan was singing ‘The Times They Are a-Changin” on the car radio and I sang along.

  It seemed apt.

  Chapter Ten

  Through a Glass Darkly

  The headteacher will be visiting the college in York to deliver a series of lectures on curriculum development and classroom organization on Tuesday afternoons this term. Arrangements have been made for Miss Flint to provide supply cover in Class 4 and this has been confirmed with the school governors and County Hall.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 20 January 1986

  It was Monday, 20 January and the stillness of winter lay heavy on the countryside. A cruel frost had arrived and the dormant trees shivered in the bitter wind. Vera was staring thoughtfully out of the office window and I stood beside her. We looked out on a world of frozen hedgerows and a spectral sky. On the high moors the temperature had dropped to minus twelve degrees and grey clouds that promised more snow rolled towards us over the Hambleton hills.