02 Mister Teacher (10 page)

The PTA Jumble Sale was due to begin at eleven o’clock. This meant I had to do my morning shopping a little quicker than usual. Only pausing to put on my old duffel coat and college scarf, I hurried out to my pride and joy. There on the driveway stood my emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller with its ash-wood frame and brightly polished chromium grill, gleaming in the sunlight.

I needed petrol, so I called into Victor Pratt’s garage at the end of the High Street. Victor was Timothy and Nora’s elder brother. Unlike Timothy, he was very untidy and always covered in grease and oil. Also, no one could ever recall seeing Victor smile and, as usual, he was in a bad mood.

‘Ah’ve gorra bad chest, sinus trouble, stress, an’ ah’m allergic t’summat,’ said Victor.

‘Sorry to hear that, Victor,’ I said.

‘An’ ah’ve got earache, toothache, backache an’ bellyache. You name it, ah’ve gorrit.’

‘Sounds like hypochondria, Victor,’ I muttered.

‘That’s t’only disease I ’aven’t got,’ shouted Victor as I drove away.

Minutes later I drove past the huge red-brick Joseph Rowntree chocolate factory and, in front of me, came into view the magnificent West Towers of York Minster, the
largest
medieval building in England. I felt privileged to have this wonderful city on my doorstep and I promised myself that the next time I visited York it would be with Beth Henderson.

I wondered what she might be doing, as I parked my car on Lord Mayor’s Walk alongside the ancient city walls and walked through Monk Bar, the city’s tallest gateway. A little further along, the Shambles, the old and incredibly narrow cobbled snickelway that had once been a street of butchers’ shops, was teeming with tourists so I cut through into the open-air market.

As always, the stallholders were on fine form and the lively banter among them was soon in evidence. They had obviously all recently seen Kirk Douglas in the gladiator epic
Spartacus
.

‘I’m Spartacus!’ shouted the fishmonger at the top of his voice, waving his straw hat in the air.

All the shoppers stopped momentarily in surprise.

‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ answered the greengrocer, from the far side of the market, brandishing a cucumber in a menacing fashion.

Laughter spread like a wave among the stallholders.

‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ yelled the cheerful lady in the fingerless gloves who sold Pretty Polly non-stop comfort tights at seventy-five pence a pair.

‘No, I’m Spartacus!’ replied a Barry Manilow lookalike peddling Barbie and Ken dolls.

‘No, I’m bleedin’ Spartacus!’ screamed a skinhead behind a bank of posters of Showaddywaddy, Gary Glitter and the Sex Pistols.

‘Watch yer language!’ shouted the elderly lady in a headscarf on the opposite stall heaped with brocade cushion covers at a pound each.

And so it went on.

Half an hour later, and weighed down with two heavy bags, I stopped next to a large crowd of shoppers, when a familiar voice shouted my name.

‘Hello, Jack, over here!’

It was Staff Nurse Sue Phillips with a navy-blue gabardine raincoat loosely buttoned over her freshly starched uniform. I squeezed through the crowd to stand next to her.

‘I’m going to buy one of those,’ said Sue, pointing to a pile of shiny cardboard boxes on a handcart at the front of the crowd.

I put down my shopping and listened to the street trader. He was standing on an orange box and holding an item I didn’t recognize. It looked as if it had once belonged to one of
Doctor Who
’s Daleks.

‘Y’can trust me, ladies. Ah’m not ’ere-t’day-gone-t’morrow,’ shouted the swarthy trader, his jet-black pony-tail swinging with every turn of his head. ‘This ’ere is a genuine, top-of-the-range Carmen Compact Curler, straight from one o’ them posh shops in Hoxford Street in London.’

I still didn’t know what he was talking about. What I did know was that I was the only man in the crowd.

‘So what am I askin’ for this telescopic, steam stylin’ wand?’

I was still no wiser.

‘It folds to ’alf its size, ladies, an’ it curls, it waves an’ it smoothes in seconds.’

Sue leaned over and whispered in my ear, ‘That’s what every woman wants, Jack, and they’re £9.95 in Boots.’

‘Ah’m not askin’ a tenner, ah’m not askin’ a fiver. Who’ll give me two poun’ fifty?’ yelled Pony-Tail.

‘I’ll have one!’ shouted Sue.

A sudden impulse took over. ‘So will I,’ I echoed.

‘Thank you to the sexy nurse an’ Buddy ’olly.’

The crowd laughed and Sue blew the trader a kiss.

