04 Village Teacher (6 page)

‘Yes, if TAXES is right,’ said Vera, staring sadly at her almost completed crossword.

Everyone racked their brains for the solution but, while we had enough degrees, certificates and essay prizes between us to sink a ship, the solution was not forthcoming and Vera folded up the newspaper. ‘How frustrating,’ she said. ‘We just need someone who’s brilliant at crosswords. Perhaps I’ll ring the major later.’

When the bell rang a slightly deflated group of crossword-failures wandered back to class.

It was just before afternoon break when Cathy Cathcart looked up from her poster colour painting of York Minster and announced, ‘Mr Smith’s coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’ Ruby had often described Ronnie as ‘no more than seven stones dripping wet’ and in his crumpled baggy suit and his Leeds United bobble hat he certainly looked it.

When I walked through the school hall, Anne’s reception class was deeply involved in a dramatic production of the epic tale ‘The Three Billy Goats Gruff’. However, Jemima Poole, delighted to be given the part of the wicked troll, had not entirely grasped its carnivorous nature.

‘Would you please stop all that clipetty-clopetty on my bridge …’ cause it’s hard to concentrate?’ said the polite Jemima in a sweet voice.

Meanwhile, in the entrance hall, Ronnie had not got past Checkpoint Vera.

‘Mr Smith would like a word with you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera coldly.

‘Ah’m wond’ring abart this
do
after school,’ said Ronnie.

‘It should be fine, Ronnie. Miss Evans is looking after it.’

Ronnie glanced nervously at Vera. ‘Well, do ah need t’do owt?’

‘How about a nice surprise for Ruby?’ I said.

‘Bit awkward, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ve no money t’spare.’

I racked my brains. ‘You could tidy up your front garden, Ronnie. Ruby’s always on about that … Mind you, she’d probably have a seizure.’

Ronnie was confused. He thought a seizure was a Roman emperor. All the same, ‘M’back’s been playin’ up,’ he said quickly.

Vera looked at him with cool appraisal. ‘Ronnie, you really
ought
to do that for Ruby.’

‘Er … yes, ah s’ppose, Miss Evans.’ He knew when he was cornered.

When he finally left, Ronnie felt as though he had just gone ten rounds with Henry Cooper.

At the end of school, I was at my desk in the school office and Vera was doing some filing when Anne walked in.

‘We’re all set for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Shirley and Mrs Critchley are in charge of refreshments and Ruby’s family have been invited.’

‘Thanks, Anne,’ I said.

Suddenly, mop in hand, Ruby appeared at the door with her latest announcement. ‘Our Duggie’s got a new girlfriend, Miss Evans,’ she said, with a note of disapproval in her voice. ‘Y’know t’type: butter wouldn’t melt in ’er mouth.’

‘Who is she, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

‘She’s called Julie an’ she works in t’X-ray department in t’hospital … But ah saw through ’er straight away.’

‘I suppose you would if she worked in the X-ray department,’ I quipped.

Anne frowned at me and Ruby pressed on, oblivious to the joke.

‘An’ ah don’t know what’s got into my Ronnie. ’E’s tidying t’garden an’ going at it like a fiddler’s elbow.’

Vera gave me a knowing look.

‘Ah’m absolutely flabbergasted,’ said Ruby and she wandered off to mop the entrance hall.

Friday dawned cold but clear. The season was moving on and as I drove to school I could hear in the distance the deep-throated chugging of a tractor. Shane and Clint Ramsbottom were ploughing in Twenty-Acre field. They were supervised from the neighbouring treetops by the dark brooding shapes of rooks, their beady eyes searching for a juicy breakfast among the ruler-straight furrows.

When I walked into the school office, Vera plucked the rose from the tumbler of water on my desk and held it up. ‘Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘have you got any roses left in
your
back garden?’

‘I think so, yes. There are a few on the Peace floribunda bush next to my garden seat.’

Her eyes crinkled into a smile. ‘Then, please meet on the stroke of twelve, Mr Sheffield. We have an errand to run, if that’s OK.’

At twelve o’clock I left Anne in charge while Vera and I drove to Kirkby Steepleton. In the garden of Bilbo Cottage
we
found the last half-dozen of my yellow, beautifully scented roses and Vera wrapped their woody stems in a clump of damp tissues. When we returned to school she hid them in Shirley’s kitchen sink and then broke the news to Ruby about the tea and cakes in the school hall at four o’clock.

‘That’s very kind, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby, dabbing away a tear. ‘Ah’ll put m’posh frock on under me overall when I come back at t’end of school.’

