02 Mister Teacher (13 page)

I smiled as I saw the astonished look on Joseph’s face. Aunt May had her own personal vocabulary but the words she used were always close enough to the real thing to make sense. However, the fact that she was deaf in her right ear and my mother was deaf in her left ear did not help matters.

Joseph and I walked into the lounge and settled down in front of the roaring log fire. My mother followed on behind.

‘Would ye like tay have some cinnamon toast, Vicar?’ asked Margaret.

‘Aye, she’s the queen’s knees at making cinema toast,’ shouted May, from the kitchen.

‘No, thank you, Mrs Sheffield,’ said Joseph. ‘Time is precious today.’

My mother skipped back into the kitchen, wiping her hands on a Glasgow Rangers tea towel, and told May that their dubious culinary skills would not be required.

‘Ah hope ye have nae been casting nasturtiums on mah cooking, Margaret!’ yelled May into Margaret’s good ear.

‘There’s nae need tay shoot,’ replied Margaret, also into her sister’s good ear and with equal volume.

Meanwhile, Joseph stared at the flames, his mind elsewhere.

‘Now, what about the Christingle Service?’ I asked.

Joseph looked relieved to change the subject. ‘We have a problem, Jack. We need a piano and we need it urgently,’ said Joseph hurriedly.

‘Why, what’s wrong with the one in church?’ I asked.

‘Everything,’ said Joseph, in desperation. ‘Barely a note works. It must be the cold and, as you know, the organ won’t be repaired for another three months.’

An idea struck me. Beth had an old upright piano that had been passed on to her by an elderly aunt.

She answered the telephone almost immediately. ‘You’re welcome to use it, Jack,’ said Beth, ‘although it needs tuning.’

‘Thanks, Beth,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it will be fine.’

‘Anyway, Jack, I’m sorry but I have to rush. My parents are coming up with my sister for Christmas and I’ve got to go shopping. The key’s under the mat if you want to collect the piano. I’ll see you tonight in church. Bye.’

Joseph was relieved when I told him the news. ‘I know a piano tuner who would call in and check it for us,’ he said. ‘But we’ll need a vehicle to collect it from Morton village.’

‘I know just the person,’ I said, picking up the telephone again.

Deke Ramsbottom answered. ‘Howdy,’ he said.

‘Hello, Deke. It’s Jack Sheffield here. The vicar and I wondered if you could help us out. We need a piano collecting and delivering to church for the Christingle Service. It starts at seven o’clock.’

‘I’ll get my lads on to it reight away, Mr Sheffield. Tell t’vicar not t’worry,’ said Deke. ‘What’s the address?’

‘End of the High Street, Deke, number thirty-eight,’ I said hurriedly. ‘She said the key’s under the mat.’

‘Consider it done, Mr ’eadteacher.
Adios, amigo
,’ said Deke, and rang off.

By lunchtime, the church was a hive of activity. Vera was arranging a spectacular vase of scarlet poinsettias next to the choir stalls, while a group of her friends from the Women’s Institute were decorating a huge Christmas tree positioned next to the pulpit. Joseph was leaning against a shiny upright piano, listening to a distinctly self-opinionated piano tuner expound words of wisdom.

‘You’ve got to understand the Pythagorean Comma,’ he said, in a loud, warbling voice. He sounded as if he had swallowed a tuning fork. ‘It’s the amount by which twelve pure-fifths exceeds seven pure octaves. This means I have to tune the fifths narrow.’

Joseph stared at the ceiling, clearly seeking spiritual guidance and a cure for complete boredom. My arrival awoke him from his self-induced trance.

‘Oh, Jack, good to see you,’ said Joseph. ‘I must thank Miss Henderson personally for the loan of this wonderful piano.’

‘I’m pleased it’s arrived, Joseph,’ I said. ‘And I must
say
it does look rather grand. She’s had it professionally polished, by the look of it.’

‘It’s a top-of-the-range Steinway,’ announced the voice from the bowels of the piano. ‘Probably worth around £18,000.’

‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed.

Joseph grinned.

‘Oh, sorry, Joseph,’ I said. ‘It’s just that Beth obviously has no idea it’s worth that much.’

I spent the rest of the afternoon in the vicarage, helping a group of parents and children prepare the Christingles. They were made by inserting a candle into an orange, around which wooden cocktail sticks, decorated with Rowntree fruit pastilles, had been inserted. Vera supervised while occasionally reading the
Yorkshire Evening Press
. Margaret Thatcher was once again dominating the headlines. Her latest quote was: ‘We shall not bash the unions; neither shall we bow to them.’ Vera smiled and muttered something like ‘The day of judgement is nigh’.

