Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  Stan Coe wouldn’t know innuendo from a bacon sandwich and looked puzzled. His sister came to the rescue and jumped to her feet. She gave a murderous look towards Vera and her double chin wobbled with every syllable. ‘We all know Mrs ’igh-an’-mighty wants t’keep ’er job an’ that’s why she’s supportin’ Mr Sheffield.’

  The Major raised his hand and waited patiently for Richard to give him the floor. He stood up and in a strong, steady voice, as if he were addressing his troops, he said, ‘Good evening, everybody, and thank you to Mr Gomersall and the education authority for providing the opportunity for this meeting.’

  He stepped from behind his seat into the aisle and paused while he looked at Stan Coe with eyes of cold ice. ‘This is not a forum for personal attacks and I have no intention of descending to that level.’ Then he smiled and studied the faces around him. ‘We are in fact of one accord – the best for the next generation of children from our two villages. Decisions on the leadership are for another day and will be taken by the proper authorities. What is important now is to ensure the children of Morton are safe and secure in their new school and that County Hall provide the necessary resources to give them an excellent education. I have every confidence that will happen.’

  It was at this moment that Vera realized she had little to worry about regarding Rupert’s state of mind. The meeting ended after a measured summing-up by Richard Gomersall and we all left the hall with plenty to think about.

  On Saturday morning Beth and I drove into York, with John nodding his head in time to Cliff Richard and the Young Ones singing ‘Living Doll’ on the car radio. Beth looked in dismay at my old sports jacket. ‘It’ll have to go, Jack. It really has seen better days.’

  It was like saying goodbye to an old friend.

  ‘But there’s still plenty of wear left in it.’

  Beth looked up at me sympathetically. ‘Perhaps in the garden,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I suppose it would keep me warm,’ I acknowledged.

  Beth smiled. ‘Actually, I meant we could put it on a scarecrow.’

  We parked in the centre of York and walked to a department store. ‘You need a nice, lightweight, comfortable suit that you can wear for school and college,’ decreed Beth once we were inside. ‘It’s time to move on.’

  My colour blindness did not help the process of selection as we picked out a few of the suits.

  Beth looked at me quizzically. ‘Jack, what colour is this?’

  ‘Grey,’ I said.

  ‘And what about this?’

  ‘Light grey … or possibly blue.’

  In the end we selected a smart grey three-piece suit and, unexpectedly, some casual clothing. I emerged from the changing room wearing a blue jacket, cotton trousers in pacific blue and a patterned sweater.

  ‘Perfect!’ said Beth. ‘At long last, an eighties man.’

  ‘Really?’ I said. ‘I thought I was fine.’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, Jack, when we first met I thought you were a lovely man but a bit, well … dull.’

  ‘Dull?’

  ‘Yes – but of course I mean your clothing, not you. It just wasn’t all that exciting.’

  ‘I see. So why did you say yes … why me?’

  She smiled. ‘Because I fell in love with you and not what you wear.’

  ‘And I love you … always have, always will.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘But it’s not about what I want you to wear, because you need to feel comfortable in your own skin.’

  ‘I really do want to get a bit more up to date,’ I admitted. Above me on the wall by the changing room was a huge poster and I smiled. ‘A bit like him.’ It was Don Johnson in Miami Vice. ‘Seriously, though … last night’s meeting convinced me of that. Rufus Timmings would be impressive in an interview.’

  I looked at my reflection. It wasn’t exactly a beautiful butterfly that had emerged from the cocoon of my life – it was just a new man!

  Perhaps I had looked inward for too long.

  I had finally stepped outside the boundaries of my life. I had been a shuttered lamp for too long … it was time to move on.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Stratford Conference

  School reopened today for the summer term with 101 children on roll. During the Easter holiday Mr Sheffield attended the headteachers’ conference in Stratford-upon-Avon on 5–6 April.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 7 April 1986

  It was twilight on Friday, 4 April as Beth and I drove through the Warwickshire countryside. The National Headteachers’ Conference in Stratford-upon-Avon was taking place the following day and, little though we knew it then, an eventful weekend was in store.

