Star Teacher (2 page)

A few girls were winding a long skipping rope and chanting out a rhyme as two nine-year-olds, Jemima Poole and Rosie Appleby, skipped in and out.

They appeared relaxed and full of good spirits as another school year in their young lives stretched out before them.

Ragley School looked fine on this special morning. It was a tall, red-brick Victorian building with high arched windows, a grey-slate roof and a distinctive bell tower. Generations of children had walked up the worn steps, under the archway of Yorkshire stone and through the old oak entrance door to begin their formal education. Back in 1977 the mantle of responsibility had passed to me and over time our school had become a centre of our community. The villagers were proud of its achievements and, in a small way, I felt content to be playing my part. It was a job I loved and I was happy in my world.

Suddenly a plump, red-faced lady approached me dragging a reluctant little boy with her. It was Mrs Dora Spraggon, mother of five-year-old Alfie, who was about to begin another year in Anne Grainger's infant class.

‘Good morning, Mrs Spraggon,' I said cheerfully.

‘Beggin' y'pardon, Mr Sheffield … but ah don't think so,' she replied forcefully. Mrs Spraggon was always friendly but naturally curt and to the point. ‘Ah tell it like it is, Mr Sheffield,' she had announced earlier in the week in the General Stores while I had been queuing for my morning paper. ‘Ah always call a spade a shovel.'

I looked down at Alfie in his Wham! T-shirt, grubby shorts and grass-stained sandals. He looked decidedly fed up with life. ‘Are you all right, Alfie?' I asked.

Mrs Spraggon shook her head. ‘'E's gorra conjunction, Mr Sheffield.'

‘A
conjunction
?'

‘Yes, in 'is eye.'

The penny dropped. ‘Oh, I see,' I said.

On cue, Alfie rubbed the swelling beneath his left eye.

‘Please mention it to Mrs Grainger,' I called after her as she hurried up the drive.

Meanwhile, the village was coming to life. Opposite the school on the village green a few mothers were sitting on the bench by the duck pond watching their small children making daisy chains. Next to the green, in the centre of a row of cottages with pantile roofs and tall, rickety chimneypots, stood the white-fronted public house, The Royal Oak. The barmaid, Sheila Bradshaw, in her see-through blouse, leather mini-skirt and high heels, was sweeping the porch and gave me a seductive wave.

To my left, Ragley's High Street was bordered by wide grassy verges and a row of village shops. Some of the shopkeepers looked busier than others. Amelia Duff was preparing to open her Post Office while, next door, Diane Wigglesworth was sitting on the step of her Hair Salon and smoking her first John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarette of the day. Nora Pratt was holding a bucket of soapy water outside her Coffee Shop, while Dorothy Robinson, her assistant, cleaned the window and swayed her hips to Tina Turner's ‘We Don't Need Another Hero', blasting out from the old red-and-chrome juke-box. Next door, Nora's brother, Timothy Pratt, was polishing the brass door handle of his Hardware Emporium as if his life depended on it. Peggy Scrimshaw was receiving a delivery of Pond's Cream for the village Pharmacy, and Old Tommy Piercy was arranging a selection of pigs' trotters behind the window of his butcher's shop. Meanwhile, the General Stores & Newsagent had been open since eight o'clock and Prudence Golightly was selling four ounces of sherbet lemons to ten-year-old Damian Brown. The High Street was the heartbeat of the village and another day had begun.

‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,' announced a polite, well-modulated voice.

I looked around. It was Mrs Pippa Jackson with her identical twin daughters, Hermione and Honeysuckle. ‘A beautiful day,' she added cheerily.

A year ago the family had moved into one of the most expensive properties in the village on the Morton Road. As always, the girls were immaculately turned out in matching gingham dresses, knee-length white socks and smart new leather shoes. Their blonde hair had been brushed and tied back with bright-coloured bows of different colours to assist Anne Grainger in telling one from the other in her reception class.

‘Good morning, Mrs Jackson,' I replied, ‘and hello, girls.'

‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,' chorused the twins in perfect harmony.

