Star Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  Terry stared at the row of sweet jars. The choice was considerable. He scanned the familiar labels, including Rhubarb and Custard Pips, Midget Gems, Coconut Mushrooms, Liquorice Comfits, Pontefract Cakes, Pear Drops and Chocolate Bonbons.

  ‘Perhaps you would like your favourite, Terry,’ suggested Prudence.

  Terry sighed and smiled in agreement. There was just something special about Sherbet Lemons. ‘OK, Miss Golightly, ten pence worth o’ Sherbet Lemons in two bags, please.’

  Prudence measured them out with care on her ancient weighing scale and, as always, added one sweet in each bag for good luck and because Terry had remembered to say ‘please’.

  Terry passed over his precious coin and Prudence bent down below the counter to the Penny Selection tray. ‘Jeremy says here’s a barley sugar stick for being such a polite boy.’

  Terry accepted this with the reverence with which the folk of Ragley acknowledged this familiar teddy bear. ‘Thanks, Jeremy,’ he said, a little sheepishly.

  Prudence glanced up at Jeremy Bear and tenderly made a small adjustment to his smart blue RAF uniform – a labour of love that had taken many evenings of work. ‘He says you’re very welcome.’

  Meanwhile, in Pratt’s Hardware Emporium Timothy was unpacking a cardboard box with great satisfaction. His long-awaited order for various sizes of dome-headed screws had finally arrived and he knew his dear friend Walter, the model-plane enthusiast, would be thrilled, as would the members of the Ragley Shed Society.

  The bell rang and he saw Heathcliffe Earnshaw hesitating by the door.

  ‘Don’t forget t’wipe your feet,’ said Timothy. ‘Remember, cleanliness is next to godliness.’

  Heathcliffe Earnshaw thought if that was the case then Tidy Tim would already be halfway to heaven, because the Emporium was spotless.

  Heathcliffe wiped his feet on the cork mat. ‘’Ello, Mr Pratt,’ he said. ‘Is there anything ah can do to ’elp?’ He gave Timothy his famous fixed smile, the one that his Aunty Maureen told him if he did it too often his face would stay like that. ‘Me an’ m’brother can turn our ’ands t’most jobs,’ he continued, with glassy-eyed humility.

  ‘It’s not Bob-a-Job week, is it?’ asked Timothy.

  ‘No, it’s jus’ that we need some bits o’ timber an’ mebbe chicken wire for our scarecrow,’ explained Heathcliffe, ‘an’ we thought if we did summat f’you then y’might be able t’give us some.’

  The penny dropped and Timothy smiled. It was good to hear of young folk getting involved in the community.

  At that moment the doorbell jingled and Mrs Trickle-bank walked in with her daughter Julie.

  ‘Ah need some batteries, please, Timothy,’ said Mrs Tricklebank.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Timothy and he pulled out the drawer labelled ‘Batteries’. As all the drawers were labelled in alphabetical order, this was achieved in seconds. While Mrs Tricklebank rummaged around in the drawer, much to Timothy’s disquiet, he leaned over the counter. ‘Ah were sorry to ’ear about your cat, Julie.’

  Julie Tricklebank’s cat had been knocked down by the milk float.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Pratt,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ continued Timothy quietly. ‘Your cat is sleeping now.’

  Heathcliffe had seen the unfortunate outcome. ‘Sleep-in’?’ he said, looking surprised. ‘Ah saw ’im this morning an’ ’e looked stone dead t’me.’

  Sensitivity isn’t what it used to be, thought Timothy as Mrs Tricklebank gave Heathcliffe a cold stare, paid for her batteries and walked out.

  A few minutes later Heathcliffe left with some offcuts of timber plus a roll of chicken wire and a borrowed pair of wire cutters. He joined his brother and they set up a base for scarecrow construction next to Ronnie’s bench on the village green.

  In Nora’s Coffee Shop, Anne, Sally and Pat found a table while I collected a tray of four frothy coffees from Nora.

  Teenagers Claire Bradshaw, Anita Cuthbertson and Kenny Kershaw were sitting at a corner table listening to the cast of Grange Hill singing ‘Just Say No’ on the old juke-box.

  ‘’Ello, sir, ’ave y’made a scarecrow?’ asked Claire cheerfully. She was going through her Madonna phase in a tubular dress, bolero-style jacket and fingerless lace gloves.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Claire,’ I said. ‘And how are you all?’

