03 Dear Teacher Page 5

  Big Dave was the first to regain his composure. ‘Well, they can keep ’em. What do we want t’be like London for?’ he said, banging his giant fist on the bar.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘They even ’ave warm beer down there,’ persisted Big Dave.

  ‘Y’definitely reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  ‘An’ our dad sez they’re all southern softies,’ added Clint Ramsbottom.

  Clint was dressed in a brand-new Rod Stewart shiny synthetic shellsuit in lurid green with yellow piping. Although it squeaked like a demented budgerigar every time he moved, he was proud of his new image as the dawn of the eighties approached.

  ‘They’re soft all reight,’ growled Clint’s big brother, Shane Ramsbottom. He clenched his right fist, upon which the letters H-A-R-D were tattooed on the knuckles. Shane was a skinhead with all the charm of a short-tempered Rottweiler. He ruffled his younger brother’s recently coiffured, David Bowie feather-cut. ‘Ain’t that reight, Nancy?’

  Clint knew when to be silent and this was one of those occasions. Ever since he had begun to frequent Diane’s Hair Salon, his big brother had taken to calling him Nancy. While he could cope with having a father called Deke who sang cowboy songs for beer money, being called Nancy really got under his skin.

  Clint’s father, Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, the local farmhand and occasional snow-plough driver, looked up, nodded in agreement, absent-mindedly polished his sheriff’s badge on his leather waistcoat, and returned to his dominoes game.

  ‘Yeah, they’re all soft,’ mumbled Clint, while carefully rearranging his hair and praying the subtle highlights had not been disturbed.

  ‘ ’Cept f’Chopper’ Arris,’ said Norman ‘Nutter’ Neilson, the psychopathic fullback. There was a moment’s pause as everyone considered this possible exception to what was a well-known fact.

  ‘Ah’ll give y’that, Nutter,’ agreed Big Dave: ‘ ’Cept f’Chopper.’

  Everyone nodded in agreement. Chelsea Football Club was in Division Two of the Football League and Chopper Harris was their notoriously tough defender.

  ‘It said in t’paper they beat Cambridge one–nil, Chopper were booked an’ fifteen spectators got arrested,’ added Stevie authoritatively, trying to restore his reputation.

  ‘Sounds like a good game,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.

  At that moment Laura, wearing a beautifully tailored narrow skirt, a checked blouse and a fashionable ‘Sherpa’ woollen quilted waistcoat, walked into the lounge bar. She looked as if she had just stepped from the cover of Cosmopolitan.

  ‘Hello, Jack,’ she said and kissed me on the cheek before she sat down. ‘What a day!’ She slipped off her waistcoat, stretched and massaged her neck. ‘Liberty’s was heaving today,’ she said, ‘but at least my business plan is working.’

  ‘Business plan?’ I queried.

  ‘Yes. Nothing to worry your head about, Jack: it’s just a few sales strategies of mine to increase profits. Desmond from head office in London rang me today to say he was impressed.’

  ‘I’m pleased it’s going well,’ I said. ‘So what would you like to drink?’

  ‘I need a G and T.’ She took a pound note from her sleek leather purse and offered it to me.

  ‘No, it’s my turn,’ I said and walked to the bar.

  Sheila moved swiftly to serve me and made sure I had a good view of her cleavage. ‘What can ah do for you, Mr Sheffield?’ she said, leaning forward and fluttering her huge false eyelashes.

  ‘Just a G and T and a half of Chestnut, please, Sheila.’

  As she pulled on the hand pump she glanced across at Laura. ‘Ah see you’re with y’girlfriend, then.’

  ‘She’s just a friend, Sheila.’

  ‘Looks a bit young f’you, Mr Sheffield. You’d be better off wi’ a more experienced woman … if y’get me meaning.’

  I glanced nervously from Sheila to the bulging biceps of her husband Don at the other end of the bar and beat a hasty retreat to Laura. She sipped her drink and began to twirl her hair round her finger and thumb in the same way that Beth used to do.

  ‘What’s all the fuss in the other bar?’ asked Laura.

  ‘They’re installing a television set,’ I said, ‘and the locals don’t like change.’

  ‘It’s part of the London scene now, Jack,’ said Laura. ‘You must let me show it to you some time.’

  ‘Well, I love the theatres and museums.’

