02 Mister Teacher (6 page)

I sat down, dumbstruck, as Jo and Sally arrived.

They both walked into Satan’s kitchen together. Sally shouted ‘Wow!’ and Jo just stared in absolute horror and then ran back into the staff-room and grabbed the colour chart from the table.

‘Oh no! I’ve used the code numbers
above
the boxes instead of
below
!’ Jo groaned. ‘Instead of “Pink Perfection” we’ve got “Geranium Fire” and instead of “Air Force Blue” we’ve got “Moroccan Moonlight”! I’m so sorry.’ She burst into tears.

Sally and Anne quickly put their arms around her.

Ruby looked bemused. As she reloaded the toilet-roll holders, she looked around at the traffic-light-red walls and shook her curly head. Garish colours did not affect her, particularly since in 1972 Ronnie, her football-mad husband, had painted the walls of their cluttered bedroom with blue, yellow and white vertical stripes in celebration of Leeds United’s FA Cup victory.

Sally tried to console Jo. ‘Perhaps if we put up some posters?’ she suggested.

‘Or drapes?’ said Anne, in desperation.

A thought struck Vera. ‘What’s Miss Barrington-Huntley going to say?’

A look of horror crossed everyone’s face.

I decided to be noble. ‘Don’t worry, Jo,’ I said gently. ‘If necessary, I’ll explain to Miss You-Know-Who that I made an innocent mistake.’

‘It was my first responsibility and I’ve blown it,’ said
Jo
, drying her eyes. ‘It’s my fault and I have to solve it.’

She walked out to her classroom followed by Anne and Sally. Vera sat at her desk, unlocked the bottom drawer and took out her late dinner-money cash box.

‘Something will turn up, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera optimistically.

Friday morning dragged towards lunchtime and even the sunny Dan Hunter could not raise my spirits as he prepared the playground for the first cycling proficiency session. Jo Maddison walked out disconsolately and began to help but her body language reflected her despair and soon they were deep in conversation.

Anne joined me in the staff-room after lunch. ‘Don’t worry, Jack,’ she said. ‘Miss B-H might not go to the Ladies if she’s busy in the classrooms and she may rush off like last time.’

Vera said nothing, but I knew what she was thinking. Miss Barrington-Huntley put great store by the appearance of her schools and she would not be impressed by a room painted to resemble a Russian brothel. After school, I drove the three miles home to Bilbo Cottage and my weekend began with troubled thoughts and no telephone call from Beth.

It was Saturday morning when she eventually rang.

‘Morning, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘Sorry I didn’t ring last night.’ She sounded tired. Her voice was empty and hollow. ‘My parents sort of took over after the interview and we got back late from the restaurant.’

‘So, how did it go?’

‘I didn’t get it, Jack.’

A mixture of emotions ran through me, first relief and then disappointment for Beth. ‘I’m really sorry, Beth,’ I said.

‘The feedback was OK. I feel I did reasonably well, but there were a few questions that I struggled on.’

‘There’ll be other opportunities, and you’ll learn from this.’

‘I know, Jack,’ she said with a sigh.

‘If I can do anything to help, you know I’m here,’ I said, trying to lift her spirits.

‘Thanks. I’ll ring again when I get back to Yorkshire.’

‘OK, Beth, safe journey home.’

‘Bye, Jack.’

I put down the phone and stared at the receiver. My emotions were mixed and I wondered what Beth would do next. On Sunday I tried to brighten up Bilbo Cottage by painting the kitchen. By the evening, I had a smart new kitchen with barley-white walls and paint-splattered spectacles but no further message from Beth.

Monday dawned. The weather looked ominous. Heavy clouds filled the grey, overcast sky and it was the day of Miss Barrington-Huntley’s visit. Just for luck, I polished the shiny yellow and chrome AA badge on the front grill of my car before I drove to Ragley village.

As I turned into the cobbled school driveway, to my horror I saw that a strange car was parked in the car park.
I
grabbed my old leather briefcase and hurried into school. Miss Barrington-Huntley, an imposing, stylish woman in her fifties who exuded power and authority, had arrived early and was talking to Vera in the school entrance hall. Vera was immaculately dressed in her favourite charcoal pin-striped suit and a crisp white blouse. Both women looked relaxed as they chatted together.

