02 Mister Teacher (31 page)

Everyone I met said the organization in the Women’s Institute tent could not be faulted and the lunchtime judging went like clockwork. I met Anne and John Grainger and we joined the throng to hear Vera read out the names of the prize winners. She was her confident and regal self as she presented the certificates and trophies to the various ladies of Ragley and Morton. As was the custom, the prizes for the best sponge cake, iced cake and fruit flan created the most interest. The large crowd listened intently as each lady, in her vote of thanks, revealed a special secret about the perfect sifting of self-raising flour or how brushing the centre of a cored apple with lemon juice prevents discoloration.

Vera, in the words of Baron Pierre de Coubertin, impressed upon the multitude in her closing remarks that ‘everyone is a winner and no one is a loser’. However, the responses of the competitors did not entirely support this Olympian attitude.

Ruby’s sixty-five-year-old mother, Agnes, who had been taught to hand-decorate chocolates at the Rowntree factory before the Second World War, won the Betty Winship Trophy for her iced chocolate cake.

‘Ah’m a winner, Ruby,’ said Agnes in triumph.

Peter Miles-Humphreys, the stuttering bank clerk, looked dejectedly at the ‘Unplaced’ card in front of his lopsided sponge cake, which was studded with concentric circles of Smarties, in the Dads’ Cake-Making Competition.

‘I-I-I’m a l-l-loser, F-F-Felicity,’ said Peter to his wife, who had secretly thought this to be the case since the first Valentine’s Day of their married life, in 1959.

After congratulating Vera, we walked out to see Dan and Jo rolling out the tug-of-war rope. Dan, as the local bobby, had been asked to judge the annual competition between the two villages. However, the decisive win by two pulls to nil by the Ragley team was a foregone conclusion. This was largely because Whistling John Paxton’s wife, Pauline, was the ‘anchor’ at the end of the rope and our kitchen assistant, Doreen Critchley, had positioned herself at the front of the team. Her rippling muscles and frightening snarl were enough to frighten the life out of the eight men of Morton. Their ‘anchor’, Ernie Morgetroyd, the Morton milkman, had just supped eight pints of Guinness in the refreshment tent and for him the phrase ‘the earth moved’ took on a new meaning.

After looking at Anne and Sally’s display in the ‘Children’s Art’ tent, I wandered round the pens of sheep, cattle and pigs. Stan Coe and some of his farming friends glanced in my direction and then laughed loudly. Stan, pint pot in hand and sporting a bright-yellow checked waistcoat that bulged over his huge belly, was clearly enjoying himself.

I frowned in his direction and wondered what plot he was hatching.

‘A long face doesn’t suit you, Mr Jack Sheffield,’ said a singsong voice behind me.

‘Laura,’ I said. ‘Lovely to see you.’

‘Likewise, Jack,’ said Laura.

Her bare shoulders were golden brown and her hair had been bleached by the sun. Her green eyes softened as she kissed me lightly on my cheek.

‘Where’s Beth?’ I asked, looking around beyond the rows of horse-boxes, the candy-floss stall and the tossing-the-sheaf competition.

‘Over there with her new Robert Redford,’ said Laura at little coyly. ‘Rather dishy, don’t you think, Jack?’

I spotted Beth and at the same moment heard her cheer as her strapping, flaxen-haired companion almost atomized a coconut with a wooden ball on the coconut shy.

‘So, who’s he?’ I asked, a little too abruptly.

‘That’s Simon,’ said Laura. ‘He will be Beth’s new Deputy Head at Hartingdale.’

‘Oh,’ I said, weighing up the tall young man with the film-star looks.

‘He loves old fast cars,’ said Laura enthusiastically. ‘And he’s got this dear little bright-red Morgan. He’s taking Beth for a spin in it later.’

‘Is he?’

Laura tugged my sleeve. ‘Come on, I’ll buy you an ice cream,’ she said.

I looked at my watch. It was time for the Pets’ Competition. ‘Damn!’ I said. ‘Sorry, Laura, I have to go. I promised to be at the pet show.’

Laura took my arm. ‘Let’s go, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll come with you. We can catch up with my big sister later.’

The smell of fur and feathers in the Pets’ Competition
marquee
filled our nostrils as we walked in. Before us, on a long line of trestle tables, the most diverse menagerie of local pets that could be imagined was lined up in front of their owners. Miss Tripps, the sixty-four-year-old headmistress of Morton Primary School, gave me a wave and a friendly smile. She was close to retirement and many of her parents and children stood alongside her. The children of Ragley School were represented in force and they stood behind the cages on which the name of their pet was written on a bright-yellow card.

