03 Dear Teacher Read online

  ‘Of course, Vera,’ said Anne quickly and with slightly too much enthusiasm, ‘but … er, perhaps tomorrow lunchtime when we can fully appreciate it.’

  ‘And it will give you one more night to practise it,’ added Sally, both helpfully and hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Vera, looking slightly deflated. ‘The first section, “Day One – Harmony Through Inner Peace”, probably requires a little fine tuning.’ She carefully folded her life-changing speech and returned it to her handbag.

  As president of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, Vera was anxious to make her mark and the following evening she was to deliver a lecture at their monthly meeting in the village hall. The special guest was Lady Alexandra Denham from Harrogate, author of A Woman’s Guide to Happy Living, and one of the most influential ladies in the Women’s Institute movement in the north of England.

  Suddenly there was a knock on the staff-room door and Vera opened it. ‘Oh, Mr Trump,’ she said, looking disdainfully at the little man clutching a paint-splattered clipboard. ‘I don’t think we were expecting you.’

  Cecil Trump, the school maintenance officer, stiffened slightly and removed a pink maintenance slip from his clipboard with a theatrical flourish. ‘We’re painting y’school gates tomorrow,’ he announced proudly, ‘so sign ’ere.’

  Vera studied the form. ‘Yes, I reported the poor state of the gates last term but County Hall said they would be replaced,’ she said.

  ‘Don’t know nowt about that,’ said Mr Trump defiantly. ‘Ah’m just ’ere t’mek sure they’re painted.’

  ‘And what colour are you painting them?’ asked Vera.

  Mr Trump coughed affectedly. ‘It’s one of our more subtle blends of Sienna Amber an’ Rustic Redwood,’ he announced with the confidence of a man who misguidedly believed he understood the mysteries of colour coordination better than a woman did. With a smirk of satisfaction he pointed to his dog-eared Crown paint colour chart.

  ‘You mean brown,’ stated Vera dispassionately.

  Undeterred, Mr Trump pressed on. ‘They’ll be ’ere at t’end of school an’ finished afore it gets dark,’ he said. Vera signed and he thrust the carbon copy into her hand, turned on his heel and drove away in his little white van.

  Vera opened her grey metal filing cabinet and filed the sheet under ‘Maintenance’. Once again I reflected what a wonderful servant she was to Ragley School. I would have been lost without her ability to organize the day-today administration and finances. Vera and her brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, lived in the elegant and beautifully furnished vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church on the Morton Road and each day she brought order into our lives. Occasionally, however, she did get a little irritated.

  ‘I really have no confidence in that little man,’ she said as she walked out to collect her coat.

  ‘Peace and harmony, Vera,’ called Anne after her in a singsong voice.

  ‘Mmmm, yes,’ said Vera, with a tight-lipped smile.

  Suddenly the telephone rang on Vera’s desk. I picked it up.

  ‘Ragley School,’ I said, automatically.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  My heart skipped a beat. It was Beth … or was it?

  ‘Hello … er … how are you?’ I stuttered, stalling for time. It was almost impossible to tell whether it was Beth or Laura. The two sisters sounded so alike on the telephone.

  ‘Jack, I’m ringing from Liberty’s. I thought I’d stay in York tonight for a bite to eat and then go to the Odeon to see Kramer vs Kramer. I wondered if you wanted to come along.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Laura,’ I said. Laura had moved up from London earlier in the year to take charge of Liberty’s ladies’ fashion department and had bought a flat in York.

  ‘We could meet outside the cinema at seven thirty,’ she said with her usual confidence.

  Around me was a human tableau. Vera had stopped buttoning her coat, Anne and Sally suddenly showed interest in the noticeboard and Jo stared out of the window. It was as if time had stood still.

  ‘Fine. I’ll see you there,’ I said hurriedly.

  ‘ ’Bye,’ said Laura and rang off.

  As I returned the telephone to its cradle, everyone switched back into life but no one mentioned the phone call.

  * * *

  That evening, I walked out to my emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller with its ash-wood frame and brightly polished chromium grill. As I set off towards York, I was uncomfortably aware that I smelled like a perfume factory. I had just invested in a bottle of Brut aftershave. The boxer Henry Cooper, the motorcycle ace Barry Sheen and the international footballer Kevin Keegan, on a never-ending stream of television advertisements, had urged me to ‘splash it on’. I had done just that and reflected on the power of advertising.

