03 Dear Teacher (12 page)

Anne looked sadly after Jo. ‘It must be difficult for young couples,’ she said. ‘One day a decent house might cost more than £20,000 the way things are going.’ She, too, collected her register and made for the warmth of the staff-room.

Vera looked out of the window at the children arriving for school. They appeared completely impervious to the cold with their rosy cheeks glowing on this cold winter’s day. ‘Well, at least the children don’t seem to feel it,’ she said quietly to herself. Then she picked up her coffee and newspaper and joined Sally and Jo in the staff-room, where she settled to admire the front-page photograph of Angela Rippon. The BBC’s prettiest newsgirl had been picked to compete at Olympia against Prince Charles’s all-star showjumping squad in order to raise money for the British Equestrian Olympic Fund.

‘Pity she’s too old for Charles,’ murmured Vera as she sipped her coffee. ‘He really needs a beautiful, innocent young girl.’

‘Innocent!’ exclaimed Sally.

‘I think Vera means someone fitting to be our future queen,’ said Anne quickly, ever the peacemaker.

‘Well, his latest girlfriend sounds a bit of a tearaway,’
said
Sally. ‘Apparently her nickname’s “Whiplash Wallace”,’ she added pointedly.

‘Whiplash!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘Oh dear, how very common.’

‘He’s certainly had a few interesting companions,’ mused Anne.

‘I liked Lady Jane Wellesley,’ said Vera. ‘She would have been perfect, but he was too young then,’ she added.

‘Better than that Fiona Watson,’ said Jo.

‘I don’t remember her,’ said Anne.

‘Her nickname was “Yum-yum”,’ said Jo, ‘and I think she posed for
Playboy
.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘what must his mother think?’

‘Mind you, every time he needs a shoulder to cry on, he goes back to that Camilla what’s-her-name,’ said Anne.

‘Parker-Bowles,’ said Vera with authority. ‘Yes, that was a pity. I read he was heartbroken when she got married.’

‘And then there was Skippy, that bubbly Australian blonde,’ added Anne.

‘Kanga, not Skippy,’ said Jo. ‘Skippy’s that intelligent kangaroo.’

‘You’re probably right,’ said Anne with a grin.

‘Maybe he secretly fancies one of the Three Degrees,’ said Sally mischievously. ‘He did invite them to sing at his thirtieth-birthday party last year.’

‘That reminds me, everybody,’ said Vera: ‘we’d better turn the gas fire down.’

Grumbling under their breath, Anne, Sally and Jo walked back to their draughty classrooms, while, for
me
, the thought of Beth’s phone call meant that the cold weather was no longer important.

In the entrance hall I passed Mr and Mrs Dudley-Palmer deep in conversation. Mrs Dudley-Palmer was having Victoria Alice’s costume for the nativity play professionally made in York and had called in to discuss the correct shade of blue for Mary’s headscarf. In preparation for the big event, Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer had bought an Olympus Trip 35mm camera for his wife. ‘It will fit neatly into your handbag, dear,’ said Geoffrey persuasively. ‘And, apart from the birth of Jesus, you can photograph pieces of furniture before you buy them.’ Geoffrey was a past master at appealing to Petula’s baser instincts. Sadly, although this was a tactful strategy, the state-of-the-art, cutting-edge technology was completely lost on Petula. Her first photographic results were destined to comprise twenty-four perfectly focused close-ups of her right ear against a variety of backgrounds.

Just before the end of school Deke Ramsbottom arrived on his tractor and unloaded the school Christmas tree. Immediately, a throng of children from Anne’s reception class gathered in the corner of the hall to watch Ruby and me erect it in a half-barrel plant tub. As we stood back to admire our handiwork a host of little faces shone with excitement and I recalled once again the magic of Christmas for our four- and five-year-olds. ‘Santa’s coming soon,’ whispered five-year-old Victoria Alice to the Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina. They both nodded in perfect unison and dreamed of Tressy dolls with their stylish hair
and
Mary Quant’s fashionably dressed Daisy dolls. They were also determined to discuss the possibility of a pet goat when they next met Santa in his grotto.

I left school earlier than usual and settled down in my cosy lounge with a cup of tea and switched on the television. It was just before five o’clock and Ed Stewart was encouraging his youthful audience to join in the fun of
Crackerjack
. I felt slightly guilty watching such a youthful programme and switched to ITV. A young female with legs that went up to her armpits was telling me that she was sick of stubble-rash but fortunately her life would now be complete with a new Ladies’ Remington Shaver. I wished my life was as simple. When
Better Badminton
came on at seven o’clock I switched off, unwilling to watch fit, athletic men in tight shorts and headbands knocking the feathers off a shuttlecock.

