02 Mister Teacher (14 page)

The distraction of children moving into their places and the entertainment of seeing anxious mothers rearrange a Co-op tea towel and an elastic snake belt to create a perfect shepherd’s headdress was sufficient for Clint and Shane quickly to remove the piano.

Moments later, it was being loaded into the pig trailer. I explained to a confused Joseph what was happening and he was beginning to realize the extent of the problem. ‘I feel as though I’ve just committed a robbery!’ he said.

‘Don’t worry, Joseph,’ I said unconvincingly. ‘Everything will be fine when Deke returns it.’

Joseph took another startled look at Mr Dudley-Palmer, who caught his eye and waved. ‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph. ‘I’ve just told them that Vera and I are looking forward to their house party tomorrow.’

With a dramatic flourish, Sally began to play the chords of ‘Away in a Manger’ on her guitar and we crept back to our places.

Later, as the snow began to fall more heavily, Mr and Mrs Dudley-Palmer called out a cheerful goodbye with a reminder to attend their Christmas gathering the following day.

On Thursday, 21 December, the day of the winter solstice, I prayed that the shortest day of the year would not turn out to be the most embarrassing.

The whole village seemed to be crammed into the Dudley-Palmers’ spacious mansion at the end of Ragley High Street. Vera and Beth, blissfully unaware of the recent theft of the piano they were actually standing alongside, drank their hot mulled wine contentedly and admired the state-of-the-art heated hostess trolley, from which deep-filled mince pies, powdered with icing sugar, were being served.

Mr Dudley-Palmer, sporting a bright-red tie decorated with Christmas trees, wandered over to join us. ‘Welcome to our little get-together, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Aren’t we lucky living in such a wonderful village?’

Joseph and I nodded and sipped our wine a little nervously.

In the distance, Mrs Dudley-Palmer was filling a second bowl of fragrant pot-pourri and complaining bitterly to Vera about the strange smell that had recently appeared in the vicinity of her piano.

Mr Dudley-Palmer surveyed the scene of Christmas joy and happiness and sighed with pleasure. ‘Do you know, Vicar,’ he said, ‘it really is wonderful to live in a village where you can trust your neighbours.’

‘I agree,’ I said hesitantly.

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Joseph, nervously fingering his clerical collar.

Mrs Dudley-Palmer approached us with a dish of
perfectly
formed triangular turkey-and-cranberry sandwiches.

‘And another thing, Vicar,’ continued Mr Dudley-Palmer, now in full flow: ‘in spite of all our valuables, in what other village in the whole of merry England could you still leave a key under the mat?’

‘I agree,’ I said, adopting my most humble expression.

Joseph looked to the heavens and muttered something under his breath.

‘We’re fortunate to have such trusted friends,’ said Mr Dudley-Palmer.

‘Especially our excellent headmaster and our wonderful vicar,’ gushed Mrs Dudley-Palmer, who had suddenly appeared at her husband’s side.

‘Of all the villages we could have settled in, we certainly made the right choice moving to Ragley,’ said Mr Dudley-Palmer, patting Joseph on his shoulder.

As they moved on to chat with another group, Mrs Dudley-Palmer called over her shoulder, ‘God moves in mysterious ways.’

‘He certainly does,’ replied Joseph.

Then he drained his glass, leaned over to me and whispered in my ear, ‘And so do bloody pianos!’

It was the only time in my life I ever heard a vicar swear.

Chapter Nine

Sebastian’s Snowman

During the Christmas holiday, on 30 December, the Children’s Ward at York Hospital thanked the school for their contribution towards the joint pen-friend project
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Saturday, 5 January 1979

HIS EYES WERE
cornflower blue.

I shall always remember the striking gaze. It was a look of honesty, of knowledge beyond his years, but most of all it was a peaceful acceptance of a life that was his and his alone. Sebastian was nine years old and the effects of leukaemia had ravaged his tiny frame.

