05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  Outside The Royal Oak, mothers and children were sitting by the pond and feeding the ducks. The ducks, in turn, were showing their appreciation by preening themselves and splashing happily in the warm sunshine. On the village green, Katrina Buttle was holding a buttercup under her twin sister’s chin and studying the reflected glow of the bright petals in the early-morning sunshine.

  Meanwhile, Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his brother Terry were sitting on the roof of their garden shed and eating huge sticks of rhubarb. Next to their grubby knees they had a large brown paper bag full of sugar. In turn they dipped the end of their rhubarb into the bag and then they chewed the sweetened stalk. It was their idea of Saturday morning heaven.

  At eleven o’clock I ordered a coffee and a Wagon Wheel in Nora’s Coffee Shop. Dorothy Humpleby was studying her horoscope in the Easington & District Pioneer.

  ‘Yurra Leo, aren’t you, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘Yes, Dorothy.’

  ‘Well, in y’Starscope it says ’ere, “The feeling of anticlimax could be giving you the blues: you could well have made a mistake in your past with a romantic involvement.”’

  ‘That’s not vewy bwight, Dowothy,’ shouted Nora. ‘Mr Sheffield only wecently got mawwied.’

  * * *

  It was over lunch at Bilbo Cottage that I suddenly remembered to compliment Beth on her new hairdo, although to my undiscerning eye it didn’t look any different. To be perfectly honest, if I hadn’t seen her walk into the salon, I wouldn’t have guessed. Her hair looked just the same to me. Fortunately, it was the early stage of our married life and, at that time, I had no idea of the cost.

  Conversely, Beth suggested I go to a ‘proper hairdresser’ in future as I now looked like an escaped convict, whereas I was pleased I had got my money’s worth. Beth glanced at her watch. ‘I said I’d help Sally with the art display at the show, Jack, so we’d better get going.’ It was the day of the Annual Morton and Ragley Agricultural Show and one of the main events in the local calendar.

  We walked out to my emerald-green Morris Minor Traveller with its ash-wood frame and brightly polished chromium grill and I gave my chrome and yellow AA badge an involuntary polish.

  ‘Jack … have you ever thought about changing this car?’ asked Beth.

  I looked at her in horror. ‘Change my car … my lovely car?’

  She grinned. ‘I’ll take that as a “no”, shall I?’

  It took me the full four miles to the grounds of Morton Manor to recover from the shock.

  The show comprised all the classic English village attractions including the Ragley and Morton brass band, a coconut shy, bowling for a pig, cream teas, home-made cakes and a fancy-dress parade.

  Sarah Louise Tait’s magnificent black-and-white rabbit, Nibbles, won the Pets’ Competition with Tony Ackroyd’s tortoise, Yul Brynner, a close second. Dominic and Damian Brown had brought their father’s psychopathic ferret, Frankenstein, but it was unplaced as the judges couldn’t get close enough to make a decision, such was the ferocity of its attack on the wire mesh of its cage. In the meantime, Jimmy Poole’s Yorkshire terrier, Scargill, was disqualified for nipping the ankles of the chief judge, along with Cleopatra, Jodie Cuthbertson’s talking parrot, who told the whole of the Women’s Institute committee who were walking by at the time to ‘f*** off!’

  In the Women’s Institute refreshment tent, a bottle of Joseph’s courgette wine with no label had got mixed in with Vera’s fresh mint lemonade and traditional ginger beer. So it was that Walter Sparrow, the president of the Ragley and Morton Temperance Society, was unwittingly enjoying a glass of Joseph’s home brew with an alcohol content of ten per cent and announcing to the world that his arthritic hip was no longer painful and didn’t the two octogenarian ladies serving the drinks look ‘en-shanting’.

  On the showground, Virginia Anastasia Forbes-Kitchener, in her skin-tight jodhpurs, won the show jumping with a clear round on her spirited horse, Banjo, much to the delight of her father. ‘Good show, old girl,’ shouted the major. His words of encouragement could be heard in the Women’s Institute tent, where Vera was judging the Six Butterfly Buns competition although her mind was elsewhere. The Summer Ball was only a few hours away and she knew it was decision time.

