05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  The Revd Joseph Evans recommenced his weekly RE lesson. Miss Evans was absent for the first hour of morning school for family reasons.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 18 September 1981

  Bright autumn sunshine lit up the platform as the early-morning train to London eased its way into York station.

  Vera had enjoyed the annual two-day visit by her Aunt Priscilla. However, deep down she was looking forward to a return to the peace, quiet and general tidiness of her everyday life. Visitors were all very well but when, that morning, her aunt had stirred her tea and then returned the damp teaspoon to the sugar bowl, she knew with absolute conviction that their parting would not be one of sweet sorrow.

  ‘Your train is here, Aunt Priscilla,’ said Vera with a hint of relief. They were sitting in the station café and, while Priscilla prattled on about the benefits of North Sea oil, Vera recalled her favourite film, the 1945 David Lean classic, Brief Encounter. There was, of course, a significant difference. While Celia Johnson had sat in the refreshment room at Milford Junction waiting for the handsome Trevor Howard, Vera was sitting with a cup of lukewarm tea, a tired scone and, sadly, her least favourite aunt.

  Minutes later, with a final wave of a lace-edged handkerchief at the departing train, Vera turned on her heel and climbed the metal stairs of the bridge that spanned the platforms. It was Friday, 18 September, and once again all was well in Vera’s orderly world. She glanced at her watch and was pleased she had allowed enough time to drive back to Ragley, collect her Daily Telegraph from Prudence Golightly in the General Stores, make a cup of Earl Grey tea and settle down at her desk to count the late dinner money. It was a routine she knew so well.

  Commuters hurried past as she walked to the centre of the bridge and then paused to lean on the guardrail to admire the grandeur of this magnificent railway station. Huge metal arches spanned the great roof above her and Vera mused that these splendid buildings really were the cathedrals of Victorian Britain.

  Vera lived with her younger brother, the Revd Joseph Evans, in the beautifully furnished and spacious vicarage on Morton Road. Her life was one of careful routine and order. Even her three well-behaved cats, Treacle, Jess and Maggie, were fastidious in their personal grooming – especially her favourite, Maggie, a black cat with white paws, named after Margaret Thatcher. Vera was content with her cross-stitch club, church flowers and Women’s Institute meetings. However, something was about to enter her peaceful world … something unexpected.

  Below her, on the busy platforms, people waited anxiously for the next train, glancing frequently at the Roman numerals on the giant station clock. That is, all except for one man, who, to her surprise, appeared to be staring up at her. It was a look of sudden curiosity, of rapt intensity, a look she suddenly realized she knew so well. There could be no doubt. Twenty years had passed since their parting. The familiar long wavy hair was just as she remembered it, although now with the first wisps of grey, and his youthful angular frame had filled out a little with the approach of middle age. He waved and, to her surprise, she responded almost eagerly, raising a leather-gloved hand in swift acknowledgement.

  Hedley Verity Bickerstaff set off with long strides along the platform. A handsome forty-seven-year-old with the confidence of the innately gifted, he launched himself up the steps. ‘Vera, it really is you,’ he called out and then paused with a look of admiration … and perhaps more.

  ‘Hedley,’ murmured Vera, almost to herself.

  ‘After all these years,’ he said, and bent forward to kiss her cheek lightly. His flaxen hair fell over his lean, suntanned face and his soft brown eyes crinkled into a smile. Over six feet tall, he cut an elegant figure, although his bright-yellow cravat and cream linen jacket gave him a rather foppish appearance among the thick tweeds and heavy brogues of this Yorkshire station.

  Vera’s mind was in a whirl. This was so unexpected. ‘Hedley … how nice to see you again,’ she said and her cheeks flushed with a distant memory of their last meeting.

  Hedley glanced at the station clock and smiled. ‘Just like Brief Encounter,’ he said and Vera gave an imperceptible nod. They both knew it had always been her favourite film and the final evocative black-and-white scene, filmed in Lancashire’s Carnforth station in 1945, still broke her heart. Celia Johnson, the apparently normal middle-class housewife, had found a true, if fleeting, love following a chance encounter with Trevor Howard. The brief affair that followed was never consummated and both returned to their humdrum lives. However, from that moment on, Vera was sure she knew how Celia Johnson felt and, on occasions, had pondered on the difference between infatuation and true love.

