03 Dear Teacher (3 page)

‘It’s norra rat,’ proclaimed Maurice.

‘That’s a relief,’ said Anne. ‘So I presume it’s a mouse.’

‘It’s a mouse, all reight,’ he said. ‘Ah caught a glimpse of it in t’caretaker’s cupboard.’

Suddenly Tony Ackroyd appeared at the staff-room door. He looked nervous.

‘Hello, Tony,’ I said. ‘What’s wrong?’

Tony looked up at Maurice. ‘ ’Ello, Uncle Maurice,’ he said.

I looked in surprise at Maurice. ‘So Tony is your nephew?’

‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. ’E’s our Margery’s eldest.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘So what is it, Tony?’

Tony’s cheeks flushed. ‘Mr Sheffield, ah’m reight sorry, ah should’ve told y’sooner,’ said Tony, ‘but then ah saw Uncle Maurice’s van.’

‘Told me what, Tony?’ I said.

‘Ah brought Petula this morning t’show you, but then she went missing,’ he said. ‘Ah told yer in assembly.’

‘Petula?’

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield: m’pet mouse.’

‘You have a mouse called Petula?’

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Tony, as if it was entirely
logical
. ‘Me mam named ’er after Mrs Dudley-Palmer, ’cause me mouse ’as staring eyes.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, trying not to smile.

‘An’ ah thought me uncle Maurice might kill ’er if ’e didn’t know it were Petula.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’ve told me, Tony, but you should have let me know straight away. We’ve been very worried.’

‘Ah’m reight sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tony forlornly.

Maurice looked down at his little nephew and then up at me.

‘Don’t worry, ah’ll use psychol’gy,’ he said, stroking the side of his nose with a gnarled forefinger. ‘Ah’ve got jus t’thing in t’van.’ He scurried off eagerly and returned moments later. ‘ ’Ere it is … carbolic soap. Petula will love it,’ he said, holding up a large bar of potent-smelling soap that would have stopped a clock at ten paces.

‘Can ah tek Tony to ’elp me?’ said Maurice.

‘Er, yes, of course, but be careful, Tony,’ I said.

With that, uncle and nephew trotted out into the entrance hall and carefully opened Ruby’s cupboard. We could hear their raised voices.

‘Use that broom ’andle, Tony, t’coax ’er out,’ shouted Maurice, ‘an’ ah’ll get me wire basket ready.’

At that moment, Vera walked through the little corridor that linked the school office to the staff-room. ‘Excuse me, Mr Sheffield, but Mrs Dudley-Palmer is in the office and would like a word.’

Mrs Dudley-Palmer was standing next to the open office door. ‘Oh, hello, er … Mrs Dudley-Palmer, what can I do to help?’

‘Well, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, taking out an expensive-looking school prospectus, ‘you will recall I have a difficult decision to make about Elisabeth Amelia’s future as she will be eight at the end of this school year.’

‘Ah, yes,’ I said. ‘It would be a shame to lose such a delightful girl from our school.’

Petula Dudley-Palmer studied me for a moment. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, Mr Sheffield. However, I’ve just returned from York and the school is very appealing.’

‘I’m sure it is,’ I said, looking at the impressive coat of arms above some Latin script on the prospectus.

‘And then I shall have to decide what to do with Victoria Alice as she would eventually follow her sister.’

‘I understand,’ I said, ‘and we should be sorry to lose Victoria Alice as well. She’s such a happy and well-behaved little girl.’

‘Yes, she’s the one who takes after me, of course,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer with a self-satisfied smile.

Suddenly, five-year-old Victoria Alice ran in from the playground and stopped outside the door. ‘Hello, Mummy. I’ve just kissed Terry Earnshaw,’ she said proudly.

Mrs Dudley-Palmer was rooted to the spot. ‘How did that happen?’ she asked in horror.

‘It was difficult, Mummy. Molly Paxton had to help me catch him.’ Then she ran off and into class.

‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer. She stepped into
the
office and looked down at the prospectus as if she had finally made up her mind. It suddenly appeared as if Ragley School did not come up to expectations. As she was pondering what to say next, the silence was broken suddenly by loud voices from the staff-room.

‘Is everything OK now?’ asked Vera anxiously.

‘ ’Tis now,’ said Maurice.

Little Tony, with a big smile on his face, propped the broom handle in the staff-room doorway and set off back to the classroom.

‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ said Vera.

Mrs Dudley-Palmer and I could hear every word but the speakers were out of sight.

‘All t’better for seeing Petula,’ said Maurice, holding up the caged mouse in triumph.

