04 Village Teacher (22 page)

Ruby’s niece was a long-legged natural beauty with shoulder-length wavy chestnut hair. She gave me a shy smile and extended her hand in greeting. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield. Our Ruby ’as told me all about you,’ said Beauty with a smile that must have broken many hearts and a peculiar mixture of a Yorkshire accent mixed with an Australian lilt.

‘Pleased to meet you, Beauty,’ I said hesitantly.

‘That’s m’nickname, Mr Sheffield. M’mother an’ our Ruby allus called me that,’ she said with another smile that lit up the room. ‘An’ ah prefer it t’Beverley.’

I looked at Ruby’s heavy box of crockery. ‘I’m calling into school, Ruby, so I can give you a lift home if you like.’

‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘That’s reight kind.’

Beauty’s eyes lit up. ‘Ooh, can ah ’ave a look round t’old school, Mr Sheffield?’ she said enthusiastically. ‘It’s years since I left ’ere. It would be lovely t’see it again.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ll call in on the way back.’

Virgil had just cleared up and was giving the giant hinges a final oiling when I stopped outside the school gates.

‘Virgil!’ exclaimed Beauty, staring as if she had seen a ghost.

‘Beauty,’ said Virgil, and the colour drained from his ruddy cheeks.

Ruby put her hand on my arm. ‘P’raps we can give ’em a few minutes, Mr Sheffield … There’s ’istory between these two.’

We climbed back in the car as Beauty walked towards Virgil. It was time for a story and I settled back into my driver’s seat while Ruby told me the sad tale.

After a whirlwind romance, Beauty, an assistant on the cosmetics counter in Boots the Chemist in Thirkby, had surprised her family and run off in 1963 with her manager, Clive Turner. He had been offered a job in Australia as chief chemist in a new pharmaceutical factory in Sydney and decided an attractive girlfriend would be an asset in his drive to the top of his profession.

They had taken advantage of the ten-pound assisted passage and boarded a plane that, with stops in Rome, Bombay and Darwin, took forty hours to arrive in New South Wales, where Beauty, looking like Audrey Hepburn in high heels, white gloves, dark-blue two-piece suit and matching leather handbag, walked confidently into Sydney airport. They were met by Clive’s chief executive in his pale-green Holden F J and whisked off to a smart hotel.

They were married in November 1963, the weekend before the assassination of President John Kennedy, and moved into a spacious rented house at Mona Vale on the northern peninsula in sight of the sea. Beauty loved the open air but soon discovered she was not allowed to change into her swimsuit on the beach and that only one-piece costumes were allowed. Also the shark patrols made her even more nervous than the funnel-web spiders. Every week she wrote to her mother on blue airmail paper and told her all about the sights and the sea and plans for the new Opera House – but never about how she felt, lonely and far from home.

For the first few years all seemed well, then Clive had his first affair. They were guests of the Royal Agricultural Society at Sydney showground for the Royal Easter Show. The blonde wife of his colleague was both irresistible and available.

By the mid-Seventies, Beauty couldn’t stand Clive’s bullying and womanizing any longer and she sought a divorce. Clive was glad to oblige. Beauty had served her purpose.

She moved into a spare room in a girlfriend’s house and, eventually, there came a morning a few months ago when she knew it was time to leave Australia. The postman had pushed the mail into the mailbox at the end of the driveway and blown his whistle. Then the delivery boy had thrown the local Sydney newspaper on to the front lawn. She had collected the mail, picked up the newspaper and then stared out to sea. It was time to return to her home and family.

Beauty looked up at the rugged features of the giant blacksmith. ‘Clive told me you were going out wi’ that Alice from t’bakery in Easington,’ said Beauty.

Virgil looked shocked. ‘I never went out with her, but I think we both know why he would say that.’

‘But ah saw y’going into ’er house,’ said Beauty sadly, ‘and ah was coming to see you.’

‘I was doing some work for her father,’ said Virgil. ‘I was repairing his trailer as a favour.’

‘Oh, ah see,’ said Beauty.

‘When you didn’t turn up I thought you’d lost interest. After all, just look at me, Beauty,’ said Virgil. ‘I’m no oil
painting
.’ His face was etched with the memory of that day. ‘Then I saw you and Clive in his flash car about a week later. I could never compete with that.’

‘Ah should ’ave known,’ she said.

