06 Educating Jack (21 page)

Ruby came in each day to put out the dining tables in the school hall for our daily Reading Workshop, which began at eleven o’clock. For the period before lunchtime, parents and grandparents came in to support this event, which had proved to be very successful and had significantly increased the frequency of reading among the children. Boys and girls from all classes wandered in clutching their school reading book and a reading card. The parents listened to them read, noted any problems or words they found difficult to pronounce and jotted these down on the child’s card. When they returned to class their teacher checked their card and supported the child appropriately. The workshop also provided an opportunity for parents to be involved in our day-to-day school life and further encouraged good communication. As was often the case, the regular opportunity for a two-minute conversation with a parent by the classroom door was more valuable than an end-of-term Open Evening report.

When Ruby had finished setting out the tables and chairs she tapped on the office door. ‘’Scuse me, Miss Evans … ah mean Mrs Forbes-Kitchener,’ she said, ‘ah’d like to ask yer advice.’

‘Of course, Ruby,’ said Vera as she filed a letter to the school governors concerning our proposed educational visit to Flamingo Land in the summer term. ‘What can I do to help?’

‘Well, ah was wond’rin’, do y’think this Book Club is f’likes o’ me?’ she asked.

Vera felt the sadness in Ruby’s heart; it was almost palpable. ‘I’m sure it is, Ruby,’ she said. ‘It’s never too late to enjoy books.’

‘Well,’ continued Ruby, ‘top an’ bottom of it is,’ she paused, looked down at the handle of the staff-room door and began to polish it absent-mindedly, ‘ah’ve allus wanted t’read but ah’ve never ’ad time what wi’ cookin’ an’ cleanin’ and children … an’ my Ronnie, o’ course.’

Vera sighed and looked at her dear friend. ‘You have talent, Ruby, and you must not let it wither like the last leaves of winter,’ she said softly.

‘Y’say such wonderful things,’ said Ruby, looking as if she was about to burst into tears. ‘An’ ah ’ear what y’say, an’ ah will do m’best. It’s jus’ ah’m a bit nervous. Rest of ’em might laugh at me.’

Vera took a deep breath and made a decision. ‘Then I’ll come with you, Ruby. After all, that’s what friends are for.’

Meanwhile there was a hum of activity in the school hall as our Reading Workshop got under way. Sixty-five-year-old Edith Icklethwaite was sitting next to her granddaughter, five-year-old Katie. Edith had brought in some old photographs of her son’s wedding to use as a talking point before listening to Katie reading her
Ginn Reading 360
graded story book.

‘An’ these are pictures of y’mum and dad’s wedding,’ said Edith.

Katie stared at the photographs of Mr and Mrs Icklethwaite on their wedding day. ‘So, Katie my love, do y’understand what a wedding is now?’

‘Yes, Grandma,’ said Katie. ‘It’s when Daddy paid the vicar for Mummy to come and work for us.’

Edith sighed and wondered what children were coming to these days.

She decided on a new tack and began pointing at different colours on the cover of the reading book. After all, as
her
mother had told her sixty years ago, it was important to learn something new every day. ‘And what colour is this?’ asked Edith.

‘Red, Grandma.’

‘And this one?’

‘That’s easy, blue.’

After pointing to ten different colours with Katie giving an accurate answer every time, the little girl looked a little weary.

‘Grandma, maybe you should try t’work these colours out for y’self,’ said little Katie, shaking her head sadly. ‘After all, a grandma should know these things.’

Edith opened Katie’s reading book. ‘C’mon,’ she said brusquely, ‘let’s get on wi’ t’reading.’ It occurred to her that it wasn’t only children who learned something new every day.

At lunchtime Rosie Backhouse parked her mobile library van in the school car park and was ready for business. The children went in, a few at a time, and loved the opportunity to select from such a huge range of books, and Rosie always did her best to encourage them.

When I went in with my class I noticed Rosie had stuck a new label on the side of the tiny wooden counter. It read:
IF YOU ARE NOT ABLE TO READ PLEASE TAKE A LEAFLET: IT WILL TELL YOU HOW TO GET LESSONS
. I made no comment … after all, the left-handed Rosie had stamped so many library books it was rumoured she had a left hook like Henry Cooper.

As I left I noticed Ruby was being led into the van by Vera. ‘Excuse me, Rosie,’ said Vera, ‘we need a good book for Ruby. She wants to get back into reading.’

Rosie knew Ruby’s background and immediately began to search through the fiction section.

