02 Mister Teacher (33 page)

Age had touched her with cool fingertips and her hair was beginning to be flecked with grey, but on this day, with the dappled sun on her summer dress she looked a young woman again. Almost as if she was aware that Beth and I were looking at her, she turned in our direction, peered from under her stylish broad-brimmed lavender hat and gave us a little wave.

The Major’s daughter, the confident and curvaceous Virginia, arrived and offered a tour of the house and Anne and Sally got up to join her. They set off with Jo and Dan and left Beth and me in the welcome shade of the weeping willow.

‘What a wonderful day, Jack,’ said Beth. She stretched out and her dress was taut against her slim, suntanned figure.

‘I’m glad you’re here to share it with me, Beth.’

Her sun-bleached hair fell over her face and, with her long fingers, she parted it and tucked it behind her ears. For a brief moment, I was reminded of Laura.

Then Beth looked up at me. ‘Pass me your spectacles, Jack.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Your spectacles. I want to see what you look like without them.’

I removed my thick, black-framed spectacles and
handed
them to her. The world suddenly became fuzzy and I stared vacantly at her.

‘Laura’s right,’ said Beth. ‘You are really handsome without them.’

She passed them back. I put them on and tried to judge the expression on her face. But the moment had gone and she was looking at the Major, who was walking towards the open French windows that led to his study.

The Major walked in, pushed back the chintz curtains, and sunlight lit up his antique record player on the huge walnut sideboard. It was a ‘His Master’s Voice Portable Model 102’ gramophone, purchased in 1933 for five pounds, twelve shillings and sixpence, a fortune in those days. A small tin box, once containing two hundred stylus needles, stood alongside the dark hardwood carcass. The price in 1933 was nine old pence, which appeared to represent value for money as, forty-six years later, over half the needles remained.

The Major lifted the lid, placed a shiny black long-playing record on the rubber turntable and carefully lowered the metal arm, with its sharp stylus, onto the precise track he wanted.

Satisfied, he walked towards Vera and paused as the first familiar notes of Vera Lynn’s ‘We’ll Meet Again’ floated through the open French windows and lingered in the air. The Major took Vera’s hand gently in his and ushered her onto the stone-flagged courtyard. They danced slowly, their bodies a respectful distance apart, and the Major’s eyes never once left Vera’s face.

With the formal grace of a guardsman, the Major
escorted
Vera back to their table. When they were seated, he waved to his daughter, Virginia, who had completed her house tour and was in animated conversation with her current boyfriend, the son of the local Member of Parliament. Virginia smiled at her father and quickly skipped into the house.

‘Miss Evans, forgive me, but yesterday in school I overheard your wonderful story about going into Betty’s Tea Rooms as a child,’ said the Major. ‘I thought this might bring back a few happy memories.’

Vera looked puzzled and then broke into laughter as Virginia reappeared carrying an elegant three-tiered cake stand. She was accompanied by the Major’s cook, Doris, and, with great ceremony, they put it on the table in front of Vera and curtsied. On the cake stand, neatly displayed on white doilies, was a selection of crumpets and curd tarts. The crumpets were liberally covered in local Yorkshire butter and the curd tarts had been freshly made by Doris that morning.

‘Thank you so much,’ said Vera. ‘You really shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.’

‘Our pleasure, Miss Evans,’ said Virginia.

‘Eat ’em while they’re warm, Miss Evans,’ said Doris.

As they walked away, Vera turned to the Major. ‘You’re very kind, Major,’ said Vera. ‘Thank you so much.’

He leaned forward and put his hand very lightly on top of Vera’s. ‘Would you do me the honour of calling me Rupert?’ he asked.

Vera looked thoughtful but she did not withdraw her hand. ‘Of course, Rupert.’

The Major lifted his hand and picked up the wine bottle. ‘More wine, Miss Evans?’

‘Just a little, Rupert.’

The Major poured the wine.

There was a long silence.

‘And you may call me Vera if you wish.’

