06 Educating Jack (19 page)

Back in Bilbo Cottage, Beth and I were curled up on the sofa watching television. It was the wonderfully poignant film
Papillon
, with Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman, and I was happy in my peaceful world. Beth’s head was on my shoulder and her hair brushed lightly against my cheek. It occurred to me that cuddling up next to the one you love is very precious.

As snow began to fall again over the vast plain of York, unknown to me on this cold winter night, the two binmen of Ragley-on-the-Forest were thinking exactly the same thing.

County Hall requested responses to their proposal for a common geography syllabus in North Yorkshire schools with an emphasis on ‘European Awareness’
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

Tuesday, 1 February 1983

THE SILENCE OF
snow rested on the frozen earth. As I peered through the bedroom window it seemed as if all sound was muted. Under its smooth white blanket the world was still as stone. It was the first day of February and the villages of Yorkshire were held fast in the grip of winter.

However, a vision of warm days in southern France was flickering through the mind of Nora Pratt as she wrote a sign for the door of her Coffee Shop. It read:

And it seemed that early mornings in Ragley village were about to change.

It was 7 a.m. and Beth and I were in our dressing gowns, drinking tea in front of the television. We had set the alarm a little earlier than usual in order to watch the launch of the new TV-am
Good Morning Britain
programme on ITV. We sat there cuddled up on the sofa waiting for this momentous event in British television history.

The screen flickered into life. ‘Hello, good morning and welcome,’ said David Frost. He made it clear that he, Anna Ford, Robert Kee, Angela Rippon and Michael Parkinson would not be with us
all
the time and it occurred to me that
we
wouldn’t be there either. The journey to school on this snowy morning would take longer than usual.

The programme seemed to go well, with few hitches. A young lady called in to complain about striking water men, John Cleese appeared in his pyjamas and David Philpott, the weatherman, got it just about right when he said, ‘The story today is really one of wind’. We switched off, showered and dressed, then, after a bowl of porridge, we cleared the snow from our cars and drove slowly away.

Meanwhile, in the spacious kitchen of Morton Manor, Vera was enjoying a cup of Earl Grey tea to the soothing sound of Wagner and Haydn on Radio 3’s
Morning Concert
and praying that her dear brother was coping without her. She was also wondering in which cupboard she should put her mother’s treasured weighing scales and set of brass weights …
imperial
measures, of course. It was then that she heard the sound of the television in Rupert’s study. ‘Television,’ she murmured, ‘at shortly after seven in the morning. What is the world coming to?’ She crossed the vast entrance hall, looked round the study door and there was Rupert, staring at his little television set, watching the weather forecast. ‘Snow today, dear,’ he said. Vera shook her head. She didn’t need a young woman in a revealing dress to tell her what was already patently obvious. When she walked back to the hallway the sound of another television could be heard coming from Virginia’s bedroom. To make matters worse, it sounded as if she was doing some form of energetic aerobics to the sound of rather vulgar music.

As Vera shut the kitchen door with some relief, it occurred to her that married life, on occasion, wasn’t always sweetness and light. She turned up the volume control on the radio, picked up the tea strainer and poured herself a second cup of tea. Outside, in the high elm trees, a parliament of rooks stared down with beady eyes from their lofty perch at the commotion below. The world had suddenly become a noisier place.

BBC
Breakfast Time
had begun in mid-January and we learned that 35 per cent of all households in England had watched the first show with Frank Bough and Selina Scott. Our early-morning habits were changing and, in the living rooms of England, television had become the background wallpaper of the nation.

But not everyone had tuned in. Anne Grainger switched on her radio and looked out of her kitchen window on the Crescent. In the far distance, the leaden sky over the Hambleton hills promised more snow. On Radio 2 the hit single ‘Our House’ by Madness blared out and Anne reflected that living with John and his latest DIY project, namely mixer taps that didn’t work, was very much like living in a madhouse.

On the way into school I eased my Morris Minor Traveller over the frozen forecourt of Victor Pratt’s garage and pulled up next to the single pump. Victor wandered out, a thick, grease-stained scarf round his neck.

‘Mornin’, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘Big day f’our Nora. She’s goin’ continental an’ doin’ Frenchified breakfasts.’

