Authors: Jack Sheffield
Tobias Speight had already arrived. ‘Good morning, Mr Noggs,’ he said quietly. The churchwarden gave him a strained smile and, like two mime artists, they continued their silent ritual.
Toby checked the pew sheet for today’s hymns and mounted the thick card numbers on the heavy oak board next to the pulpit. Then he checked the huge Bible on the lectern and rested the beautiful linen markers on the correct pages for today’s readings. Finally he put a bag of cough sweets out of sight in the choir stalls and, as the congregation began to arrive, he handed out the hymn books and the service sheets.
When Beth and I walked in he gave a sheepish smile. ‘Good morning, Mr and Mrs Sheffield,’ he said, pushing his long fair hair from his eyes with a sweep of his long, delicate fingers. He was a fresh-faced, athletic twenty-four-year-old with a charming smile and an honest face. It was after his mother died that Vera had taken him under her wing and she had related his story in the staffroom.
Tobias Whinthrop Speight was born in 1959 and, at the age of six, had begun piano lessons with the fearsome Miss Crump in Easington. At first his feet couldn’t reach the pedals but later, as he grew, he would sit on a cushion on the ornate two-seater piano stool with Miss Crump perched alongside, reprimanding the slightest mistake, often with the sharp rap of a wooden ruler on the back of Toby’s knuckles. Vera explained that Miss Crump was of the
old school
.
Toby had achieved Grade 1 piano at the tender age of eight and by the time he was fourteen he had passed his Grade 8 examination with flying colours. Remarkably, he was just as gifted at playing by ear as he was at sight reading. At Ampleforth College in Yorkshire the teachers gave him great support and he blossomed. As a member of the successful 1st VIII Cross Country team, he thought nothing of a seven-mile run at lunchtimes up the steep incline of the nearby Parkside Hill. Then, as a young teenager, he was invited to be the organist at Ampleforth Church, where he soon mastered the huge number of pipes and stops and started playing regularly at weddings and funerals. Music filled his world; it was his life.
When Beth and I settled into one of the dark wood pews I looked around. There was seating for around a hundred people and the church was almost full on this special day. To my surprise, Vera was sitting in front of me with Bonnie Shawcross and little Becky, and when we stood to sing the first hymn I recalled Vera’s words. Bonnie really did have a wonderful voice. It was a stunning soprano and, among the congregation, heads turned to stare in wonder.
Toby had volunteered to play the final hymn as Elsie Crapper, our regular organist, had to leave early to play at a christening service in Easington. The organ, made by Walker & Sons and installed in 1833, was showing serious signs of age and there were frequent problems; however, Toby’s expertise transformed this ancient instrument. At the end of the service Vera, ever the matchmaker, introduced Bonnie to the shy and retiring Toby, whose cheeks reddened when faced with this confident woman.
‘That was beautiful, Toby,’ said Vera. ‘We’re lucky to have you standing in for Elsie.’
‘Thank you,’ said Toby.
‘It must be wonderful to play the organ,’ said Bonnie.
Toby blushed slightly. He was in awe of such a beautiful young woman. ‘I’ve got a wedding tomorrow afternoon,’ he said, ‘so it’s a busy weekend.’
‘What pieces are you playing?’ asked Bonnie.
‘Well, I’m looking forward to the big finish,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘It’s Widor’s
Toccata
.’
‘Oh, my favourite,’ said Bonnie, ‘from his Symphony for Organ, number five.’
Toby stared at her wide-eyed. ‘You know it?’
‘Well, I do work in a music shop,’ she said with a wry smile.
The church was emptying. ‘I’m afraid I’m sidesman today,’ said Toby, looking a little anxious, ‘so I have to count the collection and take down the hymn numbers and put the hymn books away.’
‘I’ll do the hymn books if you like,’ said Bonnie. ‘I can see where they go.’ She crouched down and smiled at Becky. ‘Can you help me with all the books, darling?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ she said and together they wandered off to stack hymn books on the shelves at the back of the church.
Later, in the silence of the ancient church, Toby thought of the young woman who had suddenly come into his solitary life and hoped he would see her again. Until then, only the hollow footfalls remained, hanging in the air, an ellipsis of echoes to an unfinished conversation.
On Saturday morning in the hedgerow outside Bilbo Cottage there was frantic activity as birds built their nests. On the pavement, a speckled thrush with beady eyes had a snail in its beak and was beating its stubborn shell.
