04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  After working with women every day it made a change to be in the company of men and I relaxed in the instant camaraderie. The platform was crowded and we followed the huge figure of Dan as the train eased its way into the station. It was the hourly service from Newcastle to Liverpool and the eight blue and grey carriages were covered in thick grime. John, the train buff, informed us they were hauled by a Class 47 diesel electric locomotive but we were more concerned to get a seat. Dan quickly found four seats with a table and we settled down with our newspapers, magazines and a welcome KitKat each.

  I opened my Times and frowned. Under the headline ‘Oil battle looms in the Falklands’, a report indicated there was trouble brewing with Argentina. Mr Nicholas Soames, Minister of State for Latin America, had visited the Falkland Islands after Argentina had claimed these islands and begun a dispute over who owned drilling rights. I couldn’t see us backing down on the issue of sovereignty and I wondered what the outcome might be.

  On a lighter note, on the back page was a photograph of Steve Davis, a new snooker star, who had just won in one week more than I earned in a year. Apparently the tall, slim, ginger-haired twenty-three-year-old had begun to play at Pontins Holiday Camp at the age of twelve. I recalled that when I was twelve this would have been regarded as a misspent youth but now I wasn’t so sure.

  At eleven o’clock we walked out of the station into Leeds City Square and stood on the steps of the Queen’s Hotel, staring at the busy scene of traffic and shoppers.

  ‘Hey, look at this!’ exclaimed Dan. Outside the hotel entrance was a large sign, ‘JILLY COOPER – Book Signing, 12 noon to 1.00 p.m.’

  I recalled the conversation in the staff-room. ‘Colin, that would be perfect for Sally. She was on about Jilly Cooper yesterday.’

  ‘Jack’s right,’ said Dan. ‘A signed copy would be special. She’d be really impressed on Christmas morning. In fact, we could all get one!’

  ‘Who’s Jilly Cooper?’ asked a bemused John. I was beginning to see why Anne fancied David Soul.

  Colin lit up an evil-smelling roll-up cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘I fancy something to eat before all this shopping.’

  ‘And maybe a pint afterwards,’ added John hopefully. He’d already forgotten about Jilly Cooper.

  Dan looked at his watch. ‘OK, how about over there?’ He pointed across the road to a grubby café on Boar Lane. The name ‘Buddy’s’ was emblazoned across the window above a picture of Buddy Holly. ‘Then we can come back here for the book signing.’

  I liked simple solutions and suddenly remembered why I enjoyed shopping with men.

  When we walked in we realized there was a 1950s theme and, suddenly, my black-framed spectacles were back in fashion. Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll be the Day’ was blasting out on the juke-box and the waiter, leaning against the counter, looked the part in his drainpipe trousers, brocade waistcoat, bootlace tie and brothel-creeper shoes. He stubbed out his cigarette, combed his greasy Tony Curtis hairstyle and yelled ‘Peggy Sue … customers!’

  A tough-looking waitress in a short pink skirt with a net petticoat and bobby socks came over to our table. The name ‘Peggy Sue’ was stitched on her white blouse and a red-and-white checked scarf was knotted cowboy-style round her neck. She fingered her platinum-blonde pony-tail, took a final puff of her cigarette and removed the pencil from behind her ear.

  ‘Yeah?’ she said, taking out a notepad.

  ‘Is there a menu?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s on t’board,’ she said, looking at me as if I couldn’t read.

  We looked at the chalkboard on the wall next to the peeling pictures of Elvis Presley, Bill Hayley and, incongruously, Hughie Green in a scene from the television show Double Your Money. Hughie was looking suitably tense as he asked a contestant a question for the top prize of thirty-two pounds.

  ‘Mek up y’minds,’ grumbled Peggy Sue. ‘Ah’ve got a thirty-seven bus t’catch at ’alf past eleven!’

  This was clearly a long way from the Dean Court Hotel in York.

  ‘What do you recommend?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Burgers an’ Coke,’ said Peggy Sue, eyeing up the tall, handsome Dan.

  Everyone nodded. ‘For four, then, please, er … Peggy Sue,’ said Dan.

  ‘S’not m’real name,’ she said with a brown-toothed smile. ‘Ah’m Marlene from Gipton.’

  For four men on a shopping trip, eating is a purely functional activity and no one complained that the burgers were like cardboard; however, when the drinks arrived, John stared sadly at his Coke. ‘There’s ice in here!’