The Major lifted his glass to propose a toast. ‘To you, Vera, and to happy times.’

Vera raised her glass. ‘Happy times,’ she said.

Chapter Twenty-one

Mister Teacher

Miss Maddison received gifts from staff, parents and children prior to her marriage on Saturday, 21 July, to Police Constable Hunter. School closed today for the summer holiday with 87 children on roll
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 20 July 1979

‘MISTER TEACHER’ WAS
printed in a childlike hand on the side of a long grey cardboard tube.

‘It’s for you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘Mrs Phillips called in on her way to work.’

‘Thank you, Vera,’ I said, taking out the roll of A3 paper.

‘She says it’s from that little boy, Sebastian, and that he’s getting better now.’

‘That’s wonderful news.’

A snowy day at York hospital flickered through my
mind
. It seemed long ago now. I glanced out of the office window and watched the children playing on the school field. It was lunchtime on Friday, 20 July, and the smiling suns of dandelions were lighting up the last day of the school year.

Inside the cardboard tube was a wonderful drawing. A boy and girl were holding hands and stepping through the doorway of a magical wardrobe, which led to a long pathway through a forest, towards a fairytale castle. It was Sebastian’s Narnia, but now it was springtime in his new land and the drawing was full of colour. I pinned it on the notice board and stood back and admired it.

Then I followed Vera into the staff-room. She had finished checking the end-of-year reports and attendance figures and was leafing through her
Daily Telegraph
. Jo, Sally and Anne were leaning over her shoulder, staring at photographs of three men in the news.

‘Now, that’s my perfect man,’ drooled Sally, pointing at Bjorn Borg, who had beaten Roscoe Tanner and won Wimbledon for the fourth consecutive time.

Jo, who had more youthful tastes, appeared to forget that she was about to marry a policeman from Sunderland. ‘
He’s
definitely my heart throb,’ she said, swooning over the photograph of the handsome twenty-two-year-old Seve Ballesteros, who had just won the British Open Golf Championship.

‘Actually, this one’s more my type,’ said Anne. ‘There’s a hint of danger about him. Looks as though he might make a name for himself.’ She pointed to the picture of the newly elected President of Iraq.

‘Who is he, Vera?’ asked Anne.

‘It’s a young man called Saddam Hussein,’ said Vera. ‘Looks like trouble to me. It’s all in the eyes, you know.’

Vera closed the newspaper, looked at Jo with a smile and said, ‘Now, young lady, tell me once more about this wonderful dress you’re wearing tomorrow.’

Anne and Sally gathered round as if it was class story time and I walked out onto the school playground.

It was a day of goodbyes. The fourth-year juniors in my class gathered in the cool shade of the horse chestnut trees, by the stone wall at the front of the school, and I walked out to talk to them.

‘Easington’ll be great, Mr Sheffield,’ said Jodie Cuthbertson. ‘Our Anita says we go swimmin’ on Tuesdays.’

‘An’ they’ve got a big gym wi’ a trampoline,’ said Billy McNeill, wiping his nose with the back of his sleeve.

‘Ah’ll miss bein’ milk monitor, Mr Sheffield,’ said Micky Buttle mournfully.

‘Ah were told they sell ginger biscuits an’ chocolate Wagon Wheels in t’toilets at playtime,’ said Dominic Brown, eyes wide in expectation of future culinary feasts.

Everyone relaxed and smiled at this unexpected news.

I looked at their eager faces and wondered what would become of them. They were another generation of Ragley children who were about to move on in their lives and become the youngest pupils once again. School uniform would unite their appearance and, in time, the
nonconformists
would reduce the width of their ties, or the length of their skirts, and refuse to tuck in shirts and blouses. The girls would rush headlong through puberty, leaving puzzled boys in their wake, while streaming for English and mathematics would thrust lifelong friends into separate groups. A new dawn beckoned, a new world awaited.