  During the Easter holiday we had spent a few days with Beth’s parents at Austen Cottage in Hampshire and had left our son in their safekeeping. My father-in-law, John Henderson, had been his usual relaxed self, but Diane was still clearly irritated that her daughters appeared to prefer to be far from the family home. Beth had chosen to seek a larger headship in Yorkshire while her younger sister, Laura, was leading a helter-skelter life in Australia, where she was taking the Sydney fashion scene by storm and enjoying a string of wealthy boyfriends.

  According to the programme, the conference was due to begin at 9.00 a.m. on Saturday and conclude with a plenary session in the late afternoon. There was to be an opening address by a Birmingham headteacher, followed by a series of five-minute presentations by various educationalists. After coffee we were due to divide into working parties to discuss the conference theme, ‘The Eighties Curriculum’. Beth, as a newly appointed headteacher, had been invited to lead one of these groups. Predictably it had been Miss Barrington-Huntley who had made the arrangements and an apprehensive Beth had agreed.

  ‘Tired?’ I asked quietly.

  Beth was staring through the windscreen of my Morris Minor Traveller. ‘A little … but excited as well.’

  Ahead was the busy market town of Stratford-upon-Avon, birthplace of William Shakespeare and home of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre. We passed a huge poster advertising the grand opening on 8 May of the new Swan Theatre and finally reached our destination. Situated between the Bridgeway and the River Avon was the impressive Moat House Hotel, previously the Stratford Hilton but now transformed into a thriving centre for business meetings. The reception area was busy when we checked in. There were over two hundred bedrooms and, at first impression, it appeared most of them were occupied by conference delegates and American tourists.

  After our evening meal we were keen to settle into our room for a good night’s sleep. We loved our son but, somewhat guiltily, we both agreed that a little precious time to ourselves was always welcome.

  As we left the dining room we heard a familiar voice. ‘Hello there, you two – so pleased you have made it.’ It was Miss Barrington-Huntley, resplendent in a sparkling purple dress, and looking very much the lady of the manor. ‘And how are you both and your little boy?’

  Beth explained we had left John with her parents and they were due to drive up to the hotel on Sunday morning to return him to us and have a family lunch together.

  ‘Delightful,’ she said. ‘It’s important to have support in your busy lives.’ She waved the programme in Beth’s direction. ‘I’m sure you will be fine leading your group, and do remember that you will be expected to provide a succinct feedback. All the flipchart summaries will be displayed in the conference room prior to the afternoon session so that delegates can evaluate the findings of each group.’

  ‘Yes, I understand,’ said Beth confidently.

  Miss Barrington-Huntley smiled at her and nodded in acknowledgement to me before hurrying away.

  ‘You’re definitely her blue-eyed girl,’ I said.

  Beth grinned and blinked her green eyes. ‘Incongruous, Jack … but I know what you mean.’ She held my hand. ‘Now, Mr Sheffield,’ she whispered in my ear, ‘we’re alone at last without John clambering into our bed at
some ungodly hour.’

  The message was clear.

  We kissed when we reached our room. Our love had always been one of ice and fire and I had learned to understand this beautiful woman. It was time to relax together.

  On Saturday morning I slipped quietly out of bed and padded barefoot across the bedroom. When I pulled back the curtain the first light of a pale sun gilded the rooftops of Stratford and the sights and sounds of this remarkable place filled my thoughts. Beth was still asleep and I stood there while the sibilant sounds of her breathing brought comfort to my soul. Under the feather duvet she was naked. We had made love long into the night, and I gave secret thanks to Beth’s parents for looking after our son and also to Miss Barrington-Huntley for persuading Beth to take part in the conference. I crept back into bed and snuggled up to her once again.

  ‘Oh, Jack!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your feet are freezing.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, passion rapidly subsiding. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes please,’ she murmured, but before the kettle had boiled she had fallen asleep again.

