Star Teacher (7 page)

‘Yes, all very hush-hush at present,' she said. ‘We must proceed with caution.'

She gave me a searching look as we shook hands and I wondered what else there was that I didn't know.

As I left I saw Rufus Timmings engaged in animated conversation with some of the senior figures who had spoken during the afternoon. There was a lot to ponder as I drove back to Ragley.

Fortunately there was some good news when I walked into the school entrance hall. Genghis the racing pigeon had been found.

‘Ah'm thrilled t'bits, Mr Sheffield,' said Ruby, ‘an' it's all thanks t'that young policeman. Genghis were in Deke Ramsbottom's pig trailer.'

‘That's wonderful,' I said. ‘You should celebrate.'

Ruby went quiet for a moment. ‘'Appen ah will, Mr Sheffield, an' 'appen ah won't,' but I guessed she had something else on her mind.

The bell rang out to mark the end of school and I returned to the cloakroom area outside my classroom. The children in my class filed out and it was clear they had enjoyed their afternoon. Sonia Tricklebank and Lucy Eckersley were hurrying off hand in hand.

‘We've done loads wi' Miss,' said Sonia.

‘Paintin' an' modellin',' added Lucy.

‘An' t'story about King Arthur was brilliant,' enthused Sonia.

‘And where are you rushing off to?' I asked.

‘We're off blackberryin', Mr Sheffield,' said Sonia. ‘Lucy says there's loads in the 'edgerow up Chauntsinger Lane round t'back o' t'blacksmith's.'

The sensible Lucy anticipated my next question. ‘An' don't worry, Mr Sheffield, my mam is coming with us.'

I smiled as they ran down the drive where Mrs Eckersley, complete with a variety of Tupperware tubs, was waiting for them.

Half an hour later the staff were completing end-of-the-day tasks. When Ruby called into the office to empty the wastepaper basket, Vera looked up from her desk and saw the concern etched on our caretaker's face. ‘What's the matter, Ruby?' she asked.

‘Ah'm frettin' summat rotten, Mrs F,' said Ruby. ‘In fac', ah'm worried sick.'

‘Oh dear,' said Vera.

‘Don't you worry, Mrs F, we've all got crosses t'bear,' said Ruby with feeling, ‘it's jus' that mine's a reight 'eavy one.'

‘So what exactly is the problem?' asked Vera.

‘Well … it's m'
motions
, Mrs F.'

‘
Motions!
' exclaimed Vera. Ruby was a dear friend, but bowel movements were not an ideal topic for discussion.

‘Yes, Mrs F. Ah don't know if ah'm comin' or goin'.'

‘Really?' said Vera with forced sympathy.

‘Yes, it's m'motions … like ah used to 'ave when ah were courtin' my Ronnie. Y'know, all them 'ot flushes and feelin' giddy an' suchlike.'

The penny dropped. ‘Ah, your
e
motions!' Vera looked at her friend with a new intensity. ‘Come and sit down,' she said, smiling and nodding knowingly. She knew what it was that was causing concern for Ruby … and it had nothing to do with bodily functions.

I was in the entrance hall after thanking Valerie Flint for her work when Vera stepped out of the office and gently closed the door behind her.

‘I'll say goodnight now, Mr Sheffield,' she said. ‘I'm having a chat with Ruby – she's got things on her mind.'

‘Is there anything I can do to help?'

‘Not really. It's more to do with, well … affairs of the heart.'

‘So, Ruby's not unwell?'

‘No, she's fine.'

‘I see,' I said … though I didn't.

As she turned to go back into the office Vera paused and smiled. ‘Let's just say, Mr Sheffield, that you can't beat
a fine romance
.'

I was none the wiser as I drove home.

A staff meeting was held following Mr Gomersall's visit to school to discuss the issues relating to the proposed closure of Morton School.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 25 October 1985

Vera was in her kitchen staring out of the window beyond the manicured lawns of Morton Manor. The cool fingers of autumn had touched the trees and the leaves shone bronze in the morning sun. Teardrop cobwebs were strung like pearls through the hedgerows while the gauze of mist caressed the soft earth like a soul stretched tight in sorrow.