  ‘Giz it ’ere, y’soft ha’porth,’ said Peggy Sue as she fished out the ice cubes with her fingers and threw them in the ashtray.

  We only left a modest tip.

  * * *

  The Queen’s Hotel with its opulent 1930s Art Deco interior was a perfect venue for a celebrity book signing and a large crowd had gathered for one of Yorkshire’s adopted daughters. Women of all ages and from all walks of life were chatting together.

  ‘She started out with a piece on young wives for the Sunday Times in 1969, you know,’ said a large lady in a tweed suit, ‘and then moved on to a regular column,’ she added in a loud voice as if she was announcing the runners and riders for the three-thirty at Cheltenham.

  Her tall willowy friend in a lilac bouclé knit dress, determined not to be outdone, replied in a high-pitched, squeaky voice, ‘Well, I heard that when she was asked how she relaxed, with reading or sex …’ Everyone around her stopped speaking and immediately listened in. ‘… Jilly said that reading’s the thing because sex isn’t relaxing, you have to concentrate too hard!’

  The lady in the tweed skirt blushed slightly and sought to change the subject quickly. ‘I do like the pretty chenille trim on your cuffs, my dear.’

  The queue was huge and we found ourselves near the back of it. Jilly Cooper was clearly very popular. When I looked around I noticed we were the only men. The four of us stood there feeling a little embarrassed while the conversation around us continued to be animated.

  ‘Her great-great-grandfather was Liberal MP for Leeds,’ said a knowledgeable woman in front.

  ‘And she was brought up in Ilkley,’ said another Yorkshire lady, with a hint of pride.

  There was a tap on my shoulder. ‘Have you read Harriet?’ asked a strange little lady behind me in a quaint hat. ‘It’s my favourite.’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ I replied. ‘I haven’t read any Jilly Cooper novels … But my fiancée thinks they’re wonderful,’ I added hastily, fearing that those ahead of me would turn into a literary lynch mob. They were holding up novels with titles that reminded me of upper-crust first names such as Imogen and Prudence.

  There was a cheer as Jilly Cooper arrived, looking stunning and full of joie de vivre. Elegant and slim, with long wavy hair cascading around her shoulders, she was certainly an English beauty. Her rosy cheeks shone with health and her eyes crinkled with laughter.

  Finally, it was our turn and Dan and John got their books signed. Dan in particular made a significant impression and I imagined Jilly thinking he would make the perfect hero for her next novel. Colin nervously proffered his copy of Class: A View from Middle England.

  ‘It’s for my wife,’ muttered Colin.

  ‘Jolly good,’ said Jilly cheerfully, ‘and what’s her name?’

  ‘Sally,’ said Colin, ‘and, er … she’s expecting.’

  ‘Oh, jolly super,’ said Jilly, scribbling away, ‘and when’s it due?’

  ‘Early next year,’ gulped Colin.

  ‘I’m sure it will be a beautiful baby,’ said Jilly, passing over the signed copy and shaking his hand.

  ‘Er, thank you and … er, lovely to meet you,’ said Colin.

  Then it was my turn. I put a copy of Octavia on the desk and gave Jilly a nervous glance.

  ‘Hello. I’m Jilly,’ she said with a toothy smile.

  ‘Oh, hello, I’m Jack … Jack Sheffield, and this one’s for my fiancée, Beth, ple
ase,’ I said.

  ‘Super name,’ said Jilly, scribbling again. She wrote ‘To Beth’, signed it with a flourish and looked up at me. ‘Oh, how absolutely jolly,’ she said, ‘and when’s the big day?’

  ‘Oh, er, probably next year,’ I said hesitantly.

  ‘And what do you do, Jack?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a village schoolteacher,’ I said. ‘Well, actually, the headteacher,’ I added, forsaking all modesty. ‘It’s an interesting life.’

  ‘Sounds like a jolly good story,’ said Jilly with a twinkle in her eyes and handed me the signed copy.

  ‘Yes, perhaps it is,’ I said. ‘Well, thank you and it’s a pleasure to meet you – and I promise to read one of your novels,’ I added and then felt rather foolish.

  Jilly rummaged in a bag at her feet and pulled out a dog-eared paperback entitled Bella. ‘Here, try this,’ she said. ‘It’s about an actress and you might find it fun.’