  ‘So do I … We could plan a visit.’

  ‘Sounds a good idea, Laura … Perhaps later.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said with a mischievous smile and downed her drink quickly.

  ‘Another?’ I said.

  Laura nodded. ‘Just an orange – I’m driving.’

  Half an hour later Laura glanced at her watch. ‘Sorry, Jack, but I’ve got an early start tomorrow. I had better get back to York.’

  I walked her back to her car.

  ‘Thanks, Jack. It was good to see you.’

  ‘My pleasure, Laura.’

  She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Let’s do it again soon,’ she said and disappeared into the night.

  When I wandered back into the bar a loud cheer rattled the walls. Don had fixed the television in place. ‘There y’are. Job’s a good ’un,’ he said.

  ‘Guess we’ll ’ave t’ope for t’best,’ grumbled Big Dave.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

  I attracted Sheila’s attention. ‘Another half of Chestnut Mild, please, Sheila.’

  Sheila fluttered her false eyelashes. ‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield. Anything f’you.’

  ‘Ruby seems to be enjoying herself,’ I said.

  ‘That’s Jimmy Savile. ’E cleans our winders,’ said Sheila, ‘an’ ’e’s a bit of a lady’s man.’

  While Ronnie was in the Gents, Jimmy had moved in for the kill and slipped into the bench seat next to Ruby. ‘ ’Ow about that cocktail, Ruby?’ said Jimmy.

  ‘Ah’d better not, Jimmy. My Ronnie might get vexed,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Nay, Ruby, when ah were in t’army wi’ Ronnie we ’ad some fun,’ said Jimmy, slipping his arm round Ruby’s shoulders.

  ‘Mebbe y’did but my Ronnie used t’write t’me regular,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Ah used t’write t’dozens o’ girls,’ boasted Jimmy.

  ‘ ’E once wrote SWALK on one of ’is letters,’ said Ruby dreamily.

  ‘Ah used t’write NORWICH on mine,’ said Jimmy, with a knowing look.

  ‘Norwich?’ said Ruby, looking puzzled.

  ‘Aye,’ said Jimmy: ‘Nickers Off Ready When I Come Home!’

  ‘Oooh, Jimmy, you are a one,’ said Ruby, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

  ‘That’s f’me t’know an’ you t’find out,’ said Jimmy, suggestively stroking the letters on his headband. ‘Y’should’ve come away wi’ me instead o’ marrying Ronnie. ’E were never gonna mek owt of ’imself … not like me.’

  ‘Y’blow yer own trumpet, Jimmy,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Ah’ve allus fancied you summat rotten, Ruby, so ’ow about lettin’ me walk yer ’ome? Your Ronnie’s a waste o’ space.’

  But, unfortunately for Jimmy, Ronnie’s son Duggie had heard this conversation and hurried away to whisper in his father’s ear. Jimmy, finally rebuffed by Ruby, wandered out to his van and Ronnie followed close behind with the Ragley Rovers football team in close attendance. Ruby, sensing trouble, hurried after them.

  Outside in the darkness, Ronnie grabbed Jimmy’s shoulder and swung him round. ‘You leave my Ruby alone, y’big, long-’aired jessie,’ he shouted angrily.

  Jimmy, a born coward, stepped back in alarm and stumbled on the steep slope of the grass bank. To his horror he fell backwards with a huge splash into the duck pond. Ruby screamed; Ronnie ran down the bank in alarm and grabbed Jimmy’s flailing arm. But it was too late.

  ‘Oh no!’ shouted Jimmy as he
splashed frantically in the water. All the football team had gathered behind Ronnie and stared in amazement as Jimmy stood up in the muddy water.

  ‘Bloody ’ell, jus’ look at that,’ shouted Ronnie and the crowd began to laugh. The Jimmy that emerged from the water was very different from the Jimmy that had fallen in. Jimmy was completely bald and his blond wig, like a fluorescent lily pad in the moonlight, was floating away.

  ‘ ’E’s no ’air!’ exclaimed Big Dave.

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

  With his image shattered for ever, Jimmy ran to his van and drove off up the Easington Road.

  Ruby walked over to Ronnie and put her arm round his waist. ‘ ’E were a reight flash ’Arry,’ she said.

  ‘Forget ’im, Ruby,’ said Ronnie.

  Ruby didn’t reply but looked wistful.

