03 Dear Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

  ‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ he said lovingly. ‘Me an’ m’brother were rhubarb-growing champions in t’rhubarb triangle,’ he added without a hint of modesty.

  I had heard of the Bermuda Triangle but not this one. ‘The rhubarb triangle?’

  ‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. All that land bordered by Wakefield, Leeds and Bradford is jus’ perfect f’growing rhubarb. Up to abart fifteen year back, there were two ’undred rhubarb-growers like me an’ our kid. We used t’load it every day on t’Rhubarb Express to Covent Garden. Then after 1962 it went by road.’

  It was clear that Maurice was an encyclopaedia of rhubarb facts and we weren’t going to be allowed to leave until he had shared some of his knowledge. He knew he had a captive audience.

  ‘We grew t’plants for two years, Miss Evans, an’ then put ’em in forcing sheds,’ said Maurice, pointing to a faded black-and-white photograph on the wall. The youthful Maurice was standing with a similar burly, short man, who was clearly his brother, in front of a long, low windowless shed, about two hundred feet long and ten feet high. ‘It were reight dark an’ warm in there. We even picked by t’light of a shaded lantern an’ t’rhubarb grew about an inch every day.’ He nodded in satisfaction. ‘Same routine f’generations … ever since t’Industrial Revolution.’

  Maurice handed over a large bag of rhubarb stalks. ‘No charge, Miss Evans,’ he said, ‘an’ if y’ever fancy a trip t’annual Festival of Rhubarb y’can be my guest.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ said Vera. ‘You’ve been very kind and I’ll keep it in mind.’

  As we drove towards Morton village I glanced across at Vera and there was a gleam in her eyes. ‘I think you made a hit with Maurice,’ I said playfully, but she did not seem to hear. The rhubarb triangle seemed far away now and her mind was filled with thoughts of meeting her television heart-throb.

  * * *

  On Thursday morning the harsh cawing of the rooks from the high branches of the distant elm trees woke me from a pleasant dream. I was on a tropical beach, paddling in the warm sea and walking hand in hand with someone who appeared to be Beth … except, every time I glanced across at her, she became Laura. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, turned on the Bush radio perched on my bedside table and padded across the worn wooden floor of my bedroom. When I drew the curtains, cold, grey light flooded in through the leaded panes.

  ‘Hello again. Rise and shine, all you lazybones. You’re listening to Ray Moore on wonderful BBC Radio 2. It’s seven thirty-five on Thursday, 6 March, with another two and a half hours of popular music before our national treasure, Jimmy Young, sorts out our great nation and asks the questions “Will daytime television be a dream or a nightmare?” and “Can Robin Cousins become the next world figure-skating champion?” In the meantime Marti Webb tells us to “Take That Look Off Your Face” …’

  Four miles away on the Morton Road, the sound of rooks was lost amid the clatter of milk bottles. Ernie Morgetroyd’s milk float had pulled up outside the vicarage. His nineteen-year-old son, Handsome Rodney, his golden locks hidden under a red-and-white York City bobble hat, crunched up the driveway and delivered two pints of gold-top full-cream milk along with a half-pint carton of single cream and a half-dozen fresh farm eggs.

  Rodney extended a finger and thumb and deftly picked up the two spotlessly clean and recently washed empty milk bottles from the vicarage steps. Then he set off back down the driveway, whistling Rod Stewart’s ‘Do You Think I’m Sexy?’. Meanwhile Ernie Morgetroyd hoped the battery on his little electric milk float would last until he had completed his round. Apart from that and Handsome Rodney’s never-ending girlfriend problems, life was uncomplicated for the milkmen of Morton.

  Vera looked through the open casement window of the vicarage window and smiled. She turned up her radio a fraction and walked to the front door.

  ‘Good morning. It’s seven thirty-five on Thursday, 6 March, and this is BBC Radio 4 wishing you a pleasant morning. From Handel and Dussek we now continue with the Schumann Cello Concerto …’

  At number 7, School View, life was not quite so serene. Ruby’s daughter, Sharon Smith, turned up the radio and rummaged in the wash basket for her overalls.

