05 Please Sir! (8 page)

‘Yes, him,’ said Joseph, wide-eyed. ‘He telephoned to say he’s coming
tomorrow
.’

‘Oh,’ said Vera, ‘so what was the message?’

Joseph took a deep breath. ‘Well … he was
really
pleasant.’

‘Yes?’ said Vera.

‘And he said his name is Neil.’

‘And?’ said Vera.

Joseph wrinkled his brow. ‘Well … he said, “Do call me Neil,” which I thought was nice of him.’

‘What did he
actually
say, Joseph?’ said Vera firmly. ‘Calm down and think.’

‘Yes, er … let me see … He said he wants to visit us during afternoon school and stay for the Harvest Festival. Then he would like to have a look at St Mary’s.’ Joseph glanced nervously at Vera. ‘So I invited him to come back to the vicarage for tea.’

There was an intake of breath from Vera. ‘I see,’ she said and gave Joseph her special
determined
look, one I knew so well. ‘I need to get Joyce Davenport to help me with fresh flowers for the church and I’ll get something nice for tea from Prudence at the General Stores.’

Anne had summed up the situation and looked at the clock. ‘Jack, I think we know what we’re doing tomorrow, so how about closing the meeting and I’ll go with Vera to get the church ready?’

‘And we’ll help,’ said Sally and Jo in unison.

‘Good idea. Meeting closed,’ I said.

‘Thank you, everybody,’ said Vera and hurried off to get her coat, ‘and do come along, Joseph. There’s lots to do: we have to make a good impression on the new bishop. Tomorrow needs to be
perfect
.’

We should have known life was never that simple.

The school was silent apart from the ticking of the school clock and the whisper of the wind in the bell tower. It was almost seven o’clock and I was at my desk completing the next day’s order of service. Ruby had stayed late to give the hall floor an extra polish and had promised that she and Ronnie would put out the trestle tables for the Harvest Festival immediately after school lunch. Best of all, Beth had phoned and suggested we meet for a meal at The Royal Oak on her way home from Hartingdale.

Everything was ready, so I completed my daily entry in the school logbook, tidied my desk and locked the giant oak entrance door. As I walked out of the school gate I saw that Beth had already arrived. Her pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle was parked by the village green and she was sitting at our usual table in the bay window. Soon we were enjoying Sheila’s special chicken and chips in a basket and a welcome drink.

Beth looked a little tired as she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ears. ‘We need to arrange a date with Joseph –’ she said, ‘that is, if we’re agreed on getting married
here
and not Hampshire.’

‘Only if you’re happy about that, Beth,’ I said.

‘Well, it makes sense,’ she said with a smile; ‘all our friends are here.’

‘What about your parents?’ I asked anxiously.

‘No problem, Jack. I had a chat with them on the phone last night and they were supportive.’

‘That’s a relief,’ I said.

‘And they want us to spend New Year with them down in Hampshire. What do you think?’

‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Then we can discuss all the details.’

She sipped her white wine and reached out to hold my hand. ‘Exciting, isn’t it?’ she said.

‘Vera and Joseph will be thrilled,’ I said.

‘They certainly will. Perhaps we should arrange to go to the vicarage one evening to discuss dates and arrangements.’

‘I’ll mention it after the Harvest Festival,’ I said. She stretched and rubbed the tiredness from her neck. ‘Another drink?’ I asked.

Beth glanced at her watch. ‘Just a tonic water, please, Jack. I’ve still got some marking to do tonight.’

* * *

At the bar, Jacqueline Laporte, the attractive French teacher from Easington, had just arrived with a Brigitte Bardot lookalike in a miniskirt.

‘Hello, Jacqueline. Good to see you,’ I said. We had both joined the Ragley tennis club during the summer holiday and had begun to get to know each other well.

‘Hello, Jack. This is my little sister, Monique,’ said Jacqueline in perfect English but with her familiar French accent.

‘Pleased to meet you, Monique,’ I said.

‘Ah,
bonsoir
, Jacques,’ said Monique with a mischievous grin as she stretched up to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘I ’ave ’eard you play ze tennis wiz my sister.’

‘That’s right, Monique,’ I said. ‘We’re in the Ragley mixed doubles team.’

