04 Village Teacher (12 page)

It was a strange act as the fleas were too small to be seen. We could only presume that Mary saw them as she encouraged them to pull carts up a ramp. At the end Mary waved goodbye to her tiny friends, Professor Potts got the biggest cheer of the night and we all went
home
, tired but happy and ready for an early night. All, that is, except Vera, who inspected her cats very carefully and made sure their flea collars were perfectly secure.

At the end of school on Friday I was chatting with Anne, Sally and Vera in the staff-room when Jo came in, clutching a sheet of paper.

‘Jack,’ said Jo. ‘Have a look at this. It’s exceptional. Mary Scrimshaw’s suddenly coming on in leaps and bounds again with her writing. And she’s developing a wonderful imagination.’

Jo handed me a sheet of A4 paper and I smiled as I read the large, neat, infant printing. Mary had written:

Daddy and Mummy took me to the circus
.

It was my birthday
.

I am 7
.

The best bit was the man with the fleas
.

The man loved them like Daddy and Mummy love me
.

When I grow up I will have fleas and I will love them too
.

But I will always love Mummy and Daddy best
.

When they kiss me good night Mummy smells of nice soap
.

Daddy says one day he will take me to the stars
.

I’m glad I’m me
.

I pulled on my duffel coat and old college scarf, picked up Mary’s writing, and walked across the High Street. It was the time of the dying of the light and dusk settled like a purple cloak over the rooftops of Ragley village.

The pharmacy was quiet and Mrs Scrimshaw was
tidying
the shelves. ‘Mrs Hunter wanted you to see this,’ I said.

Minutes later she dabbed her eyes as she read her daughter’s words. ‘It’s wonderful, Mr Sheffield. Thank you for showing it to me.’

There was a scamper of feet on the stairs and Eugene appeared with Mary. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. ‘We’ve jus’ been looking at t’stars through m’telescope.’

‘I can see where Mary gets her imagination from,’ I said with a smile.

He lifted up Mary in his arms and opened the door for me. Peggy came to stand beside them and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield. We’re all right now.’

As I walked across the forecourt Mary called out, ‘ ’Bye, Mr Sheffield.’ Then she raised her little right hand, separated her second and third fingers into a V-shape and gave me a passable imitation of Mr Spock’s Vulcan salute. Eugene and Peggy laughed and, in perfect unison, they raised their right hands and joined in.

It was an image I shall always remember – the three of them standing together in the brightly lit shop window. Beneath the twinkling stars and the silent, inky-black world of space, they were a family again.

Chapter Seven

Jilly Cooper and the Yorkshire Fairies

Rehearsals went ahead for the school Christmas entertainment. County Hall requested a copy of our scheme for mathematics for their ‘common curriculum’ working party
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 5 December 1980

‘IT’S USUALLY SOMETHING
boring,’ said Sally with a tired grin. She leant against the staff-room door and rubbed her aching back. She had now passed the thirtieth week of her pregnancy and standing in front of a class was taking its toll.

‘Yes. I know what you mean,’ said Anne. ‘My John’s just the same. He bought me a toolkit last year.’

It was Friday lunchtime, 5 December, and Christmas preparations were beginning in earnest. I stopped winding the handle of our Roneo spirit duplicator. On the master sheet on the cylindrical drum was Cathy
Cathcart’s
drawing of a fat robin for our Christmas entertainment programme and it occurred to me that it wasn’t only Sally who looked pregnant. ‘What’s boring?’ I asked.

‘Colin’s Christmas present,’ said Sally. ‘It’s always cheap perfume or a jumper that’s too small. Still, he means well.’

Vera was recording late dinner money in her register. ‘He may surprise you,’ she said with a reassuring smile but slightly false optimism.

Sally shook her head. ‘Unlikely. You know Colin.’

‘My Dan bought me underwear last year,’ announced Jo, without looking up from her ‘How to make a Christmas snowflake mobile’ article in our monthly
Child Education
magazine, ‘and it fitted perfectly.’

Anne, Sally and Vera looked at Jo with a mixture of amusement, appreciation and horror … and in that order.

‘I don’t think John would know where to start with a present like that,’ said Anne. ‘Anyway, you won’t believe what he’s giving me for my Christmas treat.’

Suddenly, I was interested. ‘What’s that?’ I said. ‘I could do with a few ideas for Beth’s present.’

