Sheffield?’ asked Vera.
‘Into how
efficient
we are.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. She shook her head sadly and returned her letter-opener to her top drawer in its usual place between the long-arm stapler and her box of treasury tags. ‘The cheek of it,’ I heard her mutter as I walked through the little corridor that led from the office to the staff-room.
Meanwhile, out in the playground, Heathcliffe Earnshaw was gathering a tortoise search-and-rescue team comprising his little brother and the Dudley-Palmer sisters.
‘’E’s lotht,’ said the distraught Jimmy. ‘Flath ’ath gone.’
‘Don’t fret,’ said Heathcliffe, taking control. ‘We’ll find ’im.’
‘’Ow fast does ’e walk?’ asked Terry, looking across the school field.
‘Very thlow … but fatht for a tortoithe,’ said Jimmy.
‘What does he look like?’ asked Elisabeth Amelia. ‘I mean, is he large or small?’
‘Thort of thmallith-medium,’ said Jimmy. ‘My thithter put a thplath of red paint on ’ith thell,’ he added mournfully, ‘tho ’e thould thtand out.’
‘And what does he like to eat?’ asked the perceptive Victoria Alice.
‘All thorth … grath an’ fruit an’ thtuff,’ said Jimmy.
‘We could work this out mathematically,’ said Elisabeth Amelia confidently. ‘If we know his speed we could draw a circle.’
‘A thircle?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, ‘and he’ll be somewhere in that circle.’
‘That’s what ah was gonna say,’ said Heathcliffe quickly, not wanting to relinquish his leadership to a girl who happened to be on a higher box of workcards in the School Mathematics Project. ‘So let’s get ev’ryone to ’elp,’ he added.
‘Good idea, Heathcliffe,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, who had always admired this rough diamond from Barnsley with the spiky blond hair and a taste for adventure.
‘Thanks, Lizzie,’ said Heathcliffe with a grin. He looked around for little Ted Coggins and spotted him in the playground having a dramatic slow-motion fight with Charlie Cartwright with what appeared to be invisible
Star Wars
light sabres. ‘Hey … Ted!’ shouted Heathcliffe. ‘Do one o’ yer whistles.’
Little Ted was happy to oblige. He rammed the second finger of each hand between his teeth and produced his now-famous ear-splitting whistle. Moments later, a horde of excited children had been recruited and were searching the school field, flowerbeds and cycle shed.
In the staff-room, attracted by a whistle that sounded like a steam train, Mr Cripps was standing by the window, looking out on to the playground and wondering why all the older children seemed to be shuffling around in a huge circular conga line. It struck him as meaningless and he made a few more notes on the grid-patterned sheet of A4 paper that was attached to his grey clipboard with a large bulldog clip.
‘Good morning … Mr Sheffield, I presume,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It resembled one you would use for deep-sea diving while telling the time in fifteen different countries. He wrote some neat little numbers with a black biro on his chart. ‘Did you know your staffroom clock is one minute slow and your office clock is one minute fast?’
‘Er, no I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Good morning, and welcome to Ragley.’
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
‘Into how
efficient
we are.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera. She shook her head sadly and returned her letter-opener to her top drawer in its usual place between the long-arm stapler and her box of treasury tags. ‘The cheek of it,’ I heard her mutter as I walked through the little corridor that led from the office to the staff-room.
Meanwhile, out in the playground, Heathcliffe Earnshaw was gathering a tortoise search-and-rescue team comprising his little brother and the Dudley-Palmer sisters.
‘’E’s lotht,’ said the distraught Jimmy. ‘Flath ’ath gone.’
‘Don’t fret,’ said Heathcliffe, taking control. ‘We’ll find ’im.’
‘’Ow fast does ’e walk?’ asked Terry, looking across the school field.
‘Very thlow … but fatht for a tortoithe,’ said Jimmy.
‘What does he look like?’ asked Elisabeth Amelia. ‘I mean, is he large or small?’
‘Thort of thmallith-medium,’ said Jimmy. ‘My thithter put a thplath of red paint on ’ith thell,’ he added mournfully, ‘tho ’e thould thtand out.’
‘And what does he like to eat?’ asked the perceptive Victoria Alice.
‘All thorth … grath an’ fruit an’ thtuff,’ said Jimmy.
‘We could work this out mathematically,’ said Elisabeth Amelia confidently. ‘If we know his speed we could draw a circle.’
‘A thircle?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Yes,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, ‘and he’ll be somewhere in that circle.’
‘That’s what ah was gonna say,’ said Heathcliffe quickly, not wanting to relinquish his leadership to a girl who happened to be on a higher box of workcards in the School Mathematics Project. ‘So let’s get ev’ryone to ’elp,’ he added.
‘Good idea, Heathcliffe,’ said Elisabeth Amelia, who had always admired this rough diamond from Barnsley with the spiky blond hair and a taste for adventure.
‘Thanks, Lizzie,’ said Heathcliffe with a grin. He looked around for little Ted Coggins and spotted him in the playground having a dramatic slow-motion fight with Charlie Cartwright with what appeared to be invisible
Star Wars
light sabres. ‘Hey … Ted!’ shouted Heathcliffe. ‘Do one o’ yer whistles.’
Little Ted was happy to oblige. He rammed the second finger of each hand between his teeth and produced his now-famous ear-splitting whistle. Moments later, a horde of excited children had been recruited and were searching the school field, flowerbeds and cycle shed.
In the staff-room, attracted by a whistle that sounded like a steam train, Mr Cripps was standing by the window, looking out on to the playground and wondering why all the older children seemed to be shuffling around in a huge circular conga line. It struck him as meaningless and he made a few more notes on the grid-patterned sheet of A4 paper that was attached to his grey clipboard with a large bulldog clip.
‘Good morning … Mr Sheffield, I presume,’ he said, glancing at his wristwatch. It resembled one you would use for deep-sea diving while telling the time in fifteen different countries. He wrote some neat little numbers with a black biro on his chart. ‘Did you know your staffroom clock is one minute slow and your office clock is one minute fast?’
‘Er, no I didn’t,’ I said. ‘Good morning, and welcome to Ragley.’
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
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