03 Dear Teacher (21 page)

After an hour of silent endeavour I switched off the staff-room radio, even though the Nolan Sisters were telling me they were in the mood for dancing. I definitely wasn’t. On this cold morning what I really needed was a coffee. I pulled on my duffel coat and scarf and walked out of school.

I hurried across the High Street and, as I opened the door of Nora’s Coffee Shop, Stan Coe was on his way out and barged past, nearly knocking me over. ‘Mind where y’goin’, Sheffield!’ he shouted gruffly.

The place was almost empty and Dorothy had come round the counter to sit with Big Dave and Little Malcolm. ‘Tek no notice of ’im, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy. ‘ ’E’s the sort that doesn’t put t’top back on t’sauce bottle.’ In the catalogue of rebukes, this was obviously a serious one and I nodded in agreement.

Meanwhile, Big Dave and Little Malcolm had a problem to solve. On Friday night it was the refuse collectors’ annual ball at the Working Men’s Club in York and this year the organizers had stipulated that fancy dress should be worn. Dave had suggested that he and Malcolm should put on their best suits and go as the Kray twins, but, much to his disgust, Little Malcolm had invited Dorothy to be his partner and she had jumped at the chance.

‘What we gonna do, Dave?’ asked Little Malcolm.

‘Shurrup. Ah’m thinkin’,’ said Big Dave.

‘ ’Ow about still goin’ as t’Kray brothers,’ suggested Little Malcolm, ‘wi’ Dorothy as a gangster’s moll?’

‘Ah don’t remember no molls,’ said Big Dave gruffly.

‘Oooh, Malcolm, ’ow about we go as super’eroes?’ said Dorothy excitedly. ‘Ah can wear m’Wonder Woman outfit an’ you can go as another super’ero.’

Little Malcolm had never thought of himself as a superhero. He was just a vertically challenged bin man with a big heart. His only claim to fame was that he could always finish on a double three at darts and play ‘Mull of Kintyre’ on his harmonica. He didn’t think this would frighten many inter-galactic psychopaths.

‘ ’Ow about Superman? Ah’ve got a lovely pair o’ blue tights,’ said Dorothy. Big Dave shook his head in anguish, Malcolm went a shade of puce and Dorothy considered Little Malcolm’s legs. ‘An’ ah could tek ’em up a bit,’ she added helpfully.

Little Malcolm stared at the ground and gradually
came
to realize that true love can have a strange effect on bin men, even ones that were only five-feet-four-inches tall and born and bred in Yorkshire. He craned his neck and stared up at Dorothy’s false eyelashes. They fluttered just once and, even though he knew he was destined to look a complete prat, all resistance left him. ‘All reight,’ he mumbled.

Big Dave gave Little Malcolm his ‘southern softie’ look. ‘Ah’ll jus’ go as
one
o’ t’Kray twins, then,’ he said with exaggerated pathos.

‘OK, Dave,’ said Malcolm. Dorothy gave him a hug and for a delicious moment, Little Malcolm was completely but pleasantly deaf.

‘ ’Ave y’got any red underpants?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Y’what?’ asked Little Malcolm in a muffled voice.

I smiled as I watched the effect true love could have on the most unlikely of men. However, by the time Dorothy had walked back behind the counter, Little Malcolm had considered his future role as Clark Kent, Man of Steel. The only consolation he could think of was that on the night of the party it would be dark by six o’clock.

It was leap-year day and the weather was bright and clear. At precisely ten o’clock my doorbell rang and there stood Laura. Her high cheekbones were flushed with the biting cold and she looked simply wonderful in her tight Burberry jeans, blue denim shirt, green denim jacket and a red neckscarf tied in a knot.

‘You look amazing,’ I said.

She grinned. ‘It’s nothing really, Jack – we’re just promoting the Ralph Lauren Western Collection. It’s the latest casual gear.’

I grabbed my anorak and college scarf and we walked out to her Mini Clubman. Laura drove at her usual breakneck speed towards York but then I was intrigued as we headed south through Stillingfleet and Cawood towards the aerodrome on the outskirts of the tiny village of Kirk Fenton.

When we reached the red-and-white-striped security barrier we stopped and waited. Almost immediately, from a nearby hut stepped a tall, rangy pilot officer with a severe military haircut and a neat salt and pepper moustache. He looked about forty years old with clear blue eyes and his baggy flying suit flapped in the cold breeze as he walked towards me. The Perspex pockets above each knee flashed in the morning sunlight. Two thick white stripes separated by a single thin stripe against the pale-blue background of each epaulette marked him out as a squadron leader. The guard on duty saluted with elaborate formality, while he responded with curt acknowledgement.