‘And why’s that, Victor?’ I asked.

‘Summat abart educatin’ the locals she said … burra don’t fancy it m’self, ’specially this morning. Ah gorra touch o’ that bumbago.’

Fortunately I was a past master at interpreting Victor’s many ailments. ‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘
lumbago
is very painful.’

‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield … speshully in y’bum,’ and he limped away to get my change while rubbing his ample backside.

Meanwhile, on Ragley High Street, in the Coffee Shop, Nora Pratt was keen to give her customers a continental experience. She had read an article about Brigitte Bardot in her
Woman
magazine on the same day that she was offered a cut-price deal on a box of croissants. ‘You an’ me, Dowothy, aren’t jus’ Bwitish,’ said Nora knowingly, ‘but also Euwopeans.’

However, when Big Dave and Little Malcolm parked their bin wagon outside and walked in,
entente cordiale
wasn’t uppermost on their minds.

‘Bloody ’ell,’ said Big Dave when he spotted the tray of croissants at the front of the display cabinet. ‘What’s goin’ on ’ere?’

‘’Ow d’you mean, Dave?’ asked Dorothy.

‘What’s this, er,
cross-aunt
in aid of then?’ asked Big Dave, looking at the label above the strange pastries. Big Dave had always been happy with the usual supply of pork pies and rock buns. He even turned a blind eye to the occasional cream horn purchased by the more adventurous customer, but this was different … and the spelling made no sense.

‘It’s a cwoissant,’ said Nora confidently and with a passable French accent. Her pronunciation was perfect because, of course, she was blissfully unaware that this was one time in her life when the letter ‘r’ could be pronounced as a ‘w’.

‘So what is it?’ asked Big Dave, none the wiser.

‘Looks like, er, puff pastry t’me, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm hesitantly.

‘
Puff
pastry …
puff
pastry!’ exclaimed Big Dave. ‘We don’t want none o’ that nancy boy stuff round ’ere, Nora.’

‘It’s Fwench,’ said Nora. ‘It’s what they ’ave f’bweakfast in Pawis.’

‘No wonder they can’t play football,’ grumbled Big Dave.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.

Nora shook her head sadly and then walked away to the juke-box where she studied the selection of records.

Dorothy returned from clearing the tables, leant over the counter and whispered conspiratorially, ‘They’ll never catch on, Dave. Y’can’t slice ’em like proper bread an’ they go all crumbly when y’butter ’em.’

At the juke-box Nora pressed Y17, selected Sacha Distel and began to sing, ‘Waindwops keep falling on my head.’

‘She’s been singing them French songs all morning,’ said Dorothy, shaking her head, ‘’specially that ’unky Sasha Distillery.’

‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm.

‘So … what’s it t’be, Dave?’ asked Dorothy.

‘Usual please, luv,’ said Big Dave while Little Malcolm stared up lovingly at the girl of his dreams.

‘OK,’ said Dorothy, ‘two bacon butties an’ two large mugs o’ sweet tea coming up.’

As I drove past the village green, the school came into view, transformed in its winter coat. The belltower resembled Santa’s grotto, with a perfect curve of fresh snow resting on each roof slate and icicles hanging from the eaves of the entrance porch. On the metal railings that bordered the playground, every fleur-de-lis was crowned with frozen crystals that sparkled in the low morning sunlight.

Two crates of milk for the infant classes were stacked outside the entrance and, on this freezing cold morning, the milk had frozen and forced the silver foil tops from the bottles. A desperate blue tit, perched on one of the bottles, was pecking furiously for his breakfast and fluttered away as I walked across the playground.

Ruby was spreading gritty sand from an old enamel bucket on to the path from the driveway to the playground. It was clear she was back to her old self. ‘It’s like the bloomin’ Hantarctic, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. However, she seemed unperturbed by the chill wind that was cutting like a knife through my old duffel coat.

‘So how are you today, Ruby?’ I asked.

‘Fit as a flea, Mr Sheffield.’

‘And how’s little Krystal?’

