04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  When I walked into the school office, Vera plucked the rose from the tumbler of water on my desk and held it up. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘have you got any roses left in your back garden?’

  ‘I think so, yes. There are a few on the Peace floribunda bush next to my garden seat.’

  Her eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Then, please meet on the stroke of twelve, Mr Sheffield. We have an errand to run, if that’s OK.’

  At twelve o’clock I left Anne in charge while Vera and I drove to Kirkby Steepleton. In the garden of Bilbo Cottage we found the last half-dozen of my yellow, beautifully scented roses and Vera wrapped their woody stems in a clump of damp tissues. When we returned to school she hid them in Shirley’s kitchen sink and then broke the news to Ruby about the tea and cakes in the school hall at four o’clock.

  ‘That’s very kind, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby, dabbing away a tear. ‘Ah’ll put m’posh frock on under me overall when I come back at t’end of school.’

  At half past four I was enjoying a slice of Shirley’s magnificent treacle tart and a cup of tea. Anne, Sally and Jo were chatting with Ruby’s daughters, Ruby was trying to persuade Ronnie to remove his bobble hat and, all the while, Vera was deep in conversation with the major.

  The hall was full of light-hearted chatter and it died down when I asked for quiet. I made a short speech about how much we all appreciated Ruby’s work and asked Anne to present a ‘Thank you’ card, signed by all the staff and governors, along with a Co-op token.

  Then, at a signal from Vera, Ronnie stood beside Ruby and murmured, ‘Ruby, luv, there’s summat else.’ He pointed towards the hall doors. ‘Our’ Azel’s got summat f ’you.’

  Vera was holding Hazel Smith’s hand and whispering in her ear. The little girl looked bright as a new pin in a gingham frock, brown leather sandals and short white ankle socks. Her big sister Sharon had braided her long hair and tied it with a bright-pink ribbon. She was also carrying a yellow rose.

  ‘This is for you, Mam,’ said Hazel.

  Ruby knelt down in front of Hazel, took the rose and gave her a big kiss.

  ‘When ah grow up ah’ll ’ave a garden wi’ roses, Mam,’ she said.

  ‘That’s lovely, ’Azel.’

  ‘An’ then y’ll allus ’ave roses,’ said Hazel.

  Ruby crouched down and hugged her. Tears began to stream down her face.

  ‘Why are y’crying, Mam?’ said Hazel.

  ‘Don’t fret, luv,’ said Ruby almost to herself. ‘It’s jus’ roses. They do that sometimes.’

  Then Racquel, Duggie, Sharon and Natasha each presented Ruby with their rose. Ruby dried her eyes on the hem of her skirt, stood up and held Hazel’s hand.

  ‘Do you want to say anything, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

  ‘Ah can’t, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah feel proper flummoxed.’

  ‘Ruby!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘I’m so glad you do!’ She hurried over to the piano, picked up a newspaper from under her handbag and waved it triumphantly in the air. ‘Nineteen across, nine letters: confused or perplexed,’ announced Vera.

  ‘Ah don’t understand, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby.

  ‘FLUMMOXED!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘You’ve solved our prize crossword!’ Then she gave Ruby a big kiss on the cheek and filled in the missing letters.

  Suddenly, Anne sat down at the piano and played the opening bars of ‘My Favourite Things’.

  ‘C’mon, Mam,’ urged Duggie, ‘give us a song.’

  Racquel took her mother’s hand and led her to the piano and Ruby began to sing ‘Raindrops on roses’, at which Sharon and Natasha burst into applause. Meanwhile, Vera and the major were whispering conspiratorially in the corner of the hall.

  An hour later it was a happy group that arrived back at number 7, School View. Ronnie opened the gate proudly and pointed to the tidy garden. Ruby kissed his bobble hat and enveloped him in a rib-crushing hug.

  ‘Ah’m glad y’pleased, Ruby luv,’ gasped Ronnie and hurried into the house.

  Ruby kissed each of her five children as they walked past her into the crowded lounge. Then she turned and walked, alone, back down the garden path. The noisy chatter of her family spilled out into the street and Ruby smiled. She was pleased they were all safe and together for a brief time.