  ‘Fine, thanks, sir,’ said Anita, whose dress sense was slightly more relaxed. She had ripped a larger neckhole in her grey sweatshirt so it revealed a bare shoulder à la Jennifer Beals in Flashdance. A pair of Footloose leg warmers over her tight jeans completed the ensemble.

  ‘We’re ’elpin’ Mr Piercy wi’ ’is ’og roast, Mr Sheffield,’ said Kenny, who thought he looked the most fashionable man in Ragley with his new hairstyle, short at the front and sides and long at the back. He was sporting a bright-pink T-shirt, cheap baggy jacket with the sleeves rolled up, jeans and espadrilles, plus a few days of beard growth.

  Claire and Anita waved at Anne and Sally. ‘We’re lookin’ forward to t’maypole dancing,’ said Claire.

  ‘Remember when we did it, Miss?’ said Anita. ‘We were brill’.’

  Margery Ackroyd and Betty Buttle were standing across the road from the village hall watching Vera and the ladies of the Women’s Institute putting the finishing touches to their so-called scarecrow. It looked as though it should have been in Madame Tussauds in London. The elegant mannequin had been carefully dressed in the style of Emmeline Pankhurst, the famous suffragette.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Vera as the ladies secured their masterpiece with stout wire to the cherry tree outside the entrance to the village hall.

  ‘Bit posh for a scarecrow,’ opined Margery. ‘Ah don’t know what t’judge’ll mek o’ it.’

  ‘That’s nowt,’ said Betty. ‘Ah ’eard that Deirdre Coe got ’er Stanley to ’ire a proper costume for ’er scarecrow.’

  ‘Ah’m not surprised,’ said Margery, ‘an’ y’know me, Betty, ah never speak ill of nobody … but that Deirdre Coe is crooked as a corkscrew.’

  ‘Y’reight there,’ said Betty.

  The choice of judge for the competition was remarkably obvious.

  For the past thirty years ‘One Eye’ Clarence Drinkwater, an eccentric and bumbling local character, had erected a variety of scarecrows as a labour of love in Twenty Acre Field. He was proud of his creations, and the fact that they seemed to attract the local bird population rather than deter them did not dampen his enthusiasm. Stuffed with straw and with happy smiles on their varnished papier-mâché faces, along with colourful scarves and a variety of flat caps and sun hats, they had a distinctive style of their own.

  The fact that Clarence dressed in a similar fashion to his scarecrows added a certain joie de vivre to his persona. Unfortunately, his habit of tucking his baggy shirts into his equally voluminous underpants, visible at the waistline, tended to take the edge off his appearance.

  Back in 1956, on the day that Premium Bonds were introduced, a high wind blew down a scarecrow Clarence was in the process of erecting and it poked him in the eye with a birch-twig finger. However, this did not deter him from his weekday job of repairing shoes and ladies’ handbags. As a self-employed, and now one-eyed, cobbler, it left his weekends free to indulge in the love of his life: namely, the pursuit of the perfect scarecrow. Consequently, when he was approached by Elsie Crapper in her role as the Women’s Institute social secretary to be the judge of this novel competition, he was in scarecrow heaven.

  Elsie chose to ignore the rest of the social committee when it was suggested that Clarence had been promoted beyond his final level of incompetence. After all, Elsie was a Christian soul and always thought kindly of her fellow man, even though Clarence had recently ruined her best pair of leather boots along with her favourite sandals. So when Sunday evening came around, Clarence laid out his brightest shirt and his cleanest pair of Y-fronts before going to bed.

  On Monday, 5 May the overnight gentle rain had cleared to leave a new day
of bright sunshine. A thrush on the roof of my garden shed trilled a song of spring, while the swallows had returned to their familiar nesting places in the eaves of Bilbo Cottage. Almond trees were in blossom and the first flower stalks on the horse chestnut trees gave promise of the summer days ahead. Grape hyacinths bordered the path and the tight buds on the apple trees were about to burst from their winter cocoons.

  It was May Day, and an eventful one was in store.

  When Beth and I drove into school we stopped by the gate in surprise.

  ‘Oh Jack,’ said Beth, ‘it’s terrific – just like you!’

  A gangling scarecrow stuffed with paper and straw and wearing my old clothes had been tied to a chair and propped on the other side of the school gate from the one made by the staff. A cardboard sign pinned to a familiar sports jacket read: ‘MR SHEFFIELD by HEATHCLIFFE & TERRY EARNSHAW’. A huge pair of black cardboard Buddy Holly spectacles added the finishing touch.

