03 Dear Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  About the Book

  It’s 1979: Dallas is enthralling the nation on TV, Mrs Thatcher has just become prime minister, Abba is top of the pops, and in the small Yorkshire village of Ragley-on-the-Forest, Jack Sheffield returns for his third year as headmaster of the village school.

  Jack and his staff struggle to keep a semblance of normality throughout the turbulence of the school terms, as once again the official School Log fails to record what is really going on beneath the seemingly quiet routine. Ruby the caretaker discovers her Prince Charming; Vera the school secretary gets to meet her hero, Nicholas Parsons; and Jack, to his astonishment, finds himself having to stand in as a curiously skinny Father Christmas.

  Jack also finds himself, at last, having to choose between the vivacious sisters Beth and Laura Henderson…

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Map

  Chapter One: Beatrix Potter and the Pest Controller

  Chapter Two: The Gateway to Harmony

  Chapter Three: Jimmy Savile Cleans Our Windows

  Chapter Four: Rita’s Revolution

  Chapter Five: Gunpowder, Treason and Pratt

  Chapter Six: Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word

  Chapter Seven: The Thinnest Father Christmas in the World

  Chapter Eight: An Angel Called Harold

  Chapter Nine: Goodbye, 1979

  Chapter Ten: Reluctant Resolutions

  Chapter Eleven: Sex and the Single Teacher

  Chapter Twelve: Look Before You Leap

  Chapter Thirteen: Nicholas Parsons and the Rhubarb Triangle

  Chapter Fourteen: The Pontefract Strippers

  Chapter Fifteen: The Day of the Daffodils

  Chapter Sixteen: The Prettiest Cow in Yorkshire

  Chapter Seventeen: Who Shot JR?

  Chapter Eighteen: The Mystery of Life

  Chapter Nineteen: Brass Bands and Butterflies

  Chapter Twenty: Dear Teacher

  About the Author

  Copyright

  DEAR TEACHER

  The Alternative School Logbook 1979–1980

  Jack Sheffield

  For my brother Roy

  Acknowledgements

  I am deeply indebted to my ever-patient and hugely supportive editor, Linda Evans; the dynamic publicity team of Stina Smemo and Lynsey Dalladay and all at Transworld for their support, particularly Katie Espiner, Nick Robinson, Sophie Holmes and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers. Also, thanks go to my hardworking agent, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his good humour and vast knowledge of world trivia.

  I am grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Sarah Barrett, school nurse, Hampshire; Janina Bywater, nurse and lecturer in psychology, Cornwall; Marie Cragg, director, PHASE Charity, South Yorkshire; Mary Cragg, adviser, Citizens’ Advice Bureau, Hampshire; Dr Bill Inness, dentist, York; Julie Kenny, managing director, Pyronix, Sheffield; Sue Matthews, primary-school teacher, York; Caroline Stockdale, librarian, York Central Library; Christine Swann, radio presenter, York Hospital Radio, and Roy Turgoose, retired military pilot, York.

  Prologue

  Three people … two sisters … one problem.

  Ragley School was still and silent on this late-summer day. A shaft of early-morning amber sunlight streamed in through the high arched Victorian windows and lit up my old oak headmaster’s desk.

  Propped against a brass paperweight was a photograph of three people, captured at a moment in time. I was in the centre, smiling at the camera, the July sunshine glinting on my Buddy Holly spectacles. My arms were wrapped round the slim waists of two beautiful women.

  To my left, Laura Henderson was glancing up at me with soft green eyes. She was wearing a forget-me-not-blue dress and her long brown hair hung free over her suntanned shoulders. To my right was Beth Henderson and, once again, I felt that familiar ache in my heart. There was a time I had hoped I might spend the rest of my life with her but it appeared it was not to be.

  I tilted the photograph towards the light and examined it more closely. Beth looked stunning in a cream suit and matching wide-brimmed hat. Her honey-blonde hair caressed her high cheekbones and I sighed at the memory of the day. I noticed she was staring curiously at her sister.