  Then she looked down at her roses and sniffed them appreciatively. Finally, she touched each one lightly with a dumpy work-red finger and remembered a morning long ago when the young Ruby had stood on this very spot with a bouquet of yellow roses.

  Back in school, the hall had been cleared and all was quiet. Only the ticking of the old clock, echoing in the Victorian rafters, disturbed the silence. I jumped when the telephone rang.

  ‘Hello, Jack, how are you?’ It was the distinctive voice of the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall.

  ‘Oh, hello, Miss Barrington-Huntley. Good to hear from you,’ I said quickly.

  ‘Jack, I’ll get to the point. I’ve asked Richard Gomersall, Senior Primary Adviser, to call in to see you later this term. He’s visiting all the schools in the Easington area to gather information for a follow-up document to “The Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire”.’

  ‘Yes, it obviously caused us some anxiety,’ I said, wondering where Vera had filed it.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘Jack, we’re at the beginning of a long and difficult process,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley, clearly weighing her words. ‘All I can say at this stage is: hope for the best but prepare for the worst.’

  ‘I see,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘And I note from my diary that I shall be with you on Saturday, the eighth of November for the opening of your new library area.’

  ‘Yes. We’re looking forward to your visit.’

  ‘So am I. Thank you, Jack … Goodbye.’

  I replaced the receiver and to my surprise it rang again almost immediately.

  ‘How did the presentation go?’ It was Beth.

  ‘Oh, hello, Beth. Yes, it went well and Ruby loved it.’

  ‘I’ve got a PTA event on tonight but I could see you later?’

  ‘Well, Ruby asked me to call in at the Oak on my way home.’

  ‘Shall I see you there, say, about nine?’

  ‘Perfect. See you then.’

  The Royal Oak was busy when I walked in. Ruby and Ronnie were sitting in the place of honour on the bench seat near the dartboard. Racquel and Sharon were at the same table and Natasha had stayed at home to watch Charlie’s Angels and look after Hazel. Duggie was mingling with the Ragley Rovers football team.

  ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ said Sheila Bradshaw, the landlady.

  I glanced at the menu on the chalkboard. ‘Just half of Chestnut and minced beef and onions in a giant Yorkshire pudding, please, Sheila.’

  ‘Ah like a man wi’ a good appetite.’ She was wearing a bright-pink boob tube and a black leather miniskirt. I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and stared at the bottled shandy on the shelf behind her. ‘We’ve been ’earing about this metrication that y’teaching ’em,’ said Sheila. ‘Our Claire’s doing it as well at t’big school.’ Sheila’s teenage daughter, Claire Bradshaw, had been in my class when I first arrived at Ragley. ‘Ah think it’s wonderful what y’teach ’em in school these days.’ She leant provocatively over the bar and fluttered her enormous false eyelashes. I could almost feel the draught. ‘We never ’ad no teachers like you when ah were at school.’

  Her husband, Don, ex-wrestler and built like a fork-lift truck, shouted from the other end of the bar, ‘Matriculation, did y’say, Mr Sheffield? Is it legal?’

  ‘Shurrup, y’big soft ha’penny,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s all that Frenchified stuff about weights an’ measures. One day we might b’serving beer in litres.’

  ‘Lads won’t like it, luv,’ said Don, nodding towards the inebriated football team. ‘They like beer in tankards.’

  Team captain Big Dave Robinson leant on the bar. ‘Usual, Don,�
� he said, and Don began to pull thirteen pints of Tetley’s bitter for team manager Ronnie, the team, plus the twelfth man, Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.

  ‘An’ that wants switching off,’ said Big Dave to Don, pointing to the television on the high shelf above the bar. ‘We don’t want no southerners ’ere wi’ puffy ’airdos.’

  Noel Edmonds was presenting Top Gear at the Paris Motor Show. It was clear that the new range of Rolls-Royce cars, the latest Ford Escort and the turbo-charged Renault held little interest for these sons of Yorkshire.

  Don switched it off and nodded towards three strange men in sparkly suits. ‘Entertainment’s jus’ arrived f ’Ruby’s party,’ he announced, ‘an’ they smell o’ fish.’

