‘Well, my uncle Ted is my best friend and we went fishing at Scarborough,’ said Ben.
‘And what happened?’ I asked.
‘ ’E sat in ’is little boat all day and came back with crabs.’
Anne gave me her wide-eyed ‘Well, you did ask’ look from the back of the hall and I moved on to Tony Ackroyd, who wasn’t looking his usual cheerful self.
‘What about you, Tony?’ I asked.
‘M’best friend is Petula an’ … ah think she’s gone for ever.’
‘I’m really sorry to hear that, Tony,’ I said and, not wishing to dwell on the loss of a family member, I moved on to the next child. After Jimmy Poole had described the antisocial antics of his Yorkshire terrier, Scargill, – or, as Jimmy called him, ‘Thcargill’ – I said, ‘So, boys and girls, we must all be friends.’
Suddenly, the twins, six-year-old Rowena and Katrina Buttle, waved their hands in the air simultaneously. ‘Our mummy says we’re like different-coloured crayons …’ said Rowena.
‘… But we all live in the same tin,’ said Katrina.
At times like these I realized why I loved being a teacher. I might not have the best-paid job in the world but it did have its rewards.
‘Time for t’bell,’ announced Jodie Cuthbertson, our new bell monitor.
It was half past ten and I had volunteered to do the first playground duty. I collected my coffee from Vera and walked on to the school field, where Jimmy Poole was standing all alone.
‘Hello, Jimmy. Why are you standing here while all your friends are playing with a ball at the other end of the field?’ I asked.
‘Becauth I’m the goalkeeper, Mithter Theffield,’ said Jimmy simply.
Nearby, five-year-old Terry Earnshaw was taking his role of Luke Skywalker very seriously and he eventually defeated five-year-old Damian Brown, the nose-picking Darth Vader, by flicking the elastic on his mask on to his ears. Meanwhile, the Buttle twins, as the two androids, C3PO and R2D2, tried valiantly to save Jimmy Poole as the lisping Obi-Wan Kenobi. Finally, with a pragmatism that resided somewhere between the Communist Party and the local Co-Op, seven-year old Heathcliffe Earnshaw said pacifically, ‘OK, let’s all rule t’G’lactic Empire.’
At the end of playtime I looked into Jo’s classroom, where a group of children had resumed their paintings as part of their ‘Seaside’ project. Six-year-old Hazel Smith was painting blue stripes across the top of her A3 piece of sugar paper.
‘Is that the sky?’ I asked cheerfully.
She looked at me with a puzzled expression. ‘No, Mr Sheffield, jus’ paint.’
‘Ah, yes, of course,’ I said, feeling suitably repri-manded.
‘An’ this is Mary the Mermaid,’ explained Hazel. ‘She’s got a lady top ’alf an’ a fish bottom ’alf. She’s a good swimmer an’ she won’t get pregnant.’ It occurred to me that children seemed to grow up faster these days.
On a nearby table, Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer seemed to prove the point. She was busy trying to complete her School Mathematics Project card concerning long multiplication. Jo walked in, glanced at her exercise book and frowned.
‘You need to work hard at your mathematics so you will be good at sums,’ said Jo.
‘Don’t worry, Miss,’ said Elisabeth Amelia. ‘Daddy has an excellent accountant.’
At twelve o’clock Jodie rang the dinner bell and I walked into the school office as Vera was checking Anne and Jo’s dinner registers.
‘What’s for lunch?’ I said. Anne Grainger leaned out of the doorway and sniffed the air. Her sense of smell was renowned. She could recognize a damp gabardine raincoat at fifty yards. Today, however, it was the unmistakable smell of damp cabbage. Anne, with the experience of twenty-five years of school dinners behind her, sniffed the air like a French wine taster. The merest hint of the subtle bouquet of Spam fritter reached her sensitive nostrils and she nodded in recognition. ‘Spam fritters, mashed potato and cabbage,’ she said confidently.
While the sweet pear-drop smell of the aerosol fixative, used to prevent pastel drawings from smudging, was obvious to the rest of us, the higher echelon of school odours had really only been mastered by Anne and Vera.
‘Correct,’ agreed Vera, half closing her eyes in deep concentration, ‘with perhaps the merest possibility of diced carrots.’