  I made the tea anyway and sipped contentedly as I considered the day ahead. We had a treat in store after the conference. I had booked two seats at the Royal Shakespeare Theatre for a production of Romeo and Juliet and I settled back to read a synopsis of the familiar plot of the starstruck lovers.

  Shortly after seven o’clock Beth slipped into the tiny shower and my attempts to join her proved fruitless, so I sat on the edge of the bed, switched on the television and watched the Open University. Advanced calculus was interesting but not as stimulating as sharing a shower with a very desirable woman.

  An hour later over breakfast Beth was busy making last-minute notes in preparation for her workshop. I picked up a copy of the Stratford-upon-Avon Herald that had been discarded on a coffee table outside the dining room. I soon discovered that you definitely got your eighteen pence worth from this local newspaper. ‘Where Is Society Going?’ blared the headline. The editor was concerned that Good Friday had not been observed appropriately. Supermarkets had opened their doors and it had been business as usual for the local factories. Environmental issues were also to the fore. The pupils of Stratford-upon-Avon Grammar School for Girls were making a case for a bottle bank to recycle glass following a recent survey they had carried out. Meanwhile, on the property page, I sighed when I saw the price of a beautiful semi-detached cottage. It would have been perfect for Beth, John and myself, but I guessed the price of £37,950 was way beyond our means.

  I flipped through the pages to the Arts section for a review of Romeo and Juliet and found it under a lively article about apartheid protestors wanting South Africa banned from the forthcoming Shakespeare birthday celebrations. It was a mixed review. The theatre critic had not pulled any punches in his article, ‘Excess and Incongruity in Romeo and Juliet’. While Sean Bean and Niamh Cusack in the title roles received praise, he considered that theatregoers would be either appalled or merely intrigued by a production that drew telling parallels between contemporary society and Shakespeare’s Verona.

  Beth had closed her notebook. ‘Come on, Jack,’ she said, glancing at her wristwatch, ‘time to go.’

  There was a crescendo of voices as over two hundred delegates filled the huge lecture hall and Beth and I found seats near the back. On the stroke of nine the conference began with a powerful speech from the Birmingham headteacher. He described the current educational scene and seemed to think that the time in office for Sir Keith Joseph, Secretary of State for Education, was drawing to a close and that a minister such as Kenneth Baker, one of Thatcher’s favourites, would eventually take over. I wondered about his source of information. The emphasis throughout was on headteachers being prepared for a changing world and the Prime Minister’s recurring theme of ‘value for money’. The world of education in the eighties was changing fast.

  After less than enthusiastic applause, he introduced the next item: six short presentations by colleagues whom he described as the next generation of leaders. They included young deputy headteachers and a couple of recently appointed heads. He looked down at his list. ‘Please welcome our first speaker, who is the headteacher of a small village school in North Yorkshire … Mr Rufus Timmings.’

  There was a gasp from Beth. ‘Why didn’t Miss B-H mention this?’ she whispered.

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t know,’ I said, though I found it hard to believe.

  ‘This will be a feather in his cap,’ said Beth ominously. She sat back and looked troubled. ‘Jack … you need to keep an eye on him.’

  Rufus walked confidently to the lectern, immaculate as ever in his three-piece suit. He scanned the audience with his blunt, round face, bright-red cheeks and grey fathomless eyes, behind which brooded an alert intelligence.

  ‘My paper is entitled “Meeting the Challenge” and copies are available,’ he said clearly into the microphone. Like a well-rehearsed politician, the words flowed right through to his big finish. ‘Change is unsettling,’ he told us in a patronizing manner, ‘and it is natural to resist it – but change can also be enabling. We need to recognize it as a tool for improvement.’ He looked up at his audience. ‘Do remember that our world of education is governed by a limited budget, necessarily so in times of austerity, but if we embrace the new opportunities we can make more from less.’

  There was a muttering of discontent from those around me.

  Then he turned to the senior advisers and education officers on the front row. ‘Finally, colleagues … we need to rationalize to survive.’

  The polite applause was muted from the headteachers but distinctly enthusiastic from the senior figures at the front.

