04 Village Teacher Page 3

  I nodded in agreement but secretly guessed Vera would have preferred her bramble jelly to be the envy of the village. ‘The young lady at County Hall said, if I came in to school to receive delivery on Saturday morning, you would give a demonstration.’

  ‘Ah, not exactly, sir. I’m the advance troops, so to speak.’

  It felt like I was undergoing military manoeuvres. ‘So will someone come to show our Miss Evans how it works?’

  ‘Certainly, sir. Never fear, reinforcements will be here,’ recited Mr Joy. ‘Mr Grubb, our customer-service engineer, will visit next Wednesday at nine hundred hours precisely. He will provide installation and basic training.’

  ‘Oh, well, thank you, Mr Joy,’ I said, staring uncertainly at the strange machine.

  He added a note in his diary and shook my hand firmly. ‘So thank you for coming in at the weekend, sir. I’m sure you’ll find everything to your satisfaction.’ He locked his black executive briefcase and walked out to his car.

  When he drove off, it occurred to me that Joy was an unfortunate name for a Hitler look-alike with no sense of humour.

  I looked at the sleek, classic grey typewriter and decided to carry it through to the staff-room coffee-table ready for examination by Vera and the rest of the staff on Monday morning. Then I replaced Vera’s Royal Imperial typewriter exactly where it had been on her highly polished desk, adjusted the photograph of her three cats, locked the school and drove home to Kirkby Steepleton.

  On Monday morning we all gathered in the staff-room and stared at our new marvel of the modern world.

  ‘It’s fantastic,’ said Jo, our resident scientist, who loved new technology. She was itching to get her hands on it.

  ‘There’s no carriage return,’ said a bemused Anne, ‘and it’s not as tall as Vera’s typewriter. Makes you wonder how they fit it all in.’

  ‘It looks sort of … squashed,’ said Sally reflectively, ‘as if someone’s sat on it.’

  ‘Is there an instruction book?’ asked the eager Jo.

  ‘No, and we’d better not fiddle with it,’ I said pointedly. ‘There’s an engineer coming on Wednesday to show Vera how to use it.’

  We all looked at Vera, who shook her head. ‘Progress,’ she muttered and walked quietly down the tiny passageway to the school office. Everyone exchanged glances but said nothing. Soon we heard the familiar tap-tap-tap of Vera’s trusty manual typewriter as she typed out the agenda for Wednesday’s PTA Annual General Meeting, followed by the ker-ching as she swept the chromium arm of the carriage return. A few minutes later she wound out the Gestetner master sheet from the typewriter, smoothed it carefully on to the inky drum of the duplicating machine, peeled off the backing sheet and wound the handle to produce the copies of the agenda. It was a routine Vera could have done in her sleep. Sadly, routines change.

  On Wednesday morning a watery sunlight filtered through the wind-torn clouds and cast a tapestry of flickering shadows on the land below. The drive on the back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village was always a pleasure on an autumn morning and I wound down the window as I trundled along. The last of the ripe barley, soon to be harvested, shimmered in the gentle breeze. Fields of russet gold swayed in sinuous rhythm in perfect harmony with the light and shade. It was a sight that lifted the spirit and satisfied the soul. However, while there was peace on earth, goodwill to all men was to be in short supply in the school office.

  Vera frowned at the short, plump, prematurely balding man wearing a creased red polo shirt with a bolt of lightning logo that looked as if he was auditioning for a part in Flash Gordon. In Mr Graham Grubb’s opinion, the gleaming new electric typewriter could virtually operate itself and he wasn’t going to waste much time on this old dear who was looking at him as if he’d forgotten to do his maths homework.

  ‘Right you are, Miss Heavens,’ he said, ‘first of all I’ll switch it on and then you need to sit comfortably. Now remember: listen and you’ll learn; don’t and you won’t.’

  Vera took an instant dislike to this pompous young man with his well-rehearsed patter and complete lack of charm. ‘It’s Evans, not Heavens … and will you be sucking Polo mints throughout the entire demonstration?’ said Vera in a cool, disarming manner.

  ‘Er, no, Miss, er, Evans,’ he mumbled and quickly placed his half-sucked mint into a grubby handkerchief.

