02 Mister Teacher (32 page)

When the bell rang for morning playtime, Shirley and Ruby had a surprise for all the children. They put a plate of assorted biscuits on every table and enough beakers of orange juice for every child in the school. Jo Maddison walked into the hall with the Revd Joseph Evans and all the children in her class. The vicar had visited school for his weekly Religious Education lesson and, on this occasion, he had been reading Bible stories to Class 2. This meant that Joseph had suffered the varied delights of teaching Heathcliffe Earnshaw.

Jo gathered the children round her. ‘Now, children, please take one biscuit and a beaker of orange juice.’

Joseph immediately spotted Heathcliffe walking towards the nearest plate of biscuits and announced in a stern voice, ‘Don’t pick your nose, Heathcliffe. Remember, God is watching you.’

Heathcliffe stopped in his tracks and glanced up at the sky outside the huge arched window. Although not entirely convinced, he wiped his finger on his sleeve and picked up a beaker and a chocolate digestive biscuit.

Next to Heathcliffe, Jimmy Poole stared at the plate of biscuits but couldn’t decide between a custard cream and a ginger-nut. He resolved this dilemma by taking both.

Behind him in the queue, the sharp-eyed Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer intervened. ‘Excuse me, Jimmy, but you took two biscuits,’ she said, in the style of a budding head girl.

Jimmy grinned. ‘Ith OK, Elithabeth,’ he lisped. ‘God ith watchin’ Heathcliffe pickin’ hith nothe.’

Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer considered the seemingly indisputable logic of Jimmy’s reply and glanced through the window at the sun peeping through the clouds. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘Pothitive,’ said Jimmy, through a mouthful of biscuit crumbs.

Satisfied, she selected two Bourbon biscuits and retreated to a quiet corner of the hall.

In the staff-room, Vera was smiling. She had just read in her
Daily Telegraph
that Margaret Thatcher was busy changing the décor at Chequers and had introduced a tasteful range of beautiful china bowls filled with fragrant pot-pourri. She was pondering that we were undoubtedly at the outset of a new, golden age of government, when the Major popped his head round the door.

‘Splendid morning, everybody. Well done. Sadly, must dash. Duty calls, what?’

‘Would you like to stay for coffee, Major?’ asked Vera, her cheeks becoming a little flushed again.

‘Sorry, Miss Evans, but I shall look forward to seeing you at the Manor tomorrow at twelve hundred hours with all your friends. So until then, farewell.’ With a dignified bow, and a gentle smile in the direction of Vera, the Major departed in his chauffeur-driven classic Bentley.

‘So, I’ll call for you and Joseph at eleven-thirty, Vera,’ I said. ‘And we’re picking up Beth on the way.’

But Vera didn’t hear me. She was staring at the gleaming black Bentley as it purred down the drive.

All the teaching staff and members of the school governing body, along with their partners, had been invited by the Major to attend a grand garden party at Old Morton Manor House. It was meant as a thank-you gesture and an opportunity for staff and governors to relax in lovely surroundings. Vera had been asked by the Major to send out all the invitations.

‘I invited Beth Henderson, Mr Sheffield,’ she had informed me. Then, as an afterthought, ‘Hope you don’t mind. I didn’t know Laura Henderson very well when I was asked to organize it.’ She gave me an inquisitive look and then returned to checking the dinner-money registers.

The afternoon passed by uneventfully, apart from Jimmy Poole grazing his knees in the playground. In a lively re-enactment of
Star Wars
, six-year-old Jimmy, in the role of a slightly-lisping Obi-Wan Kenobi, had defeated five-year-old Terry Earnshaw, the considerably vertically challenged Darth Vader, by using the anti-gravity powers of a Jedi warrior. Unfortunately, Newtonian theory persisted and he fell off the school wall. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer, who had asked, very politely, if she could play the part of Princess Leia, had been rebuffed thrice. She told him that if Jedi warriors cried when they fell down, she didn’t want to play anyway.

‘But it thtings,’ moaned Jimmy, as he limped bravely off the battlefield and into school to ask Jo Maddison to put a plaster on his sore knee.

