03 Dear Teacher by Jack Sheffield Read Free Book Online Page A

The Royal Oak, battled fiercely to win the five-pence stake, or ‘one shilling’ as they called it, in their weekly game of threes-and-fives.
    In the taproom Don Bradshaw, the landlord, was standing on a chair behind the bar, fixing a shelf bracket to the wall. Don was an ex-wrestler and the electric drill looked tiny in his giant fist. His wife, the buxom Sheila, was bending over to hold the chair steady. Meanwhile, Ragley’s favourite bin men, Dave Robinson, the Ragley Rovers captain, and his cousin, Malcolm Robinson, were staring in utter confusion at this DIY project. As Dave was a six-feet-four-inch goalkeeper and Malcolm was a five-feet-four-inch midfield maestro, they viewed this dramatic change in their familiar surroundings from a different perspective.
    ‘What’s goin’ on, Don? Y’can’t ’ave a telly in our taproom,’ said Big Dave. ‘It’ll be an extraction.’
    ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm, who always agreed with his cousin. ‘It’ll be a big extraction.’
    ‘Distraction,’ corrected Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough and then wished he hadn’t.
    Stevie, the frail number 12 who rarely got a game, was the only member of the football team with any sort of academic qualification and regarded himself as the brains of the group. Unfortunately his intellect was not immediately evident from his latest multicoloured tank top, yet another gift from his colour-blind Aunty Maureen from Pontefract. She had certainly exceeded herself on this occasion with a startling red, white and blue horizontal-striped creation. Maureen had attempted to integrate large letters into the pattern across the chest. However, instead of the intended word STRIKER , after difficulty with the letter K, it finally looked like STRIPPER .
    ‘Shurrup, y’big soft stripper!’ shouted Big Dave.
    Stevie’s cheeks glowed bright red, clashing horribly with his freckles and red hair. He glanced down forlornly at his chest and shut up.
    ‘Pubs in London ’ave tellies,’ shouted Sheila Bradshaw from the other end of the bar. She looked in admiration at Don. ‘ ’E’s not backwards in coming forwards is my Don.’ Sheila leaned over the bar once again in her low-cut blouse to reveal her astonishing cleavage and, momentarily, the footballers were distracted.
    Big Dave was the first to regain his composure. ‘Well, they can keep ’em. What do we want t’be like London for?’ he said, banging his giant fist on the bar.
    ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
    ‘They even ’ave warm beer down there,’ persisted Big Dave.
    ‘Y’definitely reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm.
    ‘An’ our dad sez they’re all southern softies,’ added Clint Ramsbottom.
    Clint was dressed in a brand-new Rod Stewart shiny synthetic shellsuit in lurid green with yellow piping. Although it squeaked like a demented budgerigar every time he moved, he was proud of his new image as the dawn of the eighties approached.
    ‘They’re soft all reight,’ growled Clint’s big brother, Shane Ramsbottom. He clenched his right fist, upon which the letters H-A-R-D were tattooed on the knuckles. Shane was a skinhead with all the charm of a short-tempered Rottweiler. He ruffled his younger brother’s recently coiffured, David Bowie feather-cut. ‘Ain’t that reight, Nancy?’
    Clint knew when to be silent and this was one of those occasions. Ever since he had begun to frequent Diane’s Hair Salon, his big brother had taken to calling him Nancy. While he could cope with having a father called Deke who sang cowboy songs for beer money, being called Nancy really got under his skin.
    Clint’s father, Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, the local farmhand and occasional snow-plough driver, looked up, nodded in agreement, absent-mindedly polished his sheriff’s badge on his leather waistcoat, and returned to his dominoes game.
    ‘Yeah, they’re all soft,’ mumbled Clint, while carefully rearranging his hair and praying the