School will close tomorrow for one day and will reopen on Friday, 12 June. The hall is being used as a polling station for the General Election on Thursday, 11 June.
Extract from the Ragley & Morton School Logbook:
Wednesday, 10 June 1987
It was a perfect morning on Wednesday, 10 June. In the back garden of Bilbo Cottage bright-winged butterflies were hovering above the buddleia bushes, while the drone of bees could be heard in their never-ending search for pollen. Cuckoo spit nestled in the lavender leaves, sparkling like bright foam. The scent of roses hung in the air like a lover’s embrace and the sun was warm on my back as I drove into school.
‘Everything is in place for tomorrow, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera.
Our school had been selected as a polling station and would be closed for the General Election. ‘The voting booths have been delivered and Ruby said she will erect them at the end of school.’
A big day was in store for Vera. She was the officer in charge of our polling station and her beloved Mrs Thatcher was seeking a third term in office.
It was a busy day in school and everyone enjoyed morning assembly. The little ones in Anne’s class showed off their paintings and read their wonderful poems.
At the end, Anne sat at the piano, opened her Count Me In songbook and led the children in a lively rendition of an old favourite:
Six sticky buns in a baker’s shop,
Big and brown with a currant on top.
A boy came along with a penny one day,
He paid one penny and took a bun away.
After lunch the children in my class were busy exploring an aspect of physical science through the study of cranes. My intention was to encourage them to develop a greater understanding of structure, stress and mass. They had looked at a selection of photographs of cranes used in building work in the centre of York and, as a follow-up, we were making balsa-wood models. After much trial and error, we discovered the relationship between the weight of a load and the length of a jib.
When the bell rang for afternoon break no one moved.
‘Can we stay in t’finish it, sir?’ asked Barry Stonehouse, ‘’cause our model’s brilliant.’
‘An’ it works,’ added an eager George Frith.
A cup of tea would have been welcome, but as the children were so keen to continue we carried on. I recalled that Sally had mentioned this work was now known as ‘design technology’, which sounded rather grand. However, whatever we chose to call it, the opportunity to develop scientific and mathematical knowledge was clear to see.
It was at times like this I realized I had the best job in the world. If I had sought the headship of a larger school, experiences such as this would likely be limited and I reflected on the excitement of children’s learning.
At the end of school Ruby transformed a flat-pack construction kit into a set of three voting booths. Finally, she walked down the drive with Vera and fixed a large sign to the school gate. It read ‘POLLING STATION’ with an arrow pointing towards the school. Then Vera hurried home. A busy evening was in store.
By 7.30 the village hall was full and the ladies of the Ragley & Morton Women’s Institute had gathered in large numbers. Vera had invited a local beekeeper, Lofthouse Grimble, to give a talk. However, it wasn’t so much that the ladies were interested in beekeeping, rather that it provided a good opportunity to discuss the contrasting fortunes of Neil Kinnock and Margaret Thatcher prior to the General Election.
‘Margaret will prevail,’ declared Vera with confidence. ‘We can’t let that vociferous little Welshman into Number Ten.’
‘I think his wife, Glenys, was a teacher,’ said Bronwyn Bickerstaff evenly.
Vera considered this for a moment. ‘Well in that case she can’t be that bad,’ she conceded. ‘However,’ she added, ‘it still remains a pity she married a ginger-haired activist.’
It wasn’t clear whether it was Neil Kinnock’s ginger hair or his politics that proved the final straw. Whatever it was, Vera was determined not to show a shred of compassion for the leader of the Labour Party.
Lofthouse Grimble resided with his wife, Pearl, in the tiny hamlet of Cold Hampton close to the local airfield. His neighbour was Lillian Figgins, our road-crossing patrol officer. They both lived in pretty thatched cottages and kept themselves to themselves.
One of the reasons for this was that Lollipop Lil’ had little time for men. Many years ago she had succumbed to the charms of a diminutive bookmaker from Batley. His Brylcreem quiff and the back seat of his Hillman Imp were indelibly etched on her memory but, after he had run off with a leggy usherette, she had decided that, as far as men were concerned, enough was enough. Nevertheless, as a show of support, Lillian had found a seat in the front row next to Vera.