Christmas had come and gone and my mother and Aunt May had moved on to Scotland to celebrate Hogmanay. It was Saturday, 30 December, and I had arranged to meet our school nurse, Sue Phillips, in the reception area of York Hospital. Our pen-friend project, involving the
children
in my class and those with long-term illnesses in the Children’s Ward, had gone well. Sue had telephoned to ask if I would call in during her afternoon shift at the hospital. She had again mentioned the little boy called Sebastian who had written to ‘Mister Teacher’ many months ago. I had replied to him, and arranged for ten-year-old Tony Ackroyd to be his pen-friend, but there had been no communication since then and I was curious to meet him for the first time.

As I walked under the harsh glare of fluorescent lights into the sanitized Children’s Ward of York Hospital, I felt as though I had entered an alien world. The noise and colour of Ragley School were far removed from the silence and starched white sheets that surrounded me now.

Staff Nurse Sue Phillips directed me into the General Acute Medical Ward and held up two medical masks. ‘We have to wear these, Jack,’ she said. ‘It’s the usual precaution against infection.’

As I donned my mask, Sue looked pensive and fingered her silver General Nursing Council badge as we caught sight of the small boy sitting in his bed.

‘That’s Sebastian,’ said Sue quietly. ‘I’m so pleased you’ve come to meet him. He’s a lovely boy: bright and cheerful, in spite of his dreadful illness.’

I nodded and smiled behind my mask. Words seemed unnecessary.

Sue and I walked to sit by his bedside. Sebastian was dressed in striped pyjamas that seemed too big for him. His face was deathly pale and he had lost all his hair.
There
were painful sores round his mouth. I would have guessed he was about seven years old, but I knew he was nine.

Sebastian was crouched over a drawing board that was resting on his knees. The skin on his left hand looked translucent as he gripped the wax crayon tightly.

‘Hello, Sebastian,’ said Sue, grinning. ‘This is the teacher from Ragley School you wrote your letter to.’

Sebastian stopped drawing and looked at me carefully. His blue eyes gradually creased into a smile and he held out his skinny right hand. It was bandaged and connected to a drip on a metal stand alongside his bed.

‘Hello, Mister Teacher,’ he said, and I held his tiny hand gently and shook it slowly and carefully. ‘Do you like my drawing?’ he asked politely.

He turned his drawing board to face me. It was a remarkable piece of work. A fairytale castle with pointed spires pierced a grey sky, heavy with snow clouds. In the foreground, a forest of giant fir trees guarded its walls and, at the foot of the picture, a solitary figure was making a snowman.

‘It’s fantastic,’ I said, in admiration. ‘You’re a wonderful artist.’

‘It’s the land of Narnia. You know, from the story by C. S. Lewis,’ he explained. ‘Well, actually, it’s my Narnia and that’s me making a snowman.’

My heart ached for this little boy who was so proud of his artwork.

‘I read
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
to my class last term,’ I said, ‘and they loved it.’

‘I’ve read all the Narnia books,’ said Sebastian. ‘And I think that, one day, I’ll find a magic world too, and I’ll explore it with a new friend.’

I really wanted to believe him. ‘What’s it like, Sebastian?’ I asked. ‘What’s in your magic world?’

He gave me that look again as if deciding whether to reveal an innermost secret. ‘In my Narnia, I’m a famous artist and I can make a snowman and I’m not poorly any more.’ There was a pause as he let this sink in. ‘But, just for now,’ he said, ‘this is the only snowman I’ve got.’

He pointed to a hemisphere of clear plastic about the size of half a cricket ball on the bedside unit. It was a snowdome, filled with clear liquid, and he picked it up and shook it. Inside this little world, minute flakes of plastic snow whirled round in a snowstorm and then sank gently onto a tiny snowman’s head and gathered at his feet in a smooth mound.

I looked closely at the snowman. He had small buttons for eyes, a plastic carrot for a nose and a straight black line for a mouth, so it was difficult to tell whether the snowman was happy or sad.

‘I bet your snowman likes the swirling snow,’ said Sue, as Sebastian placed it back on the bedside unit.

‘He does,’ said Sebastian, ‘because he gets lonely in there sometimes.’

Sue glanced up at me and we both knew what the other was thinking.

‘It might snow tonight,’ said Sebastian hopefully.

