04 Village Teacher (31 page)

Dan and I were on the front seat of our coach. ‘Hey! Look at that,’ he said, ‘a 1964 Alvis TE21 drophead coupé … the car of my dreams.’ Dan was a great classic-car enthusiast.

We watched it roar off into the distance, when, suddenly, a startled sheep appeared out of the ditch and ran headlong into the narrow road. There was a screech of brakes, the sheep bounded to safety, the car mounted the grass verge and crashed into the limestone wall with a crunch of metal and a burst of steam.

Seconds later we pulled up behind them and Dan leapt out and opened the passenger door of the sports car. He quickly assessed the situation.

‘Are you hurt?’ he asked.

‘I think we’re fine … No broken bones,’ said the man behind the wheel.

‘Oh, thank you for stopping,’ gasped the woman in the passenger seat.

They were clearly shaken but, thankfully, unhurt. However, the car was in no fit state to continue their journey.

‘It’s not a write-off but it will take some time to repair,’ said Dan, crouching down beside the damaged wing and burst tyre.

The smart, well-dressed couple, both, I guessed, in their fifties, looked concerned. ‘I’m Edward and this is my wife, Dominique,’ he said.

She was a strikingly beautiful woman with long dark hair and soulful eyes. ‘We’re so grateful,’ she said. ‘You really are an angel of mercy.’ There was the merest hint of a French accent.

We shook hands. ‘I’m Jack Sheffield, a headteacher from York, and we’re staying in the next village,’ I said, ‘so why don’t you come back with us and we can phone from there and get your car towed to the nearest garage?’

Edward smiled. ‘An excellent idea,’ he said and glanced up at the onrushing dark clouds, ‘and not a moment too soon, by the look of the weather.’

Edward and Dominique stayed the night at Low Mill while their car was towed into Hawes village to be repaired. Outside, a fierce summer thunderstorm raged, but, happily, we were safe inside. Showered and changed and with spiky damp hair and dry clothes, the children enjoyed giant portions of steak-and-kidney pie followed by rhubarb crumble and custard and then settled down together in the common room to write up their daily diaries.

Dominique had made friends with Anne and they were sharing stories about school life, while Edward, who obviously knew much about the history of the area, began to tell a group of the children a fascinating story
about
Semerwater. He was clearly a well-read man and an experienced public speaker. Soon, the rest of the children gathered round and all became engrossed.

‘An angel came down from heaven to a city of spires, fine buildings, large houses and busy shops,’ said Edward in a dramatic voice. ‘The angel was disguised as an old man and went from house to house, seeking shelter and food. At every house in the city he was turned away until at last he knocked on the door of an old cottage where the crofter, poor as he was, let him in and gave him food, water and a place to rest.’

Outside there was a flash of lightning, followed closely by the roar of thunder. The children snuggled closer together, eyes wide and full of interest.

‘The angel suddenly appeared in a blaze of light,’ said Edward, ‘and shouted in a great voice to the valley below, “Semer Water rise, Semer Water sink, and swallow all save this little house that gave me meat and drink.” And so a great flood came and covered up the whole village.’

The children stared in a mixture of horror and amazement. There was no doubt that Edward was a gifted storyteller and Dominique smiled quietly to herself and whispered something to Anne.

‘All except for the crofter’s cottage,’ said Edward, ‘and folk still say that beneath the dark waters the sound of the church bells can still be heard.’

There was silence and all of us were secretly glad we were safe and together in this warm room and away from the winds that howled mournfully across the lonely hillsides. Then everyone clapped, the spell was broken and tired children went off to their beds.

‘Wonderful story, Edward. Thank you,’ I said.

‘No, Jack, thank
you
… The quality of mercy is not strained,’ he said with a smile.

‘It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven,’ I replied.

‘Ah, good to meet a fellow lover of Shakespeare,’ he said.

‘And your children really do enjoy books,’ said Dominique, gesturing towards our box of information books about bird life, wildflowers, geology and photographs of the Dales. ‘They use them well … and Anne has told me all about your terrific library.’

It was a relaxing end to our visit to the Dales and the following week the children painted pictures of giant waterfalls and wrote dramatic stories about canoe-racing. One morning before the start of school I was in the office with Vera, who was opening the morning mail.

