05 Please Sir! (20 page)

Further up Easington Road, in the Graingers’ tidy house on the Crescent, Anne was adding chopped banana to her bowl of Weetabix. Terry Wogan on Radio 2 had just introduced David Soul singing ‘Silver Lady’ and Anne was humming along and gyrating her hips in time to the music. Sadly, her husband John had long since forgotten the art of hip-gyration and he missed what could have been interpreted as an early-morning mating ritual. Instead, his head was buried in his
Do-It-Yourself
magazine. After all, the promise of a free grouting tool with the next monthly issue was compelling news.

A mile away on Morton Road, in the calm oasis of the vicarage kitchen, Vera was feeding her three cats, Maggie, Treacle and Jess, while listening to the
Morning Concert
on Radio 3. It occurred to her that Prokofiev and Shostakovich were ideal companions for their morning bowl of meaty chunks.

The new year of 1982 stretched out before me. With my lesson plans in my battered leather briefcase, I wrapped my college scarf a little tighter, fastened the toggles on my duffel coat and walked out to scrape the ice from the frozen windscreen of my Morris Minor Traveller. It was a slow journey to Ragley village and I drove through a white world, devoid of life, with frozen trees etched against a forbidding sky. Heavy clouds hung over the Hambleton hills with the promise of more snow.

As I peered at the desolate beauty of this countryside I reflected why I loved this spectacular part of North Yorkshire. The wind in the tall elms was the song of winter and, while it froze my bones, it served to nourish my soul. My thoughts were somewhat less lyrical when finally I arrived in the school car park and a sharp wind stung my cheeks as I hurried towards the school entrance. Beneath my feet, tiny frost crystals edged the cobblestones like scattered stardust.

Ruby, in a tightly knotted headscarf, was sweeping the path clear and seemed oblivious of the bitter cold. She was singing the recent number one, ‘Begin the Beguine’, by the Spanish singer Julio Inglesias.

‘G’morning, Ruby,’ I said. ‘I like the singing.’

‘Oh, ’ello, Mr Sheffield. Y’can’t beat ’im, ’e’s a proper ’eart-throb,’ said Ruby, leaning on her broom.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘That Hoolio Doubleglazias,’ said Ruby.

‘Yes, er, well … thanks for all your hard work, Ruby,’ I said. ‘We’ve done well to stay open this week.’

‘Well, at least all t’children are enjoying t’snow,’ she said with a smile.

On the playground, Alice Baxter and Theresa Ackroyd, like Arctic explorers, were making first footprints in the fresh snowfall.

‘And how’s Ronnie?’ I asked.

Ruby banged her broom against the school wall in annoyance. ‘’E’s stayed in bed, Mr Sheffield,’ grumbled Ruby. ‘’Is chest is playing ’im up again.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ruby,’ I replied, thinking privately it was probably because he smoked thirty a day and took no exercise. ‘Have you called the doctor?’

‘’E dunt need no doctor, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby dismissively. ‘Ah jus’ rubbed some Vic on t’soles of ’is feet an’ told ’im ’e’ll be reight as rain.’ She wandered off to pour salt on the entrance steps and I wondered if Dr Davenport was aware of Ruby’s encyclopaedia of rural remedies.

I hurried to the entrance porch, where coal tits were perched on the crate of milk. They were pecking holes in the foil tops of each third-of-a-pint bottle to reach the precious head of cream.

As I walked into the school office and sat at my desk, I felt that little thrill that comes with uncertainty. For a village schoolteacher, no two days were alike and I wondered what was in store. Also, you never knew who would call in and ask for advice, or seek to complain, or merely to pass the time of day. Today was such a day and, as usual, it began with a knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I said.

The office door was flung open and it banged loudly against the metal filing cabinet. Our least favourite villager, Stan Coe, local landowner, pig farmer and habitual bully, had wedged his sixteen-stone frame in the doorway. Stanley always seemed to be up to no good and there was a history of conflict between us. Ever since he had been removed from the Governing Body at the end of my first year at Ragley he had held me in contempt.

‘Sheffield, ah need a word,’ he shouted. He pointed a stubby nicotine-stained finger at me and his oilskin coat crackled. ‘Ah’ve said it afore about t’kids in this school o’ yours: y’don’t teach ’em any bloody manners.’

