02 Mister Teacher (3 page)

‘Please can we have …?’ said Rowena.

‘… Some more?’ said Katrina.

Victoria Alice was still waiting to begin. ‘Mummy says I must never eat without a napkin.’

I looked across at Anne Grainger and thought to myself that infant teachers were definitely a breed apart.

In the office, Vera was typing a letter on her huge old-fashioned Royal typewriter. She swept the chromium arm of the carriage return for the final line of a note to parents entitled ‘Skateboards Banned in School’. Then she wound out the Gestetner master sheet from the
typewriter
, smoothed it carefully onto the inky drum of the duplicating machine, peeled off the backing sheet, and began the laborious process of winding the handle to produce the copies of her letter.

‘Pity we haven’t got one of those fancy photocopying machines, like they have in my husband’s office,’ said Sally, as she scanned the first, slightly smudged copy of the letter.

‘Twenty-seven … twenty-eight … twenty-nine … Schools will never afford them until Mrs Thatcher takes charge … Thirty … thirty-one,’ said Vera, as she steadily wound the handle. Vera firmly believed the world would be a better place with Margaret in charge of the nation’s handbag.

During the afternoon, Sue Phillips got to work with her special metal comb and identified the children who had nits. She made a list and gave Anne three dozen bottles of strong-smelling shampoo. At a quarter past three, the parents of the new starters came into Anne’s classroom to collect their children. Mrs Buttle and Mrs Ackroyd picked up their letters about skateboarding and were delighted to receive the free shampoo.

Mrs Winifred Brown was less pleased when she received her bottle. She barged into the school office, where Vera was tidying the contents of the metal filing cabinet. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ she shouted, holding up the bottle in one hand and the skateboard notice in the other. ‘My Damian ’asn’t got no nits an’ my Dominic doesn’t do no ’arm on ’is skateboard.’

Vera stood up with a fierce gleam in her eyes. The school
office
was her empire. Mrs Brown, momentarily unnerved, took a step backwards. She quickly worked out she had underestimated this apparently mild-mannered sister of the local vicar and retreated through the doorway.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Brown,’ said Vera firmly. She closed the door and returned to her filing, a smile flickering on her lips.

Meanwhile, Mrs Dudley-Palmer was more interested in the collection of encyclopaedias in the entrance hall.

Mr Crapper, who had noticed his potential customer’s Rolls-Royce at the school gate, was not Morton village’s finest, and only, encyclopaedia salesman for nothing. ‘These encyclopaedias will guarantee your children’ll get to Hoxford an’ Cambridge,’ he said, caressing Volume XVI.

‘My husband was thinking about buying one of those new computers from America,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer.

‘Compooters, compooters!’ cried the astonished Mr Crapper. ‘Them’ll never catch on. If you ’ave an electric cut you’ve ’ad it. But y’can still read y’encyclopaedias.’

‘Except if it’s dark,’ added Mrs Dudley-Palmer somewhat dubiously.

‘Tell y’what,’ said Mr Crapper, producing his final ace. ‘Ah’ll chuck in a free torch. Y’can’t say fairer than that.’

Minutes later an Oxford Blue Rolls-Royce, with the latest in luxury – namely, adjustable headrests – reversed smoothly up the drive, pulled up at the side entrance of the school, and Mr Crapper began to load the encyclopaedias into the boot.

At a quarter to four, the junior children filed out of school and the staff gathered in the staff-room. We all looked out of the window as the children wandered across the playground. Our first day was over.

‘There goes a satisfied customer,’ said Anne, as Mrs Dudley-Palmer eased her Rolls-Royce out of the car park.

‘And there’s another,’ said Jo, as Mr Crapper, cheque safely in his pocket, looked back at the school and doffed his flat cap.

‘Not sure about that one, though,’ said Sally, pointing towards Mrs Brown, who was hurrying down the drive, oblivious of the stately car silently creeping up behind her.

Meanwhile Dominic, pleased to be out of school, jumped on his skateboard, pushed off, gathered speed and hurtled towards the school gates. Winifred Brown, clutching Vera’s ‘Skateboard’ letter in her plump fist, and cursing at the top of her voice, suddenly became aware of the car and jumped back onto the path. At the moment Dominic pitched into her, Mrs Brown looked momentarily as if she was auditioning for the cancan, as she pirouetted on one leg and fell forwards into the prickly hedge. The skateboard crashed against one of the stone pillars, and the front wheels fell off, while Dominic had the good fortune of a soft landing on his mother’s backside.

