04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  As Dorothy poured two large mugs of tea and heaped three spoonfuls of sugar into each, Nora walked in sporting her Julie Christie look, which had been already severely ruffled by the stiff breeze on the High Street.

  ‘Nice ’air-do, Nora,’ said Dorothy, glancing up. ‘Ah like Kate Bush.’

  Nora gave her a lofty look and went to hang up her coat. I took a deep breath and attempted to engage Dorothy in conversation. This was always a journey into the unknown.

  ‘So, good morning, Dorothy. Have you got any plans for the holiday?’ I asked politely.

  ‘Ah’m gonna watch that film tomorrow night wi’ Malcolm, at ’alf pas’ six on ITV, Mr Sheffield,’ recited Dorothy. ‘It’s Doctor Chicago – ’bout them Russians in love. We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, Malcolm?’

  Little Malcolm blushed furiously while Big Dave gave him his famous big-girl’s-blouse look, perfected since his diminutive cousin had started his incongruous relationship with the five-foot-eleven-inch would-be fashion model.

  Nora Pratt, stacking a pyramid of two-day-old chocolate éclairs at the other end of the counter, was still smarting from the Kate Bush comment. ‘It’s not Chicago, Dowothy, it’s Zhivago,’ she said, ‘wi’ that ’andsome Omar Shawif and that weally beautiful Julie Chwistie.’

  It occurred to me that this was a good idea for the first evening of 1981. Beth Henderson together with David Lean’s superb production of the epic Russian love story sounded a great combination.

  ‘It’s a wonderful film, Nora,’ I agreed.

  ‘Ah love a good womance,’ said Nora. ‘Ah wemember when ah went t’see The King and I with Yul Bwynner.’

  ‘Did you?’ said Dorothy. ‘Ah went wi’ Madge from t’Co-op.’

  Not for the first time, Nora wondered what went on in the alternative universe inhabited by her well-meaning but strangely vacant Coffee Shop assistant.

  As I waited for my frothy coffee, I opened my copy of The Times. The headline ‘New Year’s Honours List ignores British medal winners in Moscow Olympic Games’ reflected the government’s attitude to their official appeal not to compete being ignored by the athletes. Meanwhile, Robin Day, the popular television journalist and interviewer, was given a knighthood.

  I shared a table with Ragley’s favourite bin men, drank my coffee, picked up my newspaper and said my goodbyes.

  ‘Well, good luck tonight, Nora,’ I said. ‘It’s time for me to paint some more scenery.’

  Nora glanced up at the clock. ‘Oh dear, ah’ll ’ave t’wush. Ah’ve jus’ wemembered, ah’ve got to pwactise “White Chwistmas”. It was wubbish at the wehearsal.’

  She rushed upstairs and Dorothy stared after her, looked up at the huge poster of Jack and the Beanstalk, shook her head and returned with a secret smile to her Smash Hits magazine and a full-page picture of David Essex.

  Meanwhile, Ruby had followed Deirdre Coe into Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop. ‘Now then, Mr Piercy,’ said Deirdre in a loud voice, ‘ah want two big pork pies f ’me an’ our Gerry. We’ve gorra keep us strength up for t’dress rehearsal this afternoon.’

  ‘So is Gerry one o’ them actor-types, then?’ asked Old Tommy, while Young Tommy reached for two family-size pork pies from the front-window display.

  ‘ ’E’s allus ’ad a touch o’ t’thespian about ’im, ’as our Gerry,’ said Deirdre pompously. ‘My Uncle Albert, who worked be’ind t’scenes at t’Theatre Royal in York, allus said thespianism runs in t’family.’

  Ruby was confused and wondered how Gerald Coe could be a thespian. She thought thespians were women who sat together on the back row of the Odeon cinema on Saturday nights and held hands when the film started.

  When I walked into the village hall with my tin of paint and a four-inch paintbrush, Felicity Miles-Humphreys, the producer, in her flowing black kaftan and scarlet bandanna, was having problems with her beanstalk.

  ‘Higher, please, darling,’ screeched Felicity. ‘The beanstalk simply must be taller than the giant.’

  Her long-suffering husband, Peter, the bank clerk with the unfortunate stutter, cast a nervous glance in her direction and winced visibly.

  ‘OK, F-F-Felicity,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll t-t-tie it to the cc-c …’

  ‘Cloud,’ added Nigel, his thirteen-year-old son who was adept at finishing his incomplete sentences.

