Authors: Jack Sheffield
Digby Cripps was a short, rotund, bearded man wearing thick, circular John Lennon spectacles, a dated flower-power shirt and a crumpled brown cord suit with a range of coloured pens in the top pocket. He looked as though he had just presented a 1970s Open University mathematics programme on BBC2 at two o’clock in the morning entitled ‘Advanced Calculus’.
He ignored my greeting. ‘I’m sure you remember this,’ he said and pulled a newspaper cutting out of his briefcase. The headline read ‘Value for Money? Teachers work a 22 hour week’.
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘negative press is always disheartening.’
‘Negative, maybe, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, ‘but is it
true
we ask ourselves?’
‘I presume you’re joking,’ I said.
‘I never joke,’ he said blandly and I was beginning to believe it. He wrote another note, this time using a red biro.
‘Well, what can we do to help?’ I asked.
‘I need to quantify the number of minutes devoted to each essential subject of the curriculum on my input– output checksheet and then extrapolate the data analysis using our new dedicated computer at County Hall. So it will be necessary to observe each class.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said … but I didn’t.
‘Is this your timetable?’ he said, pointing with his biro towards an A2 sheet of squared paper on the noticeboard. I was proud of my neat, colour-coded chart showing the days of the week and blocks of time for English and mathematics for each class, along with physical education, assemblies, topic work, radio broadcasts and our weekly religious education lessons with Joseph. The fact that, in reality, our
actual
timetable varied according to the interests of the children or the weather was something I didn’t want to share at that moment.
‘Yes, it is,’ I said.
‘So, according to this, your first lesson begins at five minutes past nine.’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And before that you do registration.’
‘Yes, we do.’
‘And the bell goes at nine a.m.’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Mr Sheffield, according to my watch it is now one minute past nine and my watch is correct every morning as per Greenwich Mean Time.’ He began to write again on his clipboard.
‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘Excuse me.’ I rushed to the bottom of the belltower, dragged the ancient rope from the metal cleat on the wall and began to pull on it. Another school day had begun … sadly, later than usual.
* * *
Mr Cripps spent the next hour visiting all the classrooms. In Class 1, Anne was reading the wonderful
Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck
and twenty eager faces stared up at her, following every word.
He seemed impressed, until Katie Icklethwaite asked him, ‘’Scuse me mister, what are you doing?’
‘I’m watching what you’re doing and then I write it down,’ said Digby.
‘An’ ’ave y’got a proper job as well?’ asked Katie.
Digby didn’t stay to hear the end of Beatrix Potter’s classic tale. He moved on to Jo’s class. In the corridor outside, seven-year-old Barry Ollerenshaw was queuing for the toilet. ‘And why are you waiting here?’ asked Digby.
‘Ah were caught short in t’middle o’ m’writing,’ said Barry with a strained expression. ‘We ’ad prunes f’breakfast.’
Mr Cripps added a note to his list and moved on to Class 3 and their Africa topic lesson. When he walked in, the children had just stopped making a list of animals and Sally had picked up her guitar and her
Okki-Tokki-Unga
songbook of action songs. She had turned to number eleven, ‘The Animal Fair’, and the children were singing ‘The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees’. The cacophony of sound from a selection of percussion instruments added to the excitement. Mr Cripps shook his head, wrote a question mark against the title ‘Topic Work’ and walked across the corridor to my classroom, where Shirley the cook had just popped her head round the door. ‘M’jelly’s not settin’, Mr Sheffield,’ she said anxiously. ‘When you’ve got a minute, can yer ’ave a quick look at t’big fridge?’ I noticed that Mr Cripps selected a green biro and scribbled yet another note … and so it went on.
At a quarter past ten, in school assembly, Anne began to play the piano. On wild and windy mornings such as this, she always chose what she described as ‘calming music’ to relax the children. Joseph glanced nervously at Mr Cripps and launched into the story of the Good Samaritan, then decided to review the story with what he considered to be pertinent questions.
‘Now boys and girls,’ he said, ‘if you saw a poor person injured and bleeding, what would you do?’
No one moved or offered an answer while they grappled with this unpleasant vision. Finally, Joseph pointed at little Ben Roberts. ‘So, what would you do, Benjamin?’
‘Well …’ there was a long pause until finally Ben nodded with realization. ‘Ah think ah’d be sick.’
‘So would I,’ said Mary Scrimshaw.
