Star Teacher (4 page)

‘Thank you Vera.' I recalled that our Senior Primary Adviser from County Hall had telephoned to say he would call in one day this week.

When I walked in, Richard Gomersall was sitting on a chair by the window, reading a copious, spiral-bound document. He closed it quickly and I noticed the distinctive County Hall crest on the cover. ‘Hello, Jack,' he said with a rather forced smile.

A short, slight man in his late forties, with carefully coiffured, wavy, reddish-brown hair, Richard was well known for his outlandish fashion sense. Today he looked as if he had dressed for a part in
Miami Vice
, with a lagoon-blue linen jacket complete with huge shoulder pads. Matching baggy trousers, a figure-hugging pink pastel shirt and black leather Cuban-heeled boots completed the ensemble.

‘Good to see you, Richard,' I said as we shook hands.

To my surprise, he stood up and closed the door. ‘Jack, I can't stay long but I thought I ought to let you know the outcome of a meeting at County Hall.'

‘Oh yes?'

‘Miss Barrington-Huntley asked me to call in.'

‘Did she?'

‘As you know, she's chairing the interview panel today … a big day for Beth of course.'

‘Yes, I'm hopeful she'll do well.'

He paused as if he were searching for the right words. ‘Jack … there are
changes
ahead for small schools, and not just here in North Yorkshire.'

My heart sank. We had been through possible closure some years ago but somehow we had survived. I said nothing and simply waited for him to get to the point.

‘The problem isn't so much for Ragley but rather
Morton
Primary School.'

‘Morton? Really? I'd heard the new head is doing well.'

‘Rufus Timmings – yes, he's certainly made an impact … but it's a
numbers
problem, Jack. There are only twenty-eight children on roll at present and we at County Hall are committed to making savings wherever possible. Sadly, Morton School is no longer economically viable. There are simply not enough children living in the catchment area who would attend the school in the future.'

‘So how does that affect Ragley?' I asked. ‘We survived the last round of cuts and our numbers are increasing each year.'

He glanced at his watch. ‘I've arranged to visit Morton this morning, but Miss B-H insisted I alert you first.'

‘I still don't understand,' I said.

‘The thing is, Jack, we're arranging a series of meetings during this academic year with a view to the possibility of amalgamating the two schools.'

‘Amalgamation – with Morton?'

‘Yes, the children from Morton would come here.'

I began grappling with the implications. ‘Richard … there would be huge opposition from the villagers of Morton. They're proud of their school, just as we are here in Ragley.'

He sighed as if I were stating the obvious. ‘Yes, we've taken that into consideration and it is of course a very early stage in the proceedings.'

I looked out of the window at the children on the playground and shook my head. ‘This is a small Victorian building. Our classrooms are tiny. Space is already an issue, as you well know.'

‘Not a problem.' He gave a forced smile. ‘We would provide a Portakabin. That's the norm in these cases.' He stood up and glanced nervously at his wristwatch. ‘I'm afraid I'll have to move on. There's obviously a lot to discuss in the future, but for now please keep this under your hat.'

‘Under my hat?' I said. ‘This news will affect the whole staff.'

He sighed and glanced up at the staff-room clock. ‘Jack, I've done you a personal favour by calling in this morning and this information is strictly on a need-to-know basis … orders from on high. So for the time being keep this to yourself – it's important. This discussion is
strictly
confidential and if the local press get in touch just say “No comment”.'

I accepted the inevitable. ‘Very well, Richard. I understand … and thanks for letting me know.'

I stood by the window as he jumped into his bright-red Jaguar XJ6 and, with the smooth hum of its powerful six cylinders, accelerated swiftly down the cobbled drive. As I set off for my classroom it seemed to me he had left behind more questions than answers … along with the burden of a secret.

Morning break came as something of a relief. I had found it difficult to concentrate on our English lesson, even though my class had responded well to the effective use of adjectives in their writing. I was on duty and relaxed a little as I walked outside to supervise the children at play.

Owing to a barrage of telephone calls just prior to the morning bell, Vera was later than usual preparing our morning coffee. It was a welcome sight when she brought out mine to the playground.

