Authors: Jack Sheffield
Dear Lord,
This is our school, let peace dwell here,
Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,
Love of one another, love of life itself,
And love of God.
Amen.
After the bell for morning playtime, I walked into the staff-room. Vera was frowning at the front-page article of her
Daily Telegraph
about Michael Heseltine, Secretary of State for the Environment, who had cut local authority grants by £300 million. Although Margaret Thatcher was Vera’s political heroine, life in public service wasn’t quite what she had imagined.
‘Thanks, Vera,’ said Anne as she collected her mug of hot milky coffee and walked out to do playground duty.
‘A good start, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, as she locked the metal box containing the school dinner money. ‘It all added up.’
‘It should do now school meals have gone up to fifty pence,’ grumbled Sally as she hunted for a custard cream in the biscuit tin.
‘They’re still a bargain,’ said Vera. ‘Shirley makes wonderful meals.’ Our school cook, Shirley Mapplebeck, was renowned for the excellence of her cooking.
‘A few of the poorer families will struggle,’ said Sally. It was well known that Sally’s politics were a world away from those of Vera but somehow they always seemed to find a compromise for the sake of peace in the staff-room.
‘Perhaps you’re right, Sally,’ said Vera, ‘but I hope not.’
Jo looked up from her
Rules of Netball
. ‘And how’s Beth?’ she asked.
The room suddenly fell silent as Sally buried herself in the new issue of
Child Education
and Vera sipped her coffee thoughtfully and stared out of the window.
‘Fine,’ I said with a strained smile.
Sally looked up. ‘Well,
we’re
all glad you’re here, Jack,’ she said bluntly, while Vera gave me a knowing look and said nothing.
‘So I’m not buying my hat for the wedding yet, then?’ continued Jo, not to be deflected.
‘Not yet, Jo … but
soon
, I hope.’
The strained atmosphere was broken by Vera. ‘Don’t forget the library van will be in the car park over lunchtime, so I’ll be out there and send word for you to bring your children a class at a time.’
‘Thanks, Vera,’ we all chorused. For me, the bell for the end of playtime came as a relief.
Meanwhile, in the High Street, a few villagers were selecting books in the mobile library van. Audrey Bustard was looking for the latest Jackie Collins; Betty Buttle was rummaging in the Mills & Boon section, while Petula Dudley-Palmer, the richest woman in the village, studied the back cover of a Jilly Cooper novel before making an informed and definitely more upmarket selection.
When Sheila Bradshaw, the barmaid from The Royal Oak, hitched up her tight black miniskirt to negotiate the steep steps into the van there was a strong smell of cheap perfume and a flutter of well-disguised interest from the other book-lovers. As always, she adopted the
direct
approach. ‘’Ello, Rosie,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Ah want
The Joy of Sex
, please.’
Don’t we all?
was the thought that flickered simultaneously through the minds of all the ladies in the van, but not a word was spoken.
‘Top shelf, last bookcase on t’right, Sheila,’ said Rosie in a matter-of-fact voice.
‘’E needs a bit of a shake-up, does my Don,’ said Sheila.
Rosie nodded. ‘Men,’ she muttered, ‘they’re all alike.’
George Postlethwaite, the seventy-six-year-old champion fisherman who lost his right arm in the Second World War, entered and put his returned copy of
Coarse Fishing
on the small counter. ‘Ah’m after that new book, Mrs Back’ouse,’ he said, ‘
My Angling World
, an’ ah wondered if you’d got a book, hmmn … on, well, y’know …
suicide
.’
Rosie looked up sharply. ‘Second bookcase, bottom shelf for fishing,’ she said.
George paused. ‘An’ what abart suicide?’
‘
Definitely
no,’ said Rosie fiercely.
‘Why not?’ asked George, who was a lover of the dark arts. Gutting fish on his kitchen table while watching a Vincent Price horror movie was George’s idea of a good night in.
‘Well,’ said Rosie, ‘it’s not likely you’d bring it back, is it?’
The sharp logic escaped George as he shuffled away down the van.
