02 Mister Teacher (5 page)

I shivered and felt very alone.

From a distance, on a chill September wind, came the faint sound of a female voice. ‘Edelweiss,’ sang Ruby, but my homeland no longer felt blessed.

Chapter Three

A Brush with the Law

County Hall authorized the painting of the staff toilets. Miss Barrington-Huntley, Chair of the Education Committee, confirmed she will be visiting the school on Monday, 9 October to check the premises
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 2 October 1978

‘
Y’TOILETS NEED PAINTING
, Mr Sheffield,’ said Cecil Trump, the School Maintenance Officer, with a voice of authority.

He wrote ‘Ragley School – £65.00’ with a dramatic flourish on his paint-speckled clipboard, as if he had just signed the Magna Carta.

It was lunchtime on Monday, 2 October 1978, and Miss Barrington-Huntley, Chair of the Education Committee for North Yorkshire, had allocated some much needed funds to maintain our Victorian building.

I pushed my spectacles further back onto the bridge of my nose and studied the pink maintenance sheet.

Anne Grainger looked as if she was about to dance with delight. ‘Oh, thank you, Mr Trump,’ she said. ‘We’ve put up with that horrid dark-green colour in the ladies’ toilet for years.’

‘It’s actually Eucalyptus Echo Green,’ announced Cecil, with an affected cough, and the superior smile of a man who had just won
Mastermind
answering questions on shades and tints in the living world.

Anne raised her eyebrows and gave me a warning look, but there was no need. After one year in my post as headmaster, I had learned to be subservient when the time was right and this was clearly one of those moments. We both nodded vigorously, partly to demonstrate our appreciation of Mr Trump’s superior knowledge, but mostly because we liked the idea of toilets that no longer reminded us of the Amazon jungle.

‘So ’ere’s y’colour chart,’ he continued, taking a thick rubber band off his wad of Crown paint booklets. ‘Jus’ pick the code for the gents an’ another for the ladies, an’ then ring Patrick O’Leary in Easington on this number an’ ’e should do it by the weekend.’

By the time his little white van had rattled down the cobbled school drive, Anne had spread out the colour charts on the staff-room table. ‘So, what do you think, Vera?’ she asked. ‘We’ve got to choose wisely, particularly as Miss High-and-Mighty will be coming to inspect the school soon.’

‘I prefer lavender,’ said Vera. ‘It’s such a sensitive and
refined
colour and I’m sure Miss Barrington-Huntley will think it’s a sensible choice.’ She stroked her greying, carefully permed hair thoughtfully and pointed a long, elegant finger at a coloured box at the top of the chart. ‘I’m sure that’s the colour Margaret Thatcher has in her office,’ she said. ‘So it should be perfect.’

Sally Pringle, the lower junior class teacher, was not convinced. Her politics and dress sense were poles apart from Vera’s. ‘Looks a bit boring to me,’ said Sally defiantly. ‘But, as long as we don’t have a signed photo of Maggie Thatcher on the loo wall, I don’t mind.’

‘What about you, Jo?’ asked Anne.

Jo Maddison looked up from her
Nuffield Book of Science Experiments
. ‘I’m happy to go along with your choice,’ she said tactfully. ‘Anything will be better than that dismal green. But, personally, I prefer this one: “Pink Perfection”.’

Everyone nodded in agreement. It looked as though Jo had picked a winner.

I glanced at the clock. ‘I’ll just get some fresh air before afternoon school,’ I said.

The playground was full of activity. Children skipped, bounced tennis balls against the school wall, and played hopscotch in the autumn sunshine.

‘Hello, Mithter Theffield,’ lisped Jimmy Poole, a sturdy six-year-old with a mop of ginger curls, who had just moved up into Jo Maddison’s top infant class. He was poking a stick through the iron railings fixed to the top of the low stone wall that bordered the playground.

‘Hello, Jimmy,’ I said. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Collecting conkerth,’ said Jimmy. ‘An’ you thaid we muthent go out of thchool but I thaw Tony Ackroyd climb over the fenth.’ Jimmy never had any problems informing on his friends.

I walked round one of the huge stone pillars that guarded the school gateway and bent down under the avenue of magnificent horse chestnut trees at the front of the school. The leaves were turning brown and the fruits hung heavily like spiky green sputniks. I collected a few of the shiny brown conkers that had burst out of their shells.

‘Here you are, Jimmy,’ I said, as I thrust them through the railings. ‘Take these.’

