02 Mister Teacher (18 page)

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘We’ll manage. These are difficult times for everybody.’

The three men nodded slowly.

‘I just need a snow-shifter, please, Timothy,’ I said. ‘Ruby wants to clear the school steps.’

Suddenly, Betty Buttle marched up with a coal scuttle, slammed a pile of loose change on the counter and proceeded to give the two downtrodden bin men a piece of her mind. ‘Ruby’s mother, and all them old-age pensioners on t’council estate, ’as got rubbish piling up, an’ you’re twiddlin’ y’thumbs! Y’ought t’be ashamed of y’selves.’

With that she stormed out of the shop.

For once Big Dave was lost for words and the two big-hearted bin men looked down at their boots.

‘We’ll get t’batt’ries later, Timothy,’ said the crestfallen Big Dave. ‘C’mon, Malcolm.’ They trudged out into the snow, deep in thought.

‘These are ’ard times, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tidy Tim. He
selected
a sturdy, long-handled snow-shifter from the corner of the shop. It had a curved steel blade like the front of a snowplough.

‘The world’s changing, Timothy,’ I said.

‘An’ not for the better, Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy, taking my pound note and giving me a penny change.

‘One day,’ he continued, ‘one o’ these newfangled supermarkets will close me down, an’ then where will y’get y’tap washers an’ y’dome-’eaded screws?’

‘You’re right, Timothy,’ said Albert, placing a heavy brass chain and a pound note on the counter.

‘Thank you, Mr Jenkins,’ said Timothy.

‘We’re witnessing the de-industrialization of Britain,’ said Albert, who was a great traditionalist. ‘Did you know that in 1948 we made forty-eight per cent of all the boats launched in the world?’

‘Old industries and old jobs have gone now,’ I said.

‘We’ve never really recovered from Ted ’eath’s three-day week,’ said Timothy.

‘We’re even importing coal!’ said Albert.

‘An no good’ll come of these new fancy bar codes. Y’can’t replace a ’uman bein’,’ said Timothy.

I realized I was joining the ranks of grumpy old men, so I picked up my snow-shifter and walked to the door.

Timothy had one parting shot. ‘And we’re getting lazy,’ he shouted. ‘Can you believe it? Three per cent of ’omes now ’ave a dishwasher.’ Tidy Tim liked percentages.

As I walked back to school, Mrs Dudley-Palmer slid smoothly past in her heated Rolls-Royce. It was her husband’s birthday and she had been into York to buy
him
an Atari 2600 video game with a woodgrain console, plastic paddles and a stubby rubber joystick. Little did she know then that the games, a range including ‘Tennis’, ‘Outlaw’, ‘Breakout’ and ‘Space War’, were hugely addictive and she was about to spend the next year of her life with a man whose spare time was entirely taken up with staring at a screen full of slow-moving blocks.

However, at that moment her mind was full of the very latest in kitchen technology. That afternoon, following the purchase of her state-of-the-art microwave, she had become the proud owner of a cordless slicing knife, a fizzy-drink maker, a blender and, best of all, a Goblin Model 860 Teasmade. As she loosened her silk scarf in the tropical temperature inside her car, she reflected how thankful she was that those irritating men with their talk of pay rises did not infiltrate her strike-proof world. As she drove home, thoughts of a new, avocado bathroom suite flickered through her cluttered mind.

The afternoon passed by without incident, except for little Charlotte Ackroyd, who was celebrating her fifth birthday. One of her presents was a Play-Doh Barber’s Shop and she had brought it in to show Anne Grainger and her classmates. Unfortunately, the temperature dropped so low that the Play-Doh had gone hard in the cold. Anne spent a messy afternoon playtime trying to make it pliable in front of the staff-room gas fire.

At four o’clock, everyone rushed home as darkness descended. As I walked to the car park, I saw Ruby adding a few more bags of rubbish to the unsightly pile at the back of the school.

Driving slowly down the High Street, I recalled the frozen kitchen I had left that morning, and decided to call into Victor Pratt’s garage to buy some paraffin for my spare heater at Bilbo Cottage. When I pulled onto the forecourt, there was a long queue. Victor was obviously doing good business.

‘Paraffin ’eaters, Mr Sheffield. Ah love ’em,’ said Victor triumphantly.

At first I thought it was a trick of the light, but then I realized it was actually happening: Victor Pratt was smiling.

‘So things are looking up, are they, Victor?’ I asked.

‘Business is boomin’,’ said Victor. ‘Absolutely boomin’.’

‘A gallon of paraffin, please, Victor.’

