06 Educating Jack (24 page)

‘Wassamatter?’ she said drowsily.

‘It’s Mother’s Day, Mam,’ said Heathcliffe.

‘So we got a s’prise f’you,’ said Terry.

Mrs Earnshaw smiled at her two boys. Perhaps they weren’t so bad after all.

‘You stay in bed, Mam,’ said Heathcliffe gently.

‘Y’don’t need t’get up,’ added little Terry.

Mrs Earnshaw gave them both a kiss on the tops of their spiky blond hair and they rushed off.

Soon she heard the clatter of pans from the kitchen and, shortly after, the delicious smell of frying bacon. She licked her lips in anticipation and wondered if they would find the large tray under the sink and remember to bring the salt and pepper set she had won at bingo. Then it seemed to go quiet for a long while and, wondering what was happening, she got up, put on her dressing gown and tiptoed downstairs. The sight that met her eyes was not what she expected. The kitchen looked as though a bomb had hit it and, at the table, Heathcliffe and Terry were tucking into bacon, eggs and doorstep slices of burnt toast. They looked up and grinned.

‘What’s goin’ on?’ asked Mrs Earnshaw.

‘This is y’s’prise, Mam,’ said Terry cheerfully.

‘Y’what?’

‘We’ve saved you all t’trouble o’ mekkin our breakfast,’ said Heathcliffe magnanimously. For these boys of Barnsley, while cooking was an elusive art, sainthood came naturally and they continued tucking into the best breakfast they’d had for weeks.

Further down the street, Daphne Cathcart was in her kitchen preparing breakfast for teenage Cathy and little Michelle. She was thinking about what Phoebe Duckworth had prophesied for her daughters in a world of books. Perhaps they would become librarians or work in a bookshop. Round her neck hung an Egyptian pendulum, a small crystal that she wore to help natural healing. She had been told it was an antidepressant crystal that increased self-worth and she stroked it and reflected on her life. It was also intended to bring good luck.

Then she had a surprise as her two girls appeared in their dressing gowns, each holding up a home-made Mother’s Day card.

‘Why are you crying, Mummy?’ asked Michelle.

‘’Cause she’s ’appy,’ said Cathy softly.

Daphne hugged her daughters and prayed they would grow up to have more sense than she had … even though she had six of them.

Prudence Golightly picked up her antique clock and stared at the face. It had stopped again at three o’clock, the time Jeremy had left all those years ago, never to return.

Then she turned it round to look at the small hinged door set into the rear of the clock and opened it carefully. There was a working key and a tiny brass pendulum … and something else. It was a folded sheet of paper, yellowed with age. She held it up in a bar of morning light that pierced the half-closed curtains. Hardly daring to breathe, she opened it and recognized Jeremy’s distinctive neat handwriting. It was a message that had been locked away for over forty years in a dark clockwork prison and simply read ‘I love you’.

Tears ran down her cheeks as memories of a youth shared filled her senses. ‘And I love you,’ she whispered.

It was then she recalled that there is an end to everything … except a love that was lost and found again.

School closed today with 88 children on roll and will reopen for the summer term on Tuesday, 12 April. A new admission, Becky Shawcross, age 5, was admitted to commence full-time education in Class 1 next term. The school choir and orchestra are to perform at the Easter Day service at 11 a.m. in St Mary’s Church on Sunday, 3 April
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

Wednesday, 30 March 1983

I FIRST MET
Bonnie Shawcross on Wednesday, 30 March, the last day of the spring term. She was a tall, willowy twenty-four-year-old with sea-grey eyes and long fair hair that was her crowning glory, hanging down almost to her waist and brushed until it shone. She looked nervous as she held the hand of her little daughter, Becky, a pale, fragile five-year-old but, on that morning when the scent of spring was in the air, somehow I knew they were
different
. There was something special about mother and daughter, like gold thread through calico.

It had been a long, cold winter but now, from the office window, I could see that the sticky buds on the horse-chestnut trees were cracking open and, in the flower tubs outside The Royal Oak, the first daffodils raised their bright-yellow trumpets to the sky. The spring term was almost over and the swallows had returned to their old haunts to build their nests.