  Felicity’s elder son, twenty-year-old Rupert, who had always got the starring male role since she had been artistic director, was staring in a full-length mirror and making minute adjustments to his hair. He’d used a mixture of sugar and water to make it stand up in spikes.

  ‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ said Felicity. ‘It did need that active and dynamic-with-a-hint-of-surprised look.’

  Rupert put a hand to his fevered brow in an artistic pose and sighed with relief. He was completely unaware that his mother secretly believed her gangling son, with the sparrow legs and never-ending acne, looked as if he’d just been electrocuted.

  I had just finished whitewashing Dame Trott’s kitchen, or, to be more precise, a sheet of eight-by-four hardboard, when Timothy Pratt walked in with a lean, wiry man wearing a flat cap and the baggiest three-piece suit I had ever seen. He looked as if he’d just called in from a P. G. Wodehouse grouse-shooting party. Tidy Tim was carrying a step-ladder and his highly polished metal tool-box in order to do the lights for the pantomime.

  ‘This is Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy, ‘our ’eadteacher ah were telling you about.’

  Kingsley removed his flat cap and gently put down his wooden cage containing two excited ferrets. ‘Ah’m Kingsley an’ this is Simone an’ Garfunkle,’ he said. ‘Ah never go nowhere wi’out ’em.’

  We shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, ‘and … hello to you too,’ I added, glancing down at the ferrets. They looked at me as if I was their next meal.

  ‘Ah’ve ’eard good things abart thee from our Timothy, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. He put a finger and thumb into the pocket of his thick tweed waistcoat. ‘ ’Ere’s my card.’

  Surprised, I took the unusual business card from his gnarled hand. It was one of those produced on a printing machine at the railway station. It read ‘Kingsley Pratt, C.I.D.’

  ‘C.I.D?’

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. Stands f ’Confidential Information Destruction.’

  ‘Oh, what does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Ah tear up waste paper an’ tek it t’tip in Grimethorpe,’ said Kingsley.

  At lunchtime I took a break from painting and called into The Royal Oak and ordered a half of Chestnut and a meat pie. As usual, the taproom was the place where the topics of the day were aired.

  ‘There’s that new breakfas’ telly,’ said Kojak. ‘Ah reckon it might catch on.’

  ‘Ah’m not sure,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, holding up a copy of the Yorkshire Evening Post. The headline read ‘Breakfast TV – 3 hours of woe’. ‘It says ’ere that fifty-six per cent aren’t interested ’cause they ’ave no time t’watch it.’

  ‘Ah’m not surprised,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah don’t want that David Frost wi’ m’cornflakes.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘ ’Cept mebbe if it’s Angela Rippon and Anna Ford.’

  The football team considered this unexpected addition to the debate.

  ‘That Angela Rippon, she’s got lovely legs,’ said Sheila from behind the bar. ‘An’ that Anna Ford’s always got a smashing ’air-do,’ she added for good measure.

  There was a chorus of approval from the village football team as each member grappled with his own personal fantasy of alluring newsreaders. In doing so they reaffirmed the view that men think of sex every eight seconds.

  It was during this period of contemplation that Kingsley Pratt walked in. He introduced himself and his ferrets while Don pulled a pint and Sheila selected a pie from the kitchen. Then he put the cage under a table and sat down to talk to the football team.

  Sheila looked concerned. ‘Ah’m
not keen on ferrets in our taproom, Don.’

  ‘They’re safe enough,’ said Don. ‘ ’E’s gorrem in a cage.’

  ‘They look evil little buggers t’me,’ said Sheila.

  ‘Don’t let ’im ’ear y’saying that. ’E sez’ ’e’s a ferret-legger,’ said Don with a sense of awe.

  ‘What’s that s’pposed t’be?’

  ‘Dunno, luv, but looking at t’teeth on that one ’e calls Garfunkle ah wouldn’t want t’find out.’

  ‘Here y’are,’ said Sheila as she served Kingsley with a pork pie and two pickled onions. ‘That’ll put ’airs on y’chest.’

  Kingsley picked up one of the pickled onions and studied it as if he was a jeweller examining a flawed diamond. ‘Ta, luv,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘but in Grimethorpe we ’ave pickled onions as big as y’fist.’

  We all nodded in acknowledgement at this little-known but very significant fact.

  Kingsley soon found a welcome audience and explained that the ancient sport of ‘ferret-legging’ – namely, popping a ferret down a trouser leg and starting the clock – was his favourite pastime. Generations of Yorkshire miners had done this to thwart unfriendly gamekeepers and Kingsley was keen to keep up the tradition.