  Troy Phoenix, lead singer and local fishmonger, otherwise known as Norman Barraclough, had teamed up with two of his friends who sold fish in Whitby. One had learnt three chords from his Bert Weedon’s Play-in-a-Day Guitar Guide and the other played the drums, or, to be more precise, a drum.

  ‘We booked a trio,’ shouted Shane Ramsbottom in disgust from the far end of the bar, ‘an’ three of ’em ’ave turned up!’

  Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, proud of being the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, spoke up. ‘No, Shane, a trio is …’ and then stopped when he saw Shane frown. Stevie had remembered it was never wise to disagree with a muscular psychopath who had the letters H-A-R-D tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand.

  ‘Who are they?’ asked Big Dave.

  ‘Troy Phoenix and the Whalers,’ said Don.

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard ’em,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard. ‘All they do is bloody wail,’ and he laughed at his own joke.

  Little Malcolm Robinson and ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith came to help carry the frothing pint pots to the thirsty footballers.

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard you’ve gorra new girlfriend, Duggie,’ said Sheila.

  ‘She lives in a posh ’ouse in Easington,’ said Duggie proudly. ‘She’s even gorra gazebo in ’er garden.’

  Big Dave and Little Malcolm looked at each other in amazement.

  ‘Bloody ’ell!’ exclaimed Big Dave. ‘If that David Hattenb’rough knew, e’d be round there in a flash.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

  I found a seat near the bay window and enjoyed my piping-hot food. The troubles of school life waned in the happy atmosphere and I had the prospect of a weekend with Beth ahead of me. When she walked in, heads turned and, as always, she looked a perfect English beauty in her white blouse and a classic pin-striped trouser suit.

  She paused at Ruby’s table and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Ruby. Sorry I couldn’t make your presentation but Jack will tell me all about it.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss ’Enderson,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ please can y’show our Racquel an’ Sharon y’engagement ring?’

  After a few admiring glances Beth joined me and squeezed my hand, ‘Good to see you,’ she said. I bought her a gin and tonic and she took a sip, rubbed the ache out of her neck and stretched luxuriously. ‘Bliss,’ she murmured: ‘the weekend at last.’

  ‘Busy day?’ I asked.

  ‘Very,’ said Beth, taking another sip and pushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ears. ‘I even had Miss B-H telling me not to worry but to be prepared for any eventuality.’

  ‘So did I.’

  Beth looked round as Troy Phoenix and his aptly named Whalers began to sing ‘House of the Rising Sun’. ‘Shall we go?’ she said with a grin.

  ‘Let’s,’ I said and we finished our drinks.

  We waved goodbye to Ruby, who pointed to her roses and gave me a big smile. It looked like her day was complete. But when Beth and I walked out into the cold night air I realized it wasn’t.

  On the far side of the village green, a classic black Bentley had just pulled up and Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was standing next to it. From the rear of the car emerged an army sergeant, who jumped to attention and saluted. The major returned the salute, climbed back in and drove away. Andy Smith looked smart in his uniform. Taller than his father, he had the same wiry build but when he smiled there was no mistaking he was Ruby’s son.

  Beth and I followed him in to see Ruby’s reaction.

  Ruby stopped singing along and stared, barely able to believe her eyes.

  ‘Andy … my son, my son!’ And with that she burst into tears and hugged her eldest child as if she never wanted to let him go.

  It was a scene I’ll never forget but what made it special was that Andy had a gift for his mother.

  In his hand he held a flower … It was the sixth yellow rose.

  So it was that later that evening, in the crowded front room of 7, School View, Ruby was granted her wish and she sang to her children … all six of them.

  Chapter Four

  Jane Austen’s Footsteps

  School closed today for the one-week half-term holiday with 86 children on roll.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 24 October 1980

  THE PURPLE-GREY SKY began to darken and I could smell rain on the autumn wind. It had been a long drive to Hampshire.

  Dusk was drawing in and Beth and I were keen to arrive at her parents’ home before nightfall. We slowed as an old wooden signpost came into view. It read LITTLE CHAWTON 2.

  ‘We’re nearly there, Jack,’ said Beth and she leant over and squeezed my hand. Her excitement was obvious, whereas I felt a knot of apprehension in my stomach as our meet-the-family weekend drew near.