Standing to attention against the school wall, the twins Rowena and Katrina Buttle, as the two androids, C3PO
and
R2D2, decided
Star Wars
was boring and set off to follow their new leader, Elisabeth Amelia, who was the proud owner of a new Tressy doll. Tressy’s hair could be combed into a variety of styles and Rowena and Katrina had just perfected side-plaits so, in their opinion, Empire domination could wait.

When the school bell rang out to announce the end of the school week, everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

‘What’s happening, Anne?’ I asked. ‘You don’t normally rush off so quickly.’

She gave me a harassed look. ‘I don’t know why I let myself in for it,’ she said, with a touch of desperation.

Vera, Sally and Jo suddenly appeared at Anne’s classroom door. ‘See you tonight,’ they said, in unison, and hurried off to their cars.

‘It’s just that she was so persuasive,’ said Anne, quickly tidying away a box of Cuisenaire counting rods.

Ruby rattled by the open doorway with her galvanized bucket. ‘Can ah bring our Racquel, Mrs Grainger?’ she asked, mopping the floor as if there was no tomorrow.

‘Of course, Ruby,’ said Anne, through clenched teeth. ‘The more the merrier.’

Then she picked up her handbag and pulled out a garish-yellow invitation card. It read
TUPPERWARE PARTY
in bold capitals.

‘Mrs Ackroyd runs Tupperware parties, Jack, and she’s doing one at my house tonight. Apparently, they’re all the rage now, and I get some free samples. I just provide drinks and nibbles.’

I looked at the card in horror, desperately searching for a good excuse.

‘Oh, don’t worry, Jack. It’s women only.’

I breathed a sigh of relief and walked out to my car.

An hour later I received a heartbreaking call from John Grainger. He was surrounded by strange women, some of whom were even examining the new fridge in the garage. There was nowhere to go and he wondered if he could come round for a couple of hours.

John arrived at Bilbo Cottage carrying a huge can of Watney’s Party Seven draught bitter. We switched on the Wimbledon television highlights and, by the time we had drained the last drop, we were convinced that, while Chris Evert Lloyd’s dress was undoubtedly prettier, Martina Navratilova’s powerful forehand would eventually be too strong for the darling of the Centre Court.

Three miles away, in Anne’s overcrowded lounge, twenty-five women had devoured every crisp, peanut and walnut whip and Anne had retired to the kitchen to locate sufficient cups for a hot drink.

Margery Ackroyd was berating her audience with the enthusiasm of an evangelist. ‘Y’can trust Tupperware,’ said Margery. ‘Not like some men ah could mention.’

Everyone laughed, although in a few cases it was forced laughter.

‘Tupperware is ’ygienic,’ said Margery, replacing a lid on a container and pointing at the trapped air inside.

Everyone nodded in approval, as if Margery had just invented comfortable high heels.

‘It’s a well-known fact that nasty little bugs can crawl round inside the spiral lid of a screw-top jar,’ said Margery. ‘But t’evil little vermin can’t get into Tupperware.’

Anne walked in from the kitchen, unscrewing her family-size jar of Maxwell House. ‘How many for coffee?’ she asked.

She was puzzled when everyone chose tea.

As darkness finally fell, each clutching a tower block of Tupperware, the ladies of Ragley village tottered home and began to fill their plastic containers with postcards, wax crayons and spare buttons.

On Saturday morning, as I drove along the Morton Road, an armada of cirrus clouds raced across the sky and glinted gold in the sunlight. It was a fine day for the society event of the year. I collected Joseph and Vera from the vicarage and then Beth from her cottage. Both women looked attractive in their summer hats and dresses.

As we turned into the back road out of Morton, William Featherstone, the driver of the local cream-and-green Reliance bus, had just pulled up ahead, outside his tiny cottage. This was a regular unofficial stop and none of the passengers faltered in their conversations about the latest events of Ragley and Morton.

For over thirty years William Featherstone had driven his bus each morning from the outlying villages into York and then back again in the mid-afternoon in time for farmers’ wives to prepare the evening meal. His steady pace never altered and he would stop to feed his hens, collect a few duck eggs and deliver these, along with a
few
parcels, to York market. In his brown bus driver’s jacket and his peaked cap, he cut a distinctive figure in the life of the villages, and in 1979 no one could imagine a day when the bus service no longer existed. Life, like a slowly moving mill wheel, simply trundled by, just like William’s bus.