‘Thank you, Mithter Theffield. I’ll give them to Mith Maddithon for our dithplay,’ said Jimmy, the informer, with a self-righteous smile.

I stood up and surveyed the village green. On the far side, near the duck pond, the toddlers in the local playgroup were being encouraged by a group of mothers to feed the ducks. Deke Ramsbottom had parked his tractor outside The Royal Oak and was chatting with a few farmers. They glanced up in surprise as a small grey police van drove past them and then pulled up near the school gates.

A huge, athletic, six-feet-four-inch policeman somehow extricated himself from the front seat. He looked smart in his navy-blue uniform with a small coat of arms on each collar. A polished whistle chain glinted on his tunic and a pair of new-looking handcuffs hung from his belt. He was in his early twenties and sported a fashionable ‘Sergeant Pepper’ drooping moustache.

‘Is it Mr Sheffield, by any chance?’ he asked, in an accent that sounded as if he hailed from the north-east of England.

At six feet one inch tall, I wasn’t in the habit of looking upwards when greeting someone.

‘Yes, I’m Jack Sheffield,’ I said, and shook his hand. I was reassured by his big, honest, friendly face.

‘I’m PC Hunter, but call me Dan,’ he said with a smile. ‘Pleased to meet you. I’m new here – just moved into Easington. I’ve come about the cycling proficiency training.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, feeling relieved. ‘Thanks, Dan, we’ve been expecting you. Come on in and meet Jo Maddison. She’s organizing it this year.’

As I followed his size thirteen, black polished boots up the driveway alongside the tarmac playground, Jimmy shouted up at the giant policeman.

‘I haven’t thtolen any conkerth but I know who hath,’ and he pointed to Tony Ackroyd, who was trying to stuff his pile of conkers through a hole in his pocket and into the lining of his shorts.

But at that moment Dan Hunter had other things on his mind. Jo Maddison was standing on the steps, by the entrance door, wearing a tight-fitting, navy jogging suit in preparation for the girls’ netball practice that afternoon. She looked slim and full of life and her jet-black hair fluttered in the breeze. At five feet three inches tall and standing on the top step, Jo Maddison found her eyes met Dan Hunter’s as he stood transfixed on the bottom step. It was like a scene from
Love Story
.

I coughed politely to break the spell. After a few hesitant and mumbled introductions, they quickly forgot about me and walked off towards Jo’s classroom, deep in conversation, to plan the dates for the after-school cycling proficiency training.

Back in the staff-room, the Crown Paint Selection Committee had completed their task.

‘Everybody’s happy, Jack,’ said Anne, smiling. ‘We’ve selected “Pink Perfection” for the ladies’.’

‘It’s light, delicate and ladylike,’ said Vera, with a knowing look at Sally.

Sally grinned and pointed to a pale-blue box near the top of the chart. ‘And we’ve picked “Air Force Blue” for your loo, Jack, but, obviously, it’s up to you,’ she said.

‘That’s fine with me,’ I said.

‘We’ve put Jo in charge,’ said Anne. ‘We thought it would be a good idea to give her this as her first responsibility. So she’s going to ring Patrick O’Leary with the order numbers.’

‘Good idea, Anne. I’ll see her later. She’s a bit preoccupied with PC Hunter at present.’

Sally’s eyes rolled. ‘Oooh, isn’t he dishy. Looks just like a young John Newcombe, the tennis player.’

‘Yes, they would make a good match,’ said Vera knowingly.

All three of them looked at me. There was a pause.

Happily, the bell for afternoon school broke the spell and we all walked back to our classrooms.

I called into Jo’s room as she was saying goodbye to Dan Hunter. He looked reluctant to leave.

‘I’ll pop back tonight with all the equipment and you can store it in school,’ said Dan.

‘Thanks, Dan,’ said Jo cheerfully. ‘I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

They shook hands hesitantly and were not distracted by the children who had rushed in eagerly for afternoon school.

First in his seat was six-year-old Heathcliffe Earnshaw, who had arrived last year from Barnsley, in South Yorkshire. Jo Maddison had told him he would be making crab-apple jam that afternoon and Heathcliffe was so excited he picked up a pencil and began to stab a crab-apple with the measured demeanour of a crazed axe-murderer.

I crouched down next to him. ‘What are you doing, Heathcliffe?’ I asked gently.

