03 Dear Teacher Page 21

  Netherbank Hall was a solid Victorian building of local stone that reflected an amber light in the low April sun. It was set in a wooded area overlooking the River Wharfe and a huge grassy playing field had been created alongside. We stopped the car next to a group of young boys who were busy constructing a wigwam from stripped branches and stout rope. I could see Dean Pickles among them.

  The tall, fair-haired, athletic man supervising them walked towards us. ‘Good to see you again, Roy,’ he shouted. He looked relaxed in his jeans and checked lumberjack shirt. They shook hands and he turned to me with a grin. ‘And this must be Jack. Welcome to Netherbank. I’m the head, Rod Twelvetrees.’ He saw my surprise and grinned. ‘An old southern counties name,’ he added by way of explanation.

  We hit it off straight away and, after a tour of the school, we were drinking coffee in the staff-room with a dramatic view of the distant hills through the high arched window. The teachers were young, energetic and positive and spoke with enthusiasm about their work. They all shared the ethos of this special place based on strict discipline, self-esteem and mutual respect. I could see why Dean would have a chance to thrive in this well-organized and caring community.

  ‘He’ll be fine here, Jack,’ said Rod, ‘and I’ll let you know how he progresses.’

  As I left I walked over to Dean and ruffled his hair. ‘Good luck, Dean,’ I said. ‘Make the most of your chance here. It’s a great place and you’ll make new friends.’

  He looked confused but, strangely, not at all tearful. As I drove away I looked in my wing mirror and saw Dean being led into school by the tall figure of Rod Twelvetrees, his large hand resting on the little boy’s shoulders.

  The journey home was silent as we both reflected on the enormity of the impact we had made on the young life of Dean Pickles. The wild hillsides flew by and the grassy banks alongside the limestone walls were filled with brilliant-yellow daffodils.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Prettiest Cow in Yorkshire

  A selection of children’s artwork was delivered to the City Art Gallery for the exhibition on Saturday, 26 April. A party of children, parents and staff will attend.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 25 April 1980

  ‘THIS COW HAS just been insured for £10,000!’ exclaimed Vera.

  Sally and Anne put down their cups of coffee and stared at Vera in astonishment. It was Friday lunchtime, 25 April, and outside the staff-room window, through the mirage of mist, the mellow showers of April had arrived to refresh the countryside. However, at that moment, the beauty of nature was far from our minds.

  ‘That’s not like you, Vera,’ said Sally tactfully.

  ‘So … is it some Hollywood film star that you’re not particularly keen on?’ asked Anne cautiously.

  Vera stared at the front page of the Easington Herald & Pioneer and shook her head in dismay. ‘How can a cow like that be worth all that money?’ she said.

  ‘Who are you talking about, Vera?’ I asked.

  ‘Lulu,’ said Vera.

  ‘Lulu!’ exclaimed Anne.

  ‘Yes. She’s a Canadian Holstein,’ said Vera.

  ‘I thought she was from Scotland,’ said Sally.

  ‘Scotland?’ I said, puzzled.

  ‘Well, she used to sing “Shout” in a Scottish accent,’ said Sally.

  Vera held up the front page of the newspaper and pointed to a photograph of a smiling farmer standing next to a contented-looking cow in a muddy farmyard. ‘No,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘It’s Mr Icklethwaite’s prize cow. His daughter, Betsy, is in Class 2. In fact, she’s just done a painting of this cow.’

  ‘Ah, I’m with you now, Vera,’ said Anne, looking relieved.

  ‘I’ve seen the painting,’ added Sally. ‘It’s excellent for a six-year-old. It’s in our collection for tomorrow’s exhibition at the art gallery in York.’

  Vera read out the bold text under the photograph. ‘A Ragley farmer’s prize cow has been selected for the Milk Marketing Dairy event at Stoneleigh.’ Then she adjusted her spectacles as if she couldn’t believe what she was reading. ‘Lulu, a Canadian Holstein,’ she continued, ‘was chosen because she is particularly good-looking and has been insured by the Board for £10,000.’

  I leaned over to stare at the photograph. ‘How can a cow be good-looking?’ I asked.

  Joseph, sitting quietly in the corner, reached out for another custard cream. ‘I suppose all of God’s creatures have their own personal charm,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t be greedy, Joseph,’ Vera said.

