04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Please call me Jack,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you.’

  ‘I’m Virgil,’ he said simply.

  I held up his written estimate. ‘Thanks for this, Virgil. It looks fine … so please start the job when you can. You certainly came highly recommended from Miss Evans.’

  He nodded and his huge mane of black wavy hair tumbled over the collar of his faded denim shirt. ‘She’s a fine lady is Miss Evans,’ he said. He gestured at the collection of broken and twisted metal and a dusty tea chest full of old horseshoes. ‘There’s not a lot going on, as you can see,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll finish this job and then start tomorrow – say, about eleven o’clock.’ Virgil clearly didn’t waste words. He was also one who kept all emotion hidden from the outside world.

  I nodded and drove back through the frozen night to Kirkby Steepleton.

  Saturday was an important day for Vera and the St Mary’s Church social committee. It was the occasion of the annual church jumble sale. In the villages of Ragley and Morton it was a popular event because, as Vera reminded us, it had a better class of jumble. Instead of the battered Monopoly games, broken Action Men and Starsky and Hutch annuals that were a feature at the school jumble sale, the church jumble sale attracted the higher echelon of local society. Antique vases, complete dinner services and brass candlesticks were the norm, along with lawnmowers and trailers that had been replaced with top-of-the range models by their wealthy owners. I had promised Vera that Beth and I would look after the bookstall.

  At eleven o’clock I drove into the school car park. Virgil’s van was already there. I took out my huge bunch of keys, unlocked the great oak entrance door and handed him the spare key.

  ‘I’ll be in from time to time during the day, Virgil, and I’ve asked Ruby to call by and make you a pot of tea.’

  ‘There’s no need,’ said Virgil quickly, ‘but I appreciate the offer,’ he added.

  ‘Ruby will be here anyway, Virgil,’ I said. ‘She often does a couple of hours on a Saturday.’

  Virgil said nothing. He just turned and set to work to remove the broken hinges.

  An hour later I had set up the bookstall in the church hall. Beth had said she would be along later and, on a creaking trestle table, I piled gardening books in one box, do-it-yourself in another, and then I stacked the paperbacks in alphabetical order. When I returned to school, Virgil had already replaced the warped door frame.

  ‘That’s looking a lot better now,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Virgil. I’m really grateful.’

  ‘It’ll be finished this afternoon, Jack,’ he said.

  I looked at my watch. ‘I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘How about breaking off for a bite to eat?’

  Virgil thought for a moment and stared at me as if weighing me up. Then he gave a brief nod. ‘Good idea, I’ll just make the door secure and we can call in at Old Tommy’s for a pie, if you like.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ I said.

  We trudged through the snow across the High Street, our breath steaming in the air. ‘Interesting name … Virgil,’ I said, recalling my rudimentary Latin. ‘He was a famous Roman poet, wasn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right, Jack. My grandfather was a reader and he loved his Virgil. He taught me all about Publius Vergilius Maro. That was his real name and, of course, he wrote the Aeneid. It turned out to be my favourite book.’ Virgil was suddenly animated. Clearly this was a topic that interested him greatly. ‘He was a great man, Jack,’ he continued, ‘born on the fifteenth of October in seventy BC and died in nineteen BC. That’s a short life for so many wise words.’

  There was a lot more to this man than met the eye but, as we walked into Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, the delicious scent of warm pies put all thoughts of Roman poets far from our minds.

  ‘Two growlers, please, Mr Piercy,’ said Virgil.

  I looked curiously at Virgil. ‘Growlers?’

  ‘My treat, Jack,’ he said simply. ‘I’m grateful for the work.’

  Old Tommy passed over two of his much celebrated pork pies.

  ‘These are magnificent pies, Mr Piercy,’ I said gratefully.

  ‘That they are, young Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll tell y’summat f ’nowt. Ah learnt ’ow t’mek pork pies when ah were apprentice butcher wi’ m’Uncle Randolph Piercy in ’is little shop in Kirkstall Road in Leeds.’

  So it was that Old Tommy continued to make his famous pork pies by forcing a mixture of meat, fat and gristle into cold-water pastry. But it was the seasoning, perfected during his apprenticeship and now a family secret, that made his pies such a treat.