  The speakers that followed ranged from a young woman who was proud to be teaching small children in a tough area of Newcastle to a deputy head from a large school in leafy Surrey where a city banker had joined the governing body and was transforming the school’s finances. The contrast was considerable and made me appreciate my good fortune in teaching in Ragley village.

  Over a welcome cup of coffee Beth and I were joined by two female headteachers from Nelson in Lancashire and we discussed the contributions so far.

  ‘I rated the Newcastle head,’ said one of them, ‘but she’s got her work cut out.’

  ‘There were some terrific ideas for parental involvement,’ said the other.

  Suddenly Rufus Timmings was by our side and looking at Beth. ‘I’m in your group after coffee,’ he announced, ‘and I’m happy to volunteer to compile our findings on the flipchart.’ He pulled out a large felt pen from his pocket. ‘I’m well prepared,’ he added and strutted off to engage one of the senior advisers in conversation.

  ‘Do you know him?’ asked one of the ladies from Lancashire.

  ‘He works in our area,’ I said.

  ‘Hard luck,’ she said pointedly, as a bell rang and we hurried off to our seminar groups.

  Beth didn’t look particularly pleased when we met up again for a buffet lunch.

  ‘He was insufferable, Jack,’ she said. ‘Way too full of his own importance.’

  ‘He must walk around with a prepared presentation in his pocket,’ I said.

  ‘According to Miss B-H, he stepped in at the last moment,’ she added, ‘but don’t worry – we’ve got his measure.’

  I smiled. Beth was exhibiting that familiar combination of steely determination and silky tenderness that I knew so well.

  The afternoon session went smoothly. We split into working parties and I learned much from colleagues employed in a wide variety of local authorities.

  Then it was back to the lecture hall for the plenary session. A junior minister from the Department of Education delivered a carefully worded lecture on a curriculum appropriate for mixed-age classes. Once again, the emphasis was on making effective use of the new technology. ‘Can a two-teacher school be justified on educational grounds?’ he asked. He quoted examples of previous amalgamations
with average savings estimated at £3,900. He was unconvincing and appeared removed from reality.

  ‘Another twit from Eton,’ grumbled a Lincolnshire headteacher in the row behind. ‘He wants to spend a week in my school.’

  However, the conference ended on a positive note when the Birmingham headteacher reappeared and gave a superb motivational speech that included a few pointed barbs aimed at the government minister.

  As we left, Beth nudged me and nodded towards the stage. I saw Rufus chatting with the minister as if they were old friends.

  Back at the hotel we telephoned Beth’s parents and enjoyed a conversation with young John. He was beginning to form clear sentences now, even though past tenses were still to be acquired. ‘I eated ice cream, Daddy, and feeded ducks,’ he said. He seemed happy and content.

  Later, while we changed to go out, the television flickered with the sound turned down – the usual Saturday early-evening entertainment of The Muppet Show and The Dukes of Hazzard. We wrapped up warm on this cold evening for the short walk to one of the pubs near the theatre. It was full of American tourists and, from the chatter around us, most of them appeared determined to enjoy a taste of Olde England.

  The entrance to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre was thronged with people and we queued next to a large poster advertising the forthcoming production of The Winter’s Tale with Jeremy Irons as Leontes. I marvelled at this wonderful place, and at the astonishing legacy of the world’s greatest playwright who had been born and died in this little market town. I felt privileged to be here.

  We had reserved seats in the dress circle for this opening production of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s Stratford season and soon we settled down to one of Shakespeare’s most famous plays. The set for Romeo and Juliet was not what I expected, consisting of severe vertical structures similar to the high-rise concrete of modern cities. It was a struggle to imagine there could be ‘a grove of sycamores’ nearby. Motorbikes and lively music were in evidence along with the substitution of flick knives for swords, and I wondered what the Bard would have made of it. The highlight for Beth was, predictably, Sean Bean’s handsome Yorkshire Romeo, who seemed to capture the excesses of a young lover. However, for me it was Michael Kitchen’s Mercutio that stole the show.