  * * *

  As we approached Morton Manor the scent of honeysuckle was in the evening air.

  Having driven past a narrow, cobbled yard and a row of sleepy cottages with leaded windows, I parked in a small grassy field. Then we slipped through a gap in the tall yew hedge and walked along an avenue of espaliered pears, joining other couples heading towards the turreted, Yorkshire-stone manor house. The gravel pathway meandered under a pergola of metal arches supporting fragrant sweet peas, bright climbing clematis and Victorian roses. Beth’s fingers lightly caressed a row of lavender plants and she paused to enjoy the scent of the mauve flower spikes. Thomas, the gardener, had worked hard and, next to the stone pillars of the entrance porch, tubs of pink aubretia, fiery red pelargoniums, green-and-cream variegated ivy and trailing magenta lobelia vividly enhanced the summer scene. The light breeze stirred Beth’s summer dress and I sensed the whisper of silk against her skin.

  The major, immaculate in dinner suit and sporting regimental medals, was there waiting to greet us and, by his side, stood Vera. She was holding a rose in her hand, a pale-pink Blush Noissette, and, in her beautiful evening gown, looked the perfect English lady.

  ‘Welcome to the newly-weds, what?’ said the major, shaking my hand and kissing Beth lightly on the cheek.

  Vera and Beth were soon engaged in conversation and the major leant over and whispered in my ear, ‘A fine filly, don’t you think, my boy?’

  ‘I agree, Major,’ I replied, though I wasn’t entirely sure whether he was referring to Beth or Vera.

  * * *

  It was a relaxing evening, a time for the meeting of friends and of happy reunion in the balmy air. During the champagne reception, conversation ebbed and flowed among the ‘country set’.

  ‘Our cars used to be made by British manufacturers,’ said the major. ‘And Morris and Austin dominated the roads,’ added the son of the local M P, keen to join in but secretly hoping for time alone with the shapely Virginia. The conversation then turned to the problems at Yorkshire County Cricket Club, where no one seemed to want Geoffrey Boycott as club captain. There was great unrest among the men of Ragley and Morton, who longed for Yorkshire supremacy on the cricket fields of England.

  The nine-piece band struck up a slow waltz and the wine flowed. Waiters with silver trays kept appearing with mouth-watering canapés and Beth and I danced under the glittering chandeliers. We saw Anne trying, with limited success, to teach John how to quickstep, while Dan and Jo glided around the polished ballroom floor like professionals. Eventually, the six of us collected our drinks and walked out to join Colin and Sally in the octagonal bandstand overlooking the croquet lawn. Together we swapped stories of learning to dance as we sipped our wine and gazed at the charming scene.

  ‘Ah, now that looks intriguing,’ said the observant Sally. She gave Anne, Beth and Jo a knowing wink. ‘Girls, are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

  Near by, under the graceful branches of a weeping willow, Vera and the major sat on wickerwork chairs at a wrought-iron table, deep in conversation. The major was holding her hand and Vera was looking into his steel-blue eyes and hanging on every word. In her diaphanous evening gown and with a silk shawl over her shoulders she looked relaxed in his company. A smile played on her lips as if she had found a lost chord in the symphony of her life. They were content in each other’s company and the major’s gaze never left the woman he had grown to love.

  Then, to our surprise, he stood up suddenly and set off purposefully back towards the house. Vera walked over to join us.

  ‘Good evening, Vera,’ I said, standing up from the bench. ‘Do come and join us.’

  Vera took a deep breath. ‘Hello, everybody,’ she said, ‘but I do believe I�
�m too excited to sit down.’

  ‘Is everything all right, Vera?’ I asked.

  Vera glanced back at the major as he entered the open French windows. ‘We are all driven by destiny, Mr Sheffield,’ she said softly, ‘and I believe I have found mine.’

  ‘Oh, Vera!’ exclaimed all the women, while the men stared nonplussed.

  ‘I should like you all to be the first to know that Rupert is asking my younger brother for permission to marry me,’ said Vera with a smile and a distinct emphasis on younger.

  ‘Oh, how romantic!’ said Jo.

