04 Village Teacher (25 page)

Violet was born in Portsmouth in 1909 and, twenty years later, had married William Tinkle. They had two sons, John and Edward. In October 1940 Violet and her boys had listened to the wireless and heard the sixteen-year-old Princess Elizabeth’s broadcast to the children of Britain and the Empire. It was to be the last night she spent with her sons. Of Portsmouth’s seventy thousand homes, sixty-three thousand were damaged by German bombs. The sound and the fury of the blast lived with Violet for the rest of her life and she grieved that she had been spared while her sons had been killed instantly. William never returned from the war and she didn’t remarry.

So it was that Violet came to live with her sister, Mavis, in a little cottage on the Morton Road and soon the pair of them were immersed in the war effort. They coordinated the local Dig for Victory campaign during the time German U-boats in the Atlantic were preventing food imports from reaching our shores from other parts of the Empire. Then they taught children how to garden and began a pig and poultry club. The children performed plays to raise money for the war effort and collected scrap metal and silver paper to help the government make more Spitfires.

Evacuees continued to arrive from the cities, each child carrying a cardboard box containing a pair of spare shoes and socks, a change of underwear, pyjamas, towel, soap, toothbrush and a warm coat. Brothers and sisters were kept together, and they never forgot the day Mrs Tinkle took them to see Judy Garland in
The Wizard of Oz
. Very soon they called her Auntie Violet.

* * *

At ten o’clock, Violet was sitting at a table in the school hall. Darrell was reading to her from his
Ginn Reading 360
book. At first he struggled, but slowly, his confidence increasing, he made progress.

Violet looked carefully at Darrell. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said quietly. ‘Those who have never failed have never really tried.’

Darrell nodded, not fully understanding.

‘Tell me,’ said Violet, ‘what do you like reading?’

‘Ah love football, Mrs Tinkle, speshully Roy Race.’

‘Roy Race?’

‘Yes,’e’s in t’
Roy of the Rovers
comic every Monday. ’E’s player-manager of Melchester Rovers an’ they’re ’aving a tough time.’

‘Oh, are they?’

The bell went for morning break and I joined Darrell and a few of his friends at Violet’s table. Alongside her was a battered Cadbury’s Milk Tray box.

‘What’s that for, Mrs Tinkle?’ asked Darrell.

‘I keep all my memories in a chocolate box,’ said Violet simply. Inside were photographs of her past life, including one of a young and beautiful woman. It was a long-ago world of long dresses and starched collars, a time of uncut loaves and creamy milk, of brass bands and gramophone records – and a time of war and countless soldiers who never came home.

More children gathered round and were fascinated by Violet’s memories of Bisto and Bovril, Ford and Austin, Lyons Corner Houses and tea dances. Anne, Vera and Valerie came and sat down beside me to enjoy the company of this remarkable lady. There was grace and
lightness
to her movements and the raven hair that had once cascaded around her shoulders was now a tight silver-grey bun on the top of her head and held in place by a bird’s nest of metal hair grips.

‘We were told to Dig for Victory,’ said Violet, ‘and if one and a half million homes saved a small bucket of coal each day it would provide enough fuel to build a destroyer.’

Shirley came out of the kitchen and looked at Violet’s old ration book.

‘We never wasted our vegetable water,’ she said to Shirley. ‘Instead we used it to make soup the Oxo way and I learnt how to make a cake without eggs.’ Shirley’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. ‘We used saccharine instead.’ She held up an old savings book. ‘I used to buy National Savings Certificates at the Post Office. If I saved fifteen shillings, after five years it would be worth seventeen shillings and sixpence,’ she said proudly. ‘We were also told that life would be wonderful after the war. The drawings in my
Good Housekeeping
magazine showed a land of high-rise flats, new shopping centres and Rufflette tape for new curtains to brighten our windows after the blackout.’

By the time Violet left she had answered a hundred questions and had promised Darrell she would be back every Monday to hear him read.

I walked out with Violet and we stood by the school gate. ‘Thank you for coming in, Mrs Tinkle,’ I said. ‘The children have loved your stories and I know Darrell will look forward to your next visit.’

‘No: thank
you
, Mr Sheffield. This has brightened up my life. Since my sister passed on it’s been a silent world,
just
shadows and dust … shadows and dust,’ she repeated softly.

