Read Online 02 Mister Teacher by Jack Sheffield - Free Book Online

tense, I walked casually into the office and sat down on the other side of her desk. ‘Hello, Vera,’ I said. ‘How are you?’
    Vera looked thoughtful and gripped her teacup very tightly. ‘Fine, thank you, Mr Sheffield.’
    I decided to probe further. ‘Is everything all right?’
    Vera took a deep breath and then exhaled slowly. ‘I have a moral dilemma, Mr Sheffield.’
    I pushed the door closed to shut out the conversation in the staff-room. ‘Can I help, Vera?’
    She looked straight into my eyes. ‘I’ve always been an honest person, Mr Sheffield.’
    I didn’t know what to say.
    ‘It’s just that I feel as though I’ve transgressed.’
    ‘What do you mean, Vera?’ I asked. ‘What’s happened?’
    ‘I’ve always wanted to win a competition at the Women’s Institute and, at long last, last night I finally won one.’
    ‘But that’s marvellous news,’ I said enthusiastically. ‘So did you win the jam-making?’
    ‘Yes,’ replied Vera. ‘I entered my usual raspberry-and-strawberry preserve that I make every year.’
    ‘But you’ve waited twenty-five years for this, so why are you looking so glum?’
    ‘It came second, Mr Sheffield. My raspberry-and-strawberry preserve was the best I’ve ever made and it was the runner-up.’
    I was confused. ‘So how did you win, Vera?’
    ‘It was that silly woman, Mrs Crapper,’ said Vera. ‘When she hasn’t taken her tablets she gets confused.’
    ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, shaking my head.
    ‘You brought a jar of jam up to the village hall last night, Mr Sheffield.’
    ‘That’s right: it was in the box of crockery.’
    ‘Well, Mrs Crapper put it with all the other jars in the competition.’
    ‘Oh, I see.’
    ‘So I have a favour to ask,’ said Vera.
    ‘Anything, Vera – just name it.’
    ‘Perhaps it would be wise not to mention this to anyone.’
    ‘Of course,’ I said, in the whisper of a fellow conspirator. ‘But don’t you see, Vera, you were still the winner. Of all the ladies who made jam in the Women’s Institute, yours was the best. So, morally, you’ve nothing to worry about.’
    She appeared to weigh this carefully in her mind. ‘I believe you’re right, Mr Sheffield. It’s just that I’ve waited so long for this moment and it hasn’t quite worked out as I thought it would.’
    ‘But the outcome is you were the winner,’ I said.
    Vera sat back in her chair, visibly relaxed and began to chuckle. ‘You should have seen Deirdre Coe’s face,’ she said. ‘It looked a picture!’
    It was good to see Vera looking happy again.
    ‘There’s just one thing, Mr Sheffield. I know the crab-apple jam came from Miss Maddison’s class but exactly which child was it that made this particular jar?’
    I looked through the office window. Heathcliffe wasn’t hard to find. He was one of our noisiest children. ‘It was Heathcliffe, Vera. Look, he’s over there by the far wall.’
    Out on the playground Heathcliffe Earnshaw was playing conkers. The shattered remains of his opponent’s horse chestnut lay at his feet, largely because Heathcliffe’s father, an ex-conker champion himself, had hardened Heathcliffe’s conker in the oven. With the tribal yells of the victor, he punched the air and then leaned back against the school wall in order to resort to his favourite activity. With the expertise born of a lifetime of practice, Heathcliffe stuck a filthy index finger up his equally filthy right nostril. After some serious excavation he took his finger out and stared at it thoughtfully. Then with assured deliberation he put the sticky finger in his mouth and sucked it clean.
    Vera visibly winced in horror. ‘Oh dear, so is that the little boy who made the jam?’ she asked incredulously.
    ‘Yes, Vera,’ I replied.
    Vera considered this for a moment. To my complete surprise, she appeared to see the funny side of it all and began to laugh. She laughed so hard she had to dab her eyes with her lace-edged handkerchief.