Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘A bleak day, Vera,’ I said quietly.

  Vera was clearly preoccupied and sighed deeply. ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ she murmured.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked.

  We looked out to where groups of children were playing in the snow. There were loud shouts, snowball fights, and Damian Brown and Frankie Spraggon had begun to build an igloo. Two rosy-cheeked seven-year-olds, Rosie Spittlehouse and Becky Shawcross, were rolling huge snowballs. However, watching them from a distance and standing alone was a tall eight-year-old girl with a patterned bobble hat, a fleece jacket, red mittens, blue jeans and bright-green wellington boots. She was well dressed for this bitterly cold day but, even so, she appeared to be shivering.

  ‘It’s the new girl, Katie Parrish,’ said Vera. ‘I’m worried about her.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked. ‘She seemed happy enough when she arrived.’

  Vera was always very perceptive where the children were concerned. She knew them all, including their family history. ‘She’s changed,’ she said simply.

  So it began … a week in the life of Ragley School that had an impact on us all.

  It was morning break when I saw Anne putting on her scarf and gloves in the entrance hall.

  ‘Everything all right?’ she asked. ‘I know that look.’

  ‘There’s some concern about Katie Parrish,’ I said, ‘so I’ll get an update from Sally.’

  ‘I’ll look out for her during break,’ she said and walked out into the bitter cold, shivered, then smiled at the sight of children who appeared entirely unaware that the temperature on the playground was minus five degrees.

  Vera was serving coffee in the staff-room while the rest of us sat down in our usual chairs.

  ‘I thought we could discuss Katie Parrish at lunchtime,’ I suggested. ‘Vera has picked up a few concerns.’

  ‘Yes, she’s a really bright girl, but she’s been a bit down recently,’ said Sally quietly, ‘and she clams up when I enquire.’

  ‘Why don’t I sit with her during school dinner,’ offered Pat, ‘and see what I can find out? She might talk to a fresh face.’

  ‘Thanks, Pat,’ I said.

  The conversation ebbed to and fro, but eventually we moved on. There were children to teach.

  At twelve o’clock I called into Sally’s classroom as Ryan Halfpenny unwound the rope from the metal cleat on the wall of the bell tower and rang the bell for our lunch-break.

  ‘Sally, could you bring some examples of Katie Parrish’s work to the staff-room after lunch so we can look at them while we talk?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, that’s fine,’ said Sally, ‘I’ll see you there,’ and she walked over to one of the eighteen-drawer mobile-storage units, removed Katie’s grey plastic tray, collected her mathematics and English books and put them on her desk.

  During lunch the children lined up while Shirley and Doreen served up a hot meal of cottage pie followed by rhubarb and custard. It was welcome on a cold day and while the children ate they kept peering out of the windows, full of excitement, as snow began to fall again.

  After lunch Pat and I stood by the door as they all filed out. I looked at Katie Parrish. She appeared to be in a little world of her own as she collected her coat and wellingtons from the cloakroom area. There was no eagerness to follow the others as they hurried outside to play in the snow.

  I headed for the staff-room. It was time to talk.

  We settled down, Vera served tea and Sally took the lead. There was an unwritten procedure for this. We had done it many times before; however, it was relatively new to Pat and I saw her lean forward in her chair. It was important to exchange information and, on occasions, it could be vital for the welfare of our children.

  ‘As you know, Katie arrived in my class at the beginning of term,’ said Sally. ‘I remember her first day so well. She was quiet and shy and her writing is wonderful. There’s no doubt she’s a bright, talented girl, but she’s been reluctant to communicate recently.’

  ‘Both her parents are lecturers,’ said Vera. ‘Her father works at York University and her mother is in the education department at the college. They live in rented accommodation on the Easington Road. My understanding is they want to settle in the area on a permanent basis.’

  ‘Well, I’m at the college tomorrow afternoon,’ I said. ‘I begin my teaching sessions there, so there may be an opportunity to have a quiet word with Mrs Parrish. Did you learn anything over lunch, Pat?’