It was the following Monday morning when I met Violet again. We were in the General Stores and, much to the surprise of Miss Golightly, she had just spent fifteen pence on a
Roy of the Rovers
comic.

‘Good morning, Mrs Tinkle,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield. This is for Darrell.’

I looked puzzled.

‘You may not be aware, Mr Sheffield, but Roy Race, the manager of Melchester Rovers, is having a difficult time at present,’ and with that she walked out.

It was an unlikely duo but Violet and Darrell were destined to remain friends in the coming years. In our next craft lesson, Darrell made a gift for his reading workshop partner. It was a teapot stand made out of off-cuts. Even though it had a distinct wobble, Violet was destined to keep it for the rest of her life.

The next time the children in my class flew their kites on the Ragley cricket pitch I stared into the distance. Beyond the high yew hedge and a Juliet balcony was a particular window and I smiled.

Something was different now.

The curtains were open; they always were.

Chapter Fifteen

Agatha Christie and the Missing Vicar

School closed today for the Easter holidays. End-of-term reports were sent out in the new North Yorkshire report books to be signed by parents. Mrs Pringle returned to school with her new baby to attend morning assembly
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 10 April 1981

‘DID YOU SAY
Murder at the Vicarage
?’ whispered Vera.

‘Yes. It’s terrific,’ said Sally softly.

‘Surely not!’ said Vera, picking up Sally’s paperback novel.

‘Did someone say
murder
?’ asked a bemused Joseph, looking up from his assembly notices.

‘Shush, Joseph!’ said Vera.

As usual, Joseph didn’t know what was going on around him. It was Friday, 10 April, the last day before the Easter holiday, and our bemused local vicar had agreed to lead our morning prayers. Meanwhile Sally had called in to
introduce
Grace, her beautiful two-month-old baby, to all the children during school assembly. It appeared she had been catching up with the novels of the world-famous crime writer Agatha Christie.

‘You read it, Vera,’ whispered Sally as she removed the baby’s mittens. ‘It’s a wonderful novel. Really. I finished it this week in between feeding Grace. You could read it on tomorrow’s coach trip to Harrogate.’

Vera nodded thoughtfully. Many of us were going on the Village Hall Committee’s annual trip to the Harrogate Flower Show. It was a long journey and a good book would pass the time. ‘But don’t you think
Murder at the Vicarage
is an unfortunate title?’ persisted Vera.

‘Perhaps,’ said Sally, ‘but she’s a wonderful writer and it’s the first appearance of Miss Jane Marple in one of her crime novels.’

The mild-mannered spinster sleuth had quickly emerged as one of the nation’s favourite detectives. In the sleepy quintessentially English village of St Mary Mead death and deception lurked, but, undeterred, Miss Marple, in her effortless and analytical style, assisted the plodding Inspector Slack to uncover the culprit.

‘It’s a real brain-teaser, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘You’d enjoy it.’

‘Hmmm, possibly,’ said Vera.

‘Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot are the most wonderful creations, Vera,’ said Valerie Flint.

‘And did you know that Hercule Poirot actually got an obituary in
The Times
in 1976?’ added Sally.

‘Really?’ said Vera. She was impressed. Perhaps this was
upper-class
detective literature.

‘Miss Marple’s just brilliant!’ said the animated Jo, picking up the novel and eagerly scanning the back cover. ‘She has such a sharp mind, Vera. In fact … she’s a bit like you.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Vera with slightly false modesty.

‘Jo’s got a point, Vera,’ said Sally, ‘so why not read it and see how she solves the murder?’

‘Ah, so you
did
say murder,’ said the distracted Joseph.

‘Shush!’ said Vera. ‘You’ll wake the baby.’

Grace Pringle was sleeping peacefully in a Moses basket on the staff-room coffee-table and we had all gathered round to admire this little miracle of nature.

‘Sally’s right, Vera,’ said Valerie, lightly stroking little Grace’s velvet cheek. ‘Agatha Christie
is
the world’s greatest crime writer.’

Jo was reading the synopsis on the cover. ‘And it sounds a great plot,’ she said. ‘Colonel Lucius Protheroe has been murdered and everyone in St Mary Mead appears to be a suspect. So it has to be the unfaithful wife, her lover, the daughter who will inherit his fortune or the soppy vicar.’