  Hedley was proud of his distinctive name. He had been born in York on 25 June 1934, the historic day on which the England cricket team had defeated Australia at Lords, the home of cricket, for the first time since 1896. Hedley’s father, Arthur Bickerstaff, a lifetime member of the Yorkshire Cricket Club, promptly insisted that his son be named after Hedley Verity, the legendary Yorkshire left-arm spin bowler, who, on that memorable day, had taken fifteen Australian wickets for a mere one hundred and four runs.

  On 1 September 1939, when Hedley was five years old, Arthur had taken his son to Hove to watch Yorkshire beat Sussex and, much to Arthur’s delight, Hedley Verity was the star performer, taking seven wickets for nine runs. Sadly, it was to prove his final day of cricket glory for, after becoming a captain in the Green Howards, he was killed in action in 1943 while leading an attack on a German-occupied farmhouse. All of Yorkshire mourned one of their favourite sons.

  Finally, when Arthur Bickerstaff died on the beaches of Dunkirk, his wife, Iris, thanks to a useful sum of inheritance money, bought a large detached house in Ragley village for £515 and lived a comfortable life with her two sons, Hedley and his younger brother, Allan. Hedley had attended the Lawnswood Preparatory School for Young Gentlemen in Thirkby, passed his accountancy examinations and, in the late sixties, had begun work with Allan in the Easington accountancy firm of Bickerstaff, Bickerstaff, Crapper and Pugh.

  Sadly, the artistic and musical Hedley never did follow in his namesake’s footsteps as a cricketer. His mother gave him his father’s old cricket flannels but, following the occasional game for the Ragley second XI when they were a man short, it was pointed out, rather cruelly, at the end of the season, that his cricket trousers had a higher batting average than he did. No one guessed why he suddenly fled to London to seek fame and fortune as a budding artist.

  ‘So why are you here, Vera?’ asked Hedley. ‘I did wonder if I might see you … but not quite so soon.’

  ‘I’ve just put my aunt on the London train after her visit,’ said Vera quietly.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Hedley. ‘Well, I’m here for my mother’s seventy-fifth birthday tomorrow … and it’s back to London on Sunday.’ He glanced at his reserved first-class ticket. ‘I’m on the fast train at two-thirty.’

  There was a pause as they both looked into each other’s eyes and recalled a long-ago summer when Vera had so admired the dramatic oil paintings of a handsome young artist and Hedley had become infatuated with an elegant, attractive older woman. The memory of that single stolen kiss was distant now for the worldly owner of a London art gallery but was still seared in the mind of the village school secretary.

  ‘I have to get to work,’ said Vera quickly, looking up at the station clock once again. ‘I’m the secretary at Ragley School and I have to drive back there now.’

  ‘Perhaps you might consider giving me a lift, Vera, and then, well … perhaps we could talk.’

  Vera’s cheeks felt on fire. She couldn’t very well refuse to give Hedley a lift, particularly as they were both going to Ragley. ‘Very well,’ she said, ‘but I need to make a telephone call first,’ and they walked out together into the sunshine.

  At 8.45 a.m. a classic black Bentley purred up the school drive and parked in the space usually occupied by Vera’s little Austin A40. Major Rupert F
orbes-Kitchener, our sixty-three-year-old school governor and owner of the magnificent local country house, Morton Manor, stepped out. To my surprise he was accompanied by Vera’s brother, the Revd Joseph Evans. The major’s sharp eyes spotted me at the window and he waved his brass-topped walking cane in greeting.

  We met in the entrance hall and I accompanied them into the school office. As always, the major, a tall, distinguished man with close-cropped steel-grey hair, looked immaculate. He was wearing his familiar thick tweed sports jacket, lovat-green waistcoat and regimental tie, his cavalry twill trousers with knife-edge creases and a pair of sturdy brown brogues with the toecaps polished to a military shine.

  ‘Good morning, Jack. Jolly fine day, what?’ he said and shook my hand in a powerful grip.

  ‘It is, Major,’ I said. ‘Good to see you.’