‘You’d better come in and tell me about it, Mr Coe,’ I said with a sinking heart. This was not the start to the school day I was hoping for.

He remained stubbornly where he was. ‘Nay, ah’m a busy man. Ah don’t sit on me arse all day an’ then ’ave long ’olidays.’

‘So what’s the problem, Mr Coe, because I’m a busy man as well – and I’d be grateful if you would watch your language.’

‘Ah want your kids well away from my livestock. They lean over t’fence an’ shout at me pigs. They’ll be leaving t’gate open next. Y’can’t trust ’em.’

‘I’ll have a word in school assembly about it, Mr Coe,’ I said. ‘So, is that all?’

‘It is f’now,’ he said and slammed the door behind him. I heard him shout as he stormed out into the entrance hall. ‘An’ gerrowt o’ m’way, y’stupid woman.’ Through the window I saw him stride out to his Land-Rover, which was splattered with frozen mud and parked in the
STRICTLY NO PARKING
area outside the boiler-house doors.

This was followed by a timid knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I said.

It was Mrs Daphne Cathcart, mother of eight-year-old Michelle in Sally’s class. With her pink candy-floss hair, and teeth that resembled a rickety fence, Daphne was an interesting lady.

‘Sorry about that, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, blushing furiously and with a Darth Vader wheeze, ‘but ah wondered if y’could spare me a minute.’

‘Certainly, Mrs Cathcart. Come in and sit down,’ I said.

‘Thank you,’ she said and closed the door. ‘That man allus picks on me. Ah bet ’e wouldn’t if ah ’ad a ’usband.’ She sat down and fiddled with her huge purple earrings.

‘Now, what can I do to help, Mrs Cathcart?’

‘Ah ’ave t’go t’York this afternoon, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘so ah’ll be late picking up our Michelle. Ah wondered if she could ’elp mebbe tidying libr’y for ’alf an ’our after school? But if it’s not convenient ah can get m’sister to come from Easington.’

‘That’s fine, Mrs Cathcart,’ I said, eager to help. Sadly, Daphne often had problems in her life. ‘Michelle’s coming on well with her reading. She’ll enjoy looking at the books in the library and I’ll make sure she’s supervised.’

Mrs Cathcart blushed again, this time with pride, and I recalled that blushing was one of her personal problems. ‘She’s tekking after ’er big sister,’ she said proudly, ‘who’s doing real well up at t’big school.’

I had taught twelve-year-old Cathy last year. ‘That’s good to hear,’ I said. ‘So, is it something special in York, Mrs Cathcart?’ I asked.

‘Ah’m off t’this,’ she said, thrusting a leaflet under my nose. It read ‘Move towards Success and Happiness with Positive Programming – let American Hypnotist Werner Finkletoes change the direction of your life.’

‘Oh, er, I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I hope it goes well for you, Mrs Cathcart.’

‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield. Ah knew you’d understand … ‘Cause ah’d like t’be ’appy again an’ mebbe stop all m’blushing.’ She blushed visibly and I felt a great sadness for this lady who needed a boost of self-confidence more than any parent I had ever met.

She paused at the door before she left and was silent for a heartbeat. It was as if she was reluctant to open a window on her inner struggle. ‘Ah’ve come t’learn in life, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘that if you ’ave problems as a parent, then your children will ’ave ’em too, an’ ah don’t want that to ’appen to our Cathy an’ our Michelle.’ Then she quietly shut the door and set off to the bus stop and her date with ‘success and happiness’.

Almost immediately, there was another knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I said.

It was Vera. ‘Our visitor, Miss Makepiece, is here, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘to support Mrs Pringle’s History of Ragley Village project.’

Vera opened the door wide and a tiny lady in her seventies walked in. She was wearing a smart, royal-blue Marks & Spencer’s overcoat, matching woollen hat, scarf and gloves and fur-lined boots. ‘Perhaps you would like a hot drink, Miss Makepiece,’ said Vera with a gentle smile, ‘and then I’ll let Mrs Pringle know you’re here.’

‘Thank you, Miss Evans,’ she said, ‘you’re very kind.’ Her bright-blue eyes twinkled with mild amusement behind her spectacles as she looked around the office as if it was a long-lost friend. Then she removed a glove to shake hands. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield. Pleased to meet you. I’m Miss Makepiece – Lily Makepiece,’ she said.