  It was Saturday, 25 October. We had left North Yorkshire after breakfast and gradually the miles sped by. A coffee break in South Yorkshire was followed by a relaxing lunch in a friendly roadside pub in the Midlands and afternoon tea near Oxford. Finally, as darkness began to fall, we meandered through a cluster of classic English villages bordered by water meadows and breathtaking forests. Hampshire was truly a beautiful county. However, my mud-splattered Morris Minor Traveller was beginning to groan in protest as we descended a hill beneath an avenue of giant trees. Above our heads their branches arched like a bridge of fingers across the narrow road and formed a dark tunnel that shut out the sky. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

  Soon we were following an ancient tractor down the main street of Little Chawton. The bright amber lights of the Cricketer public house pierced the gloom and I pulled up alongside an old cast-iron hand pump at the edge of the village green. Ahead was a church with a square Norman tower and a row of neat thatched cottages fronted with red brick and Hampshire flint.

  Beth pointed ahead. ‘Turn left at the church, Jack, and drive to the top of the rise.’

  A few spots of rain had begun to fall as we parked outside the last cottage. It was a mellow brick-and-beam building, expertly thatched, with sloping window frames and not a right angle in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had arrived safely.

  ‘This is it, Jack: Austen Cottage,’ said Beth excitedly. ‘Drive down to the far end of the driveway next to Dad’s shed.’

  Lights appeared at the front door and a tall, athletic man with steel-grey hair and a relaxed smile strode out to meet us. It was John Henderson, Beth’s father, dressed in a country-checked shirt, warm woollen waistcoat and thick cord trousers. He was fifty-seven years old but looked much younger.

  Beth opened the passenger door, jumped out and gave her father a big hug. ‘Good to be home, Dad,’ she said.

  ‘Thank God you’re here, Beth,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your mother’s been stirring her precious watercress soup for the past hour.’

  Beth gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘She doesn’t change, then!’

  He grabbed Beth’s overnight bag and stretched out his hand to me in greeting. ‘Good journey, Jack?’

  ‘Fine, thank you … Mr Henderson,’ I replied hesitantly.

  He grinned. ‘Call me John. No formalities here, Jack … particularly for my future son-in-
law.’ His handshake was firm. At six feet tall his eyes were on a level with mine and he gave me a warm smile.

  In the warmth of a huge terracotta-tiled kitchen, Diane Henderson looked less relaxed. She glanced up from stirring a large pan of soup and, in a blue-striped apron that emphasized her slim figure, she pushed a strand of soft blonde hair behind her ear. Her high cheekbones, clear skin and green eyes reminded me of Beth … and Laura.

  Next to me, on an old Welsh dresser, was a small television set. Alan Titchmarsh was happily presenting his gardening guide and, on the shelf above, alongside a collection of the novels of Jane Austen, were many framed photographs. One was dated 1958 when the twelve-year-old Beth and ten-year-old Laura had waited excitedly outside the Salisbury Gaumont to see Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Others showed the two sisters riding ponies, dressed as girl guides, playing college hockey and enjoying skiing holidays.

  Beth saw me looking at the photographs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘These are so embarrassing.’

  Diane took the soup off the hob, walked over to Beth and gave her a hug, and I thought that, side by side, they looked more like sisters.

  ‘Welcome home, Beth,’ she said, holding her elder daughter’s hands and then taking a step back to appraise her. ‘Come and sit down, you must be tired.’

  Then she turned down the sound on the television set and looked up at me with a small smile. Her steady gaze appeared cautious. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron, stretched up and gave me a peck on the cheek.

  ‘Hello, Jack … I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made enough soup for an army.’

  ‘Yes, please, Mrs Henderson. It certainly smells appetizing,’ I said.

  ‘Jack … do call me Diane.’ She surveyed me with a calm gaze again and I wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind.

  On the table was a veritable feast: a cured ham, boiled potatoes, large red tomatoes, fresh beetroot, a towering sponge cake and a bottle of home-made cowslip wine. Diane began serving her watercress soup, a local Hampshire speciality, with crusty fresh-baked bread rolls, and we all tucked in.