Tony Ackroyd had brought a tortoise called Yul Brynner and there was no doubt that, on the few occasions his head appeared from under his shell, he had the unblinking, hypnotic stare of a gunfighter.

Sarah Louise Tait had brought her black-and-white rabbit, Nibbles, and had taught him not only to high jump but also to leap over a series of low hurdles at remarkable speed. As she stroked his long ears lovingly, he appeared to fall asleep – which was surprising, since the next exhibit crashed repeatedly into the wire netting at the end of its wooden box. Dominic Brown had brought in Frankenstein, his father’s psychopathic ferret, which had the personality of a drug-crazed werewolf.

Jimmy Poole was restraining his lively little Yorkshire Terrier, called Scargill – or, as Jimmy called him, ‘Thcargill’ – and it seemed appropriate that it was attempting to bite the ankles of everyone in authority.

Charlotte Ackroyd’s Dwarf Russian hamster, Lenin, stared out of his wire-meshed cage and appeared to be attempting to hypnotize Dawn Phillips’s English Crested
guinea
pig in the next cage and presumably convert him to Communism.

Next in line, Hazel Smith had brought her father’s champion racing pigeon, Caesar, which was clearly trying to start a romantic relationship with the occupant of the next cage. Cleopatra, Jodie Cuthbertson’s talking parrot, was unimpressed. Unfortunately, the extent of the parrot’s vocabulary consisted of a small selection of two-word expletives, all of which ended in ‘off!’ so, on this occasion, Caesar did not invade Egypt.

At the end of the line stood Micky Buttle, cheerfully oblivious of the barking, squeaking and blaspheming that was going on next to him. On the table in front of him stood a screw-top jar with holes punched in the lid. In the jar there was a sprig of privet but, seemingly, nothing else.

I walked over to him. ‘Where’s your Englebert, Michael?’ I asked.

‘Gone, Mr Sheffield,’ said Michael glumly. ‘’E ran off, so ah brought Twiggy instead.’

‘Twiggy?’

‘See here, Mr Sheffield,’ said Micky, pointing to a superbly camouflaged stick insect in his jar.

‘Well, good luck, Michael.’

I patted Micky on the shoulder and he beamed with pleasure.

Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener suddenly strode confidently into the marquee after watching his daughter Virginia jump a clear round on her sprightly horse, Banjo. All the young men of Ragley and Morton had
also
watched, mainly because she was one of the most curvaceous young women in the neighbourhood. Her riding stables did a roaring trade and many an adolescent young man spent an enjoyable summer evening ogling Virginia Anastasia Forbes-Kitchener in a pair of skin-tight jodhpurs.

‘So, we’re here to judge the children’s pet show, what?’ said the Major, surveying the expectant line of children from the two primary schools.

‘Yes, please, Major,’ I said. ‘You can ask the children any questions you like. Just do it your way and then we announce the first, second and third in reverse order.’

‘Roger and out, old boy,’ said the Major.

The children responded well to the huge, formidable figure of the Major and answered his questions as well as they could. He was patient and friendly and spoke to each child in turn. Even when Scargill, the Yorkshire Terrier, almost bit through his regimental tie he remained undeterred.

Finally he came to Michael Buttle. ‘And what’s in here, young man?’

‘It’s Twiggy, sir,’ said Micky. ‘She’s a stick insect.’

‘So it’s a she, is it?’ asked the Major, peering into the jar.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Micky politely. ‘T’females live in trees an’ make eggs that drop down t’ground an’ then they ’atch out.’

‘Good lad,’ said the Major appreciatively.

‘An’ they grow to ’bout one and a ’alf inches long, sir, an’ they ’ave really tiny wings or no wings at all.’

‘You certainly know a lot about your pet,’ said the Major.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Micky. ‘Ah love animals, speshully ’orses.’

‘So you like horses, do you?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Michael.

‘Well, young man, my daughter runs the riding school next door,’ said the Major. ‘Come round early next Saturday and you can meet the horses and do a few jobs.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Micky, beaming from ear to ear.

After a few minutes the Major announced the prize winners. Cleopatra Cuthbertson, the talking parrot, was third; Nibbles Tait, the hurdling rabbit, was second; and first, much to everyone’s amazement, was Twiggy Buttle, the stick insect.