‘Thank you, Vera,' I said.

Nearby two eight-year-olds, Stuart Ormroyd and Tom Burgess, were playing conkers and the Jackson twins were leading a circle of girls in a rendition of ‘Ring a Ring o' Roses'.

‘Good to see the children playing
traditional
games,' said Vera wistfully.

On a bare, flattened patch of earth next to the tarmac playground, Damian Brown was playing marbles with Ryan Halfpenny.

‘My dad gave me these, Mr Sheffield,' said Ryan. ‘'E said 'e'd played with 'em when 'e were a lad.'

Damian shook his head forlornly. ‘My dad's lost 'is marbles.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' I replied with a smile.

However, I noticed Vera wasn't listening; she appeared preoccupied.

Later, after a school dinner of Spam fritters, chips and peas followed by jam roly-poly pudding and pink custard, I returned to the school office. I had just completed our response to County Hall's discussion document ‘A New Curriculum for North Yorkshire Schools' when the telephone rang on Vera's desk. I looked up anxiously as she lifted the receiver.

‘Hold on, Beth,' she said with a smile. ‘He's here now.' She passed me the telephone, stood up to vacate her desk and crept out quietly to the staff-room.

‘How did it go?' I asked.

‘The best yet, Jack,' Beth said. ‘Far better than Hampshire.' She sounded both excited and relieved. ‘I've been recalled for the final interview tomorrow.'

‘Well done,' I said. ‘So … this might be the one.'

There was a tired sigh. ‘Yes, perhaps.'

‘You don't sound too sure.'

‘Well, this headship would be ideal, but we'll have to see. It's a lovely school but I've still got tough competition.'

‘Who's that?'

‘Two men. They're both heads of small schools, one from Stevenage and one from Bolton. They're nice guys, except …'

‘Yes?'

‘It's pretty clear they both think it's a straight contest between the two of them and I'm making up the numbers.'

‘No change there then.'

‘Let's hope Miss B-H puts them right,' said Beth. ‘She chaired the morning interviews and she doesn't take kindly to male chauvinists.'

‘Too true,' I agreed. Miss Barrington-Huntley, the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall, was renowned for her fierce support for equality of the sexes. ‘Are you driving back to Hartingdale for afternoon school?'

‘Yes, so I'll see you tonight. Mother is making tea.'

‘Fine,' I said guardedly. When Vera left she had closed the door. I was in a private space. ‘And I love you,' I whispered.

There was a pause. ‘You too … bye.'

Afternoon school went well and while the children in my class were getting changed for their Music and Movement lesson in the hall I called into Sally's classroom next door to borrow two tambourines and a drum. She was standing by the chalkboard, busy with a ‘Counties of England' lesson. ‘How do you spell “Yorkshire”?' she asked.

The enthusiastic Tom Burgess, from a farming family in the village, was the first to raise his hand. ‘Y-O-R-K-S-U-R-E,' he recited confidently.

‘No, sorry, Tom, that's wrong.'

Tom looked indignant. ‘Well, that might be so, Miss, but you asked me 'ow
ah
spell it.'

Sally raised her eyes in my direction as I hurried out, clutching my musical instruments and trying not to laugh.

After an energetic dance lesson it was our turn to use the school computer and this always created great excitement among the children. We had purchased a BBC Micro for £299 and had been deeply impressed when the local adviser informed us it contained ‘a massive 16 KB of RAM'. However, that had been two years ago and I was aware that many of the children in my class went home to a ZX Spectrum or a Commodore 64. I had also come across Ryan Halfpenny and Barry Ollerenshaw discussing how they would be hackers of the future after seeing the film
WarGames
. They were convinced they could one day infiltrate the top-secret networks of the USA and begin a thermonuclear war. The pace of technology was becoming frightening and many in the teaching profession were being left behind the level of competence of the children in their care.