At half past four I was enjoying a slice of Shirley’s magnificent treacle tart and a cup of tea. Anne, Sally and Jo were chatting with Ruby’s daughters, Ruby was trying to persuade Ronnie to remove his bobble hat and, all the while, Vera was deep in conversation with the major.

The hall was full of light-hearted chatter and it died down when I asked for quiet. I made a short speech about how much we all appreciated Ruby’s work and asked Anne to present a ‘Thank you’ card, signed by all the staff and governors, along with a Co-op token.

Then, at a signal from Vera, Ronnie stood beside Ruby and murmured, ‘Ruby, luv, there’s summat else.’ He pointed towards the hall doors. ‘Our’ Azel’s got summat f ’you.’

Vera was holding Hazel Smith’s hand and whispering in her ear. The little girl looked bright as a new pin in a gingham frock, brown leather sandals and short white ankle socks. Her big sister Sharon had braided her long hair and tied it with a bright-pink ribbon. She was also carrying a yellow rose.

‘This is for you, Mam,’ said Hazel.

Ruby knelt down in front of Hazel, took the rose and gave her a big kiss.

‘When ah grow up ah’ll ’ave a garden wi’ roses, Mam,’ she said.

‘That’s lovely, ’Azel.’

‘An’ then y’ll allus ’ave roses,’ said Hazel.

Ruby crouched down and hugged her. Tears began to stream down her face.

‘Why are y’crying, Mam?’ said Hazel.

‘Don’t fret, luv,’ said Ruby almost to herself. ‘It’s jus’ roses. They do that sometimes.’

Then Racquel, Duggie, Sharon and Natasha each presented Ruby with their rose. Ruby dried her eyes on the hem of her skirt, stood up and held Hazel’s hand.

‘Do you want to say anything, Ruby?’ asked Vera.

‘Ah can’t, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah feel proper flummoxed.’

‘Ruby!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘I’m so glad you do!’ She hurried over to the piano, picked up a newspaper from under her handbag and waved it triumphantly in the air. ‘Nineteen across, nine letters: confused or perplexed,’ announced Vera.

‘Ah don’t understand, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby.

‘FLUMMOXED!’ exclaimed Vera. ‘You’ve solved our prize crossword!’ Then she gave Ruby a big kiss on the cheek and filled in the missing letters.

Suddenly, Anne sat down at the piano and played the opening bars of ‘My Favourite Things’.

‘C’mon, Mam,’ urged Duggie, ‘give us a song.’

Racquel took her mother’s hand and led her to the piano and Ruby began to sing ‘Raindrops on roses’, at which
Sharon
and Natasha burst into applause. Meanwhile, Vera and the major were whispering conspiratorially in the corner of the hall.

An hour later it was a happy group that arrived back at number 7, School View. Ronnie opened the gate proudly and pointed to the tidy garden. Ruby kissed his bobble hat and enveloped him in a rib-crushing hug.

‘Ah’m glad y’pleased, Ruby luv,’ gasped Ronnie and hurried into the house.

Ruby kissed each of her five children as they walked past her into the crowded lounge. Then she turned and walked, alone, back down the garden path. The noisy chatter of her family spilled out into the street and Ruby smiled. She was pleased they were all safe and together for a brief time.

Then she looked down at her roses and sniffed them appreciatively. Finally, she touched each one lightly with a dumpy work-red finger and remembered a morning long ago when the young Ruby had stood on this very spot with a bouquet of yellow roses.

Back in school, the hall had been cleared and all was quiet. Only the ticking of the old clock, echoing in the Victorian rafters, disturbed the silence. I jumped when the telephone rang.

‘Hello, Jack, how are you?’ It was the distinctive voice of the chair of the Education Committee at County Hall.

‘Oh, hello, Miss Barrington-Huntley. Good to hear from you,’ I said quickly.

‘Jack, I’ll get to the point. I’ve asked Richard Gomersall,
Senior
Primary Adviser, to call in to see you later this term. He’s visiting all the schools in the Easington area to gather information for a follow-up document to “The Rationalization of Small Schools in North Yorkshire”.’

‘Yes, it obviously caused us some anxiety,’ I said, wondering where Vera had filed it.

There was a long pause.

‘Jack, we’re at the beginning of a long and difficult process,’ said Miss Barrington-Huntley, clearly weighing her words. ‘All I can say at this stage is: hope for the best but prepare for the worst.’

‘I see,’ I said cautiously.

‘And I note from my diary that I shall be with you on Saturday, the eighth of November for the opening of your new library area.’

‘Yes. We’re looking forward to your visit.’

‘So am I. Thank you, Jack … Goodbye.’

I replaced the receiver and to my surprise it rang again almost immediately.

‘How did the presentation go?’ It was Beth.