Self-consciously, I pushed my large, black-framed spectacles further back onto the bridge of my nose, while a scrawny young girl in hot pants and thigh-high boots snatched our money and gave us each a box in a carrier bag.

‘What have I bought, Sue?’ I asked.

‘A present for a lady,’ said Sue, with that familiar mischievous grin. ‘Anyway, I must rush, Jack. I need to collect the girls from their riding lesson, get changed and go to the Jumble Sale. See you later.’

Sue lived her life at breakneck speed and with a wave she was gone. I glanced at my watch. It was ten-fifteen and the Jumble Sale started at eleven o’clock, so I drove straight back to Ragley.

When I walked into school, Anne, Sally and Jo were already classifying the mountain of jumble and Shirley, the cook, was serving hot drinks from her giant cast-iron teapot. Soon the tables were piled high with the cast-offs of the wardrobes, toy cupboards and garages of Ragley
village
. Some of the jumble looked vaguely familiar and Anne told me it wouldn’t be the first time that children bought toys they had once owned but had discarded a year ago.

Soon it felt as though the whole village had descended on our school hall, with everyone looking for a bargain.

Five-year-old Terry Earnshaw, Heathcliffe’s little brother, was concerned about his purchase. He had bought a plastic model of an extremely muscular Action Man for ten pence. ‘’E’s bin in t’box too long, missus,’ he shouted, in a foghorn voice that was beginning to resemble his elder brother’s.

‘Why’s that, then?’ asked Mrs Critchley, from behind the second-hand-toy stall.

‘’E’s gorra beard,’ yelled Terry, pointing to the brown plastic designer stubble on the doll’s chin.

As Mrs Critchley’s bedtime reading was
Confessions of a Window Cleaner
and not
Stages of Children’s Psychological Development
by the Swiss psychologist Jean Piaget, she took the easy option and gave Terry his money back.

Ruby Smith loved the Annual PTA Jumble Sale. It was a high point in her life and an opportunity to clothe her large family for the price of a few coppers. She would scavenge the choice jumpers, skirts, boiler suits and footwear, and then pile them into black bags to be carried home by her daughters. Vera was determined to do her best for Ruby, for whom she had great affection. She was in charge of the footwear and handbag stall and, while many of the thigh-high leather boots, pink
stilettos
, Doc Marten boots and plastic Barbie doll make-up bags were beyond her comprehension, she tried hard to reserve a suitable selection for the diverse needs of Ruby’s family.

Big Dave and Little Malcolm were staring at the boots on Vera’s stall. ‘Excuse me, Miss Evans. We’re looking for a pair o’ wellies,’ said Big Dave.

‘Yes, wellies, Miss Evans,’ echoed Little Malcolm.

Vera, in her immaculate cream blouse and bottle-green Marks & Spencer’s cardigan, looked slightly incongruous standing behind the huge mountain of wellington boots. She pointed a beautifully manicured finger at a particularly large pair and then a slightly smaller pair.

‘Please help yourselves, gentlemen, and put whatever you think they’re worth in the jar,’ said Vera. Secretly, she thought that they may be bin men but at least they were bin men with manners.

As headmaster, I had been appointed to look after each stall at intervals, to give the parent or teacher a tea break. Shortly after I had taken over from Vera, Little Malcolm reappeared, looking extremely furtive. He pointed to a pair of knee-high ladies’ boots in bright red for two pounds fifty pence.

‘Can y’stick ’em in a black bag for me, please, Mr Sheffield?’ said Little Malcolm, looking over his shoulder towards Big Dave. Fortunately his giant cousin had just found a copy of the 1978
Roy of the Rovers Annual
on the second-hand bookstall. Big Dave was not an avid reader, but soon he was chuckling at the first comic-strip story, in which Roy Race, player-manager of Melchester Rovers,
had
just discovered that the Australian football team they were about to play were, in fact, a team of female footballers.

Little Malcolm quickly paid his two pounds fifty pence and looked so serious I refrained from making a joke. Seconds later, I saw him disappearing down the school drive, his parcel tucked under his arm.

Raised voices suddenly caught my attention. Sue Phillips was doing battle with Deirdre Coe.

‘Twenty pence is a fair price for a hand-made apron, Deirdre,’ said Sue defiantly.

‘Bare-faced robbery, that’s what it is,’ said Deirdre, reluctantly handing over her twenty pence, before snatching the apron and barging her way to the front of another queue.

‘Hello, Sue,’ I said. ‘Everything all right?’