  ‘Well, most of them,’ mumbled Joseph under his breath.

  The awkward moment was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Vera answered it, smiled and passed the receiver to me.

  ‘It’s Miss Henderson … Miss Beth Henderson,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ said Beth. She sounded upbeat. ‘My deputy, Simon, is taking some of our children’s artwork down to the art gallery this evening and I wondered if you were going to the exhibition on Saturday. It starts at twelve.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, trying to hide my enthusiasm. ‘Did you want to meet up?’

  ‘How about ten thirty?’ she said. ‘We could go for a coffee first.’

  ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

  Around me the silence in the staff-room was deafening. Everyone sat like statues, listening in to the conversation – all with the exception of Joseph, who put his cup and saucer back on the coffee table with a clatter and the four women in perfect unison all shot him a disapproving stare.

  ‘How about Minerva?’ said Beth.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ I said. ‘See you there.’

  In the centre of York a popular meeting place was the corner of Petergate and Minster Gates, where the statue of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, kept her quiet vigil over the heads of the busy shoppers.

  Predictably, I was in a good mood when I took morning assembly. Sally was leading the choir and playing her guitar. She was sitting down, which was strange for her, and looking a little more flushed and tired than usual. ‘Daisies are our silver’ sang the children. However, Benjamin Roberts, now just past his fifth birthday, remained silent and I gave him an inquisitive stare. Benjamin didn’t actually mind daisies. They tended to brighten up his world. It was just that he didn’t see much point in singing about them. With a crushing glance and the demeanour of martyrdom he sat up straight and began to mime the words like a professional.

  Immediately after the end of school, Jo and Sally were using some of the dining tables in the hall to carefully mount the selection of children’s artwork. Jo was trimming the pictures, using the deadly dangerous, long-handled guillotine that, for obvious reasons, we kept locked away in the stock cupboard while we waited for affordable new technology to replace it. Sally was double-mounting the paintings and drawings expertly on pastel-coloured sugar paper and then on to stiff white card. The results looked highly professional.

  Sally held up Betsy Icklethwaite’s painting. ‘Isn’t this good, Jack?’

  ‘It’s excellent,’ I said. There were twenty paintings in all but the most colourful and vibrant was the one entitled ‘Daddy’s Best Friend’ by Betsy.

  ‘But are you sure it’s a cow?’ asked Jo, after carefully lowering the arm of the guillotine into a safe position.

  We all studied the painting carefully. There was no doubt it was definitely an impressionist work. However, while the shape in the centre had the colouring of a zebra and the characteristics of a hippopotamus, it was the fact that the creature was watching television that tended to diminish the contextual clues.

  Before going home, a group of children, seeing their work mounted, had gathered round, full of excitement.

  ‘My mummy’s going,’ said ten-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw proudly. ‘She says I’m the first in the family to have a painting in a proper gallery.’

  Sadly, Katy’s enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyo
ne.

  ‘Do we ’ave t’go?’ asked Heathcliffe Earnshaw, who was not a natural patron of the arts.

  ‘Well, your lovely drawing of your granddad is going on show, Heathcliffe,’ said Jo encouragingly.

  Heathcliffe looked at his masterpiece and frowned. He knew with certainty that his crayon picture was actually of God, but ever since his Plasticine ferret had been put in the nativity scene as a sheep he was getting used to the misinterpretation of his creative talents.

  I helped Sally and Jo put the artwork in the back of Sally’s car and then I called in to Nora’s Coffee Shop before going home. Dorothy was sitting behind the counter and studying a catalogue, while Nora was fiddling with the coffee machine.

  ‘A frothy coffee, please, Dorothy.’

  Dorothy was engrossed in the colourful catalogue. ‘Ah’m thinking o’ buying one o’ them sympathetic wigs, Mr Sheffield. Ah could ’ave a different look every day.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I said, staring curiously at the plate of rock cakes on the shelf of the plastic-fronted display case.

  ‘Its synthetic, Dowothy,’ corrected Nora as she added hot froth to my coffee. ‘It says in the Daily Expwess that one in thwee women wear a wig.’

  ‘So are you thinking of getting one, Nora?’ I said, feigning interest.

  ‘Yes, ah’m gonna get a Fawwer Fawcett,’ said Nora, slapping down the mug of coffee on the counter.

  I looked at the array of tired-looking pastries. ‘So, what do you recommend, Dorothy?’