‘Oh yes. I heard you were coming in. Please … do sit down, Miss Makepiece, and thank you for your support,’ I said.

‘Well, I’m here for the weekend, Mr Sheffield,’ said Lily. ‘I’m visiting my sister at the Hartford Home for Retired Gentlefolk. It was she who told your secretary and then Miss Evans told Mrs Pringle,’ she said, holding up a letter on school headed paper and written in Sally’s expansive handwriting. ‘Fifty years ago I was an infant teacher here in Ragley School,’ she said, ‘and I’ve brought some photographs with me of those times.’

‘That’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘Sally’s our historian and she’ll be thrilled you can help her bring the project to life.’

‘Well, if I say it myself, I’ve had an interesting life and it’s a pity my eyesight is failing so that I can’t write it all down.’

Sally appeared at the door. ‘Oh, thank you for coming, Miss Makepiece,’ she said. ‘I’m Sally Pringle and I know from your sister that your mind is still sharp as a razor.’

‘We shall see, Mrs Pringle,’ she said and, after she had drunk her coffee, she set off with sprightly steps to Sally’s classroom.

It was morning assembly when I saw Miss Makepiece again and I introduced her to the rest of the children. Anne played the first bars of our morning hymn and I noticed that Miss Makepiece didn’t need a hymn book to refer to the words. She sang ‘When a Knight won his spurs in the stories of old’ from memory.

I gave out a few notices, including a warning not to go near Mr Coe’s pig farm, at which point Miss Makepiece looked up with keen eyes. Then, after our prayers, the children trooped out to get their coats and scarves for morning playtime. I was on duty so I grabbed a hot coffee and walked out on to the playground.

Around me, the sharp cries of children were muffled in the icy blanket of snow. Still as stone, the fresh layer deadened sound. Even the raucous cawing of the rooks in the high elms was muted. In the nearby woods, a startled woodcock skittered through the branches, eager to resume its solitude. On the village green, small animals had stripped bare of bark the fallen branches.

On the school field, children were enjoying games in the snow. Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his brother Terry were throwing snowballs at a snowman. Their Auntie Hilda in Cleckheaton had knitted matching grey balaclavas for the two boys, which made them look like evacuees from the Second World War.

‘Great shot, ’Eath,’ shouted Terry excitedly: ‘reight on ’is nose.’

When I walked closer I was amused to note that their snowman, with his twig spectacles, had an uncanny resemblance to me.

The bell rang for the end of playtime and the children walked back into school. Anne and Jo, with the experience of countless wet and snowy playtimes, helped their infants to return their wet clothes and boots to the right places in the cloakroom.

‘This takes me back,’ said Miss Makepiece as she was met with the familiar smell of damp gloves, scarves and socks and the regiment of wellingtons.

She was soon into her stride in Sally’s class. ‘Well, boys and girls,’ she said, clapping her hands for attention, ‘fifty years ago school was very different. We taught the three Rs – words and sums – and these were written on slate boards and cleaned with spit.’

Heathcliffe looked at her with admiration and wished he could have lived in those days. He was particularly impressed with the practical use of spit.

‘We taught the children folk dances in their hobnailed boots,’ continued Miss Makepiece, ‘and it made such a racket on this wooden floor.’ The children stared at the floor in amazement.

‘Please, Miss, what did you do in the war?’ asked eight-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite.

‘Well, during the Second World War, I worked in the Sheffield steelworks. We were known as the Women of Steel and we worked a seventy-two-hour week for £3 13s and £5 18s if we worked nights. So I spent the war making bullets.’

The children were perfectly silent. After years of making bullets this was clearly not a woman you would want to cross.

‘Our postman was George Postlethwaite,’ added Miss Makepiece, glancing up at the clock. It was almost lunchtime. ‘After the war he continued even though he had only one arm. He used to call into school with the post and a brace of rabbits for the pot.’

‘And did you eat ’em, Miss?’ asked Rowena Buttle.

‘Oh yes, it all went in the stew for school dinner,’ she said with a smile.

The twelve o’clock bell suddenly rang. ‘Miss … Ah wonder if Mrs Mapplebeck does that to our school dinners?’ questioned Heathcliffe on his way out.