04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘When’s Laura coming?’ asked Beth.

  John put down his spoon and wiped his mouth with a snowy-white napkin. ‘She rang this afternoon … said she’ll be here for Sunday lunch and staying for the afternoon before going back to London.’

  ‘Is she bringing Desmond?’ asked Beth.

  ‘Yes,’ said Diane simply.

  I looked up and she was staring at me.

  ‘Sounds like she’s pretty keen on him,’ said Beth.

  ‘Well, you know Laura,’ said John: ‘no half-measures.’

  I felt the knot in my stomach tighten.

  Beth smiled and returned to her meal, while her mother glanced at me again before offering second helpings of the delicious watercress soup.

  Gradually we all relaxed with the good food and potent home-made wine. There was lively banter between Beth and her father while Diane Henderson cleared the dishes. I offered to help but she was insistent I remain at the table. My thoughts drifted to Beth’s younger sister. The dynamic, vivacious and attractive Laura always lived life to the full. During her time as manager of the fashion department of Liberty’s in York we had spent a lot of time together. To me she was an exciting friend but Laura had seen our relationship in a different way. Eight months ago, on Leap Year Day, she had joked about it being the day when women could propose to men. My cool response to the idea ended a blossoming relationship and Laura had returned to London and resumed her old job at Liberty’s in Regent Street. We hadn’t spoken since.

  Later that evening, we sat in the low-beamed lounge by a crackling log fire and Beth and I related stories of our lives as village school headteachers. Finally, over a second bottle of home-made wine, we shared an old album of photographs taken on John’s ancient Kodak No. 2 automatic Brownie camera. Their Isle of Wight holiday in 1949 brought back many happy memories for them.

  Only charred embers remained in the fire grate when the album was closed. John set off to lock up the house and Diane returned to the kitchen to make some hot milky bedtime drinks.

  Beth closed the lounge door and whispered, ‘I’m in my old room, Jack, and you’re in the spare room.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said with a smile.

  We walked through to the kitchen, collected our drinks, and I browsed through the copies of Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma.

  ‘We named the cottage after Jane Austen,’ said Diane, ‘but this is my favourite.’ She picked up a well-thumbed copy of Sense and Sensibility, opened it to the first page and scanned the familiar introduction to the Dashwood family. ‘It’s really two love stories … of two sisters.’ She looked up and I wondered if there was a hint of hidden significance. ‘Have you read it, Jack?’

  ‘A long time ago,’ I said, ‘for A Level English.’

  ‘Bedtime reading,’ she said and passed it to me.

  ‘Thanks, Diane.’

  She opened the door, paused in the doorway and looked back as if there was something on her mind. Whatever it was she decided not to share it. Then she looked me up and down. ‘Goodnight, Jack … Sleep well,’ she said, and walked out into the hallway, leaving the door open for me to follow.

  * * *

  The small single bedroom was quiet and cosy. I sat up in bed and looked around at the rough-plastered, whitewashed walls, the ancient beams above my head and the framed pictures of steam engines and pretty watercolour views of Hampshire villages.

  I was soon engrossed in Sense and Sensibility and full of admiration for Jane Austen’s acute perceptions of human nature and her wicked sense of humour. Finally, to the sound of the whispering of the thatched roof in the evening breeze, I fell into a deep sleep.

  It was a chill dawn and even the cock crowing in the far distance sounded mournful. I looked out of the window upon my strange new world. On the south wall of Austen Cottage, an espalier pear had been trained to perfection and, in the hedgerow, blackberry briars trailed in among the berries of hips and haws. Beneath me, chrysanthemums were like burnished gold in the slanting October sunshine and Virginia creeper spread its leaves of autumn fire across the flint-studded walls.

  I dressed quickly, made my way down the creaking stairs in stockinged feet and sat in the stone-flagged entrance porch to put on my shoes. The kitchen door was unlocked and I walked outside into the yard and made my way up the well-worn pathway to a sturdy wooden fence.

  John was walking towards me with an old enamel bucket and gave me a cheery wave. ‘Lovely morning, Jack,’ he shouted. He opened the five-barred gate and set down the bucket. I peered inside. Nestling on a handful of straw were six large brown eggs. He followed my gaze. ‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘You can’t beat fresh eggs.’