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, quite taken aback by this turn of events.

  ‘Super!’ she exclaimed and turned her attentions to the lady in the quaint hat.

  At the far side of the huge foyer, a stall had been set up and two women were offering a gift-wrapping service. The four of us had our books beautifully wrapped in red crêpe paper with a pink bow and a Christmas gift tag. The book signing had finally ended when Jilly’s Auntie Gwen arrived. A sensible-looking, tweed-clad lady from Ripon, she apparently played a star role in Class and was, the story goes, the only sensible person in the book.

  As we walked out of the Queen’s Hotel I glanced back at this monumental building with its Portland stone façade and admired its Victorian grandeur. We hurried across a zebra crossing into Leeds City Square, towards the magnificent piazza and its huge centrepiece, the majestic 1903 statue of the Black Prince on horseback. Then we strode out towards the Town Hall, with its stone lions standing guard in timeless repose, and I revelled in being back in the great northern city of my birth. Leeds was teeming with shoppers scurrying here and there under the bright Christmas lights in the grand stores on Briggate and in the magical arcades with their high-quality jewellers’ and stationers. This really was a wonderful place for Christmas shopping.

  Then we walked up the Headrow towards Lewis’s department store. The Christmas window displays were, as always, quite splendid. A large banner, lit up with fairy lights, beckoned us in to ‘Meet Father Christmas in his Wind in the Willows grotto and toy fair on the third floor’.

  We stopped in the entrance and surveyed the scene. ‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked John nervously. Everywhere we looked, confident women shoppers were walking purposefully around the store.

  ‘Why don’t we split up into pairs?’ said Dan. ‘I’ll go with Colin. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour to buy one or two gifts and then we can have a pint.’ Dan was rapidly becoming a New Age Eighties-man.

  ‘OK,’ I said, looking up at the huge sign at the foot of the escalator. ‘So let’s meet at Santa’s grotto,’ I said. ‘We should be able to find that easily.’

  So, with our matching parcels under our arms, we set off somewhat irresolutely to seek the Christmas present of our partners’ dreams.

  ‘This looks good,’ said John, picking up a ‘Make-your-own-handbag kit’.

  ‘No, John,’ I said. ‘It’s not romantic enough.’

  ‘Well, how about one of these?’ He pointed to a Steadfast Screwmaster ratchet screwdriver. ‘For when she needs one when I’m out at Camera Club,’ said John earnestly.

  I began to realize why Dan had picked Colin as his shopping partner. Finally, I gave up when he said, ‘How about some Bonjela? She gets mouth ulcers occasionally and … there’s a really good book on woodcarving I’ve seen.’

  Meanwhile, the other intrepid duo was doing well. The poster in the cosmetics department proclaimed that ‘the new range of Perlier skin products nourish and protect your skin with pure honey and virgin bees’ wax’.

  ‘I wonder how they know the bees are virgins,’ said Colin with a smile.

  An assistant who smelt like a perfume factory held up jars of moisturizing cream, cleansing lotion and skin toner. ‘With Perlier skin products you can enjoy the feel and look of natural beauty,’ she recited.

  ‘I’ll take one of each,’ said Dan confidently.

  He picked up his bag of cosmetics and turned through three hundred and sixty degrees. At six-feet-four-inches tall he could see every display of products.

  ‘Come on, Colin, I’ve spotted just the thing for you.’

  Colin looked thoughtfully at the hair-styling brush and blow-dryer. On the box it claimed: ‘The way to beautiful hair can be yours with this hot styler.’

  ‘I’ll take this. She’s always fiddling with her hair,’ said Colin knowingly to the assistant, who gave him a fixed smile but kept her thoughts to herself.

  I was beginning to despair. John was standing under a sign, PUT GRASS CUTTINGS IN THEIR PLACE – IN THE GRASS box, and staring lovingly at a Mountfield Vacuum-flo lawnmower, winner of the Special Garden Machinery Award 1980. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he said. ‘I wonder—’

  ‘No, John,’ I said hurriedly and steered him to a cosmetics counter. ‘How about this?’ I said. The label read: ‘With ‘Crème Progrès de Lancôme, Paris, retain that healthy and glowing look for longer.’

  John stroked his curly beard with his huge wood-carver’s hands and nodded.

  ‘Anne would be really impressed,’ I said imploringly.