‘Goodness me!’ she exclaimed. ‘Wonderful news, Mr Sheffield: we’ve received a cheque for five hundred pounds!’

‘Pardon?’

‘That’s right, and the only stipulation is it must be spent on books for the school library.’

‘It sounds like a dream come true, Vera,’ I said, ‘but who has sent it?’

‘A Lord and Lady Stannington from Northumberland,’ she said, scanning the crisp, headed writing paper with a distinctive coat of arms at the top of the page.

‘Lord and Lady?’

She passed me the letter. It read:

Dear Mr Sheffield
,

Thank you for being our angel of mercy. We wish success to everyone at Ragley School and trust the enclosed cheque will help to fill your library with further wonderful books – especially Shakespeare! Remember …

‘
The quality of mercy is not strained
,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
’.

With best wishes
,

Edward and Dominique Stannington

I looked at Vera in disbelief and she smiled. ‘As I said, Mr Sheffield, everyone has a guardian angel.’

Chapter Nineteen

The Guardians of Secrets

End-of-school-year reading tests were completed. Mrs Pringle wrote to the governing body to confirm she will return to full-time teaching in September 1981. All the children painted a picture for the annual Church Fête art competition entitled ‘My Happiest Day at Ragley School
’.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 26 June 1981

AN EARLY-MORNING MIST
covered the distant fields like a cloak of secrets.

I opened my bedroom window and breathed in the clean summer air. The scent of roses drifted up to greet me and wisteria clung to the window frame like a lover’s embrace. Basking in the sunshine, bright-winged butterflies spread their lace wings on the sturdy stems of the buddleia bushes.

It was seven o’clock on Friday, 26 June, and there were
decisions
to be made – decisions that would determine the rest of my life.

Over my breakfast cereal I opened the envelope once again and spread out the contents. The letter with the coat of arms of North Yorkshire County Council looked impressive and I scanned the first line: ‘Headteacher required for Gorse Manor Primary School, Scarborough, to commence January 1982 …’ Attached was a two-page application form requesting information about the schools I had attended, long-forgotten GCE results, degree classifications, details of my current post and a request for a handwritten letter in support of my application. The closing date was Friday, 3 July, only one week away. I gathered up the papers and the envelope and put them in my jacket pocket.

The playground was already full of early arrivals when I arrived at school. Boys were kicking a ball around the school field and pretending to be Liverpool beating Real Madrid in the European Cup Final, while on the tarmac playground the Buttle twins were winding a long skipping rope. Girls were taking turns to skip while chanting out a rhyme:

‘
One man went to mow
,

Went to mow a meadow
.

One man and his dog
,

Stop, bottle o’ pop, fish an’ chips
,

Ol’ Mother Riley an’ ’er cow
,

Went to mow a meadow
.’

I almost envied the children with their fantasy football and skipping rhymes. They were enjoying the long carefree summer days of a seemingly endless childhood and I wondered what would become of them. In our own way, and with an unwritten curriculum, we had taught them to read and write, share a box of crayons, eat with a knife and fork, recite their own poetry and be proud of their own precious gifts. We had uncovered the mysteries of long division, shared stories of magical lands, made colourful kites and flown them in a powder-blue sky.

There was a rhythm to the life of a village teacher, shaped by school terms and seasons. The autumn term had the bounty of a harvest festival and Bonfire Night, with its hot soup and sparklers, rockets and Roman candles. Then there was the excitement of Christmas with carols and cards, mulled wine and mince pies, parties and presents. The spring term brought with it the Jack Frost patterns on the school windows along with the smell of damp wellingtons lined up by the radiators. Summer term was always one of mixed emotions, with school trips, cricket matches, fêtes and fairs, followed inevitably by the final farewells to the school leavers.

I knew I loved teaching but what would it be like to manage a large school? My skills were in the classroom not in the unknown world of timetabling, political dog-fighting, financial management and education committees. I felt as if I was on an annual carousel where the children remained constant; only the faces changed year by year … So many children, so many faces.

‘Penny for ’em, Mr Sheffield?’

‘Oh, good morning, Ruby. What’s that for?’

