02 Mister Teacher (22 page)

Vera beamed from ear to ear.

‘An outstanding team of teachers,’ continued Mr Dibble.

Anne, Sally and Jo looked suitably modest.

‘And leadership,’ he paused to consult his notes, while I held my breath, ‘is, er, interesting.’

You could have heard a pin drop.

He picked up the Rubik Cube. ‘For example, a
headmaster
who not only fosters a very good Christian ethos, based on care and love of one another, but encourages a curriculum through which children have the opportunity to solve complex problems by using, er,’ Mr Dibble consulted the final sentence of his notes, ‘advanced spatial awareness,’ he looked at me and smiled, ‘is to be congratulated.’

I was dumbstruck. Somehow we had survived. Then, to add to my confusion, Vera gave me a wink.

Mr Dibble stood up and returned his report to his briefcase. ‘So, well done, everybody,’ he said, and he stood up and shook hands with Anne, Sally and Jo. Then he turned to me. ‘Congratulations, Mr Sheffield. Ragley School is in good hands.’

Next Mr Dibble picked up his briefcase and turned to Vera. ‘Thank you, Miss Evans, for all, er, your support.’

‘I’ll walk you to your car if I may, Mr Dibble,’ said Vera.

From the staff-room window, we watched them part in the manner of old friends.

Finally, Mr Dibble drove away very slowly in his Triumph 2500 ‘S’ saloon, making sure his flower arrangement rode undisturbed.

When Vera walked back into the staff-room, we all stared in astonishment.

‘Whatever you did, Vera,’ I said, ‘thank you.’

‘Let’s celebrate with a cup of tea and a Bourbon biscuit,’ she said.

Everybody began talking at once, when there was a knock on the door.

‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘He’s come back.’

Fearing the worst, I opened the staff-room door gingerly.

Heathcliffe Earnshaw was standing outside with a strained smile on his face. ‘Please can I ’ave m’cube back, please, Mr Sheffield, please,’ said Heathcliffe, who had clearly grasped the importance of the magic word.

Jo picked up the Rubik Cube from the desk, walked to the doorway and crouched down. ‘You’re a clever boy, Heathcliffe,’ said Jo, with a reassuring smile. ‘How did you get all the colours to be the same on each side?’

‘S’easy, Miss,’ said Heathcliffe, taking the cube and swiftly removing one of the sticky squares from the surface of a cube. ‘You jus’ peel ’em off an’ stick ’em on again.’

With that, he walked away, whistling tunelessly.

I closed the door and everybody burst out laughing.

‘Advanced spatial awareness,’ muttered Anne.

After Vera had regaled us with the story of the flower arrangement, we were all still chuckling when I rang the one o’clock bell for afternoon school.

That evening, I was sitting on my sofa with Beth at Bilbo Cottage, watching television and eating a fish-and-chips supper. Terry Wogan was presenting the twelve United Kingdom songs competing for the chance to sing in the Eurovision Song Contest in Jerusalem. The group Black Lace was about to win, when the telephone rang. It was Vera calling.

‘Sorry to disturb your evening, Mr Sheffield, but I
thought
you would like to know that Mr Dibble has just telephoned to say his flower arrangement won first prize in the Branton village Spring Flower Show.’

‘So he’s a happy man, Vera,’ I said. ‘Thanks for all your help.’

‘All in the line of duty, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Good evening and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Who was that?’ asked Beth, as I returned to the sofa.

‘Just Vera,’ I said. ‘She told me that Mr Dibble was impressed with our school.’

‘Really?’ said Beth. ‘And what impressed him most?’

I put my arm round her shoulder and whispered in her ear, ‘He said something about me encouraging advanced spatial awareness.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Beth, and snuggled closer.

Chapter Fourteen

The Age of Miracles

County Hall sent out a circular asking for responses to the proposal for a common curriculum for all schools in England and Wales
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 23 March 1979

‘AH’D NEED A
miracle,’ said Ruby.

‘Something will turn up,’ said Vera optimistically. ‘Maybe your Ronnie will get a job this week.’

Ruby picked up Vera’s litter bin and emptied the contents into her black bag. ‘An’ pigs might fly, beggin’ y’pardon, Miss Evans,’ she said, replacing the bin with a clatter.

It was shortly before nine o’clock on the morning of Friday, 23 March, and Ruby did not look her usual happy self.

‘So how much do these new wardrobes cost, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

Ruby had brought a furniture catalogue into school. She put it on Vera’s desk and opened it at the bedroom furniture section.

‘A ’undred pounds, Miss Evans, an’ they’re on sale in MI5,’ said Ruby.

