03 Dear Teacher Page 6

  Rita gave Anne an enigmatic smile and they both headed off. Relieved, I made a quick exit.

  At half past ten I was ready for my morning coffee. After reading Frankie Kershaw’s English comprehension exercise I needed a pick-me-up. In answer to the question ‘Why do birds fly south in winter?’ Frankie had written, ‘Because it’s too far to walk!’

  However, when I walked into the staff-room, there was no sign of the usual pan of hot milk simmering merrily on our single-ring primitive cooker. Nor were our individual mugs lined up as they usually were. Instead Rita Plumtree was pouring a steaming-hot milky drink from a flask into a large plastic mug, which left a damp, unsightly ring on Vera’s shiny desk top in amongst an untidy pile of mail from County Hall.

  ‘We usually have coffee at half past ten,’ I said.

  ‘So do I,’ replied Rita, not looking up.

  ‘Vera usually makes hot milky coffee for us,’ I added.

  ‘Did you know that seventy-seven per cent of teachers in primary schools are women?’ asked Rita.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s a statistical fact,’ said Rita, picking up my copy of The Times and scanning the front page.

  ‘Er … no, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Is it important?’

  ‘It is when you consider that the National Union of Teachers has only four women on its forty-four-member executive. It’s just another breach of the Sex Discrimination Act,’ said Rita forcefully.

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll prepare the coffee today, Ms Plumtree. Perhaps you would be kind enough to do it in future.’

  Sally and Anne walked in as the telephone rang. Rita continued to drink her coffee. Anne gave her a stare and picked up the phone. ‘Oh, hello, Beth,’ she said with a quick grin in my direction. ‘Good to hear from you. How’s the new headship?’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I expect it is. Anyway, Jack’s here,’ said Anne and passed me the receiver.

  ‘Hello, Beth. How are you?’ I said. Suddenly my heart was beating fast.

  ‘Fine, thanks, Jack. It’s a bit hectic here.’

  Beth had just begun her new headship of Hartingdale Primary School near Thirkby in North Yorkshire. It was an exciting time in her professional life and I could tell she was in a hurry.

  ‘So how can I help?’ I said.

  ‘Well, I’ve got a governors’ meeting tomorrow night, Jack, and we really need to introduce a new maths scheme. I know you’re pleased with your School Mathematics Project with all the coloured boxes and graded workcards and I wondered if you had any brochures or samples you could let me have.’

  ‘Of course. Shall I drop them in at your house?’ I said hopefully.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I should be home by six thirty.’

  ‘Fine. See you then.’

  ‘ ’Bye, Jack.’

  ‘ ’Bye.’

  I stared out of the staff-room window. If only for a short while, Beth was back in my life.

  ‘Coffee, Jack?’ asked Anne. As she passed the mug of coffee I noticed she and Sally were looking at me with broad smiles on their faces.

  After school and before going to Beth’s I called into Nora’s Coffee Shop in the High Street. As I walked in, the Buggles’ new number 1 hit ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ was blasting out on the jukebox. Dorothy Humpleby, the Coffee Shop assistant and would-be model, was carefully painting her nails behind the counter. At five-feet-eleven-inches tall and with peroxide-blonde hair and a micro miniskirt, Dorothy was popular among the menfolk of Ragley, especially her current boyfriend, Malcolm Robinson, the five-feet-four-inch bin man.

  Dorothy was sitting on a stool and Malcolm, standing on tiptoe at the counter and peering over a pyramid of two-day-old Eccles cakes, was staring intently at the love of his life. ‘What y’doing, Dorothy?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s painting ’er nails, y’soft ha’porth,’ shouted Dave Robinson, his six-feet-four-inch cousin, from a nearby table. The two cousins, both in their thirties, had been inseparable since childhood and Big Dave disapproved of Little Malcolm’s new liaison. He gave Little Malcolm his ‘big girl’s blouse’ look and returned to his rock-hard pork pie and mug of sweet tea.

  ‘It’s ’Ot Passion Pink, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, glancing up with a flutter of her false eyelashes.

  ‘It goes wi’ yer eyes, Dorothy,’ said Malcolm, who had recently read in the Sun that it was important to tell a woman that she had beautiful eyes, lovely hair and a small bum.

  ‘But my eyes aren’t pink, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, perplexed.