  ‘Here y’are, young Virgil,’ said Old Tommy. He handed over a small carton. ‘A bit o’ mint sauce will go just nicely,’ he added with a grin.

  Sitting by the old pine table in the school entrance hall we ate our pies and our stomachs rumbled with pleasure. ‘And that’s why they’re called growlers, Jack,’ said Virgil reflectively but still without a hint of a smile.

  The church jumble sale was about to begin when I walked in. Beth had already taken charge of the bookstall and was in conversation with Vera, who looked animated as she held up her Daily Telegraph.

  ‘Oh, I must share this with you,’ she announced triumphantly and began to read: ‘It is with the greatest pleasure that the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh announce the betrothal of their beloved son the Prince of Wales to the Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of the Earl Spencer and the Honourable Mrs Shand Kydd.’

  ‘Good news, Vera,’ said Beth. ‘You always wanted him to settle down with a lovely young girl and he seems to have found one.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ said Vera. ‘She looks perfect for him – and so beautiful. I can’t wait for the wedding.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ I said and gave Beth a knowing look, but she appeared not to notice.

  Vera hurried off to look after the crockery stall with the doctor’s wife, Joyce Davenport, and immediately launched into a description of the classic lines of a Hornsea pottery teapot with Mrs Dudley-Palmer. Throughout, Vera showed commendable restraint. After all, it was difficult to take seriously a woman who loved Angel Delight, fondue sets and shag-pile carpets. Fortunately Vera was entirely unaware that Petula Dudley-Palmer played ‘Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep, Cheep’ on her Sony Walkman when she donned her Fame leg warmers and went out with the Ragley ladies jogging group.

  Joyce Davenport smiled wistfully at her dearest friend. The young Joyce Duckham and Vera Evans had been in the same class throughout their teenage years and she had often wondered why the tall, slim, attractive Vera had never found the man of her dreams. Then she noticed that, on the other side of the hall, Virginia Forbes-Kitchener was examining some horse-livery equipment. However, her father was disinterested. He was looking in their direction and it appeared he had eyes only for Vera. The major had been a widower for many years and Joyce began to wonder.

  By mid-afternoon, Beth and I had almost sold out. Margery Ackroyd had bought the last Jilly Cooper novel and Mary Hardisty had purchased an Alan Titchmarsh gardening book, ‘but only because he’s a Yorkshireman’, she explained hastily. ‘My George wouldn’t read it otherwise.’

  I looked at my watch. ‘I’d better call round at school again to see if the work on the main door has been finished,’ I said.

  ‘Fine, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘Come back for me in half an hour. I’ll clear up here.’

  Suddenly Ruby, clutching a cardboard box of crockery, appeared. With her was a tall, slender woman I had never seen before.

  ‘ ’Ello, Mr Sheffield, Miss ’Enderson,’ said Ruby. ‘This is our Beauty. She’s visiting t’day from Thirkby.’

  Ruby’s niece was a long-legged natural beauty with shoulder-length wavy chestnut hair. She gave me a shy smile and extended her hand in greeting. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield. Our Ruby ’as told me all about you,’ said Beauty with a smile that must have broken many hearts and a peculiar mixture of a Yorkshire accent mixed with an Australian lilt.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Beauty,’ I said hesitant
ly.

  ‘That’s m’nickname, Mr Sheffield. M’mother an’ our Ruby allus called me that,’ she said with another smile that lit up the room. ‘An’ ah prefer it t’Beverley.’

  I looked at Ruby’s heavy box of crockery. ‘I’m calling into school, Ruby, so I can give you a lift home if you like.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘That’s reight kind.’

  Beauty’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, can ah ’ave a look round t’old school, Mr Sheffield?’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s years since I left ’ere. It would be lovely t’see it again.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ll call in on the way back.’

  Virgil had just cleared up and was giving the giant hinges a final oiling when I stopped outside the school gates.

  ‘Virgil!’ exclaimed Beauty, staring as if she had seen a ghost.

  ‘Beauty,’ said Virgil, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks.

  Ruby put her hand on my arm. ‘P’raps we can give ’em a few minutes, Mr Sheffield … There’s ’istory between these two.’

  We climbed back in the car as Beauty walked towards Virgil. It was time for a story and I settled back into my driver’s seat while Ruby told me the sad tale.