  On the back of the photograph was a message that read: ‘Dear Jack, a reminder of a lovely day. See you on 3 September, Jo and Dan.’

  Jo Hunter, the class teacher of the older infant children, had married our local police constable at the end of the summer term. After the wedding everyone had gathered in the village hall for a party that gradually broke up when the happy couple had driven off into the sunset.

  Once more I stared at the photograph and remembered that day six weeks ago. Laura had invited me back to her flat in York. ‘I’m having a relaxing night in, tonight, Jack. I was hoping you might like to join me for a meal,’ she said before driving away.

  Minutes later, to my surprise, Beth made the same offer. ‘It would be good to see you tonight, if you want to come back to Morton,’ she said. ‘We’ve got some catching-up to do.’ Then she stretched up and kissed me gently on the lips. It was so unexpected. Earlier in the year, Beth had made it clear that she didn’t want any permanent commitment.

  Her words were still etched in my mind.

  So, that evening, with hope in my heart, I had driven to Beth’s house in Morton village. As I opened my car door, she walked down the path to meet me. Her reception was cautious. ‘I’ve just had a call from my little sister,’ she said, ‘and she says she’s expecting you.’ Beth looked sad. Then she stretched up and kissed me lightly on the cheek. When she walked away she didn’t look back.

  Feeling confused, I drove to York, where Laura had prepared a lovely meal and, though I tried to be attentive, my thoughts were elsewhere. Weeks passed and, as the summer holiday progressed, I saw more of Laura and less of Beth. Eventually, August came to an end and I turned my attention back to my work and the new school year ahead.

  It was Saturday, 1 September 1979. My third year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin. I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk and slid the photograph inside for safekeeping. Then I took out the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. I filled my fountain pen with black Quink ink, wrote the date and stared at the empty page. The record of another school year was about to begin.

  Two years ago, the retiring headmaster, John Pruett, had told me how to fill in the official school logbook. ‘Just keep it simple,’ he said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t say what really happens, because no one will believe you!’

  So the real stories were written in my ‘Alternative School Logbook’. And this is it!

  Chapter One

  Beatrix Potter and the Pest Controller

  86 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. Following a Health & Safety directive from County Hall, Star Wars light sabres were banned. The Pest Control Officer visited school.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 4 September 1979

  ‘SO WHERE’S OUR Damian’s light sabre, Mr Sheffield?’

  It occurred to me that the beginning of another school year just wouldn’t be the same without the pit-bull presence of our least favourite parent, Mrs Winifred Brown.

  ‘I haven’t seen it, Mrs Brown; what does it look like?’

  ‘It’s three foot long an’ it glows blue in t’dark … at least, it would if my Eddie got off ’is backside an’ put t’batt’ries in.’

  I removed my Buddy Holly spect
acles and began to polish them to give me thinking time. ‘And when did it go missing?’

  ‘ ’E brought it t’school jus’ afore all you teachers went off on y’cushy six-week ’oliday.’ Next to her, five-year-old Damian lifted his sinister Darth Vader mask, dispelled all thoughts of Empire domination and proceeded to pick his nose.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brown. I’ll ask Mrs Grainger to look in her Lost Property box.’

  ‘Y’better do that ’cause it cos’ me a fortune.’

  With that I retreated quickly and shut the office door.

  ‘An’ ah’ll be back at quarter t’three,’ she shouted. ‘Our Damian needs some shoes from t’Co-Op,’ and she stormed out.

  It was just after 8.30 a.m. on Tuesday, 4 September 1979 and my third year as headmaster of Ragley Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  Anne Grainger, the deputy headmistress, walked into the office from the staff-room clutching a copy of Beatrix Potter’s The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse.

  ‘May the force be with you, Jack,’ said Anne with a grin.

  Anne, a tall, slim brunette in her mid-forties, was always a reassuring presence. Her patience was legendary and she certainly needed it as our Reception Class teacher.

  ‘Force?’

  ‘Yes, you know, as in Star Wars.’