  Now that the pecking order in her office had been established, Vera glared at this newfangled contraption in its shiny case and wondered where the carriage-return handle was hiding. ‘Very well,’ she said regally, ‘let us begin.’

  Mr Grubb coughed nervously and recommenced. ‘Well, Miss Evans, you feed t’paper in t’same way as y’manual and then ’old yer ’ands in a different position.’ He held out his hands over the keyboard as if he were blessing it. ‘So y’touch-typing will be a lot lighter on this ’un than on y’manual. Y’ll notice t’print will be constant, like, and won’t be light or dark like on y’old typewriter.’

  Vera frowned again. Her typing was always constant.

  ‘An’ y’replacement ribbons are in a cartridge in a plastic container, so no more mucky fingers,’ continued the young engineer. ‘An’, best of all, as there’s no carriage return, ’cause y’typeball an’ ribbon move from side t’side. A quick flick of y’little finger on t’return key an’ t’golf-ball goes back to t’left ’and margin.’

  This had an impact on Vera. If there was no carriage return she could organize her desk differently. Her ‘Flowers of England’ coaster, a picture of lavender in full bloom, could now have a new home on the right-hand side of the machine. Things might not be as bad as they first seemed, even if this young man did drop his aitches.

  ‘But you’ll ’ave t’be careful, Miss Evans,’ said Mr Grubb insistently, ‘of not accidentally touching t’space bar.’ He stared at Vera and nodded as if a problem had been solved. ‘But you’ll be OK,’ he said reassuringly. ‘It’s jus’ ladies with, er, large, er, y’know, big b-b-bosoms, when they lean forward,’ he stuttered.

  Vera’s frosty stare switched from cool to glacial. ‘Are we finished, Mr Grubb?’

  ‘Y-yes,’ he said, quickly switching off the typewriter and now eager to escape, ‘so any problems, jus’ ring IBM.’

  ‘IBM?’ said Vera.

  ‘International Business Machines, Miss Evans – or, as they say in t’trade, “I’ve Been Married”!’ He scurried away and shot off down the drive in his little white van.

  Meanwhile, Vera’s brother, Joseph Evans, had called in to take his weekly Religious Education lesson. He was teaching Sally’s class and had begun to recap on how much the children remembered from last week’s lesson about the Ten Commandments. Once again, he wondered why it was so difficult to communicate with primary-school children. In answer to the question ‘Why did God give Moses two tablets?’ Theresa Ackroyd said that he must have had a bad headache. Then, when he asked which commandment teaches us how to treat our little brothers and sisters, Heathcliffe Earnshaw had offered ‘Thou shalt not kill’.

  Finally, in despair, Joseph moved on to this week’s Bible story. Everything seemed to be going well until he said, ‘And God told Lot to take his wife and flee out of the city. But, sadly, boys and girls, his wife was turned into a pillar of salt.’

  ‘An’ what ’appened to the flea?’ asked Amanda Pickles.

  Joseph ran his long fingers through his thinning hair and wondered why God’s work suddenly became so difficult with a class of eight- and nine-year-olds.

  At lunchtime we gathered in the staff-room. Vera was looking preoccupied and Jo had made a list of all the metric measures equipment she needed for the parents’ workshop that would take place after the evening meeting.

  ‘Well, I’m all set for tonight,’ said Jo, after ticking off her list.

  ‘Metrication!’ exclaimed Anne gloomily. ‘After twenty-five years of teaching imperial measures.’

  ‘Did you know that metrication began in France in the 1790s?’ Sally said refle
ctively.

  ‘Trust the French,’ said Vera irritably.

  ‘Everything’s changing,’ said Anne.

  ‘It’s a different world,’ murmured Vera.

  During afternoon school, back in my classroom Jonathan Greening, a ten-year-old farmer’s son, was looking at an Ordnance Survey map of North Yorkshire as part of our ‘History of York’ project. The map was covered in grids of one-thousand-metre squares.

  ‘These kilometre squares are puzzling, Mr Sheffield,’ said Jonathan. ‘We ’ave acres at ’ome.’

  Jonathan was the fourth generation of his farming family and I thought of the life he would lead when he grew up. Metric measurements meant little to his world of bushels and pecks.