Petula Dudley-Palmer stiffened slightly.

‘Well, I’m sure you have an expert eye,’ said Vera.

‘Petula’s allus been such a ’andsome creature,’ said Maurice, pushing a piece of carbolic soap towards the tiny mouse.

Mrs Dudley-Palmer smiled and I stepped forward quickly and shut the door between the office and the corridor to the staff-room.

‘Well, must be on m’way,’ said Maurice and he strode out towards the car park.

In the office, Mrs Dudley-Palmer gave a beatific smile and replaced the prospectus in her leather handbag. ‘Do you know, Mr Sheffield, that was most fortuitous.’

‘Really?’ I said.

‘Yes, it’s always nice to know that one is held in such high regard in the village.’

‘Er, yes,’ I said. ‘I agree.’

‘Perhaps my darling little girls should stay at Ragley after all.’

‘Well, er, that would be good news,’ I said and we walked out into the entrance hall, where Vera was standing next to the open staff-room door. The smell of strong soap filled the air.

‘Oh, carbolic soap, Miss Evans,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer, sniffing appreciatively. ‘That takes me back to when I was young. I’ve always had an attraction to carbolic soap.’

Vera smiled and looked to the heavens as Mrs Dudley-Palmer walked out to her Rolls-Royce.

‘An eventful day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.

I glanced at my watch. I should have been back in my classroom. ‘I’ll tell you about it at the end of school,’ I said.

There was a sudden banging on the office door. ‘Oh dear,’ I groaned, ‘whatever next?’ I picked up the strange-looking broom handle and opened the door.

Mrs Winifred Brown was standing there, clutching little Damian Brown’s hand. ‘Ah’m tekking ’im now,’ she said and then looked down at the broom handle in my hand. ‘Oh, y’found it, then,’ and she grabbed it.

‘Pardon?’

‘Y’found ’is light sabre, then?’

The penny dropped. Ruby’s spare broom handle
was
in fact Damian Brown’s
Star Wars
weapon. I was speechless.

Jo Hunter, who had been standing quietly behind me, stepped forward. ‘I would appreciate it, Mrs Brown,’ she said very firmly, ‘if you would try to avoid Damian missing school. This is not the best start to the term for him to miss the last lesson of his first day.’

Mrs Brown looked down at the slight, quietly spoken infant teacher and sneered. ‘Prob’ly jus’ as well. Ah saw t’pest controller’s van ’ere an’ ah shouldn’t be s’prised to ’ear from our Damian that y’riddled wi’ vermin.’

Jo Hunter stepped forward and raised herself to her full five-feet-three-inches and stared up at Mrs Brown. ‘Let’s have an understanding, Mrs Brown,’ said Jo in a determined voice. Winifred Brown took a step back. ‘If you promise not to believe everything Damian says happens in school, I’ll promise not to believe everything he says happens at home.’ Jo had clearly struck a nerve. The colour drained from Mrs Brown’s face and she retreated quickly. Jo closed the door and muttered, ‘I’ll give her vermin!’

Anne and Vera both clapped in appreciation. ‘Well said, Jo,’ said Vera.

‘And now it’s time for another little mouse,’ said Anne as she held up her Beatrix Potter book. I walked back to class with her and watched as she sat down with her children in the carpeted Book Corner. Anne surveyed the expectant little faces of the four- and five-year-olds at her feet. Then she held up the picture on the front cover
of
the book and said slowly and clearly, ‘Our first story of the year, boys and girls, is
The Tale of Mrs Tittlemouse
,’ and she winked in my direction. I nodded as I recalled the classic story of the little wood-mouse who strove to keep her house in order in spite of numerous unwanted visitors.

As I walked back to my classroom, with the end of our first day of school approaching, it occurred to me that Beatrix Potter definitely knew what she was talking about.

Chapter Two

The Gateway to Harmony

County Hall authorized the replacement of the school gates. The Revd Joseph Evans took his weekly RE lesson
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 25 September 1979

‘PEACE AND HARMONY,’
said Vera triumphantly. She opened her elegant Marks & Spencer’s leather handbag and held up a sheaf of carefully typed notes entitled ‘The Gateway to Harmony – 30 days to a harmonious life’. It was Tuesday, 25 September, and we had all gathered in the office at the end of the school day. ‘Would you like to hear it?’ asked Vera expectantly. She stood up behind her desk and smoothed the creases from the seat of her immaculate two-piece charcoal-grey suit. Everyone stood around, feeling awkward.

‘Of course, Vera,’ said Anne quickly and with slightly
too
much enthusiasm, ‘but … er, perhaps tomorrow lunchtime when we can fully appreciate it.’

