02 Mister Teacher (16 page)

‘I don’t understand why you’re fed up,’ I said.

Sally gave me a despairing look, Vera and Anne grinned like Cheshire cats and Jo paused, mid-twist, in removing the lid of the coffee jar.

‘Because he didn’t whistle at me, Jack!’ said Sally, in disgust. ‘I still have my pride, you know.’

This seemed a good moment to disappear and write the notice for the school gate. It was becoming clear to me that the older I got, the less I understood about women.

It was Vera who finally told me the story.

When Ruth Walmsley, at the tender age of twenty-one, read in her weekend paper,
Reveille
, about cheap holidays in Cornwall, she immediately told her sister, Eileen. So, at the end of May 1953, the two sisters left Ragley village for a holiday in Penzance, unaware of how it would change their lives.

They both watched the Coronation of the Queen on a small black-and-white television set and then went to their room to get ready to go out. After sharing their Morphy-Richards electric hair-dryer and unpacking their treasured, ultra-sheer, nylon stockings, they sat together
at
the tiny dressing table and studied their reflections in the mirror. Eileen opened up their Max Factor Colour Harmony Make-Up set. Eileen went for her favourite Elizabeth Taylor look, while Ruth’s home-perm confirmed a similarity with Ava Gardner. Feeling like Hollywood stars, they went out to enjoy the street party.

Sipping a glass of red wine under the brightly coloured bunting was the most handsome man Ruth had ever seen. His bootlace tie matched his velvet jacket, and his drainpipe trousers and crepe-soled ‘brothel-creeper’ shoes were the height of fashion. When he winked at the two sisters they giggled, and when he bowed and introduced himself as Pierre they both fell immediately in love with this tall Frenchman with the jet-black, Brylcreemed hair. Ruth and Eileen drank more wine than they should have and, when Pierre raised his final glass with the words ‘To ze Queen’, they thought they were in heaven.

But it was Ruth he chose, much to her sister’s chagrin. When Pierre and Ruth walked together that evening on a lonely stretch of beach towards St Michael’s Mount, he held her hand and asked her in broken English if she believed in love at first sight. At that moment, Ruth would have believed anything that Pierre told her, and when he stroked her cheek and ran his fingers through her wavy brown hair she leaned back against the prow of an old rowing boat and closed her eyes. In years to come Ruth vaguely remembered Pierre lifting her gently into the rowing boat and what happened next literally remained with her for the rest of her life. After a few minutes of passion and the rhythmic creaking of the planks at the
bottom
of the rowing boat, Ruth fell into a deep, blissful sleep. When she awoke, she had only the night sky and lapping waves for company. Pierre had gone and Ruth never saw him again.

The reception from her sister was so frosty, Ruth curtailed her holiday and boarded the next train home, carrying with her a small brown leather suitcase, a photograph of the queen, a Coronation mug, a pasty for her lunch and a secret that came to fruition almost nine months later.

At 4.00 p.m. on 16 February 1954, Ruth was in hospital with a group of pregnant mothers crowding round a tiny television set. She had just watched a programme for women entitled
Leisure and Pleasure
and, with snow piled high outside and a blizzard battering the windows, had learned how to make a Mexican-style summer skirt when the
Watch with Mother
programme began. The string puppet Andy Pandy, in his vertically striped playsuit, began to dance with a slightly belligerent Teddy Bear and a definitely subservient Looby Lou.

‘You c’see t’strings,’ remarked Ruth, as her contractions suddenly started again. Before Maria Bird had finished reading the script and begun to sing ‘Andy is waving goodbye’, Ruth was on her way to giving birth to twins. Her babies came into the world while she was screaming, ‘All Frenchmen are bastards!’ much to the delight of the midwife, Madame Yvette Dupont, whose husband had recently run off with the au pair.

One of the twin boys was christened Luke, as Ruth had taken up Bible studies after her unhappy experience; and
the
other, Scott, after her father’s favourite Polar explorer. Although the boys grew up to be completely different in both looks and character, they made a good business partnership and, after leaving Easington School, they both served their apprenticeships and became plumbers. Ruth always secretly assumed this affinity with water was clearly connected to their being conceived in a rowing boat.