  A distant memory of sitting next to Beth Henderson in the Odeon cinema in York, watching Star Wars IV, A New Hope, flickered across my mind. I recalled that Beth had asked me why the film had begun at episode IV but all I could think about was how lucky I was to be sitting next to such a beautiful woman.

  Anne shook her head in mock dismay and grabbed my arm. ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘Vera’s giving out the new registers,’ and we walked out of the office, past the little cloakroom area and into the staff-room.

  Miss Vera Evans, our fifty-seven-year-old secretary, looked imperiously over her steel-rimmed spectacles. ‘May I remind you all to mark your pupils present in black and the ones who are absent in red.’ Then she handed out the new attendance registers.

  ‘Your word is our command, Vera,’ said Sally Pringle.

  A tall, freckle-faced thirty-eight-year-old with bright ginger hair, Sally taught the younger junior children and her lively dress sense was a world away from Vera’s immaculate Marks & Spencer’s pin-striped business suit. Vera frowned and glanced at Sally, who was picking absent-mindedly at the hand-stitching on the pockets of her voluminous tie-dyed tangerine dress. She never fully understood Sally’s humour.

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ said Jo Hunter.

  Jo was a diminutive, athletic twenty-four-year-old with long jet-black hair who taught the older infants. She looked thoughtfully at her name on the front cover of her class register, written by Vera in neat copperplate handwriting. After being Jo Maddison all her life, her new married name still intrigued her.

  ‘And you will recall,’ continued Vera, ‘that last year County Hall banned skateboards in school … Well, this year they’ve banned something called a “light sabre”, which I understand is a toy that resembles a broomstick.’

  ‘Quite right, Vera,’ I said, recalling my conversation with Mrs Brown.

  Anne gave me a knowing look, picked up her new register and hurried off to check her Lost Property box. Jo gathered together a collection of posters on ‘The Seashore’ and set off back to her classroom, where she stood on a chair to write the date on the top of her chalkboard. Meanwhile Sally put her new register in her hippy, open-weave shoulder bag, selected a garibaldi from the biscuit tin and walked out of the staff-room – but, noticeably, without her usual enthusiasm.

  Vera smoothed her beautifully permed greying hair and passed me a cup of milky coffee. ‘Here’s to another good year, Mr Sheffield.’

  I smiled as Vera continued to call me ‘Mr Sheffield’. She had always insisted this was the proper manner to address the headmaster.

  ‘Thank you, Vera.’ I looked at my watch. ‘Almost time for the bell.’ With a spring in my step I pushed open the giant oak entrance door and walked down the worn steps under the archway of Yorkshire stone. In the playground, a group of mothers clung on to their new starters, while the other children removed the embarrassment of their new school shoes by scraping them against the Victorian school wall, discussed the merits of Chopper bikes and swapped magazine photos of David Cassidy and Donny Osmond.

  As I walked towards the school gates a few mothers looked over their shoulders at the arrival of Mrs Dudley-Palmer in her distinctive Oxford Blue 1975 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow. She got out of her car and approached me, clutching seven-year-old Elisabeth Amelia and five-year-old Victoria Alice.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a polite smile. Mrs Dudley-Palmer was a short, plump thirty-five-year-old who thought of herself as a cut above the rest. She was wearing a stylish light-grey coat with a mink-fur collar. ‘I’ve brought my Elisabeth Amelia back to your charming little school but I have an appointment at a private school in York this afternoon. I’ll call in later today to let you know my decision whether or not to send her there.’ Mrs Dudley-Palmer had made it clear that when Elisabeth Amelia reached the age of eight she would switch to private education. However, it was often difficult to take Mrs Dudley-Palmer seriously as she seemed to live in a world of her own and her distinctive wide-eyed stare gave her a surprisingly startled look.

  Leaning against the school wall, Mrs Margery Ackroyd, mother of Tony, Theresa and Charlotte, nodded towards Mrs Dudley-Palmer. ‘All fur coat ’n’ no knickers,’ she whispered to her friends. They all laughed. ‘Off y’go, Tony,’ she said. ‘Look after y’sisters an’ keep that lid on y’shoebox.’

