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  About the Book

  It’s 1985, and as Jack returns for another year as headteacher at Ragley village school, some changes are in store.

  It’s the year of Halley’s Comet, Band Aid, Trivial Pursuit, Dynasty shoulder pads, Roland Rat and Microsoft Windows. And at Ragley-on-the-Forest, Heathcliffe Earnshaw decides to enter the village scarecrow competition, Ruby the caretaker finds romance, and retirement looms for Vera the secretary.

  Meanwhile, Jack has to battle with some rising stars of the teaching profession to save his job and his school . . .

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Map

  Prologue

  1 New Beginnings

  2 A Day to Remember

  3 A Fine Romance

  4 The Solitude of Secrets

  5 It’s All in the Stars

  6 Behind Closed Doors

  7 A Ragley Christmas

  8 A Comedy of Errors

  9 Changing Times

  10 Through a Glass Darkly

  11 Driving Ambition

  12 Eighties Man

  13 The Stratford Conference

  14 The End of Days

  15 Heathcliffe’s Scarecrow

  16 A Pratt Called Bismarck

  17 Jack to the Future

  18 For Whom the Bell Tolls

  19 Star Teacher

  About the Author

  Also by Jack Sheffield

  Copyright

  For my Band of Brothers, Roy, Nick and Rob, with thanks for their support over the years

  Acknowledgements

  I am indeed fortunate to have the support of a wonderful editor, the superb Linda Evans, and the excellent team at Transworld, including Larry Finlay, Bill Scott-Kerr, Jo Williamson, Sarah Harwood, Vivien Thompson, Brenda Updegraff, Lynsey Dalladay and fellow ‘Old Roundhegian’ Martin Myers.

  Special thanks as always go to my hardworking literary agent, Philip Patterson of Marjacq Scripts, for his encouragement, good humour, cycling proficiency and deep appreciation of Yorkshire cricket.

  I am also grateful to all those who assisted in the research for this novel – in particular: Patrick Busby, Pricing Director, church organist and Harrogate Rugby Club supporter, Medstead, Hampshire; Linda Collard, education trainer and consultant, fruit grower and jammaker, West Sussex; the Revd Ben Flenley, Rector of Bentworth, Lasham, Medstead and Shalden, Hampshire; Tony Greenan, Yorkshire’s finest headteacher (now retired), Huddersfield, Yorkshire; Marilyn Glover, member of the Friends of Takapuna Library, Auckland, New Zealand; Ian Haffenden, ex-Royal Pioneer Corps and custodian of Sainsbury’s, Alton, Hampshire; John Kirby, ex-policeman, expert calligrapher and Sunderland supporter, County Durham; Roy Linley, Lead Architect, Strategy & Technology, Unilever Global IT Innovation and Leeds United supporter, Port Sunlight, Wirral; Helen Maddison, primary school teacher and literary critic, Harrogate, Yorkshire; Phil Parker, ex-primary school teacher and Manchester United supporter; Helen Woodhouse, Chief Librarian, Takapuna Library, Auckland, New Zealand; and all the terrific staff at Waterstones, Alton, including Simon (now retired), Sam, Kirsty, Fiona, Daisy and Mandie; also, Kirstie and the dynamic team at Waterstones, York; and all the superb staff at Stratford-upon-Avon Library.

  Finally, sincere thanks to my wife, Elisabeth, without whose help the Teacher series of novels would never have been written.

  Prologue

  Decisions.

  We are all faced with important choices in our lives. Some are based on necessity, others on ambition … but some are based on love.

  So it was during the summer of 1985.

  My wife, Beth, had made such a decision.

  Like me, Beth was a headteacher of a small North Yorkshire village school and the opportunity of a large school headship had arisen in Hampshire. At the end of a dramatic interview, Beth had turned it down.

  I had expected her to be sad when she returned home, but it was not so. We put our two-year-old son, John William, in his cot and crept quietly downstairs. On that balmy evening, as the sun set over the distant Hambleton hills, we sat on our garden bench drinking coffee and breathing in the soft scent of the yellow ‘Peace’ roses.