  Apparently, a certain Mr Reginald Mellor, soldier, steeplejack and miner, had slipped one down his trouser leg while being interviewed by Brian Glover, the Barnsley playwright and actor. Mr Mellor had been disdainful of the pretenders to his crown. According to The Guinness Book of Records the longest time for keeping a ferret down your trousers had been recorded at an impressive forty seconds. Mr Mellor claimed his best time was over five hours.

  ‘So are there any rules f ’this ferrets-down-yer-trousers stuff?’ asked Don as he pulled Kingsley’s third pint of Tetley’s bitter.

  ‘Tha’s got to ’ave rules, tha knaws,’ said Kingsley gravely. ‘Y’trouser bottoms ’ave t’be tucked into y’socks for a start-off, so t’ferret can run from one leg to t’other.’

  ‘That meks sense,’ said Big Dave.

  ‘It does that,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

  Everyone nodded and winced at the indisputable logic.

  ‘An y’can’t use tranquillizers t’mek ’em dozy,’ said Kingsley, supping deeply on his pint.

  ‘Ah never thought o’ that,’ said Shane.

  Clint considered this and reflected that no ferret with an ounce of sense would ever dream of biting his psychopathic brother.

  ‘An’ y’can’t tek ’em y’self t’dull t’pain.’

  We all blinked at the thought.

  ‘Ah never thought o’ that, neither,’ said Shane.

  Everyone nodded. It was always wise to agree with Shane, even with a double negative.

  ‘An’ they’ve purra stop t’filing a ferret’s teeth t’mek ’em less sharp,’ added Kingsley with gravitas.

  And for the first time in my life I felt an empathy with ferrets.

  On my way out I bumped into Stan Coe. As he weighed sixteen stones I came off worse.

  ‘Watch where y’going, Sheffield,’ he said gruffly.

  ‘I usually do, Mr Coe,’ I said.

  He barred my way, not letting me pass.

  ‘Excuse me, please,’ I said.

  ‘Not looking quite so good now f ’you, Sheffield,’ he said with a brown-toothed leer. ‘From what ah ’ear, y’days are numbered.’

  ‘You’re mistaken,’ I said abruptly and walked away quietly seething.

  * * *

  The dress rehearsal was a disaster. The beanstalk kept falling down, the giant couldn’t see out of his papier-maché head and Daisy the Cow kept tripping up over her huge dangling udder.

  ‘Ah think ah’ve put m’back out,’ complained Gerald Coe to his red-faced sister as they sat at the side of the stage.

  ‘Shurrup, Gerry,’ shouted Deirdre. She looked up at me as I rushed to put the finishing artistic touches to the giant’s castle. ‘An’ soon you’ll be laughin’ on t’other side o’ y’face, Mr ’Eadteacher.’

  It was almost six o’clock when I called in for petrol at Victor Pratt’s garage. He was just shutting up for the holiday.

  ‘Hello, Victor,’ I said. ‘I’ve just met your Kingsley.’

  ‘ ’E’s allus been a character ’as Uncle Kingsley,’ said Victor.

  ‘Oh, yes?’

  ‘ ’E were kiss o’ death, were our Kingsley, during World War Two.’

  ‘Why was that?’ I asked.

  ‘ ’E were a Desert Rat … Arrived on a Sunday an’ captured on Monday.’

  ‘Oh, that’s unfortunate,’ I said.

  ‘Word ’ad it that t’Germans gave ’im back on Tuesday,’ added Victor gloomily. ‘ ’E were too much bother.’

  It concerned me that Victor was always such a pessimist. ‘Victor,’ I said, ‘did you know that optimists live longer?’

  ‘Hmmf … serves ’em reight,’ muttered Victor and with that he took my ten-pound note and shambled away.

  * * *

  Back in the kitchen of Bilbo Cottage, a pleasant surprise awaited me and thoughts of Stan and Deirdre Coe were quickly forgotten. My kitchen, disorganized since the departure of Margaret and May for their Hogmanay in Scotland, sparkled and everything was tidy once again.

  ‘Beth, you’re a wonder,’ I said.

  She looked great in hip-hugging jeans, Chris Evert trainers and a white polo-neck jumper.

  I caught the aroma of appetizing food. ‘That smells good,’ I said.

  ‘There’s a casserole in the oven,’ she said, drying her hands on her apron. I gave her a kiss and she grinned. ‘You need a shower and your spectacles are covered in paint splashes.’

  ‘Can I eat first?’ I said.