Eventually, we came to a narrow track of crushed stone and the first few outbuildings that formed part of the Major’s estate. I had never been here before and I stopped the car to take in the view.

In this quiet backwater of the village, Mother Nature had spread out a carpet of new grass and given us clean air that filled our lungs and purified the soul. Beyond a narrow cobbled yard there was a row of individual cottages with bright painted doors, leaded windows and hanging baskets, ablaze with bright-red trailing geraniums, green-and-cream variegated ivy and cool cascades of blue lobelia. In the farmyard alongside, hens pecked contentedly and a lone pig snuffled round in an overgrown corner, oblivious of the sharp thistles. It was as if time had passed by and left the scenery untouched, and I wondered how many generations of North Yorkshire farmers had paused to admire this simple rural scene.

I parked alongside John Grainger’s Cortina and half a dozen other cars in a small grassy field. We got out and walked through a gap in the tall yew hedge and along an avenue of espaliered pears towards the manor house. Vera paused by a low row of lavender and stooped to enjoy the scent of the mauve flower spikes.
As
she did so, a gardener appeared with a barrow-load of horse dung.

Vera recognized him. ‘Good morning, Thomas,’ she said.

He touched the peak of his frayed flat cap in acknowledgement. ‘’Ow do, Miss Evans,’ he said. ‘Ah’m jus’ seein’ t’floribunda roses.’

‘They look magnificent,’ said Vera.

‘Thank you, Miss Evans.’ He tipped the fresh dung onto the rose beds. ‘As my granddad used t’say, “Where there’s muck, there’s brass”.’ And with a chuckle he walked away, pushing his barrow.

The Major’s garden was the most beautiful I had ever seen. As we walked along the pebbled path, the scent of old-fashioned roses filled the air. A walkway of metal arches had been constructed, encouraging the Victorian roses to scramble for space and light among the honey-suckle and clematis. The sounds and scents of summer lifted our spirits and, as a light breeze caressed Beth’s summer dress, I sensed the whisper of silk against her skin.

In front of the turreted, Yorkshire-stone manor house stood the Major, next to a pretty window box teeming with pendulous fuchsias and trailing pelargoniums. Immaculate in a cream suit, crisp white shirt and regimental tie with a smart straw hat shielding his steel-blue eyes, he bowed and then walked towards us. Surprisingly, he carried a rose in each hand.

With a graceful bow he handed one to Beth. ‘For you,
Miss
Henderson,’ he said, ‘a
Rosa mundi
with a splash of crimson to match your zest for life.’

Beth was obviously thrilled. She gave a mock curtsy and smiled broadly at the giant ex-military man. ‘Thank you, kind sir,’ she said sweetly.

The Major bowed again, this time very low. ‘For the elegant Miss Evans,’ he said, ‘a pale-pink
Blush Noisette
to match the complexion of a very fine English lady.’

The colour rose in Vera’s cheeks but, apart from that, she remained serenely composed. ‘Thank you, Major,’ said Vera. ‘You’re very kind.’

Joseph looked uncertainly at his sister, who was staring thoughtfully at the beautiful rose. For a moment, she was in a world of her own.

‘You have a wonderful garden, Major,’ said Joseph, breaking the spell.

‘Thank you, Joseph. Now, if you will come with me, there are some comfortable seats under the willow tree and the champagne should be just the right temperature.’

An hour later, after a champagne lunch, Joseph and John Grainger set off to explore the garden and Beth and I sat with Anne and Sally, enjoying a second helping of strawberries and cream.

Anne touched my arm and nodded towards Vera. ‘She’s enjoying herself,’ she said quietly.

Vera was sitting nearby on a wickerwork chair, listening to one of the Major’s animated stories. They seemed to be enjoying each other’s company. There was no doubt that the Major was completely besotted with her and he
treated
her with dignity and the utmost respect. Vera looked relaxed as she sipped her chilled white wine in a ladylike manner without appearing to get her lips wet. All her actions were calm and graceful and I wondered about her life.