  However, it was young John who confirmed the fait accompli. He peered out of the car window, pointed at the scarecrow and shouted, ‘Daddy!’

  Don and Sheila Bradshaw had made a big effort on the forecourt of The Royal Oak. A fat scarecrow wearing one of Don’s old wrestling outfits was leaning against one of the picnic tables with an empty tankard attached to its hand.

  Under the weeping willow on the village green, Madame Jacqueline Laporte, the French teacher from Easington Comprehensive School, along with her latest boyfriend, had made a superb scarecrow of Napoleon Bonaparte. The attractive Frenchwoman with the Brigitte Bardot looks and figure-hugging, pencil-slim black skirt turned a few heads as she had her photograph taken next to ‘the little corporal’ for the local paper.

  The Herald photographer was busy walking up and down the High Street, snapping the various scarecrows. The ladies of the Women’s Institute had gathered round Emmeline Pankhurst for a group photograph, while Stan and Deirdre Coe had arrived with their Henry VIII and had secured him firmly with baling twine to the post that supported the village noticeboard.

  Deke Ramsbottom, with his sons, Shane, Clint and Wayne, had built a cowboy scarecrow, with a similarity to John Wayne, and it had been tied to the fall pipe outside the pub.

  In all there were around twenty scarecrows, including one inside Oscar Woodcock’s shed, which seemed not in accord with the fundamental purpose of a scarecrow. Word had it that Oscar merely wanted some company during the many lonely nights he spent in his shed. My two favourites were the Elvis scarecrow outside the Coffee Shop and the policeman scarecrow outside the red telephone box, a joint effort by Natasha Smith and her new boyfriend, PC Pike.

  The May Day celebrations always attracted large crowds to the village green. The Scout troop had completed the erection of the marquees with their bright strands of bunting. The sun shone down and the rich aroma of Old Tommy Piercy’s hog roast attracted a queue of ravenous villagers. The Ragley & Morton Brass Band played ‘Jerusalem’ and the Scout troop raised the flag of St George on the flagpole. The Morris dancers were waiting their turn to perform in their white linen shirts with coloured ribbon tied around their cord trousers. Meanwhile, Sheila Bradshaw in her sparkly flag-of-St-George boob tube, white leather mini-skirt and red high heels was serving them with drinks.

  In the centre of the village green Rupert Forbes-Kitchener had supervised the preparations for the maypole. It was topped with eight bell garlands and Sally Pringle gathered together the group of children who were waiting to perform their first intricate dance.

  First came the parade of the May Queen from the village hall up the main street to the village green. This year it was the turn of seventeen-year-old Cathy Cathcart, who had been in my class back at the start of the eighties. Her mother, Daphne, with her distinctive pink candy-floss hair and tombstone teeth that resembled Stonehenge, was the proudest woman in the village. It was a day when her regular habit of blushing went unnoticed. Her younger daughter, thirteen-year-old Michelle, clung on to her mother’s arm and stared in wonderment at the sight of her big sister waving to the crowd.

  The Jackson twins, Hermione and Honeysuckle, were the May Queen’s attendants. With a band of flowers in their golden ringlets and matching white dresses with lacy collars, they looked like angels. Cathy sat on her ‘throne’ on a trailer towed by Deke on his tractor and the crowd cheered. It was a sight to gladden the heart. Meanwhile, Deke’s sons had prepared a semicircle of straw bales to create instant seating and a natural theatre-in-the-round for the various performances. Children settled on the bales to watch Captain Fantastic’s Punch and Judy show while Vera and her colleagues began serving cream teas at one end of the Women’s Institute marquee.

  George Dainty was standing next to Ruby. ‘Ah recall when you were May Queen in 1950,’ he said. ‘You looked a picture.’

  Ruby’s cheeks flushed at the memory. ‘But best day were in 1980 when our Natasha were May Queen.’

  ‘Ah bet she looked reight bonnie,’ said George.

  ‘She did that, an’ my Ronnie were proud that day.’

  George was thoughtful and said nothing.

  Joseph Evans was in the queue for refreshments when a scuffle began among a group of the children, followed by some pushing and pulling.

  ‘Now boys, remember what I said,’ Joseph cautioned them.

  ‘What’s that, Mr Evans?’ asked Damian Brown.

  ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.’

  Damian considered this for a moment. ‘Thing is, Barry did it unto me first so ah thought ah’d do it unto ’im.’

  The logic left poor Joseph stranded.

  Meanwhile, at the end of the queue, Scott Higginbottom on his eighth birthday had taken a liking to Patience Crapper.

