06 Educating Jack Read Online Free PDF

pocket watch. ‘No thanks, old chap, just called in about the … er … Harvest Supper.’
    ‘Very well, Major, we’ll see you there,’ I said and he hurried off.
    It was my turn for outside duty, which was a pleasure on this fine day. In the playground the nine-year-old Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina, were winding a long skipping rope while a group of girls took turns at jumping in and out with practised ease. As they did so, they all chanted an old skipping rhyme that had been passed down from one generation of Ragley pupils to the next. In this way our heritage was sustained and renewed.
    The big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh
,
    The ally-ally-oh, the ally-ally-oh
.
    Oh, the big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh
    On the last day of September
.
    I smiled as I recalled that my mother had told me that the song had something to do with the ‘big ships’ that sailed on the Manchester Ship Canal, opened with great ceremony in 1894. Whatever its origin, the girls in Sally’s class were word perfect.
    At lunchtime I picked up a plastic tray and joined the queue behind five-year-old Rufus Snodgrass, who was casting dubious looks at the food about to be served by Shirley, our school cook.
    ‘Do ah ’ave to eat cabbage, Mrs Mapplebeck?’ asked Rufus.
    ‘Cabbage meks yer ’air curl,’ said Shirley cheerily and with absolute conviction.
    ‘Burra don’t want curly ’air,’ said Rufus.
    ‘An’ it gives y’rosy cheeks,’ added Shirley.
    ‘Burra don’t want rosy cheeks,’ said Rufus. Shirley was running out of incentives.
    ‘Will it mek me whistle as good as Ted Coggins?’ asked Rufus.
    ‘It might,’ said Shirley.
    ‘Go on then, ah’ll ’ave some,’ said Rufus, who would have eaten dead worms for just one chance to replicate the ear-shattering whistle that his new best friend had perfected.
    Meanwhile in the staff-room, away from the smell of cabbage, Sally was reading her September issue of
Cosmopolitan
. An article entitled ‘Futureworks’ had caught her attention. It described a future society dominated by new technology.
    ‘It says here,’ she said, ‘that by the year two thousand we shall all be working a twenty-five-hour week.’
    ‘Sounds good,’ said Jo.
    ‘It also says we shall be living in a “cashless, chequeless society”,’ continued Sally, ‘“where coins will become quaint
objets d’art
”.’
    ‘Bit far-fetched,’ said Anne.
    ‘And by then,’ she continued, ‘more than half of secondary schools will have a computer and lessons will be taught on two-way videos.’
    ‘Sounds more like
Star Trek
,’ said Jo.
    ‘Well, I’m glad I won’t still be in the classroom then,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll be collecting my pension when I’m sixty.’
    Vera suddenly walked into the staff-room, sat down and stared thoughtfully out of the window.
    ‘I see the venerable Margaret was on television again last night,’ said Sally.
    Vera’s eyes lit up. She was a big supporter of Margaret Thatcher and, on occasion, even dressed to look like her – whereas Sally had very different political leanings.
    ‘Mrs Thatcher’s had a very busy year, what with her son, Mark, being rescued in the Sahara Desert, and then the Falklands War,’ said Vera.
    ‘Oh well,’ muttered Sally, ‘you can’t win them all.’
    Later that evening, in the vicarage kitchen, Joseph was sitting quietly at the table. He made a steeple of his long fingers, a familiar gesture and almost a precursor to prayer. An hour had passed since Vera had mentioned Rupert’s hopes for a Christmas wedding.
    ‘I’ll put this button on for you, shall I, Joseph?’ said Vera.
    Joseph looked up and nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere.
    ‘I know that look,’ said Vera. ‘What’s on your mind?’
    ‘I just want you to be happy,’ replied Joseph, ‘but are you sure this is what
you
want?’
    ‘Yes, Joseph, I believe it is,’ said Vera firmly.
    There was a long pause as Joseph grappled with the enormity of the change that