A few days later the weather had changed and the snow had finally gone. There was a shift in the wind and hopes of warmer days for the shoppers on Ragley High Street. Outside the village hall I met Albert Jenkins, school governor and a wise friend. He pointed up the street.

‘Now, there’s a sight for sore eyes,’ he said.

On the opposite pavement Virgil and Beauty were walking hand in hand and deep in conversation but what was extraordinary was the fact that Virgil’s face was wreathed in smiles.

‘Good to see, isn’t it, Jack?’ said Albert. ‘I haven’t seen Virgil smile in years.’

‘I did wonder why he always appeared so reserved, as if he didn’t want to let his feelings out,’ I said. ‘I’m pleased he’s found a bit of happiness at last.’

‘Virgil’s grandfather was a great friend to me, Jack, but, sadly, he’s passed on now. He loved his Latin and he introduced me to the
Aeneid
, the Roman Empire’s national epic.’

‘Yes. Virgil mentioned it to me. He’s a big fan.’

‘There were some great lines in it … “
Audentes fortuna iuvat
”.’ I smiled at Albert’s animated expression. ‘Fortune favours the brave. Book ten, line two hundred and eighty-four.’

‘It’s one to remember,’ I said.

‘This may surprise you, Jack, but Virgil was actually christened
Isaac
Virgil Crichton.’

‘Isaac?’

‘That’s right. He was such a cheerful baby and his mother was a great Bible reader.’

‘I still don’t follow, Albert,’ I said.

Virgil and Beauty had stopped outside Nora’s Coffee Shop. After being awarded an OBE by the Queen, Cliff Richard was in the top ten in America with ‘We Don’t Talk Any More’. It was on full volume as Virgil opened the door. Beauty whispered something in his ear and he laughed out loud.

‘Jack …
Isaac
is Hebrew for laughter,’ said Albert.

Finally I understood and smiled. ‘So Virgil was right,’ I said.

We watched them walk into the shop with the confidence of lovers.

Albert nodded and gave me a knowing look. ‘
Omnia vincit amor
. Book ten, line sixty-nine,’ he murmured quietly.

The translation was surprisingly easy and I smiled. ‘Love conquers all,’ I said.

Above our heads, a parliament of rooks ceased their debate and flew off into a powder-blue sky. It was time to move on and Beth had promised warm soup back at Bilbo Cottage.

Chapter Thirteen

The Last Rag-and-Bone Man

Every child made a pancake today. The school cook, Mrs Mapplebeck, demonstrated how to mix the ingredients and, throughout the day, assisted by parents, each class took turns to use the single-ring electric stove in the school hall
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 3 March 1981

‘YOU ’AVE T’MAKE
one revelation every ten yards, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby as she emptied my waste-paper basket into a black bag. ‘It says so on t’poster outside village ’all.’

‘Pardon?’ I looked up from my
Yorkshire Purchasing Organization
catalogue. The price of HB pencils was causing me concern.

‘It’s t’annual pancake race on Saturday, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ruby. ‘They allus ’ave it t’Saturday after Pancake Day on t’village green.’

‘Oh, I see. So are you entering, Ruby?’ I asked.

‘Well, our ’Azel wants me to ’ave a go.’

‘I remember you winning the ladies’ egg-and-spoon race, Ruby, so I’m sure you would be good at pancake racing.’

Ruby flushed with modesty at this reminder of a great day in her life three summers ago. ‘Mebbe so, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’m good at making revelations.’

‘Revelations?’

‘That’s reight,’ said Ruby as she walked out of the office, dragging the black bag behind her. ‘Y’ave t’keep flippin’ y’pancake … one revelation every ten yards. Teks a lot o’ skill, does that.’

I returned, bemused, to my stationery order and the price of pencils. We would have to make economies somewhere unless Mrs Thatcher relented on her public sector cut-backs. I chuckled to myself. Now, that would be a revelation.

Out of the window I watched the children arriving at school, all looking relaxed and happy and some carrying aprons and small frying pans. It was early morning on Shrove Tuesday, the last day before Lent and the final chance to indulge in fat, butter and eggs before a time of abstinence. Our school cook, Shirley Mapplebeck, was already preparing the ingredients in her kitchen for the marathon pancake-making event of the year.