‘And me too,’ added Sonia Tricklebank for good measure.
This was followed by the Lord’s Prayer with the usual deviation from the script. Rufus Snodgrass was chanting, ‘Our Father, who art in Devon, Harold be thy name …’ totally oblivious of any errors.
During morning break Anne was tearing up wallpaper books in order to use the paper for the afternoon painting session. Our school budget had been cut again. Meanwhile, Mr Cripps was standing in the corner of the classroom, making notes and looking anxiously at his watch …
* * *
At lunchtime, I was sitting at my desk in the school office reading a circular entitled ‘History in a Common Curriculum – A Vision of the Future’, and wondering how we would squeeze in the rest of the curriculum around it.
‘I’m still getting used to these new twenty-pence coins,’ muttered Vera from the other side of the room as she made neat little piles of late dinner money on her desk, double-checked the amount and added the figures neatly in her register. Suddenly the telephone on her desk rang. ‘Mrs Sheffield for you,’ she said with a smile.
‘How’s it going, Jack?’ asked Beth in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I’ve just heard about the time-and-motion expert.’
‘Not well,’ I said. ‘He’s finding fault with everything.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Beth, ‘he’s coming to us next week so Miss B-H says.’
‘Well good luck,’ I whispered. ‘Bye, darling.’
Mr Cripps suddenly appeared from the short corridor that led from the staff-room, via the staff toilets, to the school office. ‘A personal call, Mr Sheffield?’ he asked in an accusing tone.
‘My wife,’ I said.
‘Ah, I see,’ he said almost triumphantly and, after checking his watch, added a few more comments in red biro to the complex chart on his clipboard.
Later, in the staff-room, Vera was scanning the headlines in
The Times
. She was relieved to see a photograph of the Queen Mother, now aged eighty-two, smiling after an operation to remove a fish bone from her throat. Then she frowned when she read that Arthur Scargill, President of the National Union of Mineworkers, had declared that industrial action was inevitable following the announcement of the proposed closure of up to sixty pits.
It was then that Mr Cripps reappeared. ‘Where are the rest of the staff, please?’ he asked. ‘They don’t appear to be working in the classrooms in preparation for afternoon school.’ He glanced again at his watch and made another note.
‘They’re out in the playground,’ said Vera coldly.
‘And why is that?’ he asked.
‘Perhaps you should ask them for yourself,’ said Vera.
‘I shall,’ he said and hurried outside.
I was with Anne, standing by the school gate, when Mr Cripps appeared, wrapped in a brown duffel coat and an Essex University scarf. ‘Can you explain what is happening?’ he said rather abruptly. ‘Why are all the teachers outside the school building?’
‘We’re organizing a search for a missing pet,’ I said.
‘It’s a tortoise,’ explained Anne.
‘A tortoise?’ said Mr Cripps. ‘Oh I see,’ and a faraway look came into his eyes.
‘It goes by the name of Flash Gordon,’ I added, ‘and the little boy who owns it is very upset. We need to find it before it gets dark.’
‘Of course,’ said Mr Cripps. ‘I used to have a tortoise, so I can imagine how he feels. They’re remarkable animals,’ he added thoughtfully. ‘Herbivores of course … so perhaps we should begin in the hedgerow.’
‘You seem to have empathy for these creatures,’ I said.
‘Yes, I studied them as part of my degree,’ he said with authority. ‘Did you know, for example, that they have both an endoskeleton and an exoskeleton?’
‘Well, er, not offhand, no,’ I replied hesitantly.
‘Yes, they are the most wonderful animals … quite fascinating really, particularly as they are diurnal animals with a tendency to be crepuscular.’
Anne glanced at me and raised her eyebrows. I knew she was thinking the same as me. At some time in his erudite past, this strange man had swallowed a dictionary.
‘Sadly, it’s time for the bell,’ I said.
Mr Cripps was clearly preoccupied. ‘Pity,’ he said. ‘We’d have a better chance with more pairs of eyes. However, I have a few ideas so I’ll stay out a little longer.’
Anne gave me a wide-eyed stare but said nothing. I guessed what was on her mind. Perhaps this irritating little man really did have a heart.
At three o’clock there was a tap on my door. It was Mr Cripps and he appeared agitated. ‘I need a word, Mr Sheffield … now, if you please.’
It sounded urgent. ‘Very well, Mr Cripps,’ I said and walked to the doorway.