  ‘Cream ’orns, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy returning to her catalogue. ‘Fresh in day before yesterday.’

  ‘OK, a frothy coffee and a cream horn it is, please.’

  On my way out of the village I called in at Victor Pratt’s garage and pulled up alongside the single petrol pump. Victor came out to serve me and, as usual, he had a problem. He walked painfully across the forecourt, like a cowboy who had lost his horse.

  ‘Ah can’t sit down,’ he complained.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘Same as t’vicar, Mr Sheffield,’ grumbled Victor. ‘Las’ Christmas your aunt May told me it were asteroids an’ they’re gettin’ worse.’

  ‘I see,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor.’

  ‘It’s embarrassin’ walkin’ like this, so ah only come out at night,’ he said mournfully.

  ‘That’s probably about right for asteroids,’ I said with the merest hint of irony.

  ‘Y’spot-on there, Mr Sheffield. That’s exactly what Dr Davenport said.’

  As Victor hobbled away I guessed the doctor and I must share the same sense of humour.

  That night I settled down with my new Toshiba 20-inch colour television set with the expensive rental of £7.67 per month. The spotty-faced salesman had told me that it had a state-of-the-art blackstripe tube for maximum picture clarity, but I was more concerned that my television licence had shot up to £34.00. The fact that the Home Secretary, Mr William Whitelaw, had encouraged me to use the savings-stamps scheme had fallen on deaf ears. So I switched on BBC1 and settled down to watch Terry Wogan interviewing Larry Hagman of JR Ewing fame and wondered why Americans needed such large hats.

  * * *

  On Saturday morning I drove into York and parked near the Minster, in Duncombe Place. While I was locking the driver’s door, a couple who looked like tourists approached me in some confusion. They were staring at an upside-down street map of York.

  ‘Tell me, mah friend, where is yur Minster of York?’ asked the man in the Stars and Stripes baseball cap.

  I pointed to the magnificent west tower of York Minster, just fifty yards away and dominating the skyline. ‘It’s there,’ I said.

  Restoration work was in progress and his wife looked at the scaffolding. ‘When they’ve finished building it ah’m sure it’ll be real pretty,’ she said with a voice of authority, peering over her Jodrell Bank sunglasses. Her heavy make-up and striking platinum blonde hair gave her the appearance of a Marilyn Monroe look-alike.

  ‘They’re just cleaning up the medieval stonework. It’s a continuous process,’ I explained.

  ‘Well, ah do declare,’ said Baseball Cap and then turned to his wife, who had taken a small mirror from her handbag and was checking her eye-liner.

  ‘We sure lahke yur lil’ bitty town of York, England,’ she said, admiring the perfect jet-black crescents of her plucked eyebrows. ‘It’s the quaintest an’ cutest lil’ place ah ever did see.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ I said, trying to extricate myself from the conversation.

  Baseball Cap took me by the arm and looked concerned. ‘But can you kindly tell me, sir, why yur sidewalks are so narrow?’

  I was beginning to lose the will to live. ‘You’re in an ancient city that was built in the time of horses and carts and carriages, not motor cars.’

  ‘Well, mah dear friend, ah’m pleased tuh say we have more foresight in the good ol’ Land of the Free,’ he boasted.

  ‘You are soooo raight, mah lil’ honeybunch,’ said Marilyn Monroe, replacing her mirror in her Italian handbag. ‘Well, we mus’ fly, ’cause it’s York, England, today an’ Paris, France, on Wednesday.’ And, with a casual wave, they walked away to continue their tour of Europe, World.

  I was a few minutes early and I strolled across the road and walked down High Petergate to the busy crossing between Stonegate and Minster Gates. I looked up at the familiar statue of Minerva. She was leaning on her pile of books as a reminder that this was once a street of booksellers and bookbinders.

  From out of the crowds, an unlikely figure approached me. ‘Gorra light, mate?’ He was dressed as a Viking and was wearing enough jewellery to make Danny La Rue jealous.

  ‘Sorry, I don’t smoke,’ I replied.

  ‘Never mind,’ he said, untying the earflap of his hard leather skullcap and putting the cigarette behind his ear. ‘Jason’ll be ’ere in a minute.’ He shivered and I stared down at his brown minidress tunic. The baggy green tights that covered his spindly legs provided little protection from the cold on this sharp April morning. ‘It’s Viking Day,’ he said by way of explanation, ‘in Coppergate.’