  After a whirlwind romance, Beauty, an assistant on the cosmetics counter in Boots the Chemist in Thirkby, had surprised her family and run off in 1963 with her manager, Clive Turner. He had been offered a job in Australia as chief chemist in a new pharmaceutical factory in Sydney and decided an attractive girlfriend would be an asset in his drive to the top of his profession.

  They had taken advantage of the ten-pound assisted passage and boarded a plane that, with stops in Rome, Bombay and Darwin, took forty hours to arrive in New South Wales, where Beauty, looking like Audrey Hepburn in high heels, white gloves, dark-blue two-piece suit and matching leather handbag, walked confidently into Sydney airport. They were met by Clive’s chief executive in his pale-green Holden F J and whisked off to a smart hotel.

  They were married in November 1963, the weekend before the assassination of President John Kennedy, and moved into a spacious rented house at Mona Vale on the northern peninsula in sight of the sea. Beauty loved the open air but soon discovered she was not allowed to change into her swimsuit on the beach and that only one-piece costumes were allowed. Also the shark patrols made her even more nervous than the funnel-web spiders. Every week she wrote to her mother on blue airmail paper and told her all about the sights and the sea and plans for the new Opera House – but never about how she felt, lonely and far from home.

  For the first few years all seemed well, then Clive had his first affair. They were guests of the Royal Agricultural Society at Sydney showground for the Royal Easter Show. The blonde wife of his colleague was both irresistible and available.

  By the mid-Seventies, Beauty couldn’t stand Clive’s bullying and womanizing any longer and she sought a divorce. Clive was glad to oblige. Beauty had served her purpose.

  She moved into a spare room in a girlfriend’s house and, eventually, there came a morning a few months ago when she knew it was time to leave Australia. The postman had pushed the mail into the mailbox at the end of the driveway and blown his whistle. Then the delivery boy had thrown the local Sydney newspaper on to the front lawn. She had collected the mail, picked up the newspaper and then stared out to sea. It was time to return to her home and family.

  Beauty looked up at the rugged features of the giant blacksmith. ‘Clive told me you were going out wi’ that Alice from t’bakery in Easington,’ said Beauty.

  Virgil looked shocked. ‘I never went out with her, but I think we both know why he would say that.’

  ‘But ah saw y’going into ’er house,’ said Beauty sadly, ‘and ah was coming to see you.’

  ‘I was doing some work for her father,’ said Virgil. ‘I was repairing his trailer as a favour.’

  ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Beauty.

  ‘When you didn’t turn up I thought you’d lost interest. After all, just look at me, Beauty,’ said Virgil. ‘I’m no oil painting.’ His face was etched with the memory of that day. ‘Then I saw you and Clive in his flash car about a week later. I could never compete with that.’

  ‘Ah should ’ave known,’ she said.

  A few days later the weather had changed and the snow had finally gone. There was a shift in the wind and hopes of warmer days for the shoppers on Ragley High Street. Outside the village hall I met Albert Jenkins, school governor and a wise friend. He pointed up the street.

  ‘Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ he said.

  On the opposite pavement Virgil and Beauty were walking hand in hand and deep in conversation but what was extraordinary was the fact that Virgil’s face was wreathed in smiles.

  ‘Good to see, isn’t it, Jack?’ said Albert. ‘I haven’t seen Virgil smile in years.’

  ‘I did wonder why he always appeared so reserved, as if he didn’t want to let his feelings out,’ I said. ‘I’m pleased he’s found a bit of happiness at last.’

  ‘Virgil’s grandfather was a great friend to me, Jack, but, sadly, he’s passed on now. He loved his Latin and he introduced me to the Aeneid, the Roman Empire’s national epic.’

  ‘Yes. Virgil mentioned it to me. He’s a big fan.’

  ‘There were some great lines in it … “Audentes fortuna iuvat”.’ I smiled at Albert’s animated expression. ‘Fortune favours the brave. Book ten, line two hundred and eighty-four.’

  ‘It’s one to remember,’ I said.

  ‘This may surprise you, Jack, but Virgil was actually christened Isaac Virgil Crichton.’

  ‘Isaac?’