‘It’s a pound deposit on t’cans for them that ’asn’t got their own,’ said Victor, in a well-rehearsed fashion.

I rummaged around in my wallet for more money.

Victor’s till rang merrily once again. ‘These are ’appy days, Mr Sheffield, ’appy days.’

As I drove the three tortuous miles home, I reflected that at least someone was enjoying life.

The next day, as I scraped the ice off my windscreen, the air felt even colder, although a pale sun peered out of high cirrus clouds in a slate-blue sky. I looked around me at my garden and the fields beyond. On this arctic morning, the hedgerows were frozen in time under a crisp blanket of snow. The brave white blossom of snowdrops shivered with balletic tension in the stiff gusts of piercing wind. I stared, rooted to the spot by
the
sheer beauty. It was a view that froze the spirit but healed the soul.

Everyone arrived at school at once. Sally had collected Vera and Jo and I followed in her tyre tracks through the smooth crust of snow on the school drive. The slim, energetic Anne had walked in from the Easington Road. Outside the school entrance, reliable Ruby was demonstrating her prowess with the new snow-shifter.

‘Oh, well done, Ruby,’ said Vera.

‘Thanks, Ruby,’ said Anne, kicking the excess snow off her boots.

‘I like the snow-shifter,’ said Jo.

‘You’re a star,’ said Sally effusively.

‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I gasped, in the cold air. ‘We’re all grateful to you.’

‘S’all right, Mr Sheffield,’ Ruby replied, apparently unconcerned by the freezing temperature. ‘There’s no need t’make a song ’n’ dance about it.’

Ruby, after a lifetime of dealing with lazy menfolk, considered ten minutes of shifting snow to be light relief.

We all paused at the huge oak door.

‘Rubbish ’as all gone, Mr Sheffield,’ announced Ruby.

‘Are the bin men working again, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

‘Don’t think so, Miss Evans,’ she said, pausing to lean on her snow-shifter and tighten her headscarf. ‘There’s no sign of t’bin wagon.’

‘Maybe they came early?’ I said.

‘Ah’ve been ’ere since seven, Mr Sheffield.’

‘And there’s only your tyre tracks and Sally’s on the drive, Jack,’ said Jo, ever the analyst.

‘An’ my mother said all t’rubbish ’as gone from ’er ’ouse an’ all t’old folks’ ’ouses,’ added Ruby.

We all pondered the problem and stared at the frozen snow on the school drive.

‘I had to get up during the night,’ said Sally. ‘It started snowing heavily at about two in the morning.’

‘Maybe they came at midnight,’ said Anne.

We all looked at Anne, who had a wide grin on her face.

‘You know,’ said Anne, ‘just like the elves in “The Elves and the Shoemaker”.’

‘Don’t know about no elves,’ said Ruby, tapping the snow from her snow-shifter before walking back into school.

The others walked in, leaving me outside. I stared down the driveway as the first children and parents arrived.

Standing behind the school wall were Big Dave and Little Malcolm. Big Dave was looking over the metal railings and Little Malcolm was looking through them. Both were grinning.

‘Ah see all t’rubbish ’as gone, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Big Dave.

‘It’s gone, all reight,’ yelled Little Malcolm.

‘I wonder who removed it,’ I shouted back.

‘Might ’ave been fairies,’ yelled Big Dave, and he laughed heartily.

‘Y’reight there, Dave. It’ll be fairies,’ shouted Little Malcolm, and with a wave they wandered off towards Nora’s Coffee Shop.

I watched them as they crunched across the snow-covered High Street: Big Dave, with his huge strides, and Little Malcolm scampering alongside, his council donkey jacket flapping in the breeze. During a time when the country was in turmoil, it was good to know there were still people prepared to do a good deed.

I supposed that elves came in all shapes and sizes. When the brothers Grimm wrote about the little sprites who helped the poor cobbler, perhaps even with their vivid imagination they would have found it difficult to imagine the elves of Ragley village, who came out at midnight to clear their neighbours’ rubbish. Especially as one of them was six feet four inches tall.

Chapter Twelve

Understanding Women

The school loaned the Baby Burco boiler to the Village Hall committee for their annual Valentine Day’s Dance on 14 February
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 13 February 1979

‘AH DON’T UNDERSTAND
women,’ said Big Dave, as he supped thoughtfully on his fifth pint of Tetley’s bitter.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm, nodding vigorously and supping equally thoughtfully. It was an automatic response but Little Malcolm Robinson was beginning to wonder why, at the age of thirty-five, he always immediately agreed with his big cousin.

