Read Online 02 Mister Teacher by Jack Sheffield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Sheffield
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‘I was just thinking of the certificate that was presented to me last night,’ she spluttered.
‘Why is that, Vera?’
‘Well, after the judging had finished, Mrs Patterson-Smythe stood up and praised my jam in a most particular way.’
I was puzzled. ‘And what exactly did she say?’ I asked.
Vera opened her Marks & Spencer’s blue leather handbag and took out an elegant white card, which was edged with a green border and inscribed FIRST PRIZE: JAM-MAKING: OCTOBER 1978. She passed it over to me and I read it carefully.
Underneath the inscription, Mrs Patterson-Smythe had written in neat, cursive script,
Congratulations! The small chewy particles in this excellent jam added greatly to the flavour and gave it a unique consistency!
We both laughed.
Then Vera put a sheet of carbon paper between two sheets of typing paper, fed them into her typewriter and began to hammer the keys for her first letter of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, Heathcliffe, at the tender age of six and completely oblivious of his talent as a supreme jam-maker, contentedly picked his nose in the October sunshine!
Chapter Five
Whistling John and the Dawn Chorus
87 children on roll. Police Constable Hunter visited school today in response to a complaint made by Mr Stanley Coe. The situation was resolved
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 3 November 1978
IT WAS THE turning of the season and the first frosts had arrived. Dense November fogs had descended upon the Vale of York, shortening the days and chilling our bones. Along with the dawn chorus of the birds, someone was whistling Johnny Tillotson’s ‘Poetry in Motion’ outside my lounge window.
It was Friday, 3 November, the day I met John Paxton, the village odd-job man.
I put down my cereal bowl, walked into the hallway, opened the front door and peered out into the gloom. The whistling stopped.
‘’Ow do, Mr Sheffield,’ came a loud voice. ‘An’ a champion morning it is an’ all.’
Out of the mist, a giant walked towards me.
‘It’s John, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Vera Evans asked you to come about the broken gate.’
‘Aye, that’s reight,’ said John. ‘Ah’m diggin’ ’oles now, then ah’ve a job in Ragley t’price up. Ah’ll be back t’concrete y’posts when t’frost ’as gone. Then ah’ll fix y’gate tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, John,’ I replied. ‘That sounds fine.’
I glanced down at my watch. It was just after half past seven and the frosty path sparkled as the first rays of sunlight began to emerge.
‘’Ope y’don’t mind me startin’ early, Mr Sheffield. Old ’abits die ’ard.’
‘You sound cheerful,’ I said, shivering in my shirt-sleeves.
‘I allus whistle when ah’m content, Mr Sheffield.’
Vera had told me John’s nickname in the village was Whistling John, so I guessed he was content most of the time. It was also obvious that Whistling John did not appear to feel the cold.
‘Would you like a mug of tea?’ I asked.
‘That’s reight kind, Mr Sheffield. Two sugars, if y’please, an’ thanks for all y’doin’ for my little Molly. She’s lovin’ it in Mrs Grainger’s class.’
Molly Paxton was five years old and a popular newcomer to Ragley School.
I filled the kettle and looked out at Whistling John, who was digging furiously at the frozen earth. At six feet three inches tall and in his early thirties, John Paxton was built like a Viking warrior. A mane of long, wavy blond hair hung down on his huge shoulders and his bright-blue eyes twinkled with the deep satisfaction of manual labour. He had the strength of a Russian weight-lifter and, while he worked, he whistled his considerable repertoire of his favourite songs of the Sixties.
As the kettle boiled, he had reached the Beach Boys’ ‘Sloop John B’, and the rhythm of his digging exactly matched the rhythm of the song.
Vera had told me that she knew an excellent gardener and general labourer who had recently arrived from Sheffield.
‘Why is that, Vera?’
‘Well, after the judging had finished, Mrs Patterson-Smythe stood up and praised my jam in a most particular way.’
I was puzzled. ‘And what exactly did she say?’ I asked.
Vera opened her Marks & Spencer’s blue leather handbag and took out an elegant white card, which was edged with a green border and inscribed FIRST PRIZE: JAM-MAKING: OCTOBER 1978. She passed it over to me and I read it carefully.
Underneath the inscription, Mrs Patterson-Smythe had written in neat, cursive script,
Congratulations! The small chewy particles in this excellent jam added greatly to the flavour and gave it a unique consistency!
We both laughed.
Then Vera put a sheet of carbon paper between two sheets of typing paper, fed them into her typewriter and began to hammer the keys for her first letter of the afternoon.
Meanwhile, Heathcliffe, at the tender age of six and completely oblivious of his talent as a supreme jam-maker, contentedly picked his nose in the October sunshine!
Chapter Five
Whistling John and the Dawn Chorus
87 children on roll. Police Constable Hunter visited school today in response to a complaint made by Mr Stanley Coe. The situation was resolved
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 3 November 1978
IT WAS THE turning of the season and the first frosts had arrived. Dense November fogs had descended upon the Vale of York, shortening the days and chilling our bones. Along with the dawn chorus of the birds, someone was whistling Johnny Tillotson’s ‘Poetry in Motion’ outside my lounge window.
It was Friday, 3 November, the day I met John Paxton, the village odd-job man.
I put down my cereal bowl, walked into the hallway, opened the front door and peered out into the gloom. The whistling stopped.
‘’Ow do, Mr Sheffield,’ came a loud voice. ‘An’ a champion morning it is an’ all.’
Out of the mist, a giant walked towards me.
‘It’s John, isn’t it?’ I asked. ‘Vera Evans asked you to come about the broken gate.’
‘Aye, that’s reight,’ said John. ‘Ah’m diggin’ ’oles now, then ah’ve a job in Ragley t’price up. Ah’ll be back t’concrete y’posts when t’frost ’as gone. Then ah’ll fix y’gate tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, John,’ I replied. ‘That sounds fine.’
I glanced down at my watch. It was just after half past seven and the frosty path sparkled as the first rays of sunlight began to emerge.
‘’Ope y’don’t mind me startin’ early, Mr Sheffield. Old ’abits die ’ard.’
‘You sound cheerful,’ I said, shivering in my shirt-sleeves.
‘I allus whistle when ah’m content, Mr Sheffield.’
Vera had told me John’s nickname in the village was Whistling John, so I guessed he was content most of the time. It was also obvious that Whistling John did not appear to feel the cold.
‘Would you like a mug of tea?’ I asked.
‘That’s reight kind, Mr Sheffield. Two sugars, if y’please, an’ thanks for all y’doin’ for my little Molly. She’s lovin’ it in Mrs Grainger’s class.’
Molly Paxton was five years old and a popular newcomer to Ragley School.
I filled the kettle and looked out at Whistling John, who was digging furiously at the frozen earth. At six feet three inches tall and in his early thirties, John Paxton was built like a Viking warrior. A mane of long, wavy blond hair hung down on his huge shoulders and his bright-blue eyes twinkled with the deep satisfaction of manual labour. He had the strength of a Russian weight-lifter and, while he worked, he whistled his considerable repertoire of his favourite songs of the Sixties.
As the kettle boiled, he had reached the Beach Boys’ ‘Sloop John B’, and the rhythm of his digging exactly matched the rhythm of the song.
Vera had told me that she knew an excellent gardener and general labourer who had recently arrived from Sheffield.
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