06 Educating Jack

by Jack Sheffield

  Vera arrived in Rupert’s classic Bentley with his chauffeur, Tomkins, at the wheel and there were cheers of approval from the ladies of the Women’s Institute as the bride emerged. Although it took longer to drive the distance from the vicarage and up the gravel path to the church gate rather than simply walk the fifty yards through the churchyard, Rupert had insisted that Vera arrive in style.

  In a beautiful lace-trimmed lilac dress, long-sleeved and high-buttoned, and with her mother’s Victorian brooch at her throat, it was a classical look, yet with understated elegance. It was also noticeable to everyone that Vera appeared completely at ease as she smoothed her dress over her slim figure. As always, she was in complete control.

  She waited for a few moments beneath the shelter of the stone porch at the entrance to the church. Next to her was a dear ecclesiastical friend, the Revd David Wainwright, a trusted colleague since college days and, like Joseph, a parish priest.

  ‘Vera,’ said David, ‘you look really lovely and I’m so very proud you chose me to walk beside you down the aisle.’

  She looked up at him with an enigmatic smile. ‘You have always been a special friend, David, and if my brother forgets the Order of Service, I’m sure you can help him out.’ Then Vera turned to face the open church doorway and took a deep breath. ‘Well, I do think I’m ready … so, shall we go? I’m sure poor Elsie Crapper must be on the edge of her seat by now. Let’s hope she’s taken her Valium.’ Then, with calm grace, she took his arm and, with measured, deliberate steps, walked down the aisle. As she came alongside Ruby she paused for the briefest moment, stretched out and pressed her cool fingers on the back of Ruby’s dumpy hand. Tears flowed freely down Ruby’s cheeks but, on this special day, they were tears of joy.

  Beyond the chancel, a balustrade of low mahogany rails separated it from the candlelit altar with its beautiful hand-stitched cloth. On this cold, clear winter’s day, a low sun illuminated the tall east window and the stained glass refracted the serene white light into a kaleidoscope of colours that shone down on the choir stalls. Mary McIntyre, the leader of the choir and the most wonderful soprano, waited to lead the congregation in the first hymn, ‘Love divine, all loves excelling’. When Vera was standing alongside Rupert, Joyce Davenport took the delicate bouquet of flowers from her and stepped back. Behind us we heard the closing of the ancient church door and the service began.

  At the front of the chancel, alongside the pulpit, on the north side of the nave stood a brass lectern decorated with a wondrous eagle, upon whose outstretched wings a giant Bible had been placed. A long red ribbon marked the page of the reading and soon it was my turn. Vera had requested 1 Corinthians, chapter 13, verses 4–8, and I stepped up to read the selected passage: ‘Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong, but rejoices in the right. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends’.

  When I sat down again Beth slipped her hand into mine … and kept it there.

  Finally, this was the moment. Time seemed to stand still as the congregation waited for the words we all knew so well. ‘Wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife,’ asked Joseph, ‘ … and, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’

  His words flowed like a gentle breeze over a field of wheat, but there was gravitas in the question. It was a message bound in iron.

  ‘I will,’ said Rupert in a sure, clear voice.

  * * *

  Outside, the classic black Bentley, decorated with ribbons, waited, engine purring. The ladies of the Women’s Institute had decorated the lychgate with garlands of holly, so this was the setting for the traditional photographs. However, Rupert, with military decisiveness, kept it brief. After all, it was a cold day and his new wife had forsaken warmth for style.

  There was confetti and cheering in equal measure as the car set off up the Morton Road and then moved smoothly up the long driveway towards the turreted Yorkshire stone manor house.

  Vera looked at Rupert, who seemed deep in thought. ‘A penny for them, Rupert,’ she said.

  ‘I was just thinking of the service,’ said Rupert.

  ‘It went beautifully,’ said Vera.

  ‘Thanks to you, my dear,’ said Rupert and he kissed her gently.

  It was a wonderful afternoon, with toasts, speeches, dancing and gentle conversation. The major’s daughter, the confident and curvaceous Virginia Anastasia, seemed to have inherited her father’s ability to guide large groups of people through the formalities of the occasion without ever appearing to be rushed.

