04 Village Teacher Read online

  About the Book

  It’s 1980: recession and unemployment have hit Britain, a royal wedding is on the way, and the whole country is wondering Who Shot JR?

  As Jack returns for his fourth year at Ragley-on-the Forest School, there’s a definite chill in the air. Village schools are being closed down all over the place – will his be one of them?

  As school life continues – Vera, the school secretary, has to grapple with a new-fangled electric typewriter, Ruby celebrates ten years as the school cleaner, and the village panto throws up some unusual problems – Jack wonders what the future holds…

  Contents

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1. A Smile for Raymond

  2. The Brave New World of Vera Evans

  3. A Rose for Ruby

  4. Jane Austen’s Footsteps

  5. The Ashes of Archibald Pike

  6. Captain Kirk and the Flea Circus

  7. Jilly Cooper and the Yorkshire Fairies

  8. An Apple for Rudolph

  9. The Barnsley Ferret-Legger

  10. New Brooms

  11. The Problem with Men

  12. Beauty and the Blacksmith

  13. The Last Rag-and-Bone Man

  14. A Boy and a Kite

  15. Agatha Christie and the Missing Vicar

  16. Grace, Hope and Chastity

  17. Terry Earnshaw’s Rainbow

  18. Angel of Mercy

  19. The Guardians of Secrets

  20. Village Teacher

  About the Author

  Copyright

  In fond memory of Vera Jane

  Acknowledgements

  I am indeed fortunate to have the support of my superb editor, the ever-patient Linda Evans, and the wonderful team at Transworld Publishers, including Nick Robinson, Madeline Toy, Lynsey Dalladay, Sophie Holmes and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers.

  Special thanks go to my industrious agent, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement and good humour, and for proving that, even at five-feet-seven-inches tall, you can be a giant among literary agents!

  I am grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Sarah Barrett, school nurse, Hampshire; Jenny Barrett, former secretary and Selectric typewriter demonstrator, Hampshire; Ted Barrett, retired senior manager, IBM, Hampshire; Patrick Busby, pricing director, church organist and Harrogate Rugby Club supporter, Hampshire; Janina Bywater, nurse and lecturer in psychology, Cornwall; Nick Cragg, chairman, Stafforce and Rotherham Rugby Club supporter, South Yorkshire; Rob Cragg, ex-European director, Molex, Hampshire; The Revd Ben Flenley, Rector of Bentworth, Lasham, Medstead and Shalden, Hampshire; Kathryn Flenley, lay reader and schoolteacher, Hampshire; Clive Hutton, retired engineer and classic-car enthusiast, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, solutions analyst and Leeds United supporter, Unilever, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Sue Maddison, primary schoolteacher, Harrogate, North Yorkshire; Kerry Magennis-Prior, churchwarden, St Andrew’s Church, Medstead, Hampshire; Sue Matthews, primary schoolteacher, York; Phil Parker, ex-teacher and Manchester United supporter, York; John Roberts, retired railway civil engineer, York; Zoe Roberts, museum explainer, York; Maureen Shying, Burradoo, NSW, Australia; Caroline Stockdale, librarian, York Central Library; and all the wonderful staff at Waterstone’s, Alton, Hampshire.

  Prologue

  Love is a fickle companion.

  Six weeks ago I had it all … love of life, love of my school and, best of all, love of a woman.

  Warm late-summer sunshine shone through the high-arched Victorian window of my office but, suddenly, I felt cold. I stared once again at the official-looking letter and shivered. I had been headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire for three years but it seemed unlikely I would complete a fourth. My days of being a village teacher were numbered.

  It was Monday, 1 September 1980, and the school summer holiday was almost at an end. It had begun with the buying of a ring and hopes for a bright future. It was ending with news of school closures and the dashing of dreams.