  ‘Why?’ I asked simply.

  Beth smiled. ‘It didn’t feel right,’ she said quietly.

  The final rays of golden light gilded the hedgerow and caressed her honey-blonde hair. We had reached a crossroads in our life.

  ‘I thought this was what you wanted,’ I said.

  ‘Perhaps it was.’ She sighed and rested her head on my shoulder. There was a silence that seemed to last for ever. ‘But I wanted you more.’

  I sat back, unsure in a sea of white noise. This was not the response I had expected. Then she looked up at me and gave me that familiar mischievous smile. ‘And then, of course … there’s my mother.’

  Beth had stayed with her parents, John and Diane, in their Hampshire home during her interview. There was often tension between Diane and her equally determined daughter.

  I knew when to keep quiet.

  That had been six weeks ago and now the school summer holiday was almost over. During August, Age and Experience, those familiar companions, had taken me by the hand and I had moved seamlessly past my fortieth birthday. It was then that I considered my life, my achievements and, not least, my hopes for the future … but they were intertwined with those of my wife. It was a shared destiny and, whatever the pathway, it was one we would walk together. But little did we know what lay ahead. The unknown was just around the corner, decisions would have to be made and there were secrets that would have to be kept.

  The academic year 1985/86 had begun quietly on a perfect morning. It was Saturday, 31 August and I was sitting at my desk in the school office. Warm, late-summer sunshine slanted in through the windows. The beginning of the autumn term for the children of the village was a few days away and I was sifting through the post that had come from County Hall.

  Meanwhile, on the office wall, the clock with its faded Roman numerals ticked on. In spite of the usual apprehension, I had always found the dawn of a new school year to be an exciting time, but little did I know that a battle was about to commence. The end of a world I had come to love was threatening like a far-off thunder cloud, and a year of secrets and surprises lay in store.

  However, on that distant autumn day, all seemed calm as my ninth year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire was about to begin.

  Up the Morton Road the church clock chimed midday. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, removed 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. Eight 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

  New Beginnings

  96 children were registered on roll on the first day of the school year. Ms Pat Brookside, our newly appointed teacher, took up her post in Class 2 with responsibility for computer studies and physical education. A meeting of headteachers to discuss the ‘Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire’ has been arranged for 1 October.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Wednesday, 4 September 1985

  ‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ said a formidabl
e lady with the build of a Russian discus-thrower.

  ‘Good morning,’ I replied with some trepidation. I was standing at the gate, welcoming the children as they arrived to begin another school year.

  The lady took a final drag of her cigarette, crushed the glowing tip between a thumb and forefinger and flicked the stub into the hedgerow. Her bright floral dress sported cut-away sleeves to accommodate her huge biceps. At six feet tall she gave me a level stare. ‘Ah’m Mrs Spittall,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Freda Spittall, that is … an’ my Gary starts t’day.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Mrs Spittall.’ I removed my black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles and polished them, wondering what was coming next.

  Mrs Spittall’s four-year-old son was dressed in what appeared to be an assortment of hand-me-down clothing. Gary was wearing an outsize Star Wars T-shirt, baggy grey shorts that hung way below his knees, York City football socks and scuffed sandals.

  ‘’E’ll grow into his clothes soon enough, ah reckon,’ said his mother. ‘’E’s gonna be a big lad.’

  I nodded in agreement. Already Gary was as tall as many of our six-year-olds.

  ‘Well, welcome to Ragley School, Mrs Spittall,’ I said. ‘If you’ll just go into the office and see our secretary, we can get Gary registered.’

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ she replied and glanced down at her son, who had begun to pick his nose with enthusiastic and well-practised dexterity. ‘’E’s a good lad, is our Gary, but ’e’s goin’ through one o’ them awkward phrases.’

  ‘Is he?’ I asked.