Suddenly Ruby pointed to a novel. ‘Mrs Back’ouse, this is what our ’Azel is reading in Mrs Pringle’s class,’ she said in surprise, picking up the popular Sixties paperback
A Hundred Million Francs
by Paul Berna.

Rosie gave Vera a knowing look and Vera nodded in acknowledgement. This was a children’s book, but also the kind that could be enjoyed by an adult. ‘A good choice, Ruby,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ll stamp it for you.’

Ruby looked at the book as if she had won the Pools. ‘Ah can read it an’ then talk to our ’Azel about it,’ she said full of excitement.

Both Rosie and Vera looked with some sadness as Ragley’s favourite caretaker hurried off down the drive with her first ever library book. That afternoon she began to read, at first hesitantly, but gradually she got into the story, which was a French version of the great train robbery: a missing fortune in banknotes and the unsuspecting gang of children who were destined to solve the mystery. When Ruby arrived for her end-of-school shift, the novel was sticking out of her overall pocket.

She popped her head round the office door. ‘Smashing story,’ she said. ‘Thanks ever so much … ah’m reight enjoying me book.’

That evening Ruby was babysitting while watching
Wish You Were Here
…? on television. Judith Chalmers with her permanent suntan was enjoying the scenery in Corfu, but Ruby’s thoughts were closer to home.

She looked down at her rosy-cheeked granddaughter and, as she rocked little Krystal to sleep, she whispered to the sleeping child, ‘When ah get paid my love, ah’m gonna buy you a book, an’ we can read it t’gether. Then when y’grow up y’can read lots o’ books an’ mebbe go t’one o’ them universities that posh people go to. Ah don’t want you t’grow up like me, cleanin’ an’ suchlike. Ah want a better life f’you.’ And the little girl slept on, unaware of the love that was destined to fill her life.

On Tuesday morning, I looked across the breakfast table at two beautiful women, both slim, green-eyed blondes but a generation apart. Beth’s mother, Diane, had come up from Hampshire to stay for a few days. Today Beth had arranged for the morning off work to go for a scan at the antenatal clinic and Diane was going to drive her there and keep her company.

‘It will be fine,’ said Diane. ‘You’ll need to drink a pint of water before going in and the radiographer will rub some cold gel on your stomach. Then you’ll see an image of the baby on the screen. It’s all very straightforward.’

‘Yes, mother,’ said Beth with a tired smile. ‘I do know all this … but I appreciate your help,’ she added quickly.

On the radio Joe Cocker and Jennifer Warnes were singing their Top Ten hit ‘Up Where We Belong’, quickly followed by Men at Work with ‘Down Under’, which somehow seemed appropriate.

* * *

By late that afternoon, tongues were wagging in the General Stores – none more so than Margery Ackroyd’s.

‘Have yer ’eard about t’eadteacher’s wife?’ she asked. The others in the queue were used to Margery’s rhetorical questions. ‘She’s been for a scan in York. Betty Buttle saw ’er goin’ in.’

Prudence Golightly called a halt to the conversation. ‘Next please,’ she said loudly. Prudence hated gossip … except this was
interesting
gossip. Happily, Theresa Ackroyd and her eight-year-old sister Charlotte had other things on their mind and ran home to watch
Mr Magoo
on Channel 4.

On Wednesday morning Petula Dudley-Palmer, complete with a green leotard and matching headband, had just completed her morning workout in front of the television set. Diana Moran, the ‘Green Goddess’, had performed her energetic routine and Petula had accompanied each stretch and gyration.

‘Today’s the day,’ murmured Petula to herself, breathing heavily. ‘Book Club day,’ and she walked out of the lounge towards their new downstairs shower and wondered what she should wear for the historic inaugural meeting. It was a difficult choice: classical elegance, or the casual, understated artist with the obligatory silk scarf? As she hurried through the spacious entrance hall, she looked at the pseudo-American grandfather clock and realized she had only eleven hours to decide.

Back in school, Joseph had called in for his weekly religious education lesson today instead of on Friday, when he had to attend an ecclesiastical conference in Leeds.

He spent an hour with Sally’s class on the theme of ‘Prayers’. Some of the follow-up writing was interesting to say the least.

Terry Earnshaw had written, ‘Dear Lord, it must be hard for you to love EVERYONE in the whole world. There’s only five in our family and I find it a struggle.’

Molly Paxton’s prayer was particularly poignant. ‘Dear Lord, thank you for my new baby brother even though I asked you for a tortoise.’

