Authors: Jack Sheffield
Rita’s Revolution
Miss Evans, School Secretary, left today for three days of compassionate leave to attend a funeral. A temporary secretary will be provided by County Hall until Miss Evans returns
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 15 October 1979
‘ABSENCE MAKES THE’
eart grow fonder, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby in a singsong voice.
‘It’s only three days, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘Joseph and I will be on the train to Truro tomorrow, the funeral is on Wednesday and we return to Yorkshire on Thursday. So I’ll see you all again on Friday.’
The sad news of the death of Vera’s favourite aunt in Cornwall had caused a flurry of activity. It was the end of the school day on Monday, 15 October, and all
the
staff had gathered in the school entrance hall to say goodbye.
‘Ruby’s right,’ said Anne: ‘we shall all miss you.’
Vera gave her a tired smile and squeezed her hand.
‘Best wishes, Vera,’ said Sally, and gave her a hug.
‘And have a safe journey,’ added Jo anxiously.
Vera glanced round at our concerned faces and handed me the keys to her precious filing cabinet. It was a symbolic gesture and everyone recognized it as such.
‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said quietly.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Everything will be fine.’
There was a moment’s silence as we all looked at one another. I noticed that Anne looked decidedly nervous. ‘I’m sure it will,’ she said a little uncertainly. ‘The temporary secretary arrives tomorrow.’
‘Well, there’s the list of all the jobs I would have done,’ said Vera. She pointed to a neatly typed list on a single sheet of paper in the exact centre of her immaculately tidy desk. ‘And I’ll see you all soon.’
‘Come on, Vera,’ I said. ‘Let’s walk you out to your car.’
We all processed out to the car park and watched as Vera climbed into her car. She drove slowly down the cobbled school drive and we waved goodbye. Above our heads, pale amber sunlight caressed the autumn leaves as they fell gently on to the village green, soon to form a shroud for the sleeping earth. I stared at her car and realized just how much I relied on her. For the first time
since
I had become headmaster of Ragley, Vera’s reassuring presence would not be in the school office. I breathed in the clean Yorkshire air and sighed.
Vera drove past The Royal Oak and pulled up at the junction. Beneath a sky of wheeling swallows we watched her turn right up the Morton Road and head north. Then, as we walked back into school, a chill breeze swept through the branches of the horse-chestnut trees above our heads. We can survive three days without Vera, I thought to myself without conviction. I should have known that life is never that simple.
The following morning I looked out of the leaded pane windows of Bilbo Cottage. The dew, like untouched diamonds, sparkled in the morning sunlight. In the far corner of the garden, harvest mice were weaving their nests of grass and in the hedgerow the red hips of dog roses were providing valuable food for hungry voles. The nights were drawing in now and the earth was cooling but it was a fine autumn day.
As I walked out of my front door I glanced up at the porch where spiders were making their webs and beads of moisture, trapped on the silken threads, were glistening in the sunlight. It felt good to be alive on this bracing Yorkshire morning, until a thought crossed my mind. The new secretary was due to start work today.
According to the telephone call from County Hall, Rita Plumtree had attended the North of England Higher Secretarial College in Leeds and had emerged with a
host
of Pitman’s shorthand and typing qualifications. So everything appeared to be fine and I was relaxed as I drove into the dappled sunlight of Ragley High Street and pulled up outside Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent to buy my copy of
The Times
. Outside the shop window, the usual morning rush of children had gathered with what was left of their pocket money. There were difficult decisions to make about the conflicting merits of aniseed balls, bull’s-eyes, gobstoppers, sherbet dips, coconut lumps, treacle toffee and liquorice laces.
The High Street was filling with cars and Mrs Dudley-Palmer had pulled up in her Rolls-Royce after dropping off her daughters earlier than usual. She was on her way to Harrogate to order a kidney-shaped swimming pool, an indoor sauna and a spa bath.
Just before nine o’clock the sound of a misfiring car engine shattered the silence of the school office and I looked out of the window. Our new temporary secretary had finally arrived. A battered royal-blue 1968 Renault 4, with sliding windows on runners, pulled up in the No Parking area immediately outside the boilerhouse doors. From it emerged a tall lady wearing green cord trousers, sturdy brown shoes and a shapeless Arran sweater. She walked round to the strange tin-can bonnet, undid the catch and tipped it forward. Then, after stooping to stare at the engine, she shook her head in disgust, slammed down the bonnet and strode confidently towards the school entrance in a determined manner.