‘Oh, hello, Beth. Yes, it went well and Ruby loved it.’

‘I’ve got a PTA event on tonight but I could see you later?’

‘Well, Ruby asked me to call in at the Oak on my way home.’

‘Shall I see you there, say, about nine?’

‘Perfect. See you then.’

The Royal Oak was busy when I walked in. Ruby and Ronnie were sitting in the place of honour on the bench seat near the dartboard. Racquel and Sharon were at the
same
table and Natasha had stayed at home to watch
Charlie’s Angels
and look after Hazel. Duggie was mingling with the Ragley Rovers football team.

‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’ said Sheila Bradshaw, the landlady.

I glanced at the menu on the chalkboard. ‘Just half of Chestnut and minced beef and onions in a giant Yorkshire pudding, please, Sheila.’

‘Ah like a man wi’ a good appetite.’ She was wearing a bright-pink boob tube and a black leather miniskirt. I averted my eyes from her astonishing cleavage and stared at the bottled shandy on the shelf behind her. ‘We’ve been ’earing about this metrication that y’teaching ’em,’ said Sheila. ‘Our Claire’s doing it as well at t’big school.’ Sheila’s teenage daughter, Claire Bradshaw, had been in my class when I first arrived at Ragley. ‘Ah think it’s wonderful what y’teach ’em in school these days.’ She leant provocatively over the bar and fluttered her enormous false eyelashes. I could almost feel the draught. ‘We never ’ad no teachers like you when ah were at school.’

Her husband, Don, ex-wrestler and built like a fork-lift truck, shouted from the other end of the bar, ‘Matriculation, did y’say, Mr Sheffield? Is it legal?’

‘Shurrup, y’big soft ha’penny,’ said Sheila. ‘It’s all that Frenchified stuff about weights an’ measures. One day we might b’serving beer in litres.’

‘Lads won’t like it, luv,’ said Don, nodding towards the inebriated football team. ‘They like beer in tankards.’

Team captain Big Dave Robinson leant on the bar. ‘Usual, Don,’ he said, and Don began to pull thirteen pints
of
Tetley’s bitter for team manager Ronnie, the team, plus the twelfth man, Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough.

‘An’ that wants switching off,’ said Big Dave to Don, pointing to the television on the high shelf above the bar. ‘We don’t want no southerners ’ere wi’ puffy ’airdos.’

Noel Edmonds was presenting
Top Gear
at the Paris Motor Show. It was clear that the new range of Rolls-Royce cars, the latest Ford Escort and the turbo-charged Renault held little interest for these sons of Yorkshire.

Don switched it off and nodded towards three strange men in sparkly suits. ‘Entertainment’s jus’ arrived f ’Ruby’s party,’ he announced, ‘an’ they smell o’ fish.’

Troy Phoenix, lead singer and local fishmonger, otherwise known as Norman Barraclough, had teamed up with two of his friends who sold fish in Whitby. One had learnt three chords from his
Bert Weedon’s Play-in-a-Day Guitar Guide
and the other played the drums, or, to be more precise, a drum.

‘We booked a trio,’ shouted Shane Ramsbottom in disgust from the far end of the bar, ‘an’ three of ’em ’ave turned up!’

Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, proud of being the only member of the football team with any academic qualifications, spoke up. ‘No, Shane, a trio is …’ and then stopped when he saw Shane frown. Stevie had remembered it was never wise to disagree with a muscular psychopath who had the letters
H-A-R-D
tattooed on the knuckles of his right hand.

‘Who are they?’ asked Big Dave.

‘Troy Phoenix and the Whalers,’ said Don.

‘Ah’ve ’eard ’em,’ said Chris ‘Kojak’ Wojciechowski, the
Bald-Headed
Ball Wizard. ‘All they do is bloody wail,’ and he laughed at his own joke.

Little Malcolm Robinson and ‘Deadly’ Duggie Smith came to help carry the frothing pint pots to the thirsty footballers.

‘Ah’ve ’eard you’ve gorra new girlfriend, Duggie,’ said Sheila.

‘She lives in a posh ’ouse in Easington,’ said Duggie proudly. ‘She’s even gorra gazebo in ’er garden.’

Big Dave and Little Malcolm looked at each other in amazement.

‘Bloody ’ell!’ exclaimed Big Dave. ‘If that David Hattenb’rough knew, e’d be round there in a flash.’

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

I found a seat near the bay window and enjoyed my piping-hot food. The troubles of school life waned in the happy atmosphere and I had the prospect of a weekend with Beth ahead of me. When she walked in, heads turned and, as always, she looked a perfect English beauty in her white blouse and a classic pin-striped trouser suit.