Fortunately Pat was already proving invaluable and called in from time to time to offer advice. She had followed me into the school hall with her class. Her partner, David, had purchased a BIG TRAK, a mobile electronic vehicle, and Pat had brought it in to give the children experience in computing and control. With the opportunity to plot up to sixteen commands and use direction arrows, it was proving very popular. The added incentive to fire a so-called ‘photon cannon', which was actually a small light bulb behind a piece of blue plastic, added to the sense of excitement.

During afternoon break I was busy with Pat discussing the purchase of new netball bibs while Vera served up mugs of tea. Meanwhile, Anne had picked up Vera's
Daily Telegraph
and had read with interest that Rock Hudson was reported to be unimpressed after being informed that he was the world's most famous AIDS victim. And Christopher Reeve had been offered $6 million to play Superman once again.

Sally was reading her
Art & Craft
magazine and was engrossed in an article about making papier-mâché puppet heads when Vera broke the silence. ‘We've got an interesting speaker this evening at the Women's Institute,' she said.

‘Who's that?' asked Sally.

‘It's a gentleman from Harrogate,' said Vera. ‘A Mr Perkin Warbeck speaking about “Memory”.'

‘Perkin Warbeck?' repeated Pat. ‘That name rings a bell from my A-level history.'

As usual, Sally, our resident historian, knew more than the rest of us. ‘He lived at the end of the fifteenth century,' she explained with conviction. ‘He was a pretender to the English throne during the reign of King Henry VII.'

‘What happened to him?' asked Pat.

‘He didn't last very long,' said Sally. ‘They took him from the Tower, then hanged him at Tyburn.'

She settled back down to her magazine and smiled reflectively. ‘Good job I wasn't living then with my view of the monarchy,' she muttered to herself.

Vera frowned but said nothing. She had something else on her mind.

That evening, at Bilbo Cottage, Beth was recounting her day.

‘The questions were pretty much what I expected,' she said, ‘and I think I coped well. I answered all the queries about the curriculum, behaviour, religious education and so on.'

‘So you're down to the final three,' I said.

‘But the other two are men,' put in Diane guardedly.

‘O ye of little faith, Mother!' exclaimed Beth. ‘This is the 1980s and women like me are securing positions of responsibility.'

‘Perhaps,' said Diane quietly.

So it went on, with Beth becoming increasingly frustrated with her mother.

Diane's childcare was greatly appreciated but came at a price.

It was seven o'clock and Vera was by the back door of her kitchen at Morton Manor. She was saying goodbye to her three cats, Treacle, Jess and her favourite, Maggie, named after Margaret Thatcher, her political heroine. After checking they had eaten their liver-flavoured Kitekat Supreme, she walked out to her shiny Austin Metro, placed her tin of freshly baked fruit scones on the passenger seat next to her handbag, checked her notes and drove off down the Morton Road towards Ragley High Street.

When she arrived, the village hall was almost full and soon the ladies of the Ragley & Morton Women's Institute were settling back in their chairs. Vera went to the front.

‘It gives me great pleasure,' she said, ‘to welcome our speaker this evening, Mr Perkin Warbeck.'

An elderly man in a thick tweed three-piece suit peered myopically over his half-moon spectacles and smiled nervously.

‘Mr Warbeck has travelled all the way from Harrogate to provide us with his informative talk entitled “Memories Are Made of This”.' Vera glanced down at the diminutive, balding man and gave an encouraging smile. He appeared to be fidgeting unnecessarily, while the portly lady by his side, Miss Martha Clapp, prepared a series of 35mm slides on her carousel projector. It was soon clear to Vera's experienced eye that Martha worshipped the ground that Perkin walked on but, sadly, he was oblivious to her keen attention.

However, Perkin belied his appearance and spoke in a loud, confident voice. ‘The more you know about your memory,' he said, ‘the better you will be in later life.'

The ladies nodded in anticipation.

‘Your memory is a sort of filing cabinet,' he continued, ‘except instead of sheets of paper we have
neurons
… probably a billion of them, so it's a big filing cabinet.'

Martha clicked the switch and the first photograph appeared on the screen. It was a bright-red metal filing cabinet.

Only three drawers
, thought Vera …
it wouldn't do for me
.

However, it wasn't long before she was leaning forward in her chair and hanging on to every word.