  After a while he relented. ‘OK, Jack, but I think I’ll get that ratchet screwdriver as well … It’ll come in handy.’

  I bought some cosmetics as well for Beth and then browsed around the record department. I selected the LP record ‘Moments’, featuring a few of Beth’s favourites including Cliff Richard’s ‘Miss You Nights’, Peter Sarstedt’s ‘Where Do You Go to My Lovely’ and David Soul’s ‘Let’s Have a Quiet Night In’.

  Then, feeling pleased with our purchases, we went up the escalator to find Santa’s grotto.

  The familiar Wind in the Willows characters, including the mild-mannered Mole, relaxed Ratty, conceited Mr Toad and the gruff Mr Badger, were all in costume. They were surrounded by an assorted cast of extras comprising little girls from the local dancing school dressed as otters, weasels, stoats and foxes.

  At the back of the grotto Dan and Colin were waiting next to a semicircle of picket fencing that divided the shoppers from an open shed covered in fake polystyrene snow.

  ‘How’s it gone?’ asked Dan.

  ‘Fine,’ I said. John held up his new screwdriver. ‘Well, apart from that.’

  Colin looked at it appreciatively. ‘Nice screwdriver, John.’

  We piled our Jilly Cooper novels on a table just inside the fencing and then gathered round our carrier bags. Instantly we became a mutual appreciation society.

  ‘Perfect,’ said Dan, admiring John’s cosmetics.

  ‘Excellent,’ I said, fully appreciating the superior merits of Colin’s hair styler.

  ‘Have we finished?’ said John plaintively. ‘I fancy a pint.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Colin, ‘and I know a great William Younger’s pub in Briggate.’

  We picked up our carrier bags and headed for the escalator.

  Outside, we crossed the Headrow, walked down Briggate and were soon enjoying a pint of excellent beer.

  ‘Sally will like the tongs,’ I said, supping contentedly.

  ‘And the Jilly Cooper book,’ said Dan draining the dregs. ‘Who’s for another?’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ said Colin. He looked around at our carrier bags. ‘We’ve left the books behind!’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘On the table next to Santa’s grotto.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Dan and we rushed out.

  Under a large wooden sign that read SANTA’S WORKSHOP stood two bored-looking women dressed as fairies, listlessly wrapping presents. One fairy was short and plump and the other tall and skinny. They looked to be in their
twenties and were dressed in sparkly one-piece white bathing costumes, white tights, pink ballet shoes and cheap tiaras. Their cardboard wings had been painted with matt emulsion but not sufficiently well to cover up the words THIS WAY UP.

  ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘We’ve lost our presents.’

  The little plump fairy looked up in disbelief. ‘You tryin’ t’pull my ding-a-ling?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ said Dan. ‘We all put a present on this table and now they’ve gone.’

  The tall skinny one looked at Dan adoringly. ‘Ah’ve not seen you round ’ere before. Ah’m Tracy an’ ah get off at five.’

  ‘An’ ah’m Sharon an’ so do I.’

  Both of them looked at Dan as if he was a Greek god.

  ‘So can you help us to find them?’ I asked.

  They were still staring at Dan.

  ‘Where do the presents go when you’ve wrapped them?’ asked Colin.

  ‘We give ’em t’Santa,’ said Tracy.

  ‘Yeah – in ’is grotto,’ added Sharon.

  ‘How do we get in there?’ asked Dan. ‘There’s no door.’

  ‘Round t’front. Y’ll ’ave t’queue,’ said Tracy.

  ‘Can you go for us?’ asked Colin.

  ‘No. We ’ave t’wrap Santa’s bloody presents,’ said Sharon.

  ‘ ’Old on,’ said Tracy, ‘did they ’ave a pink bow on top?’

  ‘Yes, they did,’ said Colin.

  ‘Cos we’ve not got no pink bows, ’ave we, Tracy?’ said Sharon.

  ‘Please will you go and find them for us,’ implored Dan.

  ‘We’ll wrap these presents for you while you’re looking,’ I pleaded.

  ‘OK,’ said Sharon and Tracy and they ran off.

  So, for the next five minutes we became Santa’s little helpers and struggled to keep straight-faced at the strange looks from the shoppers.

  It was a relief when the fairies returned with the four presents still neatly wrapped and labelled and with their pink bows still intact.