03 Dear Teacher (26 page)

It was a damp Thursday morning and playtime had returned to normal. Dean Pickles was at home, packing a small rucksack, and his mother had made it clear she was glad to be rid of him. Mary O’Neill had arranged to take Dean and Mrs Pickles the following day to Netherbank
Hall
, where he would be admitted for full-time residential education at the school. Roy and I had agreed to drive out there on Sunday morning and check he had settled in. I leaned against the school railings and reflected on the difficult decision that had resulted in the little boy’s departure.

At lunchtime, Vera made an announcement in the staff-room. ‘I trust you will all be coming to the church social in the vicarage on Saturday afternoon,’ she said. It sounded like a command from on high and certainly not one to be refused.

‘Of course, Vera. I shall look forward to it,’ I said and everyone else nodded in agreement.

‘Dan might be on duty, Vera, but I’ll be there,’ said Jo.

Vera looked at me knowingly and added, ‘Miss Henderson is coming, Mr Sheffield, and I do hope you will help me persuade her to join the church choir.’

On Saturday afternoon the courtyard in front of the vicarage was filled with cars, notably a large, black classic Bentley. The chauffeur was leaning against the bonnet and Vera had come out to serve him tea.

‘Hello, Vera,’ I said. ‘I see the major’s here.’

‘Good afternoon, Mr Sheffield. Thank you for coming,’ said Vera, and she glanced through the trees towards the church. ‘Rupert is with his daughter – it’s a regular visit for them … His wife was a dear friend.’

Under a tall elm tree in a beautifully manicured grassy corner of the churchyard the major stood with
his
daughter, Virginia. The young woman replaced the flowers in the ornate cast-iron vase and put the spent ones in a small carrier bag. Then the major put his arm round her shoulders and together they stood quietly under a canopy of dappled sunlight and shadow. Many years had passed since the major’s wife had died, but for both the major and his daughter it was important there were always fresh flowers on her grave.

‘Let’s leave them in peace,’ said Vera, touching my arm. She was right. We were intruding.

Soon I was drinking tea from a delicate china cup and nibbling on a triangular cress sandwich, from which the crusts had been neatly removed, when I caught the familiar scent of Rive Gauche perfume and Beth was standing next to me.

‘Hello, Jack. How are you?’ She brushed her honey-blonde hair away from her high cheekbones and smiled up at me. Her green eyes looked tired.

‘A bit weary, to be honest, Beth. It’s been a busy week.’

‘I heard about the expulsion. That must have been difficult.’

‘Yes, but I’m going out to see him tomorrow at Netherbank Hall. I’m praying we’ve done the right thing … I certainly hope so.’

‘I’m sure it will be fine, Jack.’ Beth poured herself a fresh cup of tea from a large china teapot. ‘And I appreciated the maths scheme. I was struggling with mine.’

‘If I can ever help, Beth, you know I’m here.’

Around us everyone looked relaxed. Anne was deep
in
conversation with Sally, while Jo was asking Vera how to make vol-au-vents. Joseph, Albert Jenkins and John Grainger had crept out to the kitchen to sample Joseph’s latest home-made, highly potent vintage.

‘And … I’m glad we spoke about Laura,’ I said.

Beth picked up a silver teaspoon and stirred her tea. ‘Yes, Jack, so am I.’

Suddenly there was an explosion in the kitchen. ‘I told Joseph
not
to open that dreadful wine!’ said Vera in dismay. Everyone laughed as Joseph peered anxiously round the door and Vera rushed to the broom cupboard in the hall.

Beth smiled and, for the first time, she looked relaxed.

‘There was something I wanted to ask you, Beth.’ I looked round to check we couldn’t be overheard. ‘I wondered if I could ring you … to, er, go out possibly.’

Beth put down her cup and saucer and looked up at me. ‘Yes, Jack. I’d like that.’

Vera suddenly reappeared, looking a little flushed. ‘Now, Mr Sheffield, I do hope you have asked Miss Henderson to join our church choir.’

‘I was just about to,’ I said with a wink to Beth as the last of the April clouds scurried away and the room was filled with sunlight.

