02 Mister Teacher (24 page)

‘What’s all this abart, Clyde?’ asked Ronnie, looking perplexed.

‘It’s de big thank you from me, Ronnie, mon, ’cause it were you be talkin’ about rubbing dem sticks together when we be in de scouts. It be a lucky omen when ah went into de bookies las’ Saturday.’

‘What d’you mean?’ asked Ronnie.

‘Ah backed de winner in dat Gran’ National ’orse race, Ronnie, mon. De winner, he be called Rubstic and ah won de fortune. In fact, ah won so much, ah bought dis bike off Mr Morrissey. It be a real beauty. Ah know you was keen t’buy it but no ’ard feelings, Ronnie, mon.’

Ronnie looked as if the sky had just fallen in.

‘It be a miracle, Ronnie, mon, so ’ere be a fiver t’say thank you.’

With that, Clyde climbed on his bike, replaced his goggles and sped off down the High Street.

Ruby looked in amazement at Ronnie. ‘Now ah know why they used t’call you Bonnie ’n’ Clyde an’ not Ronnie ’n’ Clyde,’ she shouted. ‘Gamblin’ our ’ard-earned money again, Ronnie!’ She snatched the five-pound note from his trembling fist. ‘An’ this’ll pay for a new bedspread,’ she shouted, and stormed off towards the council estate, dragging Ronnie by his shirt collar.

I recalled with some embarrassment the bet that Laura had placed on my behalf at the bookmakers and wondered about the outcome.

‘“He that diggeth a pit shall fall into it”. Ecclesiastes, chapter ten, verse eight,’ said Joseph solemnly.

We stood there, Joseph, Vera and I, in the bright spring sunshine, staring after the downcast Ronnie.

‘I think Ronnie’s in for a tough time,’ I said.

‘Someone needs to explain,’ said Joseph, looking bewildered.

I looked expectantly at Vera.

‘“The price of wisdom is above rubies”. Job, chapter twenty-eight, verse eighteen,’ said Vera, with a wink in my direction.

We both looked at Vera with admiration.

‘I still don’t understand,’ said Joseph.

‘Let’s just say the secret service will be delivering a new bedroom to Ruby’s house in the very near future,’ said Vera.

‘Ah,’ said Joseph.

‘“And God said, Let there be light: and there was light”,’ said Vera.

‘Genesis, chapter one, verse three,’ recited Joseph.

Vera smiled proudly at her brother, took him by the arm and, with light steps, walked back into school.

As I followed them up the cobbled driveway, it occurred to me that miracles were like buses. You wait ages for one to arrive and then two come at once.

Chapter Fifteen

A Different Déjà Vu

School closed today for the Easter holidays. 87 children on roll. End-of-term reports were sent out to all parents
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 30 March 1979

VICTOR PRATT TRUDGED
out of his little garage to the single pump on the forecourt. ‘Ah s’ppose y’want it fillin’?’ he asked, with a frown.

‘Yes, please, Victor,’ I said, noting that he looked even more miserable than usual. ‘How are you?’

‘Ah’ve got bronchitis an’ aches that start ’ere,’ he said, pointing to his knees. ‘An’ they go right up m’legs into m’back an’ finish up ’ere.’ He pointed to his neck, which was swathed with a thick woollen scarf.

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

‘An’ ah’ve got toothache an’ earache,’ he added for good measure.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, remembering the last time Victor had described his ailments. ‘It sounds like déjà vu.’

‘No, I ’aven’t got that,’ said Victor, shaking his head. ‘An’ ah wouldn’t go t’France anyway.’

It was early Friday morning, 30 March, the last day of the spring term, and Victor’s mood was matched by the cold, unfriendly weather. I drove off, turned into Ragley High Street, stopped to buy my morning newspaper at the General Stores and parked in the school car park. The pale petals of a few brave primroses bordering the cobbled school drive were struggling to open up in the raw, biting wind and the first daffodils shivered with each sudden gust.

The staff-room had an end-of-term feel to it, as if everyone had begun to relax at last. Vera was reading her
Daily Telegraph
and chuckling to herself; Jo was engrossed in an article in her monthly science magazine on how to grow cress on soggy cotton wool; Sally and Anne were sitting in the corner, flipping through Sally’s
Cosmopolitan
and drinking black coffee. Sally was cutting down on milky drinks and Anne was providing loyal support. Everybody seemed to be busy with their own thoughts.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ I said.

‘It certainly is,’ said Vera, with a broad smile. ‘Listen to this. “Labour have lost a vote of no confidence and a general election has been called for 3 May”.’