Jo stared in awe at this exhibition of advanced sensory perception, folded up her wall chart of ‘Seaside Shells’, and walked into the school hall to join the queue for her first school dinner of the year.
I followed her and saw Heathcliffe Earnshaw pushing into the front of the queue. ‘Go to the back of the line, Heathcliffe,’ I said.
‘But there’s somebody there already, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Heathcliffe, quick as a flash.
Just behind me, Anne Grainger turned away to stifle her laughter while I scrutinized the cheerful face of the ex-Barnsley boy. There was definitely something about him that you couldn’t help but like.
After lunch, back in the staff-room, Vera was reading the front page of her Daily Telegraph and shaking her head in dismay. Mr Mark Carlisle, the education secretary, was considering the introduction of a Continental-style school day starting at 8.00 a.m. and closing at 2.00 p.m. as part of the government cuts of £600 million per year. Also, the Yorkshire Ripper had claimed his twelfth victim in Bradford and had sent a tape recording to George Oldfield, head of the CID in West Yorkshire, taunting the police in a Wearside accent.
‘What a world we live in,’ said Vera in despair. ‘It can’t get worse.’
But at that moment it suddenly did … much worse!
Anne came into the staff-room, white as a sheet. ‘Jack … everybody … I’ve just seen a mouse … a big mouse!’
Jo and Sally immediately lifted their feet off the floor and Vera leapt towards her metal filing cabinet and pulled out her ‘Telephone in emergencies’ folder.
‘Where was it?’ I asked.
‘Walking bold as brass into Ruby the caretaker’s cupboard, so I slammed the door and locked it,’ said Anne.
‘We need to ring the pest controller at County Hall immediately, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.
I nodded and smiled grimly. Vera was wonderful in emergencies. ‘Thanks, Vera. We’ll do it now.’
Thirty minutes later a dirty green, rusty old van pulled up in the school car park. The words ‘Maurice Ackroyd, PEST CONTROLLER’ were crudely painted on the side of the van. I walked out to meet him.
‘ ’Ow do,’ said Maurice. ‘Ah’m Maurice the Mouseman from Pest Control.’ His huge front teeth and wispy moustache reinforced my belief that Maurice was born for this vocation. He was a small, unshaven, wiry man wearing a battered flat cap, in spite of the hot weather, and a filthy collarless long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs firmly double-buttoned. His baggy cord trousers were held up with a length of baling twine and his trouser-leg bottoms were tucked firmly into his socks. A pair of shabby steel-toe-capped builder’s boots completed the ensemble.
‘Hello, er, Maurice,’ I said. ‘Thanks for coming. I think we’ve got a mouse.’
Maurice sucked air through his teeth and then shook his head. ‘ ’Owd on, ’owd on, not so ’asty, Mr Sheffield. It could be rats, tha knaws,’ he said with a hopeful glint in his eye.
‘Rats! I hope not,’ I said in alarm.
‘Rats is everywhere, Mr Sheffield – y’never far from a rat,’ said Maurice, nodding in a very knowing way.
‘But we should have to close the school … and it’s the first day of term.’ I could already see the headline in the Easington Herald & Pioneer.
‘Don’t fret, Mr Sheffield: ’elp is at ’and,’ said Maurice with false modesty, while stroking the words ‘PEST CONTROLLER’ on the side of his van with obvious affection. Then he leaned back and surveyed the school building like Clint Eastwood before a gunfight. ‘Ah allus start by giving it two coats o’ lookin’ over. Y’gotta think like t’little buggers afore y’catch ’em.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’
I said.
‘Ah come from a long line o’ rodent-catchers, tha knaws. Rodents ’ave allus run in our family,’ said Maurice proudly.
‘Oh, that’s good,’ I said unconvincingly.
He wrinkled up his pointed nose and sniffed the air. ‘We use t’psychol’gy,’ he added proudly.
‘I see,’ I said … but I didn’t.
Afternoon lessons were haunted by the thought that I would have to shut the school and it was a gloomy group of teachers who assembled in the staff-room at afternoon playtime to hear the verdict of Maurice the Mouseman.
‘It’s norra rat,’ proclaimed Maurice.
‘That’s a relief,’ said Anne. ‘So I presume it’s a mouse.’
‘It’s a mouse, all reight,’ he said. ‘Ah caught a glimpse of it in t’caretaker’s cupboard.’