She walked into the school office without knocking. At six-feet-one-inch tall she gave me a level stare. ‘Good morning. I’m Rita Plumtree,’ she said. Her slate-grey eyes were unblinking.
‘Oh, hello, Miss Plumtree,’ I said. ‘Thank you for helping us out this week.’
‘Ms,’ said Rita.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s Ms Plumtree, not Miss,’ said Rita.
‘Oh, er … sorry. Well … er, Miss Evans has left a list of jobs for you … er, Ms Plumtree, so if there’s anything you need please ask,’ I said hesitantly.
Anne stepped forward. ‘I’m Anne,’ she said cautiously, ‘and I’ll show you round if you wish. The cloakroom and staff-room are this way.’
Rita gave Anne an enigmatic smile and they both headed off. Relieved, I made a quick exit.
At half past ten I was ready for my morning coffee. After reading Frankie Kershaw’s English comprehension exercise I needed a pick-me-up. In answer to the question ‘Why do birds fly south in winter?’ Frankie had written, ‘Because it’s too far to walk!’
However, when I walked into the staff-room, there was no sign of the usual pan of hot milk simmering merrily on our single-ring primitive cooker. Nor were our individual mugs lined up as they usually were. Instead Rita Plumtree was pouring a steaming-hot milky drink from a flask into a large plastic mug, which left a damp, unsightly ring on
Vera
’s shiny desk top in amongst an untidy pile of mail from County Hall.
‘We usually have coffee at half past ten,’ I said.
‘So do I,’ replied Rita, not looking up.
‘Vera usually makes hot milky coffee for us,’ I added.
‘Did you know that seventy-seven per cent of teachers in primary schools are women?’ asked Rita.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s a statistical fact,’ said Rita, picking up my copy of
The Times
and scanning the front page.
‘Er … no, I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Is it important?’
‘It is when you consider that the National Union of Teachers has only four women on its forty-four-member executive. It’s just another breach of the Sex Discrimination Act,’ said Rita forcefully.
I took a deep breath. ‘I’ll prepare the coffee today, Ms Plumtree. Perhaps you would be kind enough to do it in future.’
Sally and Anne walked in as the telephone rang. Rita continued to drink her coffee. Anne gave her a stare and picked up the phone. ‘Oh, hello, Beth,’ she said with a quick grin in my direction. ‘Good to hear from you. How’s the new headship?’ There was a pause. ‘Yes, I expect it is. Anyway, Jack’s here,’ said Anne and passed me the receiver.
‘Hello, Beth. How are you?’ I said. Suddenly my heart was beating fast.
‘Fine, thanks, Jack. It’s a bit hectic here.’
Beth had just begun her new headship of Hartingdale
Primary
School near Thirkby in North Yorkshire. It was an exciting time in her professional life and I could tell she was in a hurry.
‘So how can I help?’ I said.
‘Well, I’ve got a governors’ meeting tomorrow night, Jack, and we really need to introduce a new maths scheme. I know you’re pleased with your School Mathematics Project with all the coloured boxes and graded workcards and I wondered if you had any brochures or samples you could let me have.’
‘Of course. Shall I drop them in at your house?’ I said hopefully.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said. ‘I should be home by six thirty.’
‘Fine. See you then.’
‘ ’Bye, Jack.’
‘ ’Bye.’
I stared out of the staff-room window. If only for a short while, Beth was back in my life.
‘Coffee, Jack?’ asked Anne. As she passed the mug of coffee I noticed she and Sally were looking at me with broad smiles on their faces.
After school and before going to Beth’s I called into Nora’s Coffee Shop in the High Street. As I walked in, the Buggles’ new number 1 hit ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’ was blasting out on the jukebox. Dorothy Humpleby, the Coffee Shop assistant and would-be model, was carefully painting her nails behind the
counter
. At five-feet-eleven-inches tall and with peroxide-blonde hair and a micro miniskirt, Dorothy was popular among the menfolk of Ragley, especially her current boyfriend, Malcolm Robinson, the five-feet-four-inch bin man.
Dorothy was sitting on a stool and Malcolm, standing on tiptoe at the counter and peering over a pyramid of two-day-old Eccles cakes, was staring intently at the love of his life. ‘What y’doing, Dorothy?’ he asked.
‘She’s painting ’er nails, y’soft ha’porth,’ shouted Dave Robinson, his six-feet-four-inch cousin, from a nearby table. The two cousins, both in their thirties, had been inseparable since childhood and Big Dave disapproved of Little Malcolm’s new liaison. He gave Little Malcolm his ‘big girl’s blouse’ look and returned to his rock-hard pork pie and mug of sweet tea.