  ‘Y’see, Mr Sheffield, acres are easy ’cause m’dad says everyone knows it’s a unit of land measuring four thousand eight hundred and forty square yards.’

  He bowed his head to his work and it occurred to me that he had a point.

  In Jonathan’s world it was always ten miles to York and when he went shopping for his mother the list would include half a dozen eggs, two pounds of minced beef, a pint of milk and, perhaps, as a special treat, four ounces of sherbet lemons.

  At 3.45 p.m. Cathy Cathcart looked at her new wristwatch and rang the bell to announce the end of school. Since taking on this job, she had become a walking timetable.

  ‘Thanks for a good day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Cathy.

  I was touched by her praise and general good humour.

  ‘Thank you, Cathy, and what are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Well, ah’m going ’ome for m’tea first, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with another glance at her watch, ‘an’ then me an’ Tracy are gonna watch John Craven’s Newsround at five past five an’ then Blue Peter at ten past.’

  ‘So what’s it about tonight, Cathy?’ I asked.

  ‘It’ll be reight good tonight, Mr Sheffield,’ said Cathy enthusiastically. ‘Peter Duncan’s washing Big Ben an’ Peter an’ Sarah Greene, who ah like, an’ that Simon Groome, who Tracy thinks is too posh, are gonna learn square dancing. An’ then ah’m gonna read up on m’metric.’ She held up her School Mathematics Project workcard, gave me a big toothy smile and ran off.

  At six o’clock I was alone in the school office when the telephone rang.

  ‘Ragley School,’ I said.

  ‘Hello, Jack.’

  ‘Oh, hello, Beth.’

  ‘How about a drink after your PTA meeting?’ she said.

  ‘Good idea. See you in the Oak – say, around nine?’

  ‘OK. ’Bye.’

  Our calls were like that these days, short and sweet. Both of us were busy with our headships, particularly Beth, who was now beginning her second year as a village school headmistress. I glanced at my watch. It was six o’clock. In three hours I would be sitting opposite the woman I loved. With some effort I squeezed these thoughts from my tired brain and returned to my marking.

  At seven thirty, Staff Nurse Sue Phillips, chair of the Ragley PTA, opened the Annual General Meeting and launched another year of activities that would raise much-needed funds for our school. All the teaching staff and Vera were there, plus a group of committee members, around a dozen eager mothers and a couple of serious-looking fathers.

  ‘It’s been an eventful past year,’ said Sue, ‘and we’re all proud of the school extension that will be finished soon. The official opening will be on Saturday, the eighth of November, and Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall, will be our official guest … So, well done, everybody!’

  Everyone recognized this was a great achievement and Sue led a token round of applause. I joined in and caught Anne’s eye. She smiled and I knew that, secretly, we were both hoping it might persuade the North Yorkshire County Council to save us from closure.

  ‘Our next task is to fill our new library area with resources.’ Sue took a deep breath and looked around in anticipation for support. ‘So I propose this year’s fundraising is used for books and equipment.’

  Approval was unanimous and Mrs Margery Ackroyd, the secretary, scribbled in her new spiral-bound notebook.

  ‘And Mr Sheffield has said that a member of staff will attend the forthcoming Computers in Schools course at High Sutton Hall before we decide whether to purchase a computer for school.’

  Jo’s eyes lit up in expectation, while Anne and Sally suddenly renewed interest in their fingernails.

  Sue, an attractive blue-eyed blonde, after the usual formal proceedings of voting in the new committee, brought the meeting to a speedy conclusion. ‘And finally, Mrs Hunter has kindly displayed some examples of the new metric mathematics that form part of the school’s scheme of work and we are all invited to have a go!’ She gave a wry smile, closed the meeting and immediately the Baby Burco boiler was wheeled out from the kitchen and tea was served.

  Around the sides of the hall, Jo Hunter had arranged the dining furniture and on each table she had displayed a ‘metric mathematics’ activity. Alongside the colourful School Mathematics Project boxes of workcards were litre measuring jugs, metre rulers and weighing scales. It was a busy, successful evening and I was in good spirits when, after locking up the school, I wandered into The Royal Oak.