  We both leant on the fence and stared into the distance. A traditional patchwork of the fields of rural England stretched out before us in the morning mist. In a fertile valley of shimmering watercress beds, a classic English village appeared frozen in time. Next to the ancient church, a pond fed by local streams was a home for mallards and moorhens and, in among the tall trees, an old schoolhouse, faced with undressed flint, had a bell tower just like Ragley School. I smiled at the memory.

  ‘You have a lovely home, John,’ I said, ‘and Hampshire looks a fine place, gentler than North Yorkshire.’

  ‘Yes, we like it here,’ mused John. ‘It’s a simple life. Since I retired from the RAF, I potter along. We sell milk and eggs, raise a few pigs, and I help out on the Watercress Line.’

  ‘Watercress Line?’

  ‘Steam engines, Jack. Every man has his passion.’

  I glanced at his weather-beaten face and we stared out upon this perfect autumn morning.

  ‘I’m a lucky man, John,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I never thought Beth would say yes.’

  He nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘You have two wonderful daughters … both beautiful and talented.’

  ‘And both very different,’ he added. Then he gazed into the distance. ‘Laura … ah, Laura,’ he mused. ‘She was always the light and shade of my life – sometimes happy, then sad, often in the same moment.’

  ‘Laura is always great fun, John,’ I said, ‘and she’s clearly going places in the fashion world, by all accounts.’

  ‘I just hope it lasts,’ he said. ‘A lot of her projects have often come crashing down round her ears.’ His expression gave no hint of hidden meaning. ‘She was very fond of you, Jack … but you must know that by now.’

  I turned to face him. ‘It’s always been Beth for me, John. There was never any other. I’m sorry if I made Laura think otherwise.’

  He put his hand on my shoulder in a fatherly way. ‘Well, I wish you luck. If you have half the happiness I’ve had, then you’ll be truly blessed. But remember: Beth is like her mother – a very independent woman. She’s used to organizing life her way. There’ll have to be some give-and-take.’

  ‘I understand, John.’

  After breakfast, Beth was keen to show me the local market town of Alton.

  ‘You two go, Beth,’ said Diane. ‘Your father and I have a few jobs to do.’

  ‘I’ll take you in, if you like,’ said John.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ said Diane firmly. ‘You can stay and help me.’

  John grinned. ‘This is what you’ve got to get used to, Jack.’ He rummaged in his pocket and gave Beth a set of keys. ‘Take the Land-Rover, if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad. We’ll only be an hour.’

  We clambered into the Land-Rover and Beth took the wheel. On the way we slowed up outside the house where Jane Austen spent the final eight years of her life with her mother and her sister Cassandra.

  ‘This is where she came to live in 1809,’ said Beth, ‘and where she wrote Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Mansfield Park, Emma and Persuasion.’

  When we reached the outskirts of Alton, Beth suddenly pulled up alongside a huge triangular grassy area flanked by an avenue of horse-chestnut trees known as the Butts. She jumped out, set off quickly to the cent
re of the green and looked back at me. Then she raised her voice in the crisp morning air.

  ‘Jack, you’re walking in Jane Austen’s footsteps,’ said Beth. ‘That’s what my mother used to say to me when I came here as a child.’

  The branches above me sighed with the weight of memories and I tried to imagine the young Jane Austen, unaware she was destined for greatness. She would walk from her home, perhaps to this very spot, and reflect on early-nineteenth-century life and the comedy of manners being acted out around her.

  Then Beth took my hand and, as leaves of russet and gold twirled round our heads, we walked into Alton’s High Street. In the pretty market square Beth pointed to a line of black cut-out witches on their broomsticks hanging from the striped canopy above a greengrocer’s. The shop was doing a roaring trade selling jars of local quince jam and bright-orange hollowed-out pumpkins with leering, toothy grins in preparation for Hallowe’en.

  Next door was a tiny coffee shop. Beth tugged at my sleeve. ‘Let’s go in. There’s something I want to talk to you about.’