Shortly before seven o’clock, the Morton Road was full of parked cars and I pulled up outside St Mary’s Church behind the Dudley-Palmers’ Rolls-Royce. I shivered as I got out of my car. The evening was dark and cold and a few flakes of snow had begun to fall. Behind me, in the distance, the lights of Ragley village flickered like tiny glow-worms against a vast purple sky, cast like a mantle over the plain of York.

Geoffrey and Petula Dudley-Palmer were getting their coats and scarves from the boot of their car.

‘Good evening, Mr Sheffield,’ called Mrs Dudley-Palmer enthusiastically. ‘Do come and look at what we’ve just bought.’

In the expensively carpeted car boot was a large white cardboard box and on the side was printed ‘Philips 610 D Microwave Oven, £323.00’.

‘It’s one of those newfangled microwave ovens,’ announced Mrs Dudley-Palmer. ‘Top-of-the-range, of course.’ She stroked the box tenderly in the same way as the female assistants on Nicholas Parsons’
Sale of the Century
.

I stared in amazement at this wonder of modern technology and wondered how it worked. However, on my salary I knew I would never find out.

Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer leaned over to me. ‘Just on our way back from a day’s shopping in Leeds, Mr Sheffield, and she just can’t resist a bargain.’

He looked tired and I could understand why.

‘We’re looking forward to hearing the choir,’ said Mrs Dudley-Palmer. ‘My darling Elisabeth has such a beautiful voice.’

‘Where are your daughters?’ I asked, looking at the empty back seat.

‘Oh, my sister in Morton has been looking after them today. They’ll be in church now.’

‘Well, I hope you enjoy your evening,’ I said.

‘And you must come to our house tomorrow lunchtime, Mr Sheffield. We’re having a buffet lunch with mulled wine and Christmas carols round the piano. It’s an open house and everyone’s invited: the more the
merrier
. The vicar and Miss Evans said they would come along.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘That’s very kind.’

After giving the microwave oven a final caress, Mrs Dudley-Palmer turned up the collar of her mink coat, grabbed her husband’s arm and walked with him through the church gates, past a large poster that proclaimed, ‘It is better to give than to receive.’

I followed on behind. The church bells rang as we picked our way along the pathway of frozen Yorkshire stone and the drifting snow began to curve gracefully against the grey walls. Outside the vicarage, I noticed Deke Ramsbottom’s Land Rover and pig trailer parked under the elm trees and smiled. Deke was already prepared to return Beth’s piano.

Next to me, on a huge wooden sign, a poster read ‘Peace on Earth’.

I followed the procession under the sloping roof of the stone porch at the entrance to St Mary’s Church and through the giant Norman doorway, where the Revd Joseph Evans welcomed us.

‘Thanks for your help with the piano, Jack,’ said Joseph as I walked in.

The church was filled with families and on the narrow wooden shelves, fitted to the back of each pew, a Christingle had been placed in front of each child.

I walked through the nave, down the central aisle towards the chancel with its beautifully carved choir stalls. Anne Grainger, looking completely relaxed as usual, was busy arranging the children in the Ragley
School
choir in order of height. This meant Tony Ackroyd had to stand next to a girl and his face had gone bright red.

At the front of the chancel, alongside the pulpit on the north side of the nave, stood a brass lectern decorated with a wondrous eagle, upon whose outstretched wings a giant Bible rested. I checked that the page was marked for my reading.

Meanwhile Sally Pringle was preparing to accompany the Nativity on her guitar and was arranging her music on a stand. Jo Maddison and Sue Phillips were gathering together the costumes for the Three Kings and putting them in a neat pile next to the pulpit.

Beyond the chancel, a balustrade of low rails separated it from the sanctuary of the altar, where Vera was lighting the tall candles. The flickering light illuminated the stained glass in the magnificent east window.

Meanwhile, Elsie Crapper was admiring the shiny new piano she was about to play, while secretly counting the Valium tablets in her pocket. She was wondering if she could last until Mary had given birth to baby Jesus and the congregation had launched into a rousing chorus of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ before another dose was required.