  Beth came into the lounge bar and all heads turned. Her beautifully tailored light-grey business suit and white collarless blouse emphasized her slim figure and she walked with natural confidence to my table near the bay window and sat down. Wisps of honey-blonde hair hung over her high cheekbones and her green eyes looked a little tired after her busy day.

  ‘I bought you a white wine,’ I said and placed the glass in front of her.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said and took a sip. ‘Thanks, Jack.’

  We chatted about the events of the day until, to my surprise, she pulled a Times Educational Supplement out of her shoulder bag and began to pore over the Primary Headships pages.

  I was puzzled. ‘What are you looking at those for?’ I asked. ‘You’ve only been at Hartingdale for a year.’

  She didn’t look up. Instead she took out a pencil and began circling some of the advertised headships. ‘Just thinking ahead, Jack,’ she murmured. ‘After all, our schools might not survive the cuts.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that now, Beth,’ I said. ‘Put away your paper and enjoy your drink.’

  She returned the newspaper to her bag, sat back and twiddled with her engagement ring, deep in thought.

  ‘Would you like to come back with me to Bilbo Cottage … and perhaps stay over?’ I asked hopefully.

  Beth smiled. ‘Tempting offer, Jack, but I’ve got a big assembly in the morning … and I need to be wide awake for that,’ she added with a mischievous grin.

  I was pleased her mood had lightened and the scent of Rive Gauche perfume lingered when I kissed her goodnight. My drive back to Kirkby Steepleton was filled with thoughts of how such a stunningly beautiful woman could have said yes to my proposal of marriage.

  Thursday morning arrived and all was not well. Vera didn’t bother reading her Daily Telegraph while she drank her morning cup of tea. The news that Margaret Thatcher, on her visit to Greece, blamed our present unemployment problems on ‘world recession’ passed her by. Nor did she appear concerned that Russia’s President Brezhnev had warned of nuclear war. Vera had more pressing problems on her mind. Her typewriter wouldn’t work and she didn’t know why.

  ‘Could you have a look at the new typewriter, please, Mr Sheffield,’ she whispered in my ear at the end of morning break.

  It didn’t take me long to solve the immediate problem. ‘It’s not turned on, Vera,’ I said. ‘This one works on electricity.’ I switched it on and a faint whirring sound indicated it had come to life.

  ‘Oh dear, of course,’ said Vera. ‘How silly of me.’ She sat down and put her head in her hands.

  ‘Don’t you worry,’ I said, trying to be comforting.

  She ran a long, elegant finger down the side of the hard plastic casing. ‘I ha
ve an RSA Stage 3 typing certificate on my lounge wall, Mr Sheffield, but this morning I feel like a junior apprentice again.’

  ‘Just take your time, Vera. There’s no rush.’

  She looked up at me and the strain was obvious. ‘I know that things have to change and I can’t live in the past … but some of this new technology leaves me cold.’

  ‘Vera, you know I’d be lost without you. It’s more important to me that you are happy in your work.’

  She gave me a weak smile and nodded.

  At lunchtime I spotted Sally tending her magnificent display of dahlias in the border outside her classroom window and I wondered who would look after them next year. I walked over to her and she stood up and rubbed her aching back.

  ‘Should you be doing this, Sally?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m fine, Jack … Make hay while the sun shines.’

  ‘Well, go carefully,’ I said. ‘I don’t want you overdoing it.’

  Sally smiled and patted her tummy. ‘I’ll be thirty-three weeks pregnant by the end of term and that seems a good time to finish.’

  ‘It won’t be the same without you,’ I said.

  ‘Miss Flint will be fine,’ said Sally with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Well, Vera has arranged with Miss Flint for her to come in earlier if needed.’

  ‘How is Vera?’ asked Sally. ‘This new typewriter seems to be getting her down.’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘She really needs something to cheer her up.’

  Sally looked over my shoulder towards the school gate. ‘I think your prayers might have been answered, Jack.’

  Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, our sixty-two-year-old school governor and country gent, had emerged from a classic black Bentley and was walking up the cobbled drive. He waved his brass-topped walking cane in greeting and strode confidently towards the entrance door. As always, he looked smart in his country brown sports jacket, lovat-green waistcoat, regimental tie, cavalry-twill trousers with knife-edge creases, and sturdy brown brogues polished to a military shine.

  I caught up with him and we walked into school.