On Sunday morning, Roy Davidson and I set off in my car. The Vale of York is the heart of the vast county of Yorkshire, ninety miles from north to south. We sped through the rich agricultural flatland of wheat and barley,
with
occasional fields of sugar beet, potatoes, carrots, cabbages and brussels sprouts, and headed north-west towards Skipton, ‘the gateway to the Dales’. Driving over the high ground of Blubberhouses I felt that familiar tingle of wonderment as I surveyed this great county. It was my kingdom of cathedrals, moorlands and mills, my home of beer and brass bands, Ridings and rugby, my land of coastlines and cricket. Beyond the market town of Skipton we drove on towards limestone hills and clear rivers. The purple bulk of the Pennines filled the far distance and memories of forgotten looms, cotton and cloth flickered across my mind.

Netherbank Hall was a solid Victorian building of local stone that reflected an amber light in the low April sun. It was set in a wooded area overlooking the River Wharfe and a huge grassy playing field had been created alongside. We stopped the car next to a group of young boys who were busy constructing a wigwam from stripped branches and stout rope. I could see Dean Pickles among them.

The tall, fair-haired, athletic man supervising them walked towards us. ‘Good to see you again, Roy,’ he shouted. He looked relaxed in his jeans and checked lumberjack shirt. They shook hands and he turned to me with a grin. ‘And this must be Jack. Welcome to Netherbank. I’m the head, Rod Twelvetrees.’ He saw my surprise and grinned. ‘An old southern counties name,’ he added by way of explanation.

We hit it off straight away and, after a tour of the
school
, we were drinking coffee in the staff-room with a dramatic view of the distant hills through the high arched window. The teachers were young, energetic and positive and spoke with enthusiasm about their work. They all shared the ethos of this special place based on strict discipline, self-esteem and mutual respect. I could see why Dean would have a chance to thrive in this well-organized and caring community.

‘He’ll be fine here, Jack,’ said Rod, ‘and I’ll let you know how he progresses.’

As I left I walked over to Dean and ruffled his hair. ‘Good luck, Dean,’ I said. ‘Make the most of your chance here. It’s a great place and you’ll make new friends.’

He looked confused but, strangely, not at all tearful. As I drove away I looked in my wing mirror and saw Dean being led into school by the tall figure of Rod Twelvetrees, his large hand resting on the little boy’s shoulders.

The journey home was silent as we both reflected on the enormity of the impact we had made on the young life of Dean Pickles. The wild hillsides flew by and the grassy banks alongside the limestone walls were filled with brilliant-yellow daffodils.

Chapter Sixteen

The Prettiest Cow in Yorkshire

A selection of children’s artwork was delivered to the City Art Gallery for the exhibition on Saturday, 26 April. A party of children, parents and staff will attend
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 25 April 1980

‘THIS COW HAS
just been insured for £10,000!’ exclaimed Vera.

Sally and Anne put down their cups of coffee and stared at Vera in astonishment. It was Friday lunchtime, 25 April, and outside the staff-room window, through the mirage of mist, the mellow showers of April had arrived to refresh the countryside. However, at that moment, the beauty of nature was far from our minds.

‘That’s not like you, Vera,’ said Sally tactfully.

‘So … is it some Hollywood film star that you’re not
particularly
keen on?’ asked Anne cautiously.

Vera stared at the front page of the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
and shook her head in dismay. ‘How can a cow like that be worth all that money?’ she said.

‘Who are you talking about, Vera?’ I asked.

‘Lulu,’ said Vera.

‘Lulu!’ exclaimed Anne.

‘Yes. She’s a Canadian Holstein,’ said Vera.

‘I thought she was from Scotland,’ said Sally.

‘Scotland?’ I said, puzzled.

‘Well, she used to sing “Shout” in a Scottish accent,’ said Sally.

Vera held up the front page of the newspaper and pointed to a photograph of a smiling farmer standing next to a contented-looking cow in a muddy farmyard. ‘No,’ she said, sounding exasperated. ‘It’s Mr Icklethwaite’s prize cow. His daughter, Betsy, is in Class 2. In fact, she’s just done a painting of this cow.’

‘Ah, I’m with you now, Vera,’ said Anne, looking relieved.

‘I’ve seen the painting,’ added Sally. ‘It’s excellent for a six-year-old. It’s in our collection for tomorrow’s exhibition at the art gallery in York.’

Vera read out the bold text under the photograph. ‘A Ragley farmer’s prize cow has been selected for the Milk Marketing Dairy event at Stoneleigh.’ Then she adjusted her spectacles as if she couldn’t believe what she was reading. ‘Lulu, a Canadian Holstein,’
she
continued, ‘was chosen because she is particularly good-looking and has been insured by the Board for £10,000.’

