Authors: Jack Sheffield
The next morning the weather had changed. Through the bedroom window of Bilbo Cottage, the steepled bulk of distant villages formed a sharp partition against the grey October sky. Beneath the gossip of starlings I walked hurriedly out to my car and, as the wind turned in its groove, I arrived at school within an arrow-shower of steel rain.
At nine o’clock I was about to begin registration, when I heard raised voices in the entrance hall. I went to investigate and found Mrs Earnshaw, mother of Heathcliffe and Terry, standing at the office door, engaged in animated conversation with Rita Plumtree.
‘We don’t administer medicines here,’ said Rita firmly. ‘That’s your job.’
‘It’s jus’ for our Terry’s cough,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.
‘It’s union rules,’ said Rita finally and closed the door.
‘Well, thanks f’nothing!’ exclaimed Mrs Earnshaw. Then she saw me. ‘ ’Ello, Mr Sheffield. Ah don’t think much of ’er,’ she said. ‘When’s Miss Evans coming back?’
‘Very soon, Mrs Earnshaw,’ I said. I looked at the bottle of cough syrup. ‘And if you leave this with me I’ll pass it on to Mrs Grainger and she’ll make sure Terry’s all right.’
‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. She looked flushed and was breathing heavily. ‘Mebbe y’can keep an eye on ’em? Ah think they’re coming down wi’ summat.’
Both boys immediately rushed off to their classes and I smiled. The Earnshaw boys, as always, looked among the fittest children in school – regularly grubby and frequently standing in puddles, but never ill.
‘Of course, Mrs Earnshaw. I’ll tell Mrs Grainger and Mrs Hunter. But what about you? Would you like to sit down for a moment?
‘Don’t worry about me, Mr Sheffield. As y’can see, ah’ve fallen again.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Earnshaw. Where did it happen? I hope it wasn’t in school.’
It was her turn to look puzzled. Then Mrs Earnshaw chuckled to herself and opened her overcoat and put both hands on her tummy. ‘No, what ah meant was ah’m ’aving another baby and it’s due soon.’ She pointed to the huge bulge bursting out of her outsize Lycra jogging trousers. I glanced down a little self-consciously. A piece of thick elastic stretched from the button hole to the button. ‘Ah’m ’oping for a little sister for our Heathcliffe an’ Terry.’
‘Oh, well, I wish you luck,’ I said. ‘Have you decided on a name?’
‘Well, if it’s a girl ah want Dallas.’
‘Dallas?’
‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. We both love
Dallas
. It’s our favourite programme.’
‘And what if it’s a boy?’
‘My Eric wants JR.’
‘JR?’
‘That’s reight – jus’ t’letters JR.’
‘I see,’ I said hesitantly.
‘You’ve not met my ’usband Eric, ’ave you, Mr Sheffield?’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘ ’E’s not a bad lad,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, leaning back on the table to take the weight off her feet. ‘ ’E’s very caring is my Eric. ’E got one o’ them new doo-vays cheap an’, cos ’e knows ah don’t like cold feet, ’e allus keeps ’is socks on in bed. Ah tell y’, ’e’s a martyr is my Eric.’
‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Earnshaw, and, er … if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get into class.’
‘All reight, ah’ll be on m’way,’ she said and wandered off.
I popped my head round the office door. ‘If someone turns up with medicine for their children, please can you let me know,’ I said.
Rita looked up at me from behind her cluttered desk. ‘We need to talk about official procedure,’ she said curtly.
‘We’re a village school,’ I said, ‘a sort of extended family, so we don’t always follow the rules you talk about.’ I closed the door and hurried back to class.
The rain stopped and I was on playground duty. Tony Ackroyd, ever the entrepreneur, was using fallen leaves as currency and taking bets on snail-racing on the damp playground. ‘Three to one on t’littlest,’ he cried as I walked by. Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Sally, Anne and Jo stared open-mouthed as Rita fished a dog-eared photograph out of her shoulder bag. It showed her carrying a banner at the women’s march through Birmingham in 1978 stating ‘Men Are the Enemy’. She told them she was a revolutionary feminist and, much to Jo and Sally’s interest, she declared she did not wear high heels or a bra and would never read a book written by a man.
In an attempt to change the subject, Anne said, ‘Have an apple.’ Shirley had put half a dozen in a bowl and left it on the staff-room coffee table.
Rita held one up to the light and studied it. ‘I do not
support
oppression in South Africa,’ she declared.
‘Pardon?’ said Anne.
