02 Mister Teacher (11 page)

It was half past eight on the morning of Wednesday, 6 December, and Timothy Pratt was up a ladder cleaning his grammatically correct shop sign.

‘Be careful, Timothy,’ I shouted, as I stepped gingerly on the frost-covered pavement of Ragley High Street.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy, as he moved on to the letter ‘s’. ‘Ladder’s got non-slip rubber grips.’

Tidy Tim was cleaning his shop sign prior to decorating it with spray-on snow and a strand of Christmas lights. Next door to Pratt’s Hardware Emporium, outside
Piercy’s
Butcher’s Shop, a boldly written sign read ‘ORDER XMAS TURKEY’S NOW!’ and on the door of the General Stores & Newsagent was the notice ‘BAKERS STRIKE – NO LOAVE’S TODAY!’

I shook my head in dismay and vowed I must do another lesson with my class on the use of the apostrophe, so that the next generation of shopkeepers could write correct notices.

Each morning on my way to school I parked my car by the parade of shops on Ragley High Street to buy my morning paper. The General Stores and Newsagent was the first shop in the terraced row, and this morning it looked cheerful with a long strand of red and green light bulbs attached to the metal frame of the canvas canopy over the front window. On display were the usual large glass jars of liquorice allsorts, bull’s eyes, sherbet dips, penny lollies, giant humbugs, dolly mixtures, aniseed balls, chocolate butter dainties, jelly babies, extra-strong mints and liquorice torpedoes to tempt the passing trade of children on their way to school.

I followed Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his little brother Terry into the shop. The shop-owner, Miss Prudence Golightly, peered over her pince-nez spectacles and observed with a gimlet eye the two little boys. The General Stores was always a hive of activity each morning and the villagers, who called in for their newspapers and cigarettes, were all aware that the tiny, four-foot-eleven-inches-tall Miss Golightly had a number of idiosyncrasies, as the Earnshaw brothers were about to discover.

Heathcliffe clutched his five-pence piece firmly in
his
grubby right hand and stared at the vast array of chocolate bars next to the counter.

‘What d’you wan’, Terry?’ demanded Heathcliffe.

‘Ah wanna currywurry,’ mumbled five-year-old Terry.

Heathcliffe, clearly destined to be an expert in ancient Japanese dialects, immediately understood his little brother’s request. A Curlywurly cost three pence, which left two pence for him to buy his favourite treat – namely, a Milky Way. It seemed to make sense.

‘A Curlywurly an’ a Milky Way,’ said Heathcliffe, slamming his five pence on the counter.

Miss Golightly looked down from her elevated position on the wooden steps behind the counter at the determined face of the ex-Barnsley boy and fiddled with her hearing aid. ‘Stop mumbling and speak up!’ she shouted.

‘AH WANNA CURLYWURLY AN’ A MILKY WAY,’ yelled Heathcliffe.

The stack of Cherry Blossom shoe-polish tins on the nearby shelf rattled with the force.

Miss Golightly frowned. She adjusted the mother-of-pearl comb that held in place her tightly wound bun of grey hair. ‘There’s no need to shout!’ she said.

Heathcliffe kept a finger pressed on top of his five pence and attempted a smile. In the past he had practised his glassy-eyed smile on elderly aunts and uncles with mixed results. A few uncles had given him ten pence to get rid of him; most of his aunts thought he was in pain, and his Aunt Mavis from Doncaster said if he kept doing it his face would stay like that.

Fortunately, after a lifetime of serving generations of schoolchildren, Miss Golightly was made of stronger stuff. ‘And what’s the magic word?’ she asked, as she folded her arms in a determined manner across her starched white shopkeeper’s overall.

Heathcliffe relaxed his manic stare, unclenched his teeth and pondered the question for a moment.

The answer came to him in a flash. ‘ABRACADABRA!’ he shouted triumphantly, at the top of his voice.

Miss Golightly, for all her stern appearance, did have a sense of humour. Shaking her head in mock despair, she smiled and passed over the two chocolate bars. ‘In future, boys, do remember that
please
will do very nicely.’

Heathcliffe, confused but happy to see the chocolate bars, attempted yet another variation of his smile and released the pressure on his five-pence piece.

Remarkably, Little Terry’s face was already smeared with chocolate by the time he walked out of the shop and the bell on the door jingled madly.