Vera thought very highly of Lillian, who was in charge of the church-cleaning rota. It was a thankless task, but Lillian was a dedicated soul and each week the dark mahogany pews shone with the lustre of her furniture polish.
It was Vera’s job as events secretary to introduce the speaker and she tried hard to ignore the fact that with his ginger hair he looked like Neil Kinnock’s twin brother.
‘So, ladies, please welcome our speaker for this evening, Mr Lofthouse Grimble, the president of the North Yorkshire Beekeepers Society, who will provide an illustrated talk entitled “A Taste of Honey”.’
Pearl switched on the carousel slide projector, adjusted the focus and the audience settled back to an insight into the life of bees. The majority of the ladies considered the industrious little insects were fine in their place – namely outside and not in their kitchens. Vera was content in the knowledge that they pollinated her fruit trees. However, woe betide any stray bee that came in through the window of Morton Manor. It received short shrift along with an eye-watering spray of Timothy Pratt’s finest insecticide. For the meantime, though, Vera put this thought to the back of her mind as she stared at the first slide showing a picture of Mr Grimble’s back garden. It was full to bursting with beehives.
‘I wonder where she hangs her washing?’ murmured Joyce Davenport.
‘Quite so,’ replied Vera.
Lofthouse was clearly an authority on his subject. ‘Bees created the perfect hexagonal honeycomb before geometry was understood,’ he informed them as Pearl switched to an image of a honeycomb.
‘They cooperate and make good decisions.’
He gave Pearl a hard stare. ‘They cooperate …’ he repeated in a loud voice.
‘Oh sorry, dear,’ said Pearl, who was sick to the back teeth of her husband’s monotone voice and the boring talk she had heard a hundred times. She pressed the switch for the next slide.
‘Their search for a suitable food supply is particularly interesting,’ continued Lofthouse with authority. ‘The bee scouts venture out into the unknown and the queen and the rest of the colony wait for their return.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘They are the hunters, just like the cavemen of old.’
‘Well ’e wouldn’t ’ave lasted long,’ muttered Margery Ackroyd.
‘Y’reight there, Marge,’ said Betty Buttle. ‘’E couldn’t knock skin off a rice puddin’.’
Undeterred by the whispering from the back row, Lofthouse pressed on. His big moment had arrived. He gave Pearl a searching look and she flicked through a sequence of slides that resembled a bee trying its hand, or to be more precise legs and antennae, at a Michael Jackson breakdance.
‘Here you see the scout bees returning to the hive and performing a very special ritual dance. The better the food source, the more extravagant the dance.’
‘Bit strange, if y’ask me,’ muttered Betty. ‘Ah can’t see my ’Arry doin’ a Shakin’ Stevens when ’e comes back from Asda.’
Vera turned sharply and frowned at the ladies on the back row. After all, even though this Neil Kinnock lookalike was one of the most boring men she had ever met, he was still a guest of the Women’s Institute and there were standards.
At this point … thought Pearl as she moved smoothly into the final sequence of slides.
‘At this point,’ said Lofthouse, ‘other bees check this food supply and return with a similar dance.’
‘They do a lot o’ bloody dancin’ do these bees,’ whispered Betty.
‘Ah’m gonna buy some spray from Timothy,’ said Margery with a finality that brooked no argument. Little did she realize that the majority of the audience were having the same thought and Pratt’s Hardware Emporium was about to experience bumper sales of insect repellent.
It was Thursday morning, Election Day, and an early-morning mist covered the lawns of Morton Manor like a cloak of secrets. At 6.30 Vera arrived at school to ensure all was ready for the first voters. A large black metal box had been delivered and Vera prepared her electoral list and checked the special hole-punch to validate each voting slip.
At 6.45 a.m. her assistant, Delia Morgetroyd, Ernie the milkman’s wife, came trundling up the school drive and Vera sighed deeply. Fifteen hours of listening to stories of Delia’s dysfunctional family was bad enough, but as her hobby was collecting spoons, conversation was destined to be limited for our school secretary.