  Vera and Rupert had decided to spend their first night together at Morton Manor before flying to the south of France for a relaxing honeymoon, so there was no rousing send-off. Instead, the guests slowly departed as the evening wore on and it was almost midnight when Vera walked into her new kitchen and opened the door of the wall cupboard she had recently rearranged with Virginia’s blessing. From it she took her mother’s Victorian tea caddy, then boiled some water and made a pot of tea. It was time for her usual nightcap and, as she sat in the vast kitchen, she reflected on the day … and thought of Joseph.

  An owl hooted in the churchyard and snow began to fall again. At the kitchen window in the vicarage a solitary figure looked out at the winter scene and then closed the curtains.

  Joseph walked into the hallway, checked the locks on the front door, turned out the lights and stood at the foot of the stairs. The house was quiet. Vera’s coat peg was empty and he knew life would never be the same again. He missed her companionship, her very presence. Finally, he walked upstairs, alone.

  And on that dark December night, as a fresh snowfall covered the sprinkle of confetti at the lychgate, there was no one to see his tears and no one to share his prayers.

  At Morton Manor, Vera and Rupert were also standing in the hallway at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Vera,’ said Rupert, ‘thank you for this wonderful day.’

  ‘It was the right decision, Rupert,’ said Vera, ‘and we shall have Christmas together as man and wife.’

  Rupert looked at his brass timepiece. ‘Well, my dear, I think it is time for us to retire.’

  ‘Not quite yet, Rupert,’ said Vera with a smile.

  Rupert looked confused. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vera simply.

  ‘I’m sorry, Vera,’ said Rupert and he kissed her on her forehead. ‘I’m being insensitive.’

  ‘Not at all, Rupert,’ said Vera. ‘It’s just that I can’t come to bed yet.’

  ‘Vera … I would never wish to rush you.’

  Vera smiled. ‘No, Rupert, I don’t mind being rushed and I have no problem about coming to bed.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Rupert, still perplexed. ‘What’s preventing you from coming to bed now?’

  ‘Because, my dearest Rupert … I haven’t said good-night to my cats.’

  Chapter Nine

  The Last Christmas Present

  School closed today with 87 children on roll and will reopen for the spring term on Tuesday, 4 January 1983. All children attended this afternoon’s Christmas party, supported by members of the PTA. The school choir will perform at the Crib Service in St Mary’s Church on Wednesday, 22 December.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 21 December 1982

  IT WAS TUESDAY, 21 December, the last day of the autumn term, and the school Christmas party beckoned. A busy week was in store, with the closing down of school for the holiday, Christmas shopping, a variety of church services and, finally, on Saturday, Christmas Day for Beth and myself at Bilbo Cottage. My Glaswegian mother, Margaret, and her sister May had been invited to a gathering of the Scottish clans for Christmas and Hogmanay, while Beth’s parents were staying in Hampshire. So a quiet and peaceful festive season was in store for just the two of us, or so I
thought.

  As I drove to school for the last time in 1982, iron-grey clouds hung heavy over the Hambleton hills and a fresh fall of snow covered the distant fields. Skeletal trees, like a child’s charcoal drawing, stood like silent sentinels beyond the frozen hedgerows. The countryside was held fast in the grip of winter as a grudging light crept over North Yorkshire and a new day dawned.

  Ruby was locking her caretaker’s cupboard when I walked into the entrance hall. ‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘Ah came in reight early t’day to ’ang up m’presents on t’tree for all t’kiddies.’ It was a tradition that Ruby bought a small gift out of her own pocket for every child in the school and then wrapped them in North Yorkshire County Council tissue paper and hung them on our Christmas tree. Then, at the end of the party, the children took them home along with a balloon and any Christmas decorations and cards they had made for their parents.

  ‘That’s really kind of you, Ruby,’ I said.

  ‘Well they’re only young once, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘an’ we ’ave t’mek Christmas special for ’em.’ This good-hearted lady then fastened her headscarf, her only concession to the freezing conditions, and hurried towards the entrance door. ‘An’ ah’ll be back to ’elp wi’ t’party,’ she called over her shoulder.