  He spat on his hands, rubbed them together and then attempted to smooth down his spiky hair.

  ‘Patience,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ asked Patience, not wishing to be interrupted.

  ‘When is it OK for me t’give you a kiss?’

  Patience gave him a withering look. ‘When you’re rich,’ she said with feeling and turned away.

  That were a waste o’ spit, thought Scott as he trudged back to his friends.

  ‘What ’appened?’ asked Sam Whittaker. ‘Did she give you a kiss?’

  ‘No,’ said Scott. ‘Mebbe nex’ year.’

  ‘Ah don’t like girls,’ declared Sam.

  ‘Problem is,’ said Scott knowingly, ‘you’ll ’ave t’marry one one day.’

  ‘’Ave ah got to?’

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Scott.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Cos you’ll need someone t’clear up.’

  ‘Ah see,’ said Sam and thought about it.

  ‘Can you whistle?’ asked Sam suddenly.

  ‘Not like Ted Coggins.’

  ‘Let’s go an’ ask ’im t’teach us,’ said Sam and so, with girls forgotten until another day, they ran off.

  George and Ruby were staring at the Coes’ scarecrow. The Tudor monarch was certainly impressive.

  Deirdre and Stan came over. ‘Y’lookin’ at t’winner,’ said Deirdre. ‘Rest don’t stand a chance.’

  Ruby and George turned to walk away.

  ‘Don’t look down y’nose at me,’ Deirdre called after them. George pulled Ruby’s sleeve, but Ruby glowered at Deirdre. ‘Don’t sit on yer ’igh ’orse,’ continued Deirdre. ‘There’s changes comin’ t’that school o’ yours, Ruby Smith.’

  ‘There’ll be big changes come nex’ year,’ leered Stan.

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of us t’mek sure it dunt ’appen,’ retorted Ruby.

  ‘An’ don’t reckon on you an’ Sheffield gettin’ y’jobs back.’

  ‘Who sez?’ asked Ruby, her face flushed.

  ‘You’ve no chance, caretaker skivvy,’ jeered Deirdre.

  ‘There’s no need for unkind words, Deirdre,’ said George.

  ‘Get back t’yer fish-an’-chip shop,’ growled Stan.

  George flexed his burly shoulders
and took a pace forward. He stared up into Stan’s eyes. ‘That’s enough now, Stanley,’ he said quietly, ‘else it won’t be just fish that gets a batterin’.’

  Stan Coe blinked and took a step backwards. George was Dainty by name but certainly not by nature. He stood like a gladiator ready for battle.

  ‘Tek no notice,’ said Deirdre with an evil grimace. ‘We’ve got better fish t’fry.’

  ‘Y’reight there,’ agreed Stan with a nervous smile.

  ‘If y’can’t say owt nice, then don’t say nowt at all,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Judgement day is comin’ f’you an’ y’fancy man,’ said Deirdre. ‘My Stanley knows things.’

  ‘You’ll gerra clout if y’don’t shurrup,’ said Ruby.

  Stan gave his sister a sharp look. ‘Let’s gerroff,’ he said, taking her by the arm.

  ‘Good riddance,’ muttered George as they walked away.

  ‘It’s a worrying thought, George,’ said Ruby. ‘E’s gorra lot o’ effluence ’as that Stanley Coe.’

  ‘Actually it’s “influence”, Ruby,’ began George, ‘… but, on reflection, ah think you were right first time.’

  Beth had taken John to watch the Punch and Judy show while I bought soft drinks from Vera in the Women’s Institute tent.

  ‘A successful day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘The maypole dancing was excellent.’

  ‘It certainly was.’ I looked around me. ‘Ragley really is a special place,’ I said.

  She looked up at me. ‘And always will be.’

  I noticed the familiar sight of Edward Clifton in animated conversation with Anne. They looked relaxed together and it was good to see Anne enjoying her day.

  Suddenly a flustered Ruby appeared. ‘That Stan Coe an’ ’is sister ’ave been rude an’ sayin’ unkind things about what’s goin’ to ’appen to t’school.’

  ‘Take no notice, Ruby, it’s just hot air,’ said Vera.

  ‘Mebbe so, Mrs F, but like ah’ve allus said – there’s no fire wi’out smoke.’

  ‘No smoke without fire,’ corrected Vera gently.

  ‘That an’ all, Mrs F,’ said Ruby nodding in agreement. ‘It’s like a game o’ chess wi’ ’im an’ we’re one o’ them prawns.’