Two more cars pulled up outside the school gate, followed by Mrs Dudley-Palmer’s Rolls-Royce, and children piled out on to the pavement. I was puzzled why this was so as, in our tiny village, everyone lived within walking distance. It occurred to me there could be a safety problem if more parents started this unusual
habit
. We might even have to request some warning signs or painted lines on the road immediately outside the gate and I decided to raise the issue at our next governors’ meeting. In the meantime, it was back to the HB pencils.

My first lesson was going well. You could have heard a pin drop.

‘There’s five senses, boys and girls,’ I said with a voice of absolute authority: ‘hearing, touch, sight, smell and taste. Human beings need these senses to understand the world around us.’ I picked up a stick of white chalk and wrote the names of the senses on the blackboard.

Soon the children were in five groups, each one exploring a different sense. On the ‘hearing’ table I had set up the Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder, on which I had recorded a variety of sounds that the children had to identify and write down. On the ‘taste’ table I had bicarbonate of soda, salt, sugar and sherbet, and on the ‘touch’ table there was a ‘feely’ box. I had cut a circular hole in the top of a grocery box and filled it with objects, including a tin, a jar, a toothbrush, a pack of sausages, an apple, a piece of sandpaper, leaves, a ceramic tile, a gobstopper, marbles and some tree bark. The children took turns to try to identify the objects while blindfolded.

As usual, the discussion didn’t always go in the direction I had anticipated. Cathy Cathcart was waving her hand in the air. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said with a grin, ‘why do noses run an’ feet smell?’

It occurred to me that, although teaching might not be well paid, at least it was interesting.

* * *

At lunchtime in the staff-room Anne was scanning the front page of her
Yorkshire Post
. ‘Hooray!’ she cried. ‘Inflation’s gone down to thirteen per cent!’ These were turbulent times in politics. The ‘Gang of Four’, Dr David Owen, Shirley Williams, Roy Jenkins and William Rogers, had launched the Social Democratic Party, there were real fears of a national miners’ strike and Michael Foot, Leader of the Opposition, had asked Mrs Thatcher what she intended to do.

However, Vera and Valerie had more important things on their minds. They were poring over Delia Smith’s cookery book and discussing soup recipes for the forthcoming series of Lent lunches.

‘Seems early this year for pancakes,’ said Jo.

Vera looked up. ‘Shrove Tuesday is always forty-seven days before Easter Sunday, which this year is on the nineteenth of April,’ she said with absolute certainty. The church calendar was always at Vera’s fingertips.

Throughout the day each class went into the school hall to make their pancakes, supervised by teachers and parents. Shirley the cook described each step of the process and the day was a great success. Even though the one I made stuck to the pan and finished up looking like shredded bladderwrack, all the children were sympathetic and recognized that this was Shirley’s day. She was definitely in charge, with the reliable Ruby as her second-in-command. I wondered if there was any correlation between pancakes and personality: Ruby’s was large and fluffy, whereas Vera’s was slim, even and perfectly symmetrical.

‘That were a good day, Mr Sheffield,’ said Darrell Topper as everyone left at the end of the day. I smiled in acknowledgement. It wasn’t the moment to insist on correct grammar.

Saturday morning dawned bright and fair. The recent heavy rain that had cleared away the snow had gone now and early spring sunshine lifted the spirits. On my Bush radio, at nine o’clock on Radio 2, David Jacobs faded out The Byrds singing ‘Mr Tambourine Man’ to allow the newsreader to reassure us that the recent serious flooding of the River Ouse in York was only likely to occur once in every four hundred years.

Later, I was sitting with Beth in Nora’s Coffee Shop, eating a Wagon Wheel and drinking a frothy coffee. At the counter, Dorothy was telling the teenagers Claire Bradshaw and Anita Cuthbertson why pixie boots were every young girl’s dream. These wrinkly pull-on boots kept your feet warm and Dorothy had just bought a new pair that went up to her knees.

Beth seemed quiet, pursing her lips and blowing on the surface of her coffee …
just like Laura
. She was more quiet than usual, as if something was on her mind. In the background John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ was playing softly on the juke-box.

‘Beth … would you like to go for a walk?’

She smiled and picked up her scarf and gloves. ‘Good idea,’ she said, but there was a hint of sadness in her eyes.

We walked across the High Street and up the well-worn
path
towards the ramshackle cricket pavilion. I swung open the five-barred gate and our footsteps crunched on the gravelled car park until we reached the grassy path alongside the white picket fence that surrounded the cricket field. Beyond the hedgerow to our left was a dense wooded area that separated the track from the football field, from which came the distant cries of children.