02 Mister Teacher (12 page)

Vera went into the staff-room to collect our best crockery.

‘Damn fine lady, what?’ said the Major appreciatively.

I noticed his interesting habit of turning a statement into a question by finishing a sentence with the word ‘what’.

‘Vera is a wonderful secretary, Major,’ I replied. ‘I’m a lucky man.’

‘You certainly are, my boy,’ he said, casting a further approving glance at Vera’s slim figure.

As the Major was old enough to be my father, I guessed he was entitled to refer to me as ‘boy’. He certainly had an eye for Vera and I wondered how she would respond.

During the coffee break, the Major met Anne and Jo and then we walked into the hall to meet Sally and her class. He seemed very much at home with the small children around him and sat at a table with Miss Golightly, Vera and the new starters.

Very gently, with a finger and thumb, the Major shook Jeremy’s paw. ‘Good morning to you, sir,’ he said.

‘Jeremy says it’s always a pleasure to meet the Major,’ said Miss Golightly, with a gentle smile.

‘The honour is all mine, dear lady, to meet such a brave pilot,’ said the Major softly, so that only Miss Golightly and Vera heard. Miss Golightly had a far-away look in her eyes, but the spell was suddenly broken when all of Anne’s new starters began to speak at once.

Anne had brought them into the hall to meet Jeremy and speak to the Major.

‘Are you Father Christmas?’ asked Charlotte Ackroyd.

‘No, but I’m a friend of his,’ said the Major.

‘I’d like a Barbie doll, please,’ said Charlotte.

‘Ah wanna
Star Wars
light sabre,’ said Damian Brown.

‘I’d very much like a pony, please. My sister got one last year,’ said Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer.

‘I’d like a nurse’s outfit, please,’ said Dawn Phillips.

‘We’d like …’ said Rowena Buttle.

‘… A kitten,’ said Katrina Buttle.

‘Please,’ said Rowena and Katrina, in unison.

The Major bent down on one knee and looked at the excited group of children. ‘I know how to tell Father Christmas,’ said the Major.

Remarkably, all the children stopped talking at the same time.

Anne looked on in wonderment and Vera smiled.

Unaware that he had just qualified for entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
by completely silencing six four-year-olds with a single sentence, the Major calmly proceeded. ‘You have to write a letter to him, show it to your mummy or daddy and then give it to Jeremy and he will give it to Father Christmas,’ said the Major, in a solemn and serious voice.

The children stared at the Major in awe and wonder. Then they looked at Jeremy Bear.

‘But how will Jeremy get to the North Pole?’ asked Dawn Phillips. ‘My mummy says it’s a long way.’

‘He will fly in his aeroplane,’ said the Major, with absolute authority. ‘Jeremy is a pilot.’ He cast a glance towards Miss Golightly and smiled. ‘In fact, he is a very brave pilot.’

Miss Golightly lowered her head, deep in thought. She remembered a tiny Kentish village in the war-torn summer of 1940 when, for a short time, her life was complete. After all these years, in her mind’s eye she could still see a wicker basket on a picnic rug beneath an apple tree and a sea view that, like the ache in her heart, went on for ever.

Sally’s excited voice woke her from her reverie.

‘We’re going to make a Christmas post box, aren’t we, boys and girls?’ said Sally. ‘So we can give our letters to Jeremy after school on Friday.’

The four-year-olds obviously thought this was a wonderful idea, while the eight-and nine-year-olds in Sally’s class nodded knowingly.

Vera was soon deep in conversation with Sally, who immediately collected a safety pin, a length of coloured ribbon, some cardboard and a piece of tinfoil. While Vera gave the Major a guided tour of the school, Sally helped a group of children to make a special gift for Miss Golightly. When the Major returned, Sally asked Miss Golightly to sit down with Jeremy while all of Sally’s class gathered round. Anne had allowed a few of her new starters to join
in
and they sat cross-legged round Miss Golightly’s chair and as close as possible to Jeremy.

Dawn Phillips gently tickled Jeremy’s feet, waited for a reaction and then whispered in Charlotte Ackroyd’s ear, ‘He’s not ticklish.’

Sally pulled up a chair for herself and gestured to the Major to do the same. ‘Now, before Miss Golightly goes back to her shop,’ she said, ‘we would like to say thank you to her for bringing in her wonderful collection of photographs.’

‘You can keep them for a while if you like,’ said Miss Golightly.

Nine-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw put her hand up.

‘Yes, Katy?’ said Sally.

‘Does Jeremy get travel-sick?’ she asked politely.