Vera walked into the office. ‘This is Ms Shawcross and her daughter, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. Then she sat at her desk where a new admissions form had been prepared.

‘Welcome to Ragley,’ I said. ‘Please take a seat.’

‘Thank you for giving up your time to see us, Mr Sheffield. I’m Bonnie Shawcross and this is my daughter Becky. We’ve just moved back to Yorkshire from London and we’re living with my father in his cottage on the Morton Road.’

Vera looked up from her desk. ‘Which is just in our catchment area, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘So how can we help?’

Bonnie Shawcross looked down at her daughter. The little girl was sitting meekly on a large chair with her legs swinging to and fro. Her eyes were alert as she scanned the old photographs on the office walls and the watercolour painting of Ragley School. ‘I was hoping Becky could start school after Easter. She’s five next week.’

‘I can do the paperwork now if you wish,’ interjected Vera with her usual efficiency.

For the first time there was a hint of anxiety. ‘The only thing is, I’ve got a job in Banks Music Shop in York, Mr Sheffield,’ she said and then sighed. She glanced at Vera, who was scribbling on her notepad. ‘I enjoy it because I’ve always loved music, but it means long hours and I have to get the bus back to Ragley so I’m not home until half six.’

‘So who’s going to collect Becky at the end of school?’ I asked.

‘I’m not sure just yet,’ said Bonnie. ‘I’ll discuss it with my father, but he has a job in Easington.’

Vera looked up from her desk. ‘I’m sure we can suggest something for you. There’s a lot of support in Ragley.’ There was a glance between the two women that meant volumes to them but nothing to me.

When they left, Vera labelled a manila folder with the name ‘Becky Shawcross’, followed by her date of birth, and filed it in our tall, metal four-drawer filing cabinet.

‘Interesting young woman,’ I said.

‘Yes. Her late mother was in the Women’s Institute, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, ‘so I know the background. She met her boyfriend at university in London, but it didn’t work out. He left her and she’s been a single parent for the past two years, so, clearly, we need to help as much as we can.’ I never ceased to be amazed at the extent of Vera’s local knowledge.

‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep it in mind.’

‘And one more thing,’ Vera added with a smile. ‘Wait till you hear her sing … she has the most wonderful voice.’

The English lesson to start the day reminded me why I loved teaching. Anne and Sally had prepared a beautiful display in the entrance hall. They had covered the old pine table with a length of oatmeal hessian fabric and arranged a variety of pots and vases of spring flowers. Above it a beautiful collection of children’s ‘Spring’ paintings had been mounted. The girls and boys in my class carried their chairs from the classroom across the hall and sat down to study the flowers.

‘William Wordsworth wrote a famous poem in 1807,’ I said and began to read:

‘
I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills
,

When all at once I saw a crowd
,

A host, of golden daffodils
’

Then we talked about the beauty of flowers and passed round some photographs I had taken of the cascades of daffodils on the grassy banks that surround York’s ancient city walls. The children took turns to compile a list of words that described the daffodils along with their feelings in response to the wonders of nature. Half an hour later, the poems and pencil sketches that emerged made me realize just how creative young children can be. It also occurred to me that, while it was demanding to be a headteacher with a full-time teaching commitment, on occasions such as these it was the best job in the world.

At half past ten, in the school hall, Joseph had finished his Easter assembly and was continuing an impromptu discussion with a group of children in Sally’s class.

‘Well there
is
a difference between “like” and “love”,’ said Joseph. ‘Do you know what it is, Benjamin?’

Ben Roberts nodded with the assurance of youth. ‘Well, Mr Evans,’ he said, ‘ah
like
my mam and dad … but ah
love
Easter eggs.’

Joseph nodded, unsure how to respond. Occasionally the conceptual development of eight-year-olds was difficult to grasp so, as the bell rang for morning break, he decided to retreat to the staffroom.

I was on duty and enjoying the spring sunshine. In the playground the children were excited about the forthcoming Easter holiday and the promise of chocolate eggs. They were in lively spirits and a group of girls were skipping and chanting in unison:

‘
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven
,

All good children go to heaven
.