‘Well, you know John loves his steam trains, don’t you?’ said Anne. ‘The Keighley and Worth Valley Railway are running “Santa Steam Specials” every Sunday in December. So we’re going this weekend!’

‘That sounds great,’ I said, warming to the idea.

‘I think Anne was hoping for something a little more romantic, Jack,’ said Sally.

‘Too right,’ retorted Anne.

Vera frowned and stirred her Earl Grey tea noisily.

‘Dan’s going on the train to Leeds tomorrow to buy my present,’ said Jo. ‘Why not ask John and Colin to go with him? Should be a good day out for them and Dan would enjoy the company.’

‘Mmm, yes, good idea,’ said Sally. ‘I’ll mention it. Dan might point him in the right direction.’

‘So what are you giving Beth for Christmas?’ asked Anne with a mischievous grin.

I gathered up the pregnant robins, stacked them on the coffee-table and pondered for a moment. ‘Not sure yet, Anne … but maybe a trip to Leeds would be a good idea.’

During the afternoon my class made good progress on our huge ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ frieze. Apart from Cathy Cathcart painting two tortoises to represent two turtle doves and Carol Bustard decorating the three French hens with rather fetching navy-blue berets and a string of onions, it turned out fine.

At afternoon playtime, Sally was looking tired.

‘Come and sit down,’ said Jo, jumping up and grabbing her coat and scarf. ‘I’ll do your playground duty.’

‘Thanks, Jo,’ said Sally, collapsing into the nearest chair. ‘You’re an angel.’

Sally was soon engrossed in an article in Vera’s December 1980 issue of
Yorkshire Life
. ‘It says here that Jilly Cooper is on tour in the north of England to publicize the launch of her latest novel,
Class
,’ said Sally. ‘Pity I won’t see her. I don’t think she’s coming to York.’

‘I love Jilly Cooper,’ said Anne.

‘I’m reading
Bella
at the moment,’ said Sally.

‘What’s it like?’ asked Anne.

‘Brilliant!’ said Sally. ‘It’s about this sexy actress called Bella Parkinson and she meets a rich, handsome guy called Rupert Henriques who fancies the pants off her.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Vera disapprovingly and, with a noisy clatter of crockery, she began to collect the teacups.

Sally leant over to Anne and whispered conspiratorially, ‘I’ll pass it on to you when I’ve finished.’

Anne nodded and grinned. While David Soul in
Starsky and Hutch
would always be her heart-throb, Rupert Henriques sounded to be a sufficiently interesting diversion from yet another tale of John’s woodcarving exploits.

That evening over a fish-and-chips supper, I watched the BBC news with Beth.

It featured Queen Elizabeth, the Queen Mother, playing snooker at the Press Club in London as part of her eightieth birthday celebrations and another complaint about the behaviour of the Press towards Lady Diana Spencer. Meanwhile, Anna Ford informed us, with suitably repressed humour, that Ian Botham, the twenty-five-year-old England cricket captain, had been banned from driving for a month and fined eighty pounds after being chased in his Saab by the police up the M5 motorway for 17 miles. Mr Hywell Jenkins for the defence had informed the court he was ‘a little excited at being made captain’.

Suddenly, the phone rang. It was Dan Hunter.

‘Jack, I’m going into Leeds tomorrow to buy a Christmas present for Jo. Do you fancy coming?’

‘I’d better check with Beth,’ I said.

‘Don’t bother, Jack. She’s going into York with Jo. Colin and John are tagging along as well.’

‘Sounds like a good day out.’

‘I’ll pick you up around nine. See you then.’

‘So, you’re going Christmas shopping with Dan?’ said Beth with a smile. ‘I hope you select some appropriate gifts.’

‘Is there anything in particular you want?’ I asked hopefully.

A straight answer was too much to hope for. ‘Surprise me,’ said Beth coyly. ‘I certainly intend to surprise you.’

For the rest of the evening I racked my brains but no inspiration was forthcoming.

On Saturday morning at nine o’clock a two-tone-green Wolseley Hornet pulled up outside Bilbo Cottage. Dan was at the wheel and Colin and John were on the back seat. We parked in York railway station and queued up for a newspaper. I bought my usual
Times
; Dan bought the
Sun
; John spent twelve pence on a
Daily Mail
and Colin bought a
Do It Yourself
home improvement magazine and four KitKats.

