Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was standing in the bonfire field, flanked by his trusty lieutenants, Timothy Pratt, Torquil Lovejoy, Vera Evans and myself. He checked his pocket watch. ‘Ten hundred hours,’ said the major. Then he pointed his brass-topped cane towards the far end of the field. ‘First the heavy armour.’
With an ear-splitting hoot of his steam-whistle, Victor led the way into the field on his magnificent road-roller. This was his finest hour and, at a sedate pace, he calmly crushed Stan Coe’s fencing as if he was driving a Crusader tank. Stan Coe stared goggle-eyed through the dirty windscreen of his Land-Rover and hurriedly sought reverse gear.
Close behind Victor, on his old tractor and waving his Stetson hat, was Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, complete with cowboy boots and sheriff’s badge. Behind the tractor was a flat-bed trailer full of timber from the many broken outbuildings of Ragley village and sitting on the trailer were his three sons, Shane, Clint and Wayne. They had come to build a bonfire and no one was going to stop them.
Next in line came Big Dave and Little Malcolm in their bin wagon. On the bench seat, wedged in between them, and much to Big Dave’s disgust, was Dorothy Humpleby, wearing her Suzie Quatro denim outfit and her bright-red Wonder Woman boots. It was a day to be noticed and she was not going to waste the opportunity.
Dorothy was impressed when she saw Torquil standing next to Timothy Pratt. ‘Ooh, look at ’im,’ she said. ‘ ’E looks jus’ like Donny Osmond.’
Little Malcolm simply grunted, while Big Dave thought Dorothy had more lip than Mick Jagger.
‘Now the cavalry,’ said the major.
Virginia Anastasia Forbes-Kitchener, in skin-tight jodhpurs, and accompanied by members of her riding school, rode into the arena through the gateway from her training field as if it was the three-day equestrian event at the forthcoming Moscow Olympics.
‘Finally the infantry,’ said the major.
Nora Pratt, holding her protest banner, led a mixed assortment of villagers on to the field. As Nora came to stand beside us she looked at her two brothers and said, ‘Once a Pwatt, allus a Pwatt.’
‘Well done, Nora,’ I shouted.
‘It’s times like these, Mr Sheffield, that I’m weally pwoud to be a Pwatt,’ she replied as she marched towards Stan Coe’s Land-Rover.
Stan was in a state of panic. He reversed his Land-Rover wildly towards the nearest gateway and slewed round in a wheel-spinning arc, until there was a loud crack. Next to the gate, the tall white post, with a sign that read HORSE MANURE – HELP YOURSELF, slowly toppled. Alarmed, Stan opened his driver’s door and leapt out of his seat. He landed with a squelch into something very slippery and promptly fell on his large backside.
‘Oh, no, what the ’ell’s this?’ yelled Stan. To make matters worse the broken post fell across his chest. ‘ ’Elp me up, somebody,’ screamed Stan, but there were no takers.
Dan Hunter appeared. ‘Officer,’ yelled Stan, ‘arrest ’em.’
‘Looks like you’ve caused some criminal damage here, Mr Coe,’ said Dan with a smile, lifting up the broken signpost.
The crowd gathered and watched Stan trying to stand up in the steaming pile of Yorkshire’s finest horse dung. Each time he tried he fell down again and every time he got up he wiped his hands on his bright-yellow waistcoat.
Albert Jenkins whispered in my ear, ‘The soul of this man is his clothes. Trust him not in the manner of heavy consequence.’
‘Shakespeare?’
‘All’s Well That Ends Well,’ said Albert with a grin.
Finally, Stan Coe extricated himself from the dung heap, leapt into his Land-Rover and roared off, accompanied by the cheers of the crowd.
Timothy Pratt saluted the major. ‘Mission accomplished, Major.’
‘An’ good widdance t’bad wubbish,’ said Nora.
‘Well done, everybody,’ said the major.
‘How about a nice cup of tea?’ said Vera, and we all followed her into school.
That afternoon the Ramsbottoms, assisted by members of the PTA, completed the building of the bonfire and Torquil helped Timothy Pratt to retrieve all his broomsticks and returned with him to his Hardware Emporium. When Timothy led Torquil into the back room, Torquil’s eyes widened in appreciation at the Meccano set.
‘I’ve got an original Subbuteo Table Football game, Timothy,’ said Torquil modestly.
‘ ’Ave you really?’ asked Tidy Tim, his eyes wide in amazement.
