02 Mister Teacher (21 page)

Mr Nicholas Dibble was alone in the school office, sitting at my desk. As the door that led from the office to the staff-room was ajar, he could be observed by the diligent and ever-faithful Vera. In front of him was the Rubik Cube.

He picked it up, weighed it in his delicate fingers and, with careful precision, rotated one of the sides. With satisfaction, he noted that he now had three orange squares in alignment. Now, if he could get the other six orange squares to appear on that face, somehow life would be more complete. Although he didn’t fully understand why, he thought he would spend a few more minutes trying to achieve this.

When the bell rang for morning break and I returned to hover at the school office door, he had six orange squares on the same face but the task was becoming increasingly difficult. With great reluctance, he put the cube down and, with a sigh, turned his attention to our Religious Education policy that Vera had found for him.

Apart from brief introductions, little conversation took place between Mr Dibble and Anne, Jo and Sally, who collected their cups of coffee and left Vera to look after our guest. However, as Sally left, she called out, ‘I’ve brought those flowers in for my class display corner, Vera, so if you get time to arrange them for me …’

‘Of course, Sally,’ said Vera, with a confident smile. ‘I’ll do them for you before I go home.’

Mr Dibble did something I hadn’t seen him do before. He blinked. As I walked out, he was staring hard at Vera.

‘Excuse me, Miss Evans, but did you say you were interested in flower arranging?’ he asked.

‘It’s one of my life’s passions,’ said Vera. ‘I do a flower arrangement for the church every week.’

Nicholas Dibble took a deep breath. ‘I wonder if I might ask your advice?’

‘Of course, Mr Dibble,’ said Vera.

‘Tomorrow evening is the Annual Spring Flower Show in my village hall in Branton,’ said Mr Dibble, as he sat down opposite Vera’s desk. ‘I always submit a flower arrangement. Along with my Advanced Upholstery Evening Class, it’s my favourite hobby.’

‘I see,’ said Vera.

‘It’s just that my arrangements don’t look quite right and they usually fall over,’ said Mr Dibble, with an anguished look on his face. ‘I have terrible problems with my floral foam, no matter how much I soak it first.’

‘I understand, Mr Dibble,’ said Vera, with the quiet reassuring empathy of a caring social worker.

‘I was thinking of doing something with daffodils and maybe some crab-apple blossom,’ said the earnest Mr Dibble.

Vera considered this for a moment and then began to pace the room. Mr Dibble watched her every move, waiting for the flash of inspiration.

‘Mr Dibble, I have a picture in my mind’s eye,’ said Vera, half closing her eyes and putting a dramatic hand to her tormented brow. It was an effect she had subconsciously perfected after watching Celia Johnson in
Brief Encounter
. ‘I can see five irises in a row,’ she continued, staring into space.

‘In a row,’ repeated Mr Dibble.

‘In descending order,’ said Vera.

‘Interesting,’ murmured Mr Dibble. He was beginning to believe he was in the presence of a woman who was almost as creative as he was himself.

‘Surrounded by the rounded and crinkle-edged leaves of
Bergenia crassifolia
,’ said Vera, as if in a trance.

‘Really?’ said Mr Dibble.

‘And set among fluffy-grey sentinels of pussy willow,’ added Vera, with absolute authority.

Mr Dibble gasped. There was no doubt. He was now utterly convinced that he was in the presence of
greatness
. ‘Exactly, Miss Evans,’ said Mr Dibble. ‘It’s a dramatic vision.’

He opened his notebook once more and began to scribble again. Then he threw down his carefully sharpened HB pencil on the table. His repressed artistic temperament was beginning to surface.

‘It’s no good!’ he declared. ‘I’ve no pussy willow and where do I get irises if I’m here in school all day and most of tomorrow? It will have to be daffodils and a few sprigs of blossom.’ The agony of thwarted creation was etched upon his pale face.

Vera took off her steel-framed spectacles and cleaned them. The tension for Mr Dibble was almost unbearable. Then she uttered the words that were music to his ears.