‘And it will give you one more night to practise it,’ added Sally, both helpfully and hopefully.

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ said Vera, looking slightly deflated. ‘The first section, “Day One – Harmony Through Inner Peace”, probably requires a little fine tuning.’ She carefully folded her life-changing speech and returned it to her handbag.

As president of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, Vera was anxious to make her mark and the following evening she was to deliver a lecture at their monthly meeting in the village hall. The special guest was Lady Alexandra Denham from Harrogate, author of
A Woman’s Guide to Happy Living
, and one of the most influential ladies in the Women’s Institute movement in the north of England.

Suddenly there was a knock on the staff-room door and Vera opened it. ‘Oh, Mr Trump,’ she said, looking disdainfully at the little man clutching a paint-splattered clipboard. ‘I don’t think we were expecting you.’

Cecil Trump, the school maintenance officer, stiffened slightly and removed a pink maintenance slip from his clipboard with a theatrical flourish. ‘We’re painting y’school gates tomorrow,’ he announced proudly, ‘so sign ’ere.’

Vera studied the form. ‘Yes, I reported the poor state of the gates last term but County Hall said they would be replaced,’ she said.

‘Don’t know nowt about that,’ said Mr Trump defiantly. ‘Ah’m just ’ere t’mek sure they’re painted.’

‘And what colour are you painting them?’ asked Vera.

Mr Trump coughed affectedly. ‘It’s one of our more subtle blends of Sienna Amber an’ Rustic Redwood,’ he announced with the confidence of a man who misguidedly believed he understood the mysteries of colour coordination better than a woman did. With a smirk of satisfaction he pointed to his dog-eared Crown paint colour chart.

‘You mean brown,’ stated Vera dispassionately.

Undeterred, Mr Trump pressed on. ‘They’ll be ’ere at t’end of school an’ finished afore it gets dark,’ he said. Vera signed and he thrust the carbon copy into her hand, turned on his heel and drove away in his little white van.

Vera opened her grey metal filing cabinet and filed the sheet under ‘Maintenance’. Once again I reflected what a wonderful servant she was to Ragley School. I would have been lost without her ability to organize the day-today administration and finances. Vera and her brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, lived in the elegant and beautifully furnished vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church on the Morton Road and each day she brought order into our lives. Occasionally, however, she did get a little irritated.

‘I really have no confidence in that little man,’ she said as she walked out to collect her coat.

‘Peace and harmony, Vera,’ called Anne after her in a singsong voice.

‘Mmmm, yes,’ said Vera, with a tight-lipped smile.

Suddenly the telephone rang on Vera’s desk. I picked it up.

‘Ragley School,’ I said, automatically.

‘Hello, Jack.’

My heart skipped a beat. It was Beth … or was it?

‘Hello … er … how are you?’ I stuttered, stalling for time. It was almost impossible to tell whether it was Beth or Laura. The two sisters sounded so alike on the telephone.

‘Jack, I’m ringing from Liberty’s. I thought I’d stay in York tonight for a bite to eat and then go to the Odeon to see
Kramer vs Kramer
. I wondered if you wanted to come along.’

‘Oh, hello, Laura,’ I said. Laura had moved up from London earlier in the year to take charge of Liberty’s ladies’ fashion department and had bought a flat in York.

‘We could meet outside the cinema at seven thirty,’ she said with her usual confidence.

Around me was a human tableau. Vera had stopped buttoning her coat, Anne and Sally suddenly showed interest in the noticeboard and Jo stared out of the window. It was as if time had stood still.

‘Fine. I’ll see you there,’ I said hurriedly.

‘ ’Bye,’ said Laura and rang off.

As I returned the telephone to its cradle, everyone switched back into life but no one mentioned the phone call.

* * *

That evening, I walked out to my emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller with its ash-wood frame and brightly polished chromium grill. As I set off towards York, I was uncomfortably aware that I smelled like a perfume factory. I had just invested in a bottle of Brut aftershave. The boxer Henry Cooper, the motorcycle ace Barry Sheen and the international footballer Kevin Keegan, on a never-ending stream of television advertisements, had urged me to ‘splash it on’. I had done just that and reflected on the power of advertising.

I parked my car and walked under the archway of Micklegate Bar, one of York’s four ancient gateways to the city, and on to the cinema. Laura was already there, slim and attractive with her long warm brown hair loose round her shoulders. She looked stunning in her chic little Jean Allen suit that was soft to the touch. The jacket was a flowing black bolero and the skirt was panelled in emerald and she drew admiring glances from everyone around her.