She was carrying a long window-pole and looked as if she was about to harpoon a whale. ‘Balls, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s a full-time job in t’summer,’ she grumbled. With an experienced flick of the pole she dislodged Jimmy Poole’s tennis ball from the gutter above the entrance porch.

‘Thank you, Mithuth Thmith,’ said Jimmy and ran off to continue his game of Test Match cricket with Heathcliffe Earnshaw.

During morning school I completed our end-of-year reading tests to pass on to Easington Comprehensive School and I was pleased with Cathy Cathcart, who had worked hard and now had a reading age of eleven. Cathy had read seventy-six correct words out of one hundred on the Schonell Word Recognition Test, finally failing on the line ‘oblivion, scintillate, satirical, sabre, beguile’.

At morning break Valerie was on playground duty and, when I walked into the staff-room, Joseph was sipping his milky coffee, reading Class 4’s Religious Knowledge exercise books and wondering why Cathy Cathcart had written that the greatest miracle in the Bible was when Mary had an immaculate contraption.

Meanwhile Vera, Anne and Jo were huddled round Vera’s
Daily Telegraph
.

‘I wonder what her wedding dress will be like,’ said Jo.

Vera scanned the text. ‘It’s being made by Emmanuel of London,’ she said.

‘I bet it will be beautiful,’ said Anne.

Joseph looked up with a puzzled expression. ‘Wedding dress?’

My thoughts were elsewhere and for a moment I was equally bemused. I thought they were talking about Beth.

‘There’s only
one
wedding dress, Joseph,’ said Vera firmly.

‘Lady Diana,’ said Anne helpfully.

‘Oh, yes, the future princess,’ said Joseph. ‘I’m sure it will be lovely.’

‘Everything all right, Jack?’ asked Anne, ever sensitive to my moods.

‘Fine, thanks,’ I said with a guarded smile and wondered if I should break the news. But, for the time being, I had decided to remain silent about the application.

‘Well, this wedding dress is certainly the best-kept secret,’ announced Anne.

Feeling guilty, I picked up my coffee and walked through to the office. I needed time to myself.

It was lunchtime when I saw my chance to speak to Joseph and I followed him out to the car park.

‘Joseph, there’s something on my mind I need to discuss with you.’

‘Yes, Jack, what is it?’

I looked around. No one was in earshot, children were playing in the playground and we were alone. ‘It’s a confidential matter.’

He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘You looked troubled, Jack. Let’s sit in the car.’

We climbed into his little Austin A40 and I took out the application form.

‘I’m thinking of applying for another headship. It’s a large school in Scarborough,’ I said quickly.

Joseph looked shocked. ‘Oh, I see … This is unexpected.’

‘I’m sorry, Joseph. You have always been so supportive, and I love it here at Ragley, but this is a good opportunity. Headships like this don’t come up very often.’

‘We should know the fate of Ragley School in a few weeks. Would that influence your decision?’

I pointed to the deadline date for the application. ‘I need to decide this weekend and post my response on Monday if I’m to have a chance of getting this headship.’

He nodded. ‘Yes. I can see the problem. The timing is not ideal.’

‘So I really need your support, Joseph – and your blessing.’

He smiled gently and put his hand on my arm, but his eyes were troubled. ‘You have it, Jack, and I wish you every success.’

‘I haven’t discussed this with anyone else.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘and I won’t say a word.’

‘Only Beth knows,’ I added.

‘And is she supportive?’

‘Yes, Joseph. She’s very keen for me to secure a larger headship and then we can plan our marriage.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he said.

‘I intend to discuss it with her tonight and I’ll let you know the outcome over the weekend.’

When he drove off he looked sombre.

* * *

It was only when school was quiet at the end of the day and I was alone in the office that I decided to call Beth at Hartingdale.

‘Beth, instead of the cinema, can we meet up tonight for a drink?’ I said quickly.

‘Fine, Jack. Everything OK?’

‘It would be good to talk.’

‘Well, I’ve got a huge pile of paperwork here, so …’ I heard her give a big sigh, ‘it would make sense for me to finish this first and then I can enjoy the weekend. Remember it’s the church fête tomorrow.’