02 Mister Teacher Read online

  About the Book

  It’s 1978, and Jack Sheffield is beginning his second year as headmaster of a small village school in North Yorkshire. There are three letters on his desk – one makes him smile, one makes him sad and one is destined to change his life forever. This is from nine-year-old Sebastian, suffering from leukaemia in the local hospital, who writes a heartbreaking letter addressed to ‘Mister Teacher’. So begins a journey through the seasons of Yorkshire life in which the school is the natural centre of the community.

  Vera, the school secretary who worships Margaret Thatcher; Ruby, the twenty-stone caretaker who sings like Julie Andrews; Dorothy, the coffee shop assistant who is desperate to be Wonder Woman; all these, and many more colourful characters, accompany Jack through the ups and downs of the school year. Most of all, there is the lovely Beth Henderson, a teacher from a nearby school, who with her sister Laura presents Jack with an unexpected dilemma.

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  1. Nits and the New Starters

  2. The Sound of Ruby

  3. A Brush with the Law

  4. Jam and Jerusalem

  5. Whistling John and the Dawn Chorus

  6. Wonder Woman’s Boots

  7. A Gift for Jeremy

  8. The Christingle Piano

  9. Sebastian’s Snowman

  10. The Plumbers of Penzance

  11. The Winter of Discontent

  12. Understanding Women

  13. Mr Dibble and the Rubik Cube

  14. The Age of Miracles

  15. A Different Déjà Vu

  16. Beware of the Ducks

  17. The Handbag Election

  18. Kel and Stinger

  19. Englebert and the Pet Show

  20. Curd Tarts and Crumpets

  21. Mister Teacher

  About the Author

  Copyright

  MISTER TEACHER

  The Alternative School Logbook 1978–1979

  Jack Sheffield

  For Jenifer, Sarah, Aimee, Emily and Lucy

  Acknowledgements

  I am deeply indebted to my editor, Linda Evans, and all at Transworld for their support, especially Stina Smemo, Katie Espiner and Sophie Holmes. Also, thanks go to my agent, the indefatigable Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his hard work, good humour and deep appreciation of Yorkshire cricket.

  I am grateful to everyone who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Alan Beddows, paediatric nurse, Roald Dahl Haematology Centre, Sheffield; Anne Butler, ex-President of the Women’s Institute, Sutton-on-the-Forest, York; Janina Bywater, nurse and lecturer in psychology; Steve Bywater, headteacher, Cornwall; Tony Cleaver, international flower arranger; Maria Demkowicz, and all the ‘Literary Girls’ of Sutton-on-the-Forest, York; John Everton, ex-Sheffield steelworker; John Kirby, ex-policeman and Sunderland supporter; Eileen Lavender, amateur dramatic producer and ex-dancer, York; Roy Linley, Solutions Architect, Unilever Europe IT; Sue Matthews, primary school teacher, York; Don Pears, musical director and Newcastle supporter; Canon Bob Rogers, York; Mike Smith, gentleman’s clothing expert, Clarkson’s, The Shirt Shop, York; Caroline Stockdale, librarian, York Central Library; Gwen Vardigans, African aid worker and friend of teddy bears.

  Prologue

  There were three letters on my desk: one made me smile, another made me sad and the third was destined to change my life.

  It was Friday, 1 September 1978, and I was alone in the school office. My second year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin.

  I picked up a brass letter-opener and looked at the first envelope. The flowing, expansive handwriting was distinctive and the Northallerton postmark confirmed it could only be from the formidable Chair of the Education Committee, Miss Barrington-Huntley. I unfolded the thick cream writing paper and underneath the impressive coat of arms her busy script raced powerfully across the page.

  County Hall, Northallerton, 28 August 1978

  Dear Jack,

  I do hope you have had a restful summer break. Congratulations on your successful first year in headship.

  I shall be visiting your school to make an assessment of your premises on Monday, 9 October at 9.00 a.m.

  Yours sincerely,

  Fiona Barrington-Huntley

  (Chair of the Education Committee)

  PS On this occasion I shall not be wearing a hat!

  I smiled. Following Miss Barrington-Huntley’s last annual inspection her expensive peacock-feathered hat had met an unexpected end.

  On that occasion, she had been accompanied by Beth Henderson, a local deputy headmistress who had been seconded for one year to support English and Physical Education in primary schools. After a whirlwind romance at the end of the summer term, Beth and I had driven off into the sunset in my Morris Minor Traveller for a holiday in France. Two carefree weeks later, I had left her at her parents’ house in Hampshire, where Beth had decided to spend the end of the school holiday, and I had returned to Yorkshire.

  To my surprise the second letter was from her. It was written on floral-patterned, lilac-coloured paper.

  Austen Cottage, Little Chawton, Hampshire, 27 August 1978

  My dear Jack,

  I’m sorry to be writing instead of phoning, but I wanted you to have time to think this through before I return to Yorkshire.

  As you know, my next career move is to look out for headships of small village schools. There’s a lovely school down here in Hampshire in need of a headteacher and I’ve decided to apply!

  Looking forward to telling you all about it!