Fantasie in F Minor
was playing on her radio and its heartbreaking opening melody always brought tears to her eyes. For Vera, Schubert's piano duets were among his finest works, but on this particular morning it did not soothe her troubled mind. There were decisions to make … important ones. However, for now they would have to remain a secret.

She glanced at her wristwatch, checked her appearance in the hall mirror, made a minute adjustment to the Victorian brooch above the top button of her silk blouse, smoothed the seat of her pin-striped business suit, picked up her royal-blue leather handbag, said goodbye to her three cats and then to Rupert, in that order, and strode out to her Austin Metro.

It was 8.15 a.m. on Friday, 25 October and Vera had something important on her mind.

On my way to school I called into Victor Pratt's garage to fill up with petrol. I parked next to the single pump and Victor, elder brother of Timothy and Nora, lumbered out.

‘Fill her up, please, Victor,' I said and handed over a £10 note. ‘And how are you?' I added, then wished I hadn't. As usual, he had an ailment.

‘Not good, Mr Sheffield,' he said with a grimace. ‘Ah've got shootin' pains in m'shoulder.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that.'

‘Ah'm in agony,' he went on. ‘In fac', ah'm a martyr t'me misery.'

I considered this to be somewhat melodramatic, but pressed on regardless. ‘Perhaps it's sciatica,' I suggested in an attempt to be both informative and sympathetic.

‘No, it's definitely like ah said …
shootin
' pains.'

‘Shooting pains?'

‘Yes – cos of t'recoil on m'shotgun when ah were shootin' rabbits on Twenty Acre Field.'

‘Oh dear, I see,' I said with feeling. Having recently watched
Watership Down
, my sympathy diminished rapidly while Victor trundled away to get my change.

When I walked into the school office Vera looked up from her late-dinner-money register. She appeared concerned. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,' she said.

‘Good morning, Vera,' I replied. ‘A lovely day.' I gestured towards the window, from where we could see the children playing in the late-autumn sunshine.

‘Yes,' said Vera without looking out of the window. ‘I wonder if we can have a word at some time today?'

‘Of course,' I said. ‘Anne is preparing morning assembly so I've got a few minutes now if that helps.'

‘Yes, thank you.' She got up and closed the door.

Suddenly the telephone rang and Vera hurried back to her desk. ‘Yes, Mr Gomersall,' she said in her precise, clipped tone, ‘he's here now,' and she passed the receiver to me and dashed out of the office.

Richard Gomersall sounded a little anxious. ‘I need to pass on some news, Jack,' he said.

‘Yes, go ahead, Richard.' There was a pause.

‘I really need to call in … perhaps at lunchtime?'

‘Fine,' I said, ‘I'll see you then.'

‘Thanks. Say around twelve thirty.'

‘By the way, what's it about?'

There was another long pause. ‘Well, Jack … I'm afraid it's
confidential
.' And he rang off.

As I walked out into the entrance hall Vera was in conversation with Anne.

‘Mr Sheffield,' she said, ‘before you go back to class could I have a word?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said. ‘I'm sorry we got interrupted. How can I help?'

It was strange, but for once Vera seemed lost for words. After a few hesitant moments she said quietly, ‘I wondered if you could spare me a few minutes at the end of the day? There's a matter that has arisen recently that I should like to discuss with you … in private if at all possible.'

‘Of course, Vera,' I said. ‘Let's meet in the office after school.'

She looked preoccupied as she nodded in acknowledgement and hurried back to her desk.

It was a busy morning and the immediacy of the needs of the children in my care meant that the concerns of Richard Gomersall and Vera were soon far from my mind.

I completed reading tests for all the children and was pleased to see that Damian Brown had finally achieved a reading age that matched his chronological age. The range of ability was remarkable and my best readers, the two ten-year-olds Stacey Bryant and Dawn Phillips, could read the final line of the Schonell Graded Word Reading Test: namely,
rescind, metamorphosis, somnambulist, bibliography
and
idiosyncrasy
.

Meanwhile, next door in Class 3, Sally was developing the concept of history in her ‘Modern World' topic.

‘Can you think of something really important that wasn't here ten years ago?' she asked expectantly. A host of hands shot in the air.

‘Yes, Miss,' said Ted Coggins eagerly, ‘… me!' Sally reflected that it was moments like this that made the job worthwhile.

