05 Please Sir! (23 page)

‘She’ll certainly enjoy a break from paperwork,’ I said.

Sue grinned and pointed to the bright-red love heart on the poster. ‘And perhaps a bit of romance.’

I smiled and pinned up the poster on the noticeboard. ‘It sounds a bargain at that price.’

‘Yes, I suppose it does,’ said Sue, with a hint of a frown. ‘To be honest, Jack, our finger buffet should be fine but I’m slightly dubious about Clint Ramsbottom’s disco. Having said that, at least it’s free – and what can you expect these days for two pounds fifty?’

‘
And
a glass of wine,’ I added.

Sue shook her head. ‘Yes, Jack, but I wouldn’t get too excited about that either: it’s the vicar’s home-made variety.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘Exactly,’ said Sue. ‘Anyway, must rush, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening. We’ll be setting up shortly after six if you could make sure the school is open.’

A few minutes later Joseph Evans appeared in the doorway followed by his sister. Vera sounded animated. ‘But your elderflower has a distinctly
stewed
taste, Joseph,’ she said. ‘It’s because you use too many flower petals.’

‘It’s an
acquired
taste,’ said Joseph defensively and then looked relieved to see me. ‘Hello, Jack. I believe I’m doing some Bible stories with Class 2 this morning,’ he said, ‘and then the Ten Commandments with Class 3.’ With a furrowed brow he hurried away. Another demanding morning was in store for our timid vicar.

Predictably, the lesson in Class 3 didn’t quite go to plan.

‘Why are there
ten
Commandments, Mr Evans?’ asked nine-year-old Joey Wilkinson. ‘It’s too many to remember and it makes my head hurt.’

While Joseph was pondering how to respond, Heathcliffe Earnshaw had an inspiration and raised his hand. ‘Mr Evans,’ he said, ‘we only need
one
Commandment: “Thou shalt share thy last gobstopper”.’

‘Oh really, Heathcliffe,’ said Joseph in exasperation.

‘But that’s a good answer, Mr Evans,’ insisted Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer defiantly. Elisabeth Amelia still had a soft spot for the unconventional Heathcliffe. He was so unlike the other boys that her mother invited to her birthday parties. Also, her vocabulary was developing at a remarkable rate, as Joseph was about to discover.

‘And why is that?’ asked a bemused Joseph.

‘Because it’s a
symbolic
gobstopper, Mr Evans,’ said Elisabeth Amelia with gravitas.

Joseph blinked. In the years to come he recalled it was the day he learnt never to underestimate children.

At morning break in the staff-room Sally Pringle looked up from her milky coffee and her second custard cream. ‘By the way, Vera, that cardigan you knitted for Grace was a lovely gift. Colin and I were both thrilled.’

Baby Grace was now a year old and had been for her check-up with the nurse at Dr Davenport’s surgery. Sally’s pride and joy weighed 20lb 4oz and was declared the healthiest baby in all creation by the smiling nurse. As Sally walked out she decided she would never again complain about a smelly nappy.

‘It was a pleasure for such a beautiful baby,’ said Vera.

Meanwhile, Anne and I looked up from our collection of Yorkshire Purchasing Organization order forms. With the cuts in public spending every penny had to be accounted for.

‘Are you going to the Valentine dance, Sally?’ asked Anne.

‘Yes,’ she said cheerfully. ‘My mother’s looking after Grace, so I’m hoping it will cheer Colin up. Stopping smoking has been difficult for him. He spends half his life sucking sherbet lemons.’

‘I wouldn’t recommend the wine,’ warned Vera. ‘It’s Joseph’s.’

Everyone nodded but felt it would have been disloyal to Joseph to agree out loud. After all, even though it tasted like floor polish, he meant well … and it was free.

By lunchtime Joseph was looking distinctly gloomy as he flicked through the children’s exercise books and wondered why the six- and seven-year-olds in Jo Hunter’s class just didn’t seem to get the message. Charlotte Ackroyd insisted that ‘David was a Hebrew king who was very skilled at playing the liar’ and Harold Bustard had written: ‘Samson killed the Philistines with the axe of the apostles.’ Not for the first time he wondered about his role as a teacher of young children. He never had this trouble with the older ones in his confirmation classes.

At the end of school I worked late. Beth rang to say she was going out with her staff into Thirkby to see
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, starring Harrison Ford, and we could meet up on Saturday.