  ‘That’s wonderful news,’ said Anne.

  ‘I want to be the first to give you a hug, Vera,’ said Sally.

  The men, including myself, were struck speechless but eventually we came to our senses and joined in the celebrations. Another wedding … and this time it was Vera.

  Joseph shook hands with the major and congratulated him. He felt the request for his sister’s hand in marriage was a token of politeness from a very correct man but went along with it anyway. ‘My sister is very precious to me, Rupert,’ he said with feeling. ‘I know you will look after her.’

  ‘With my life,’ said Rupert.

  It was after midnight when Joseph left the party alone. He was finding it hard to come to terms with the thought of living on his own in the vicarage. Wrapped in a cold cloak of uncertainty, he trudged into the night.

  However, unknown to all of us, under the bright stars on that special night, in the far distance heavy cumulus clouds were filling the sapphire sky with ominous intent. A storm was coming.

  Chapter Twenty

  Please Sir!

  Fifteen 4th-year juniors left today and will commence full-time education at Easington Comprehensive School in September. At the Leavers’ Assembly, book prizes were presented by Major Forbes-Kitchener and Sergeant Andrew Smith.

  School closed today and will reopen for the new academic year 1982/83 on Monday, 6 September 1982.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 23 July 1982

  It was the time of the quiet dawn when the earth awakes from its slumber. In the far distance the purple line of the Hambleton hills shimmered in the morning heat haze. The final day of the school year had arrived and the breathless promise of gathering storm clouds hung heavy on the silent land.

  On the driveway of Bilbo Cottage, Beth was looking cool and elegant in a green linen suit that exactly matched her eyes. She smiled up at me. ‘So, I’ll see you tonight, Jack,’ she said. ‘I’ll drive home and change first and then come on to your after-school party.’

  ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘It starts just after five o’clock.’

  ‘Yes, but don’t forget I’m picking up my mother from the station at six-thirty, so I can only stay for an hour at most.’

  ‘Ah, er, yes … I remember now,’ I said. Diane Henderson was coming up from Hampshire for a short visit.

  Beth grinned. ‘OK, ’bye,’ and she unlocked her car.

  ‘Fine, see you then and … I love you.’ My mother had once told me never to part with a loved one on a sad note because, in life, you never know what might happen. It was good advice.

  ‘And I love you,’ she said. We kissed goodbye and she climbed into her pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle and roared out of Kirkby Steepleton on her journey to Hartingdale.

  As I watched her car disappear in the distance I reflected on the changes in our lives during the past year. The wedding and honeymoon were still fresh in our minds and now I had replaced tired routines for the bold taking of one shared life, borne upon the memories of hopeful youth and shaped for the joy of giving. In the cool fire of creation our new life had begun.

  With a contented sigh, I locked the front door and threw my battered briefcase and my old herringbone jacket on the passenger seat. Then I polished the lenses of my Buddy Holly spectacles using the end of my new slimline eighties tie, a present from Beth, and drove off on the back road to Ragley.

  On this warm summer day the journey was calm and peaceful midst the abundance of nature. In the hedgerows, wild flowering raspberry canes competed with the waving ferns of bracken and purple thistle heads. The cow parsley sparkled with cuckoo spit and the scent of wild garlic drifted through my open window from the shady woodland floor. As I approached Ragley I heard the distant warning cry of a pheasant. I didn’t heed the warning … Perhaps I should have done. It was Friday, 23 July, a day I was destined never to forget.

  Ragley High Street looked a picture. Honeysuckle clambered over the porch of the village hall, Young Tommy Piercy was pulling out the blue-and-white-striped awning over the Butcher’s Shop window, Dorothy Humpleby was on the Coffee Shop forecourt putting pots of bright-red geraniums on the picnic tables and Timothy Pratt was watering his display of perfectly horizontal hanging baskets outside his emporium. As I pulled into the school car park next to Vera’s Austin A40, I admired the magenta bells of foxgloves, tall and elegant, that graced the border at the side of Sally’s classroom. All seemed well on this beautiful Yorkshire morning.