  See you soon,

  Love,

  Beth

  With a tinge of sadness in my heart I sighed and stared at the address. Hampshire seemed such a long way off. I suddenly realized that Beth had become an important part of my life. She was different from any other woman I had known: dynamic and exciting. With my mind elsewhere, I picked up the third envelope.

  It had a York postmark and felt bulky. Inside was a handwritten letter on crisp white hospital letterhead. It read:

  York Hospital, 28 August 1978

  Dear Jack,

  Following the success of last year’s pen-friend project with the local special school, I wondered if we could arrange something similar with the Children’s Ward in York Hospital. We have a small number of children with very serious illnesses who would benefit from contact with children of their own age. If you can help, please let me know and I’ll call into school to arrange the details.

  I also enclose a letter from a wonderfully creative little boy called Sebastian, age 9, who has leukaemia.

  With best wishes for the new school year,

  Sue Phillips (Staff Nurse)

  Sue Phillips was a very active member of our Parent Teacher Association and, in between shifts at the hospital, she was also our school nurse.

  I looked inside the package and took out a small bright-yellow envelope on which the words ‘MISTER TEACHER’ were scrawled in thick pencil.

  It was a letter I would keep throughout my career. It read:

  Dear Mister Teacher,

  My name is Seb. I am nine years old. I am in hospital. There is something wrong with my blood. I have no hair and I feel poorly.

  I have three wishes. The first is to be an artist. The second is to make a snowman. The third is to go on a magical journey with a special friend.

  Mrs Phillips says I should write to you.

  Love from

  Seb

  I stared at the letter for a long time, folded it carefully and replaced it in the envelope. Then I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, put the envelope there for safekeeping, and took out the large, leather-bound school logbook. I opened it to the next clean page, 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.

  A year 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

  Nits and the New Starters

  86 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. The school nurse completed a head-lice inspection. Skateboards were banned following a directive from County Hall.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 5 September 1978

  ‘AH DON’T WANT this school giving my Damian no nits, Mr Sheffield!’

  Mrs Brown was our least favourite parent and had the build and manner of a raging buffalo. It didn’t seem to be the right moment to correct her use of a double negative.

  ‘What seems to be the problem, Mrs Brown?’ I removed my Buddy Holly spectacles and polished the lenses in an attempt to look composed.

  ‘Ah’ll tell y’what t’problem is,’ she shouted. ‘It’s nits!’

  She advanced through the office doorway, dragging four-year-old Damian with her. Clutching a Curlywurly bar, he was cheerfully oblivious of the chocolate and sticky toffee smeared across his face.

  ‘Them little buggers are everywhere. My Eddie says a midget bit ’im last night in t’back seat of ’is car. So ah want summat done!’ br />
  I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. ‘We’ve heard about the outbreak of head lice in the village, Mrs Brown, and the school nurse will be in this afternoon to do a check on all the children.’

  ‘Well, she better do it reight!’ yelled Mrs Brown. She yanked little Damian’s arm, causing his Curlywurly bar to leave a chocolate skid mark on my office wall, and rumbled out into the entrance hall. As I closed the door I heard her final tirade: ‘We never ’ad no nits when Mr Pruett was ’eadmaster.’

  I glanced up at the clock on the office wall. It was exactly 8.45 a.m. on Tuesday, 5 September 1978, and my second year as headmaster of Ragley Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  Back in the sanctuary of the staff-room, Ragley’s other three teachers were collecting their new class registers from Vera, the secretary.

  ‘Were those Mrs Brown’s dulcet tones, Jack?’ asked Anne Grainger.

  Anne, a slim, attractive brunette in her mid-forties, was a superb deputy headmistress. She taught the youngest children in school in Class 1 and Damian Brown was one of six four-year-olds about to start full-time education in her class.

  ‘Yes, and she’s just about blamed me for the arrival of head lice in the village.’ I picked up my old herringbone sports jacket from the back of a chair, frowned at the worn state of the leather patches on the sleeves, and straightened my brand-new tie.

  Sally Pringle passed me a mug of coffee. ‘Nice tie, Jack,’ she said, nodding towards my fashionable flower-power tie sporting a bright pattern of yellow daisies.

  Sally, the lower junior class teacher, was a tall, curly-haired thirty-something who clung to the last vestiges of her rebellious hippie days. She took her hands out of the pockets of her purple tie-dyed apron, which clashed violently with her frilly lime-green blouse and buttercup-yellow waistcoat, and grinned at Vera.

  ‘What do you think, Vera?’ asked Sally.

  Vera Evans, a spinster in her mid-fifties, had been the school secretary for over twenty years and her opinion was always important.

  ‘I’m sure the children will think it’s cheerful, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera tactfully.

  Vera pressed the creases from the skirt of her immaculate Marks & Spencer’s two-piece navy suit, and distributed the new registers.

  ‘Thanks, Vera,’ said Jo Maddison, staring a little nervously at her smart new register. ‘I promise there will be no mistakes this year.’