  ‘No. Ah mean all that stuff on yer eyelids,’ said Malcolm a little desperately.

  ‘Oh, that’s m’Mary Quant Raving-Pink eye gloss,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’s reight subtle.’

  ‘An’ y’ve got lovely ’air,’ said Malcolm.

  ‘No. Ah need m’roots seeing to,’ said Dorothy, pulling at a tangle of her backcombed Blondie hairstyle.

  Malcolm leaned forward between the Eccles cakes and the cream horns. ‘An’ you’ve gorra small bum,’ he whispered.

  ‘Oooh, Malcolm, y’say t’most wonderful things,’ swooned Dorothy as she swatted a large fly from the topmost cream horn. ‘Here y’are: ’ave a cream ’orn.’

  Malcolm blushed and his thick neck, sticking out of his council donkey jacket, went bright red.

  Nora Pratt, the owner of Nora’s Coffee Shop, put down her chamois leather on top of the jukebox. ‘Dowothy,’ she shouted, ‘ ’as Little Malcolm paid for ’is cweam ’orn?’ Nora had difficulty saying the letter ‘r’, which, fortunately, had never deterred her from getting the star part in the annual Ragley pantomime.

  Malcolm blushed again. He didn’t like being called ‘Little’ by someone two inches shorter than he was and he slapped a ten-pence piece on the counter.

  ‘ ’Urry up, Romeo,’ shouted Big Dave.

  ‘Ah won’t be long,’ replied Little Malcolm, slightly irritated.

  Dorothy leaned over the counter and looked earnestly at Malcolm. ‘Ah’ve been ’aving lots o’ strange dreams since ah started going out wi’ you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh ’eck,’ said Little Malcolm, unsure whether this was good news or not.

  ‘Ah keep dreaming ah’m flying away wi’ a super ’ero and ah’m frightened o’ falling.’

  ‘Ah wunt let y’fall, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, holding his mug of tea in one hand and his cream horn, like an Olympic torch, in the other.

  ‘Oooh, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, adding another spoonful of sugar into Malcolm’s tea and stirring it thoughtfully.

  Nora suddenly showed interest and, while much of Dorothy’s world remained a mystery to her, this revelation had struck a chord. ‘That’s intewesting, Dowothy,’ said Nora. She stopped polishing the plastic window of the jukebox and stared thoughtfully into space. ‘I ’ave a weoccuwing dweam as well.’ She propped her expansive bottom on the jukebox. ‘An’ in it ah’m a weincawnation of Queen Cleopatwa.’

  Dorothy wondered briefly what Queen Cleopatra had to do with a can of evaporated milk but decided not to bother asking.

  Half an hour later I was standing outside Beth’s front door, holding a box of mathematics booklets and cards. Beth looked tired when she answered her door. She was still in her two-piece business suit and white blouse but she had kicked off her shoes.

  ‘This is so kind of you,’ she said, tucking a few strands of her honey-blonde hair behind her ears.

  I stood on the doorstep, wondering whether to go in or not. ‘All this stuff should help. I’ve put a copy of the teacher’s book in as well so that you can show your staff.’

  ‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said and looked up at me. Her green eyes were just as I remembered them.

  ‘Well, er, I don’t want to hold you up, Beth. I know life must be very busy. I’ll just put these in the hall, shall I?’ Beth stood back and I put the box on the hall table, next to her briefcase and a huge pile of folders of schemes of work.

  ‘I do appreciate your help, Jack,’ she said.

&nbs
p; ‘Good luck with the governors’ meeting,’ I said, stepping back through the door, ‘and if I can do anything more to help just let me know.’

  ‘I will, Jack.’

  There was an awkward pause as I walked out on to the path and Beth closed the door. I stood there for a moment. Next to me was a beautiful climbing rose, a thornless Zephirine Drouhin in its final flush of carmine-pink blooms, and I remembered that Beth had put one in my buttonhole at Jo and Dan’s wedding. I breathed in its wonderful fragrance and remembered happier times. Then, deep in thought, I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton past gardens filled with the autumn harvest and the sour flame of fallen apples.

  The next morning the weather had changed. Through the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage, the steepled bulk of distant villages formed a sharp partition against the grey October sky. Beneath the gossip of starlings I walked hurriedly out to my car and, as the wind turned in its groove, I arrived at school within an arrow-shower of steel rain.