  I had asked Beth Henderson to marry me and, in spite of my previous entanglement with her sister Laura, to my delight she had said yes. Like me, Beth was a headteacher of a small village school in North Yorkshire and, at the end of July, we had packed quickly, jumped into my Morris Minor Traveller and driven down to Cornwall, where we found a quaint little cottage in the village of Summercourt. After two weeks of rugged scenery and cream teas, we returned to Yorkshire to plan our future together.

  Beth and I walked down Stonegate, one of York’s medieval streets, and stopped outside the bay window of Barbara Cattle’s jewellery shop. One particular ring with its cluster of rose diamonds sparkled in the early August sunshine. The neat writing on the tiny label simply read: Once owned by a Victorian lady.

  ‘It’s beautiful, Jack,’ said Beth quietly, ‘but it’s expensive – especially for a teacher.’

  She was right. At £200 it represented a large slice of my monthly salary.

  ‘It looks perfect,’ I said quickly. Then I removed my Buddy Holly spectacles and began to polish them.

  ‘Your teachers at Ragley say that’s what you do when you’re dealing with difficult parents,’ said Beth, with a grin. ‘You do it to give yourself thinking time.’

  I hastily put them back on. ‘You know me so well.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ she said. Her honey-blonde hair caressed her high cheekbones and her soft green eyes were full of mischief. She stretched up and kissed me on my cheek. ‘Come on, Mr Sheffield,’ she whispered in my ear, ‘let’s choose an engagement ring.’

  * * *

  As August drew to its close our attention turned back to our schools and to preparations for the new academic year. So it was on the first day of September I sifted through the holiday mail piled high on my desk. The letter from County Hall in Northallerton made it clear that some village schools were no longer economically viable and would have to close. We had fewer than ninety children on roll and I recalled that Beth had even fewer children in her school. Reluctantly, I pinned the letter on the office noticeboard and, with a sigh, unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk.

  I took out the large, leather-bound school logbook and opened it to the next clean page. Then 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.

  Three 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

  A Smile for Raymond

  87 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. A maintenance team from County Hall visited school to free blocked pipework in the school kitchen. The school photographer took photographs of all children and classes.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Thursday, 4 September 1980

  ‘IF IT’S LIKE last year, Mr Sheffield, ah’ll want m’money back!’

  Mrs Winifred Brown, our least favourite parent, had all the charm of a Rottweiler with attitude. I took a step back into the school office as she wedged her ample backside in the door frame.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said … but I didn’t.

  ‘An’ ah want my Damian t’be smiling this time, else ah’ll give that ’tographer what for.’
r />   The penny dropped. At the end of last term, Vera the secretary had typed a letter to parents to let them know the school photographer would be in school on the first Friday afternoon of the new school year. He had explained that he wanted the children to look suntanned and healthy after their six-week summer holiday.

  I looked down at six-year-old Damian, who was picking his nose. ‘I’m sure it will be fine, Mrs Brown,’ I said, a little lamely, glancing down at her son’s skinhead haircut and the remains of a KitKat bar smeared across his face.

  ‘It’d better be,’ she retorted as she stormed out into the entrance hall. ‘An’ ah’ll be picking ’im up t’morrow just afore three o’clock,’ she shouted as I closed the door. ‘Ah’ve got business in York!’

  I sat down at my desk, took a deep breath, removed my Buddy Holly spectacles and gave them a polish with the end of my outdated flower-power tie. Then I glanced up at the clock with its faded Roman numerals. It was 8.30 a.m. on Thursday, 4 September 1980, the first day of the autumn term. My fourth year as headteacher of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  Anne Grainger, the deputy headteacher, walked into the office and glanced back at Mrs Brown. ‘Happy days are here again,’ she said. Anne, a slim, attractive brunette who looked nothing like her forty-eight years, was a wonderful teacher of the reception class and a loyal supporter of Ragley School. She also had the priceless qualities of patience and a sense of humour.

  ‘Mrs Brown wants her Damian to be smiling on the class photograph tomorrow,’ I explained.

  ‘And pigs might fly,’ retorted Anne. She glanced down at my feet. ‘Like the new shoes, by the way,’ she added mischievously.