As I turned to find a seat, I caught sight of Beth sitting on one of the pews at the back of the church. She was waving and pointing to the space she had reserved for me. Walking down the aisle, I tried to look casual and nodded to the parents and children I knew. Then I squeezed in next to Beth, who immediately indicated
her
mother and father sitting alongside her. Her father, a tall athletic man with steel-grey hair, shook my hand and smiled warmly. I could see where Beth’s firm handshake came from.

Beth’s mother leaned forward and gave me an elegant wave of her leather-gloved hand. Her soft blonde hair was tied back to reveal a smooth complexion and her look was inquisitive. It was clear that Mrs Henderson had still to make her mind up about me. Next to her, to my surprise, was a younger version of Beth. I had never met Beth’s sister before, but I had been told she was in her late twenties and she lived life to the full. Her appearance was breathtaking. Her hair was darker than Beth’s, much longer and held back in a sleek pony-tail. She had the same high cheek-bones, clear skin and green eyes, except that hers shone with mischief as she mouthed a cheerful ‘Hello’. Beth frowned at her younger sister, squeezed my hand and said, ‘Good luck with your reading.’

Meanwhile the service began in dramatic fashion. Joseph Evans directed two of the church wardens to light a spill from the candles on the altar, walk down the central aisle and light the first Christingle at the end of every pew. Each family then lit the Christingle next to them, until the church was bathed in a flickering sea of candlelight.

A tapestry of shadows danced on the tall stone walls behind the shimmering light of a hundred candles. Within this ancient church on this cold winter’s night, a feeling of calm, reverence and dignity, touched with the faint trace of incense, descended on the congregation.
Joseph
walked up into the pulpit and, in a slow clear voice, explained that the candle in the orange symbolized Jesus Christ as the light of the world.

Finally, it was my turn. I stood in front of the lectern, opened the giant Bible to the gospel of St Luke, chapter two, scanned the illuminated rows of faces and began to read. ‘And
it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed
…’

On my way back to my pew, I spotted Deke Ramsbottom sitting next to old Tommy Piercy. Deke pointed to the piano and gave me a thumbs-up. Then Elsie Crapper played the opening bars of ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ and the congregation rose to sing.

In between verses I smiled down at Beth and whispered in her ear, ‘Thanks for the piano. Did you know it’s worth a fortune?’

Beth looked puzzled. ‘My piano is still at home, Jack,’ she said. ‘No one came to collect it.’

I pointed to the gleaming piano that had been pushed in through the priest’s door and was standing against the south wall of the chancel. Elsie was hammering the keys as if her life depended on it. ‘Are you saying that’s not your piano?’ I asked.

‘It’s not, Jack. Mine’s just a poor, bog-standard, Medina Victorian upright piano. It’s nothing like that one,’ whispered Beth.

‘Well, whose is it?’ I asked.

‘No idea,’ said Beth. ‘How did it get here?’

My mind raced. Something had clearly gone wrong.

After a rousing rendition of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, Joseph announced a short interlude while preparations were made for the children’s Nativity.

I took the opportunity to walk to the back pew, where Deke Ramsbottom had his two strapping sons on one side of him and the stooping figure of Old Tommy Piercy on the other.

‘Excuse me, Deke,’ I said. ‘Beth Henderson has just told me that you didn’t collect her piano.’

Deke gave me a big grin. ‘Don’t know nothin’ about Miss ’enderson, Mr Sheffield. Ah jus’ went t’number thirty-eight like y’said. ’Ouse was all dark but t’key was under t’mat, so my lads carried it out.’

‘Number thirty-eight?’ I asked.

‘That’s reight, Mr Sheffield. Number thirty-eight, the ’igh Street, like you said.’

‘I meant the High Street in Morton, Deke.’

‘Don’t recall nowt abart Morton, Mr Sheffield. Ah jus’ went t’number thirty-eight in Ragley.’

Understanding hit me with the clang of a hangman’s trapdoor.

‘Well, who lives there?’ I asked frantically.

‘Mr an’ Mrs Dudley-Palmer,’ said Deke. ‘An’ they’ve got a lovely ’ouse.’

At the front of the church, Mrs Dudley-Palmer was putting the finishing touches to the coat-hanger haloes balanced precariously above her daughters’ angelic faces, while Mr Dudley-Palmer, yawning frequently, was sitting a mere ten feet from his own piano.

‘Deke, I need you and your lads to help me right away,’
I
said, and I ushered them out through the main entrance, along the snow-covered path at the side of the church and back towards the priest’s door. I explained along the way that it was important the piano was returned to the exact same spot in the Dudley-Palmers’ house.