  At nine o’clock I was about to begin registration, when I heard raised voices in the entrance hall. I went to investigate and found Mrs Earnshaw, mother of Heathcliffe and Terry, standing at the office door, engaged in animated conversation with Rita Plumtree.

  ‘We don’t administer medicines here,’ said Rita firmly. ‘That’s your job.’

  ‘It’s jus’ for our Terry’s cough,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘It’s union rules,’ said Rita finally and closed the door.

  ‘Well, thanks f’nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs Earnshaw. Then she saw me. ‘ ’Ello, Mr Sheffield. Ah don’t think much of ’er,’ she said. ‘When’s Miss Evans coming back?’

  ‘Very soon, Mrs Earnshaw,’ I said. I looked at the bottle of cough syrup. ‘And if you leave this with me I’ll pass it on to Mrs Grainger and she’ll make sure Terry’s all right.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. She looked flushed and was breathing heavily. ‘Mebbe y’can keep an eye on ’em? Ah think they’re coming down wi’ summat.’

  Both boys immediately rushed off to their classes and I smiled. The Earnshaw boys, as always, looked among the fittest children in school – regularly grubby and frequently standing in puddles, but never ill.

  ‘Of course, Mrs Earnshaw. I’ll tell Mrs Grainger and Mrs Hunter. But what about you? Would you like to sit down for a moment?

  ‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Sheffield. As y’can see, ah’ve fallen again.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Earnshaw. Where did it happen? I hope it wasn’t in school.’

  It was her turn to look puzzled. Then Mrs Earnshaw chuckled to herself and opened her overcoat and put both hands on her tummy. ‘No, what ah meant was ah’m ’aving another baby and it’s due soon.’ She pointed to the huge bulge bursting out of her outsize Lycra jogging trousers. I glanced down a little self-consciously. A piece of thick elastic stretched from the button hole to the button. ‘Ah’m ’oping for a little sister for our Heathcliffe an’ Terry.’

  ‘Oh, well, I wish you luck,’ I said. ‘Have you decided on a name?’

  ‘Well, if it’s a girl ah want Dallas.’

  ‘Dallas?’

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. We both love Dallas. It’s our favourite programme.’

  ‘And what if it’s a boy?’

  ‘My Eric wants JR.’

  ‘JR?’

  ‘That’s reight – jus’ t’letters JR.’

  ‘I see,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘You’ve not met my ’usband Eric, ’ave you, Mr Sheffield?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘ ’E’s not a bad lad,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, leaning back on the table to take the weight off her feet. ‘ ’E’s very caring is my Eric. ’E got one o’ them new doo-vays cheap an’, cos ’e knows ah don’t like cold feet, ’e allus keeps ’is socks on in bed. Ah tell y’, ’e’s a martyr is my Eric.’

  ‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Earnshaw, and, er … if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get into class.’

  ‘All reight, ah’ll be on m’way,’ she said and wandered off.

  I popped my head round the office door. ‘If someone turns up with medicine for their children, please can you let me know,’ I said.

  Rita looked up at me from behind her cluttered desk. ‘We need to talk about official procedure,’ she said curtly.

  ‘We’re a village school,’ I said, ‘a sort of extended family, so we don’t always follow the rules you talk about.’ I closed the door and hurried back to class.

  The rain stopped and I was on playground duty. Tony Ackroyd, ever the entrepreneur, was using fallen leaves as currency and taking bets on snail-racing on the damp playground. ‘Three to one on t’littlest,’ he cried as I walked by. Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Sally, Anne and Jo stared open-mouthed as Rita fished a dog-eared photograph out of her shoulder bag. It showed her carrying a banner at the women’s march through Birmingham in 1978 stating ‘Men Are the Enemy’. She told them she was a revolutionary feminist and, much to Jo and Sally’s interest, she declared she did not wear high heels or a bra and would never read a book written by a man.

  In an attempt to change the subject, Anne said, ‘Have an apple.’ Shirley had put half a dozen in a bowl and left it on the staff-room coffee table.

  Rita held one up to the light and studied it. ‘I do not support oppression in South Africa,’ she declared.

  ‘Pardon?’ said Anne.

  ‘This could be a Cape apple,’ said Rita, replacing it in the bowl.

  ‘They’re from Mary Hardisty’s garden on the Morton Road, Rita,’ said Anne.