Sally shook her head sadly and carried on browsing. As an ardent Labour supporter, she guessed that time might be up for Prime Minister Jim Callaghan.

Jo looked across at Vera’s newspaper and the headline
BEARDED
BOBBIES caught her eye. She pointed it out to Vera, who scanned the article next to a photograph of a policeman sporting a formidable growth of facial hair.

‘Hey, listen to this, everyone,’ said Jo. ‘Go on, Vera.’

‘It says here that “Police Superintendent Harry Potter has complained that eight per cent of all policemen now have a beard”,’ Vera read.

‘I wonder if that includes Dan’s moustache,’ said Jo, a dreamy look in her eyes.

‘Pity a senior policeman hasn’t got something more important to think about with everything that’s going on,’ said Sally rather grumpily.

‘Dan says this Superintendent’s a really important person in the police,’ said Jo.

‘What was his name again, Vera?’ asked Anne.

‘Harry Potter,’ said Vera.

‘Well, that’s a name we won’t hear again,’ said Sally defiantly. She rummaged in her trendy open-weave shoulder-bag and produced an old copy of
Cosmopolitan
featuring wedding dresses for the seventies bride. ‘By the way, Jo, I brought this in for you,’ she said, suddenly brightening up. ‘It’s got some terrific wedding dresses in it.’

Margaret Thatcher, Harry Potter and facial hair were suddenly forgotten as the four women began to pore over the colourful photographs of perfectly formed brides posing, without a care in the world, amid idyllic English countryside.

Sally had been a regular
Cosmopolitan
reader for the past seven years, ever since its inaugural copy in
1972
, when a certain article had caught her eye. She had found ‘What makes men fantastic lovers’ by Jilly Cooper to be excellent reading. Sadly, when she tried to share these new ideas with her husband, Colin, he did not even look up from the section ‘Mitre joints made easy’ in his
Woodwork for Beginners: Volume 1
. At that moment, Sally realized that ever since the long-haired, peace-loving Colin had said he was too old to wear flowers in his hair at the Isle of Wight music festival at the end of August 1970, their relationship had become rather more grey than psychedelic. Then, Sally recalled, when he returned home and bought a Rolf Harris Stylophone, it was about that time she began to find comfort in digestive biscuits.

The day passed by quickly and, finally, the children rushed home for their two-week holiday with thoughts of an absence of essays and an abundance of Easter eggs. I was sitting at my desk in the school office, checking the carbon copies of the other teachers’ end-of-term reading test results on each pupil, when Anne walked in.

‘I hope it goes well for Beth next Monday, Jack,’ she said.

Once again, Beth’s interview filled my thoughts. ‘I’m giving her a lift to County Hall on Monday morning,’ I said.

‘Give her my best wishes, Jack. Beth would make an excellent headmistress.’

I pushed my papers to one side. ‘What about you, Anne? Wouldn’t you like your own school?’

She gave me that familiar gentle smile and I guessed her answer. ‘I’m content with what I’ve got, Jack, and I’m happy here. I wouldn’t want the extra responsibility. I’d rather go home and spend time with John than write curriculum documents and policies.’

I nodded. Anne had found her niche. ‘Perhaps you and John would like to come over to Bilbo Cottage for a meal during the holiday?’

Anne smiled. ‘Thanks, Jack. That would be lovely.’

With that, she walked towards the classroom door, when a thought occurred to me.

‘You’ve not tasted my cooking yet,’ I said.

‘It can’t be worse than John’s,’ said Anne, with a grin, and closed the door behind her.

Gradually, the school emptied and I heard Ruby in the distance singing ‘Climb Every Mountain’. She was moving all the furniture in my classroom into the hall in order to give the floor her ‘holiday polish’.

I had just written ‘School closed today for the Easter holidays’ in the school logbook, when the telephone rang. It was Beth on the line.

‘Just confirming Monday morning, Jack.’

‘I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock and, don’t worry, everything will be fine.’

‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘Shall I come over?’ I asked.

There was a pause. ‘I’ve got lots of reading to do.’

‘Well, I’m here if you need me.’

‘OK, Jack. See you on Monday.’

‘Bye, Beth.’

I put the receiver down slowly and wondered what Monday would bring.

Later that evening, in front of a roaring fire, with Simon and Garfunkel on the turntable, and sustained by a bottle of full-bodied red wine, I read
The Return of the King
, the final part of Tolkien’s epic trilogy. That night I dreamed that Beth and I were staggering up the steep sides of Mount Doom, until we reached the entrance to a dark cave, above which the label ‘Interviews This Way’ burned in fiery letters.