‘I think I’ve found Flash,’ he said, his eyes suddenly wide with excitement.
‘Really? Where?’
‘Under my car. There’s definitely something there.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘It’s getting dark.’
‘We need a torch,’ he said, his voice trembling with excitement.
‘Just a minute,’ I said and leant round the classroom door. ‘Boys and girls,’ I said, ‘I have to go out for a moment and I’ll let Mrs Pringle know.’
There was a murmur of interest. ‘And I want Jimmy to come with me, please.’
Jimmy stood up hesitantly. ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, ‘Mr Cripps thinks he might have seen your tortoise.’
‘Now, boys and girls,’ I announced, ‘while we’re out I want you to write down your thirteen times table, please.’
There were a few grumbles of discontent.
‘But we only do up t’twelve, Mr Sheffield,’ said Theresa Buttle plaintively.
‘Well, this will be good practice,’ I said confidently, with an attempt at a reassuring smile.
‘But y’never buy thirteen eggs, Mr Sheffield,’ said the ever-practical Joey Wilkinson.
‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dean Kershaw, ‘an’ my mam says thirteen’s unlucky.’
‘An’ there’s no number thirteen in our street,’ said Tracy Hartley.
‘So can we do twelve times, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Sarah Louise Tait.
They were quick to see my hesitation and Jimmy was chomping at the bit.
‘How about nine times, Mr Sheffield?’ said Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, ever the practical peacemaker. ‘That’s a tough one. And I think it has a pattern, because the digits always add up to nine.’
I was impressed with both her mathematical acumen and her negotiation skills and paused before answering.
‘’Ow d’you mean all t’digits add up t’nine?’ piped up Theresa Buttle.
‘Elisabeth is correct, boys and girls,’ I said, ‘so well done.’ I took a deep breath. ‘Very well, do the
nine
times table and then we’ll look at the pattern Elisabeth is talking about.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ they all chorused.
‘Very impressive,’ said Mr Cripps. I smiled … it was good to feel valued.
At the end of school Jimmy Poole approached Mr Cripps and took the lid off his shoebox. Inside, Flash looked content as he munched on a lettuce leaf provided by Shirley in the kitchen.
‘Excuthe me, Mr Crippth,’ said Jimmy, ‘but thank you for finding Flath.’
Digby had forgotten what it was like to be thanked. Ever since he had taken on his new role, he had been treated like public enemy number one and few people ever offered him a kind word. ‘Well, I appreciate you telling me,’ he said, looking down at Jimmy’s tearful face. ‘That’s very polite. And I’m sure Flash will be well looked after.’
‘Oh yeth thir, he’th my thpethial friend,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ah won’t lothe ’im again, ah promith.’
Mr Cripps looked at the slight figure of Jimmy Poole clutching his cardboard box as if his life depended on it and for the first time that day he smiled.
At four o’clock we all gathered in the staffroom to hear Mr Cripps’ report.
‘Well, at one stage, Mr Sheffield, I have to say it was an
unsatisfactory
report,’ he said, looking at his copious notes and shaking his head as if someone had just died.
‘If we look at actual curriculum-driven activity, there would appear to be some shortfalls. For example, the deployment of staff wasn’t entirely efficient, with your reception teacher spending seven minutes tearing up a wallpaper book and the headteacher checking for electrical faults in the kitchen. Children had to queue for the toilet during an English lesson and the lateness of the bell accounted for three times eighty-six wasted minutes … over
four
negative hours.’
Vera looked furious, Anne shook her head in dismay, Jo appeared puzzled and Sally was flexing her fingers as if she were about to throttle someone. I sighed. This was bad news.
‘However,’ said Mr Cripps, taking a deep breath, ‘I’ve taken into account the extenuating circumstances.’
‘Really?’ I said.
‘Yes, I have.’ He checked his clipboard again. ‘For example, the missing tortoise accounted for the bell being late, morning playtime overrunning, children off-task just before afternoon break and the temporary redeployment of the headteacher and teaching staff. So,
overall
, I’m happy to report that Ragley School will receive an excellent report.’
When his Morris Marina drove out into the darkness, Vera made everyone a welcome cup of tea and we all relaxed. ‘An eventful day,’ I said.
‘So much for time-and-motion,’ said Anne.
‘And lost tortoises,’ chuckled Jo.
‘Well, never judge a book by its cover,’ said Sally.
‘Or a man by his clipboard,’ added Vera with a wry smile.