The solid walls of this school were familiar to me now. Above the grey slate roof, the Yorkshire stone tower was mellow in the amber sunlight and, finally, at a quarter to four, the giant bell rang out and announced the end of another school year. I waved goodbye as another generation of eleven-year-olds walked down the drive for the last time as primary school pupils.

Feeling a little sad, I returned to the school office and took out the school logbook. My pen was poised over an empty page when Anne walked in.

‘Another year over, Jack.’

‘Almost,’ I said. ‘I’ve just got to add an entry for the last day, but my brain’s tired.’

‘Do it over the weekend,’ said Anne. ‘Vera and I will be calling in tomorrow afternoon to return the crockery after the wedding reception.’

I recalled that Jo and Dan had booked the Ragley village hall for their wedding breakfast.

‘Good idea,’ I said, closing the logbook.

‘Coffee?’ she said, switching on the kettle.

‘Thanks, Anne.’ I put the top back on my pen and looked up at her. ‘I’d be lost without your support,’ I said.

Anne gave me that familiar calm smile. ‘It’s been
another
good year, Jack,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope the government don’t introduce that common curriculum they keep talking about. That’s the only dark cloud on the horizon for me.’

We sipped our coffee in silence, pondering the state of education, until Jo and Sally burst in, overloaded with wedding presents from children and parents.

‘We’ll need a van for all these,’ said Sally, tipping a pile of brightly wrapped boxes onto the coffee table.

‘Look what John Grainger gave to me, Jack,’ said Jo, holding up a hand-carved oak name-plate for her classroom door. It read ‘Mrs J. Hunter’.

John Grainger had left work early to help Anne load up the school crockery for the wedding reception. Along with Vera’s collection of Women’s Institute crockery, there would be just enough. Half an hour later, we left Ruby to begin her ‘holiday cleaning’ and I drove out of the school gate. I had completed my second year as headmaster of Ragley-on-the-Forest Church of England Primary School.

Next day, the wedding morning was bright and sunny and, probably for the first time in my life, I felt really smart. I had bought a brand-new, three-piece grey suit from Marks & Spencer’s for the extravagant sum of £39.95. The lapels were wide and the flares were fashionable. I spent an age trying to iron my best white shirt, and the bright flower-power tie, which Beth had bought for me last summer, added the finishing touch. Our holiday a year ago seemed a distant but pleasant
dream
and I polished my black shoes vigorously, erasing the scuffs but not the memories.

There had been a time when I had hoped that Beth and I would be more than just good friends, but there was a lot going on in her life. Her new headship had dominated the last few months for her and she had made it clear that she did not want any commitment. At least not yet. And then, there was Laura.

As I drove up the Morton Road, I was happy for Jo and Dan, who had found each other and wanted to be man and wife.

The bells of St Mary’s were ringing, summoning us to church, and the Revd Joseph Evans was preparing himself for another wedding ceremony. By his side, as always, Vera went through her part of their ritual. They had both done this many times. Like slow-motion dancers they moved with quiet assurance through the still air of the church, brother and sister in well-rehearsed harmony.

In the peaceful sanctuary of the silent vestry, Joseph unlocked the old oak wardrobe and Vera took out his cassock, a long black robe that fitted comfortably over Joseph’s lanky frame and showed off his spotlessly clean clerical collar. Vera scrutinized the cassock for specks of dust or rogue cat hairs and then stood back, satisfied. She glanced down at his black shoes with their gleaming military shine and nodded with pride. Her gentle smile was sufficient for Joseph; there was no need for words.

Outside, on the vicarage lawn, alongside the church, the wedding guests were gathering. There is something very special about a wedding on an English summer’s day. Men in sombre suits provided the backdrop for a riot of bright colour. Elegant ladies in spectacular dresses and with hats of all shapes and sizes chatted in happy groups. A cluster of young policemen in smart ceremonial uniforms and pristine-white gloves leaned against the church wall and admired the young women. As I walked through the church gateway, I spotted Beth and Laura talking to Sally Pringle. Beth saw me and waved. I waved back. She was clutching a single, carmine-pink rose and she walked to meet me.