‘
C’est bon
,’ said the effervescent Monique. ‘Jacqueline is lucky playing with ze big strong ’andsome Yorksheer fellow.’

‘Er, well … thank you,’ I replied.

‘Now behave, Monique,’ said Jacqueline. ‘Please ignore my sister, Jack – she is very high-spirited.’ She gave her sister a stern look. ‘And she is only staying with me for a
short
holiday before she returns to Paris.’

‘And while I am ’ere,’ said Monique, ‘I weesh to learn ze Eengleesh and speak like ze Yorksheer native.’

‘Can I get a drink for you and your sister, Jacqueline?’ I said.

‘Thank you, Jack. White wine, please,’ said Jacqueline. ‘French, of course,’ she added with a smile.

‘And for you, Monique?’

‘I weel’ave, as you say, ze swift ’alf,
s’il vous plaît
.’

Behind the bar, Sheila pulled on the hand pump. ‘She’s pickin’ it up fast, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. ‘My Don’s been learning ’er.’

‘Eee, Don, ecky ze thump,’ said Monique. ‘I am ze monkey’s uncle,
n’est-ce pas
?’

Don the barman’s stubbly face broke into a sheepish grin. Sheila leant over, pinned a York City tea towel to the bar with her prodigious bosom, and whispered in my direction, ‘An’ ah’m not s’prised wi’ a figure like that.’

‘
Merci
, Jacques,’ said Monique. She sipped her half of Chestnut Mild. ‘
C’est delicieuse
.’

‘So ’ave y’gorra ’usband back in France, then?’ asked Sheila pointedly.

Monique gave me an enigmatic smile. ‘
Non
. I ’ave never been married … but I ’ave ’ad many ’uzbands.’

It was time to beat a hasty retreat.

On Wednesday morning I collected my copy of
The Times
from Prudence Golightly’s General Stores & Newsagent on my way into Ragley. The headline declared ‘I won’t court popularity’. It looked as if Mrs Thatcher was having a tough time at the Blackpool Conference with the annual rate of price increases unlikely to be cut to ten per cent. However, that was far from my mind when I saw Sue Phillips, Chair of our Parent–Teacher Association, unloading a large wooden box from her Austin Metro.

‘Morning, Jack. I’ve brought Resusci Annie in, as promised, for the staff First Aid training.’ Sue, a tall, attractive blonde, was a staff nurse at the hospital in York and helped out as our school nurse. She had volunteered to lead a staff training session in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on Thursday evening.

‘Resusci-who?’ I asked.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Come on, Jack,’ she said with a grin, ‘I’ll show you quickly.’

I carried the box into the staff-room and put it on the coffee table. Everyone gathered round as Sue removed the lid.

‘Goodness me!’ exclaimed Vera and stepped back in amazement.

‘Wow!’ said Jo.

‘Impressive,’ said Sally.

Revealed was the rubber head and torso of a vivacious blonde-haired naked woman. Her blue eyes stared back at us.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘This is the model that my nurses use to practise their mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,’ said Sue in a matter-of-fact voice. We all stared at Resusci Annie and couldn’t help but notice that not only did she have breasts that would have done credit to a finalist in
Miss World
but her dark rubber nipples stood out like chapel hatpegs.

‘She’s a big girl,’ said Sally cautiously.

Sue laughed. ‘Yes. I think the designer based it on his girlfriend.’

‘Oh dear,’ was all Vera could say.

‘Anyway, feel free to practise,’ said Sue. ‘The instructions are inside the lid. Well, must be off. See you later at the Harvest Festival,’ and with that she hurried out.

Jo picked up the lid, took it to the corner of the staff-room and found the instruction booklet. ‘I think my Dan did his police training on something like this,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘… but it wasn’t quite so glamorous.’

Sally chuckled and Anne gave me a knowing look. Meanwhile Vera, flushed with embarrassment, walked briskly back to the office to make copies of the Harvest Festival order of service from her carefully typed Gestetner master sheet. She smoothed it carefully on to the inky drum of the duplicating machine, peeled off the backing sheet and wound the handle to produce enough copies for parents and visitors, including, of course, the bishop. ‘Today must be
perfect
,’ she kept repeating to herself with every turn of the handle.