By seven o’clock, after I had locked up the school, the bright lights of The Royal Oak looked particularly inviting for a hungry headteacher. The frozen grass crunched beneath my feet as I walked across the village green.

At the bar Old Tommy Piercy was sitting with one of his farming friends.

‘Good evening, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

‘Nah then, young Mr Sheffield,’ he replied between puffs on his pipe of Old Holborn tobacco.

‘This snow’s getting worse,’ I said.

‘Snow,’ muttered Old Tommy, shaking his head. ‘Call that snow? That’s nowt but fairy-dust, tha knaws. Ah’ll tell y ‘abart snow. Nineteen forty-seven were proper snow, waist ’igh an’ enough t’freeze y’nadgers.’

All the football team nodded in agreement and I politely joined in. After all, what Old Tommy didn’t know about snow wasn’t worth bothering about.

Big Dave and Little Malcolm were ordering their usual round of thirteen pints of Tetley’s for the football team, Stevie the substitute, and, of course, Ronnie Smith, the manager.

‘She’s fit as a butcher’s dog, Don,’ said Big Dave proudly.

Don the barman pulled the hand pump with his mighty fist and nodded in absolute understanding and deep appreciation. In the pecking order of praise, this was a Yorkshireman’s ultimate accolade. ‘So are y’keen, then, on this lass wi’ t’fancy name?’ asked Don.

‘It’s fancy all reight, Don,’ chipped in Little Malcolm. ‘It’s Fenella Lovelace.’

‘Sounds like summat from James Bond,’ added Sheila the barmaid as she adjusted the shoulder pads under her sparkly pink blouse.

‘Well, ah call’er Nellie … an’ ah’m tekkin’er out f’Valentine’s Day,’ said Big Dave proudly.

‘We’re all goin’ to t’school dance,’ said Little Malcolm.

‘Did you ‘ear that, Don:
romance
is not dead f’some people,’ said Sheila.

Don shuffled off to the far end of the bar. I was waiting my turn to be served and Sheila fluttered her false eyelashes at me and pressed her substantial cleavage across the counter.

‘’E’s like that Olympic flame, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila.

‘Olympic flame?’

‘Yes,’e never goes out.’ As usual I focused on the shelf of bottled shandy as I placed my order. This wasn’t to hide my embarrassment, more a case of self-preservation. Her husband Don, an ex-wrestler and built like a fork-lift truck, was standing at the other end of the bar and he thought the world of his gregarious wife. Then she looked up at me and smoothed the creases in her black leather miniskirt. ‘What’s it t’be, Mr Sheffield?’

‘A pint of Chestnut, please, Sheila, and a pie and mushy peas.’

‘Comin’ up, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. ‘So no Miss ‘Enderson, then?’

‘No, Sheila. She’s gone out with her staff to see
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.’

‘Oooh, ’Arrison Ford!’ swooned Sheila. ‘Now, that’s one ah wouldn’t kick out o’ bed.’

A short while later I was sitting at a table, supping my pint and scalding my tongue on Sheila’s famous meat pie. I took out my notebook and added a few more reminders to my wedding list, including buying a wedding ring and a London theatre visit for our honeymoon. Then I returned to the bar for a refill. Old Tommy was still there, sitting on his usual stool next to the signed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott.

‘Ah see tha’s cack-’anded, Mr Sheffield,’ he remarked. ‘Ah saw y’writing.’

‘I’m making a wedding list,’ I said.

‘Ooooh, ‘ow romantic,’ said Sheila. ‘My Don never makes no lists. In fac’ there’s no
excitement
any more, if y’know what ah mean. It’s jus’ routine … nowt else, jus’ routine.’

I gave her thirty pence for my pint of Chestnut. ‘So, have you mentioned it to him, Sheila?’ I asked tentatively.

‘Nowt said needs no mending, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila with a wink. She looked at Old Tommy. ‘I bet you were
romantic
in y’day, Mr Piercy.’

Old Tommy puffed on his pipe and contemplated. He was a gruff, stubborn, opinionated Yorkshireman, proud of his county of stone cities and grassy dales, wet moorlands and dry humour. ‘Aye, lass,’ he said. He held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. ‘But these won’t be undoing any more whalebone corsets,’ he said. He turned to his lifelong friend Alf Wight, whose sheepdog, Floss, was crouched at his feet. ‘Gi’ me a dog any day,’ said Old Tom my.