  Gary was now sucking the finger that had been excavating his left nostril.

  Mrs Spittall pondered for a moment. ‘Per’aps ah ought t’mention to y’secretary about ’is ’abits.’

  ‘Habits?’

  ‘Yes, ’e teks after ’is dad,’ she said with a sigh.

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘’E picks ’is nose.’

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘An’ ’is ears.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘An’ any other horifice that teks ’is fancy.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’ I wondered what Vera in the school office would make of this. ‘I’ll pass on your information, Mrs Spittall, so don’t worry about discussing it with Mrs Forbes-Kitchener.’ It seemed to me that some things were best left unsaid.

  They set off up the school drive, Mrs Spittall striding purposefully towards the entrance hall while Gary began to scratch his bottom.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. It was just after 8.30 a.m. on Wednesday, 4 September 1985, the first day of the autumn term, and my ninth year as headteacher of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School in North Yorkshire had begun.

  It was a perfect morning of late-summer sunshine. I looked around me and relaxed in the welcome shade beneath the avenue of horse chestnut trees that bordered the front of our village school. As always on the first day of the school year, I felt a little apprehensive as I wondered what might be in store. Around me, excited children, suntanned after a long summer holiday, skipped by and waved a greeting as they hurried towards the schoolyard. Our tarmac playground was bordered by a low stone wall topped with high, wrought-iron railings decorated with fleur-de-lis. I watched the children as they gathered in groups. It was a time for old friendships to be rekindled and new ones to be forged.

  A few girls were winding a long skipping rope and chanting out a rhyme as two nine-year-olds, Jemima Poole and Rosie Appleby, skipped in and out.

  Little fat doctor

  How’s your wife?

  Very well thank you

  That’s all right

  Eat a bit o’ fish

  An’ a stick o’ liquorice

  O-U-T spells OUT!

  They appeared relaxed and full of good spirits as another school year in their young lives stretched out before them.

  Ragley School looked fine on this special morning. It was a tall, red-brick Victorian building with high arched windows, a grey-slate roof and a distinctive bell tower. Generations of children had walked up the worn steps, under the archway of Yorkshire stone and through the old oak entrance door to begin their formal education. Back in 1977 the mantle of responsibility had passed to me and over time our school had become a centre of our community. The villagers were proud of its achievements and, in a small way, I felt content to be playing my part. It was a job I loved and I was happy in my world.

  Suddenly a plump, red-faced lady approached me dragging a reluctant little boy with her. It was Mrs Dora Spraggon, mother of five-year-old Alfie, who was about to begin another year in Anne Grainger’s infant class.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Spraggon,’ I said cheerfully.

  ‘Beggin’ y’pardon, Mr Sheffield … but ah don’t think so,’ she replied forcefully. Mrs Spraggon was always friendly but naturally curt and to the point. ‘Ah tell it like it is, Mr Sheffield,’ she had announced earlier in the week in the General Stores while I had been queuing for my morning paper. ‘Ah always call a spade a shovel.’

  I looked down at Alfie in his Wham! T-shirt, grubby shorts and grass-stained sandals. He looked decidedly fed up with life. ‘Are you all right, Alfie?’ I asked.

  Mrs Spraggon shook her head. ‘’E’s gorra conjunction, Mr Sheffield.’

  ‘A conjunction?’

  ‘Yes, in ’is eye.’

  The penny dropped. ‘Oh, I see,’ I said.

  On cue, Alfie rubbed the swelling beneath his left eye.

  ‘Please mention it to Mrs Grainger,’ I called after her as she hurried up the drive.

  Meanwhile, the village was coming to life. Opposite the school on the village green a few mothers were sitting on the bench by the duck pond watching their small children making daisy chains. Next to the green, in the centre of a row of cottages with pantile roofs and tall, rickety chimneypots, stood the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak. The barmaid, Sheila Bradshaw, in her see-through blouse, leather mini-skirt and high heels, was sweeping the porch and gave me a seductive wave.