‘This could be a Cape apple,’ said Rita, replacing it in the bowl.
‘They’re from Mary Hardisty’s garden on the Morton Road, Rita,’ said Anne.
Sally gave Anne a wide-eyed look and returned to her packet of Monster Munch pickled-onion corn snack.
By Thursday morning we had all had enough. The school office looked as if it had been ransacked. Vera’s precious photograph of her three cats was under a pile of unopened brown manila envelopes. Rita kept telling us she wanted to end women’s pain and we had all become tired of the constant lectures.
‘Did you know that fifty per cent of men are on the lowest two pay scales compared with eighty per cent of women?’ she announced.
Meanwhile, Anne was trying to pacify Sue Phillips, our school nurse and a guiding light in the Parent–Teacher Association.
‘Your new secretary’s making up rules on the hoof,’ said Sue, holding the hand of her five-year-old daughter Dawn. ‘She’s just told me not to bring Dawn back until next week and she’s only got a cold. I tried to explain to her I was the school nurse but all she did was wave a rule book in my face.’
* * *
At a quarter to four we all gathered in the school office as Rita took her leave. ‘Call me if your secretary’s ever off again,’ said Rita. Then she gave me that intimidating look and walked out. With a crunch of gears she roared off down the drive and took a coat of paint off our new school gates.
‘Good riddance!’ said Sally and we all sat down and laughed, mostly with relief.
‘Just look at this mess!’ said Anne, surveying the state of the office.
‘I think I’ll stay behind to clear up,’ said Jo.
‘Me too,’ said Sally.
‘Count me in,’ said Anne.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We can’t let Vera see this.’
Two hours later Anne was tidying the filing cabinet, Sally was polishing Vera’s desk, Jo was washing up all the crockery and Ruby the caretaker was helping me to drag black bags of rubbish into the entrance hall. We finally stood back to admire our handiwork. ‘Oh, one final thing,’ said Sally and she picked up the photograph frame on Vera’s desk and polished the glass with her sleeve. Once again Vera’s three cats were back in their rightful place.
On Friday morning when Vera walked into school we all stood in a line in the entrance hall as a welcoming committee.
‘Hello again,’ said Vera. ‘It’s good to be back.’
‘Welcome back, Vera,’ I said.
‘We’ve all missed you,’ said Anne.
Jo gave Vera a hug and Sally surprisingly produced a bunch of dahlias from her garden. ‘For you, Vera,’ she said.
‘Thank you so much, Sally,’ said Vera and went into the office.
‘Oh, I’m so pleased Miss Plumtree kept everything just so, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera scanning the beautifully tidy office. ‘What was she like?’
Everyone went quiet until Ruby clattered into view with her galvanized bucket and mop. ‘ ’Ello, Miss Evans,’ shouted Ruby. ‘They all believe me now.’
‘What’s that, Ruby?’ said Vera.
‘Absence makes the ’eart grow fonder.’
Vera smiled and hung up her coat. ‘I’m sure you didn’t miss me really!’ Then she made a minute adjustment to the positioning of the photograph of her cats and gave out the dinner registers.
Chapter Five
Gunpowder, Treason and Pratt
County Hall sent a ‘rationalization’ document to all schools in the Easington area explaining that the high costs of maintaining small schools may result in some having to close. Preparations were made for the PTA School Bonfire
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 1 November 1979
‘REMEMBER, REMEMBER THE
fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot,’ read the Standard Fireworks poster on the doorway of Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. Timothy, or Tidy Tim as he was known in the village, owing to his obsessively fastidious nature, had used a spirit level to ensure the correct alignment of the poster. Timothy liked horizontal posters.
It was lunchtime on Thursday, 1 November, and I had called into Pratt’s Hardware Emporium on the High
Street
to buy a roll of chicken wire for Jo Hunter’s afternoon craft lesson. As I walked in, a heated argument was going on.
‘Y’don’t know what y’talking about,’ snarled Stan Coe, the local landowner.
‘But we’ve always ’ad a village bonfire in t’big field at t’back of t’school,’ protested Timothy.
‘Not if y’tresspassin’, y’not,’ growled Stan, his face red with anger. He buttoned up his bright-yellow waistcoat underneath his oilskin jacket. The buttons looked about to burst under the strain.
‘ ’Ow can we be tresspassin’ on public land?’ asked Timothy.
‘You’ll soon find out, Pratt,’ sneered Stan, grabbing the new sledge-hammer he had just purchased. Then he stormed out, pausing to give me an evil stare.