  We ordered two milky coffees and sat down.

  ‘I’ve been thinking, Jack,’ said Beth, stirring her coffee.

  ‘About what?’

  Beth looked thoughtful, weighing her words. ‘Our future – or, to be more precise, your future.’

  ‘Aren’t they the same thing?’ I asked.

  She looked up at me and then resumed stirring her coffee.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ I asked.

  She put down the spoon, picked up the mug of coffee, blew on the surface and took a sip. ‘Jack, you must realize that the future of Ragley School is uncertain.’

  ‘Surely the same could be said of Hartingdale?’ I countered.

  She shook her head as if disappointed by my response. ‘No, don’t you see? It’s different because of its location. I’m the only school in my area that caters for the children of three small villages plus Hartingdale itself. You’re close to the large primary school in Easington, so Ragley children could easily be transported there.’

  ‘So are you saying there’s a good chance Ragley may close?’

  ‘No, Jack, I’m just saying that … you’re vulnerable.’

  ‘So what are you suggesting?’

  ‘Jack …’ Beth gave me a level stare, ‘I think you should look for another headship.’

  We drank our coffee in silence.

  Back at Austen Cottage, a bright-red 1977 Triumph Spitfire 1500 pulled into the gateway ahead of us and John and Diane came out of the house on to the gravelled driveway.

  Desmond Dix, manager of Liberty’s in London, climbed out in a haze of cigarette smoke. He was a short, stocky man in his early forties with thinning black hair and a designer suit that would have cost more than I made in a month. The top three buttons of his white silk shirt were not fastened, revealing his hairy chest and a thin silver chain with the letters DD interlinked. He stubbed out his cigarette with the heel of his expensive ankle-high leather boots and walked confidently over to John and Diane.

  ‘Hi there,’ he said.

  John’s face was impassive as he shook hands.

  Laura stepped out of the car like a film star. She was wearing skin-tight stone-washed jeans and a black leather jacket that accentuated her catwalk-model figure. Her pink lipstick exactly matched her polo-necked sweater. She looked sensational.

  Diane gave her a hug, then stood back and critically surveyed her younger daughter. ‘You’re skin and bone, Laura. I hope you’re eating properly.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Mother,’ said Laura and turned to her sister. ‘Hi, Beth. Let’s see the ring.’ She nodded in exaggerated approval. ‘Good choice,’ and gave her sister an air-kiss. She walked over to me. ‘And how’s the village teacher?’

  ‘I’m fine, Laura,’ I said simply.

  She tugged the sleeve of my old herringbone-pattern sports jacket. ‘Dear me, Jack, I remember this old thing.’ She reached up and straightened my crumpled lapels. ‘You need to take him in hand, Beth – or hasn’t Eighties fashion arrived yet in the frozen north?’

  ‘How are you, Laura?’ I asked.

  Laura looked at me curiously. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘This is Desmond, by the way.’ I shook his hand; it was soft and fleshy. ‘And this is Jack … Beth’s fiancé.’ She seemed to emphasize the word fiancé.

  ‘Hi,’ he said briefly. ‘What age do you teach?’ he asked curtly.

  ‘Primary-school children … up to elevens.’

  He looked surprised. ‘Oh, so when will you be qualified to teach at secondary school?’

  ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I said.

  ‘Come on, Desmond,’ said Laura, grabbing his hand. ‘Take no notice of him, Jack, he’s only teasing.’

  John had booked a table for lunch in the Cricketer and we all squeezed into the Land-Rover. When we walked in, I was reminded of The Royal Oak in Ragley. At the corner table, a group of farmers was arguing loudly about food production.

  ‘Thart young man be roight,’ said a ruddy-faced old-timer, pointing to an article in the Maltings Echo. Apparently, Peter Walker, Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, had predicted big changes in the way food would be produced and that so-called ‘convenience foods’ were just around the corner. Incredibly, four out of ten homes now had a freezer, but, on a teacher’s salary, I doubted I would ever own one.