  Sally gave Anne a wide-eyed look and returned to her packet of Monster Munch pickled-onion corn snack.

  By Thursday morning we had all had enough. The school office looked as if it had been ransacked. Vera’s precious photograph of her three cats was under a pile of unopened brown manila envelopes. Rita kept telling us she wanted to end women’s pain and we had all become tired of the constant lectures.

  ‘Did you know that fifty per cent of men are on the lowest two pay scales compared with eighty per cent of women?’ she announced.

  Meanwhile, Anne was trying to pacify Sue Phillips, our school nurse and a guiding light in the Parent–Teacher Association.

  ‘Your new secretary’s making up rules on the hoof,’ said Sue, holding the hand of her five-year-old daughter Dawn. ‘She’s just told me not to bring Dawn back until next week and she’s only got a cold. I tried to explain to her I was the school nurse but all she did was wave a rule book in my face.’

  * * *

  At a quarter to four we all gathered in the school office as Rita took her leave. ‘Call me if your secretary’s ever off again,’ said Rita. Then she gave me that intimidating look and walked out. With a crunch of gears she roared off down the drive and took a coat of paint off our new school gates.

  ‘Good riddance!’ said Sally and we all sat down and laughed, mostly with relief.

  ‘Just look at this mess!’ said Anne, surveying the state of the office.

  ‘I think I’ll stay behind to clear up,’ said Jo.

  ‘Me too,’ said Sally.

  ‘Count me in,’ said Anne.

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We can’t let Vera see this.’

  Two hours later Anne was tidying the filing cabinet, Sally was polishing Vera’s desk, Jo was washing up all the crockery and Ruby the caretaker was helping me to drag black bags of rubbish into the entrance hall. We finally stood back to admire our handiwork. ‘Oh, one final thing,’ said Sally and she picked up the photograph frame on Vera’s desk and polished the glass with her sleeve. Once again Vera’s three cats were back in their rightful place.

  On Friday morning when Vera walked into school we all stood in a line in the entrance hall as a welcoming committee.

  ‘Hello again,’ said Vera. ‘It’s good to be back.’

  ‘Welcome back, Vera,’ I said.

  ‘We’ve all missed you,’ said Anne.

  Jo gave Vera a hug and Sa
lly surprisingly produced a bunch of dahlias from her garden. ‘For you, Vera,’ she said.

  ‘Thank you so much, Sally,’ said Vera and went into the office.

  ‘Oh, I’m so pleased Miss Plumtree kept everything just so, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera scanning the beautifully tidy office. ‘What was she like?’

  Everyone went quiet until Ruby clattered into view with her galvanized bucket and mop. ‘ ’Ello, Miss Evans,’ shouted Ruby. ‘They all believe me now.’

  ‘What’s that, Ruby?’ said Vera.

  ‘Absence makes the ’eart grow fonder.’

  Vera smiled and hung up her coat. ‘I’m sure you didn’t miss me really!’ Then she made a minute adjustment to the positioning of the photograph of her cats and gave out the dinner registers.

  Chapter Five

  Gunpowder, Treason and Pratt

  County Hall sent a ‘rationalization’ document to all schools in the Easington area explaining that the high costs of maintaining small schools may result in some having to close. Preparations were made for the PTA School Bonfire.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Thursday, 1 November 1979

  ‘REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot,’ read the Standard Fireworks poster on the doorway of Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Timothy, or Tidy Tim as he was known in the village, owing to his obsessively fastidious nature, had used a spirit level to ensure the correct alignment of the poster. Timothy liked horizontal posters.

  It was lunchtime on Thursday, 1 November, and I had called into Pratt’s Hardware Emporium on the High Street to buy a roll of chicken wire for Jo Hunter’s afternoon craft lesson. As I walked in, a heated argument was going on.

  ‘Y’don’t know what y’talking about,’ snarled Stan Coe, the local landowner.

  ‘But we’ve always ’ad a village bonfire in t’big field at t’back of t’school,’ protested Timothy.

  ‘Not if y’tresspassin’, y’not,’ growled Stan, his face red with anger. He buttoned up his bright-yellow waistcoat underneath his oilskin jacket. The buttons looked about to burst under the strain.

  ‘ ’Ow can we be tresspassin’ on public land?’ asked Timothy.