The peace and warmth of my bed on Saturday morning was shattered by the ringing of my telephone on the hall table. I grabbed my dressing gown and hurried downstairs. At first my sleepy brain thought the voice was Beth’s and then I realized it wasn’t.

‘Wake up, Jack: the weekend has begun,’ said a cheerful voice.

‘Oh, hello, Laura,’ I mumbled.

‘Remember Rough and Tumble?’ said Laura.

‘You mean in the Grand National?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I remember giving you five pounds,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s payback time, Jack.’

‘Is it?’ I said, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes.

‘It’s time to spend our winnings,’ said Laura triumphantly.

I was intrigued and woke up quickly. ‘What had you in mind?’

‘Lunch today, at a rather nice place in York. My
surprise
– you’ll love it. It’s near the Minster. I asked Beth this morning if she would like to come, but she’s too busy preparing for her interview.’

‘Oh, well, er, fine,’ I said.

‘I only do half-days at Liberty’s on Saturday so I’ll see you when I’ve finished work. Meet me outside the Minster at one o’clock.’

She rang off and I recalled that Laura had started her new job as a manager in the fashion department of the up-market Liberty’s.

Dressed in my best sports jacket and my Yorkshire Cricket Club tie, I waited on the steps outside York Minster and shivered in the cold wind. Heads turned when Laura appeared along Petergate and strode confidently across the road towards me, dressed in a figure-hugging business suit. She kissed me on the cheek, took my arm and we walked into Duncombe Place and up the steps of the Dean Court Hotel.

Two strikingly dressed women, a redhead and a brunette, were sitting at the first table in the elegant dining room. Both were wearing fashionable maxiskirts, each with a long slit down the side, and leather maxicoats that afforded a seductive glimpse of their long legs.

Laura saw me glance in their direction, as the maître d’hôtel showed us to our table. She leaned towards me and whispered, ‘I’m going back to Liberty’s this afternoon to buy a coat just like that, Jack. I get a huge discount. You can help me choose.’

The conversation of the two women drifted over to us as we examined the endless menu.

‘“Marry in haste, repent at leisure”,’ said the brunette.

‘I couldn’t agree more, darling,’ said the redhead, while checking her immaculate lipstick in a small mirror.

Laura raised her eyebrows and smiled wickedly.

Soon, we were chatting happily. Laura was an engaging conversationalist and a good listener. The meal was excellent, the service spectacular, and an hour and a half later Laura insisted on paying the bill. She held onto my arm again, as we dodged the tourists and Easter shoppers, and walked into the entrance of Liberty’s. The spacious department store was on three floors and there was a feeling of grandeur within the dark-panelled walls. Laura was treated royally by the shop assistants and I sat in a comfortable wickerwork chair close to the changing rooms. Two other reluctant men were sitting in the same area and both nodded profusely each time their respective wives appeared in a new outfit. Laura seemed to spend an age encouraging me to help her select the perfect black leather coat and then kissed me on the cheek in full view of every employee in the department when we parted.

That night, I reflected on an enjoyable day, until my thoughts returned to Beth and her interview and I hoped it would go well.

By Monday morning, the cold wind had gone and the long winter was finally laid to rest. As Beth and I drove towards Northallerton, the countryside was waking from its frozen slumber and the bright April sunlight reflected
off
the sharp buds of the hawthorn hedgerows. The drive was spectacular as the giant mass of the Hambleton Hills stretched out before us, towering like a guardian over the plain of York.

Next to me, Beth was silent. She sat upright in the passenger seat, clutching her letter of invitation to attend for the headship of Hartingdale Primary School.

I reached across to squeeze her hand. ‘You’ll be fine, Beth,’ I said.

There was a flicker of a response and we drove on in silence.

As we drove further north, the green fringes of the North Yorkshire Moors were dotted with ewes, protecting their new-born lambs, and swathes of primroses splashed the grassy banks with colour. It was a time of new life and new beginnings.

I glanced across at Beth again and hoped with all my heart that this would be her day. I knew how much she wanted to become a headteacher and, with her reputation as one of the brightest young deputy heads in North Yorkshire, this opportunity was a great chance to achieve her dream. I also knew that, if successful, it would mean that Beth would be a local headteacher and could remain in my life. As we neared the sprawling market town of Northallerton, we stopped in heavy traffic alongside a Clarks shoe shop. In the centre of the window a pair of ‘Aviemore’ sheepskin-lined, genuine-leather boots at £25 had caught the attention of two well-dressed ladies. I couldn’t help but think of Laura. Beth glanced but her mind was on more pressing matters.