Luke Walmsley, who had mousy-brown thinning hair, was a quiet introvert, but his business acumen was outstanding. It was inevitable that, having chosen to be a plumber, his friends gave him the nickname ‘Lukewarm’. Scott Walmsley had shoulder-length, jet-black hair, an extrovert personality and a different girlfriend every week. His nickname of ‘Red Hot’ among the local female population had nothing to do with plumbing. The nickname was loved by Scott, frowned upon by Luke and hated by his mother.

‘That’s quite a story, Vera,’ I said. ‘Did Ruth Walmsley ever go back to Penzance?’

‘She’s never even been back to the seaside,’ said Vera.

‘Why ever not?’ I asked.

‘She says you can’t trust sailors,’ said Vera, with a shake of her head.

By nine o’clock, to announce our closure Anne had contacted County Hall and a sufficient number of parents to ensure the village grapevine had gone into action. For the first time since I arrived in Ragley, the school bell remained silent at the start of a school day, which caused
Prudence
Golightly in the General Stores to check that her hearing aid was working.

Soon Nora’s Coffee Shop was filled to overflowing with parents who had to look after their children and couldn’t get to work. Only two children had arrived at school without parents and they were busy in the playground. Jodie Cuthbertson had made a slide on the hard-packed ice and she was challenging six-year-old Joey Wilkinson to slide further than she had.

The soles of Joey’s shoes were so thin that there was virtually no resistance and he soared across the playground like an Olympic skater.

‘Huh, boys are ’opeless!’ Jodie shouted rather ungraciously.

‘An’ girls are smelly!’ retorted the red-faced Joey, before landing on his backside in a flurry of frozen snow.

Anne opened the office window. ‘Joey, Jodie, come here, please,’ she shouted.

Thinking they were in trouble, they both walked slowly towards the window.

Anne turned back to me. ‘Jodie’s and Joey’s parents aren’t on the telephone, so we’ll have to walk them home.’

She leaned out of the window. ‘Is there anyone at home to look after you?’

‘Yes, Mrs Grainger,’ said Jodie, quickly assessing the situation. While Jodie couldn’t spell ‘opportunity’, she certainly recognized one.

‘Well, wait there and Miss Maddison will walk back with you. School’s closed this morning,’ said Anne.

‘Is anyone in at your house, Joey?’ she asked.

‘Dunno,’ said Joey, beginning to shiver in his thin grey jersey and his threadbare shorts.

‘Just wait there, Joey,’ said Anne.

She scribbled an address on her spiral-bound note pad and handed it to Sally.

‘I’ll take him if you like,’ I said, and took the sheet of paper.

When I arrived in the playground, Joey was blowing on his bare hands. He had an open freckled face, unkempt blond hair that stuck up like a startled hedgehog and the look of a child who needs a good hot meal. His home was on the other side of the council estate at the end of a terrace of Victorian cottages.

I gave Joey my college scarf and wound it round his head and shoulders and this cheered him up.

‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Joey, in a muffled voice.

At the school gate we turned right and walked past the village green and then turned right again into School View.

Deke Ramsbottom passed by on his snowplough, followed by the council grit wagon. He yelled ‘Hi-Yo Silver!’ in the manner of the Lone Ranger and drove on. We both waved back as if it was the most normal thing in the world to see a snowplough driver wearing a cowboy hat and a sheriff’s badge.

As we walked along the narrow streets of the council estate, a column of smoke was rising from Ruby’s house. In the frozen wasteland of her front garden a small bonfire was burning merrily. Ronnie had just dropped a
book
into the flames and he bowed his head in sadness. He was burning his Don Revie
Book of Football Management
after the England manager’s £350,000 defection to the United Arab Emirates football team.

‘It’s a sad day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ronnie. ‘Ah’ve lost mi faith in ’uman nature.’

Ronnie took his football very seriously.

The further we went into the council estate, the poorer the dwellings became. Eventually, the pavement ceased and, across an unmade track of frozen mud, stood a row of six cottages, four of which were boarded up. Joey walked confidently to the last cottage. Smoke was pouring from the chimney and it gradually settled on the litter-strewn gardens as if it was too tired to blow away. On the crumbling brickwork, clinging ivy thrived in these dark days of winter and, in the overgrown field nearby, fallen branches had been stripped bare by hungry animals.