I leaned over to stare at the photograph. ‘How can a cow be good-looking?’ I asked.

Joseph, sitting quietly in the corner, reached out for another custard cream. ‘I suppose all of God’s creatures have their own personal charm,’ he said.

‘Don’t be greedy, Joseph,’ Vera said.

‘Well, most of them,’ mumbled Joseph under his breath.

The awkward moment was interrupted by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Vera answered it, smiled and passed the receiver to me.

‘It’s Miss Henderson … Miss Beth Henderson,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jack,’ said Beth. She sounded upbeat. ‘My deputy, Simon, is taking some of our children’s artwork down to the art gallery this evening and I wondered if you were going to the exhibition on Saturday. It starts at twelve.’

‘Yes, I am,’ I said, trying to hide my enthusiasm. ‘Did you want to meet up?’

‘How about ten thirty?’ she said. ‘We could go for a coffee first.’

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Where shall we meet?’

Around me the silence in the staff-room was deafening. Everyone sat like statues, listening in to the conversation – all with the exception of Joseph, who put his cup and saucer back on the coffee table with a clatter and the
four
women in perfect unison all shot him a disapproving stare.

‘How about Minerva?’ said Beth.

‘Very appropriate,’ I said. ‘See you there.’

In the centre of York a popular meeting place was the corner of Petergate and Minster Gates, where the statue of Minerva, the Roman goddess of wisdom, kept her quiet vigil over the heads of the busy shoppers.

Predictably, I was in a good mood when I took morning assembly. Sally was leading the choir and playing her guitar. She was sitting down, which was strange for her, and looking a little more flushed and tired than usual. ‘Daisies are our silver’ sang the children. However, Benjamin Roberts, now just past his fifth birthday, remained silent and I gave him an inquisitive stare. Benjamin didn’t actually mind daisies. They tended to brighten up his world. It was just that he didn’t see much point in singing about them. With a crushing glance and the demeanour of martyrdom he sat up straight and began to mime the words like a professional.

Immediately after the end of school, Jo and Sally were using some of the dining tables in the hall to carefully mount the selection of children’s artwork. Jo was trimming the pictures, using the deadly dangerous, long-handled guillotine that, for obvious reasons, we kept locked away in the stock cupboard while we waited for affordable new technology to replace it. Sally was double-mounting the paintings and drawings expertly
on
pastel-coloured sugar paper and then on to stiff white card. The results looked highly professional.

Sally held up Betsy Icklethwaite’s painting. ‘Isn’t this good, Jack?’

‘It’s excellent,’ I said. There were twenty paintings in all but the most colourful and vibrant was the one entitled ‘Daddy’s Best Friend’ by Betsy.

‘But are you sure it’s a cow?’ asked Jo, after carefully lowering the arm of the guillotine into a safe position.

We all studied the painting carefully. There was no doubt it was definitely an impressionist work. However, while the shape in the centre had the colouring of a zebra and the characteristics of a hippopotamus, it was the fact that the creature was watching television that tended to diminish the contextual clues.

Before going home, a group of children, seeing their work mounted, had gathered round, full of excitement.

‘My mummy’s going,’ said ten-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw proudly. ‘She says I’m the first in the family to have a painting in a proper gallery.’

Sadly, Katy’s enthusiasm wasn’t shared by everyone.

‘Do we ’ave t’go?’ asked Heathcliffe Earnshaw, who was not a natural patron of the arts.

‘Well, your lovely drawing of your granddad is going on show, Heathcliffe,’ said Jo encouragingly.

Heathcliffe looked at his masterpiece and frowned. He knew with certainty that his crayon picture was actually of God, but ever since his Plasticine ferret had been put
in
the nativity scene as a sheep he was getting used to the misinterpretation of his creative talents.

I helped Sally and Jo put the artwork in the back of Sally’s car and then I called in to Nora’s Coffee Shop before going home. Dorothy was sitting behind the counter and studying a catalogue, while Nora was fiddling with the coffee machine.

‘A frothy coffee, please, Dorothy.’

Dorothy was engrossed in the colourful catalogue. ‘Ah’m thinking o’ buying one o’ them sympathetic wigs, Mr Sheffield. Ah could ’ave a different look every day.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said, staring curiously at the plate of rock cakes on the shelf of the plastic-fronted display case.