‘An’ that bloody skateboard’s goin’ in t’bin!’ screamed Mrs Brown at the retreating figure of Dominic. She walked off, rubbing her ample backside.

‘Looks like she’s got a bee in her bonnet!’ said Anne. ‘Or ants in her pants,’ said Sally.

‘More like nits in her knickers,’ said Vera, buttoning up her coat in a very determined way.

‘Oh, Vera!’ everyone chorused.

Occasionally, I reflected, even a vicar’s sister has her moments.

Chapter Two

The Sound of Ruby

County Hall requested a copy of our most recent school curriculum document. Miss Evans informed the School Maintenance Officer that we wish to proceed with the painting of the staff toilets
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 20 September 1978

RUBY, THE CARETAKER
, was singing ‘Edelweiss’ as she mopped the ladies’ toilet floor. It was the end of the school day and Ruby was in good voice.

I found myself humming along with her as I marked Tony Ackroyd’s English book. Tony had written ‘Christopher Columbus circumcised the globe’ and I put a tiny red question mark in the margin.

Ruby Smith was forty-five years old and had a heart of gold. At twenty stone, Ruby was a large lady but she skipped around the school like a dancer with her
mop
and galvanized bucket. On this sunlit September afternoon, she seemed to be working even harder than usual.

‘Ah’m trying t’finish a bit smartish if that’s all right, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, her rosy cheeks glowing bright red.

‘That’s fine, Ruby,’ I replied. ‘Is it something special?’

‘Big night t’night in t’village ’all,’ shouted Ruby, as she moved out into the entrance hall and began to mop the wood-block floor with even greater effort.

Curious, I stood up and leaned round the staff-room door. ‘What’s happening tonight, Ruby?’ I asked.

‘It’s Talent Contest night, Mr Sheffield, an’ me an’ Ronnie are tekkin’ t’kids,’ explained Ruby.

With six children, life was always a struggle for Ruby, but somehow each day she managed to put food on the table for her family. Her eldest son, Andy, a strapping twenty-seven-year-old, was in the army, serving in Ireland, and her eldest daughter, Racquel, a twenty-five-year-old chocolate-sorter at the Joseph Rowntree factory, lived with her new husband in York. Her other four children, Duggie, Sharon, Natasha and Hazel, lived in their council house at number 7, School View. The youngest, Hazel, a cheerful, pink-cheeked five-year-old, attended Ragley School, while Sharon and Natasha were teenagers with a keen interest in local teenage boys. Duggie, a twenty-three-year-old undertaker’s assistant, was known by the affectionate nickname ‘Deadly’ Duggie. Ruby’s husband, Ronnie, was an unemployed pigeon-racer with a liking for football, the betting shop
and
Tetley’s bitter. Even so, Ruby loved them all. She asked for little, received less and gave a lot.

‘Sounds interesting, Ruby,’ I said. ‘I might even go myself.’

‘Y’could tek your young lady,’ added Ruby, with a cheerful chuckle.

I pretended to give her a stern look but privately admitted it was a good idea. Acting on impulse, I walked through to my office and picked up the telephone.

The headmistress at Thirkby Junior School had become accustomed to my calls. ‘I’ll get Miss Henderson to call you in about half an hour, after her netball practice, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

The familiar butterflies in the pit of my stomach were there again when Beth finally called and I explained about the Talent Contest. There had been no contact for the past week but, surprisingly, she seemed relaxed.

‘I’d love to come, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘I’ll see you outside the village hall about twenty past seven.’

Once again, Beth filled my thoughts as I drove home to Kirkby Steepleton to wash and change.

On Ragley High Street, the end of another busy day was near at hand in Diane’s Hair Salon. This was a popular meeting place for all the women of Ragley village, and for a small number of adventurous young men with Kevin Keegan bubble-perms.

Diane Wigglesworth, a cheerful and friendly woman in her mid-forties, had left school with no qualifications, except for a natural ability to cut hair like a professional.
But
if degrees had been awarded for hairdressing psychology, Diane would have graduated with honours. She was particularly skilful at handling Nora Pratt, her next-door neighbour and owner of Nora’s Coffee Shop.

Diane glanced up at the clock above the canisters of hairspray and the poster of Bo Derek. As usual, Nora was late for her appointment.

The bell above the door jingled madly.

‘Sowwy, Diane,’ gasped Nora. ‘Me an’ Dowothy ’ave been weally busy. We’ve ’ad a wush on.’

Nora had difficulty pronouncing the letter ‘r’. In spite of this, as President of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, she always landed the star part in the annual village pantomime. This year she was due to be the princess in
Aladdin
and rehearsals had just begun.