After looking in my empty cupboards and at the lonely slice of cheese in my fridge, I decided to go into Ragley for a drink and enjoy one of Sheila Bradshaw’s famous ‘Belly Buster’ mince and onion pies.

When I arrived, The Royal Oak was filling up with its usual Friday night crowd and topics that were in the news were being discussed.

‘A Channel tunnel?’ exclaimed Big Dave.

‘That’s reight, Dave,’ confirmed Little Malcolm: ‘a tunnel under t’English Channel.’

‘It were in t’paper this morning,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough with authority. Stevie, as the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, was
proud
of his superior knowledge. ‘A Member o’ Parliament called Norman Fowler said so.’

‘Norman Fowler? Who’s ’e when ’e’s at ’ome?’ asked Don the barman.

‘ ’E’ll be some southerner wantin’ cheap ’olidays in France,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the Bald-Headed Ball Wizard.

‘Y’reight there, Kojak,’ agreed Little Malcolm. ‘Warm beer an’ cheap ’olidays – y’can’t trust southerners.’

‘ ’Ow they gonna dig it?’ asked Big Dave.

‘Frenchies will be diggin’ from their side an’ we’re gonna dig from ours,’ said Stevie.

‘But ’ow will they meet in t’middle?’ said Kojak. ‘Couple o’ degrees out an’ they’ll miss each other.’

‘Then you’ll ’ave two tunnels,’ said Norman ‘Nutter’ Neilson. While Norman was not regarded as the sharpest knife in the drawer, everyone agreed he had made a good point.

‘An’ we’ll get that disease that meks dogs foam at t’mouth,’ said Don the barman, putting down his tea towel.

Big Dave laughed. ‘Nay, we already get that from your beer.’

‘Ah’ve seen them mad dogs on telly,’ said Clint Ramsbottom.

‘Rabbis,’ said Shane.

‘Rabbis!’ said Stevie. ‘No, y’mean …’ and then stopped in mid-sentence when he saw Shane’s look.

As I walked from the bar with my steaming hot mince
and
onion pie and a half of Chestnut Mild I glanced at Shane’s bulging muscles. It wasn’t wise to correct a skinhead with psychopathic tendencies.

On Saturday morning in the bright pale December sunshine I gave my car a quick polish before I left Bilbo Cottage and then drove out of Kirkby Steepleton, through Ragley village and on to the Easington Road towards the winding country roads of the Hambleton hills. Hartingdale was an unspoilt market town amid the heather-covered moors and picturesque dales and a scenic drive stretched out before me.

After half an hour I pulled up on the crest of a windswept hill and stepped out on to the grassy verge. The clean air of the high moors filled my lungs and I surveyed the valley before me and the hills beyond. Creation had blessed this windswept land. When I was a boy, my father had brought me to a place such as this and said, ‘Son, this is God’s Own Country.’ As I stood on this lonely hillside with the eternal rocks beneath my feet I remembered his words and understood their meaning.

Around me, the dense forests had lost their autumn colour and the red and ochre leaves were now forming dense piles of leaf mould round the gnarled trunks. Up ahead, in the distant valley below, was the beautiful North Yorkshire village of Hartingdale with its church spire, Victorian school building, village green and a cluster of cottages with reddish-brown pantile roofs. It
looked
as it always did, steadfast and untouched by the passing of time.

Standing there, I thought of Beth. She would be busy in her school, a headteacher immersed in her work at the centre of her village community, as I tried to be in mine. I remembered the sadness of our parting after Dan and Jo’s wedding. While her sister Laura had filled a void in my life it was Beth that I missed most of all. Like a circle ripped at the seams, I had tried to let her go. I took one last long look at the Victorian rooftop of the village school and remembered our times together. After all these months, I still remembered that first kiss, etched in the stillness of time. The sharp wind whipped at my duffel coat and tears of cold filled my eyes. It was time to drive on.

I climbed back in my car and began the winding descent down the steep hill. Hartingdale village settled neatly into the wild moorland valley through which a pretty river wound its way over scattered shale through bracken, peat and moss. In the distance I heard the sound of grouse chattering their familiar warning cry ‘go-back, go-back’. Undeterred, I drove down the hill into the village.