  I looked self-consciously at my new, trendy Kickers shoes peering out beneath my flared polyester trousers. Changing fashion had gradually crept up on us in Ragley village but the image of the new-look Eighties-man was clearly a far-off dream for me. The frayed leather patches on the elbows of my blue-checked herringbone sports jacket were not exactly at the cutting edge of fashion.

  ‘Thanks, Anne,’ I replied sheepishly. I glanced out of the window at the playground, which was filling up with excited children and the mothers of the new starters. ‘I think I’ll get some fresh air,’ I said, ‘and, hopefully, see a few friendly faces.’ I unwound my gangling six-foot-one-inch frame from the wooden chair and attempted to flatten the palm-tree tuft of brown hair that refused to lie down on the crown of my head.

  Anne grinned and glanced up at the clock. ‘Don’t be long, Jack. Vera will be giving out the new registers in a few minutes.’

  The giant oak door creaked on its Victorian hinges and I hurried down the worn steps on to the tarmac playground surrounded by a waist-high wall of Yorkshire stone and topped with black metal railings. Mothers and children were walking up the cobbled school drive. I waved and they smiled in acknowledgement. They all looked relaxed with the exception of the furtive Mrs Winifred Brown, who, to my surprise, disappeared suddenly round the back of the cycle shed and I wondered why she was going in that direction.

  At the school gate, under the canopy of magnificent horse-chestnut trees that bordered the front of our school, eight-year-old Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his seven-year-old brother Terry stood staring up into the branches.

  ‘ ’Ullo, Mr Sheffield. Can we chuck sticks up t’get conkers, please?’ asked Heathcliffe.

  ‘I’m afraid not, Heathcliffe,’ I said, with safety in mind, although I recalled that, as a boy, I had collected conkers in the same way. ‘But I can reach the low branches, so we’ll get some at morning playtime.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘M’dad said ’e’d put some in t’oven tonight t’mek ’em ’ard.’ Heathcliffe took his conkers very seriously.

  Meanwhile, Terry looked up in admiration. In his eyes, Heathcliffe was Luke Skywalker and the Bionic Man all rolled into one.

  I leant on the wrought-iron gate and looked across the village green. Morning sunshine lit up the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak, which nestled comfortably in the centre of a row of cottages with pantile roofs and tall, sturdy brick chimneys. Outside, under the welcome shade of a weeping-willow tree, Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on the bench next to the duck pond, contentedly smoking a pipe of Old Holborn tobacco. He was watching the High Street coming alive. The village postman, Ted Postlethwaite, had just finished delivering mail to the General Stores & Newsagent, Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, the Village Pharmacy, Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, Nora’s Coffee Shop and Diane’s Hair Salon. Then he disappeared into the Post Office to enjoy his usual cup of tea with Miss Duff, the postmistress.

  Off to my right, children were turning the corner of School View from the council estate and running towards school. Among them was eight-year-old Jimmy Poole. He was growing tall now but the mop of ginger curly hair, black-button eyes and freckled face were just as I remembered them.

  ‘Good morning, Jimmy,’ I said.

  He stopped and looked up at me. ‘Hello, Mithter Theffield,’ he lisped. He pointed to the group of new starters standing with their mothers against the school wall. ‘My thithter, Jemima, thtarth thchool today, Mr Theffield,’ he panted.

  Mrs Poole was clutching the tiny hand of four-year-old Jemima, whose long wavy ginger hair was neatly brushed and tied back with a blue ribbon.

  ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll look after her, Jimmy,’ I said.

  ‘Yeth, Mr Theffield,’ shouted Jimmy as he ran off to discuss the forthcoming conker season with his friend Heathcliffe.

  I looked back at the school and felt a pang of sadness. It was a solid Victorian building of reddish-brown bricks, high-arched windows, a steeply sloping grey slate roof and a tall, incongruous bell tower. Each year, for over one hundred years, the bell had rung to announce a new school year. In a huddle, by the stone steps of the entrance porch, stood seven mothers, each clutching the hand of a four-year-old new starter destined for Anne Grainger’s reception class. They were the new generation of Ragley children and, as I hurried back into school, I prayed they wouldn’t be the last.