It was Tuesday, 13 February, and the Ragley Rovers football team had finished their training session earlier than usual. After fifteen minutes listening to their manager, Ronnie Smith, talking about tactics, they had
taken
one look at the frozen wasteland of the football pitch and retired quickly to the taproom of the Oak.

I was sitting in the lounge bar, waiting for Beth, who had telephoned after school, sounding quite upbeat and suggesting we meet up at seven o’clock. As I sipped distractedly on a half pint of dark mild, the raucous voices of the village football team drifted across the bar.

Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski’s broad Yorkshire accent belied his Polish ancestry. The Bald-Headed Ball-Wizard collected another tray of frothing pint pots from Don, the barman, and launched into one of his favourite subjects.

‘Ah’ve said it afore, an’ ah’ll say it again. Ah blame that 1975 sex incrimination act,’ said Kojak. ‘Y’know, all them women burning bras an’ reckonin’ they can run t’bloody country.’ He scratched his shaven head in dismay and looked round at the troubled faces. ‘They’re even reading t’news on telly now. That Anna Ford reckons she can do it jus’ same as men.’

‘’Ow can she read news when she knows nowt abart football?’ said Norman ‘Nutter’ Neilson, with a hollow laugh.

‘Y’spot-on there, Nutter,’ said Kojak scornfully. ‘Bet she dunt even know t’offside law.’

Nutter nodded in agreement, although, if truth be told, he neither knew this law nor cared. He merely head-butted opposing forwards, regardless of being in an offside position or not.

‘Ah blame that Maggie Thatcher,’ said Big Dave. ‘She should know ’er place an’ not get above ’erself.’

‘She could be t’next Prime Minister,’ said Stevie
‘Supersub’
Coleclough, the number twelve, who rarely played in any of the team’s games but always turned up to carry on the oranges at half-time. Stevie was proudly wearing his latest new tank top knitted by his colour-blind Auntie Maureen from Pontefract, in West Yorkshire. Stevie liked to be noticed and the lurid purple and green horizontal stripes across his chest clashed beautifully with his ginger hair.

‘Over my dead body!’ said Clint Ramsbottom, peering through the ringlets of his Kevin Keegan perm. ‘Y’can’t ’ave a bloody woman Prime Minister. Y’ll ’ave women drivin’ buses next if she gets in!’

The enormity of this statement slowly sank in.

‘No, they’re not strong enough t’drive buses,’ said Kojak.

‘You haven’t seen Big Brenda from Thirkby,’ retorted Clint. ‘Ah’ve seen her castrating bullocks an’ changing tractor tyres. Y’wouldn’t tek ’er on at mud wrestling.’

‘Y’dead reight, Nancy,’ said Clint’s big brother, Shane, who always called him ‘Nancy’ since Clint had become a regular customer at Diane’s Hair Salon.

It was tough for Clint having a father who dressed up as a cowboy and who named his sons after the stars of his favourite westerns, but being called Nancy really upset him. As usual, he remained silent, largely because Shane was built like a heavyweight boxer and his muscles bulged under his Boomtown Rats T-shirt.

‘Y’need t’show ’em who’s boss,’ boasted Shane. ‘Ah jus’ give ’em a bag o’ crisps an’ a Babycham. After that, they’re jus’ putty in me ’ands.’

While everyone nodded in silent agreement at this significant insight into human relationships, it was a fact that no girl had ever been out with Shane for a second night.

In the strained silence that followed, Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough suddenly put his head in his hands and groaned.

‘What’s up wi’ laughing boy?’ asked Shane Ramsbottom, looking at Stevie.

‘Ah bought a lass a bunch o’ flowers once,’ he confessed.

It was clearly a confession Stevie needed to get off his chest. There was a collective intake of breath. This was serious news. Everyone stared at Stevie as if he had just announced he was booked in for sex-change surgery.

Big Dave was the first to recover from this thunderbolt. ‘Ow much did that set y’back?’ he asked gruffly.

‘Aye, ’ow much?’ echoed Little Malcolm, resorting to the habit of a lifetime.

‘An’ did y’get y’money’s worth?’ added an incredulous Shane.

‘It were one pound ninety-nine,’ said Stevie sadly. ‘And, er, no, ah didn’t get me money’s worth.’

Everyone shook their heads. They were united in their disgust, although Little Malcolm did not agree with his usual enthusiasm.

‘It were that skinny lass what works at t’optician’s in Easington,’ said Stevie forlornly.

‘Y’d need y’eyes testing t’go out wi’ ’er,’ said Kojak, with a big grin on his stubbly face.

‘Aye, that’s ’ow ah met ’er,’ said Stevie, missing the joke.