‘She infuriates me,’ said Sue. ‘Just look at her, mutton dressed as lamb!’

‘Shall I get you a cup of tea?’ I asked, trying to calm things down.

‘Sorry, I’m forgetting myself,’ she said, and took a deep breath. ‘By the way, Jack, that lovely little boy, Sebastian, in the Children’s Ward, was asking after you this morning. He’s hoping you might find time to visit him before Christmas.’

I remembered the ‘Mister Teacher’ letter.

‘Sorry, Sue,’ I said. ‘Life’s been busy.’

Sue just nodded, but her silence spoke volumes.

‘I’ll do my best,’ I said.

‘I know you will,’ she said. ‘And, by the way, I’ve just
spotted
the person who might appreciate that gift you bought this morning.’

Beth Henderson had just walked into the hall and was talking to Vera, who, as usual, was trying to encourage her to join the church choir.

Vera ushered her towards me. ‘But you’ve got a wonderful voice, dear, and we need a good soprano,’ said Vera, persuasively.

‘I’ll think about it, Vera,’ said Beth, but she looked distracted.

‘I’ll take over now, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, with a look that brooked no argument.

Beth and I wandered through the crowded school hall and out into the car park. There was a moment when she appeared to be trying to find the right words. I gave her time.

A thought crossed my mind. ‘Come on, I’ve got something to show you.’

I unlocked the rear doors of my car and took a carrier bag from behind the spare can of petrol. ‘For you,’ I said.

‘Oh, thank you,’ said Beth, in surprise, and looked in the bag. She read the label on the box.

‘Just what I wanted, Jack. Thank you so much.’ The shutters over her eyes had lifted. ‘These really are the in-thing. How on earth did you know I wanted one of these?’

Sometimes it’s easier to say nothing.

Back in the staff-room, Vera and Anne were counting up the money. ‘Over one hundred and fifty pounds and still counting, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘I’ll get Mrs
Phillips
to verify the amount, lock it in the vicarage safe overnight and bank it on Monday.’

Sally and Jo walked into the staff-room. ‘We’re parked in the High Street,’ announced Sally. ‘So how about calling in at the Coffee Shop before we go home?’

Vera was reluctant but Beth and I joined them and we walked down the High Street together. Her summer tan had faded now but she still looked stunning in a white polo-neck jumper, blue hipster denims, white trainers and a navy-blue tracksuit top.

The doorbell jingled as we walked into the Coffee Shop but there was no sign of Dorothy. Instead, Nora was talking to Little Malcolm, who was sitting on a high stool next to the counter. Gladys Knight and the Pips were singing their latest hit, ‘Come Back and Finish What You Started’, on the jukebox as we took our seats.

I ordered four frothy coffees and four Kit-Kats.

Suddenly, from the back room, Dorothy appeared, wearing a Lycra figure-hugging top, skin-tight hot pants and a pair of long, bright-red, patent-leather boots. The finishing touch was the vertical stripe of white insulation tape on each boot.

Everyone in the Coffee Shop turned to look at Ragley’s version of Wonder Woman.

Nora stared at the red boots. ‘Hey, Dowothy, they look jus’ like the wed boots I wore in
Cindewella
; ’cept for them white stwipes down the fwont,’ she added.

‘Malcolm bought ’em for me,’ said Dorothy excitedly.

Little Malcolm beamed from ear to ear. He was five feet four inches tall, but at this moment he felt like a giant.

I returned to the table with the coffees and chocolate bars.

‘Why is Dorothy spinning round and round?’ asked Beth.

‘That’s what Wonder Woman does,’ I said. ‘She spins round in her red boots and turns into a superhero.’

This item of knowledge clearly surprised the three women sitting round the table.

‘Impressive,’ said Sally, after an astonished pause.

‘What’s in the bag, Beth?’ asked Jo.

‘It’s a gift from Jack,’ said Beth, smiling and unpacking her Carmen Compact Curler.

‘You certainly know the way to a woman’s heart, Jack,’ said Sally.

Beth’s soft green eyes looked relaxed as the three women began an animated conversation about the benefits of high-quality curling tongs.

I sat back in my chair. Life was good again.

Little Malcolm caught my eye and gave me a thumbs-up. I guessed we were both thinking the same thing.

It was two pounds fifty well spent.

Chapter Seven

A Gift for Jeremy

Mrs Pringle invited parents into school to support Class 3’s topic work. Miss Golightly from the General Stores provided an exhibition of photographs
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 6 December 1978

TIDY TIM WAS
polishing his apostrophe.