Beth was up early and had begun to paint our second bedroom. ‘I thought I’d make a start, Jack,’ she said.
Deep down I knew Beth enjoyed painting and possessed an aesthetic appreciation that I could only dream off. ‘Fine,’ I said, ‘so I’ll do the shopping.’ Married life was suiting us both. However, one thing I had noticed was that Bilbo Cottage was being transformed from a functional magnolia bachelor residence, with curtains that didn’t match, to a harmonious home of subtle shades that looked like something from
Country Living
magazine. I couldn’t work out how Beth found the time, but whenever I was watching Saturday
Grandstand
she always seemed to be busy round the house.
In the General Stores, Prudence Golightly checked Beth’s list and filled my shopping bags with loaves, vegetables and fruit. Meanwhile, I was intrigued by the headline in my
Times
: ‘Thousands of hands link in CND rally’. Apparently, countless protesters had linked hands in a fourteen-mile chain from Burghfield to Greenham Common in Berkshire via the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment at Aldermaston, where research was under way for the Trident missile. Joan Ruddock, chairman of the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, had described the demonstration as ‘a triumph’ and praised the carnival atmosphere. I wondered what Vera would have made of it, as not only did it include jugglers, stilt-walkers and bands, but there was even a Punch and Judy show featuring a Margaret Thatcher puppet.
Mrs Poole and her daughter Jemima were behind me in the queue.
‘We need a whistle for the dog,’ said Mrs Poole.
‘But Mummy,’ said Jemima, ‘how will he be able to blow it?’ Mrs Poole gave me a what-do-they-teach-themat-school-these-days look as I walked out.
Beth had asked me to call into the Pharmacy to buy some vitamin tablets. However, a notice had been sellotaped to the shop door. It read: ‘
CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS
’ and with a chuckle I returned to Prudence Golightly’s as the notice in her window stated ‘
WE SELL EVERYTHING
’.
Meanwhile, Toby Speight was playing the Widor
Toccata
at the end of a wedding ceremony to accompany the triumphal procession, although his mind was elsewhere.
Vera’s mind was also elsewhere. She was busy in her kitchen making a perfect rice pudding with a distinctive dark, caramelized skin. It was Vera’s own adaptation from her mother’s handwritten book of cookery notes and was based on Eliza Acton’s famous recipe, first published in 1845. She had quickly discovered Rupert’s penchant for one of her trademark dishes. However, this was not uppermost in Vera’s thoughts. At this moment her concern was young love … and she had a plan.
On Sunday morning dawn’s pale light turned the thin mist into an amber cloak over the distant fields. Suddenly a gentle breeze sprang up and the branches stirred. The countryside was waking and the trees whispered the secrets of sycamores.
I looked at my garden where sprouting raspberry canes and the currant and gooseberry bushes were showing signs of life. The season had turned, spring was coming and four miles away up the Morton Road a young man was growing equally restive.
St Mary’s Church looked a picture on this perfect Easter Day and Toby Speight was playing the opening bars of ‘This Joyful Eastertide’ in preparation for the service.
‘Is there anything you need, Toby?’ asked Vera.
‘Well, you occasionally act as page-turner for me when Elsie isn’t here,’ said Toby.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Vera, ‘it’s all in hand,’ and she hurried out of church and down the path to the elegant lychgate. Bonnie Shawcross had arrived alone. Her father was at home with Becky.
‘Bonnie, my dear,’ said Vera, ‘I wondered if you could do me a favour?’
‘Of course,’ said Bonnie.
‘I need a page-turner,’ said Vera.
Bonnie walked into church with Vera and went to sit beside Toby, who looked up and smiled.
Vera returned to her pew and sat down beside Anne and Sally.
‘Bonnie may have a decision to make soon,’ whispered Vera.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Anne.
‘Toby or not Toby,’ she chuckled to herself. ‘Now that really is a question.’
We all smiled politely. None of us could remember Vera telling a joke before … perhaps it was just as well.
Children in all classes made preparations for the St George’s Day celebrations on the village green on Saturday, 23 April. Mrs Pringle organized a maypole-dancing display. I responded to the latest County Hall document ‘Health & Safety on Educational Visits’
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 22 April 1983
‘YOU WOULDN’T THINK
they were worth a pound, would you, Jack?’ said Anne looking dubiously at one of the new pound coins.