After working with women every day it made a change to be in the company of men and I relaxed in the instant camaraderie. The platform was crowded and we followed the huge figure of Dan as the train eased its way into the station. It was the hourly service from Newcastle to Liverpool and the eight blue and grey carriages were covered in thick grime. John, the train buff, informed us
they
were hauled by a Class 47 diesel electric locomotive but we were more concerned to get a seat. Dan quickly found four seats with a table and we settled down with our newspapers, magazines and a welcome KitKat each.

I opened my
Times
and frowned. Under the headline ‘Oil battle looms in the Falklands’, a report indicated there was trouble brewing with Argentina. Mr Nicholas Soames, Minister of State for Latin America, had visited the Falkland Islands after Argentina had claimed these islands and begun a dispute over who owned drilling rights. I couldn’t see us backing down on the issue of sovereignty and I wondered what the outcome might be.

On a lighter note, on the back page was a photograph of Steve Davis, a new snooker star, who had just won in one week more than I earned in a year. Apparently the tall, slim, ginger-haired twenty-three-year-old had begun to play at Pontins Holiday Camp at the age of twelve. I recalled that when I was twelve this would have been regarded as a misspent youth but now I wasn’t so sure.

At eleven o’clock we walked out of the station into Leeds City Square and stood on the steps of the Queen’s Hotel, staring at the busy scene of traffic and shoppers.

‘Hey, look at this!’ exclaimed Dan. Outside the hotel entrance was a large sign, ‘
J
ILLY
C
OOPER
– Book Signing, 12 noon to 1.00 p.m.’

I recalled the conversation in the staff-room. ‘Colin, that would be perfect for Sally. She was on about Jilly Cooper yesterday.’

‘Jack’s right,’ said Dan. ‘A signed copy would be special.
She’d
be really impressed on Christmas morning. In fact, we could all get one!’

‘Who’s Jilly Cooper?’ asked a bemused John. I was beginning to see why Anne fancied David Soul.

Colin lit up an evil-smelling roll-up cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘I fancy something to eat before all this shopping.’

‘And maybe a pint afterwards,’ added John hopefully. He’d already forgotten about Jilly Cooper.

Dan looked at his watch. ‘OK, how about over there?’ He pointed across the road to a grubby café on Boar Lane. The name ‘Buddy’s’ was emblazoned across the window above a picture of Buddy Holly. ‘Then we can come back here for the book signing.’

I liked simple solutions and suddenly remembered why I enjoyed shopping with men.

When we walked in we realized there was a 1950s theme and, suddenly, my black-framed spectacles were back in fashion. Buddy Holly’s ‘That’ll be the Day’ was blasting out on the juke-box and the waiter, leaning against the counter, looked the part in his drainpipe trousers, brocade waistcoat, bootlace tie and brothel-creeper shoes. He stubbed out his cigarette, combed his greasy Tony Curtis hairstyle and yelled ‘Peggy Sue … customers!’

A tough-looking waitress in a short pink skirt with a net petticoat and bobby socks came over to our table. The name ‘Peggy Sue’ was stitched on her white blouse and a red-and-white checked scarf was knotted cowboy-style round her neck. She fingered her platinum-blonde pony-tail, took a final puff of her cigarette and removed the pencil from behind her ear.

‘Yeah?’ she said, taking out a notepad.

‘Is there a menu?’ I asked.

‘It’s on t’board,’ she said, looking at me as if I couldn’t read.

We looked at the chalkboard on the wall next to the peeling pictures of Elvis Presley, Bill Hayley and, incongruously, Hughie Green in a scene from the television show
Double Your Money
. Hughie was looking suitably tense as he asked a contestant a question for the top prize of thirty-two pounds.

‘Mek up y’minds,’ grumbled Peggy Sue. ‘Ah’ve got a thirty-seven bus t’catch at ’alf past eleven!’

This was clearly a long way from the Dean Court Hotel in York.

‘What do you recommend?’ asked Dan.

‘Burgers an’ Coke,’ said Peggy Sue, eyeing up the tall, handsome Dan.

Everyone nodded. ‘For four, then, please, er … Peggy Sue,’ said Dan.

‘S’not m’real name,’ she said with a brown-toothed smile. ‘Ah’m Marlene from Gipton.’

For four men on a shopping trip, eating is a purely functional activity and no one complained that the burgers were like cardboard; however, when the drinks arrived, John stared sadly at his Coke. ‘There’s ice in here!’

‘Giz it ’ere, y’soft ha’porth,’ said Peggy Sue as she fished out the ice cubes with her fingers and threw them in the ashtray.