‘You’ve got a good lad there, Jack,’ said the Major. ‘He knows everything about his pet.’

Mrs Buttle rushed into the tent just in time to see the Major presenting Micky with a certificate and a small trophy.

‘Sorry ah’m late, Mr Sheffield,’ said the breathless Mrs Buttle. ‘Ah’ve jus’ been t’chemist t’collect a description f’me mother.’

Micky showed her his certificate and, with faltering words, she tried to read it to him. Then he looked up at me and held his trophy in the air. In that instant I knew it was an image I would carry with me. Michael Buttle’s broad smile was full of pride and confidence. It was a far cry from the hesitant reader and the struggling writer we had come to know.

Micky Buttle’s life changed from that day on. In years to come, he became one of the Major’s most trusted workers and a talented trainer of horses. While he carried his writing difficulties throughout his life, he did so with skill and wit and wisdom. It left me to reflect that every child has a talent and, occasionally, we have to search that little bit harder to find it.

Sometimes, like Twiggy, it’s right in front of your face.

Chapter Twenty

Curd Tarts and Crumpets

Many parents and governors supported Class 3’s ‘How We Used to Live’ project. School governors, members of the teaching staff and their partners have been invited to a summer garden party on Saturday, 7 July at Old Morton Manor, as guests of Major Forbes-Kitchener
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 6 July 1979

SALLY’S CLASS WERE
in the middle of their ‘How We Used to Live’ project and Vera was proving to be a popular storyteller. It was a hot, sunny morning on Friday, 6 July, and a refreshing breeze drifted through the open windows in the school hall.

‘What was it like when you were a little girl, Miss Evans?’ asked nine-year-old Tracy Crabtree.

‘Let me see … I was about the same age as you in 1932,’ said Vera. ‘And, on special occasions, I used to go
out
with my mother and my brother to Betty’s Tea Rooms in York or Harrogate. In those days, you could order a four-course lunch for two shillings. That’s only ten pence in modern money.’

Simon Nelson, the eight-year-old grandson of the local dentist, waved his hand in the air. ‘Miss Evans … Miss Evans. What did you eat when you got there?’

‘Well, a lady with a white apron used to bring a tall, three-tier cake stand and it was full of buttery crumpets and a selection of pastries. It made me feel like a princess. Then after I had eaten a crumpet, I always picked a delicious curd tart. That was my favourite.’ Vera was caught up in the memory and remained quiet for a few moments.

‘Excuse me, Miss Evans,’ said the ever-polite, nine-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw. ‘Did you ever go on holiday?’

‘Oh yes, Katy,’ said Vera. ‘My father was a vicar and he used to have a week’s holiday in the summer. We travelled by train to the seaside on the ‘Scarborough Flyer’. I had my Shirley Temple doll and my
Bobby Bear’s Annual
. It was so exciting. And when we got there, my mother bought me a Walls Brickette ice cream, which I ate between two wafers. It cost two old pence and I made it last and last. And then, if I was a really good girl, my father bought one of the new Mars bars for me. That cost two old pence as well.’

Vera was in full flow and the children listened in wonder at the tales of a far-off world with an endless supply of cheap sweets.

The dining tables in the school hall had been put out
early
by Ruby and, at each one, a group of children sat with one of our visitors. They included a few parents of children in Sally’s class, and Major Forbes-Kitchener, Albert Jenkins, Old Tommy Piercy, Miss Amelia Duff from the Post Office, Mary Hardisty, our caretaker Ruby Smith, and Shirley the cook. All of them had brought in old artefacts and photographs and the children looked at them in awe and wonder.

At the next table to Vera, the Major had brought in his old camera. ‘This is my Box Brownie,’ he explained. ‘My mother gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday. It cost seven shillings.’

Miss Duff was showing the children her 1935 King George V Silver Jubilee mug, while Mary Hardisty had brought in her posser tub and corrugated washboard. Albert Jenkins was surrounded by an eager group of boys who were reading his huge collection of 1930s comics, including
The Wizard, The Dandy, The Beano, The Hotspur
and
The Triumph
, all priced at two old pence. Tommy Piercy had a remarkable collection of biscuit and chocolate tins, celebrating the British Empire Exhibition that took place during 1924 and 1925; whereas the relatively youthful Shirley and Ruby were leafing through their collection of old recipes, including a battered edition of
Gert and Daisy’s Wartime Cookery Book
. The hall was a hive of activity and the children learned about a world without mail-order catalogues, decimal currency and
Starsky and Hutch
.