‘Mr Dibble,’ said Vera, with a finality that surprised even her, ‘we will do it together tomorrow before you leave Ragley. I will collect a few helpful items from the vicarage and I know where we can find some pussy willow. What time shall we meet tomorrow?’

‘I complete my inspection at morning break and I will be giving my report to the staff at twelve-fifteen. So, if it’s convenient for you, we could do it at eleven o’clock.’

‘I’m usually at my Cross-Stitch class on Thursday mornings,’ said Vera, studying her pocket diary very carefully. ‘However, I’m sure they won’t miss me on this occasion.’

Mr Dibble looked at Vera in admiration. ‘Thank you so much, Miss Evans.’

That afternoon, while Mr Dibble’s attention was fixed on Anne’s class listening to a Bible story, a discussion
among
Jo’s children about Noah’s Ark, followed by Sally’s lesson on the Good Samaritan, his mind kept returning to the flower arrangement of his dreams. Occasionally, he walked back into the school office to attempt to solve the Rubik Cube.

At four o’clock, Mr Dibble took his leave. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr Sheffield, and, don’t forget, I shall be observing your class at nine o’clock and I shall give you my report at lunchtime,’ he said, with depressing finality.

‘Thank you, Mr Dibble,’ I said, but without enthusiasm. My
faux pas
on his arrival would certainly count against his judgement on our school and, in particular, my leadership of this Church of England School.

Then his eyes fell on the Rubik Cube. ‘I wonder if I might borrow this?’ he said. ‘Just to show it to a few colleagues, of course, and then return it tomorrow. I understand these toys are becoming all the rage.’

‘Of course, Mr Dibble, be my guest.’

He slipped it quickly into his briefcase and left.

Vera walked into the office and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield, it will be fine,’ she said.

‘But I made such a hash of things this morning. Mr Dibble won’t forget that in a hurry.’

‘Let’s wait and see, shall we?’ she said, with a Mona Lisa smile.

‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, but my spirits were low.

‘Oh, and by the way, Miss Henderson rang and hopes you can meet her tonight at The Royal Oak at half past seven.’

My spirits shot up again.

The conversation in The Royal Oak was familiar as I stood at the bar to order a drink for Beth and myself. Deke Ramsbottom, resplendent in a new vividly checked cowboy shirt and a crimson neckerchief, was regaling Don, the barman.

‘Ah never thought ah’d live t’see the day,’ said Deke. ‘A million pound for a footballer.’

Trevor Francis had recently become the United Kingdom’s first one-million-pound footballer when he was transferred from Birmingham City to Nottingham Forest.

‘World’s goin’ mad, Deke,’ said Don, as he pulled another pint. ‘They’ll put prices up t’watch football, you wait ’n’ see.’

‘If y’beer goes up t’thirty pence a pint, Don,’ said Deke, ‘ah’ll ’ave t’choose between beer an’ football. Ah can’t afford both.’

‘Well, at least y’can watch football f’nowt on telly,’ said Don. ‘They’ll never tek that away.’

‘Mebbe so,’ said Deke, supping his sixth pint of Tetley’s bitter and not sounding entirely convinced.

Back at the bay-window table, Beth was obviously bursting to tell me her news.

‘I’ve got an interview, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s for that headship I told you about at Hartingdale Primary School. I drove through the village today and it’s only a few miles from where I work now.’ She thrust an official-looking letter across the table for me to read. ‘It’s on the first
Monday
of the Easter holidays at County Hall,’ she said, pointing to the underlined date of the interview.

A surge of joy ran through my veins. ‘That’s great news, Beth,’ I said. I felt like lifting her up in my arms.

We talked excitedly about the new opportunity and the lovely village of Hartingdale with its beautiful church, its pretty High Street and the old stocks in the middle of the village green. Beth had brought with her a recent magazine article showing the ten most attractive Yorkshire villages and Hartingdale was featured. In the background of the aerial photograph, the Hartingdale Hunt could be seen with red-coated fox-hunters galloping across the North Yorkshire Moors.

Darkness had fallen outside and I stared into Beth’s eyes and noticed how similar they were to Laura’s. The arrival of our food shattered the images flickering through my mind. Sheila, the barmaid, in a skin-tight, bright-pink sweater that left little to the imagination, served piping-hot stew in giant Yorkshire puddings, along with a refill of Chestnut mild for me and white wine for Beth.