A penny on the water, twopence on the sea
,

Threepence on the railway and out goes she!
’

It was a busy end of term with a final rehearsal for Sally’s choir and orchestra prior to the Easter Day service and the arrangements for making sure every pupil’s report book found its way home to be signed by their parent. There was also the usual final clear-out from Anne’s lost-property box and, at the end of school, a group of mothers rediscovered forgotten socks, Wellington boots and the occasional broken toy.

Gradually the school emptied, parents and children said their farewells, the teachers cleared their classrooms and Ruby began her famous ‘holiday polish’ of the hall floor. Vera was the last to leave, determined to finish her end-of-term filing.

‘See you in church, Vera,’ I said. ‘Sally and Anne have worked wonders with the choir.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘this is definitely one of my favourite services of the year, especially with the children involved.’ She sounded reflective as she buttoned her coat and stared out of the window. ‘To be perfectly frank, I’m not really a fan of High Church with its bells and smells, nor am I comfortable with the happy-clappy Evangelical church in Easington … but perhaps we should live and let live. It’s just that Joseph’s services are perfect for me.’

Finally, at seven o’clock, I was alone in the office completing the school logbook. The last entry of term was always a poignant moment for me and the occasional sibilant whispering of the breeze in the roof tiles was a comforting companion in the silence of the empty school.

On Good Friday morning Beth and I woke to a birdsong dawn in a land of new birth. It was the first day of April, a time of renewal, and the warm breath of spring had finally touched this cold northern land.

‘I can’t believe I’ve only got another couple of months before my maternity leave,’ Beth said. ‘It’s a strange feeling.’ She had met with the school governing body and agreed she would continue her headteacher duties until the half-term holiday at the end of May. Miss Barrington-Huntley at County Hall had appointed Simon Bartram, Beth’s deputy headteacher, to take over as Acting Headteacher at Hartingdale Primary School and he had jumped at the opportunity.

‘So what shall we do today?’ I asked. ‘Surely you’re not doing another assignment?’

Beth stood up, ran her fingers through her honey-blonde hair and stretched. ‘Not today, Jack,’ she said with a smile. ‘It’s a lovely day, so let’s go to the Good Friday service and then maybe for a walk.’

Four miles away, Wilfred Noggs, the churchwarden, had arrived early at St Mary’s. As he walked through the silent churchyard, he paused next to the bench on which a shiny brass plate had been fixed in memory of his late wife, Jean. The sharp pang of pain was familiar now, such was his sorrow at her recent loss. Cancer had little respect for longevity and Jean Noggs had died at the age of fifty-seven. His life seemed empty now.

Wilfred’s churchwarden duties were second nature to him. He unlocked the huge oak door, turned on the lights and padded across the red carpet to the back of the church to unlock the inner vestry. Once inside the confined space, he moved with practised ease.

First, he took from the ancient Welsh dresser a beautifully laundered white cloth and the
elements
: the wine and the small circular wafers of bread. He placed these with due reverence on the pew reserved for the sidesmen, ready for their presentation at the altar during the offertory hymn. Then he put the chalice on a tray along with a small glass jug of water for washing fingers, plus a box of matches and a spill for lighting the candles. He carried them all down the aisle and up the steps to the chancel. With military precision he arranged everything on the altar. After all, Joseph liked things to be perfect. Finally he lit the two candles on the altar and stood back to admire his work.

Back in the peaceful sanctuary of the inner vestry he nodded knowingly. Here there was a place for everything and he took the two shallow wooden collection plates from the drawer of the ancient bureau, plus a large and quite magnificent brass collection plate. He stacked the two wooden plates next to the bookcase of hymn books and service sheets, and then he remembered. Although sidesmen usually worked in pairs, only
one
plate was required. Toby Speight was on duty today and the shy young man always worked alone; he was a solitary sidesman.

Bright yellow forsythia lifted our spirits as we drove into Ragley and up the Morton Road to St Mary’s Church. Outside, Beth smiled and pointed to the church noticeboard. ‘Another one of Elsie’s classics,’ she said. Elsie Crapper’s notice read: ‘Don’t worry yourself to an early grave – let the church help you’.