  I parked my car and walked under the archway of Micklegate Bar, one of York’s four ancient gateways to the city, and on to the cinema. Laura was already there, slim and attractive with her long warm brown hair loose round her shoulders. She looked stunning in her chic little Jean Allen suit that was soft to the touch. The jacket was a flowing black bolero and the skirt was panelled in emerald and she drew admiring glances from everyone around her.

  She smiled and kissed me on the cheek and her green eyes reminded me of Beth.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, looking at my watch. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘No, Jack, it’s not far from Liberty’s and it’s a lovely evening. I’ve enjoyed the fresh air.’ Her smooth skin glowed with health and the merest hint of rouge emphasized her high cheekbones. ‘Come on – my treat,’ she said, tugging my sleeve, and we joined the queue.

  I glanced down at my sports jacket and sighed. The leather cuffs were frayed and the patches on my elbows were worn.

  ‘Nice tie, Jack,’ said Laura encouragingly.

  ‘Er, thanks.’ Beth had bought it for me a year ago. ‘You look wonderful,’ I said quickly.

  Laura smiled and took my arm as we found two seats next to an aisle where I could stretch out my six-feet-one-inch gangling frame. Then we sat through the best film of 1979, Kramer vs Kramer, and watched the Oscar-winning stars, Dustin Hoffman and Meryl Streep, unravel their tangled web of emotions.

  At the end, Laura was wiping away a tear with her handkerchief. ‘Isn’t life complicated, Jack?’ she said, squeezing my hand.

  I enjoyed being with Laura. She was dynamic, positive and always full of fun. It was just that when I looked at her I couldn’t help but think of Beth and the times we spent together. I wondered what she was doing on this autumn night, but, sadly, those days were gone now. I walked Laura back to her car and kissed her briefly. As I drove home I wondered if the old adage of time being a great healer would work for me. September, with its mellow reflections of happy times under a distant sun, would soon be over.

  I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton, walked into the silence of Bilbo Cottage and switched on my television set. ITV had started transmitting in colour but for me, on a teacher’s salary, the rental was difficult to afford. I settled down to watch Kojak on BBC 1 but when the bald-headed, lolly-sucking New York cop said, ‘Who loves you, baby?’ I switched off. In my case the answer was nobody.

  Early on Friday morning I picked up a steaming mug of tea, walked out into my lovely garden and sat on the old garden seat. The scent of the yellow floribunda roses was fragrant in my nostrils. Autumn was advancing. Teardrop cobwebs hung heavy in the branches and shivered in the brittle wind. Beneath my feet bright summer had gone. Russet leaves, like dying embers, bared their skeletal souls. Now only the lace filigree remained – a tracery of what once had been.

  I climbed into my car and set off towards Ragley village as the early-morning sun broke through and lit up the fields round me. It was a joy to live in this beautiful part of God’s Own Country and I pulled in under the shade of a copse of sycamores and drank in the clean air. I stood for a while watching the sinuous motion of the ripe corn, the last field of the harvest,
the end of another season. It was a field of swaying, living rhythm, a field of burnished gold, a field of dreams. As I stood there I wondered what this term held in store for me.

  In Ragley High Street I stopped outside the General Stores & Newsagent to buy my newspaper. A sudden frenetic bark made me stop in my tracks.

  ‘Thtop it, Thcargill,’ shouted Jimmy Poole. Scargill was appropriately named. He had a very loud bark, a huge following of equally angry canine supporters, and enjoyed biting anyone in authority. His particular favourites, however, were the local policeman, the postman and me.

  ‘Good morning, Jimmy,’ I said, walking quickly towards the shop door.

  ‘Hello, Mithter Theffield,’ said Jimmy. ‘I’ve jutht thlipped on my knee.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘Show it to your mother when you get home and then tell Mrs Hunter when you get to school.’

  ‘OK, Mithter Theffield. I’ll tell ’er ’ow much it thtingth,’ he added with a brave smile.