  ‘You’ll allus be my Ruby,’ said Ronnie as he leaned over and pecked her lightly on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, Ronnie,’ spluttered Ruby, ‘y’mekkin’ me feel all unnecessary.’

  The first hint of alarm bells began to ring in Ronnie’s head. ‘Anyway,’ he added, taking a step back, ‘ah allus thought y’were beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, Ronnie,’ said Ruby, almost overcome with emotion.

  ‘An’ yur ’air is a lovely colour,’ said Ronnie a little desperately. ‘It’s just like Cleopatra.’

  ‘Y’mean when Elizabeth Taylor were that Queen of Egypt?’

  Ronnie looked confused. He thought Elizabeth Taylor was a film star. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Ah mean Jodie Cuthbertson’s talking parrot.’

  ‘A parrot!’ said Ruby. ‘Y’mean my ’air looks like a parrot?’

  ‘But it’s a smashing colour,’ said Ronnie hastily. ‘It won a prize at las’ year’s show.’

  ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Anyway, Ruby, y’know ’ow ah feel about you,’ whispered Ronnie.

  ‘Tell me, then,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Ah don’t like. One o’ t’lads might ’ear us.’

  ‘Y’used t’tell me when ah were a girl,’ said Ruby softly.

  Ronnie looked around furtively to make sure no one was in earshot and then he spoke softly in Ruby’s ear, ‘Ah love you, Ruby.’

  Ruby stared at Ronnie and put her dumpy hands on either side of his Leeds United bobble hat. ‘Come ’ere, y’soft ha’porth,’ she said.

  She pulled his head into her prodigious bosom, kissed the top of his bobble hat and held him there lovingly. Twenty years of mopping floors had given Ruby a grip like a steam shovel. Ronnie was slowly asphyxiating but he knew there was no escape. When he was finally allowed up for air, Ruby let go of his head and wrapped her arms round him in a loving bear hug. Ronnie thought he heard two of his ribs crack as he desperately tried to breathe.

  ‘An’ ah love you, Ronnie,’ whispered Ruby.

  ‘So, y’don’t fancy that Jimmy Witherspoon?’ wheezed Ronnie.

  ‘No, ah don’t,’ said Ruby.

  Ronnie looked relieved. ‘So are y’coming?’ he said.

  ‘Not yet, Ronnie. You walk on ’ome, put t’kettle on an’ ah’ll wait f’our Duggie.’

  Ronnie set off to the council estate and Ruby walked to the bench by the duck pond and sat down. She stared at Jimmy Witherspoon’s platinum-blond wig with its bright red LOVE MACHINE headband as it sank for the third and final time into the murky depths.

  Then Ruby reflected on happier times and thought about one of her favourite scenes from The Sound of Music. She recalled Julie Andrews in the summer house singing with Christopher Plummer and then wearing the most magnificent wedding dress. When the ripples in the pond had settled and the village green was silent, Ruby leaned back on the bench and looked up at the graceful canopy of branches of the weeping-willow tree. In the strange silence she looked round and remembered a summer’s day long ago when she had sat on this very spot. The young slim Ruby had looked beautiful in her borrowed wedding dress and the scent of her bouquet of wild roses was still vivid.

  Suddenly the bright full moon reappeared from behind a cloud, bathing the village green in a mysterious white light. Ruby held up her work-red hand to shield her eyes from the reflection of the moonlight on the surface of the pond. As she began to hum ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria’, the bright shafts of light flickered through her fingers.

  And, in that moment, Ruby wondered if, one day, it would ever be her turn to hold a moonbeam in her hand.

  Chapter Four

  Rita’s Revolution

  Miss Evans, School Secretary, left today for three days of compassionate leave to attend a funeral. A temporary secretary will be provided by County Hall until Miss Evans returns.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Monday, 15 October 1979

  ‘ABSENCE MAKES THE’ eart grow fonder, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby in a singsong voice.

  ‘It’s only three days, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘Joseph and I will be on the train to Truro tomorrow, the funeral is on Wednesday and we return to Yorkshire on Thursday. So I’ll see you all again on Friday.’

  The sad news of the death of Vera’s favourite aunt in Cornwall had caused a flurry of activity. It was the end of the school day on Monday, 15 October, and all the staff had gathered in the school entrance hall to say goodbye.