Shortly before morning break Theresa Ackroyd announced, ‘Mr Ramsbottom’s ’ere,’ although she didn’t appear to have raised her head from her School Mathematics Project workcard concerning the area of carpet needed to fit a large bedroom. A tractor and trailer pulled up in the car park and I walked out to meet one of Ragley’s more colourful characters.

Derek ‘Deke’ Ramsbottom, local farmworker, part-time snowplough driver, singer of cowboy songs and father of Shane, Clint and Wayne, removed his Stetson hat. ‘’Owdy, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Morning, Deke. Thanks for coming.’

‘Ah’ve brought all t’trestle tables on me trailer,’ he said while absent-mindedly polishing the sheriff’s badge on his leather waistcoat. ‘Ah’ll stack ’em in t’entrance, shall ah?’ Deke’s support for the school was legendary.

‘Thanks, Deke,’ I said. ‘We’re all grateful.’

‘No problem, Mr Sheffield. Owt for t’school is fine by me,’ and he wandered back to his trailer, copying the distinctive walk of his hero, the late John Wayne. Once again, I was touched by the affection the villagers showed for their school.

After lunch, on the playground, life went on as normal. Heathcliffe Earnshaw, Ragley’s undisputed conker champion, had been challenged to a conker match by a new girl who had just arrived in my class, ten-year-old Alice Baxter from Doncaster.

‘Come on, then,’ said the ever-confident Heathcliffe. Rarely, if ever, did he play with girls as he didn’t see much point in them. However, there was something different about Alice: she wasn’t like other girls who played with Tressy dolls and bought Donny Osmond records. She seemed to really understand the noble sport of conkers.

‘Ah’m ready when you are,’ said Alice.

Heathcliffe turned to his little brother Terry and whispered, ‘Don’t worry, ah’ve gorra coupla laggies.’ These so-called ‘laggies’ were conkers from the previous year and left to harden in a tin in his father’s garden shed. ‘Ah’ve baked one in t’oven and t’other ah’ve soaked in vinegar.’ His father had put the conkers in a vice and bored a small hole with his hand-drill. A length of orange unbreakable baling twine provided the final touch. Heathcliffe took his conkers very seriously.

However, Alice’s father, Campbell Baxter – already nicknamed ‘Two Soups’ in the village – had also been a conker champion in his day. Every October he bought his unsuspecting wife a supply of a special brand of nail varnish and every year he used it to give his conker selection a rock hard, if shiny, finish.

To Heathcliffe’s surprise, it was over in minutes. Alice made short work of his ‘laggies’ and their shattered remnants lay at his feet. However, she was gracious in victory and explained to Heathcliffe that she had been ‘lucky’. Heathcliffe readily agreed and by the start of afternoon school he thought that perhaps for the first time in his young life it might be possible to be friends with a
girl
.

Meanwhile, Ruby and Ronnie were carrying the trestle tables from the entrance hall to the school hall and Vera was covering them with snowy-white tablecloths.

‘We have to show
decorum
when the bishop arrives,’ said Vera to Ruby and Ronnie.

‘Dick who?’ asked the bemused Ronnie.

‘No, it means yer ’ave t’be polite, Ronnie,’ explained Ruby. ‘This bishop’s
really
himportant.’

‘Ah see,’ said Ronnie. ‘Well, ’ave no fear, Miss Evans, we’ll watch us p’s and q’s an’ ah’ll do as ah’m told, even though me back is ’urting.’

Vera looked at Ruby and shook her head sadly. Then she returned to the hall to arrange the trestle tables while the nervous Joseph stood by the window, rehearsing his first prayer.

Back in my classroom the sharp-eyed Theresa said, ‘Big flash car coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

A large white 1979 Volvo 245 Estate pulled up in the car park and a short, cherubic, bespectacled man wearing a bishop’s ankle-length purple cassock walked into the entrance hall. He was carrying his chimere, an outer, blood-red garment with snowy-white cuffs, his pectoral cross and a long thin case that looked as if he was going to a snooker tournament. We were later to discover it contained his solid silver pastoral staff in the shape of a shepherd’s crook.