And Rowena Buttle had written, ‘Dear Lord, it’s been a long time since Christmas and it’s a long time to Easter when my mummy hides chocolate eggs in the bread bin. So please can we have a proper in-between holiday with presents because there’s nothing good in February.’

It struck me that the older I got, the faster the months seemed to fly by. Occasionally it needed a nine-year-old to remind us that, for children, time moves at a different pace. Childhood really was a secret garden that we had left far behind, but just occasionally, if we stopped long enough to listen – really listen – we could begin to understand
their
world and try to be a part of it again.

That evening, at number 38, Petula was in her luxury home and everything was ready: drinks, nibbles and background music. She looked at her fitted kitchen, in beautiful Snowden Oak direct from Debenhams department store in Leeds, and knew it was a joy to behold. Every labour-saving device, from the electric tin-opener to the microwave oven to the latest Kenwood blender, was available to her, along with a multitude of gadgets that had since been removed to the garage, including a sodastream, a Breville sandwich toaster and a fondue set. Every cupboard was filled with Tupperware containers of all shapes and sizes and each one had been carefully labelled. It was, in fact, the perfect kitchen.

In the spacious lounge the smell of furniture polish competed with the scent of potpourri, and small bowls of olives, nuts and crisps had been placed on Portmeirion coasters. Her favourite Cliff Richard album,
Love Songs
, with twenty romantic ballads, was playing softly and she hummed along to ‘We Don’t Talk Anymore’ and, predictably, thought of her husband Geoffrey. These days he spent less time with her and more time playing ‘tennis’ with his Atari 2600 video game with its woodgrain console, plastic paddles and stubby rubber joystick.

The lounge was filling up quickly with ladies from all corners of the village, most of them holding a book. Audrey Bustard was showing a well-thumbed paperback,
The Bitch
by Jackie Collins, to Betty Buttle, who had brought her favourite Mills & Boon,
Rampant Lust in the Farmyard
. On the leather sofa, Felicity Miles-Humphreys was in animated conversation with Amelia Duff about her copy of
Jonathan Livingston Seagull
by Richard Bach, while Amelia held fast to her John Fowles classic,
The French Lieutenant’s Woman
. Meanwhile, Nora Pratt and Diane Wigglesworth had brought their shared copy of Jilly Cooper’s
Love and Other Heartaches
, and Elsie Crapper had brought her favourite hymn book.

Julie Earnshaw and Betty Icklethwaite hadn’t brought a book. Neither had Margery Ackroyd, who had merely come to check out Petula’s kitchen appliances. Delia Morgetroyd, the milkman’s wife from Morton, had brought her Family Album catalogue. ‘Well, ah got a super ’airstyling brush and blow-dryer wi’ m’first order,’ said Delia. ‘Y’can’t lose,’ she added with emphasis. ‘What more can y’ask for?’

Sheila Bradshaw arrived late from The Royal Oak with
The Joy of Sex
, which was passed around with great enthusiasm during the refreshment break. Also, a small balding man with thick spectacles and wearing an immaculate three-piece suit had arrived.

‘It’s a man!’ said Petula in surprise.

‘Well, y’didn’t say jus’ ladies on y’poster, Petula,’ said Margery, ‘an’ ’e looks ’armless enough.’

Bernard Edmund Hillary Brocklebank, known as ‘Boring Bernard’ to his workmates, was born in St James’s Hospital in Leeds in 1953, just after Mount Everest was conquered. His father had hoped for a brave and adventurous son, but it wasn’t to be. Bernard was a sensitive soul who hated doing anything athletic and suffered from vertigo. In fact, he had dizzy spells when looking out of the bedroom window. As an assistant to a tailor in the centre of York, he was happy cutting and stitching three-piece business suits. However, Bernard had recently taken up reading and in his spare time he had begun to study the
Encyclopædia Britannica
. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he had reached the letter B. He carried the heavy tome under his arm and Petula tried to avoid eye contact.

It was time to bring the meeting to order. Petula picked up her favourite novel,
Love Story
by Erich Segal, and scanned the circle of book-lovers as they settled in their seats, frowning as she did so at Betty Buttle. It was a known fact in the village that Betty Buttle drank her tea from a saucer, often with much slurping, so Margery Ackroyd had reliably informed her. However, it was also common knowledge that Margery’s husband, Wendell, the Rowntree’s Smarties packer, ate peas off his knife, so it really was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.