‘Soppy vicar!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘Surely not.’

‘But it’s got to be one of them,’ replied Anne thoughtfully.

‘I agree,’ said Jo.

‘But a vicar would never do such a thing,’ said Vera.

Joseph looked up from his Easter assembly notices. ‘What have I done now?’

‘Shush, Joseph,’ said Vera.

‘Well, I’m afraid the vicar here did say that anyone who
murdered
Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a favour,’ insisted Sally.

‘Did I?’ said Joseph.

‘And he was waving a carving knife at the time,’ added Sally, for good measure.

‘Was I?’ said Joseph, looking horrified at the thought.

‘Well,’ said Anne, ‘what a strange vicar.’

‘Oh dear,’ said the perplexed Joseph.

‘Oh, do be quiet, Joseph,’ said Vera.

‘Definitely odd behaviour for a vicar,’ said Jo.

‘I agree … and talking about murder like that is not very
Christian
,’ said Vera, looking concerned.

Joseph looked up, horrified, a third custard cream held guiltily in his trembling hand. ‘So you
did
say murder?’ he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs.

Vera slapped the lid on the biscuit tin.

‘So do read it over the holidays, Vera,’ said Sally.

‘And I’ll read it after you,’ said Anne.

‘Then me,’ said Valerie.

‘And me too,’ added Jo.

Vera looked across the staff-room and shot a fierce glance at Joseph. ‘And no more custard creams, Joseph. You’ve had quite enough.’

Joseph, deeply offended, considered giving his older sister his if-looks-could-kill glance but, after fingering his clerical collar, wisely said nothing.

We all sauntered back to our classrooms, Vera took out her late dinner money register, baby Grace remained in a deep slumber and Sally opened her April issue of
Cosmopolitan
magazine and wondered how Jerry Hall had
poured
herself into an astonishing bronze lamé figure-moulded sheath dress. Meanwhile, Joseph stared at Vera’s Agatha Christie novel with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. Then he picked it up rather guiltily and began to read. Finally, when the assembly bell rang he placed it reluctantly back on the coffee-table and walked into the hall with Sally and her sleeping baby.

The children loved meeting baby Grace, but at the end, when Joseph took over, the responses to his questions were predictably entertaining. ‘What’s the name of the first book of the Bible?’ he asked.

Darrell Topper’s hand shot up, which surprised me.

‘Guinness,’ he called out – which, of course,
didn’t
surprise me.

Joseph’s attempts to involve the smallest children in Anne’s reception class, all seated cross-legged on the front row, met with similar confusion.

Five-year-old Benjamin Roberts had obviously formed his own view of the effort required in the act of creation. ‘My dad says work is tiring,’ he said, ‘so he has Sundays off just like God.’

That evening Beth and I went to the York ABC cinema to watch Christopher Reeve in
Superman II
. Three prisoners from the planet Krypton had arrived on Earth, each with the same powers as Superman. Even though Terence Stamp as the evil General Zod stole the show, somehow good prevailed and we walked back to my car relaxed and looking forward to the Easter holiday. Much to my relief, nothing more was said about a new headship.

* * *

On Saturday morning in Ragley High Street, outside the village hall, April sunshine flashed on the shiny windows of William Featherstone’s ancient cream and green Reliance bus. Although from an earlier age of sedate travel, William’s bus was wonderfully maintained and perfectly reliable. ‘You can rely on Reliance’ had been painted in bright red letters under the rear window. As was the custom, William, in his neatly ironed brown bus driver’s jacket, white shirt and ex-regimental tie, doffed his peaked cap and, with old-fashioned charm, welcomed each passenger as they boarded.

‘G’morning, Mr Sheffield … and to you, Miss ’Enderson,’ he said as Beth and I clambered aboard. To my surprise, Laura was sitting at the front, immediately behind the driver’s seat. I knew she was intending to visit Beth during the Easter holiday but I hadn’t expected to see her on this trip.

‘Hello, Jack.’

‘Oh, hello, Laura. How are you?’

She looked just as I remembered her, slim and beautiful, her long brown hair tumbling over a black leather jacket with padded shoulders. For a moment her eyes were soft and vulnerable, but an instant later her gaze was cautious and guarded. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

I felt awkward, remembering our last meeting. There was still something special yet elusive about Laura. ‘So how’s London?’