‘Hello again, Laura,’ he said and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘And this must be Jack.’ He shook my hand with a firm handshake. ‘I’m Tom Bannister. Laura and I go way back. Welcome to Kirk Fenton.’

‘Er … thanks,’ I replied, looking round me in wonderment. ‘This is all new to me, I’m afraid.’

The guard stepped forward. ‘I’ve checked in Miss
Henderson
’s car, sir,’ he said, tapping his clipboard with a chinograph pencil.

‘Roger,’ replied Tom, with a friendly nod, and we set off towards the hangar.

‘I’ll see you later, Jack,’ said Laura, her eyes twinkling.

‘You grab a coffee and I promise I’ll bring him back in one piece,’ said Tom.

Laura walked away with the guard and, even more puzzled, I followed Tom.

‘We’re only on security level C, Jack, so things are fairly relaxed,’ he explained. ‘It’s not as if we’re at war with anyone at the moment,’ he added with a grin.

Around thirty planes were lined up in a perfect row outside the hangar. ‘These are our Jet Provosts, Jack,’ said Tom. ‘They used to be piston-driven but now we’re in the jet age. They’re two-seater with duplicate controls, so they’re ideal for training.’

‘I’ve seen them flying over the moors,’ I said in awe, ‘but I’ve never been so close to one before.’

‘Well, I’ve a surprise for you, Jack. Thanks to Laura, you’re going up in one.’

‘What!’

‘Don’t worry, Jack, it will be fun.’

‘I’m speechless!’

I couldn’t believe my luck and I stared at the planes. Their colour matched the leaden sky, pale grey, except for the vivid red wing tips and fuel tanks. Gathered round the first of the aircraft, members of the civilian ground crew were busy making final checks. One of them
glanced
up and in a confident, clipped tone said, ‘Alpha-One, ready for take-off, sir.’

‘Roger, Dave,’ replied Tom casually. Briefly, I wondered if any of the ground crew might actually be called Roger.

‘Alpha-One is the weather ship, Jack,’ explained Tom. ‘It goes up an hour before the students to check on weather conditions.’ He paused and stared at the sky. ‘But we should be fine this morning, clear and cold.’

An hour later, dressed in a flying suit and helmet, and after a crash course in what not to touch in the cockpit, I sat petrified in my seat listening to Tom’s voice in my earphones.

‘Ready for take-off,’ said Tom. His voice seemed strangely tinny.

‘Clear for take-off, Alpha-One,’ was the instant reply from the tower.

We bumped along the runway until our air speed reached eighty-five knots, and I stared in horror as the end of the runway appeared all too quickly. Tom gripped the control column a little tighter and, as our speed flickered up to ninety-five knots, he gently eased it back and we left the ground. I said goodbye to my stomach as rooftops and green fields sped below us and we headed off towards the distant hills.

Gradually we levelled out and turned north on a course towards Leeming and then east, past Thirkby, over the Hambleton hills and on to the vast flatlands of the Vale of York. Below us, in a beautiful and secluded valley,
stood
the ruins of the Cistercian monastery of Rievaulx Abbey and the spectacular Ampleforth College, a Roman Catholic school run by a community of Benedictine monks. Then, as we gained height, we approached the Bilsdale television mast near Hartingdale. I knew it was over one thousand feet high but we soared above it.

Suddenly, there was a message in my headset that I didn’t expect to hear. ‘Do you want to loop the loop, Jack?’

Through a gap in the thinning layer of strato-cumulus clouds at around two thousand feet we flew into a bright new world of empty blue sky. Below us a hazy carpet of soft grey clouds stretched out in all directions and suddenly the world seemed a distant place.

We climbed to over five thousand feet and Tom glanced across. ‘Settle back, Jack. Try to relax with your hands on your knees.’

I did as I was told and glanced furtively in the direction of the sick bag. ‘OK, Tom. I’m ready.’

The horizon disappeared beneath me and clear sky filled my range of vision. I was completely disorientated when the layer of clouds reappeared upside down and tumbled across the cockpit and I recalled falling backwards from a swimming-pool diving board as a child and tumbling helplessly into the water.

‘Geronimo!’ I yelled.

‘Roger, Jack,’ replied a calm voice in my headphones.

Then a giant fist appeared to be pushing me through the seat. The weight of my helmet crushed into my skull
and
, at four times gravity, I couldn’t raise my hands from my knees. I was utterly helpless.

