Read Online 02 Mister Teacher by Jack Sheffield - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Sheffield
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‘He’s as honest as the day is long,’ she said.
John’s lungs had been badly damaged by inhaling manganese dust while working as a grinder in the 1960s in one of South Yorkshire’s giant steelworks. Although he was proud that he could grind twenty-four-foot lengths of railway lines to an accurate profile of one-thousandth of an inch, he was nevertheless relieved when the giant klaxon horn shattered the dusty air on his very last day. No longer would the flying red-hot sparks burn his arms and scorch his overalls.
Following his redundancy, he had gradually recovered his health and made a new start in life. He had moved into a small cottage on the Morton Road with his wife and daughter, and Vera had said you could always tell his mood by the songs he whistled.
John thanked me for the tea and, as I left for school, he said he would call back for his money when the job was finished.
I thought no more about him as I drove carefully to school. Little did I know it but this gentle giant was about to have his peaceful life unsettled by a formidable enemy, one who had caused me many problems in my first year as headmaster of Ragley School.
Stan Coe was one of the wealthiest men in the area and owner of much of the land that surrounded Ragley School. His pig farm provided him with a steady income, but it was well known that it was his other deals that made him rich. He wore his ignorance like a badge of honour and had been a bully all his life. At the end of my first year as headmaster, Stan had been forced to resign as a school governor. However, he was now trying to gain support to become a local councillor and was determined that no one would stand in his way; but that was furthest from my mind when I arrived in the school car park.
Anne’s husband, John Grainger, a tall, bearded man in a thick Arran sweater, was untying sections of a large wooden construction from the roof-rack of his battered Cortina Estate. It looked as though he was unloading a mini garden shed.
‘Morning, John,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a hand?
‘Thanks, Jack – it is a bit awkward,’ said John, as the wind lifted the first piece of framework like a plywood kite.
‘What is it, John?’ I asked. ‘This isn’t quite your style.’
John was a well-known craftsman and woodcarver who turned trees from the local forests at the foot of the Hambleton Hills into hand-carved, solid oak and pine furniture . Such was the quality of his work, he had a waiting list of over eighteen months.
‘Knocked it together last night, Jack, from a bit of spare softwood and a few sheets of ply,’ he said, lifting another huge wooden section with his large woodcarver’s hands. ‘Anne needed a shop in the corner of her classroom so that the children could practise buying and selling. It could probably do with a lick of paint to brighten it up.’
Once in the classroom, John screwed on the hinges so that the four sides could stand safely and unsupported. One side included a small doorway and the opposite side held a counter.
Anne was delighted. ‘This is perfect, John. Thank you so much,’ she said, quickly filling the shop with empty cardboard packets of cereal, assorted tins, a large price list and a metal money box full of plastic coins and Monopoly banknotes.
Once again, I marvelled at how Anne brought life and excitement into her teaching and I knew I was seeing an infant teacher who made learning fun for her children. The reception children loved coming to school and it was easy to understand why they found Anne’s classroom a journey of discovery. However, marking Class 4’s English comprehension books was, occasionally, a slightly different journey. The first exercise book I opened that morning belonged to Tony Ackroyd. Tony had written, ‘An octopus has six testicles.’
In red ink, I underlined the words ‘six testicles’. A few minutes later, Tony, with a grin on his face, returned with his book.
‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ he said,
John’s lungs had been badly damaged by inhaling manganese dust while working as a grinder in the 1960s in one of South Yorkshire’s giant steelworks. Although he was proud that he could grind twenty-four-foot lengths of railway lines to an accurate profile of one-thousandth of an inch, he was nevertheless relieved when the giant klaxon horn shattered the dusty air on his very last day. No longer would the flying red-hot sparks burn his arms and scorch his overalls.
Following his redundancy, he had gradually recovered his health and made a new start in life. He had moved into a small cottage on the Morton Road with his wife and daughter, and Vera had said you could always tell his mood by the songs he whistled.
John thanked me for the tea and, as I left for school, he said he would call back for his money when the job was finished.
I thought no more about him as I drove carefully to school. Little did I know it but this gentle giant was about to have his peaceful life unsettled by a formidable enemy, one who had caused me many problems in my first year as headmaster of Ragley School.
Stan Coe was one of the wealthiest men in the area and owner of much of the land that surrounded Ragley School. His pig farm provided him with a steady income, but it was well known that it was his other deals that made him rich. He wore his ignorance like a badge of honour and had been a bully all his life. At the end of my first year as headmaster, Stan had been forced to resign as a school governor. However, he was now trying to gain support to become a local councillor and was determined that no one would stand in his way; but that was furthest from my mind when I arrived in the school car park.
Anne’s husband, John Grainger, a tall, bearded man in a thick Arran sweater, was untying sections of a large wooden construction from the roof-rack of his battered Cortina Estate. It looked as though he was unloading a mini garden shed.
‘Morning, John,’ I said. ‘Can I give you a hand?
‘Thanks, Jack – it is a bit awkward,’ said John, as the wind lifted the first piece of framework like a plywood kite.
‘What is it, John?’ I asked. ‘This isn’t quite your style.’
John was a well-known craftsman and woodcarver who turned trees from the local forests at the foot of the Hambleton Hills into hand-carved, solid oak and pine furniture . Such was the quality of his work, he had a waiting list of over eighteen months.
‘Knocked it together last night, Jack, from a bit of spare softwood and a few sheets of ply,’ he said, lifting another huge wooden section with his large woodcarver’s hands. ‘Anne needed a shop in the corner of her classroom so that the children could practise buying and selling. It could probably do with a lick of paint to brighten it up.’
Once in the classroom, John screwed on the hinges so that the four sides could stand safely and unsupported. One side included a small doorway and the opposite side held a counter.
Anne was delighted. ‘This is perfect, John. Thank you so much,’ she said, quickly filling the shop with empty cardboard packets of cereal, assorted tins, a large price list and a metal money box full of plastic coins and Monopoly banknotes.
Once again, I marvelled at how Anne brought life and excitement into her teaching and I knew I was seeing an infant teacher who made learning fun for her children. The reception children loved coming to school and it was easy to understand why they found Anne’s classroom a journey of discovery. However, marking Class 4’s English comprehension books was, occasionally, a slightly different journey. The first exercise book I opened that morning belonged to Tony Ackroyd. Tony had written, ‘An octopus has six testicles.’
In red ink, I underlined the words ‘six testicles’. A few minutes later, Tony, with a grin on his face, returned with his book.
‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ he said,
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