  ‘Ruby’s right,’ said Anne: ‘we shall all miss you.’

  Vera gave her a tired smile and squeezed her hand.

  ‘Best wishes, Vera,’ said Sally, and gave her a hug.

  ‘And have a safe journey,’ added Jo anxiously.

  Vera glanced round at our concerned faces and handed me the keys to her precious filing cabinet. It was a symbolic gesture and everyone recognized it as such.

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Everything will be fine.’

  There was a moment’s silence as we all looked at one another. I noticed that Anne looked decidedly nervous. ‘I’m sure it will,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘The temporary secretary arrives tomorrow.’

  ‘Well, there’s the list of all the jobs I would have done,’ said Vera. She pointed to a neatly typed list on a single sheet of paper in the exact centre of her immaculately tidy desk. ‘And I’ll see you all soon.’

  ‘Come on, Vera,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk you out to your car.’

  We all processed out to the car park and watched as Vera climbed into her car. She drove slowly down the cobbled school drive and we waved goodbye. Above our heads, pale amber sunlight caressed the autumn leaves as they fell gently on to the village green, soon to form a shroud for the sleeping earth. I stared at her car and realized just how much I relied on her. For the first time since I had become headmaster of Ragley, Vera’s reassuring presence would not be in the school office. I breathed in the clean Yorkshire air and sighed.

  Vera drove past The Royal Oak and pulled up at the junction. Beneath a sky of wheeling swallows we watched her turn right up the Morton Road and head north. Then, as we walked back into school, a chill breeze swept through the branches of the horse-chestnut trees above our heads. We can survive three days without Vera, I thought to myself without conviction. I should have known that life is never that simple.

  The following morning I looked out of the leaded pane windows of Bilbo Cottage. The dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the morning sunlight. In the far corner of the garden, harvest mice were weaving their nests of grass and in the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing valuable food for hungry voles. The nights were drawing in now and the earth was cooling but it was a fine autumn day.

  As I walked out of my front door I glanced up at the porch where spiders were making their webs and beads of moisture, trapped on the silken threads, were glistening in the sunlight. It felt good to be alive on this bracing Yorkshire morning, until a thought crossed my mind. The new secretary was due to start work today.

  According to the telephone call from County Hall, Rita Plumtree had
attended the North of England Higher Secretarial College in Leeds and had emerged with a host of Pitman’s shorthand and typing qualifications. So everything appeared to be fine and I was relaxed as I drove into the dappled sunlight of Ragley High Street and pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent to buy my copy of The Times. Outside the shop window, the usual morning rush of children had gathered with what was left of their pocket money. There were difficult decisions to make about the conflicting merits of aniseed balls, bull’s-eyes, gobstoppers, sherbet dips, coconut lumps, treacle toffee and liquorice laces.

  The High Street was filling with cars and Mrs Dudley-Palmer had pulled up in her Rolls-Royce after dropping off her daughters earlier than usual. She was on her way to Harrogate to order a kidney-shaped swimming pool, an indoor sauna and a spa bath.

  Just before nine o’clock the sound of a misfiring car engine shattered the silence of the school office and I looked out of the window. Our new temporary secretary had finally arrived. A battered royal-blue 1968 Renault 4, with sliding windows on runners, pulled up in the No Parking area immediately outside the boilerhouse doors. From it emerged a tall lady wearing green cord trousers, sturdy brown shoes and a shapeless Arran sweater. She walked round to the strange tin-can bonnet, undid the catch and tipped it forward. Then, after stooping to stare at the engine, she shook her head in disgust, slammed down the bonnet and strode confidently towards the school entrance in a determined manner.

  She walked into the school office without knocking. At six-feet-one-inch tall she gave me a level stare. ‘Good morning. I’m Rita Plumtree,’ she said. Her slate-grey eyes were unblinking.

  ‘Oh, hello, Miss Plumtree,’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping us out this week.’

  ‘Ms,’ said Rita.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s Ms Plumtree, not Miss,’ said Rita.

  ‘Oh, er … sorry. Well … er, Miss Evans has left a list of jobs for you … er, Ms Plumtree, so if there’s anything you need please ask,’ I said hesitantly.

  Anne stepped forward. ‘I’m Anne,’ she said cautiously, ‘and I’ll show you round if you wish. The cloakroom and staff-room are this way.’