  I wondered what the new academic year held in store.

  For this was 1980. Over two million were unemployed, inflation had risen to more than twenty per cent and Margaret Thatcher was becoming increasingly annoyed by the antics of a certain Arthur Scargill. Stone-washed jeans were suddenly fashionable and Action Man had been voted Toy of the Decade. Intelligence was measured by the speed with which you could complete a Rubik cube and Phillips had released something called a compact-disc player. Meanwhile, an unknown group of children known as the St Winifred’s School Choir were practising a song about their grandma.

  When I opened the staff-room door, Vera was distributing a set of pristine school registers. Our tall, slim, elegant fifty-eight-year-old school secretary looked immaculate in her navy-blue pin-striped Marks & Spencer’s business suit. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘and congratulations!’ She gave me a knowing smile and handed over a beautiful Engagement card. It had been signed by all the staff.

  ‘Jack, we’re all so happy for you,’ said Anne Grainger.

  ‘Well done, Jack,’ said Sally Pringle. She leant forward, gave me a peck on my cheek and glanced down at my new shoes, ‘and I like the groovy footwear.’

  Sally, a tall, ginger-haired thirty-nine-year-old who taught Class 3, the eight- and nine-year-olds, was wearing her usual loud colours. A voluminous bright-pink blouse hung loosely over her pillar-box red stretch cords. While the blouse clashed with her Pre-Raphaelite red hair, it comfortably hid her precious bulge. Sally was eighteen weeks pregnant and due to leave at Christmas, to be replaced by Miss Flint, our supply teacher.

  She grinned wickedly and patted her tummy. ‘And before long, Jack, it might be your turn to have a little one.’

  ‘Oh no!’ I exclaimed hurriedly. ‘I don’t think so … We’ve not even fixed a date for the wedding yet.’

  ‘So when do you think it might be?�
� asked Jo Hunter. The diminutive twenty-five-year-old taught the seven-and eight-year-olds in Class 2. Jo was married to Dan Hunter, our friendly six-foot-four-inch local policeman, and was always full of energy. She was dressed in her new body-hugging tracksuit and Chris Evert trainers, with her long black hair tied back in a pony-tail.

  ‘We’re in no rush,’ I said cautiously. ‘It will probably be next year sometime.’

  ‘Very wise, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, peering at me over her steel-framed spectacles.

  I smiled. Vera always insisted on calling me ‘Mr Sheffield’. Only once had she ever called me by my first name and that was at the end of last term during a conversation that had changed my life. Vera had insisted I should tell Beth my true feelings. ‘Go and find her, Jack. Don’t let her go,’ Vera had said. ‘That happened to me once. I wouldn’t want you to let it happen to Beth.’

  I didn’t ask Vera what she really meant and supposed I never would.

  ‘Well, good luck, everybody. I’ll go and ring the bell.’

  So, on the stroke of nine o’clock, amid tearful farewells among the mothers of the new starters, the children of Ragley village wandered happily into school to begin the academic year 1980/81.

  In my classroom, twenty-three ten- and eleven-year-olds were sitting at their hexagonal Formica-topped tables. In front of each child was a reading record card, a new wooden ruler, an HB pencil, a tin of Lakeland crayons, a rubber, a New Oxford Dictionary and a collection of new exercise books with different-coloured manila covers.

  Predictably, I started off with something simple and we talked about what we had done during the school holiday. Soon all the class were writing and I was pleased to see ten-year-old Tracy Crabtree using her dictionary. Unknown to me, she was searching for the word ‘steroids’. Twenty minutes later she placed her book on the pile on my desk for marking and moved on to some long multiplication. I picked up my red pen and read what Tracy had written:

  ‘My dad bought some steroids in the holidays. My mam said he had to get them because she was fed up of him. She said he’d been putting it off for ages. So he got his hammer and fixed them to the stair carpet to stop it slipping.’