  When I walked into the school office, Vera was absent-mindedly fingering her beautiful sapphire engagement ring. ‘Oh, good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Forgive me, I was miles away.’

  ‘Good morning, Vera,’ I said with a smile. ‘I’m not surprised; life has been an adventure for both of us this year.’

  ‘Too true,’ she said and then gave a deep sigh and looked out of the window at the dark clouds on the distant horizon. ‘But what is life but a million memories and a few precious moments.’ Vera was clearly in a reflective mood and she sighed with the weight of recollections.

  ‘Well, this is your time, Vera, and we’re all so happy for you. The major is a good man.’

  ‘Thank you for saying so,’ she said; ‘and I do believe that Joseph is gradually coming round to the idea, particularly as, next summer, I shall be living almost next door to the vicarage.’

  ‘So, is that the plan … for you and the major to marry next summer?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera with a calm smile. ‘Probably after the end of term, at the beginning of the summer holiday. We didn’t want to rush things and we thought a one-year engagement was right and proper, if only for the sake of my dear brother.’

  ‘That sounds perfect, Vera,’ I said, ‘and how is Joseph?’

  ‘As he always is, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera with an enigmatic smile. ‘He’s a lovely, caring and supportive brother, but an innocent in an experienced world. In fact,’ she looked up at me and chuckled, ‘his telephone call with Bishop Neil last night summed it up.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, in the middle of a conversation about the ecclesiastical conference, he suddenly mentioned that next year he would be marrying his sister.’ She chuckled again at the memory. ‘Then he had to explain what he actually meant.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ I said, ‘but perhaps he’s worried about living alone in the vicarage.’

  ‘He is, Mr Sheffield, that’s the problem, and I have to help him as much as I can.’

  ‘Just as you support me, Vera,’ I said. ‘You know I’d be lost without you.’

  ‘Well …’ she looked around the office at the old metal filing cabinet and the lines of school photographs on the wall, ‘I love my work here in Ragley School.’ She sighed and removed the cover from her electric typewriter. ‘And I’m sure I always shall.’ Then she began typing a note to parents confirming that school would reopen for the autumn term on Monday, 6 September. My brief insight into Vera’s personal world was over and it was back to business as usual.

  During morning break the children in my class set out the chairs for our annual Leavers’ Assembly. This was a popular event when the fourth-year juniors in my class were each presented with a book prize provided by the Parent– Teacher Association. The assembly was led by Joseph and supported by parents, grandparents and friends of the school. This year we had two principal guests to present the prizes, o
ur school governor, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, and Ruby’s son, Sergeant Andrew Smith.

  Ruby had worked late to make sure the hall floor had received an extra polish before the assembly. When I walked into the entrance hall, Ruby had hung up her overall and locked her caretaker’s store.

  ‘Thanks, Ruby,’ I said: ‘the hall floor looks lovely.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m so excited an’ our Andy’s proper thrilled t’be invited.’ She was clearly full of pride for her son.

  ‘I trust Ronnie will be here, Ruby.’

  ‘Ah ’ope so, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ve jus’ read t’riot act to ’im,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ ah’ve told’im t’shape ’imself an’ get ’ere sharpish t’see our Andy gettin’ ’onoured.’

  ‘Well, Ruby,’ I said with a smile, ‘I’ll see you later.’

  ‘Y’will that … an’ ah’ll be in m’best frock,’ and she hurried off down the school drive and back to 7 School View, where Andy was cleaning his army boots to a mirrorlike shine with good old-fashioned spit and polish.

  When I walked into the staff-room, Vera was holding up the front page of her Daily Telegraph. ‘Doesn’t she look radiant?’ said Vera.

  ‘I bet she was relieved it was a boy,’ said Anne.

  Sally nodded but kept her thoughts to herself.

  Under the headline ‘A beautiful baby boy’ was a photograph of Princess Diana with her son, now a month old. The royal baby had been named William Arthur Philip Louis, with the royal command that ‘the name William will not be shortened in any way’.

  ‘And so it shouldn’t,’ insisted Vera: ‘it wouldn’t be right and proper.’

  ‘I suppose “Prince Willy” doesn’t have the same ring to it,’ mumbled Sally through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.