Read 05 Please Sir! for Free Online Page B

from the teasels. It was 8.30 a.m. and, in the corridor outside the school office, the sound of Ruby singing ‘Edelweiss’ from her favourite musical, The Sound of Music , was distinctly louder than usual.
    I smoothed some sticky-backed plastic over the fraying edges of a white card on which the one hundred words of the ‘Schonell Word Recognition Test’ were neatly printed. ‘Ruby sounds cheerful,’ I said.
    Vera looked up from her pile of Yorkshire Purchasing Organization order forms and smiled. ‘It’s good to hear, Mr Sheffield. She’s been a bit down lately.’
    Suddenly there was the clatter of a galvanized bucket followed by a tap on the door and there stood Ruby. ‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield, Miss Evans,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Ah’m trying t’finish a bit smartish this morning, if y’please.’
    Ruby Smith weighed over twenty stones and her extra-large double X, bright-orange overall was tightly fastened over her plump frame as she pushed a few strands of damp, wavy, chestnut hair away from her eyes.
    ‘That’s fine, Ruby,’ I said.
    Vera always took a kindly interest in our good-hearted and hard-working school caretaker. ‘Don’t overdo it, Ruby,’ she said, ‘especially now the governors have granted those extra hours for you.’
    ‘Ah’m fine, thank you, Miss Evans – reight as rain,’ said Ruby as, absent-mindedly, she took out a soft cloth from her overall pocket and began to polish the door handle. ‘It’s jus’ that sometimes ah want t’world t’slow down a bit,’ she said, ‘an’ then ah can catch up, so t’speak.’
    ‘So, Ruby … are you doing something special with Ronnie?’ I asked, more in hope than expectation.
    Ruby looked down at the door handle and the polishing slowed down to a standstill. ‘Y’jokin’, Mr Sheffield. Ah’m spittin’ feathers wi’ ’im. ’E won’t get off ‘is backside – sez’e’s gorra cold.’
    ‘Oh, I see,’ I said lamely.
    ‘Anyway, Diane’s doing me ‘air at nine o’clock an’ then ah said ah’d meet an old friend later in t’Coffee Shop.’
    Vera looked up again with interest. ‘Oh, who’s that, Ruby?’
    ‘Seaside Johnny, Miss Evans.’
    ‘Seaside Johnny?’ I said.
    ‘Yes, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘’E were t’new bingo caller las’ night an’ ah’ve not seen’im f’years.’E used t’work at Butlin’s back in t’sixties.’ She resumed polishing the door handle thoughtfully. ‘An’ ’e’s jus’ come back t’live in Easington an’ opened a second-’and shop. Do y’remember’im, Miss Evans?’
    ‘I certainly do, Ruby,’ said Vera. ‘He used to have a stall on Thirkby market selling old paintings and bric-à-brac.’
    ‘That’s reight,’ said Ruby with a smile. ‘’E loved ’is art, did Johnny.’E’ad pictures all round’is’ouse – Wrestler’s Mother , Laughing Chandelier ,’e’d gorrem all.’ With that she picked up the wickerwork basket from under my desk, emptied the offcuts of sticky-backed plastic and torn manila envelopes into her black bag and dragged it out into the corridor.
    When the door was closed, Vera resumed checking the carbon copy of an order form for large tins of powder paint and bristle brushes. Quietly, she murmured, ‘Oh dear.’
    ‘Problem, Vera?’ I asked.
    Vera didn’t look up. ‘No, Mr Sheffield … Well, I hope not.’
    Morning school went well. In my class, ten-year-old Sarah Louise Tait wrote a wonderful poem, Debbie Clack’s reading age caught up with her chronological age and Theresa Buttle finally cracked long multiplication. However, in Jo Hunter’s class, life wasn’t quite so smooth and a dispute had broken out.
    ‘Oh, Terry!’ exclaimed Jo.
    ‘Ah never took’er pen, Miss,’ pleaded Terry Earnshaw.
    Jo shook her head sadly at the absence of correct grammar. ‘No, Terry: I didn’t take her pen.’
    ‘That meks two of us what never took it, Miss,’ said Terry, quick as a flash.
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Jo. ‘Come on, girls