‘Don’t worry, Nora,’ said Diane. ‘Come and sit down.’

Nora was clutching a copy of the
Daily Mirror
and pointing to a full-page picture of Charlie’s Angels. ‘It’s the Wagley Talent Contest tonight an’ ah’ll pwobably win it,’ she said breathlessly. ‘So ah weally want t’look like ’er.’

‘Which one?’ asked Diane, with suitable restraint.

‘Fawwer Fawcett,’ said Nora eagerly.

Diane looked down at the photograph of the nubile, slim and athletic movie star with the perfectly coiffured, artfully fly-away, highlighted hair. Then she stared thoughtfully into the large mirror at the reflection of plump, forty-one-year-old Nora with her limp brown hair that at present resembled rats’ tails.

Thirty years of hairdressing had prepared Diane for this moment. ‘No problem, Nora,’ said Diane, with
glassy-eyed
sincerity and a Mother Teresa smile. ‘Let’s gerrit shampooed and set.’

Nora breathed a sigh of relief.

‘So what y’singing tonight, Nora?’ asked Diane, putting a warm towel round Nora’s shoulders.

‘A song fwom
The Sound of Music
,’ replied Nora.

‘Which one?’ asked Diane, amid a lather of shampoo suds.

‘“Favouwite Things”,’ mumbled Nora, from under the towel. ‘An’ they’ve got that weally handsome entertainer from Easington, Twoy Phoenix, to pwesent it.’

As Diane plugged in the hairdryer and collected the tray of plastic rollers and a big hairnet, she glanced at the clock. There was now no doubt in her mind where she would be at half past seven.

Three miles away, in Trevor the Barber’s Shop in Easington, Shane Ramsbottom picked up a
Playboy
magazine, rested his size-eleven Doc Marten boots on one of the battered wooden stools, and lit up a Piccadilly King-Size Filter cigarette.

Trevor Brearley, affectionately known as Chainsaw Trev, had learned his trade as a boy apprentice to his uncle, Tomahawk Tommy, whose speciality, after giving one of his trademark severe short back and sides, was to singe hair with a lighted taper to prevent the customer from getting a cold!

This was definitely an old-fashioned, no-frills barber’s shop where, according to Trevor, men were men and women knew their place.

‘Usual, Shane?’ asked Trevor curtly. Chainsaw Trev never wasted words.

‘Usual, Trev,’ replied Shane gruffly.

‘Owt ’appenin’?’ asked Trevor, making an attempt at conversation.

‘Nowt much,’ answered Shane.

As Trevor shaved Shane’s skull with the finesse of an Australian sheep shearer, Shane had an afterthought. ‘’Cept f’Little Malcolm,’ said Shane. ‘’E’s playing ’is ’armonica in t’village ’all t’night.’

‘’Ow come?’ asked Trevor.

‘It’s Talent Night,’ explained Shane. ‘Me an’ t’lads are off t’watch ’im.’

Trevor grunted in a non-committal way. This was his usual way of ending a conversation. Also, while he had no time for theatrical show-offs, he was reluctant to mention this deep-seated prejudice to Shane in case he took offence. Trevor was aware that the members of the Ragley football team were a band of brothers, and an insult to one was taken as an insult to the whole team. Also, Shane had the letters
H-A-R-D
tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand and this tended to command respect. As Trevor reduced Shane’s scalp to the appearance of a plucked chicken, he reflected that, if you valued your kneecaps, it was wise always to agree with Shane.

At twenty past seven, Beth’s pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle pulled into the High Street. She climbed out, locked her car, caught sight of me outside the village hall and
waved
. As she walked towards me, a light breeze tugged at her pale-cream summer dress and outlined her slim, athletic figure. A wisp of honey-blonde hair trailed across her cheek and accentuated her perfect English beauty. She looked simply wonderful. A cool silk scarf that exactly matched the colour of her green eyes was thrown casually across her tanned shoulders and her smile, as usual, made me feel weak at the knees.

‘Hello, Jack.’ She reached up to peck me on the cheek and the scent of Rive Gauche perfume lingered.

‘You look lovely,’ I said. ‘Then again, you always do.’

She smiled and we walked in to find a seat.

By half past seven, Ragley village hall was packed and latecomers were each given a folding picnic chair and told to fill up the aisles. As usual, Ruby and Ronnie Smith and their family were on the front row. Beth and I found two spare seats on the third row behind Vera Evans and her brother, the Revd Joseph Evans. As the lights went down, Beth slipped her hand into mine and, once again, contentment filled my heart.