At lunchtime I queued up with my plastic tray to enjoy one of Shirley’s delicacies: namely, spam fritters, chips and peas, followed by jam roly-poly and vivid purple custard. I had just finished the last delicious mouthful when ten-year-old Theresa Ackroyd, who didn’t miss anything going on outside the window, announced, ‘Little sports car coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’
A bright-red MG Midget roared into the car park and drew up in the no-parking area outside the boiler-house doors. I walked into the entrance hall to meet the driver. He was a short, skinny man with long, curly, Bob Dylan-style hair, a fuzzy unkempt beard, John Lennon circular spectacles, a floral shirt, Mickey Mouse tie and a crumpled purple cord suit. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield. I’m Gilford Eccles, the new Library and Computer Adviser for North Yorkshire.’
‘Welcome to Ragley,’ I said and shook his limp, delicate hand.
‘I’ve brought this for you,’ he said, holding up a smart spiral-bound, plastic-covered booklet entitled ‘Reading in the Computer Age – a vision of the future by Gilford Eccles, Dip. Ed., Ed Psych, BA (Hons), MA’. Anne gave me a wide-eyed look that suggested we were in the company of a mad scientist with an over-inflated ego and what was I going to do about it.
‘Thank you,’ I said, handing the booklet quickly to Anne, who passed it even more quickly to Jo, who immediately began to flick through the pages.
‘As you will see from my thesis, we shall
all
be affected by the silicon chip.’
We nodded and, as far as we could see, it sounded as though this tedious little man had just swallowed one.
‘Thirty-six secondary schools in North Yorkshire now have a computer and one hundred and forty teachers have completed a training course,’ he recited.
‘Perhaps you could let us know the exact purpose of your visit, Mr Eccles,’ I said.
He looked surprised. ‘To advance the reading skills of your children of course,’ he said with utter conviction. ‘I’m here to check the content of your library and to ensure you’re aware of the role of the computer in advanced reading techniques.’
‘I see,’ I said … but I didn’t.
Sally came to the rescue. ‘We’ve just built a new library,’ she said firmly, ‘and it’s very well stocked.’
‘Also, the mobile library van will be here over lunchtime to provide extra opportunities for children to take books home,’ added Anne.
‘And I’ve been on the computer course,’ said Jo without a hint of modesty.
‘Interesting,’ said Mr Eccles with a superior smile. ‘That sounds, hmmn … satisfactory.’ He turned to survey our library area in the new extension to our entrance hall, which teemed with bright and attractive books. Most had been purchased thanks to the Parent–Teacher Association and there were others that had been donated by friends of the school. ‘Oh no,’ he said, picking up a copy of
Five Go Off in a Caravan
and
The Mountain of Adventure
, both by Enid Blyton. ‘Dear me, these will have to go.’
‘Why is that?’ I asked.
Mr Eccles gave me a condescending look. ‘How can we have an author who made a hero of a boy called Fatty and was turned down by the BBC’s Director of Programmes in 1936 as a “second-rater”?’
‘But Enid Blyton is still very popular and her books are in most homes,’ I said, ‘and there are lots of modern authors here, as you can see.’
‘I’m sorry to say that Enid Blyton hasn’t much literary value,’ he scorned. ‘Rather too much pink-winky, pixie stuff for me. So I’ll remove these now,’ he said and tucked them under his arm.
‘But you can’t take our books away,’ I protested.
‘I most certainly can,’ bristled Mr Eccles. ‘Remember the old adage, Mr Sheffield,
a place for everything and everything in its place
… and I know where these belong.’
I left the infuriating Mr Eccles to join Vera in the school car park, where Rosie had reversed her mobile library van up the cobbled school drive. By one o’clock all the children had finished their lunch and were excited about selecting a new library book.
Mr Eccles was ready to leave but, as he had parked in the wrong place, he was blocked in by the large van. ‘Would you mind pulling your van forwards?’ he shouted, clearly very annoyed.
‘Shush … I’ll move when I’m good and ready,’ replied a fierce disembodied voice from inside the van.