  ‘Rupert very kindly gave me a lift,’ said Joseph. He was a tall, angular, slightly nervous fifty-seven-year-old with thinning grey hair. ‘Vera telephoned from the station to say she’s been delayed,’ he said with a slightly concerned look. ‘She was putting Aunt Priscilla on the train after her visit, so it must be something to do with that.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ I said, ‘I’m sure she’ll be here soon.’

  ‘Absent without leave, old boy,’ said the major with a deep chuckle. ‘Pity, I had an invitation for her.’ He held up an embossed envelope and placed it on Vera’s desk. Since the death of his wife many years ago, the major had lived with his daughter, Virginia Anastasia, at Morton Manor, but it was well known that he had a deep affection for Vera. ‘And there’s one for you and that lovely young filly of yours,’ he added. ‘Nothing special, old chap,’ he said: ‘it’s just tea and cakes at my place on Sunday … so hope to see you, what?’

  ‘Certainly, Major, and thank you,’ I said, putting the envelope in my pocket. ‘I’ll check with Beth and let you know.’

  ‘Fine, Jack. Well, tally ho for now. Duty calls,’ and he marched off back to the car park.

  Joseph looked tense. ‘Class 2 today, I believe,’ he said, studying the timetable on the noticeboard.

  ‘Yes, Joseph, and I’m sure it will be fine,’ I said. ‘So … what’s the theme today?’

  His lesson notes were inserted in his leather-bound, well-thumbed Bible. ‘What is love?’ he replied dolefully.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘No, that’s it, Jack … what is love?’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, good luck, Joseph.’

  ‘I’ll probably need it,’ he said. Joseph was always much more comfortable preaching sermons to his parishioners rather than a group of unpredictable six- and seven-year-olds. He stared out of the window as the major drove off. ‘I wonder what’s happened to Vera,’ he murmured to himself.

  In the spotless kitchen of St Mary’s vicarage, Vera emptied her copper kettle, filled it with freshly drawn water from the cold tap and lit the gas ring. Then she selected a matching pair of bone-china teacups and saucers and placed them alongside a matching sugar bowl, a silver tea strainer and a small jug of milk on a dark mahogany tray. Atop a pure white doily on a plate she placed several home-made biscuits.

  ‘You always were the most wonderful hostess, Vera,’ said Hedley in obvious admiration.

  Vera smiled modestly. ‘I try,’ she said and then stiffened as the grandfather clock in the hall struck nine o’clock. She would be late for school, a first in her regular life. It was just that there was something she needed to find out, something that had never been resolved … something important. She knew this might be her only chance and Ragley School could survive without her for the time being. Meanwhile, there was the little matter of a perfect cup of tea.

  Just before the water in the kettle came to the boil Vera poured a generous dash of hot water into a beautifully glazed china teapot. Her mother’s wise words were always with her and she knew that warming the pot ensured the water stayed at boiling point when it hit the tea. Then, straight into the warmed teapot, she doled out a heaped teaspoonful for Hedley and another for herself, plus, of course, one for the pot. The kettle was now boiling frantically and Vera made sure it did not boil for too long as it could result in a bitter muddy brew. She poured in the water and stood back. It was time to let it stand for a few minutes before serving and she turned her attention back to Hedley.

  ‘I hear you have a successful gallery in London,’ said Vera.

  ‘It’s an inspiring place,’ said Hedley. ‘You would love it.’

  ‘I’m pleased you found what you always wanted,’ she said a little wistfully.

  Hedley looked at Vera and sighed. ‘Well, it took a long time, Vera, but eventually … I found happiness in my work.’

  ‘You still paint, I hope.’ Vera stirred the tea and replaced the lid on the teapot. The memories that had been dormant for so long were now vivid in her mind. With measured restraint, she added the milk, cold and fresh, to each cup and then picked up the tea strainer to catch the leaves as she poured the tea.

  Hedley smiled. ‘So no tea bags, Vera,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t change.’

  Vera pursed her lips and made a small moue of displeasure. ‘Oh dear, no!’ she exclaimed and they both laughed. It broke the tension. ‘Two sugars, Hedley?’

  ‘You remembered.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Vera, stirring the cup with a silver teaspoon.

  He raised the cup to his lips. ‘Perfect, Vera. Then again … it always was.’