‘It’s ’Ot Passion Pink, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, glancing up with a flutter of her false eyelashes.
‘It goes wi’ yer eyes, Dorothy,’ said Malcolm, who had recently read in the
Sun
that it was important to tell a woman that she had beautiful eyes, lovely hair and a small bum.
‘But my eyes aren’t pink, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, perplexed.
‘No. Ah mean all that stuff on yer eyelids,’ said Malcolm a little desperately.
‘Oh, that’s m’Mary Quant Raving-Pink eye gloss,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’s reight subtle.’
‘An’ y’ve got lovely ’air,’ said Malcolm.
‘No. Ah need m’roots seeing to,’ said Dorothy, pulling at a tangle of her backcombed Blondie hairstyle.
Malcolm leaned forward between the Eccles cakes and the cream horns. ‘An’ you’ve gorra small bum,’ he whispered.
‘Oooh, Malcolm, y’say t’most wonderful things,’ swooned Dorothy as she swatted a large fly from the topmost cream horn. ‘Here y’are: ’ave a cream ’orn.’
Malcolm blushed and his thick neck, sticking out of his council donkey jacket, went bright red.
Nora Pratt, the owner of Nora’s Coffee Shop, put down her chamois leather on top of the jukebox. ‘Dowothy,’ she shouted, ‘ ’as Little Malcolm paid for ’is cweam ’orn?’ Nora had difficulty saying the letter ‘r’, which, fortunately, had never deterred her from getting the star part in the annual Ragley pantomime.
Malcolm blushed again. He didn’t like being called ‘Little’ by someone two inches shorter than he was and he slapped a ten-pence piece on the counter.
‘ ’Urry up, Romeo,’ shouted Big Dave.
‘Ah won’t be long,’ replied Little Malcolm, slightly irritated.
Dorothy leaned over the counter and looked earnestly at Malcolm. ‘Ah’ve been ’aving lots o’ strange dreams since ah started going out wi’ you,’ she said.
‘Oh ’eck,’ said Little Malcolm, unsure whether this was good news or not.
‘Ah keep dreaming ah’m flying away wi’ a super ’ero and ah’m frightened o’ falling.’
‘Ah wunt let y’fall, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, holding his mug of tea in one hand and his cream horn, like an Olympic torch, in the other.
‘Oooh, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy, adding another spoonful of sugar into Malcolm’s tea and stirring it thoughtfully.
Nora suddenly showed interest and, while much of Dorothy’s world remained a mystery to her, this revelation had struck a chord. ‘That’s intewesting, Dowothy,’ said Nora. She stopped polishing the plastic window of the jukebox and stared thoughtfully into space. ‘I ’ave a weoccuwing dweam as well.’ She propped her expansive bottom on the jukebox. ‘An’ in it ah’m a weincawnation of Queen Cleopatwa.’
Dorothy wondered briefly what Queen Cleopatra had to do with a can of evaporated milk but decided not to bother asking.
Half an hour later I was standing outside Beth’s front door, holding a box of mathematics booklets and cards. Beth looked tired when she answered her door. She was still in her two-piece business suit and white blouse but she had kicked off her shoes.
‘This is so kind of you,’ she said, tucking a few strands of her honey-blonde hair behind her ears.
I stood on the doorstep, wondering whether to go in or not. ‘All this stuff should help. I’ve put a copy of the teacher’s book in as well so that you can show your staff.’
‘Thanks, Jack,’ she said and looked up at me. Her
green
eyes were just as I remembered them.
‘Well, er, I don’t want to hold you up, Beth. I know life must be very busy. I’ll just put these in the hall, shall I?’ Beth stood back and I put the box on the hall table, next to her briefcase and a huge pile of folders of schemes of work.
‘I do appreciate your help, Jack,’ she said.
‘Good luck with the governors’ meeting,’ I said, stepping back through the door, ‘and if I can do anything more to help just let me know.’
‘I will, Jack.’
There was an awkward pause as I walked out on to the path and Beth closed the door. I stood there for a moment. Next to me was a beautiful climbing rose, a thornless Zephirine Drouhin in its final flush of carmine-pink blooms, and I remembered that Beth had put one in my buttonhole at Jo and Dan’s wedding. I breathed in its wonderful fragrance and remembered happier times. Then, deep in thought, I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton past gardens filled with the autumn harvest and the sour flame of fallen apples.