Free 03 Dear Teacher by Jack Sheffield

Earnshaw, leaning back on the table to take the weight off her feet. ‘ ’E’s very caring is my Eric. ’E got one o’ them new doo-vays cheap an’, cos ’e knows ah don’t like cold feet, ’e allus keeps ’is socks on in bed. Ah tell y’, ’e’s a martyr is my Eric.’
    ‘I’m sure he is, Mrs Earnshaw, and, er … if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to get into class.’
    ‘All reight, ah’ll be on m’way,’ she said and wandered off.
    I popped my head round the office door. ‘If someone turns up with medicine for their children, please can you let me know,’ I said.
    Rita looked up at me from behind her cluttered desk. ‘We need to talk about official procedure,’ she said curtly.
    ‘We’re a village school,’ I said, ‘a sort of extended family, so we don’t always follow the rules you talk about.’ I closed the door and hurried back to class.
    The rain stopped and I was on playground duty. Tony Ackroyd, ever the entrepreneur, was using fallen leaves as currency and taking bets on snail-racing on the damp playground. ‘Three to one on t’littlest,’ he cried as I walked by. Meanwhile, in the staff-room, Sally, Anne and Jo stared open-mouthed as Rita fished a dog-eared photograph out of her shoulder bag. It showed her carrying a banner at the women’s march through Birmingham in 1978 stating ‘Men Are the Enemy’. She told them she was a revolutionary feminist and, much to Jo and Sally’s interest, she declared she did not wear high heels or a bra and would never read a book written by a man.
    In an attempt to change the subject, Anne said, ‘Have an apple.’ Shirley had put half a dozen in a bowl and left it on the staff-room coffee table.
    Rita held one up to the light and studied it. ‘I do not support oppression in South Africa,’ she declared.
    ‘Pardon?’ said Anne.
    ‘This could be a Cape apple,’ said Rita, replacing it in the bowl.
    ‘They’re from Mary Hardisty’s garden on the Morton Road, Rita,’ said Anne.
    Sally gave Anne a wide-eyed look and returned to her packet of Monster Munch pickled-onion corn snack.
    By Thursday morning we had all had enough. The school office looked as if it had been ransacked. Vera’s precious photograph of her three cats was under a pile of unopened brown manila envelopes. Rita kept telling us she wanted to end women’s pain and we had all become tired of the constant lectures.
    ‘Did you know that fifty per cent of men are on the lowest two pay scales compared with eighty per cent of women?’ she announced.
    Meanwhile, Anne was trying to pacify Sue Phillips, our school nurse and a guiding light in the Parent–Teacher Association.
    ‘Your new secretary’s making up rules on the hoof,’ said Sue, holding the hand of her five-year-old daughter Dawn. ‘She’s just told me not to bring Dawn back until next week and she’s only got a cold. I tried to explain to her I was the school nurse but all she did was wave a rule book in my face.’
    * * *
    At a quarter to four we all gathered in the school office as Rita took her leave. ‘Call me if your secretary’s ever off again,’ said Rita. Then she gave me that intimidating look and walked out. With a crunch of gears she roared off down the drive and took a coat of paint off our new school gates.
    ‘Good riddance!’ said Sally and we all sat down and laughed, mostly with relief.
    ‘Just look at this mess!’ said Anne, surveying the state of the office.
    ‘I think I’ll stay behind to clear up,’ said Jo.
    ‘Me too,’ said Sally.
    ‘Count me in,’ said Anne.
    ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘We can’t let Vera see this.’
    Two hours later Anne was tidying the filing cabinet, Sally was polishing Vera’s desk, Jo was washing up all the crockery and Ruby the caretaker was helping me to drag black bags of rubbish into the entrance hall. We finally stood back to admire our handiwork. ‘Oh, one final thing,’ said Sally and she picked up the photograph frame on Vera’s