  The Coppergate archaeological dig, destined to become the famous Jorvik Centre, was a popular meeting place each month for local historians and their re-enactments of famous battles provided great entertainment for the tourists.

  He followed my gaze. ‘It’s a bit parky,’ he said.

  ‘Looks like your friend’s here now,’ I said, as a Viking on a Lambretta appeared suddenly and pulled up alongside.

  ‘ ’Ullo, Perce. Fancy a swift ’alf before t’battle?’ asked the new Viking. The bright buttons and sequins sewn on his leather skirt would have done credit to a finalist in Come Dancing. This was definitely an upmarket Viking.

  Percy picked up his large round shield with a hemispherical iron boss protruding from its outer face. ‘OK, Jase,’ he said. ‘Ah mus’ say you’ve come up in t’world from last month. Ah see y’gorra new costume. Who you s’pposed t’be, then?’

  Jason parked his Lambretta, dismounted and stared critically at his reflection in the shop window. ‘Ah’m Erik Bloodaxe, the fearless an’ bloodthirsty King o’ Western Norway, son o’ the magnificent King ’Arald Fine’air,’ said Jason, adjusting the bow on his blond ponytail. ‘An’ ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, this ’elmet’s no fun. Ah’ve gone cross-eyed getting ’ere.’

  We both stared at Jason’s conical iron helmet with a thick bar protruding from the forehead to protect King Erik’s nose.

  ‘Why don’t you turn it round the other way?’ I suggested.

  Jason pondered this for a moment. ‘Good idea, mate,’ he said. ‘Y’not as daft as y’look.’

  I took this as a compliment, especially as I was the only one not wearing a skirt.

  King Erik Bloodaxe reversed his helmet. ‘That’s better,’ he said with a relieved smile. He looked at Percy. ‘So who are you, then?’

  ‘U
sual,’ said Percy sadly. ‘Ah’m still Sigurd the Mighty.’

  ‘ ’Ow’s yer ’ands now wi’ that rough shield?’ asked King Erik, looking concerned.

  ‘Lot better now, Jase,’ said Sigurd the Mighty. ‘Ah borrowed our Tracy’s Aqua Manda Golden Body Rub.’

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard it’s really good,’ said King Erik Bloodaxe.

  ‘Y’spot-on there, Jase,’ said Sigurd the Mighty. ‘It meks yer ’ands lovely an’ smooth. Jus’ feel ’em.’

  King Erik Bloodaxe leaned over and felt Sigurd the Mighty’s soft hands. Then he sniffed them appreciatively. ‘Lovely fragrance, Perce.’

  Sigurd the Mighty gave his warrior-friend a gentle smile and climbed on to the back of the Lambretta.

  ‘An’, Perce, jus’ watch where y’putting that pointy bit on y’shield,’ added King Erik Bloodaxe.

  They roared off to the Cross Keys public house on Goodramgate with memories of rape and pillage in the ninth and tenth centuries clearly far from their minds.

  There was a tap on my shoulder. ‘Hello, Jack,’ said a familiar voice.

  I turned round and there was Beth, looking relaxed in her fashionable beige coat with slightly padded shoulders and a yellow scarf that matched the sudden burst of April sunshine.

  ‘Hello, Beth. Good to see you.’

  Her honey-blonde hair was blowing in the breeze and the tiredness had gone from her eyes. She looked full of vitality and life. ‘Come on, Jack: my treat,’ she said and took my arm.

  For a moment I felt that we were a couple again as we set off down Stonegate together. She had that excited purposeful air about her and walked quickly, her high-heeled leather boots clipping on the cobbles, into St Helen’s Square, the home of Betty’s classic English Tea Rooms. It stood proudly opposite its great rival, Terry’s Restaurant, which was about to close down.

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, looking up at the sign that read BETTY’S – EST 1919. This was Yorkshire’s finest. The designers of the exquisite interiors of the Queen Mary transatlantic liner had created a perfect classical environment for the enjoyment of England’s favourite beverage. We walked into the elegant ground-floor tea room and found one of the window tables, where you could watch the world go by. Beth ordered toasted Yorkshire teacakes and a pot of Earl Grey tea, which was served by a young lady in a starched white apron and cap.