  Pat reported back that during their lunchtime conversation Katie had said that her father appeared to have little time for her. Just as she was telling us this, Sally suddenly looked concerned.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. She was holding Katie’s writing book. ‘We were writing about things we like and dislike this morning and Katie went off on a tack of her own.’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Pat.

  Sally looked down at the small, neat lines of writing. ‘She’s written “My Daddy is always busy. He doesn’t love me any more”.’

  Everyone was quiet for a moment.

  ‘Do you want me to ring Mrs Parrish and ask her to call in?’ asked Sally.

  I pondered this for a moment. ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but let’s just monitor it for a while longer.’

  Everyone nodded in agreement. It was too early for alarm bells.

  Finally, as I walked back to my classroom, I thought how every school day is different and today was proving to be particularly challenging.

  At the end of school we said a simple prayer and the children put their chairs on the table tops prior to Ruby coming round with her mop and large broom. I noticed she was humming to herself. At one time we had enjoyed listening to her wonderful singing every day as she cleaned the classrooms, but since Ronnie’s death she had rarely sung and we missed it. At least this was a start.

  Barry Ollerenshaw appeared in a hurry to change from his indoor shoes into his wellington boots. He was tugging them on furiously as I walked into the cloakroom area.

  ‘Are you OK, Barry?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s Thunderbirds at half-past four, Mr Sheffield,’ he said breathlessly, ‘an’ ah never miss it.’

  The international space-rescue team in the year 2086 was dedicated to the service of mankind but also, of course, to the imagination of the children in my class.

  ‘Well, enjoy it, Barry,’ I called after him, ‘and tell me about it tomorrow.’

  ‘OK, sir,’ he shouted over his shoulder.

  Shortly after the end of school I noticed Katie Parrish was sitting in the library area with Vera.

  ‘We’re waiting for Katie’s father to arrive,’ said Vera.

  I looked at my wristwatch and crouched down next to Katie. ‘He may have been held up, so don’t worry.’

  She gave me a shy smile and turned back to reading Tom’s Midnight Garden.

  ‘Something may have cropped up at the university,’ added Vera.

  Fifteen minutes later Vera popped her head round the office door. ‘Still no sign,’ she said. ‘Do you want to sit with her while I make a couple of telephone calls?’

  I sat down next to Katie and a few minutes later Sally appeared from the hall with some large sheets of sugar paper. She gave me a knowing look. People who were late in collecting their children were an irritation, but we knew it happened from time to time and we took it in our stride. Life wasn’t easy for working parents.

  Sally put down the paper on the old pine table. ‘I’ll wait here with Katie,’ she said. ‘You need to get on.’

  I returned to the office, where Vera was replacing the receiver. ‘Mr Parrish can’t be contacted at the university. The secretary at the college says Mrs Parrish has been at a meeting in Ripon and may be driving back by now.’

  I looked up at the office clock. It was a quarter to five. ‘Let’s give it until five,’ I said.

  ‘Then I could drive Katie home and see if someone is there,’ offered Vera.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘and I’ll stay
here by the telephone.’

  At five o’clock Vera and Katie were about to walk out to the car park when bright headlights lit up the school drive. A large car slewed to a stop and Mr Parrish jumped out and ran up the entrance steps.

  ‘I was delayed,’ he said. He looked dishevelled and harassed. ‘I’m so sorry, Katie,’ he said as he scooped her up in his arms.

  ‘You were supposed to come,’ said Katie. ‘Mummy said she had a meeting.’

  ‘I know, darling … but I was busy.’

  They rushed out and drove home.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Vera and gave me that look I had come to know so well.

  I was lighting a fire when Beth arrived home. Natasha Smith had become our occasional childminder when Mrs Roberts had commitments in Hartingdale.