  ‘Hello, everybody. It’s the Hairy Monster, Dave Lee Travis, on your very own BBC Radio 1 saying get into gear and pin y’ears back ’cause its twenty-five to eight on Thursday, 6 March, and ’ere we go with the gorgeous Blondie at number 3 with, wait for it … “Atomic”.’

  When I walked into the staff-room before the start of the school day, Anne and Jo were checking the new delivery of sugar paper, while Sally was deep in thought. She opened her teacher’s copy of Apusskidu, her new songbook for her ‘school orchestra’, turned to number 27, ‘The Wombling Song’, and began to convert Mike Batt’s music into a few simple guitar chords for her beginners’ group.

  Suddenly Ruby was standing in the open doorway, leaning on her mop. ‘I ’eard from Margery Ackroyd that Miss Evans was given some rhubarb by Maurice Tupham in the ’Igh Street,’ she said.

  Sally looked up from her songbook. ‘So Vera got her high-quality rhubarb after all,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, and she went home to make the crumble,’ I said, while picking at the loose threads on the leather patches on the sleeves of my sports jacket.

  ‘For Nicholas Parsons,’ said Anne.

  ‘The man of her dreams,’ giggled Jo.

  ‘ ’E’s a bit on t’skinny side f’me,’ said Ruby. ‘Mind you, ah’ll be s’pportin’ Miss Evans tonight an’ ah gave ’er a bag o’ my chocolate t’sell.’

  Ruby would have done anything for Vera and this was a generous gesture. With great ceremony, she had presented to Vera a large bag of chocolate bars known as Rowntree’s ‘waste’ and Vera had accepted it with great dignity.

  Ruby’s daughter Sharon was currently working in the ‘waste’ department at Rowntree’s factory in York, a sort of orphanage for misshapen bars of chocolate Lion Bars and broken Kit Kats. The pristine packaging afforded to their perfectly shaped companions was replaced by a large crumpled paper bag into which a dozen unwrapped chocolate bars were thrown unceremoniously. Every Friday night Sharon delivered two or three bags to her mother and each week Ruby’s weight increased and it was a trade-off she accepted without a shred of guilt. ‘Ah work ’ard,’ said Ruby as she sat down at the end of each working day. ‘Ah deserve me little treat.’

  Vera was full of anticipation as she drove her car into York. It was the Year of the Viking and the Jorvik excavation had entered its final year in Coppergate, so Vera negotiated the traffic surrounding the building works and parked in Micklegate. She had completed her rhubarb crumble and it was packed safely in her shopping basket as she strode purposefully into the Cavendish Furniture Store.

  Nicholas Parsons was sitting behind an ornate, hand-carved desk and Vera stopped in her tracks with an admiring gaze. He was even more handsome in real life than he was on the television. The floppy silk handkerchief that hung casually from the top pocket of his navy-blue jacket exactly matched the yellow and blue-checked cravat round his neck. Sitting alongside was a busy, slightly agitated, bald-headed little man in an ill-fitting pin-striped suit. The badge on his lapel read ‘Cyril Backhouse, General Manager’.

  ‘Good morning, madam,’ said Cyril. ‘How can we be of assistance?’

  Vera had studied the catalogue very carefully. ‘I’d like to purchase the Grosvenor wall unit with brass handles at £69.95,’ said Vera, pointing to the photograph in the catalogue.

  ‘My pleasure, madam,’ said Cyril, ‘and if you would like a signed photograph of Mr Parsons I’m sure he will oblige.’

  ‘Well, actually, Mr, er … Backhouse,’ said Vera, putting on her steel-framed spectacles and staring at the little man’s badge, ‘I’ve got something for Mr Parsons.’

  Nicholas Parsons stood up, took Vera’s hand and bowed slightly. ‘Good morning,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘I’m Nicholas.’

  Vera’s cheeks reddened bu
t she remained composed. ‘And I’m Miss Evans, er … well, actually, Miss Vera Evans.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vera,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’m intrigued. What have you brought for me?’

  Vera put the basket on the table and lifted the edge of the embroidered tea towel. ‘If I may, Mr Parsons, I should like to present you with this rhubarb crumble on behalf of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.’

  Nicholas Parsons looked up in surprise. ‘My very dear lady, it is the most wonderful gift. I’m a great fan of rhubarb.’

  ‘Actually, I heard you were a connoisseur,’ said Vera.