During morning break Pat was on playground duty and the rest of us gathered in the staff-room. Vera appeared to be in a world of her own and Anne, always quick to notice the concerns of others, asked, ‘How is Rupert these days?'

Vera folded her Flowers of the Forest tea towel, sat down and picked up her
Daily Telegraph
. She smiled as if recalling a happy memory. ‘He's taking me to see
Les Misérables
in London during half-term,' she said. The new musical by the Royal Shakespeare Company had opened at the Barbican Centre earlier in the month. ‘Sadly, it's had poor reviews.' She pointed to the arts section in her newspaper. ‘“A lurid Victorian melodrama”, it says here.'

‘Never mind,' said Anne, ‘I'm sure you'll enjoy it.'

‘I'm hoping it will cheer him up,' said Vera. ‘He's been like a bear with a sore head since he read that foreign cars will be built here in the United Kingdom.' I looked up, remembering the news that Peugeot had begun to construct their new 309 in the plant that was famous for the Hillman, Humber, Singer, Sunbeam and Talbot. ‘Rupert says it will be the death knell of the British car industry.'

Meanwhile, Sally picked up her
Daily Mirror
and smiled. ‘At least there's some good news here,' she said.

‘What's that?' asked Anne, looking up from her Yorkshire Purchasing Organisation catalogue and the price of powder paint.

Sally pointed to the article. ‘It says here that five thousand pensioners have protested in Trafalgar Square against the proposal by Norman Fowler, Secretary of State for Social Services, for the abolition of the state earnings-related pension.'

‘Good for them,' said Anne.

The full basic rate of pension was £35.80 per week for a single person and £57.30 for a couple, so this had been a topical discussion in recent weeks.

‘And it looks like the pensioners have won!' exclaimed Sally. ‘What do you think of that, Vera?' It was a mischievous confrontation.

‘Well, generally good news,' said Vera cautiously, ‘but also something of a concern. I heard on the news this morning that the number of people over seventy-five will rise by over a third in the next ten years.'

‘Who's going to look after them all?' wondered Anne.

Sally shook her head. ‘The NHS is creaking as it is.'

‘I presume people will have to use their savings for a retirement home,' said Vera.

‘Savings!' exclaimed Sally. ‘On a teacher's salary?'

‘It will be difficult for many who just make ends meet,' said Anne, trying to establish a middle ground. She looked up at Vera, who had returned to the sink and had begun to wash the hot-milk pan a little earlier than usual. It was clear that she wasn't quite herself today.

It was just as the bell rang for school lunch that Ruby had finished setting out all the dining tables. She was later than usual.

‘What's the matter, Ruby?' I asked.

She shook her head. ‘It's my Duggie, Mr Sheffield. 'E's allus gallavantin' about wi' that mature woman.'

‘Well, so long as he's happy,' I said without conviction.

‘Ah'll be pushin' up daisies by t'time 'e finds a proper girlfriend,' continued Ruby.

‘A
proper
girlfriend?'

‘Yes, y'know – someone 'is own age.'

‘I see,' I said.

During school lunch the children in Pat's class were lining up with their plastic trays. Shirley Mapplebeck always had a kind word for all the children, whereas Doreen Critchley, her formidable colleague, rarely smiled.

‘We 'ad strangled eggs f'breakfast, Mrs Mapplebeck,' said six-year-old Madonna Fazackerly.

‘That's lovely,' said Shirley with a smile.

A few places further back in the queue, Billy Ricketts and Scott Higginbottom were exchanging secrets.

‘Ah know a swear word,' said Billy, looking furtively around him.

‘What is it?' asked Scott.

‘Friggin',' said Billy.

Scott looked puzzled. ‘Friggin' … what's friggin'?'

‘Dunno,' said Billy, ‘but my dad says it all the time.'

The queue shuffled closer to Shirley Mapplebeck, who was serving shepherd's pie and carrots, alongside Doreen Critchley, who was offering a choice of ice cream or semolina and a spoonful of jam.

‘Ah dare you t'say it t'Mrs Critchley,' said Scott.

‘Ah dunno,' said Billy, looking up at the fearsome sight of Doreen Critchley's bulging forearms.

‘Y'scared!' said Scott triumphantly.