Hartingdale had become popular with tourists but, thanks to prudent planning, the town never seemed overcrowded and had retained its character. The cobbled main street stretched out before me, flanked by wide grassy mounds. On either side the terraced cottages looked impregnable, with solid walls that were two
feet
thick and with deep-set, tiny windows. These were homes that were snug and warm in winter and cool in summer. Around the village green some of the older properties had thatched roofs made of wheat straw, where the deserted nests of long-gone sparrows gradually untangled themselves in the winter breeze.

Long before the Industrial Revolution, the weavers of Hartingdale were famous across the North of England for the quality of their linen and woollen fabrics. When the day had arrived when they could no longer compete with the huge factories of the great cities of Yorkshire, the town returned to farming and tourism. With its clean air and attractive blend of Georgian and Elizabethan houses, the market square was a popular stopping-off place for bus-loads of city dwellers.

I spotted Beth’s pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle outside the school and I parked in the square. Then I walked across the cobbles to the welcoming sight of the Golden Hart, its brightly coloured pub sign swinging in the breeze. It had a façade of Victorian permanence and, in 1838, it had become Hartingdale’s principal coaching inn when a stagecoach known as the Hartingdale Flyer ran from York to Hartingdale and on to Kirkbymoorside. William Wordsworth had stayed here and history was my companion as I walked in.

Beth was already there, sitting alone at a table in the bay window and staring through the leaded panes, lost in her own thoughts. The lounge bar was beautifully furnished with relics of the past and the original oak beams had
been
left exposed. A pair of carver chairs, in the Chippendale style, flanked the huge local stone fireplace.

She stood up to meet me, elegant in a beautifully tailored dark business suit and a cream collarless blouse. Even though she looked stunning with her slim figure and proud, high cheekbones, today her green eyes were tired and stray wisps of long honey-blonde hair fell round her face. She tucked the loose strands back behind her ears in that familiar way I loved so much and then beckoned me to sit down at the table with her.

‘Thanks for coming, Jack,’ she said. ‘You’ve no idea how much I needed your help today.’

My heart beat faster in expectation. ‘Good to see you, Beth.’ I smiled. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Beth. ‘A white wine would be lovely.’

I walked over to the Tudor bar, ordered two glasses of white wine, and the waitress brought them over to us and set them down on the sturdy oak table. Its rugged surface, shaped with an adze, bore the carved mouse trademark of Robert Thompson, ‘the Mouseman of Kilburn’. We ordered the ‘Golden Hart Traditional Yorkshire Lunch’, a £3.25 special comprising a giant Yorkshire pudding filled with beef stew and onion gravy. When the waitress walked away I could tell there was something troubling Beth.

‘What is it?’ I asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

Her green eyes lingered on me for a precious moment. Cocooned in our private space and intoxicated by sweet
smelling
cinnamon, we faced each other. She sipped her wine as if searching for the right words.

‘There is something … but that can wait.’ It was as if she had changed her mind mid-sentence. Then she put down her wine glass and smiled. ‘Remember last New Year’s Eve when you asked me to help you build a snowman?’

‘How could I forget?’

‘It’s a bit like that.’

‘I give in.’

She tugged at a tiny green earring. ‘Well, it’s like this, Jack,’ she said at last. ‘I’m short of a Father Christmas and I’m desperate.’ She gave me that familiar determined stare. ‘I’m sorry to drop this on you but I’ve been let down at the last minute by my chairman of governors and I don’t know who to turn to.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, struggling to take it all in. I tried to hide my disappointment.

‘My chairman of governors is Whylbert Peach, the local artist,’ explained Beth. ‘That’s one of his.’ She pointed to a huge picture over the mantelpiece. It was a dramatic water-colour painting of Lake Gormire, near Sutton-under-Whitestone Cliff. The lakeside was studded with bulrushes and surrounded by deer and great-crested grebes. In the background reared the steep buttress of Sutton Bank, formed by glacial action and a popular launchpad for the local gliding club. Whylbert had used artistic licence and included the famous White Horse of Kilburn, carved out on the face of Roulston Scar in 1857.

I nodded in appreciation. ‘So he was supposed to be Father Christmas?’

‘Yes, Jack, but he’s had one of his famous panic attacks. He’s a bit of an oddball, to be truthful. My deputy, Simon, would have done it, but everyone here knows him too well.’ The penny was dropping slowly. ‘The children will be so disappointed if Santa doesn’t make an appearance. So can you help?’