  Jo, a diminutive twenty-three-year-old, was about to begin her second year as teacher of the top infant class. She flicked her long black hair from her eyes and scrutinized my new fashion statement.

  ‘I think it’s an excellent choice, Jack,’ said Jo, with an encouraging smile. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Beth bought it for me,’ I said.

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘And how are things with you and Beth?’ asked Sally.

  Anne and Vera gave Sally a startled look, while Jo immediately found the small print on the front cover of her new register particularly interesting.

  ‘Not sure, but thanks for asking,’ I replied cautiously.

  They all nodded in unison, in the way women nod when they know more than they say they do.

  Beth Henderson had visited Ragley School almost a year ago. She was the deputy headmistress of Thirkby Junior School and had been assisting Miss Barrington-Huntley, Chair of the Education Committee, on her first inspection of the school. Beth and I were both single and in our early thirties. For me, it had been an eventful meeting, not least because it felt like love at first sight. A few weeks ago, in the school summer holidays, Beth and I had enjoyed a carefree holiday together but now she was applying for headships in Hampshire, so I guessed the feelings I had were not reciprocated. With a sigh, I put on my jacket, drank the coffee, picked up my new register, and headed for the door.

  ‘I’ll leave you ladies to it,’ I said. ‘I’ll check on the children in the yard and then I’ll ring the bell.’

  The front door of the school creaked on its Victorian hinges as I walked under the archway of Yorkshire stone. Above my head, the date 1878 was carved into the rugged lintel and the grey slate roof reflected the bright September sunshine. My flared polyester trousers flapped in the breeze as I walked across the small playground that was alive with skipping feet and the shouts of over eighty red-faced four- to eleven-year-olds.

  The mothers of the new starters were gathering in a corner of the playground. Betty Buttle, a local farmer’s wife, hung on to her sturdy, rosy-cheeked twin daughters, Rowena and Katrina, and absent-mindedly picked straw out of their hair. Ominously, both girls were scratching their heads. Sue Phillips, our local nurse, looked relaxed as she watched her four-year-old Dawn wander off to chat with her friends. Sue’s elder daughter, Claire, had been in my class last year and she had seen all this before. Alongside her, Margery Ackroyd, the local gossip, shouted to her son, Tony, to look after his little sisters, Charlotte and Theresa, and then proceeded to tell Sue Phillips about a certain local plumber who had offered to do more than lag her cold-water pipes.

  Meanwhile, Mrs Dudley-Palmer, by far the richest woman in the village, slammed the door of her Oxford Blue 1975 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow and hurried up the drive with six-year-old Elisabeth Amelia and four-year-old Victoria Alice. When she reached the playground, she dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief and clutched Victoria Alice, as if she was about to lose her for ever. Such sentiment was lost on Mrs Brown, who pointed little Damian towards the school entrance, gave him a push, and then turned on her heel and waddled towards the school gate. She gave me one final withering look before lighting up a cigarette and heading for the bus stop.

  I walked under the magnificent avenue of horse chestnut trees that bordered the front of the schoolyard and looked around me. Instantly, I remembered why I loved working in this beautiful part of the north of England. Ragley was a pretty picture-postcard Yorkshire village. On the far side of the village green, a group of farmers sat on the benches outside the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak. The High Street was flanked by wide grass verges and terraced cottages with reddish-brown pantile roofs. Villagers were going about their daily lives, shopping, chatting, cleaning windows and watering hanging baskets.

  It was an age of innocence. There was no National Curriculum, computers in schools were a far-off dream, and a teacher’s salary was £400 a month. For this was the autumn of 1978. Average house prices had shot up to £17,000, one-third of the population of York, some 30,000 people, had paid to see Star Wars and Close Encounters of the Third Kind, and John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John were riding high in the charts with ‘You’re The One That I Want’. Suits had wide lapels, trousers were flared, and men often had longer hair than women. Also, the skateboard had arrived.

  In fact, it was about to make its first appearance at Ragley School. Dominic Brown, elder brother of Damian, was racing towards school on a skateboard at that very moment.

  ‘Gerrin t’school, Dominic,’ screamed Mrs Brown. ‘Y’neither use nor ornament!’

  He ducked as his mother tried to clip him round the ear and promptly fell off. With his skateboard tucked under his arm, he ran through the gate and into the safety of the playground.

  I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine o’clock. Down the High Street, the owners of the Post Office, Diane’s Hair Salon, Nora’s Coffee Shop, Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, the Village Pharmacy and Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop were also beginning to look at their watches and unlock their doors. Prudence Golightly’s General Stores had been open for over an hour and she had just switched on her Bush radio in time for the pips preceding the nine o’clock news. I walked across to the school belltower, grabbed the thick, ancient rope, and rang the school bell that had summoned children to their lessons for the last one hundred years.

  Back in my classroom, twenty-four ten- and eleven-year-olds sat down in their seats, and looked excitedly at their brand-new exercise books and tins of Lakeland coloured pencils. Their cheerful faces reminded me why teaching was the best job in the world. I took the top off my pen, opened my class register, and began to fill the small rectangular boxes next to each child’s name with black diagonal lines.