Next to his bed was a large window that looked out onto a bare wasteland of brown earth that had been
prepared
for future building. We stared up into the darkening sky full of swirling blue-grey clouds.

A doctor appeared and Sue tugged at my sleeve. Another blood transfusion was imminent and it was time to go.

‘I’ll come back to see you as soon as I can, Sebastian,’ I said.

‘I’ll have finished my drawing by then,’ he said, nodding.

Sue leaned forward and gently stroked his cheek; then we walked quietly out of the ward.

Sue looked distressed when she removed her mask. ‘I know I’m a nurse,’ she said, ‘but there’s something really special about that little boy. He’s been in there for almost a year now and it’s such a lonely existence for him.’

I hardly dared to ask the next question. ‘What are his chances, Sue?’

She turned to look back through the window and slowly shook her head. ‘There’s a limited survival rate, Jack, but we’re learning all the time about leukaemia.’

She had slipped smoothly into professional mode and we both knew why. I handed my mask to her and looked back through the window at Sebastian. He was engrossed in his drawing again.

‘He looks so frail.’

‘That’s to be expected,’ said Sue. ‘Nutrition is a problem and his sore mouth makes eating difficult. Also, the blood transfusions are painful for him because every blood test involves a needle in the vein.’

We walked slowly down the long tiled corridor.

‘He’s a talented boy, Sue,’ I said. ‘His artwork is exceptional. What educational provision exists for him?’

‘It’s a bit haphazard. There’s no regular formal school-work and anything that is done is by the bedside. The strong analgesics make him sleepy sometimes, so you have to pick your moment.’

We reached the doors to the entrance hall.

‘Thanks, Sue,’ I said. ‘I’m glad I came and I pray his dreams come true.’

‘They will, Jack. You’ve got to believe it. I wouldn’t be in this job if I didn’t.’

Back in the brightly carpeted entrance hall, noise and reality washed over us again.

‘I’m on duty in five minutes, Jack, so I guess I’ll see you tomorrow night in the village hall.’

I had forgotten about the New Year’s Eve Dance. Beth and I had arranged to meet for lunch the next day in The Royal Oak and then she was going into York to buy a dress for the dance.

Excited as I was about Beth being my dance partner, the journey home to Kirkby Steepleton was filled with thoughts of Sebastian.

New Year’s Eve dawned clear and cold and I pulled back my bedroom curtains and looked out. A white rime of powdered frost framed the frozen window panes of Bilbo Cottage and the silent earth slept under two inches of fresh snow. On this harsh winter morning the distant woodland was silent.

After a breakfast of hot porridge, I decided to keep
my
promise to Anne Grainger and put up some shelves in her classroom before meeting Beth. I expected the three-mile journey to be hazardous but, thankfully, Deke Ramsbottom had been out early and cleared the back road to Ragley village with his council snowplough.

I pulled up outside Pratt’s Hardware Emporium in the High Street. Tidy Tim was standing behind the counter and had just removed the lid of his John Bull printing set.

‘Good morning, Timothy,’ I said. ‘I need some two-inch screws, some rawlplugs and some shelf brackets, please.’

‘Second shelf, above the mouse traps, Mr Sheffield,’ droned Timothy.

As I searched for steel brackets, Tidy Tim inserted some tiny rubber letters into the groove in the wooden printing block, working from right to left. His brow furrowed with the intensity of dedication and, a few minutes later, he pressed the block onto the inky pad and printed the words
TAP WASHERS
on a small sticky label. Rumour had it that his mother had given him this very printing set when he was a boy and the first label he ever made was
P
RATTS
H
ARDWARE
E
MPORIUM
. Sadly, he had not been able to find an apostrophe in among the tiny rubber letters. However, his pride was not diminished. Tidy Tim knew that one day he would own an empire of brass hinges, steel chains and ornate gate latches.

As I approached the counter, Tidy Tim arranged a collection of tap washers in size order at the bottom of a small square cardboard box. He stuck the label on the side
and
inserted the box on the shelf between
TAP HANDLES
and
TAPE MEASURES
. Tidy Tim liked alphabetical order.