‘Yes. It’s the real thing, made by Waddington’s in Leeds.’
‘Did you know it’s named after a hunting bird, the Falcon Subbuteo?’ said Tidy Tim, moving swiftly into his familiar Mastermind mode.
‘Really?’ said Torquil.
‘So, would you like to see my Meccano set, Torquil?’ asked Timothy.
Torquil looked at his new friend in sheer wonderment and they settled down together to build a working crane.
That evening, with the bonfire roaring and fireworks exploding in the air, I approached Timothy.
‘Thank you, Timothy,’ I said. ‘We couldn’t have had our bonfire without you.’
‘Like ah said, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Timothy, ‘tradition … y’can’t beat tradition.’
Chapter Six
Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word
The weekly staff meeting was cancelled owing to Mr Sheffield’s toothache (A. Grainger, Deputy Headteacher).
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 30 November 1979
‘SORRY, MISS HENDERSON,’ said Vera rather sharply. ‘Mr Sheffield is unable to speak to you.’ I looked up from my desk in the school office. A few murmurings could be heard from Vera’s telephone. ‘No, you don’t understand,’ cut in Vera. ‘Mr Sheffield actually can’t speak to you. In fact, he hasn’t been able to speak to anyone. He has severe toothache.’
I nodded in agreement and then stopped quickly. My head felt like a football and nodding made it worse.
The conversation continued until Vera said, ‘I can pass on your request if you wish.’ The message seemed to take an age. Vera scribbled a note in her immaculate shorthand and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Henderson. Goodbye.’ She replaced the receiver on its cradle and looked sternly at me. ‘That was Miss Henderson … Miss Laura Henderson.’ Vera emphasized the word ‘Laura’ with the merest hint of disapproval and then glanced at her notepad. ‘She says would you like to meet her outside Liberty’s at six thirty, tomorrow evening.’
‘Ank-oo, Ve-agh,’ I mumbled and then winced.
It was the last day of November and somehow I had survived to the end of the school week. My toothache had begun with a slight twinge during the middle of the month but had gradually worsened. Finally, by lunchtime, I could no longer communicate, so the staff had rallied round. Vera had volunteered to do my paperwork, Anne had cancelled the weekly staff meeting and Sally had taken my class as well as her own into the school hall for an afternoon of drama and music.
It was slightly irritating to me that the school continued to run perfectly and I didn’t seem to be missed. Also, it didn’t help when Jodie Cuthbertson waved goodbye at the end of school and shouted, ‘That were a great afternoon, Mr Sheffield. Can we do it every week?’
As I gathered my coat, scarf and old leather briefcase, everyone crowded into the office to take a last sympathetic look at my swollen face. I felt like a specimen in the Natural History Museum.
‘Looks dreadful,’ said Jo. ‘Shame you haven’t got teeth like my Dan. He never has toothache.’
Anne and Vera gave Jo a sharp stare. They could see this was help I didn’t need. ‘Take some aspirin, Jack, and try to get some rest,’ said Anne as she draped my college scarf carefully across my swollen jaw in a motherly way.
‘And gargle with hot, salty water,’ added Vera.
Ruby had arrived at the staff-room door with a familiar clatter of her mop and bucket. ‘My aunty Gladys swears by cloves, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Jus’ put a couple nex’ t’your tooth and
keep y’mouth shut … if y’get m’meanin’.’
‘Ank-oo, Ooo-bee.’ I was beginning to sound like Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men.
‘Whisky, Jack,’ said Sally, finally. ‘That’ll take y’mind off it.’
That evening I took Sally’s advice and called into The Royal Oak and pointed to a small bottle of malt whisky. ‘Is that all, Mr Sheffield?’ said Sheila, slapping the bottle on the counter. ‘Y’don’t look y’self.’
I pointed to my swollen jaw and winced visibly.
‘Oh, you’ve got toothache?’ said Sheila. ‘Wait there. Ah’ll get y’summat.’ She hurried into the back room muttering, ‘Men! They’re only good f’one thing, an’ most of ’em are useless at that!’
I sat on a bar stool and looked round. The usual crowd of footballers were at the far end of the bar and they were all staring at Clint Ramsbottom. Clint had gone to a lot of trouble to create his new image and the transformation was considerable. Up to quite recently Clint had been a seventies man with a Kevin Keegan bubble perm, flared trousers and skin-tight shirt. Today, after a visit to Diane’s Hair Salon, he was sporting his new David Bowie feather-cut with subtle bronze and crimson highlights. His jeans were tight stonewashed denim and, from the waist down, with his Doc Marten boots, he looked like Mickey Mouse. However, the pièce de resistance was his huge white shirt with a lacy collar and baggy sleeves. Clint looked as if he had just auditioned for The Three Musketeers.