  It was a hectic morning, particularly in Anne’s reception class, where excitement was building. All the children had written their letters to Santa and posted them in the school post-box. Little Ted Coggins was sending his letter at the same time as Katie Icklethwaite.

  ‘What y’getting’ f’Christmas, Katie?’ asked Ted.

  ‘We’re ’avin’ a ’amster,’ said five-year-old Katie.

  ‘A ’amster?’ said Ted in surprise. ‘We’re ’avin’ a turkey.’

  When the bell rang for afternoon school, eighty-seven children, all the staff and a group of willing mothers from the Parent Teacher Association filled the school hall for our end-of-term party. We began with lively and energetic games such as Statues and Musical Chairs, then moved on to a dancing competition to the accompaniment of Abba’s ‘Super Trouper’. The winner, surprisingly, was eight-year-old Mo Hartley, the youngest and quietest of the Hartley sisters, and, not for the first time, I realized that many children keep their talents hidden from their teachers and their peer group. As she received her prize, a bag of chocolate decimal coins, I recalled that, as teachers, we always needed to be sufficiently observant to help children reach their full potential.

  At the end of school I was concerned to overhear Mrs Critchley, our dinner lady, in the entrance hall trying to persuade the vulnerable and gullible Ruby to take on yet another catalogue.

  ‘You ought to ’ave a Grattan catalogue,’ said Mrs Critchley.

  ‘Ah dunno, Doreen,’ said the hesitant Ruby.

  ‘It’s t’Winter Catalogue wi’ Fashion Passion,’ persisted our formidable dinner lady.

  ‘Ah buy stuff from our Racquel’s,’ pleaded Ruby.

  ‘Ah get a poun’ back f’ev’ry ten poun’ spent,’ said Mrs Critchley. ‘It’s a reight money-spinner.’

  ‘Well, er …’

  ‘An’ twen’y weeks no-charge credit. Y’jus’ send off t’Bradford for a catalogue … it’s dead easy.’

  ‘Well, mebbe,’ said Ruby.

  It occurred to me that it would have been helpful to have been able to mention this conversation to Vera so that she could have intervened on Ruby’s behalf. However, our school secretary was enjoying the scenery in the south of France and catalogue shopping was far from her mind.

  On Wednesday morning bright winter sunshine lit up the countryside and I stared in wonder at the distant fields through the frosted panes of our bedroom window. I had learned to love this land with its spectacular scenery and harsh winters. Here we breathed the clean sharp air of the high moors, unsullied by the toxic car fumes of the great cities or the fetid mists of the low marshlands. It was a perfect morning for Christmas food shopping and, over breakfast, I checked Beth’s long list.

  ‘But there are only two of us,’ I said. ‘This would feed an army.’

  Beth looked tired. She was nibbling on a digestive biscuit whereas I had just demolished a large bowl of porridge. ‘Well, it’s a long holiday, Jack, and if more snow comes it might be our last chance.’

  It made sense and I made her a cup of tea before I left. She kissed me tenderly at the door. ‘Come back safely.’

  Beth’s Volkswagen Beetle was on the driveway. ‘Shall I put your car in the garage?’ I said.

  She glanced back at the hall table. Her car keys were on top of a brown envelope. ‘No, I may have to go out later.’

  I guessed it was last-minute Christmas shopping, maybe for me, so I didn’t enquire further.

  Ragley High Street was full of Christmas shoppers and, after collecting my turkey from Old Tommy Piercy, I decided to call into Nora’s Coffee Shop. Predictably, the Christmas number one was booming out for the umpteenth time. Nora clearly loved Renée and Renato singing ‘Save Your Love’, but she was definitely in a minority.

  Little Malcolm was at the counter waiting for a mug of tea and one of Nora’s festive mince pies, which only customers with strong teeth were buying.

  ‘Ah’ve got you a lovely present, Malcolm,’ said Dorothy.

  Malcolm looked alarmed. He was intending to find a suitable gift for Dorothy on Christmas Eve at Easington market. ‘Oh, er, thanks Dorothy,’ he said, blushing and looking down at his boots.

  ‘So what’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Dorothy.

  ‘A coffee, please,’ I said.