  There was no doubt that Natasha took after Ruby. Her love of children was clear for all to see and John adored her. Fortunately it had little effect on her part-time work at Diane’s Hair Salon and her increased income was welcomed by both Natasha and her mother. Also, George Dainty had volunteered to give her lifts to and from Kirkby Steepleton when required. It appeared to be a labour of love for George, while for our part it was a huge relief to have such reliable and caring support for our son.

  Finally, when John was in bed, Bilbo Cottage became a haven of peace and we sat by a roaring log fire. Beth worked late into the evening planning curriculum changes for her school while I marked the children’s books. This had become the pattern of our life during the winter months and it was good to be home.

  On The Crescent, however, in Anne Grainger’s home, the situation was different. The sound of loud banging shattered the peace. John was in the garage hammering nails into a rickety wooden construction that was intended to be a pair of saw horses. Ideal for sawing large planks, he thought.

  In the lounge, Anne winced with each hammer blow and turned up the sound on the television. It was 7.40 p.m. and she had tuned in to BBC1 for Starsky & Hutch, who were about to launch headlong into another adventure. Unfortunately the plot involved David Soul as Hutch eating contaminated soup that resulted in a case of life or death. As the noise in the garage reached a crescendo Anne wished there was some of the soup left for her DIY husband.

  On Tuesday I awoke very early and drove through the darkness into Ragley. It was a busy morning and it seemed strange when Miss Flint arrived and I had to say farewell to my class for the afternoon. As I drove down the A19 towards York the weather changed and it became a day of fitful sleet and scudding clouds. I was a little apprehensive as I considered the beginning of my work with adults rather than the children usually in my care. I had prepared a lecture on curriculum development, followed by a workshop on classroom organization, and I hoped it would go well.

  The first student had arrived at this college in 1841 and generations of teachers had passed through its doors and walked through the ancient halls. In the sixties, when I was a student, it was known as St John’s College, but in the mid-seventies it had merged with the other Anglican teacher-training college based in nearby Ripon, so now it was the College of Ripon and York St John. As I drove in through the college gate on Lord Mayor’s Walk, memories came flooding back.

  I called in at Jim Fairbank’s office and he glanced at his wristwatch. ‘You’re in good time, Jack, so perhaps you would like to join me in the refectory?’

  ‘Actually, Jim, I’ve eaten,’ I said, ‘but I was hoping to have a brief word with Mrs Parrish. Her daughter attends Ragley School.’

  A flicker of concern crossed his face. ‘Well Rebecca should be in there now.’

  The refectory was a huge room full of students, the crash of cutlery and loud chatter. It was busy and vibrant, and we joined Mrs Parrish at her table. In a brief conversation I explained that we had a few concerns regarding Katie and asked if she could meet with me in school. I avoided mentioning anything relating to what Katie had written about her father.

  ‘Yes, I could call in tomorrow morning on my way into college,’ she said. ‘It will probably be just me, I’m afraid. Simon has various commitments on Wednesdays.’

  In fact I thought it might be helpful to see her on her own. Katie’s feelings about her father seemed to be problematic and we needed to dig deeper.

  The lecture went better than I had hoped and the students were eager to learn. During the afternoon tea break, as I walked through the quadrangle, two of them approached me. One, a young man with a serious expression and an eager freckled face, called out, ‘Excuse me, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘Thanks for the lecture,’ said his long-haired friend. ‘It was really helpful.’

  ‘We have a problem and we wondered if you could help,’ said Freckles, ‘but it’s a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Well … it’s porridge.’

  ‘Porridge?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all we’ve got left. We’ve had nothing else to eat this week and we’ve no money for food.’

  ‘But haven’t you got a grant?’

  ‘Yes, but there’s nothing in our accounts yet.’

  ‘What about support from your families?’

  So it went on. I hadn’t expected to be dealing with pastoral issues on my first day, but this needed sorting out. I knew the location of the Bursar’s office and left them in his capable hands.

  Fifteen minutes later all seemed well as I began my classroom-management workshop with a slide-show of my classroom showing the pattern of the school day. I explained how to facilitate whole-class teaching, mixed-ability group work and the vital opportunities to hear individual children read. In the end I had surprised myself. This was a good experience and I felt comfortable in the new environment of higher education.