‘Judgement Day, Sheffield,’ he growled as he passed me in the doorway.
I watched him as he stormed out to his mud-splattered Land-Rover. Stanley Coe, local bully and pig farmer, always seemed to be up to no good. Our paths had crossed in the past and we held each other in mutual contempt.
Albert Jenkins, local councillor and school governor, was selecting a set of brass hinges in the far corner of the store and had heard the conversation. He walked over to join me by the front door. ‘He’s up to something, Jack,’ said Albert, ‘so watch yourself.’
‘I don’t trust him, Albert,’ I said, ‘particularly when he looks so pleased with himself.’
We both peered thoughtfully through the window as Stan Coe’s Land-Rover thundered off up the High Street.
‘He’s always been envious of other people, Jack … “O! beware, my lord, of jealousy”,’ quoted Albert in a sonorous tone.
It was well known that Albert loved his Shakespeare. ‘
Othello
?’ I asked.
‘Well done,’ said Albert with a wry grin. ‘Act III, scene iii.’
‘Anyway, I’m here for a roll of chicken wire,’ I announced and walked towards the counter.
Albert returned to his brass hinges and Timothy hurried into the back store.
‘Here y’are, Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy. ‘Is it f’modelmaking?’
‘Yes, Timothy. The children in Mrs Hunter’s class are making their guy for the annual bonfire on Saturday.’
‘Yes, ah’m looking forward to it,’ said Timothy. ‘Ah were jus’ saying, y’can’t beat tradition.’
For the past one hundred years the Ragley village bonfire had taken place on the spare ground between the school and the football field and, each year, the children had made a guy to sit on the top. Excitement was growing as the big day drew near. On my way back to school with the roll of chicken wire under my arm, I paused for a moment beside the village green to reflect upon the ribbon of shops in the High Street that were the life-blood of the village. All the needs of the villagers
from
a jar of Vic decongestant to a left-handed potato peeler could be purchased here.
Meanwhile, Tidy Tim walked into the storeroom at the back of his emporium and stared lovingly at the carefully labelled shelves. Then, from the top shelf, he took down the faded red cardboard box that contained his old Meccano set and recalled that Christmas morning in 1953 when, as a thirteen-year-old boy, he had found it at the foot of his bed. The picture on the box cover of an enthusiastic little boy playing with his working model of a crane had fascinated the young Timothy.
He remembered the excitement of opening it for the first time and seeing the red and green perforated metal pieces; the rods, tyres and wheels; the nuts, bolts, screws and spanners. The manual had advertised extra girders, swivel bearings and driving bands and, throughout the early months of 1954, he had saved his pocket money. Eventually, he had enough parts to construct a miniature, working lawnmower and, finally, his
tour de force
… a working elevator using a mechanical motor. On the day his mother had bought him his first pair of long trousers, he knew that his journey towards owning his own hardware emporium had begun.
Timothy had been an avid reader of
Meccano Magazine
and a member of the Meccano Guild, the Brotherhood of Boys. He had worn his little triangular badge with pride. But in the 1960s, the golden age of construction kits had ended for Timothy. His beloved Meccano had been replaced by cheaper plastic alternatives such as
Fischer
Technic and K’nex. For Timothy it was the end of traditional construction toys and, after all these years, it still tortured his organized soul.
So, with a sigh, Timothy replaced his Meccano set neatly on the shelf next to his Airfix Modeller’s Kit and his John Bull Printing Set and, with loving care, rearranged the boxes so that the labels were neatly aligned. Only then did he close the door with a sense of satisfaction. Tidy Tim liked organized cupboards.
Back in the staff-room, a heated debate was going on. ‘It’s a disgrace,’ said Vera, pointing to the front page of her
Daily Telegraph
. ‘The Post Office made a profit of £375 million last year, yet they’re still putting up the price of a first-class stamp to 12p.’
‘What about second-class?’ asked Sally.
‘That’s going up from 8p to 10p,’ recited Vera while scanning the text, ‘and they’re blaming it on the postmen who have just had a sixteen per cent pay rise.’ She shook her head in dismay and passed the newspaper to Anne.
‘And prescription charges are going up as well, from 45p to 70p,’ said Anne. ‘Where will it all end?’ She passed the newspaper to me and I glanced at the front page.
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘What is it, Jack?’ asked Sally.
I read the headline.
‘SELLING OFF SCHOOL BUILDINGS AND LAND COULD BE THE KEY TO REORGANIZATION.’