I was next in the queue with exactly fifteen pence at the ready for my copy of
The Times
. Miss Golightly knew her customers well and was already folding my newspaper.

‘Good morning, Miss Golightly,’ I said. ‘And how are you?’

Miss Golightly stepped onto the next wooden step so that she was on a level with me. ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said.

‘And how’s Jeremy today?’ I asked.

‘A little tired after his stocktaking last night,’ she answered, with an admiring glance towards Jeremy.

On the shelf behind her, sitting proudly beside a tin of loose-leaf Lyon’s Tea and beneath two ancient and peeling advertisements for Hudson’s Soap and Carter’s Little Liver Pills, was a much loved teddy bear immaculately dressed in a white shirt, a small black bow-tie, black trousers and a white shopkeeper’s apron. The name Jeremy was neatly stitched in royal-blue cotton on the apron across his chest. Rumour in the village had it that Jeremy was once the love of her life but, as a young fighter pilot, he had been killed in the Battle of Britain in 1940. Miss Golightly had never told the full story and now, as a sixty-one-year-old spinster, it was presumed she never would.

However, Jeremy lived on in the incongruous guise of Miss Golightly’s favourite teddy bear. On a large notice board behind the counter, a collection of photographs depicted Jeremy on his grand world tour. With the Eiffel Tower in the background, Jeremy could be seen wearing a striped onion-seller’s jersey and a blue beret. On a boat in Auckland harbour, he sported an All Blacks’ rugby jersey and, in the Swiss Alps, he looked the part in his green anorak, thick woollen socks and tiny hiking boots. Miss Golightly spent countless hours creating appropriate costumes for Jeremy Bear and these were packed carefully in an ancient picnic basket under the counter.

I said goodbye to Miss Golightly, put the newspaper in my duffel-coat pocket, wrapped my old college scarf a little tighter round my neck and walked out to my car. At the top of the High Street, the coloured lights on the
giant
Christmas tree in the centre of the village green shone brightly through the gloom. As I drove through the school gates, Ruby was shaking a carton of salt over the frozen steps in front of the main entrance.

‘Good mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Ruby. ‘Watch y’step: it’s jus’ like glass.’

The warmth of the office was welcoming as I hung up my duffel coat and scarf. Strangely, Vera was not at her desk, so I walked through to the staff-room.

Jo Maddison was showing Anne her new lipstick. ‘Ninety-nine pence in Miss Selfridge,’ she said. ‘Dan says he likes this colour.’

I had never considered the six-feet-four-inch Sunderland-born policeman to be an expert in the subtleties of lipstick shades, but I guessed that his relationship with Jo had reached another level, whereas mine with Beth was moving at a slower pace.

‘Good morning, Jack,’ said Anne cheerfully. ‘If you’re looking for Vera, she’s in the hall, helping Sally prepare for her meeting.’

I remembered that Sally had arranged a meeting with parents after morning assembly at nine-thirty. Class 3 had begun their ‘Christmas Around the World’ topic and Sally had invited any parents who could help with books, photographs, artwork and general advice to call in.

In the hall, Sally and Vera were sorting through a collection of Vera’s postcards of European capitals. I recalled the photographs of Jeremy Bear.

‘Miss Golightly in the General Stores has lots of photographs of her trips round the world,’ I said.

Vera suddenly looked very interested. ‘You’re right, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘The children would love to hear about her travels with Jeremy.’

‘Jeremy?’ said Sally.

‘That’s her teddy bear,’ explained Vera, in a very matter-of-fact way. ‘And it would do her good to get out of that shop once in a while.’

‘Fine,’ said Sally. Having in her youth wandered round the muddy fields of the Glastonbury Festival wearing nothing but strategically placed flowers and skimpy hot pants, she was not taken aback by the thought of someone going on holiday with a teddy bear. ‘Shall I go round and ask her?’

Vera thought for a moment. ‘No, it’s better if I go, but we shall need Ruby to look after the shop for her. She trusts Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘Don’t worry, Sally, I know what to do.’

Vera was deep in thought as she walked back with me to the school office. I noticed that she looked particularly smart this morning in a brand-new dark pin-striped suit and she had obviously been to Diane’s Hair Salon for a stylish perm. She looked very businesslike as she settled behind her desk.

‘And don’t forget, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, checking the school diary, ‘that the Major is calling in to see you at ten-thirty.’

I could have sworn that Vera’s cheeks flushed for a moment, but once she had inserted a sheet of paper into her typewriter she looked her usual self.