‘No, because he’s used to flying his aeroplane,’ said Miss Golightly.

‘What does he want for Christmas?’ asked Victoria Alice Dudley-Palmer.

All eyes turned towards Jeremy.

‘I think we’ve already got something he would really like,’ said Sally.

Miss Golightly looked puzzled.

‘Some boys and girls in our class have made a gift for Jeremy,’ continued Sally.

Right on cue, Katy Ollerenshaw stood up and faced Miss Golightly. ‘On behalf of Class 3,’ she said slowly and clearly, ‘I should like to present this medal to Jeremy for being such a kind and brave bear.’

She passed the medal to Miss Golightly, who looked as if she was about to burst into tears.

Everyone clapped, the Major stood up and saluted and Vera dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.

‘Thank you so much, children,’ said Miss Golightly. ‘Jeremy will treasure it for ever.’

And so it was that, on that cold December morning, the Major escorted Miss Golightly to his car and all the children in Class 3 lined the school drive and waved goodbye. When the chauffeur opened the car door outside the General Stores, Ruby was serving four slices of crumbed Yorkshire ham to Margery Ackroyd, which guaranteed that the news of Miss Golightly’s eye-catching return was circulated round the village in the time it took Tidy Tim to switch on his Christmas lights.

Meanwhile, back in school, the Christmas post box filled quickly with the children’s letters and Jeremy rapidly became the most popular bear in Ragley village.

The next morning I walked into the General Stores and, once again, I was behind Heathcliffe and Terry.

‘What d’you wan’, Terry?’ asked Heathcliffe, clutching his five-pence piece.

‘Ah wanna lorry,’ said Terry.

Heathcliffe, translating instantly, barely hesitated. Lollies cost one pence. He made a swift calculation and then he looked up at Miss Golightly and took a deep breath. ‘
Please
can ah ’ave two Milky Ways an’ a penny lolly,
please
?’

‘
Preeze
,’ echoed little Terry, with a toothless smile that would have melted the heart of Ebenezer Scrooge.

Miss Golightly was delighted. ‘Well done, boys,’ she said. ‘You can have a free barley sugar each for being polite.’

Heathcliffe thought Christmas had come early and collected the sweets before Miss Golightly could change her mind. As they reached the door, Heathcliffe turned round. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘Fankoo,’ repeated little Terry.

Heathcliffe opened the door for his brother.

Terry seemed to remember something and he looked back into the shop beyond Miss Golightly. ‘Bye bye, Jemmery,’ said Terry.

Heathcliffe grinned. ‘Bye, Jeremy,’ he said, biting the wrapper off his Milky Way.

The door jingled as they ran off down the High Street.

Through the open doorway, I saw Vera’s Austin A40 parked behind my car. She walked in and smiled at her old friend.

‘Good morning, Prudence,’ said Vera. ‘And how are you today?’

‘Very well, thank you, Vera,’ said Miss Golightly.

Miss Golightly smiled, stepped up one more step behind the counter and gave me my newspaper.

‘And here’s your
Times
, Mr Sheffield.’

‘Jeremy looks smart today,’ I said, looking up at the shelf behind her.

Jeremy Bear was wearing a leather jacket, flying helmet, goggles and a white silk scarf that had been pinned up in a straight line behind him as though he was flying in an open cockpit on a windy day. He looked like Biggles about to do battle with the Red Baron.

On his little leather jacket, below a brightly coloured, striped ribbon, a round silver medal sparkled in the shop lights. In the centre was inscribed in italic lettering the name
Jeremy
.

‘He looks very fine with his medal!’ I said.

‘It was a wonderful surprise,’ replied Miss Golightly.

She went very quiet and, for a brief moment, she was a young woman again, standing in a green field that shimmered with a million blood-red poppies.

Vera leaned over the counter and put her hand gently on top of Miss Golightly’s hand and then looked down in astonishment. ‘Prudence,’ said Vera, ‘you’re wearing your ring!’

‘Yes, Vera,’ she said. ‘It’s my engagement ring. I haven’t worn it for nearly forty years but I thought I should wear it today.’

Vera nodded. She understood. ‘Yesterday was a special day,’ she said.

‘Yes, it certainly was. I’ve waited a long time for this.’ She carefully arranged the medal on Jeremy’s jacket. ‘My Jeremy is wearing his medal and it seemed right that, after all these years, I should wear my engagement ring again.’

Vera collected her
Daily Telegraph
and we walked out onto the freezing pavement.

‘She seems happy,’ I said.