  As I turned right at the village green towards the school, the warm red, brown and amber of the Yorkshire stone wall that surrounded the playground reflected the sun’s rays like new honey. Above it, at waist height, the cast-iron railings, painted black as Whitby jet, cast long morning shadows across the tarmac. The pointed fleur-de-lis at the top of every rail gave the impression of Victorian order and permanence. However, the wrought-iron school gates, fitted in 1948 after the original gates had been removed to support the war effort, now showed the effects of time. Thirty years of children swinging on them had finally twisted the flimsy bars and loosened the giant hinges. It was time for them to be replaced, but at least we were to have them painted. They creaked noisily as Ruby the caretaker pushed them back to begin another school day.

  ‘ ’Morning, Ruby,’ I shouted as I drove past.

  ‘ ’Mornin’, Mr Sheffield, an’ a reight good un it is an’ all,’ shouted Ruby.

  Vera and Joseph pulled into the car park behind me in their spotless Austin A40. Vera got out and stared hard at the school gates before walking into the office. The Revd Joseph Evans, meanwhile, trudged in gloomily. He always found his weekly Religious Education lesson an ordeal and today was not destined to be different.

  Everyone gathered in the staff-room before morning school and Vera spread out her life-changing speech on the coffee table.

  ‘Big night tonight, Vera,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield, and the village hall is likely to be full with Lady Denham attending.’

  ‘How’s the speech, Vera?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Well, Joseph thought it was rather good,’ said Vera, glancing up at her younger brother. ‘Didn’t you, Joseph?’

  Joseph nodded timidly. He was a tall, angular, slightly nervous fifty-five-year-old with thinning grey hair, and this week Class 2, Jo Hunter’s class, was to be the recipient of one of Joseph’s Bible stories.

  ‘Er, yes … it was … er, uplifting,’ mumbled Joseph, casting a look to the heavens as if requesting forgiveness. Joseph had heard Vera’s motivational lecture three times the previous evening and the thought of hearing it yet again was almost too much to bear. Even her three cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, the latter named after her political heroine, had nodded off halfway through.

  ‘So what’s it about, Vera?’ I asked, eager to show interest.

  ‘Peace and harmony, Mr Sheffield,’ she replied with a Mother Teresa smile. ‘After all, a harmonious life is a happy one,’ recited Vera.

  ‘Impressive,’ said Sally.

  Jo looked up from writing her netball team notice. ‘I agree,’ she said with enthusiasm, having just realized that, thanks to Joseph, she was about to get a free period.

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Anne.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Vera. ‘I do appreciate your support and it’s so important for me to set a good example, particularly as Lady Denham is attending. By the way, she’s calling to collect me at the end of school today.’

  It was a quiet morning, except for Class 2, where Joseph was struggling.

  ‘Why did they all ’ave mucky feet in t’Bible?’ asked Heathcliffe Earnshaw. ‘Jesus seemed t’spend a lot o’ time washing other people’s feet.’

  The Revd Joseph Evans, vicar of the parish and chairman of the school governors, pressed his long thin fingers against his furrowed brow while he strove for an answer. As we were a Church of England primary school, Joseph came in each week to take a Religious Education lesson and once again he was thinking that he preferred communicating with his parishioners rather than with a class of inquisitive seven-year-olds.

  Joseph had asked all the children to draw a picture of something from the Bible and had just approached the table where Heathcliffe Earnshaw appeared to be drawing Father Christmas. ‘What’s your name again?’ he asked politely. Joseph had a terrible memory for children’s names even though it was now two years since Heathcliffe had arrived at Ragley from Barnsley in South Yorkshire.

  ‘ ’Eathcliffe,’ replied Heathcliffe curtly, concentrating on his drawing.

  ‘Heathcliffe?’ said Joseph in surprise.

  Heathcliffe was used to this reaction. ‘Yeah, ’Eathcliffe,’ he retorted, shading the long beard with a white crayon.

  ‘Oh, yes, I remember now … er … well, Heathcliffe,’ said Joseph, ‘that’s a lovely drawing.’ Heathcliffe didn’t look up. He just reached for the purple wax crayon from the collection in the upturned shoe-box lid in front of him. ‘And what is it, exactly … er, that you’re drawing?’ asked Joseph, wondering who in the Bible wore bright purple gloves. He was unaware that Heathcliffe knew for a fact that it was very cold in heaven and essential clothing included a warm jumper and a pair of gloves.

  ‘Ah’m drawing God,’ he said, emphatically. Heathcliffe didn’t do things by halves.