‘Enjoy y’meals, you two lovebirds,’ said Sheila, as she collected the empty glasses and wiggled in her black leather miniskirt back to the bar.

Beth smiled and changed the subject. ‘I hear you’ve got someone from the Diocesan Board of Education in school, Jack. Everyone’s talking about where he will go to next.’

‘No idea, Beth. Sadly, I didn’t make a good impression, so I’m hopeful tomorrow will improve.’

Beth nodded and we ate in silence for a while, both filled with our own thoughts. By nine o’clock, we had said our goodbyes and made the excuse that we both needed an early night. When I closed the curtains of Bilbo Cottage, I prayed the next day would bring a good report from Mr Nicholas Dibble.

The next morning, everyone arrived early in school and Vera, true to her word, missed her twice-weekly Cross-Stitch class in the village hall and came in to help. When I walked into the staff-room, she looked relaxed as she read her
Daily Telegraph
and studied the front-page photo of a nurse preparing to stand outside parliament in a silent vigil over pay, after the Royal College of Nurses had pledged not to strike. The outside world was still turbulent.

Surprisingly, next to Vera’s desk was a large cardboard box tied up with baling twine.

‘What’s in the box, Vera?’ asked Sally, as she rushed in to collect her class register.

‘Something for Mr Dibble,’ said Vera mysteriously.

Sally Pringle’s transcendental experiences, at a wide variety of open-air rock concerts in her youth, had moulded her relaxed attitude to apparent mysteries and she pursued it no further.

Mr Dibble looked tired when he arrived in the office and sat down at my desk. From his briefcase he produced the Rubik Cube and put it down on the desk top with a long sigh. For a moment he stared at it forlornly, as if he was saying goodbye to a half-finished crossword. I
noticed
the faces of the cube were still an uncoordinated collection of different colours.

The morning went slowly and Mr Dibble sat in the corner of my classroom and his unblinking stare missed nothing. He wrote pages of notes but, at half past ten, he returned his notebook to his briefcase. His scrutiny was over.

‘I should like to read my report to the whole staff in the staff-room at twelve-fifteen, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mr Dibble.

After morning break, we returned to our classrooms and Vera and Mr Dibble were alone in the school office. Vera had made sure that everything was prepared. Mr Dibble took off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and waited for his first instruction.

‘First,’ said Vera, ‘you put Plasticine on the base of a dry, oval Pyrex dish.’

Mr Dibble pressed the Plasticine into place.

‘Then you push this heavy lead pin holder into the Plasticine.’

Step by step, Mr Dibble did exactly what Vera told him to do and gradually the irises, the
Bergenia crassifolia
and the pussy willow were added and the base was covered in fine gravel. The result was a masterpiece.

Mr Dibble stood back, buttoned the cuffs of his shirt and replaced his jacket. Then with Vera’s help he put his creation into her cardboard box and they carried it to the boot of his car.

When he returned to the office with Vera, he sat at my
desk
and took his notes out of his briefcase. In front of him was the Rubik Cube.

‘Challenging little blighters, aren’t they, Miss Evans?’ said Mr Dibble, holding up the cube.

‘Really?’ said Vera. ‘One of our six-year-olds solved it in a few minutes. We’re lucky having such good teachers in Ragley School.’

Mr Dibble looked up in surprise. ‘That’s very interesting, Miss Evans,’ he said. Then he sifted through his papers and added another sentence to the report.

At twelve-fifteen, I walked into the staff-room with Anne, Sally and Jo. Mr Dibble was already in his seat with his report clutched tightly in his hand. Vera was sitting calmly alongside him.

By twenty minutes to one, Mr Dibble had almost completed reading his report and he had praised us all for our hard work. Anne, Sally and Jo were beginning to breathe a collective sigh of relief, while my stomach was in knots as I waited for the final verdict.

‘To conclude, I must say, Mr Sheffield, that you are indeed fortunate in having such an excellent secretary in Miss Evans.’