‘Dinner money will never be the same again,’ said Vera, rattling her lockable metal money box. ‘This is heavier for a start.’ It was lunchtime on Friday, 22 April and Vera had checked the late dinner money and returned our registers.
I sat down with Anne, Sally and Jo in the staff-room while Vera served us with cups of tea.
‘All set for tomorrow, Sally?’ asked Vera.
‘Yes,’ said Sally, ‘and thanks again for providing the ribbons.’
Vera smiled. She loved maypole dancing. It reminded her of days gone by when she was a little girl with flowers in her hair. ‘And Rupert has arranged for a couple of his men to erect the maypole,’ said Vera, ‘so all we need now is good weather.’
We had volunteered to support the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute, who were organizing the St George’s Day celebrations on the village green on Saturday afternoon. Warm sunny weather was forecast and the hedgerows had come alive again with green buds and new life. Outside the village hall the almond trees were in blossom and the cherry trees would soon awaken. The branches on the weeping willow next to the duck pond on the village green were heavy with a canopy of new leaves and, next to the school gates, bright-yellow forsythia lifted the spirits. We were truly blessed in this sleepy corner of God’s Own Country.
Vera sounded animated. ‘It promises to be a memorable day and the ladies in the Women’s Institute have worked really hard. There are going to be morris dancers, a farmers’ market, refreshments, Captain Fantastic’s Punch and Judy, and Prudence is providing a stall with traditional sweets. Finally, of course, there’s the reenactment of St George slaying the dragon.’
‘You mean Stan Coe beating some poor villager with his wooden sword, as he does every year,’ said Anne.
‘Sadly, yes,’ said Vera. ‘We put up with it partly because it’s tradition and, of course, he’s done it for the last twenty-five years.’
‘But mainly because he’s got the complete St George costume,’ added Anne.
Stan Coe, local landowner and pig farmer, was one of the most unpopular men in the village. He was a brute and a bully and had been all his life. There had been disagreements between us in the past but, in recent months, I had tended to avoid conflict and confrontation, so I kept my opinion to myself.
Jo looked up from our weekly copy of the
Times Educational Supplement
. ‘Well I’m pleased we’re celebrating St George’s Day,’ she said reflectively. ‘The Scots, Welsh and Irish always make
their
patron saint day something special.’
‘Cry God for Harry, England and St George,’ recited Vera, recalling
Henry V
, ‘and don’t forget, it’s Shakespeare’s birthday as well,’ she added proudly.
‘So where does the dragon come in?’ asked Jo.
Sally, our expert in obscure myths and legends, looked up from her
Woman
magazine and an article entitled ‘How to achieve a film star bum in only four weeks’. ‘He fought in the Crusades for Richard the Lionheart and was adopted as the patron saint of the soldiers,’ she said. ‘The story goes that he saved a princess from being eaten by a dragon by protecting himself with the sign of the cross and then he slaughtered the poor thing. The citizens were so thrilled with our hero that they converted to Christianity.’
‘And so they should,’ said Vera. ‘A small price to pay for such heroism.’
‘Truly a gallant Englishman,’ said Jo.
‘Or even a Turk,’ added Sally mischievously.
‘Pardon?’ said Vera.
‘I seem to recall St George was born in Turkey,’ said Sally.
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, ‘that won’t do. Perhaps I had better not mention that to Rupert. He’s convinced he was born in Yorkshire.’
Just before lunchtime the children in my class had finished their writing about St George. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer had done some excellent research in the school library and I asked her to come to the front of the class to read out her work.
She began in a clear, confident voice. ‘St George is the patron saint of England and we celebrate his day each year on April twenty-third and fly the flag of St George, a red cross on a white background.’ Elisabeth Amelia paused for dramatic effect and surveyed the class. Suddenly she knew what it must be like to be Margaret Thatcher and she determined to go into politics one day and make great speeches. She took a deep breath and proceeded. ‘There is a special medal for bravery, known as the George Cross, which shows St George on horseback slaying a dragon.’
Heathcliffe Earnshaw stared open-mouthed in admiration. St George sounded like a proper Yorkshireman. He was both brave and heroic; in fact, just like Heathcliffe himself. He also liked the word ‘slaying’. There was finality about it … better than merely stabbing with a sword.