  She fiddled with her huge plastic Christmas-tree earrings. ‘An’ we’ve got some crackin’ mince pies.’ Cracking seemed an appropriate word.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said hesitantly. The sign said HOME-MADE MINCE PIES … it just didn’t say when. ‘I’ll try one.’

  Dorothy turned to Little Malcolm. Her butterfly brain had already thought of something else. ‘An’ Malcolm, did y’see Princess Diana in that lovely ballgown?’ she said.

  ‘Ah don’t think so,’ said Little Malcolm vaguely.

  ‘Y’know … when she went to see that film wi’ that Indian feller wi’ a bald ’ead an’ sandals?’ continued Dorothy.

  ‘Gandhi,’ said Little Malcolm helpfully.

  Dorothy looked puzzled. ‘Y’mean that little reindeer in Walt Disney whose mam got shot?’

  ‘No, not Bambi … Gandhi,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘That Indian who wanted to be equal wi’ us.’

  ‘Never ’eard of ’im,’ said Dorothy. ‘Why, what’s ’e been in?’

  Nora looked up from shaking icing sugar through a sieve on to the plate of mince pies to give them a more appetizing appearance. ‘’E’s not been in owt, Dowothy,’ she said. ‘’E were a webel.’

  ‘Like Johnny Rotten?’

  ‘No, not that kind o’ webel,’ retorted Nora. ‘’E wanted to get wid o’ all t’Bwitish in ’ is countwy so all t’Indians ’ad equal wights.’

  ‘Oh, ah see,’ said Dorothy. ‘Well if ’e comes in ’ere ah’m not serving ’im.’

  Escape was the only option, so I picked up the coffee and mince pie, paid quickly and retreated to the nearest table.

  That afternoon Beth said she wanted to wrap some presents, so I went alone to the Crib Service at St Mary’s Church. When I arrived it was already packed with children from both Ragley and Morton, many of them in costume for the traditional Nativity play. Sally, Jo and Anne were busy arranging the school choir in order of height so that their parents could see them all from the pews. I enjoyed the feeling of not being in charge and relaxed at the back next to Sue Phillips. Joseph, as always on these occasions, was on good form and all went well.

  After the service Anne popped her head round the vestry door. ‘Any news of Vera, Joseph?’ she said quietly.

  Joseph nodded and suddenly looked quite sad. ‘A very brief telephone call,’ he said. ‘All appears well and she asked me to pass on her love to everyone.’

&n
bsp; Then he brightened up. ‘And she’ll be back tomorrow. I’ve been invited to have Christmas dinner with them and stay overnight at the Manor.’

  Anne smiled and, to Joseph’s surprise, she gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘You have many friends, Joseph – never forget that.’

  When the church was finally empty and all that could be heard was the ticking of the clock in the church tower, Joseph sat alone on one of the empty pews and prayed for peace on earth and goodwill to all men … but mainly for his sister.

  That evening Beth seemed full of life again and suggested going to The Royal Oak for some hot food and a drink. The cold breath of winter froze our bones, but the bright-orange lights were welcoming and I was looking forward to a pint of Chestnut Mild and one of Sheila’s gammon and egg Specials.

  ‘Would you like a glass of white wine, Beth?’ I asked.

  Beth paused and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think I will, Jack,’ she said. ‘Just a soft drink.’ She found a quiet table and I waited my turn at the bar. All the familiar folk were there, enjoying an evening in the cosy warmth under the bright Christmas decorations hanging from the ancient beams.

  Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his usual stool beneath The Royal Oak’s most prized possession: an autographed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott. ‘How are you, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.

  ‘Fair t’middlin’, thank you, young Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn pipe tobacco. Along with the football team, he was staring intently at the television set above the taproom bar. Olivia Newton John, in a headband and skintight Lycra, was performing sexy aerobics in a gymnasium while singing her hit song ‘Physical’.

  ‘Fit as a butcher’s dog,’ said Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, local snow-plough driver, occasional farmhand, pub singer and father of Shane, Clint and Wayne. In the taproom of The Royal Oak political correctness was a far-off dream and everyone nodded. After all, in the eyes of the Ragley Rovers football team, this was the ultimate accolade any Yorkshireman could give to a woman.