At ten o’clock, when Beth and I arrived with John, Vera looked pleased to see us. She underlined our names on the electoral list and punched our voting slips. After we had voted we folded the slips and posted them through the slit in the metal box. I decided to make Vera and Delia a cup of coffee and Vera seemed to enjoy the change of roles.
Then we walked across the High Street to Pratt’s Hardware Emporium to buy some light bulbs for the new bedroom in our extension. We found Timothy in a state of high excitement. His friend, Walter Crapper, was due to visit him on Sunday afternoon.
‘We’ve combined our Meccano sets, Mr Sheffield, and we’re going t’build a Class B1 LNER locomotive.’
‘Sounds fun, Timothy,’ I said.
‘Can’t wait,’ said the eager Timothy and he hurried off to rearrange his display of dome-headed screws.
We decided to call in to Nora’s Coffee Shop for a hot drink and as we walked in Whitney Houston’s number-one record ‘I Wanna Dance with Somebody’ was on the juke-box.
Anita Cuthbertson and Claire Bradshaw were at a table just inside the door.
‘’Ello, sir,’ said Anita. ‘Young John’s growin’ up fast.’
Beth went to order while I chatted with my ex-pupils.
‘We’re goin’ t’Glastonbury,’ said Claire.
They had saved up and bought their tickets for the CND Glastonbury Festival for the weekend after next and had planned their trip to Pilton in Somerset. Kenny Kershaw had arranged to borrow a car from Victor Pratt and the three of them were intending to share a tent.
‘There’s Elvis Costello, sir,’ said Anita, full of excitement.
‘An’ Van Morrison,’ added Claire.
‘It should be great,’ said Anita, ‘an’ my cousin is goin’ an’ ’e says ’e’ll introduce me to ’is friend in the Mighty Lemon Drops, ’cause they’re playin’ as well.’
‘The Mighty Lemon Drops?’
‘Yes, they used t’be called the Sherbet Monsters but they changed their name,’ explained Anita.
‘I can see why,’ I said.
However, it occurred to me that although it wasn’t quite in the realm of the Dave Clark Five or the Rolling Stones, it did have a catchy appeal.
We decided to make the most of our day off and drove into York, parked in Lord Mayor’s Walk and strolled up Gillygate into the city centre. Soon we were in the Computer Store where a prematurely balding young man suffering from severe acne approached us. The purple badge fixed to his orange polo shirt read: Trevor Drabble – Computer Sales Executive.
‘I’ve made a decision,’ said Beth. ‘We need a new computer and this looks perfect.’
It was an Amstrad PCW 8512, described as ‘Arguably the best word processor in the world’. I had no intention of arguing. There was no budging Beth once she had made up her mind.
Trevor was very persuasive. ‘It includes a free starter pack an’ two thousand sheets o’ paper.’
‘Sounds good,’ I said without conviction.
Beth was studying the literature very carefully.
‘Also it’s gorra s’phisticated accounts database,’ added Trevor.
‘That should be helpful,’ said Beth. ‘And how much is it?’
‘Five hundred and forty-nine pounds ninety-five pence, includin’ VAT.’
Beth paused, thinking hard.
Trevor went for the kill. ‘Wi’ five diskettes and top o’ t’range word processing software, it’s a ’ceptional offer.’
‘What do you think, Jack – shall we take it?’ asked Beth.
I smiled and nodded.
It was Friday morning and the election was over. I was listening to the early-morning news on my car radio as I drove into school. Margaret Thatcher had celebrated her third general election victory after defeating Labour by 376 seats to 229.
There were losers, of course, including the defeated Labour Leader, Neil Kinnock, and the Conservative Enoch Powell, who had lost his seat in parliament after thirty-seven years.
In the office Vera was looking in admiration at a photograph of Margaret Thatcher on the front page of her newspaper. The Prime Minister was wearing a royal blue woollen suit and Vera pointed to a gold and semi-precious stone bracelet.
‘It was a present from Dennis,’ she said. ‘Such a devoted husband.’
‘Impressive,’ I said neutrally. Even so, Mrs Thatcher had become the first Prime Minister for more than 160 years to win three successive terms of office.