With a life-jacket on top of my flying suit the cockpit had gradually become uncomfortably hot, but at that moment cold, naked fear froze my bones.

A minute or two later, when terror had given way to exhilaration, it was all over and, after a smooth landing, my stomach returned to normal. Tom helped me out of the cockpit and we walked back towards the barrier, where Laura was waiting. She rushed towards me, her green eyes full of excitement, and hugged me.

‘Oh, Jack, how was it? I couldn’t believe the loop the loop!’

I held her, feeling elated. ‘It was fantastic. Thank you so much.’

Tom stood quietly alongside. ‘Thanks, Tom,’ I said, shaking his hand. ‘It really was an amazing experience.’

‘My pleasure, Jack. I hope we meet up again sometime.’ He turned to Laura, who was still gazing up at me. ‘ ’Bye, Laura, and best wishes to your father.’

Laura stretched up and pecked him on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Tom. I’ll tell Dad when I see him.’

Then she took my arm, led me back to her car and we raced off down the country lanes and back towards York.

Outside Bilbo Cottage Laura leaned over, looked at me intently and kissed me on the cheek. ‘I’m dashing now but I’ll see you at the Dean Court,’ she said, ‘seven o’clock sharp.’

‘See you soon,’ I shouted as she drove away.

In the Dean Court’s luxurious entrance Laura gave her charcoal-grey maxi-length coat and her cyclamen-pink scarf to the receptionist and the maître d’hôtel showed us to our table. I looked across at Laura in the flickering candlelight. She looked stunning in a sheer black dress, straight from
Breakfast at Tiffany’s
.

‘You look sensational,’ I said, ‘and I love the perfume.’

‘Opium by Yves Saint Laurent,’ she said, ‘and you don’t look bad yourself, Jack.’ Then she leaned over and removed my large, black-framed Buddy Holly spectacles and put them on the white linen tablecloth. ‘There, now you look almost handsome,’ she said, her green eyes full of mischief.

The meal was excellent and the Bordeaux wine complemented the tasty Yorkshire beef. The conversation ebbed and flowed with easy banter until we were nibbling at cheese and biscuits and then Laura went quiet as if deep in thought. Finally she said, ‘Did you know it’s a special day today, Jack, leap-year day … the day women can propose to men.’

‘So I heard,’ I said. ‘Sally told us all about it at school.’

Then Laura gave me that special look I had come to know so well and, once again, her green eyes reminded me of Beth. ‘How would you feel if someone proposed to you on 29 February?’ She stretched her right hand across the table and laid it gently on top of mine.

I laughed. ‘That would never happen to me.’

‘It might,’ said Laura softly and she stared at me intently.

‘No, it wouldn’t.’ I laughed. ‘I’m not the marrying kind, Laura.’ I picked up my glasses and put them back on.

For a few brief moments the colour drained from her face and she turned away, her green eyes moist. Then it hit me like a thunderbolt. I realized that our months of friendship had meant more to Laura than they had to me … much more.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said and, unexpectedly, she laughed loudly. ‘I know you aren’t the marrying kind.’ She looked down and began to fiddle with the clasp of her handbag. ‘Oh, you didn’t think I was proposing to you, did you?’

‘Of course not,’ I replied, though in reality I wasn’t quite so sure.

The next few seconds seemed like hours. Laura looked at her wristwatch. ‘I’m tired now, Jack. I think I’d like to go home.’

The evening had come to an abrupt end.

‘Yes – it has been a long day. I’ll pay the bill.’

Laura got up quickly and walked towards the reception area where Abba’s ‘Knowing Me Knowing You’ was playing softly in the background. The maître d’hôtel ordered our coats to be retrieved and looked concerned when he saw Laura’s face. ‘Everything to your satisfaction, sir?’ he asked. I nodded and he accepted his tip, bowing politely, and we stepped out into the cold night.

We walked to the gate of Laura’s flat near the Museum
Gardens
and said goodnight. Then she walked to her front door without looking back.

As I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton I felt too much had been left unsaid. It was a sad end to an exhilarating day. Laura’s life appeared to have clearly defined borders; mine simply had frayed edges. Above me a sickle moon, alone in the vast ebony sky, looked down over the plain of York like a silent sentinel. There was peace on the land but no longer between Laura and myself.

Chapter Thirteen

Nicholas Parsons and the Rhubarb Triangle

County Hall requested a copy of our scheme of work for mathematics in support of their proposal for a ‘common curriculum’ for schools in North Yorkshire
.