  ‘That’s right. He was such a cheerful baby and his mother was a great Bible reader.’

  ‘I still don’t follow, Albert,’ I said.

  Virgil and Beauty had stopped outside Nora’s Coffee Shop. After being awarded an OBE by the Queen, Cliff Richard was in the top ten in America with ‘We Don’t Talk Any More’. It was on full volume as Virgil opened the door. Beauty whispered something in his ear and he laughed out loud.

  ‘Jack … Isaac is Hebrew for laughter,’ said Albert.

  Finally I understood and smiled. ‘So Virgil was right,’ I said.

  We watched them walk into the shop with the confidence of lovers.

  Albert nodded and gave me a knowing look. ‘Omnia vincit amor. Book ten, line sixty-nine,’ he murmured quietly.

  The translation was surprisingly easy and I smiled. ‘Love conquers all,’ I said.

  Above our heads, a parliament of rooks ceased their debate and flew off into a powder-blue sky. It was time to move on and Beth had promised warm soup back at Bilbo Cottage.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Last Rag-and-Bone Man

  Every child made a pancake today. The school cook, Mrs Mapplebeck, demonstrated how to mix the ingredients and, throughout the day, assisted by parents, each class took turns to use the single-ring electric stove in the school hall.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 3 March 1981

  ‘YOU ’AVE T’MAKE one revelation every ten yards, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby as she emptied my waste-paper basket into a black bag. ‘It says so on t’poster outside village ’all.’

  ‘Pardon?’ I looked up from my Yorkshire Purchasing Organization catalogue. The price of HB pencils was causing me concern.

  ‘It’s t’annual pancake race on Saturday, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘They allus ’ave it t’Saturday after Pancake Day on t’village green.’

  ‘Oh, I see. So are you entering, Ruby?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, our ’Azel wants me to ’ave a go.’

  ‘I remember you winning the ladies’ egg-and-spoon race, Ruby, so I’m sure you would be good at pancake racing.’

  Ruby flushed with modesty at this reminder of a great day in her life three summers ago. ‘Mebbe so, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’m good at making revelations.’

  ‘Revelations?’

&nb
sp; ‘That’s reight,’ said Ruby as she walked out of the office, dragging the black bag behind her. ‘Y’ave t’keep flippin’ y’pancake … one revelation every ten yards. Teks a lot o’ skill, does that.’

  I returned, bemused, to my stationery order and the price of pencils. We would have to make economies somewhere unless Mrs Thatcher relented on her public sector cut-backs. I chuckled to myself. Now, that would be a revelation.

  Out of the window I watched the children arriving at school, all looking relaxed and happy and some carrying aprons and small frying pans. It was early morning on Shrove Tuesday, the last day before Lent and the final chance to indulge in fat, butter and eggs before a time of abstinence. Our school cook, Shirley Mapplebeck, was already preparing the ingredients in her kitchen for the marathon pancake-making event of the year.

  Two more cars pulled up outside the school gate, followed by Mrs Dudley-Palmer’s Rolls-Royce, and children piled out on to the pavement. I was puzzled why this was so as, in our tiny village, everyone lived within walking distance. It occurred to me there could be a safety problem if more parents started this unusual habit. We might even have to request some warning signs or painted lines on the road immediately outside the gate and I decided to raise the issue at our next governors’ meeting. In the meantime, it was back to the HB pencils.

  My first lesson was going well. You could have heard a pin drop.

  ‘There’s five senses, boys and girls,’ I said with a voice of absolute authority: ‘hearing, touch, sight, smell and taste. Human beings need these senses to understand the world around us.’ I picked up a stick of white chalk and wrote the names of the senses on the blackboard.

  Soon the children were in five groups, each one exploring a different sense. On the ‘hearing’ table I had set up the Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder, on which I had recorded a variety of sounds that the children had to identify and write down. On the ‘taste’ table I had bicarbonate of soda, salt, sugar and sherbet, and on the ‘touch’ table there was a ‘feely’ box. I had cut a circular hole in the top of a grocery box and filled it with objects, including a tin, a jar, a toothbrush, a pack of sausages, an apple, a piece of sandpaper, leaves, a ceramic tile, a gobstopper, marbles and some tree bark. The children took turns to try to identify the objects while blindfolded.