  By Wednesday morning reality had set in once again as I drove to Ragley village. The rhythm of the windscreen wipers was hypnotic. They swept away the berms of snow, but not my racing thoughts.

  Mrs Parrish was waiting for me in the entrance hall. ‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield, early start,’ she said and looked across to our library area. ‘I’ve got Katie with me. I hope you don’t mind, but I sat her in the library. Mrs Pringle said she would keep an eye on her.’

  There was love in her eyes when she looked at her daughter, but also something else … and I wasn’t sure what it was. We left Katie reading quietly while we went into the office.

  ‘We obviously want Katie to be happy here at Ragley,’ I said. ‘How has she been at home?’

  Mrs Parrish studied me for a moment with guarded eyes. ‘Generally fine,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Answer a question with a question, I thought.

  She was concerned when I showed her what Katie had written. For a few moments she didn’t speak and I could see her wrestling with her own thoughts, but then she said she would choose a moment to talk to Katie about how she was feeling and would keep a close eye on her at home. After that she relaxed and soon we were chatting easily as she opened up about their plans. ‘Simon and I sold our home in Stamford Bridge,’ she explained, ‘and we’re renting in Ragley. The intention is to buy one of the new Barratt homes on the development further up the Easington Road. It’s right on the boundary line between here and Easington School, but we would prefer Katie to come here.’

  She opened her leather shoulder bag and pulled out a cutting from the local paper. She had ringed the advertisement that read: ‘Detached 3/4 bedroom houses, £64,250. Luxury and elegance in a village setting’.

  ‘Yes, these are lovely homes,’ I said, ‘and convenient for your drive into college.’

  ‘Well, we certainly thought so … but Simon occasionally has other ideas.’

  There were unspoken words that echoed around the office.

  ‘I spoke to my husband this morning,’ she went on, ‘and if convenient he said he’ll call into school at twelve o’clock. He’s going in late today. Many of his doctorate students can’t come until later in the day.’ As she left she shook my hand. ‘Sincere thank
s for sharing your thoughts, Mr Sheffield, and I’m pleased this was brought to my attention.’

  As she turned towards the door I added, ‘And we managed to resolve the problem on Monday evening when your husband didn’t arrive to pick up Katie.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, it was five o’clock when he arrived and we were unable to contact either of you. I know you have busy professional lives, but if you could let us know in future we’ll always do our best to help.’

  There was a hint of a frown, but she recovered quickly. ‘Yes, of course.’

  On her way out she spoke briefly with Vera and Joseph in the entrance hall. They both came into the office, intrigued and thoughtful.

  ‘A perceptive lady,’ said Vera.

  ‘I agree,’ I said.

  ‘She was definitely troubled,’ said Joseph.

  Vera was thoughtful. ‘It was,’ she said, ‘as if she sees life through a glass darkly.’

  Joseph smiled and looked at me. ‘Corinthians,’ he said by way of explanation.

  ‘Chapter thirteen, verse twelve,’ retorted Vera in an instant.

  He squeezed her arm affectionately. ‘You always were better than me at our Bible studies.’

  ‘It’s familiar,’ I said, ‘but I can’t recall the context.’

  ‘“For now we see through a glass, darkly”,’ recited Joseph.

  ‘“But then face to face: now I know”,’ said Vera, completing the next line.

  Then I understood. Face-to-face meetings revealed so much, as I was to discover later in the day.

  Simon Parrish arrived half an hour late for our appointment. He pulled into the car park in a 1985 ‘C’ Saab 900i. With its distinctive cochineal-red metallic paintwork, it was certainly meant to stand out from the crowd.

  He oozed confidence as he removed his flowing black coat and draped it over the visitor’s chair. He was a tall, slim, handsome man with long, foppish brown hair, a baggy denim shirt, designer brown cords and highly polished brown leather brogues with the added affectation of steel toecaps.