Vera did not correct Ruby’s mistake. Instead she studied the MFI catalogue and then passed it over to me. I stared in wonderment at the brightly coloured bedroom wardrobes and dressing tables and wondered if they came supplied with a pair of free sunglasses.

‘They look really cheerful, Ruby,’ I said, handing back the catalogue.

‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ah jus’ wanted t’know what Miss Evans thought before ah started savin’ up for ’em.’

‘I’m sure they will be perfect for you, Ruby,’ said Vera.

Reassured, Ruby picked up the catalogue, took one last longing look at her dream bedroom and set off for the school hall, dragging the black bag behind her.

Vera shook her head sadly. ‘If only Ronnie would earn some money for a change, poor Ruby might have an easier life.’

‘Now that would be a miracle,’ I said.

Three miles away in Easington, Ruby’s unemployed husband, Ronnie Smith, had another purchase on his mind.

He looked in admiration at a shiny 1968 Honda 747 motorcycle and patted the handlebars.

Clyde Dlambulo, the big friendly West Indian who worked in Morrissey’s Motorcycle Mart as a general
labourer
and part-time salesman, put his arm round Ronnie’s frail shoulders. ‘S’only a ’undred pound, Ronnie, mon – you know it be a bargain.’

‘Ah’d need a miracle,’ said Ronnie mournfully. ‘Ah’ve only got a fiver.’ As if to prove the point he pulled out of his pocket a crumpled five-pound note and proceeded to flatten out the creases.

‘If you ’ad fifty quid, Ronnie, mon, y’could pay me de rest on de never-never,’ said Clyde.

‘Ah know, Clyde, but Ruby’s a bit tight where money’s concerned. Las’ time we ’ad a windfall she went an’ bought a three-piece suite. An’ now she’s on about some new wardrobes.’

Clyde looked shocked. ‘Who wears de trousers, mon, in your ’ouse?’ he exclaimed.

Ronnie shook his head wearily. ‘Give us a few days, Clyde: summat’ll turn up,’ he said hopefully. ‘Ah might be lucky on tomorrow’s Gran’ National.’

Clyde’s eyes were like saucers. ‘An’ what you be backing, Ronnie, mon?’ he asked hopefully.

‘Not sure yet, Clyde, but ah’ll let y’know if ah get a good tip,’ said Ronnie, tapping the side of his nose with his index finger.

Clyde looked thoughtful. ‘Ah suppose we do goes back de long way, Ronnie, mon.’

Ronnie stared into space and looked wistful. ‘Y’reight there, Clyde. Ah remember when we joined t’boy scouts.’

‘Dat’s right, Ronnie, mon,’ said Clyde, recalling the days when he and Ronnie were a pair of Baden-Powell
misfits
. ‘It was you dat showed me ’ow t’make fire by rubbin’ de two sticks together.’

Something flickered in the back of Ronnie’s mind, something important. ‘It were a good fire, Clyde,’ he said, somewhat absent-mindedly.

Clyde nodded in appreciation of this significant moment in his young life and decided not to mention the fact that the scoutmaster had to telephone the fire brigade. ‘Well, as you be a mate, Ronnie, mon, one week, but no more,’ he said, as he lovingly polished the handlebars with the sleeve of his blue overalls.

Ronnie took one last look at the object of his desire, jumped into Big Dave’s bin wagon parked outside, and squeezed onto the front bench seat next to Little Malcolm. ‘Thanks f’lift, lads,’ he said.

‘Bike looked good, Ronnie,’ said Big Dave, as he crunched into first gear.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘Looked a winner t’me.’

‘Problem is Ruby,’ said Ronnie, staring at his five-pound note. ‘This is m’last fiver. Ah could mebbe buy it on t’never-never but she’d create summat rotten.’

‘That’s women f’you,’ said Big Dave. ‘Can’t see a proper bargain, when it’s not shoes an’ dresses an’ suchlike.’

‘Y’reight there, Dave – speshully shoes,’ said Little Malcolm knowingly.

Ronnie pulled his bobble hat further down over his furrowed brow.

‘Mebbe you’ll ’ave a winner on t’Gran’ National,’ said Big Dave hopefully.

‘Mebbe it’ll jus’ come t’you in a flash,’ added Little Malcolm, as the bin wagon turned onto the narrow back road to Ragley through Easington woods.

It was then Ronnie remembered. Although years of backing horses with names such as ‘Rocket Ronnie’ and ‘Lucky Pigeon’ had never produced a winner, he knew that one day he would get a
feeling
. Today was that day. It hit him like a thunderbolt. He sat up in his seat and stared through the windscreen. It was something Clyde had said: something that Ronnie knew for certain was about to change his life and provide him with the motorbike of his dreams. He took out his
Racing Post
and as he studied the runners and riders of the Aintree Grand National one name sprang out from the page, and Ronnie Smith knew with absolute certainty that he was about to back a winner.