Suddenly Tony Ackroyd appeared at the staff-room door. He looked nervous.
‘Hello, Tony,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’
Tony looked up at Maurice. ‘ ’Ello, Uncle Maurice,’ he said.
I looked in surprise at Maurice. ‘So Tony is your nephew?’
‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. ’E’s our Margery’s eldest.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘So what is it, Tony?’
Tony’s cheeks flushed. ‘Mr Sheffield, ah’m reight sorry, ah should’ve told y’sooner,’ said Tony, ‘but then ah saw Uncle Maurice’s van.’
‘Told me what, Tony?’ I said.
‘Ah brought Petula this morning t’show you, but then she went missing,’ he said. ‘Ah told yer in assembly.’
‘Petula?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield: m’pet mouse.’
‘You have a mouse called Petula?’
‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Tony, as if it was entirely logical. ‘Me mam named ’er after Mrs Dudley-Palmer, ’cause me mouse ’as staring eyes.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, trying not to smile.
‘An’ ah thought me uncle Maurice might kill ’er if ’e didn’t know it were Petula.’
‘Well, I’m glad you’ve told me, Tony, but you should have let me know straight away. We’ve been very worried.’
‘Ah’m reight sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tony forlornly.
Maurice looked down at his little nephew and then up at me.
‘Don’t worry, ah’ll use psychol’gy,’ he said, stroking the side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger. ‘Ah’ve got jus t’thing in t’van.’ He scurried off eagerly and returned moments later. ‘ ’Ere it is … carbolic soap. Petula will love it,’ he said, holding up a large bar of potent-smelling soap that would have stopped a clock at ten paces.
‘Can ah tek Tony to ’elp me?’ said Maurice.
‘Er, yes, of course, but be careful, Tony,’ I said.
With that, uncle and nephew trotted out into the entrance hall and carefully opened Ruby’s cupboard. We could hear their raised voices.
‘Use that broom ’andle, Tony, t’coax ’er out,’ shouted Maurice, ‘an’ ah’ll get me wire basket ready.’
At that moment, Vera walked through the little corridor that linked the school office to the staff-room. ‘Excuse me, Mr Sheffield, but Mrs Dudley-Palmer is in the office and would like a word.’
Mrs Dudley-Palmer was standing next to the open office door. ‘Oh, hello, er … Mrs Dudley-Palmer, what can I do to help?’
‘Well, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, taking out an expensive-looking school prospectus, ‘you will recall I have a difficult decision to make about Elisabeth Amelia’s future as she will be eight at the end of this school year.’
‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘It would be a shame to lose such a delightful girl from our school.’
Petula Dudley-Palmer studied me for a moment. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Mr Sheffield. However, I’ve just returned from York and the school is very appealing.’
‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, looking at the impressive coat of arms above some Latin script on the prospectus.
‘And then I shall have to decide what to do with Victoria Alice as she would eventually follow her sister.’
‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and we should be sorry to lose Victoria Alice as well. She’s such a happy and well-behaved little girl.’
‘Yes, she’s the one who takes after me, of course,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer with a self-satisfied smile.
Suddenly, five-year-old Victoria Alice ran in from the playground and stopped outside the door. ‘Hello, Mummy. I’ve just kissed Terry Earnshaw,’ she said proudly.
Mrs Dudley-Palmer was rooted to the spot. ‘How did that happen?’ she asked in horror.
‘It was difficult, Mummy. Molly Paxton had to help me catch him.’ Then she ran off and into class.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer. She stepped into the office and looked down at the prospectus as if she had finally made up her mind. It suddenly appeared as if Ragley School did not come up to expectations. As she was pondering what to say next, the silence was broken suddenly by loud voices from the staff-room.
‘Is everything OK now?’ asked Vera anxiously.
‘ ’Tis now,’ said Maurice.
Little Tony, with a big smile on his face, propped the broom handle in the staff-room doorway and set off back to the classroom.
‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ said Vera.
Mrs Dudley-Palmer and I could hear every word but the speakers were out of sight.
‘All t’better for seeing Petula,’ said Maurice, holding up the caged mouse in triumph.
Petula Dudley-Palmer stiffened slightly.
‘Well, I’m sure you have an expert eye,’ said Vera.