I followed them up the cobbled drive and overheard a snippet of conversation between Mrs Ricketts and Mrs Crapper. Brenda Ricketts was holding the hand of her five-year-old daughter, Suzi-Quatro, while Connie Crapper was spitting on her handkerchief prior to removing the last vestige of lipstick from the face of seven-year-old Patience.

‘She's all posh curtains an' flock wallpaper is that one,' said Brenda Ricketts, nodding towards Mrs Jackson.

Connie Crapper nodded in agreement. ‘Definitely stuck-up. All fur coat an' no knickers,' she added for good measure.

The ebb and flow of village gossip never changed.

Pretending I hadn't heard, I walked on towards the entrance steps, where I paused and took a deep breath. Then I glanced up at the scudding clouds sweeping past the bell tower and reflected that I was happy here in my village school in this peaceful corner of God's Own Country. However, beyond our little community, in the nation at large, times were changing fast.

For this was 1985. According to a recent survey, a remarkable 78 per cent of the population now had a telephone in their home, 61 per cent owned a car, 13 per cent went to church and 18 per cent of the country's 56.5 million people had reached retirement age. The miners' strike had ended and the wreck of the
Titanic
had been located, blood donors would soon be screened for AIDS and British Telecom had finally decided to phase out the classic red telephone box. The average UK house price had increased to £34,000, Cyndi Lauper had been voted best new artist and Dire Straits'
Brothers in Arms
was the bestselling album. Microsoft had recently released something called Windows and a remarkable thirteen-year-old, Ruth Lawrence, had achieved a starred first in mathematics at Oxford, becoming the youngest ever graduate. Meanwhile, we had already said a final goodbye to Sir Michael Redgrave and Yul Brynner, and were soon to lose Laura Ashley and Orson Welles.

However, in sleepy Ragley-on-the-Forest life trundled along and the school bell that had summoned the children of the village for over one hundred years was about to ring out once again to announce the beginning of another school year.

When I walked into the office our school secretary, Vera Forbes-Kitchener, a tall, slim, elegant sixty-three-year-old, was sitting at her immaculately tidy desk and labelling the new attendance and dinner registers, a pair for each of our four classes.

‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,' said Vera. Regardless of having worked together for eight years, Vera held on to the formality of calling me
Mr
Sheffield. In her world it was the proper thing to do. She smoothed the creases from the skirt of her new Marks & Spencer charcoal-grey, pin-striped suit and held up a letter.

‘This came in, Mr Sheffield,' she said. ‘It looks important … and
ominous
.'

‘Oh dear, what is it?' I asked, picking absent-mindedly at the frayed leather patches on my herringbone sports coat.

She passed over a document with the familiar North Yorkshire county crest above the heading ‘Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire'.

‘We've been through all this before,' I said. ‘So I wonder what's new this time?' Back in 1981 we had been threatened with school closure but had survived and our numbers on roll had increased slightly.

It was a copious document, definitely bedtime reading. On the first page was an invitation to a meeting of North Yorkshire headteachers at High Sutton Hall on 1 October. I put it in my old leather satchel, completely unaware of the impact it would have on my life and that of our village school.

Anne Grainger popped her head round the door. ‘Hello, Jack. Pat has settled in and Class 2 looks a picture,' she said with a reassuring smile. Anne, a slim brunette in her fifties, was our deputy headteacher and her reception class was always full of colour and creativity.

‘Thanks, I'll call in to see her,' I said.

Pat Brookside had recently been appointed to teach the six- and seven-year-olds and today was her first day as a teacher at Ragley School. A tall, leggy, twenty-eight-year-old blonde, Pat had taught the infant age range at Thirkby Primary School in North Yorkshire and was a welcome addition to the staff.

Vera handed the new school registers for Class 1 to Anne. ‘Here's to another school year,' she said.

Anne stared thoughtfully at the smart, pristine registers. ‘Yes, another year,' she murmured. ‘Let's hope it's a good one.'

Vera looked at her curiously. There was clearly something on Anne's mind and Vera determined she would pick the right moment to see if she could offer wise counsel.

I picked up my registers. ‘And I'll deliver these to Pat.'

‘Wish her good luck from me,' said Vera.