‘Good morning, Jack,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley calmly. ‘I just adore the smell of new paint, don’t you? Miss Evans has kindly shown me round.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I replied hesitantly.

At that moment Anne and Sally arrived together in the entrance hall and their eyes widened as Miss Barrington-Huntley continued in full flow.

‘Good morning, ladies,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley. ‘I’m pleased you have spent the maintenance money wisely. I always found that dark-green colour so depressing. Your choice for the ladies’ cloakroom is a most sensitive selection. Well done!’

Anne and Sally looked astonished and I was nonplussed.

Vera gave us all a knowing look as if she was trying to convey a secret message. Then she opened the staff-room door and we all trooped in behind Miss Barrington-Huntley.

Inside, two familiar figures were deep in conversation. Dan Hunter, casually dressed in a green rugby shirt and blue jeans, was smiling at Jo Maddison.

Dan jumped up when he saw me. ‘My day off, Jack,’ he said. ‘Just called in to fix up a date with Jo … er, I mean
for
the test at the end of the cycling proficiency training. Anyway, I’ll see you later.’

He leaned forward to shake hands and something caught my eye. I noticed that his hands were flecked with tiny splashes of paint and I smiled in recognition. The paint was ‘Pink Perfection’.

It was then that I understood a little more about love. Love is more than never having to say you’re sorry. Love is painting toilets together on a Sunday afternoon!

Chapter Four

Jam and Jerusalem

Reading tests were completed for all infant children. The Parent Teacher Association agreed Miss Evans, school secretary, could borrow their crockery on behalf of the Women’s Institute
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 18 October 1978

THE LADIES OF
the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute were singing ‘Jerusalem’ with gusto – in fact, rather too much gusto. The pianist, Elsie Crapper, had clearly forgotten to take her tablets.

It was just after 7.30 p.m. on Wednesday, 18 October, and I was a few minutes late in delivering Vera’s crockery. I squeezed through the back door of the village hall and put down the huge box of cups and saucers on the kitchen worktop. The louvre doors of the hatchway were slightly open and I could see rows of ladies in the main
hall
, and at the front, behind a large trestle table, stood Vera Evans with the rest of the committee.

Vera did not look happy. She liked decorum and Elsie’s piano-playing definitely lacked it, especially when she had failed to take her Valium. With a flurry of chords that sounded like the theme tune from
The Archers
, Elsie raced to the end of ‘Jerusalem’, slammed down the lid of the piano and rushed into the kitchen to switch on the Baby Burco boiler for a cup of camomile tea.

Elsie was startled to see me. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ she said in surprise.

‘Sorry to disturb you, Mrs Crapper,’ I whispered. ‘I’m delivering this box of crockery for my school secretary, Miss Evans.’

Elsie, after a lifetime of distrusting men, opened the cardboard lid of the box suspiciously and looked inside. ‘I see,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘What’s this?’ she asked, picking up a large jar of jam from the top of the pile of crockery.

‘Oh, that’s Miss Evans’s jam,’ I explained.

Jo Maddison’s class had just finished their jam-making project and Jo was keen that Vera should be the first to sample it, particularly as she had provided all the jam jars from her collection at the vicarage. When she heard that I would be seeing Vera after school, Jo had written ‘Miss Evans, Crab-Apple Jam, October 1978’ on the sticky-label on the front of the jar and asked me to deliver it.

‘Vera will be free in about fifteen minutes,’ said Elsie, rummaging furiously in her handbag for her tablets. ‘So how about a cup of tea?’

I nodded, peered through the hatchway again, and turned my attention to the strange rituals that were part of Women’s Institute folklore history.

The President of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, the tall and distinguished Mrs Patterson-Smythe, rose from her seat, took a deep breath, smoothed her presidential green sash, adjusted her spectacles and read from her handwritten script.