  Nicholas’s eyes creased as he gave her a warm smile. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet such a discerning and, may I say, elegant lady.’

  In that moment, Vera felt her life was complete. ‘You may keep the basket,’ said Vera. ‘I have many of them at the vicarage.’

  ‘The vicarage?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes. I live there with my brother. He’s the vicar of Ragley and Morton,’ explained Vera.

  ‘I will make sure it is returned forthwith,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I shall enjoy this for my lunch.’

  Back at Ragley School my class were completing a punctuation exercise in their English books. I watched, intrigued, as Tony Ackroyd carefully prised open the metal staples that held together his English exercise book and then removed the centre pages. He had worked out that if he did this once each week for the next four weeks he would fill his book rapidly and it would appear he was working quicker than anyone else. Even though I made him replace the pages and told him it was a silly thing to do, I had to admire his lateral thinking.

  At lunchtime Vera returned, full of excitement, and a captivated audience listened to every word of her meeting with the handsome television personality. It was only when Vera received another call from Joyce Davenport, telling her about the grandiose scale of Deirdre Coe’s stall that her spirits were dampened. It was clear Vera would have her work cut out and we all agreed to turn up and support her.

  By seven o’clock the village hall was full for one of the most popular events of the year. However, Troy Phoenix was standing on a chair next to Deirdre’s stall and a small crowd was gathering.

  ‘C’mon, ladies, we’ve got a job lot o’ fancy tin openers an’ some ’igh-quality tea towels ’ere. First come, first served,’ he shouted.

  Ruby’s daughters Sharon and Natasha were first in the queue in spite of Ruby’s protests, while only a trickle of customers seemed interested in the items on Vera’s stall. Deirdre Coe leered at Vera in delight. ‘Judgement Day, as my Stanley says,’ she said and began to count her takings.

  Suddenly, in walked the Revd Joseph Evans with a huge smile on his face. Behind him was Nicholas Parsons, the perfect English gentleman and the picture of sartorial elegance. His cuff-links sparkled, his shoes shone and there were knife-edge creases in his three-piece navy-blue suit, fashioned at a leading gentleman’s outfitter in London. A stunned silence descended as, with debonair grace, he walked up to Vera’s stall, bowed slightly and kissed her hand.

  ‘Mr Parsons!’ exclaimed Vera.

  ‘Please, it’s Nicholas,’ he said as he went round the stall and stood beside her.

  ‘But … how …?’

  ‘Your brother told me of the event when I returned your dish and basket to the vicarage,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I asked him to bring me here so I could thank you in person.’

  Vera had just about gathered her senses. ‘There was no need, Mr …, er, Nicholas … but it really is most kind of you.’

  Nicholas Parsons suddenly became aware of the huge number of ladies surrounding Vera’s stall. ‘Now, perhaps you will allow me to assist you in the sale of these items?’

  ‘But of course, Nicholas, I should be most grateful,’ said Vera.

  He surveyed the collection of artefacts and transformed instantly into his Sale of the Century persona.

  ‘May I?’ he asked, picking up one of the vases on the stall and peeling off the fifty-pence sticker. ‘Now, who will give me five pounds for this elegant vase?’

  ‘I will,’ said Petula Dudley-Palmer, almost swooning at his feet.

  ‘And how much for this pair of candlesticks?’ continued Nicholas. ‘How about six pounds the pair?

  ‘Done,’ shouted an enthusiastic Joyce Davenport.

  Deirdre Coe’s face went red, then purple, and finally settled on a shade of green to match Vera’s presidential sash. Troy Phoenix had left Deirdre’s side, deserted his post and was queuing up for an autograph.

  Minutes later, every item had been sold and Vera had raised the highest total ever recorded by a single stall in the whole distinguished history of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.

  ‘I’m afraid time is pressing, Vera,’ said Nicholas, looking at his wristwatch.

  ‘You’ve been wonderful, Nicholas. Thank you so much,’ said Vera.

  On his way out, Nicholas stopped to talk to Old Tommy Piercy, who was sitting down next to Mrs Patterson-Smythe’s stall after purchasing a large jar of orange, apple and rhubarb chutney.

  ‘So where were you born?’ asked Tommy.

  ‘I was born in Grantham in Lincolnshire,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘The same as Margaret Thatcher,’ said Vera proudly.