  To my left, Ragley’s High Street was bordered by wide grassy verges and a row of village shops. Some of the shopkeepers looked busier than others. Amelia Duff was preparing to open her Post Office while, next door, Diane Wigglesworth was sitting on the step of her Hair Salon and smoking her first John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette of the day. Nora Pratt was holding a bucket of soapy water outside her Coffee Shop, while Dorothy Robinson, her assistant, cleaned the window and swayed her hips to Tina Turner’s ‘We Don’t Need Another Hero’, blasting out from the old red-and-chrome juke-box. Next door, Nora’s brother, Timothy Pratt, was polishing the brass door handle of his Hardware Emporium as if his life depended on it. Peggy Scrimshaw was receiving a delivery of Pond’s Cream for the village Pharmacy, and Old Tommy Piercy was arranging a selection of pigs’ trotters behind the window of his butcher’s shop. Meanwhile, the General Stores & Newsagent had been open since eight o’clock and Prudence Golightly was selling four ounces of sherbet lemons to ten-year-old Damian Brown. The High Street was the heartbeat of the village and another day had begun.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ announced a polite, well-modulated voice.

  I looked around. It was Mrs Pippa Jackson with her identical twin daughters, Hermione and Honeysuckle. ‘A beautiful day,’ she added cheerily.

  A year ago the family had moved into one of the most expensive properties in the village on the Morton Road. As always, the girls were immaculately turned out in matching gingham dresses, knee-length white socks and smart new leather shoes. Their blonde hair had been brushed and tied back with bright-coloured bows of different colours to assist Anne Grainger in telling one from the other in her reception class.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,’ I replied, ‘and hello, girls.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ chorused the twins in perfect harmony.

  I followed them up the cobbled drive and overheard a snippet of conversation between Mrs Ricketts and Mrs Crapper. Brenda Ricketts wa
s holding the hand of her five-year-old daughter, Suzi-Quatro, while Connie Crapper was spitting on her handkerchief prior to removing the last vestige of lipstick from the face of seven-year-old Patience.

  ‘She’s all posh curtains an’ flock wallpaper is that one,’ said Brenda Ricketts, nodding towards Mrs Jackson.

  Connie Crapper nodded in agreement. ‘Definitely stuck-up. All fur coat an’ no knickers,’ she added for good measure.

  The ebb and flow of village gossip never changed.

  Pretending I hadn’t heard, I walked on towards the entrance steps, where I paused and took a deep breath. Then I glanced up at the scudding clouds sweeping past the bell tower and reflected that I was happy here in my village school in this peaceful corner of God’s Own Country. However, beyond our little community, in the nation at large, times were changing fast.

  For this was 1985. According to a recent survey, a remarkable 78 per cent of the population now had a telephone in their home, 61 per cent owned a car, 13 per cent went to church and 18 per cent of the country’s 56.5 million people had reached retirement age. The miners’ strike had ended and the wreck of the Titanic had been located, blood donors would soon be screened for AIDS and British Telecom had finally decided to phase out the classic red telephone box. The average UK house price had increased to £34,000, Cyndi Lauper had been voted best new artist and Dire Straits’ Brothers in Arms was the bestselling album. Microsoft had recently released something called Windows and a remarkable thirteen-year-old, Ruth Lawrence, had achieved a starred first in mathematics at Oxford, becoming the youngest ever graduate. Meanwhile, we had already said a final goodbye to Sir Michael Redgrave and Yul Brynner, and were soon to lose Laura Ashley and Orson Welles.

  However, in sleepy Ragley-on-the-Forest life trundled along and the school bell that had summoned the children of the village for over one hundred years was about to ring out once again to announce the beginning of another school year.

  When I walked into the office our school secretary, Vera Forbes-Kitchener, a tall, slim, elegant sixty-three-year-old, was sitting at her immaculately tidy desk and labelling the new attendance and dinner registers, a pair for each of our four classes.