‘’E’s best sort, is my Floss,’ said Alf, who was a proud member of the Yorkshire Sheepdog Society: ‘allus pals at t’end o’ day. ‘E’s at ’is peak tha knaws, five year old now.’ Sadly, the mystical union between Alf and Floss was something that he had never quite established with his wife. ‘So y’can keep y’romance,’ said Alf, which probably explained why he spent Friday nights drinking with his dog while his wife stayed at home with a crate of bottled stout.

There were raised voices further down the bar. ‘Salt ’n’ Shake crisps?’ said Big Dave, ‘Salt in a bag … in yer
crisps
?’

‘That’s reight,’ said Don.

‘We used to ’ave proper flavours like vinegar or cheese an’ onion,’ said Big Dave. ‘Who wants t’shake salt on their crisps?’

Stevie ‘Supersub’ Coleclough, eager to defuse the great crisp debate, changed the subject. ‘No entertainment t’neight, then, Don?’ he asked.

‘Nay, Stevie,’ said Don. ‘Las’ week’s were a poor do.’ Apparently the ‘turn’ was a pensioner singing ‘Mule Train’ while repeatedly bashing his head with a tin tray.

‘Y’not kidding,’ said Shane Ramsbottom. ‘It went down like t’
Titanic
.’

Old Tommy Piercy looked up. ‘Y’reight there, young Shane,’ he said: ‘it were rubbish. In fac’ if ah were comin’ again, ah wouldn’t come.’

‘Sorry, Tommy, but
proper turns
are expensive,’ said Don and he hurried off to collect some empty glasses.

‘’E’s an ol’ skinflint, is that one,’ said Old Tommy. ‘’E’d nip a currant in two.’

In the annals of Yorkshire put-downs, this was up among the best of them.

Saturday morning dawned bright and bitterly cold with fresh snow covering the distant hills. Sparrows and chaffinches were busy in the hedgerow and a solitary robin perched on my garden seat, looking hopefully for a few crumbs.

I decided to do some shopping in Ragley and Beth said she would meet me in the village. By the time I pulled up on Ragley High Street I was ready for a hot drink on this freezing morning. Rod Stewart was singing ‘Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?’ as I walked into Nora’s Coffee Shop. In my case, in my old duffel coat, steamed-up Buddy Holly spectacles and wavy brown hair sticking up in frozen spikes, the answer was definitely no.

Dorothy Humpleby was sporting her new image. Her Super-Straight-Leg jeans from Levi’s womenswear range involved rolling up the legs to create a different look. She was deep in conversation with Nora.

‘Ah luv Valentine’s Day,’ said Dorothy. ‘It’s proper romantic.’

‘Y’never know, Dowothy,’ said Nora conspiratorially, Malcolm might s’pwise you with a wing.’

Dorothy wandered off to the coffee machine and Nora looked up at me and shook her head. ‘She weally is a sandwich short of a picnic, is our Dowothy.’

* * *

Unknown to Dorothy, the love of her life had just entered the Village Pharmacy, where the owner, Eugene Scrimshaw, wearing his white coat over the top of his Star Trek uniform, was dreaming as he waited for his wife Peggy to take over. Eugene had converted his attic into the flight deck of the Starship
Enterprise
and he had got a bit carried away on his latest voyage to discover lost worlds. Peggy Scrimshaw was now in the General Stores with Margery Ackroyd, the local gossip, and there was no such thing as a short conversation with Margery.

Eugene came back to earth. ‘What is it t’be, Malcolm?’ he said.

Malcolm looked furtively around him. ‘It’s personal,’ he whispered.

‘’Ave no fear, my lips are sealed,’ said Eugene.

‘It’s summat f’Dorothy,’ said Malcolm; ‘ah’ve seen’em advertised.’

Eugene looked at the doorway. There was no sign of any other customer or Peggy outside. ‘’Ow about these?’ he said, holding up a packet of Durex. ‘All different colours. They’re all t’rage these days.’

Malcolm flushed furiously. ‘No, not them!’ he exclaimed. ‘Any road, it’s Dorothy what buys stuff like that.’

‘Oh, ah see,’ said Eugene. ‘So what is it?’

Malcolm looked over his shoulder again and took out a cutting from the
News of the World
. ‘It’s a Buf-Puf cleansing sponge,’ said Malcolm, pointing to a photograph of Michelle Hobson, otherwise known as Miss Great Britain 1981. ‘It sez it’ll give yer a beauty queen complexion … an’ if this lass were taller, an’ mebbe wi’ blonde ’air an’ a bigger nose, she’d be t’dead spit o’ my Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm earnestly.