‘What’s all this, then?’ shouted Big Dave across the taproom. ‘Y’look like Errol Flynn in Sinbad.’
‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ added Little Malcolm. ‘ ’E looks like a big, soft pirate.’
‘It’s m’new look,’ said Clint proudly. ‘Ah’m gonna be an eighties man.’
‘New look?’ queried Kojak.
‘Yeah, it’s New Wave,’ said Clint proudly.
‘New Wave?’ said Big Dave.
‘Ah’d wave it bye-bye if ah were you, Nancy,’ said Shane unsympathetically.
Clint looked in annoyance at his big brother but, wisely, said nothing.
Sheila came back with two pink tablets and a small glass of dark rum. ‘Get this down yer, Mr Sheffield.’
‘Ank-oo, She-agh,’ I said and stared at the tablets, undecided.
‘Bloody men!’ said Sheila. ‘Y’don’t know what pain is. Gerrit down yer.’
I took the tablets and swigged down the rum. My eyes watered.
‘You’ll be all reight wi’ them tablets, Mr Sheffield. They do wonders fur all me women’s troubles.’
Not entirely reassured, I drove home very carefully. Then, with a tumbler of malt whisky, I settled down to watch Angela Rippon read the news. She said that Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher was beginning to take a dim view of the antics of a certain Mr Arthur Scargill. When my telephone rang I could only answer it with what sounded like fluent Japanese.
‘Aah-loh?’
‘Hi, Jack. Just confirming tomorrow night.’ It was Laura, in her usual hurry.
‘Aah-loh, Lor-aah,’ I said as tears sprang from my eyes with the effort.
‘Didn’t quite catch that but see you at six thirty outside Liberty’s. Thought we could call in to the wine-tasting evening at the Assembly Rooms,’ she said. ‘Anyway, must rush. ’Bye.’
I stared at the receiver, sipped my whisky and stared round my empty room with only Angela Rippon and toothache for company. I was feeling sorry for myself but I remembered that Laura was a wonderful, attractive and dynamic companion. It was just that talking to her might be a problem.
Saturday morning was freezing cold and the sharp air made my jaw ache even more. A robin, perched on a spade handle, was quietly reciting its cheerful song of whispers and stared at me unblinkingly as I tottered towards the driveway. I scraped the ice from the windscreen of my car, blew on my key before I inserted it into the door lock and soon I was driving through Ragley village and then up the Easington Road.
In the market town of Easington, stalls were already doing early-morning business as I parked in the cobbled main square next to one selling fresh pheasants. The dentist’s surgery was above the chemist’s shop and I walked down a narrow alley to the back entrance. Next to a warped wooden door with peeling blue paint was a tarnished brass plate and on it was engraved H. Nelson, BDS.
Horatio Nelson, a portly fifty-five-year-old, humourless Bradfordian, had never forgiven his father, a lover of famous sea-battles, for christening him after England’s greatest admiral. To make matters worse he had stopped growing at five feet and a half-inch tall. Inevitably, on his first day as a student at Leeds University, he had been given the nickname ‘Half-Nelson’ and it had stayed with him throughout his career.
The doorway opened on to a shabby, musty and poorly lit staircase covered in threadbare carpet. I climbed unsteadily up the stairs to another door on the first-floor landing. The dentist’s opening hours were displayed on a card that had once been white and now had curled grey edges.
I walked into a dingy waiting room lined with hard-backed chairs. In the centre of the room a dusty, hardboard coffee table was piled high with old copies of Horse and Hound. An elderly, bald-headed man, with an uncanny resemblance to Popeye the Sailorman, was sitting there and he held a set of his dentures in each hand and clicked them together like castanets. He looked up with a toothless grin as I surveyed the room.
On the walls, posters of happy, smiling, suntanned people with sparkling white teeth beamed down from a pain-free world, devoid of crime, cloudy skies and, especially, toothache. After living on soup and soft foods for a week I took an instant dislike to the image of the smug man in the loudly checked sports jacket who was eating his steak and chips with the confidence of someone who could light up a medium-sized shopping precinct with a single smile.