Mr Eccles walked to the foot of the steps that led into the van and yelled through the open doorway: ‘But you’ve blocked me in, so hurry up.’
A second later he took a quick step back as a fearsome sight appeared.
‘How dare you shout in my library!’ exclaimed Rosie as she stepped out of the van into the car park. ‘This is a haven of peace and quiet.’
‘Well, er, I’m in a h-hurry,’ stuttered Mr Eccles.
Rosie folded her massive forearms and studied the unkempt figure before her. ‘I know you,’ she said, eyes widening in recognition. ‘It’s young Eccles, isn’t it? From up near Linton. Always brought your books back late.’
Gilford Eccles looked at Rosie in horror. ‘I think, er, you might be—’
‘Ah, I remember now,’ said Rosie with a fierce glint in her eyes. ‘He used to love his Enid Blyton, did this one, Mr Sheffield.’ She pointed at the books in Gilford’s trembling hand. ‘Your mother always said how much you enjoyed
Tales at Bedtime
. So how is she these days?’
‘Er, very well, er, thank you,’ muttered Mr Eccles. He thrust the books back in my hands. ‘I’ll, er, wait in the car until you’ve gone,’ he said by way of apology.
‘That’s more like it,’ said Rosie. ‘A little patience and plenty of peace and quiet is what we need. No need to get uppity. Isn’t that right, Mr Sheffield?’
‘Definitely,’ I said with a smile.
‘I’ll put these back on the shelves, shall I, Mr Sheffield?’ said Vera triumphantly.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
‘Under B in fiction?’ said Vera pointedly.
‘Yes, Vera …
a place for everything
,’ I said.
Vera nodded towards the white-faced Gilford Eccles, sitting nervously in his sports car. ‘
And everything in its place
, Mr Sheffield.’
The Revd Joseph Evans recommenced his weekly RE lesson. Miss Evans was absent for the first hour of morning school for family reasons
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 18 September 1981
Bright autumn sunshine lit up the platform as the early-morning train to London eased its way into York station.
Vera had enjoyed the annual two-day visit by her Aunt Priscilla. However, deep down she was looking forward to a return to the peace, quiet and general tidiness of her everyday life. Visitors were all very well but when, that morning, her aunt had stirred her tea and then returned the damp teaspoon to the sugar bowl, she knew with absolute conviction that their parting would not be one of sweet sorrow.
‘Your train is here, Aunt Priscilla,’ said Vera with a hint of relief. They were sitting in the station café and, while Priscilla prattled on about the benefits of North Sea oil, Vera recalled her favourite film, the 1945 David Lean classic,
Brief Encounter
. There was, of course, a significant difference. While Celia Johnson had sat in the refreshment room at Milford Junction waiting for the handsome Trevor Howard, Vera was sitting with a cup of lukewarm tea, a tired scone and, sadly, her least favourite aunt.
Minutes later, with a final wave of a lace-edged handkerchief at the departing train, Vera turned on her heel and climbed the metal stairs of the bridge that spanned the platforms. It was Friday, 18 September, and once again all was well in Vera’s orderly world. She glanced at her watch and was pleased she had allowed enough time to drive back to Ragley, collect her
Daily Telegraph
from Prudence Golightly in the General Stores, make a cup of Earl Grey tea and settle down at her desk to count the late dinner money. It was a routine she knew so well.
Commuters hurried past as she walked to the centre of the bridge and then paused to lean on the guardrail to admire the grandeur of this magnificent railway station. Huge metal arches spanned the great roof above her and Vera mused that these splendid buildings really
were
the cathedrals of Victorian Britain.
Vera lived with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the beautifully furnished and spacious vicarage on Morton Road. Her life was one of careful routine and order. Even her three well-behaved cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, were fastidious in their personal grooming – especially her favourite, Maggie, a black cat with white paws, named after Margaret Thatcher. Vera was content with her cross-stitch club, church flowers and Women’s Institute meetings. However, something was about to enter her peaceful world … something
unexpected
.