  After a drink in the lounge bar, when I experienced a strange local beer that looked like flat cider, we all settled down to enjoy a good Sunday lunch. I was surprised to see squirrel soup on the menu and I wondered what the children back in Ragley School would have made of it, particularly those in the Tufty Club. Apparently, according to John, local delicacies such as squirrel and bacon casserole and even squirrel pasties had been very popular during the Second World War. However, when I saw a main course option of rook pie, I decided that maybe the soup was not so bad after all.

  To my relief, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was also on the menu and, although the Yorkshire puddings were strange, tiny creations, the local beef was excellent. The sweet course of white chocolate with mint and watercress mousse suggested that watercress was a staple part of the Hampshire diet.

  After the meal, Desmond took out a pack of Peter Stuyvesant luxury-length filter cigarettes. They were longer than King Size and I looked at them with curiosity. He selected one and lit it. On the side of the pack was a warning: THINK FIRST – MOST DOCTORS DON’T SMOKE. Desmond saw me reading it. ‘Good job I don’t want to be a doctor,’ he said, expertly blowing a smoke ring in the air.

  When we finally returned to Austen Cottage the light was fading and soon it would be dusk. Diane and Beth walked inside, absorbed in animated conversation about wedding dresses, while Desmond lifted the bonnet of his sports car so John could try to solve the mystery of a strange knocking noise. Grateful for the peace and quiet, I walked to the fence that surrounded the large paddock. A few minutes later Laura, with light quick steps like a fawn in the forest, suddenly appeared.

  ‘Oh, hello, Laura,’ I said. ‘Is it fixed?’

  ‘It was boring so I left them to it,’ she said dismissively. She looked me up and down. ‘You don’t change, do you?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Still wearing these old spectacles?’ She reached up and took them off. Her touch was gossamer soft and I reacted to her cool fingertips. ‘There … that’s better,’ she said, smiling.

  ‘Laura … earlier this year … I’m sorry if I upset you.’

  In an absent-minded way, she began picking at the loose threads on the frayed edges of the leather patches on the elbows of my sports jacket.

  ‘Pity you didn’t let me smarten you up … new Eighties spectacles, new suit.’

  ‘I never was a knight in armour, Laura … just a village teacher.’

  The soft breeze lifted a few strands of her long brown hair and she flicked them behind her ears in the same way as Beth. ‘I thought you said you weren’t the marrying kind.’
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  There was a slam of a car bonnet in the distance. ‘You’ve got Desmond now, Laura.’

  ‘I know,’ she said softly.

  ‘He’ll give you whatever you want.’

  ‘Will he?’ There was a hint of sadness in her green eyes.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She smiled and replaced my spectacles. ‘You never did, Jack … That’s part of your charm.’

  Her high-heeled boots crunched on the gravel as she walked quickly back to the house. I leant back on the fence and glanced up at the house. A still figure was looking down at me from Beth’s bedroom window. It was Diane.

  When Desmond and Laura roared off back to London, she gave a fleeting wave but didn’t look back. That evening Diane and Beth laid out a cold supper buffet of fresh-baked bread, ham, pickles, beetroot, carrots, a potato salad and a magnificent Victoria sponge with butter icing. The conversation inevitably returned to possible school closures and wedding plans.

  ‘I think you’re wise to wait,’ said Diane; ‘so much is uncertain at present.’

  That night, when I finally turned out the light and lay back on my pillow, I wondered if Diane Henderson had ever compared Beth and Laura to Austen’s contrasting sisters in Sense and Sensibility – the cool, sensible Elinor and the passionate, idealistic Marianne. It wasn’t difficult to work out which was which.

  On Monday morning, we said our goodbyes and it was time to head home. The miles rolled by and, finally, in the far distance, the bulk of the North Yorkshire moors lay heavy on the horizon. The purple swathes of heather had long gone now, replaced by a golden haze as the bracken turned. The season had changed and I was back in God’s Own Country. It was good to be home.

  That night, after saying goodnight to Beth outside her cottage in Morton, I sat by a log fire in Bilbo Cottage and reflected on the weekend and the fate of two sisters. While I had played a part in their destiny, deep down I knew our journey had just begun.

  We had walked in Jane Austen’s footsteps … but the final chapter was still a long way off.

  Chapter Five