I had met Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener briefly on
various
committees but I had never spent time with him. He was a popular local character and a welcome replacement for Stan Coe as a member of the school governors. It had proved a long, drawn-out process to remove the infamous Mr Coe, but, happily, the Major had been officially proposed and seconded and was now installed on the governing body. Since his wife died ten years ago, he had immersed himself in local charity work and had dabbled in politics. After his appointment, he had telephoned Vera and asked if he might have a tour of the school and meet the staff and children.

By half past nine, a group of around twenty parents and grandparents were sitting in the hall, chattering happily, while Shirley served hot mince pies, and cups of tea from her Baby Burco boiler.

Sally Pringle had prepared a speech to launch the project and had gone to particular lengths to dress for the occasion. She was wearing her newest outfit. Her three-tiered, gypsy-style skirt in flaming orange and yellow competed for attention with her sleeveless, quilted waistcoat, which was buttoned neatly over her favourite salmon-pink, Miss Selfridge crêpe-de-Chine blouse. Although this had added the final sartorial touch, it clashed horribly with her freckles and ginger hair.

Sally was about to begin, when Miss Golightly arrived with Vera, who was carrying the notice board of photographs from the General Stores. Ruby had taken over as temporary assistant and was, at that moment, agreeing with her first customer that the price of a loaf of bread
was
far too dear at twenty-eight pence and the bakers’ strike would make it worse.

Miss Golightly had been thrilled to help the children in school and had quickly dressed Jeremy in a white shirt, a bright-red tie, grey trousers, a black academic gown and a mortar board with a little tassel hanging down over his black-framed spectacles. It was mildly disconcerting to note that Jeremy’s spectacles were very similar to mine.

With a communal ‘Aaarrhh’, the sort of sound reserved for greeting new-born babies, the parents welcomed Jeremy as he was placed on a seat on the front row.

The meeting went well and soon the children in Sally’s class were sitting round tables, looking at Mrs Dudley-Palmer’s collection of German Christmas-tree decorations and a
Ladybird Book of Christmas Customs
belonging to Sue Phillips.

Back in my classroom and just before the bell went for morning break, Jodie Cuthbertson was quick off the mark. ‘Big posh car comin’, Mr Sheffield,’ she announced.

A large black twenty-year-old classic Bentley was purring up the drive.

As I walked through the school hall, the youngest children in Anne Grainger’s class had wandered in to meet Jeremy and Miss Golightly.

The Major had arrived in style and parked in the car park. A chauffeur in a smart grey uniform and a peaked cap got out and opened the rear door. It struck me that a red carpet would not have been out of place as Vera and I walked out to meet him.

‘Good morning, Major,’ said Vera. ‘May I introduce our headmaster, Mr Sheffield?’

‘How do you do, sir,’ said the Major, standing to attention and shaking me warmly by the hand. He was a tall, athletic, sixty-year-old man with a ruddy complexion and a vigorous handshake. ‘Let me assure you, I shall do my duty as a school governor to the best of my ability. And I’m delighted to see you again, Miss Evans,’ he said, bowing low. ‘Tomkins, the flowers, if you please.’

His chauffeur hurried to the well of the passenger seat and lifted out a plant pot in which a beautiful scarlet poinsettia defied the dark days of winter.

‘For you, dear lady,’ said the Major, with a gesture to his chauffeur, who carried the plant with great ceremony into the entrance hall and put it safely on the large pine table.

For a moment Vera’s cheeks were almost the same colour as the bright-red leaves of the poinsettia. ‘Thank you, Major – you really shouldn’t have,’ said Vera.

We all walked into the office and the Major removed his Sherlock Holmes hat and revealed a head of close-cropped, steel-grey hair. He took a neatly ironed large white handkerchief from the pocket of his cavalry-twill trousers and mopped his forehead. ‘Not used to this central heating, old boy,’ he said.

‘Would you like a cup of tea, Major?’ asked Vera, picking up the deer-stalker hat and his brass-headed walking cane and putting them on the wide Victorian window ledge.

‘Spiffing idea, Miss Evans,’ he said, as he stroked his military moustache. ‘Quench the old fires, what?’

The Major undid the button of his Lovat Green jacket and checked the immaculate knot in his East Yorkshire Regimental tie, resplendent with its vivid white, gold, black and maroon stripes. His highly polished brogue shoes sparkled.