‘Petula’s allus been such a ’andsome creature,’ said Maurice, pushing a piece of carbolic soap towards the tiny mouse.
Mrs Dudley-Palmer smiled and I stepped forward quickly and shut the door between the office and the corridor to the staff-room.
‘Well, must be on m’way,’ said Maurice and he strode out towards the car park.
In the office, Mrs Dudley-Palmer gave a beatific smile and replaced the prospectus in her leather handbag. ‘Do you know, Mr Sheffield, that was most fortuitous.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes, it’s always nice to know that one is held in such high regard in the village.’
‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘I agree.’
‘Perhaps my darling little girls should stay at Ragley after all.’
‘Well, er, that would be good news,’ I said and we walked out into the entrance hall, where Vera was standing next to the open staff-room door. The smell of strong soap filled the air.
‘Oh, carbolic soap, Miss Evans,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer, sniffing appreciatively. ‘That takes me back to when I was young. I’ve always had an attraction to carbolic soap.’
Vera smiled and looked to the heavens as Mrs Dudley-Palmer walked out to her Rolls-Royce.
‘An eventful day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.
I glanced at my watch. I should have been back in my classroom. ‘I’ll tell you about it at the end of school,’ I said.
There was a sudden banging on the office door. ‘Oh dear,’ I groaned, ‘whatever next?’ I picked up the strange-looking broom handle and opened the door.
Mrs Winifred Brown was standing there, clutching little Damian Brown’s hand. ‘Ah’m tekking ’im now,’ she said and then looked down at the broom handle in my hand. ‘Oh, y’found it, then,’ and she grabbed it.
‘Pardon?’
‘Y’found ’is light sabre, then?’
The penny dropped. Ruby’s spare broom handle was in fact Damian Brown’s Star Wars weapon. I was speechless.
Jo Hunter, who had been standing quietly behind me, stepped forward. ‘I would appreciate it, Mrs Brown,’ she said very firmly, ‘if you would try to avoid Damian missing school. This is not the best start to the term for him to miss the last lesson of his first day.’
Mrs Brown looked down at the slight, quietly spoken infant teacher and sneered. ‘Prob’ly jus’ as well. Ah sa
w t’pest controller’s van ’ere an’ ah shouldn’t be s’prised to ’ear from our Damian that y’riddled wi’ vermin.’
Jo Hunter stepped forward and raised herself to her full five-feet-three-inches and stared up at Mrs Brown. ‘Let’s have an understanding, Mrs Brown,’ said Jo in a determined voice. Winifred Brown took a step back. ‘If you promise not to believe everything Damian says happens in school, I’ll promise not to believe everything he says happens at home.’ Jo had clearly struck a nerve. The colour drained from Mrs Brown’s face and she retreated quickly. Jo closed the door and muttered, ‘I’ll give her vermin!’
Anne and Vera both clapped in appreciation. ‘Well said, Jo,’ said Vera.
‘And now it’s time for another little mouse,’ said Anne as she held up her Beatrix Potter book. I walked back to class with her and watched as she sat down with her children in the carpeted Book Corner. Anne surveyed the expectant little faces of the four- and five-year-olds at her feet. Then she held up the picture on the front cover of the book and said slowly and clearly, ‘Our first story of the year, boys and girls, is The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse,’ and she winked in my direction. I nodded as I recalled the classic story of the little wood-mouse who strove to keep her house in order in spite of numerous unwanted visitors.
As I walked back to my classroom, with the end of our first day of school approaching, it occurred to me that Beatrix Potter definitely knew what she was talking about.
Chapter Two
The Gateway to Harmony
County Hall authorized the replacement of the school gates. The Revd Joseph Evans took his weekly RE lesson.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 25 September 1979
‘PEACE AND HARMONY,’ said Vera triumphantly. She opened her elegant Marks & Spencer’s leather handbag and held up a sheaf of carefully typed notes entitled ‘The Gateway to Harmony – 30 days to a harmonious life’. It was Tuesday, 25 September, and we had all gathered in the office at the end of the school day. ‘Would you like to hear it?’ asked Vera expectantly. She stood up behind her desk and smoothed the creases from the seat of her immaculate two-piece charcoal-grey suit. Everyone stood around, feeling awkward.
03 Dear Teacher Page 2