Sally Pringle, the Class 3 teacher, was in the school hall preparing the music for morning assembly. With her long, wavy red hair, baggy shirt with frilly sleeves, a bright mustard waistcoat and mint-green cord trousers, she cut a distinctive arty figure. She had propped her
Tinderbox
songbook on a music stand, opened it to number 31, ‘Thank You for My Friends', and then rehearsed the opening chords on her guitar.

‘Morning, Jack,' she said with a smile. ‘Here we go again.'

‘Hello, Sally,' I replied. ‘All set for another year?'

‘Yes, looking forward to it, and good to have a new experienced colleague next door. Pat has already volunteered to give me a few lessons on the computer. And I'm guessing we'll have a good netball team this year,' she added with a grin.

Pat Brookside was in her classroom putting a new HB pencil, a pack of wax crayons and a large sheet of white sugar paper on each desk.

‘Morning, Pat,' I said, ‘and hope all goes well.'

‘Thanks, Jack, I'm sure I'll be fine.'

Her blonde hair had been brushed back into a flowing ponytail and she had dressed classically in a white blouse, grey pleated skirt and black leather shoes. I felt sure Vera would approve. Two years ago, when we had had a vacancy for a Class 2 teacher, Pat had been a strong candidate and had made the shortlist, but in the end we had appointed a young man named Tom Dalton. However, after a year and a half he had moved on and during the subsequent selection process it was clear that Pat, who applied again, appeared much more confident than when we had first interviewed her. She had been on a computer course and explained something called Windows version 1.0 in great detail. Her knowledge of the primary curriculum was outstanding and she had offered to support extra-curricular activities, including the netball team, if appointed. As a county-standard player herself, this seemed appropriate. At the end of the interview our chair of governors, the Revd Joseph Evans, asked why she wanted to move from Thirkby. ‘I've just moved in with a new partner,' she explained, ‘and he lives close by, in Easington.'

I recalled how Joseph had blinked at the directness of this positive and forthright young woman, and I smiled at the memory.

Pat had arrived early in her Mini Clubman Estate and proceeded to put the finishing touches to the displays in her classroom. They included a nature table; a collection of science experiments; posters of simple computer exercises; and a collection of model cars, boats, steam engines and aeroplanes for her ‘Transport Through the Ages' project.

‘This looks wonderful, Pat,' I said. ‘Well done.'

She picked up a replica of the
Flying Scotsman
. ‘My partner is still young at heart,' she said with a smile. ‘David is proud of his train set.'

David Beckinsdale was a newly qualified general practitioner and worked in our nearby market town of Easington. Vera had mentioned that, as a handsome six-foot-three-inch thirty-year-old, he was considered quite a catch.

‘If you need anything, just let me know,' I said. ‘Here are your attendance and dinner registers.'

‘Thanks Jack,' she said and a flicker of concern crossed her face. ‘Anne mentioned that Vera is a bit of a stickler regarding record-keeping.'

‘Well, if it helps, I'll do my registers quickly and send them in to you while you're introducing yourself to the class and setting them off on an activity. Then you can have a look at my registers and begin your own.'

She sighed with relief. ‘I would appreciate that.'

‘And, by the way, Vera asked me to say “Good luck”.'

‘She's a lovely lady,' said Pat as she placed a red and a black ballpoint pen alongside her registers.

‘Between you and me, Pat,' I said quietly, ‘we would be lost without her.'

Pat looked at her wristwatch. ‘Almost time for the bell.'

‘Yes,' I said with a smile and hurried out.

A few minutes after nine o'clock I walked into Class 4. The nine- and ten-year-olds were sitting quietly at their desks as I began to read out the register.

‘Damian Brown,' I said.

There was no response.

A few of the children became animated.

‘Ah've seen 'im, Mr Sheffield,' called out Ryan Halfpenny.

‘So 'ave I,' added Sonia Tricklebank.

‘'E were buying sweets, Mr Sheffield,' volunteered Frankie Spraggon.

‘Very well,' I said, ‘let's carry on … Stacey Bryant.'

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield.'

‘Ben Clouting.'

‘Yes, Mr Sheffield.'