‘On behalf of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, it gives me great pleasure to introduce Miss Edith Fawnswater, who is our visiting speaker this evening. Miss Fawnswater has travelled all the way from Bridlington to give us a fifteen-minute talk entitled “The Sex Life of an Ant”.’ Mrs Patterson-Smythe looked at her wristwatch and prayed it would not last more than fifteen minutes. After all, ants were simply awful little creatures. ‘So I’m confident we will find it most illuminating,’ she added, with another anxious glance at her wristwatch.

There was hesitant applause and Vera frowned. She was sure ants were very interesting and industrious insects but their sex life was surely a private concern. If, one day, Vera achieved her life’s ambition and became President of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, she was determined not to have visiting speakers who delivered talks about the sex life of any of God’s creatures.

Miss Fawnswater was now in full flow. ‘The young males and fertile females fly from the nest to mate, after which the males die.’

Mrs Patterson-Smythe gritted her teeth, Vera looked to
the
heavens and the Treasurer, Miss Deirdre Coe, sister of Stan Coe, the notorious local pig farmer, gave an evil chuckle.

‘Serves t’randy little buggers reight!’ muttered Deirdre to her friends in the front row. Their sniggers were cut short by an icy stare from the President.

Thirteen tortuous minutes later, the talk finally ended and Mrs Patterson-Smythe gave a vote of thanks, while secretly vowing to visit Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium at the earliest opportunity in order to purchase a tin of his most potent ant poison.

‘I have two more notices,’ said Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘The first, which Miss Evans, our excellent Programme Secretary, has typed up, is the programme of monthly competitions for 1979 along with the hostesses for each event. This list will be displayed on the notice board in the entrance hall.’

Vera flushed with embarrassment and smiled modestly at Mrs Patterson-Smythe.

‘The second notice,’ continued the sharp-eyed President, looking in my direction, ‘says that we are grateful to our local headmaster, Mr Sheffield, who has kindly delivered a box of crockery from Ragley School. This crockery is on loan until we can replace our own crockery, which, I’m sure you ladies will agree, has seen better days.’

There were murmurings of approval around the hall and Vera spotted me sitting in the kitchen and mouthed a thank-you.

‘And now, ladies, it’s time for welcome refreshment,’
said
Mrs Patterson-Smythe, with an air of finality. The sudden rush of activity made it clear that the main business of the evening was about to begin.

A group of ladies, known as hostesses, leapt into action with surprising vigour. A trestle table, covered in a snow-white linen tablecloth, was quickly filled with large plates and dishes from the kitchen. A succulent joint of ham, eight pounds in weight, was displayed alongside two tongues, a vast quantity of sausage rolls and a large bowl of mixed nuts. Mary Hardisty, wife of George Hardisty the local champion gardener, had brought a large bowl of bright-red tomatoes and two cucumbers from her greenhouse.

Around the edges of the table an assortment of cakes covered in glacé cherries, shredded coconut and colourful hundreds and thousands were placed on delicate doilies. Unfortunately, the aesthetic quality of this wonderful presentation was somewhat reduced when Deirdre Coe went out to her mud-splattered Land Rover and returned, carrying one and a half gallons of fresh milk in an aluminium milk-churn, which she propped on the end of the table. She rubbed the splashes of milk from her beefy forearms, picked up a sausage roll in each ample fist, and wandered off, munching happily.

Mrs Patterson-Smythe and Vera immediately made a beeline for me and two of the hostesses began to unpack the box of crockery, while Elsie Crapper enjoyed the calm that accompanied her first cup of camomile tea.

‘Thank you so much, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘That
was
good timing.’ She glanced up at the elegant Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘And may I introduce our President?’

It was like being introduced to the Queen. I felt I should be bowing.

‘Mr Sheffield, I do appreciate your giving up your time to help us out like this and I insist you stay for some refreshment,’ said Mrs Patterson-Smythe.

I didn’t need asking twice. Minutes later I was munching ham-and-cucumber sandwiches and perusing the latest addition to the WI notice board. I smiled as I read what challenges lay in store for the ladies of Ragley and Morton in the year ahead. Vera’s neatly typed notice read:

The Competitions for 1979 are as follows: