04 Village Teacher (16 page)

Timothy handed me my change. ‘Well, ah’ll see y’later, Mr Sheffield.’

I stopped in the doorway as a thought struck me. ‘Timothy, did you say you have an uncle called Kingsley who breeds ferrets?’

‘Jus’ Simone an’ Garfunkle.’

‘Simon and Garfunkle?’

‘No, Mr Sheffield, it’s
Simone
. She’s a girl ferret,’ explained Timothy. ‘Uncle Kingsley called ’em Simon an’ Garfunkle an’ then ’e found out one of ’em were a girl.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. I opened the door and the bell jingled madly.

‘Mr Sheffield,’ Timothy called after me, ‘ah’ll introduce you t’Uncle Kingsley. ’E’s a clever man, bright as a button, an’ ’e got a scholarship when ’e were a lad. In our family ’e’s definitely the most intelligent Pratt.’

I shook my head in wonderment and walked out into the freezing High Street. Stan Coe’s mud-splattered Land-Rover was parked across the road, outside the village hall. A burly figure I didn’t recognize was in the passenger seat and his sister, Deirdre Coe, was glaring at me through the rear window.

Stan wound down his window and shouted, ‘Judgement Day, Sheffield. Y’won’t be so ’igh an’ mighty when y’school is shut down.’ He dropped off his passengers
and
roared off down the High Street and back to his farm.

I had hoped my problems with Stan Coe would have gone by now and I knew he would be pleased to hear about the news of the possible closure of our school. Ever since he was removed from the school governors in my first year as headteacher, he had continued a vendetta against me. I was saddened by his vindictiveness and ignored him as I wedged the tin of paint in the boot of my car behind my tool-box and petrol can.

‘Well, if looks could kill …’ said a familiar voice. It was Ruby, a warm scarf wrapped round her headscarf and her cheeks rosy-red in the cold. ‘A reight pair, Mr Sheffield, an’ up t’no good, ah’ll warrant. One day ah’ll give that Deirdre Coe a piece o’ my mind,’ said Ruby.

I followed her gaze. Across the High Street, Deirdre Coe was deep in conversation with a heavily built man who looked like a younger version of Stan Coe, the landowner and local bully.

‘Who’s that with Deirdre?’ I asked.

‘That’s ’er little brother, Gerry. ’E’s a builder in Thirkby an’ another villain. Ah wouldn’t trust ’im as far as ah could throw ’im.’

‘What’s he doing in Ragley I wonder?’

‘Haven’t you ’eard?’ chuckled Ruby. ‘Deirdre’s been trying f ’years t’get a part in t’pantomime an’ this year’s she’s finally got one. She’s front end o’ t’cow and Gerry’s ’ad ’is arm twisted t’be t’back end.’

‘Should be worth seeing, Ruby,’ I said with a grin.

‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll be there wi’ Ronnie on t’front row as usual. But ah’ll tell y’summat,
we
won’t be clapping ’
er
.’ And with that she hurried off towards the General Stores.

Meanwhile, Diane’s Hair Salon was still and quiet. Diane Wigglesworth had reserved a special morning appointment for her friend and next-door neighbour, Nora Pratt. She knew Nora wanted to look like a film star on the biggest night of her year.

‘So who’s it gonna be this year, Nora? Another one o’ them Charlie’s Angels?’

‘No, ah’m fed up wi’ Fawwer Fawcett,’ said Nora. She pointed to a photograph in the
Radio Times
. ‘ ’Ow about Julie Chwistie?’

‘No problem,’ said Diane. For her, achieving the impossible with the ladies of Ragley village, plus a few of the more adventurous young men, was a daily challenge. However, with her state-of-the-art accelerator that cut down drying time for highlights, along with her new range of Silver Minx and Deep Slate setting lotions, she oozed confidence. Even so, while most of her customers wanted to be New Age Eighties women, Diane knew that some of her traditional procedures would stay with her for ever. So, as usual, she sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale on Nora’s hair as a setting lotion before attaching her outsize plastic rollers and then wheeling out the ancient hair dryer.

In the reassuring cocoon of her little private world, Nora relaxed under the blast of the dryer and began to rehearse her songs. ‘Ah’m dweaming of a white Chwistmas,’ she sang as Diane, with a sympathetic smile on her face, swept the floor for the last time in 1980.

* * *

Big Dave Robinson and Little Malcolm had just parked their refuse wagon outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and they both gave me a cheery wave.

‘Fine morning, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Big Dave cheerily.

‘Good morning, Dave. ’Morning, Malcolm,’ I replied.

‘Time for our ’ot drink,’ said Little Malcolm, striding quickly towards the door of the Coffee Shop. It sounded a good idea and a better prospect than painting Dame Trott’s pantomime kitchen.

When I walked into Nora’s Coffee Shop, ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ was drowning out the hubbub of conversation, for, I hoped, the last time. Little Malcolm was waiting patiently at the counter.

Dorothy emerged from the back room and sat on the high stool behind the counter. As she began to flick through a magazine she fluttered her eyelashes at the love of her life. ‘Oh, ’ullo, Malcolm.’

‘ ’Ullo, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, his cheeks reddening. ‘ ’Ow’s it going?’

‘Bit fed up wi’ this record, Malcolm,’ she said, glancing over at the chrome and red juke-box. ‘Ah reckon John Lennon should ’ave been number one wi’ “Starting Over”. Terrible shame t’poor man got shot.’

‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm sadly.

‘Ah loved them Beatles,’ said Dorothy.

‘So did I,’ echoed Little Malcolm.

He had that pain in his chest again. In the
News of the World
it said that it was because (a) he didn’t exercise enough, or that (b) he had indigestion, or (c) he could be
in
love. As Little Malcolm was built like a weight-lifter after hefting heavy bags of rubbish all week and had the constitution of an ox, he reckoned it was likely to be the latter. He looked up into Dorothy’s eyes and wondered why they always looked so perfect. Then a loud voice jerked him from the pleasant image that was forming in his mind’s eye.

‘C’mon, Casanova,’ shouted Big Dave gruffly as he sat down at a nearby table. ‘ ’Urry up an’ get teas in.’

As Dorothy poured two large mugs of tea and heaped three spoonfuls of sugar into each, Nora walked in sporting her Julie Christie look, which had been already severely ruffled by the stiff breeze on the High Street.

‘Nice ’air-do, Nora,’ said Dorothy, glancing up. ‘Ah like Kate Bush.’

Nora gave her a lofty look and went to hang up her coat. I took a deep breath and attempted to engage Dorothy in conversation. This was always a journey into the unknown.

‘So, good morning, Dorothy. Have you got any plans for the holiday?’ I asked politely.

‘Ah’m gonna watch that film tomorrow night wi’ Malcolm, at ’alf pas’ six on ITV, Mr Sheffield,’ recited Dorothy. ‘It’s
Doctor Chicago
– ’bout them Russians in love. We’re looking forward to it, aren’t we, Malcolm?’

Little Malcolm blushed furiously while Big Dave gave him his famous big-girl’s-blouse look, perfected since his diminutive cousin had started his incongruous relationship with the five-foot-eleven-inch would-be fashion model.

Nora Pratt, stacking a pyramid of two-day-old chocolate
éclairs
at the other end of the counter, was still smarting from the Kate Bush comment. ‘It’s not
Chicago
, Dowothy, it’s
Zhivago
,’ she said, ‘wi’ that ’andsome Omar Shawif and that weally beautiful Julie Chwistie.’

It occurred to me that this was a good idea for the first evening of 1981. Beth Henderson together with David Lean’s superb production of the epic Russian love story sounded a great combination.

‘It’s a wonderful film, Nora,’ I agreed.

‘Ah love a good womance,’ said Nora. ‘Ah wemember when ah went t’see
The King and I
with Yul Bwynner.’

‘Did you?’ said Dorothy. ‘Ah went wi’ Madge from t’Co-op.’

Not for the first time, Nora wondered what went on in the alternative universe inhabited by her well-meaning but strangely vacant Coffee Shop assistant.

As I waited for my frothy coffee, I opened my copy of
The Times
. The headline ‘New Year’s Honours List ignores British medal winners in Moscow Olympic Games’ reflected the government’s attitude to their official appeal not to compete being ignored by the athletes. Meanwhile, Robin Day, the popular television journalist and interviewer, was given a knighthood.

I shared a table with Ragley’s favourite bin men, drank my coffee, picked up my newspaper and said my goodbyes.

‘Well, good luck tonight, Nora,’ I said. ‘It’s time for me to paint some more scenery.’

Nora glanced up at the clock. ‘Oh dear, ah’ll ’ave t’wush. Ah’ve jus’ wemembered, ah’ve got to pwactise “White Chwistmas”. It was wubbish at the wehearsal.’

She rushed upstairs and Dorothy stared after her, looked up at the huge poster of
Jack and the Beanstalk
, shook her head and returned with a secret smile to her
Smash Hits
magazine and a full-page picture of David Essex.

Meanwhile, Ruby had followed Deirdre Coe into Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop. ‘Now then, Mr Piercy,’ said Deirdre in a loud voice, ‘ah want two big pork pies f ’me an’ our Gerry. We’ve gorra keep us strength up for t’dress rehearsal this afternoon.’

‘So is Gerry one o’ them actor-types, then?’ asked Old Tommy, while Young Tommy reached for two family-size pork pies from the front-window display.

‘ ’E’s allus ’ad a touch o’ t’thespian about ’im, ’as our Gerry,’ said Deirdre pompously. ‘My Uncle Albert, who worked be’ind t’scenes at t’Theatre Royal in York, allus said thespianism runs in t’family.’

Ruby was confused and wondered how Gerald Coe could be a thespian. She thought thespians were women who sat together on the back row of the Odeon cinema on Saturday nights and held hands when the film started.

When I walked into the village hall with my tin of paint and a four-inch paintbrush, Felicity Miles-Humphreys, the producer, in her flowing black kaftan and scarlet bandanna, was having problems with her beanstalk.

‘Higher, please, darling,’ screeched Felicity. ‘The beanstalk simply must be taller than the giant.’

Her long-suffering husband, Peter, the bank clerk with
the
unfortunate stutter, cast a nervous glance in her direction and winced visibly.

‘OK, F-F-Felicity,’ said Peter, ‘I’ll t-t-tie it to the cc-c …’

‘Cloud,’ added Nigel, his thirteen-year-old son who was adept at finishing his incomplete sentences.

Felicity’s elder son, twenty-year-old Rupert, who had always got the starring male role since she had been artistic director, was staring in a full-length mirror and making minute adjustments to his hair. He’d used a mixture of sugar and water to make it stand up in spikes.

‘That’s wonderful, darling,’ said Felicity. ‘It did need that active and dynamic-with-a-hint-of-surprised look.’

Rupert put a hand to his fevered brow in an artistic pose and sighed with relief. He was completely unaware that his mother secretly believed her gangling son, with the sparrow legs and never-ending acne, looked as if he’d just been electrocuted.

I had just finished whitewashing Dame Trott’s kitchen, or, to be more precise, a sheet of eight-by-four hardboard, when Timothy Pratt walked in with a lean, wiry man wearing a flat cap and the baggiest three-piece suit I had ever seen. He looked as if he’d just called in from a P. G. Wodehouse grouse-shooting party. Tidy Tim was carrying a step-ladder and his highly polished metal tool-box in order to do the lights for the pantomime.

‘This is Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy, ‘our ’eadteacher ah were telling you about.’

Kingsley removed his flat cap and gently put down his wooden cage containing two excited ferrets. ‘Ah’m
Kingsley
an’ this is Simone an’ Garfunkle,’ he said. ‘Ah never go nowhere wi’out ’em.’

We shook hands. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, ‘and … hello to you too,’ I added, glancing down at the ferrets. They looked at me as if I was their next meal.

‘Ah’ve ’eard good things abart thee from our Timothy, Mr Sheffield,’ he said. He put a finger and thumb into the pocket of his thick tweed waistcoat. ‘ ’Ere’s my card.’

Surprised, I took the unusual business card from his gnarled hand. It was one of those produced on a printing machine at the railway station. It read ‘Kingsley Pratt, C.I.D.’

‘C.I.D?’

‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. Stands f ’Confidential Information Destruction.’

‘Oh, what does that mean?’ I asked.

‘Ah tear up waste paper an’ tek it t’tip in Grimethorpe,’ said Kingsley.

At lunchtime I took a break from painting and called into The Royal Oak and ordered a half of Chestnut and a meat pie. As usual, the taproom was the place where the topics of the day were aired.

‘There’s that new breakfas’ telly,’ said Kojak. ‘Ah reckon it might catch on.’

‘Ah’m not sure,’ said Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, holding up a copy of the
Yorkshire Evening Post
. The headline read ‘Breakfast TV – 3 hours of woe’. ‘It says ’ere that fifty-six per cent aren’t interested ’cause they ’ave no time t’watch it.’

‘Ah’m not surprised,’ said Big Dave. ‘Ah don’t want that David Frost wi’ m’cornflakes.’

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ said Little Malcolm. ‘ ’Cept mebbe if it’s Angela Rippon and Anna Ford.’

The football team considered this unexpected addition to the debate.

‘That Angela Rippon, she’s got lovely legs,’ said Sheila from behind the bar. ‘An’ that Anna Ford’s always got a smashing ’air-do,’ she added for good measure.

There was a chorus of approval from the village football team as each member grappled with his own personal fantasy of alluring newsreaders. In doing so they reaffirmed the view that men think of sex every eight seconds.

It was during this period of contemplation that Kingsley Pratt walked in. He introduced himself and his ferrets while Don pulled a pint and Sheila selected a pie from the kitchen. Then he put the cage under a table and sat down to talk to the football team.

Sheila looked concerned. ‘Ah’m not keen on ferrets in our taproom, Don.’