We both stopped and looked back into the brightly lit shop.

‘The last thing Jeremy said to her was that when he returned they would travel the world together,’ said Vera.

We stood there for a moment, as the first few flakes of winter snow began to fall, and we watched Prudence Golightly tape a new notice on her shop door. It read ‘BREAD CAKE’S ON SALE’ and it occurred to me that maybe apostrophes weren’t so important after all.

Chapter Eight

The Christingle Piano

School closed today for the Christmas holidays. The school choir are due to sing at the Christingle Service in St Mary’s Church on 20 December
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Tuesday, 19 December 1978

‘AH’M AWAY TAY
feed the wee birds wi’ this desecrated coconut,’ said Aunt May.

She wiped her hands on her Glasgow Rangers apron, scooped up the shredded pieces of coconut from the worktop in my kitchen, and walked out into the back garden. Not for the first time, I marvelled at my aunt’s unique vocabulary.

My mother, Margaret, looked affectionately at her sister. With their curly grey hair and rosy cheeks, they looked like twins, although my mother was two years older. It was Wednesday, 20 December, the first day of the school
Christmas
holiday, and Margaret and May had arrived for their usual visit before venturing up to Scotland to celebrate Hogmanay with their many relatives.

‘Y’dinna get no better in this kitchen, Jack,’ said my mother, staring down at the jumble of pans under the sink. ‘Och aye, it’s still like Fred Karno’s.’

‘Sorry, Mother – life’s been hectic,’ I muttered lamely.

‘Ah thought y’wee lassie might have been here t’help,’ said Margaret, with a knowing look.

I turned away to fill the kettle and changed the subject. ‘The vicar will be here any minute, Mother. The school choir are singing at the Christingle Service in church tonight and we need to go over the arrangements.’

Margaret’s eyes widened and she immediately turned off the radio. Thankfully, Father Abraham and the Smurfs singing ‘The Smurf Song’ were cut off in their prime.

‘Well, dinna stand there like one o’clock half struck. Where’s the best crockery, Jack? He canna drink from a navvy’s mug,’ said Margaret, holding up my huge blue 1972 Leeds United FA Cup Winners mug. She scuttled off to my little oak-beamed lounge to search in the old Welsh dresser for some more refined cups and saucers.

The rat-a-tat of the brass knocker on my front door announced the arrival of the vicar. Revd Joseph Evans, a tall, thin figure with a sharp Roman nose that was turning blue with cold, was shivering on the doorstep.

‘Come in, Joseph,’ I said. ‘There’s a warm fire in the lounge.’

‘For you, Jack,’ said Joseph, as he stamped the frosty leaves from his shoes on the doormat. He held out a
bottle
of wine with no label. ‘My tea and banana special,’ he announced proudly. ‘Got a kick like a mule. Shall we give it a try?’

Joseph’s sister, Vera, frowned on his wine-making hobby to such an extent that he took every opportunity to sample his highly potent concoctions when he visited friends.

‘Perhaps a coffee first, Joseph,’ I said apologetically. ‘It’s a little early for me.’

Looking disappointed, he put the bottle of murky liquid on the hall table and walked into the kitchen, where my mother was pouring hot coffee into matching crockery that I had forgotten I owned.

‘Good tay see ye, Vicar,’ she said, handing Joseph his cup of coffee. ‘It’s nae warm today.’

‘Very true, Mrs Sheffield, and lovely to meet you again,’ said Joseph. He sipped the warm cup of coffee gratefully. ‘Mmm, this is much better than Nora Pratt’s, but I presume you don’t know her.’

Aunt May suddenly reappeared from the garden. ‘Tits like coconuts,’ she announced confidently.

Joseph looked surprised. ‘Well, er, I wouldn’t have put it quite like that,’ he stuttered.

‘No, Joseph,’ I intervened quickly. ‘My aunt has been feeding the birds.’

‘That’s reet, Vicar,’ said May. ‘The wee creatures love tay eat this decimated coconut.’

‘What wee, er, small creatures?’ Joseph looked confused.

‘The wee tits, Vicar. Or t’be more pacific, blue tits.’

Joseph peered out of the window. ‘They look like coal tits to me,’ he said.

‘Nae, that’s just an optical collusion, Vicar,’ said May, and walked to the sink to wash her hands.

‘We’re nae talking aboot wee birds, May,’ shouted Margaret. ‘We’re talking aboot that Nora from the Coffee Shop.’

‘Och aye, ah know that poor wee lassie,’ said May, drying her hands on the towel.