  Vera touched her cheeks with her long, delicate fingers. She knew she was blushing again.

  Back in school, Joseph was coping better than usual with the lively children in Jo Hunter’s class. Remarkably, they had responded well to his ‘What is love?’ discussion. As he collected in the notebooks and glanced out of the window, he felt a little sad that his sister was not here to share in the fun. There had been no follow-up telephone call, which seemed unusual, and he hoped all was well with her.

  Shortly before ten o’clock the children in my class were in the middle of a practical mathematics lesson and Theresa Ackroyd was pouring water into a litre jug and recording the results. ‘Miss Evans coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ she said without spilling a drop or appearing to look up.

  Moments later, Vera popped her head round the classroom door. ‘Sorry I’m late, Mr Sheffield. I’ll get on with the late dinner money, shall I?’ She collected the register from my desk and hurried out.

  * * *

  At morning break, Jo was on playground duty while the rest of us gathered in the staff-room. Sally picked up her September issue of Cosmopolitan and read out the title of an article by Quentin Crisp. ‘Women will be free the moment they stop caring what men think about them,’ she announced.

  ‘I agree,’ said Anne. ‘What do you think, Vera?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Vera. She appeared to be in a world of her own as she stirred a pan of hot milk on the single electric ring.

  Joseph walked in and immediately opened up the children’s writing for us all to share. For once he was enthusiastic about their responses. ‘No howlers today, Jack,’ he said triumphantly. ‘Have a look at these.’

  Charlotte Ackroyd had written: ‘Love is when my mummy puts on perfume and my daddy puts on aftershave and they go out to smell each other.’ Mary Scrimshaw’s careful neat printing was easy to recognize. ‘Love is when my mummy kisses me to sleep at night.’ Six-year-old Barry Ollerenshaw had other ideas: ‘Love is when my great granddad ties my great grandma’s shoelaces cos her fingers are all bent now’; and seven-year-old Benjamin Roberts had found a very practical example: ‘Love is when Mummy gives Daddy the biggest pork chop.’

  Joseph looked at his sister and wondered why she appeared so preoccupied. ‘So you managed to pack Aunt Priscilla off back to London?’

  ‘Oh, er, yes, Joseph,’ she said as she rinsed the coffee mugs and peered out of the window.

  ‘And the major left you an invitation on your desk,’ he added.

  ‘Thank you, Joseph,’ said Vera in a distracted wa
y. Although she was staring out on the playground and had a clear view of Heathcliffe Earnshaw hiding his new spud gun behind the school dustbins she appeared not to notice. Nor did she see his little brother Terry giving Jimmy Poole three marbles for one of his sherbet flying saucers. It was clear that Vera had a lot on her mind.

  Fifteen minutes later, in the silent school office, Vera sat at her desk and reflected on her morning. She fingered the smooth edges of the elegant Victorian brooch pinned precisely on the neat lapel of her suit and wondered why her heart was still pounding. For a few brief moments she felt like a young woman again. Then she picked up her brass letter opener and reached for the thick, cream envelope with the Morton Manor crest. It was an invitation to afternoon tea at three o’clock on Sunday. She smiled when she saw the footnote in the major’s firm, level handwriting. ‘Hope you can make it, Vera – just a few special friends.’ He had underlined the word special.

  It was early evening and the school was quiet now. Out of the office window the distant Hambleton hills formed a hazy purple line beneath a darkening sky. The paperwork from County Hall was increasing year by year and I was working my way through a revised health and safety policy, which made me think twice about the adventurous activities that were fundamental to our outdoor education weekends, when the telephone rang.

  ‘Jack, I thought you’d still be there.’ It was Beth; she sounded tired. ‘I’ve got a governor’s report to complete. I thought if I did it tonight maybe I could come round tomorrow and make a meal.’

  ‘That would be great, Beth,’ I said.

  ‘I was thinking about having a try at Delia’s bœuf bourguignonne and maybe use some of your dry cider instead of wine to save a few pennies. It sounds scrummy in the book.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ I said.

  ‘It takes a few hours so I’ll come to the cottage around four, shall I?’

  ‘Perfect,’ I said, thinking it would give me time to do some housework.