  ‘Yes, but hurry,’ she said glancing at her watch. ‘The panto starts in an hour. I’m going to get changed.’ She hung her apron on the back of the door, grabbed a Leak & Thorpe carrier bag from the hallway and rushed upstairs.

  Beth had visited Coney Street in York during the afternoon and selected a New Year’s Eve outfit from the ‘Ladies Pride’ selection. Apparently, the outfits were all half price with sizes ranging from 12 to 22. I recalled Laura telling me she was a size 12 but I had no idea what it meant in inches. As Beth occasionally swapped dresses with her sister, I guessed Beth must be the same size.

  Forty minutes later, well-fed, showered and in my best grey suit with flared trousers and wide lapels, I stood in front of the hallway mirror trying to flatten the palm tree of brown hair on the crown of my head. Beth came downstairs looking stunning in a new light-grey dress with a tight-fitting bodice and a delicate lace choker. She stopped on the bottom step so that we were the same height and I held her in my arms.

  ‘Marry me … tonight,’ I said.

  She smiled, checked her earrings and looked preoccupied. ‘I want to, Jack,’ she said softly, ‘but not tonight … not yet.’

  I had learnt from past experience not to push too hard, so I helped her into her long leather coat and waited while she made adjustments to a scarf that exactly matched her green eyes.

  The village hall was packed. Ruby was on the front row with a reluctant Ronnie and an excited Hazel. Joseph and Vera were on the third row, as Vera wanted to keep her distance from the ‘rowdy element’ at the back, namely, the Ragley Rovers football team, and had saved two seats for Beth and myself. Timothy, Victor and Kingsley Pratt had arrived early and secured the three seats close to the door that led backstage. Disconcertingly, Kingsley was on his hands and knees and clearly looking for something.

  The pantomime was similar to previous years’ with uncoordinated dance routines, the curtains opening during scene changes and occasional shouts of ‘Speak up!’ from disgruntled members of the audience who wanted value for their fifty-pence tickets. However, the first act was the one destined to be remembered for many years to come. At the last minute, Gerald Coe complained he’d ‘put mi back out’ and couldn’t perform. A reluctant Stan Coe had been press-ganged into the rear end of the cow by the formidable
duo of his sister and Felicity Miles-Humphreys.

  So it was that when the character Jack walked on stage with Daisy the Cow he looked puzzled. According to the script, Daisy’s only line was ‘Moooo’.

  ‘There’s summat in yer udder,’ came a gruff voice from the back end.

  ‘Shurrup,’ hissed the front end.

  ‘It’s wriggling abart,’ shouted the back end.

  ‘Aaaaghh!’ screamed the front end. ‘Ah’ve been bitten! Aaaaghh!’

  The audience roared with laughter and Daisy the Cow leapt in the air and ran off the stage. The prompter, Amelia Duff, looked at her script in surprise. It definitely said, ‘Daisy – exit stage left.’ However, on this occasion, the front end had exited stage left and the back end stage right.

  Suddenly, Kingsley Pratt leapt to his feet. ‘Garfunkle, Garfunkle!’ he cried and rushed backstage through the side door.

  Fortunately normal service was soon resumed, although Jack received five magic beans for a cow that was apparently grazing in a nearby field. In spite of Giant Blunderbuss’s head falling off when he attempted to climb the beanstalk, the pantomime limped successfully to its conclusion.

  Finally, true to tradition, Nora Pratt was given the biggest round of applause … even when she sang ‘I Have a Dweam’ and the football team on the back row joined in. Like Nora, and much to the amusement of the audience, they sympathetically dropped the letter ‘r’ from the entire Abba hit record.

  Predictably, the Coe family did not return for the traditional New Year’s Eve party that immediately followed the pantomime. They left with Gerald holding his aching back, a red-faced Stan carrying a cow costume and Deirdre rubbing a ferret bite on her ample backside.

  In complete contrast, life was wonderful once again for the ferret-legger from Grimethorpe. Garfunkle, his prodigal ferret, had returned. After escaping from his cage just before the performance he had found a comfortable hiding place in Daisy’s udder. The rest of the story was already part of Ragley folklore.

  At midnight, when Clint Ramsbottom tuned in his ghetto blaster to the chimes of Big Ben and balloons fell from the football goal nets attached to the ceiling, I held Beth in my arms. Around us a curious group gathered to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. It comprised Anne and John Grainger, Jo and Dan Hunter, Vera and Joseph Evans, the complete Pratt family, and, thankfully secure in their cage, two ferrets by the name of Simone and Garfunkle.