Back in school, it was almost lunchtime and I had just finished reading the next chapter in our class story,
Prince Caspian
by C. S. Lewis, when Jungle Telegraph Jodie announced, ‘Mr Smith’s comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

Ronnie Smith, shoulders hunched in a baggy grey suit and wearing his best Leeds United bobble hat, looked smarter and more sprightly than usual. As I walked into the entrance hall, Ruby had finished putting out the dining tables and chairs and was locking her caretaker’s store. She was surprised to see Ronnie.

‘Ah thought you were goin’ t’York t’sign on for a job,’ said Ruby sternly.

‘Ah’m goin’ soon,’ said Ronnie, flinching under her gaze. ‘Ah’ve gorra himportant job t’do first.’

I opened the office door. ‘Hello, Ronnie. Come on through,’ I said. ‘You too, Ruby.’

Vera was sitting at her desk. She looked up from reading a County Hall circular entitled ‘The School Curriculum: the case for a common curriculum for all schools in England and Wales’.

‘So what is it, Ronnie?’ I said. ‘Is everything all right?’

He rattled the cocoa tin he was carrying. ‘Ah’m collectin’, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Who are you collecting for?’ asked Vera.

‘It’s Billy Two-Sheds, Miss Evans. ’Is funeral’s on Monday, an’ we’re buying some flowers,’ said Ronnie forlornly. ‘’E’s passed on t’great bird loft in t’sky.’ He gazed theatrically out of the office window as bright sunshine pierced through the rain-washed clouds.

We all followed his gaze, half expecting to see a white-painted garden shed being pulled across the heavens by a host of winged angels wearing flat caps and carrying bags of birdseed.

It was a poignant moment. Ronnie lowered his head in reverence.

‘Who’s Billy Two-Sheds?’ I asked, breaking the awkward silence.

‘’E were in our Ronnie’s Pigeon Club,’ explained Ruby.

‘Why was he called Billy Two-Sheds?’ I asked rather lamely.

‘Well, er, ’e ’ad two sheds, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ronnie.

Vera rolled her eyes at me, took fifty pence from her purse and put it in the tin.

‘It’s William Braithwaite, Mr Sheffield,’ explained Vera. ‘He lived on the Morton Road and always supported the church. He was well into his eighties.’

‘’E were a lovely man,’ said Ruby, dabbing a tear from her eye with the hem of her bright orange, Extra-Large, Double X overall.

‘He collected all kinds of bric-a-brac and had a stall in Easington Market,’ said Vera. ‘He kept all his stock in two enormous sheds in his garden.’

I put another fifty-pence piece in the tin.

‘You can go round the rest of the staff if you like, Ronnie,’ I said. ‘It sounds like a good cause.’

‘”God loveth a cheerful giver”,’ recited Vera. ‘Two Corinthians, chapter nine, verse seven.’

For a moment Ronnie looked perplexed. He thought Corinthians was a football team. ‘Thanks, Mr Sheffield. Thanks, Miss Evans. Ah’ll be off, then,’ said Ronnie, and set off in the direction of the hall.

‘’E’s supposed t’be tryin’ t’get a job,’ said Ruby mournfully.

‘I’m sure he’ll try his best,’ I said, more in hope than expectation.

‘Y’can’t trust ’im, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘’Is benefit’s just gone up t’eighteen pound fifty a week, an’ ’e thinks ah don’t know.’

A few minutes later Ronnie and Ruby were in heated discussion in the entrance hall. Ruby still wasn’t happy.

‘Ah want you t’go straight t’York t’sign on, Ronnie,’ said Ruby, brushing a few bird droppings from the lapel of his suit.

‘But ah’ve not even filled in me “Mark the Ball” Competition,’ said Ronnie, in desperation, taking a rolled-up
Yorkshire Evening Post
from his pocket.

Every football season for the past ten years, with religious devotion Ronnie opened his newspaper to the sports page, studied the photograph of a moment of soccer action, from which the ball had been erased, and then neatly drew twelve crosses to guess the exact position of the football. Ronnie used his foolproof system of triangulation, by following the steely gaze of the diving centre forward who was about to head the ball, and those of the helpless defenders stranded in the muddy goalmouth. The fact his foolproof system never worked did not deter Ronnie’s scheming mind. All he knew was that for a ten-pence stake the winning prize was the massive sum of a hundred pounds.

Each week, as he handed his entry to Miss Prudence Golightly in the Ragley General Stores & Newsagent, he thought of what he would buy with a hundred pounds, and each week Miss Golightly’s view that nearly all men were gullible fools was steadily reinforced.