‘Startin’ t’crawl now, thank you f’asking,’ said Ruby. ‘An’, by the way, that posh lady, Mrs Dudley-Palmer, dropped ’er daughters off early so ah sent ’em in to ’elp Mrs Grainger get ’er classroom shaped up for t’little uns. ’Ope y’don’t mind but they looked proper froz’, poor little mites.’

‘That’s fine, Ruby,’ I said, ‘so long as they’re supervised,’ and I hurried in.

Behind me Terry Earnshaw was walking up the school drive sucking an icicle as if it were an ice lolly.

‘A cat could have wee’d on that, Terry,’ said Michelle Cathcart in mock disgust, but secretly admiring Terry’s disregard for danger.

‘Ah don’t care,’ said Terry, breaking off the end and crunching it between his teeth. However, he noticed that his icicle did appear to have a slightly yellowish tinge and, when the coast was clear, he climbed on to the school dustbins and selected a new icicle hanging from the gutter of the boiler house.

At the gate, Pauline Paxton was saying goodbye to nine-year-old Molly. ‘Now work ’ard an’ try y’best,’ said Pauline and kissed her rosy-cheeked daughter.

‘Ah allus do, Mam,’ said Molly, ‘’xcept maths is a lot ’arder now. Yesterday we did decimals and today we’re doing fractures.’

‘Sounds painful luv,’ said Pauline with a smile as she hurried off to catch William Featherstone’s coach into York.

In the office, Vera held up a smart spiral-bound document. ‘It’s from County Hall, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a frown, ‘and you need to respond to it.’

‘What is it this time?’ I asked.

‘The one that wants us all to be Europeans,’ she said coldly as she placed it on my desk.

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera as she removed the cover of her electric typewriter. ‘Mrs Thatcher will never allow it.’

It was clear throughout morning school that the children were itching to get out on to the school field to enjoy the fresh snowfall. So it was that at half past ten nearly ninety children donned boots, coats, scarves and gloves and hurried out to make snowmen, build igloos and throw snowballs. As we shivered round the gas fire in the staffroom I found it hard to remember a time when I had the same sort of fun and never felt the cold.

After morning break, in the reception class Charlie Cartwright and Ted Coggins had sopping wet feet, so Anne put their shoes and socks next to the hot-water pipes. The two little boys seemed to approve of the new freedom and wiggled their toes.

‘Mrs Grainger,’ said Charlie, ‘ah’d like t’be a Hafrican an’ ’ave bare feet.’

‘An’ ah’d like t’be a Hindian, Mrs Grainger,’ said Ted, ‘wi’ bare feet
an
’ feathers.’

And Anne recalled why it was that she made a choice early in her career to teach young children and smiled at the memory.

In Class 3, Sally was busy with her cities of the world project. ‘Now girls and boys, Istanbul is the largest city in which country?’ she asked, pointing at the large map of the world. There was a scratching of heads. This was obviously a tough one. Sally decided to offer a clue. ‘We eat a lot of it at Christmas,’ she added helpfully. Terry Earnshaw’s hand shot up.

‘Yes, Terry?’ asked Sue.

‘Greece, Miss,’ said Terry, quick as a flash.

And Sally also recalled her decision to become a teacher and wondered if working in a bank gave the same job satisfaction.

At the end of school, the setting sun, like a fiery bronze shield, had dipped its circular rim below the Hambleton hills and the clouds were backlit with purple winter fire. Darkness was falling fast and soon the bright stars would mount their nightly vigil over the plain of York.

In Sally Pringle’s classroom, Ruby was clearing up. ‘’Ere’s an old paintbrush, Mrs Pringle,’ said Ruby, ‘wi’ a bit o’ life left in it.’

Sally looked up from mounting the children’s artwork on large sheets of sugar paper. ‘Thank you, Ruby, it all helps, particularly with all the cutbacks in the school budget.’

‘Cutbacks – don’t talk t’me about cutbacks,’ said Ruby and she stopped emptying the bin. ‘We’re all mekkin’ cutbacks, Mrs Pringle,’ she said with feeling. She took a chamois leather from the pocket of her overall and let it dangle between a calloused finger and thumb. ‘Look at this. There’s no
shammy
left in me leather. It’s gone all limp … a bit like my Ronnie.’