  ‘So yurra southerner, then,’ said Old Tommy disdainfully.

  ‘Well, I’m not a Yorkshireman if that’s what you mean,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Pity,’ said Old Tommy gruffly.

  ‘You’re obviously proud of Yorkshire,’ said Nicholas engagingly.

  ‘Yorkshire’s a proper kingdom,’ said Old Tommy defiantly. ‘We’ve got fishing on t’east coast, plenty o’ coal, millstone grit f’building an’ acres o’ arable ’n’ pasture land f’vegetables ’n’ corn. We’ve got sheep ’n’ cattle so we’ll not go ’ungry. Y’can keep y’southerners f’me. We’re ’appy enough up ’ere.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it’s been a pleasure talking to you.’

  ‘Mebbe y’not so bad after all,’ said Old Tommy.

  ‘And believe me, Nicholas, that’s a real compliment from Mr Piercy,’ said Vera as they walked towards the door.

  ‘I’ve so enjoyed my visit, Vera, and I hope we meet again.’

  Vera’s cheeks flushed and she smiled as they walked out together towards the High Street.

  Joseph and quick thinking were not natural allies. However, on this occasion, before leaving the vicarage, he had picked up Vera’s camera. As he had no idea how to use it, he thrust it into Joyce Davenport’s hands. ‘Excuse me, Joyce … but could you take a photograph for me?’

  Joyce snapped the happy couple standing by the old wooden gate that led to the front door of the village hall. Nicholas had his arm round Vera’s slim waist while Vera looked up at a profile she knew so well. It was a photograph she was destined to keep in the years to come in a small wooden frame and placed discreetly at the bottom of her handkerchief drawer.

  That evening, Vera sat down in the vicarage and reflected on her perfect day. Then she opened the sloping lid of the old writing bureau, selected a sheet of vicarage-headed notepaper and wrote a letter of thanks to be hand-delivered. As an afterthought, she smiled and wrote on the crisp white envelope in her beautiful cursive script, Mr Maurice Tupham, The Rhubarb Triangle.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Pontefract Strippers

  Two visitors from West Yorkshire came to school today and gave the staff an impromptu talk on ‘The Production of Liquorice’.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Friday, 28 March 1980

  AS I DROVE to school on the last Friday in March the rooks cawed in the elm-tops, announcing the end of winter. An imperceptible change had come at last with the morning sunshine. The cuckoo, the messenger of spring, had arrived along with new grass and primroses. The days of log fires and mulled wine were finally over.

  When I walked into school, to my surprise Shirley th
e cook was standing in the entrance hall alongside two ladies who looked to be in their sixties. One was a very tall, big-boned lady and the other was short and plump. They both wore tightly knotted headscarves and thick overcoats buttoned up to the neck. It was a day I would come to remember with great affection – the day I met the two sisters Edie and Florence Ramsden.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘This is my aunty Edie and my aunty Flo. They’ve come up from West Yorkshire to stay with me for the weekend and I hoped you wouldn’t mind them looking round my kitchen.’

  The short cheerful Florence gave me a hesitant smile, while the tall uncompromising Edie shot me a look that would have crushed many a man.

  ‘Good morning, Shirley. Good morning, ladies,’ I said.

  ‘That is, if it’s no trouble …’ began Florence hesitantly.

  Edie gave her sister a withering look, stepped forward and took my hand with a grip like a wrestler’s. Her eyes stared defiantly into mine. It was clear Edie was no lover of authority. ‘We’re from Pontefract,’ she said. Edie obviously did not waste words and it appeared the subtle nuances of the English language had passed her by. The handshake crushed my fingers and I winced and flexed them when she let go.

  Shirley saw my discomfort. ‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘My aunty Edie used to be a thumper.’

  ‘She doesn’t know ’er own strength,’ added Florence, looking up in awe at her big sister.

  ‘A thumper?’ I asked, while I readjusted my knuckles. ‘What’s a thumper?’

  ‘It were t’name of ’er job, Mr Sheffield,’ explained Florence. ‘That is, until she were replaced by a machine. Our Edie used t’stamp thirty thousand liquorice Pontefract cakes a day by ’and. She were t’best thumper i’ Pontefract.’