  Meanwhile, at the school gates, seven-year-old Jimmy Poole, a small, sturdy boy with a mop of curly ginger hair and a distinct lisp, was staring up towards the heavens.

  Curious, I walked up to him. ‘Hello, Jimmy. What are you looking at?’

  ‘Mith Maddithon thaid you can tell the time by looking at the thun,’ said Jimmy, still squinting up at the sky.

  ‘Your teacher’s called Mrs Hunter now, Jimmy.’

  ‘It’s that big polithman’th fault,’ said Jimmy knowingly.

  I glanced up at the sun. ‘So what time is it, Jimmy?’

  He shook his head mournfully. ‘With I knew, Mr Theffield, but I can’t thee the numberth.’ Celestial mysteries quickly forgotten, he wandered off to play conkers with Tony Ackroyd, who put down his shoebox and took out a conker threaded on to a length of baling twine.

  As I walked through the throng of excited children, I glanced up at the silent bell in the tall, incongruous bell-tower. It was the highest point of our Victorian school building with its steeply sloping grey-slate roof and high arched windows. In the entrance hall I checked my wristwatch and, on the stroke of nine o’clock, I pulled the ancient bell rope to announce the beginning of another school year.

  It was the early autumn of 1979. Mrs Thatcher was settling into her new job as prime minister, Cliff Richard was top of the pops with ‘We Don’t Talk Any More’ and Larry Hagman, as the scheming JR Ewing in Dallas, was about to become television’s greatest villain of all time. Suddenly denim jeans were no longer flared: instead, they were straight, and stone-washed or paint-splattered. Stephen Hawking, regarded as the greatest scientist since Einstein and a cruel victim of an incurable disease of the nervous system, bravely announced there were ‘black holes’ in space. Back on earth, some things didn’t change and Yorkshire’s Geoffrey Boycott continued to grind out his runs in the Test Match against India at the Oval.

  As I rang the bell I looked through the open entrance door and watched the late-comers scurry through the gates and dash up the cobbled driveway. Beyond the wrought-iron railings Ragley village was coming to life. On the village green, outside The Royal Oak, old Tommy Piercy was sitting on the bench next to the duck pond and feeding the ducks. All the shops on the High Street – the Post Office, Diane’s Hair Salon, Nora’s Coffee Shop, Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, the Villa
ge Pharmacy, Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop and Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent – had opened their doors. Early-morning shoppers with their wickerwork baskets walked down the High Street, which was flanked by pretty terraced cottages with reddish-brown pantile roofs and tall chimney stacks. Only the occasional noisy farm tractor disturbed the peace of this picturesque Yorkshire village.

  I walked into my classroom, sat at my desk and surveyed the twenty-three expectant faces in front of me. This was my third class of upper juniors in Ragley School and it was heart-warming to see their excitement at their new tins of Lakeland crayons, pristine exercise books, new HB pencils and a Reading Record Card complete with their name on the top.

  A new boy, ten-year-old Darrell Topper, had put a note on my desk. I opened it and smiled; it was one for the collection. It read: ‘Please excuse our Darrell from PE as his big sister took his shorts for hot pants.’

  After registration I checked each child’s reading age using the Schonell Graded Word Reading Test while they completed some simple comprehension exercises. Sadly, eleven-year-old Jodie Cuthbertson seemed to have regressed during the school summer holiday. In answer to the question ‘How many seconds in a year?’ Jodie had written: ‘January 2nd, February 2nd, March 2nd …’

  When the bell rang for morning assembly, I felt that familiar sense of history. For over a hundred years the headteacher had gathered all the children of Ragley village together to begin another school year. My theme this morning was ‘Friendship’ and I spoke about how we should look after one another – especially the youngest children, who had just begun full-time education. I tried to encourage the new starters to speak.

  Benjamin Roberts, a confident four-year-old in Anne’s class, raised his hand. ‘My name is Ben,’ he said. He frowned. ‘ ’Cept when I’m naughty,’ he added as an afterthought; ‘then my mummy calls me Benjamin.’

  ‘So, Ben, what did you want to say about friendship?’ I asked.