Later that morning I called in to Class 2, where Pat Brookside was busy with a science lesson. She was sitting alongside Julie Tricklebank and the Jackson twins. The three girls, all now seven years old, were testing various objects to see if they would conduct electricity. Pat had provided a simple circuit board, two electrical cells and a bulb from her torch.
‘So what have you found out?’ asked Pat.
Hermione looked thoughtful. ‘Well, when we put the wires on this side of the tin lid it lights up.’
‘But when we put them on the other side,’ added Honeysuckle, ‘it doesn’t light up.’
‘Why do you think that is?’ asked Pat.
‘It’s coloured blue,’ said Julie, ‘and the top is just metal.’
‘So it must be …’ began Hermione.
‘… the paint,’ concluded Honeysuckle. It came naturally to them to complete each other’s sentences.
‘That’s right,’ said Pat, ‘the paint insulates the metal.’
‘Insulates?’ queried Julie.
Pat smiled and sat down next to them to explain the process of insulation and I walked out, pleased to have seen the challenges that she was providing for the children in her care.
During morning break Sally wished she hadn’t spent 20p on a Daily Mirror on her way into school. The headline ‘THATCHER BACK AT NO. 10’ filled her with despair. She flicked through the pages and came across another irritating piece of news.
‘Vera, what do you think of Prince Edward’s television spectacular?’
Vera looked up from brewing a pot of tea. ‘What’s that?’
‘The event at Alton Towers – It’s a Royal Knockout.’
It was the brainchild of would-be media giant Prince Edward.
Pat looked up from marking her spelling test. ‘I heard they’ve roped in Jenny Agutter, Aled Jones, Cliff Richard and Paul Daniels, along with Gary Lineker.’ For a moment she went all misty-eyed at the thought of Gary Lineker, then she returned to the children’s books.
‘It’s embarrassing,’ said Vera. ‘Certainly the Queen and Prince Charles will not approve.’
‘I agree,’ said Anne.
‘It will do little for the House of Windsor,’ added Vera as she poured out the tea.
‘Cringeworthy,’ muttered Sally.
Vera wondered if there was such a word, but decided not to comment. She was happy that for once she and Sally agreed on something relating to the royal family. Meanwhile, Sally discarded her Daily Mirror and returned to her Cosmopolitan magazine. An article entitled ‘Clitoral Stimulation’ had caught her attention; however, she had decided to tuck it away in her ethnic shoulder bag for perusal at a later hour – preferably while Colin was watching World Snooker presented by the handsome but slightly quirky David Icke.
It was during the lunch break that Pat Brookside announced to everyone’s surprise that she had voted for the SDP and was disappointed that Liberal leader David Steel had described the result as merely ‘a setback’. Both Vera and Sally considered it to be a wasted vote, but said nothing.
‘I think the government will be privatizing water and electricity,’ said Marcus.
‘Perhaps it will be for the better,’ said Vera quietly.
Sally looked up. ‘I’ll tell you something that won’t be better.’
‘And what’s that?’ asked Anne.
Sally picked up a custard cream from the biscuit tin on the coffee table and headed for the door. ‘Maggie is going to replace local rates with a community charge – she’s calling it a “poll tax”.’ With that she closed the door firmly and I reflected that politics in the staff-room always seemed to promote lively debate and sadly, on occasions, the gradual erosion of friendship.
Our school health visitor, Staff Nurse Sue Phillips, was no happier with the political climate. Sue had called in to check for head lice as there had been another outbreak in the village.
‘It’s still a struggle, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’m in it for life because I believe in the NHS, but recruiting and keeping good nurses is difficult.’
‘I saw the pay award in the paper,’ I said. ‘Won’t that help?’
‘Yes, it’s a nine and a half per cent pay increase and a newly qualified nurse will now earn seven thousand pounds per annum but, sadly, staff nurses are still underpaid.’
She picked up her metal nit comb and strode off with purpose.
I was in the school hall shortly after Tom Burgess had rung the bell for afternoon break.
‘Mr Coe’s in t’entrance ’all, Mr Sheffield,’ Tom informed me.
‘Oh yes?’
‘’E said ’e wanted t’see you.’
‘What did you say, Tom?’