  ‘God?’ questioned Joseph.

  ‘Yeah, God,’ said Heathcliffe.

  ‘So, you’re actually drawing a picture of God?’ said Joseph, still slightly perplexed at the young Michelangelo with the snotty nose and the confidence of childhood.

  ‘Yeah, ah’m drawing God,’ said Heathcliffe, sketching in a pair of National Health spectacles, just like his granddad’s.

  ‘But nobody really knows what God looks like,’ said Joseph anxiously.

  Heathcliffe didn’t flinch. Nor did he raise his head. He just reached for another crayon and added the finishing touches to God’s red and white York City bobble hat. ‘Well, they will in a minute!’ said Heathcliffe emphatically while adding a bolt of lightning for dramatic effect.

  ‘Oh, well … er … that’s very good,’ said Joseph. ‘Have you finished now?’

  Heathcliffe had perfected a sound that could be interpreted as ‘Yes’ or ‘No’. He achieved this while moving his head in a diagonal direction so it constituted neither nodding nor shaking.

  Joseph was utterly fooled. He picked up the drawing and showed it to the rest of the class. ‘Now, who is this meant to represent?’ asked Joseph enthusiastically. A wall of silence descended. ‘It’s a very important person,’ he added. No one moved. Finally a nervous hand went up at the back of the class. ‘Yes?’ said Joseph, feeling relieved.

  ‘It’s Heathcliffe’s granddad,’ said Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer.

  ‘No, this man saves souls,’ Joseph implored.

  ‘So does Heathcliffe’s granddad,’ said Elisabeth Amelia. ‘He mends shoes.’

  It was a relief when the bell rang for morning playtime and we all gathered in the staff-room.

  ‘How did it go, Joseph?’ asked Vera, as she stirred the pan of hot milk in preparation for our milky coffees.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ muttered Joseph.

  Vera looked up quickly at her younger brother and decided to add an extra spoonful of sugar before handing him his coffee. Joseph proceeded to stir it vigorously with his pencil as if in a trance.

  In the corner, Sally had picked up my copy of The Times from the coffee table and scanned the headline, which read, HESELTINE PREPARES WA
Y FOR MORE CUTS – LOCAL COUNCILS TO HAVE FREEDOM TO MAKE BIG CUTS IN SPENDING. She groaned, tossed it back on the table and rummaged in the biscuit tin for a custard cream.

  Jo rushed in and Vera handed her a mug of coffee. ‘What a lovely day for playground duty,’ said Jo cheerfully as she skipped out.

  ‘Married life seems to be suiting Jo,’ said Sally glumly, pulling the biscuit tin a little closer.

  We all sat deep in our own thoughts until the silence was shattered by the ringing telephone.

  ‘Good morning. Ragley School,’ said Vera, then she listened intently with a furrowed brow. ‘Well, that’s good news so long as someone in your department communicates with the painters.’ There was another pause. ‘Yes, they’re due to be painted today.’ Vera looked up and shook her head. ‘Very well. Thank you for calling.’

  ‘What is it, Vera?’ asked Sally.

  Vera replaced the receiver thoughtfully. ‘The school gates are going to be replaced at last. That was the school buildings office to say they’re coming on Monday.’

  ‘Good news,’ I said.

  Vera stood up as the bell rang. ‘So when would you all like to hear my speech?’

  ‘Lunchtime,’ I mumbled and we all trooped out to our classrooms.

  Joseph was in Sally’s class during the second half of the morning. Again, he was concerned that the religious messages of previous lessons had been misconstrued when he read in one notebook, ‘Last night I baptized my budgie.’

  Meanwhile, Sally was in the staff-room, pasting children’s writing into a huge sugar-paper folder entitled ‘Class 3 Newspaper’. She picked up eight-year-old Sarah Louise Tait’s article and smiled. Sarah had written, ‘Mrs Thatcher has the power to appoint and disappoint the members of her cabinet,’ and Sally gleefully pasted it on the front page.

  At twelve thirty everyone in the staff-room sat spellbound. Vera had reached the triumphal conclusion. ‘Together, ladies, we shall walk through the gateway to harmony.’ She looked up from her script for a reaction and fingered her Victorian brooch nervously. ‘So let us show sympathy and compassion towards one another,’ continued Vera, ‘for a harmonious life is a happy life.’