Heathcliffe leered up at me with manic delight. ‘Ah’m killing crab-apples, Mr Sheffield,’ he said confidently.

Life was uncomplicated for Heathcliffe.

Meanwhile Jo’s eyes lingered on the massive frame of Dan Hunter as he left the classroom.

‘Anne says you’re looking after the painting order, Jo,’ I said.

‘Yes, Jack,’ she replied dreamily. Her thoughts seemed far away.

As I walked back into my classroom, Jungle Telegraph Jodie was quick off the mark. ‘Big copper goin’ down t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

‘That’s Police Constable Hunter, boys and girls,’ I explained. ‘He’s helping with the cycling proficiency you’ll be doing with Miss Maddison.’

Afternoon school passed slowly and at a quarter past three a large posse of parents collected their infants from Anne’s and Jo’s classrooms. Many of them stared in surprise at the little grey police van that crawled up the cobbled school driveway. The impressive blue light atop its roof flashed on and off, adding to the drama. The technology of the 1970s was such that this illusion was created by a small plastic cylinder, with a gap in it, revolving slowly round the fixed lamp. Unfortunately, as the car battery died, so did the lamp.

‘That big copper’s back,’ said Jodie, looking up from her English comprehension exercise. Sadly, she was struggling again. In answer to the instruction ‘Complete the sentence: The four seasons are …’ Jodie had written, ‘Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.’

At a quarter to four, we said our end-of-school prayer and soon the junior children wandered across the playground towards the school gate. Dan Hunter and Jo Maddison were unloading cardboard traffic lights, plastic traffic cones and old fire-hoses from the back of his van and their laughter filtered through the classroom windows.

From the entrance hall, the crash of a galvanized bucket announced the arrival of Ruby, the caretaker.

‘Ah’ve just heard t’news from Miss Evans, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Patrick O’Leary ’as said that, seeing as it’s just
t’staff
toilets, ’e’ll do t’paintin’ after ’is tea on Thursday, so I’ll come back late an’ lock up.’

I was impressed that Patrick was prepared to work so late and pleased that the school would be ready for Miss Barrington-Huntley’s visit next Monday morning. Patrick O’Leary was the most laid-back man I had ever met; he liked his beer, but always did a good job. He had sailed from Belfast to Liverpool in the Sixties and, after moving from job to job, had finally settled in Easington and begun his own one-man painting business. His low tenders meant that he regularly secured the painting contracts for the local schools.

By Thursday evening, painting toilets was the furthest thing from my mind. I had telephoned Beth at her parents’ house to wish her luck for her interview the next day. She sounded tense at the prospect. It was her first interview for a headship and she peppered me with questions. She said she was spending the night at her home in Hampshire and would ring me on Friday.

The evening news came on the television and dragged my thoughts back into the present. A Member of Parliament, called William Rodgers, was explaining why his new seat-belt bill would save lives, but all I could think of was Beth. Suddenly the telephone rang again. It was Patrick calling, but there was no hint of a problem from his cheerful message.

‘Sorry t’disturb you, Mr Sheffield, but oi’ve finished de painting an’, to be sure, it looks a lot broighter,’ said Patrick.

I thanked Patrick for his speedy work and settled down to watch Anna Ford, the first female news-reader on ITV, explain how Prime Minister Jim Callaghan was going to restrict pay rises to five per cent. When she moved onto the next item, about life for Princess Margaret after her divorce, I stood up to make a coffee, happy in the knowledge that the school would look good for Miss Barrington-Huntley’s visit. I should have guessed that life was not that simple.

On Friday morning I arrived at school at the same time as Anne and we walked in together. Ruby was in the entrance hall with an armful of toilet rolls.

‘Still smells o’ paint in there, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby, nodding towards the gents’ toilet.

I walked into the tiny room and was surprised at the midnight, dark-blue colour. It was like walking into the London Planetarium. Tactfully, I said nothing and thought privately that ‘Air Force Blue’ was obviously a good camouflage colour for night flying.

Then I froze as a high-pitched scream rent the air.

I ran into the staff-room, towards the door that led to the ladies’ cloakroom.

Anne staggered out and slumped into a chair. ‘I don’t believe it!’ she mumbled, as if in a daze.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘Just look in there,’ said Anne, and pointed incredulously at the closed door.

I pushed open the door and looked inside. It was like walking into a vision of hell. The dark crimson walls and
ceiling
were matched by the equally vivid, bright-red gloss on the doors and skirting board.