‘Nothing, sir, ’e jus’ told me to get lost.’
‘Thanks Tom,’ I said, slightly puzzled.
When I walked into the entrance hall it was obvious there was trouble brewing. Stan Coe was leaning against the display board holding up an official-looking letter. There were no smiles any more, only a scowl.
‘Yes, Mr Coe?’
‘No bloody sense, them idiots at County ’All,’ he snarled.
‘Perhaps you can refrain from bad language. You’re in school now.’
As usual his wellington boots were covered in mud.
‘Well they’re useless.’
‘What can I do to help, Mr Coe?’
‘We need t’talk,’ he said abruptly.
‘I’m available after school,’ I replied. ‘You’ll appreciate I have a class to teach.’
‘Mr Timmings was allus available at Morton,’ snapped Stan.
‘Perhaps he didn’t teach full-time as I do.’
‘Per’aps ’e were a better ’eadmaster.’
I ignored the insult. ‘Would you care to come back at four thirty, Mr Coe?’
‘No, ah think ah’ll ring that Miss Cleverley up at County ’All an’ tell ’er y’too busy t’talk to one of y’school governors ’bout an important matter.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘This refusal f’me to put up a new fence on my land.’
I recalled my recent telephone conversation with Joseph about the request to replace the school fence that adjoined Stan Coe’s land. I had followed it up with County Hall.
‘Yes, sorry, Mr Coe, but it was out of the question. I told the Education Office it was something we would not consider.’
It had been clear from the drawing we received that we would lose a significant piece of land. The siting of the new fence would also provide Stan with space for a new access to his land that bordered the local football pitch and cricket field.
‘You’re a school governor, Mr Coe. Surely you should have raised this at a governors’ meeting … And why did you make the request in the first place?’
He waved the letter in my face. ‘That’s f’me t’know an’ you t’find out, Mr ’Igh an’ Mighty ’Eadmaster.’
‘I see.’
‘No y’don’t, but let’s jus’ say you’ll find out when ah’m good an’ ready.’
He barged his way out of the entrance hall to his Land Rover and drove away.
I sighed. The status quo had returned.
At the end of school Ruby and Vera were busy discussing Ruby’s forthcoming wedding.
‘I’m thrilled, Ruby,’ said Vera, ‘and I would love to be your matron of honour.’
‘Me an’ George ’ave seen Mr Evans and we’re all set. ’E’s asked Deke t’be ’is best man ’cause they were friends when they were boys an’ my Andy will be walkin’ me down t’aisle.’
‘It will be a wonderful day, Ruby, and I’m so pleased for you.’
Ruby dabbed a tear from her eye with her chamois leather. ‘An’ ah’ll allus be grateful t’you, Mrs F.’
Vera said nothing – she simply got up and gave her friend a hug.
That evening Vera was not happy with her husband and he knew it.
After spotting a mouse in the kitchen she had visited Timothy Pratt’s Hardware Emporium and purchased a state-of-the-art Trip-Trap Patent Mouse Encapsulator. It was a plastic tube that a mouse would enter after being attracted by food. Then the mouse would be released into ‘the environment’. For Vera this was without doubt the humane approach towards all God’s creatures.
Unfortunately, the mouse had immediately returned and was promptly killed by Rupert with a yard broom! Rupert’s pleas that this was how he had been brought up to deal with unwelcome rodents fell on deaf ears and, for the time being, a stony silence pervaded the kitchen of Morton Manor.
However, when they settled down to watch the television news, Vera calmed down, particularly when Mrs Thatcher appeared in all her glory. On the steps of Conservative Headquarters, the Prime Minister said, ‘It is wonderful to be entrusted with the government of this great country once again.’
‘Isn’t she simply the best?’ murmured Vera.
Margaret was in full flow. ‘The greater the trust … the greater the duty upon us to be worthy of that trust.’
‘Well, you got your wish, my dear,’ said Rupert. ‘Your favourite lady lives to fight another day.’
‘It really is a great day. I wish it would never end.’
Rupert smiled. ‘All good things come to an end,’ he said, and he got up to switch off the television.
But not Maggie, thought Vera. She will go on for ever.