Off to my right, one wall was partitioned off with a doorway, a counter and a sliding, frosted-glass window. In front of it was a small bell. I rang it and a shadowy figure appeared behind the glass. The sliding window opened and a grey-haired woman peered over her half-moon spectacles at me. It was Mrs Elsie Crapper, church organist and wife of Ernest Crapper, Ragley’s finest and only encyclopaedia salesman. Elsie had just taken a Valium tablet and looked reasonably composed.
‘Hello, Mr Sheffield … Oh dear, you look like death warmed up.’
‘Aagh gor too-ayhk,’ I said.
Years of practice provided her with an instant translation. ‘So, you’ve got toothache?’
‘Yaagh,’ I replied.
‘Very well, we’ll try to fit you in. Come back at half past ten.’
‘Ank-oo, Mithith Clap-ha.’
She shut the screen with a thump.
I looked at my watch. Two hours to kill. I was doing a passable imitation of ‘The Scream’ by Edvard Munch, so I set off back to the first-floor landing to find the toilet.
Beneath an antique cistern with a rusty chain was a cracked washbasin. The hot tap didn’t work and the block of coal-tar soap resisted the capacity to produce lather under the tiny trickle from the cold-water tap. The smooth and shiny toilet paper in the unused box had anti-absorption qualities that would have interested the designers of space shuttles. On a rolling pin attached to the wall, the damp roller towel, which was actually a tea towel sewn into a loop, held little attraction so I returned to the waiting room after flushing the toilet. This was a mistake as it sounded like the contents of an ironmonger’s shop going over Niagara Falls.
When I returned, a well-dressed lady and her daughter had arrived. The girl looked about eleven years old, had blonde pigtails and was wearing a bright-blue public-school jacket with a gold-stitched coat of arms on the breast pocket. The Latin motto under the badge, roughly translated, read, ‘We seek a virtuous life.’
‘I don’t want no beastly injections, Mummy,’ she said.
Her mother sighed, shook her head and gave me a ‘What do they teach them in schools these days?’ look.
‘Darling, I’ve told you before. A double negative in English turn
s it into a positive. Even though in Russian a double negative can form a positive, you must realize that there is no language where a double positive forms a negative.’
‘Yeah … right,’ said the girl and returned to drooling over a full-page colour photograph of Fonzie, aka Henry Winkler, in her Jackie Annual.
Her mother looked at her curiously for a moment. Then she picked up a copy of Yorkshire Life and murmured in appreciation at the photograph of all the fine red-coated huntsmen of the Middleton Hunt leaving Garrowby Hall.
The fortunate people with appointments came and went. A laboratory technician came down from the attic to collect both sets of Popeye’s false teeth for repair and, occasionally, screams from the surgery caused a flurry of concern in the waiting room. Finally ten thirty arrived and, once again, I was face to face with Elsie Crapper. She selected a brown, dog-eared National Health Service envelope from the teeming files on the shelf behind her and directed me to the surgery.
I walked into the condemned cell.
‘Cilla, put a bib on Mr Sheffield,’ said Horatio without looking up. As he washed his hands in the small sink in the corner I noticed the familiar roller towel was there but his hot tap was working.
Cilla, the leggy dental assistant in a short white overall that didn’t quite cover her miniskirt, selected the least damp of the two bibs on the radiator, directed me towards an ancient black leather dentist’s chair in the centre of the room and attached the Velcro tabs of the bib round my neck.
When Horatio examined me, the overpowering smell of Brut aftershave momentarily made me forget my discomfort. He peered over his round-lens, John Lennon spectacles and put two fingers in my mouth, one on either side of the swollen gum, and his thumb under my jawbone. This was the era before surgical gloves and I could taste the soap. Then he squeezed with a vice-like grip and I nearly passed out. Silent screams were now my speciality.
Cilla reached up to the Contiboard shelving unit attached to the wall and increased the volume on the Bush radio, presumably to drown my attempt at a scream. Joan Baez’s rendition of ‘Help Me Make it Through the Night’, now at full volume, seemed somehow appropriate. Meanwhile, Horatio, undeterred, merely gripped tighter. Next to the radio was a huge photograph of the diminutive dentist holding a silver trophy on which the inscription read, Winner of the Dentists’ Annual Golf Tournament at Moortown Golf Club, Leeds, 1979. This tended to confirm the little-known fact that all dentists have a good grip.
03 Dear Teacher Page 8