Joey opened the cracked, unpainted door and walked into the kitchen. The biting cold wind did not remove the smell of damp and decay that hung in the air.

‘Joey, is that you?’ came an anxious voice.

Jessie Wilkinson was twenty-four years old and a single parent. While she was an attractive young woman, hardship had begun to leave lines of worry on her forehead. She was holding a coal-scuttle in one hand and a lump of coal in the other.

‘School’s closed this morning, Mrs Wilkinson,’ I said. ‘The pipes are frozen, so I’ve brought Joey home again. He can come back at lunchtime.’

Jessie Wilkinson looked anxious. ‘Ah see,’ she said. ‘An’ it’s Miss, by the way, not Mrs.’

‘Sorry,’ I said, feeling awkward.

‘Not your fault, Mr Sheffield. Anyway come in – don’t stand on t’step,’ said Jessie. ‘Ah’m just getting a fire going.’

Leading off the kitchen was a tiny bathroom and the door was wide open. Next to a wash basin was a once-white, old enamel bath. It was filled to the brim with coal. Jessie noticed the direction of my gaze.

‘Summer prices, Mr Sheffield,’ explained Jessie, without a hint of embarrassment. ‘Only way ah can afford t’keep warm in winter.’

‘Good idea,’ I said, but without conviction.

‘Ah’d offer you a cup of tea, Mr Sheffield, but t’pipes ’ave all frozen an’ we’ve no water. Ah’m trying t’fix it.’

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I said, looking around at the sparseness of the furniture.

Jessie bristled with independence. ‘Ah’m all right, thank you, Mr Sheffield. Ah can look after my Joey jus’ fine, so don’t worry.’

I quickly sensed it was time to leave. ‘I’ll be off, then, Miss Wilkinson. Pleased to have met you.’

‘Thanks f’bringing our Joey ’ome, Mr Sheffield. Ah do cleaning today in t’Bluebell pub, so ah’ll drop ’im off at school later.’

The walk back to school was filled with thoughts of how I could help Jessie Wilkinson and I decided to contact Roy Davidson, our Education Welfare Officer, at the earliest opportunity to discuss what could be done.

By late morning, the boiler hummed back into life, hot water filled the radiators, the school warmed up and Shirley, the cook, miraculously prepared hot mince and dumplings. Parents and children drifted back into school as word spread round the village that we were open again.

I was talking to Ruby in the school entrance hall when Luke and Scott came in. Luke was covered in grease and coke dust but Scott was spotless.

‘Thanks for all your work, Luke,’ I said. ‘We all appreciate your efforts.’

‘Always willin’ to ’elp m’old school, Mr Sheffield,’ said Luke, with a shy smile.

A thought struck me. ‘You don’t fancy helping a damsel in distress, do you, Luke?’ I asked.

‘That’s more up my street,’ quipped Scott, as he readjusted his head band.

‘Shurrup, Scott!’ said Luke.

I took the sheet of paper out of my pocket. ‘It’s Miss Wilkinson at this address, Luke,’ I said. ‘She hasn’t got any water and she’s got a small boy to look after.’

Luke looked at the address. ‘Ah know where this is, Mr Sheffield,’ said Luke. ‘It’s at t’far end of t’village in them derelict ’ouses but ah don’t know Miss Wilkinson.’

‘Ah do,’ said Scott knowingly. ‘She cleans at t’Bluebell an’ she’s fit as a butcher’s dog.’

Luke looked furiously at his brother. ‘Get back in t’van, Scott.’

‘Don’t worry, little brother,’ said Scott. ‘She’s not my type. Too ’igh-an’-mighty is that one.’

Scott sloped off, climbed in the van and resumed his acquaintance with the page-three girl.

‘Sorry ’bout m’brother, Mr Sheffield,’ said Luke. ‘An’ don’t worry, ah’ll call in t’see if ah can ’elp.’ He folded the address and put it in the top pocket of his boiler suit.

A thought struck me. ‘Luke,’ I said, ‘it would help if you didn’t charge her. Perhaps you could call back on me and I’ll see you right for your labour and parts.’