03 Dear Teacher (16 page)

Next to me, Old Tommy Piercy was sitting on his familiar stool under the signed photograph of Geoffrey Boycott. ‘Sir’ Geoffrey, as he was known to the regulars, had been captured by the photographer with arms
aloft
after scoring his one hundredth century in the 1977 Test Match at Headingley against the old enemy, Australia. Old Tommy was the salt of the earth and he sat there smoking his briar pipe. At sixty-seven years old and a Yorkshireman through and through, he was independent, stubborn and warm-hearted. He was rarely one for excessive expression. Tommy was not one to waste his words.

‘Hello, Mr Piercy,’ I said cheerily.

‘Hmmf,’ grunted Old Tommy through a haze of Old Holborn tobacco.

‘Business looks to be booming at your butcher’s shop,’ I said encouragingly.

‘Hmmf,’ muttered Old Tommy.

‘I see Young Tommy is learning his trade,’ I added thoughtfully.

‘Hmmf,’ murmured Old Tommy.

I looked through the leaded bay window at the vast cloudless primrose-blue sky. ‘Lovely day, Mr Piercy,’ I said.

Old Tommy took his pipe out of his mouth and looked up at me warily. ‘Now, don’t let’s get carried away, young Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy.

It appeared I’d reached an impasse.

‘Well, I can’t stop to talk, Mr Piercy.’

Old Tommy continued to puff on his pipe for a while and then he nodded. ‘Nay, lad, ah’ve said too much already.’

I picked up the drinks and headed back to the table.
‘Laura
, don’t you just love Yorkshire on days like this?’ I said appreciatively.

Laura sipped her white wine. ‘It’s lovely, Jack, but, as I’ve said before, London’s the place to be. Beth and I are always arguing about this. She thinks Yorkshire is God’s Own Country.’

‘So do I,’ I said.

We were both wrapped up in our own thoughts until Laura suddenly picked up her handbag. ‘I’m going to the Ladies, Jack,’ she said and hurried away.

I leaned back in my chair and surveyed the crowd enjoying their holiday drinks. Deke Ramsbottom and a group of farmers had gathered round the roaring log fire to listen to the latest tales from Royston Tupp. In between leisurely puffs of his old pipe, Royston was regaling his audience, who kept him well lubricated with Tetley’s bitter and the occasional whisky chaser. ‘It’s to warm t’cockles of ’is ’eart,’ explained Deke to Sheila.

Royston, or ‘Rabbit Roy’ as he was known in the village, was every inch a rugged old North Yorkshire moors countryman. He lived in the deserted hillside hamlet of Capton and the sign over his door read: ‘Licensed Game Dealer’. There, in his cold-rooms, he eked out a living plucking and storing game for the Easington market.

Thirty years ago, as a young man, he had been a trawlerman in Hull. He remembered fondly the time when cod was king and a third of all the cod eaten in England had been gathered in by the fleet of tiny boats that braved the North Sea each day, but now those
days
were gone. ‘An’ nowt’ll come o’ that peace treaty,’ announced Royston. The so-called Cod War between Britain and Iceland had ended just three years before in an uneasy peace.

‘Go on, then, Rabbit,’ said Deke enthusiastically. ‘What ’appened las’ winter?’

‘Well, 1979 were a reight disaster f’me,’ said Rabbit Roy mournfully, ‘wi’ a long winter an’ a short spring. Usually, ah’m busy from Twelfth Night reight through t’January. ’Eather’s been poor, not much grouse abart, an’ birds ’ave got t’worm, tha knaws.’

The farmers all nodded and shook their heads in equal measure. They all respected Rabbit Roy, not least because he was North Yorkshire’s clay pigeon single-barrel champion. I looked at him and wondered about his life. He had found peace and clearly enjoyed the outdoors. With his dog and his gun, he walked the wild and desolate moors living the life of a free man.

In complete contrast, in the lounge bar, Geoffrey and Petula Dudley-Palmer were discussing their forthcoming holiday. Geoffrey stretched back contentedly and smoked his ‘Old Port Straight’, a Canadian cigar, rum-flavoured and dipped in wine. He flicked idly through the brochure showing the nightlife of New York. It had been a late decision but he had snapped up two standby tickets on a Freddie Laker flight to JFK Airport for £99 each. Meanwhile, Petula was staring at the young jodhpur-clad women from the local country set. ‘It’s all down to good breeding, Geoffrey,’ she said, but Geoffrey
didn
’t hear. He was thinking about buying an American lime-green Cadillac.

In the corner of the lounge bar sat Margery Ackroyd with her husband, Wendell. Margery always liked to be at the cutting edge of fashion and was proud to be the first in the village to wear Linda Gray shoulderpads under her blouse. Linda Gray was becoming a popular television star as the downtrodden Sue Ellen, wife of the villainous JR Ewing in
Dallas
. Margery had chopped-off white shoulder pads for her large blouses, curved Velcro ones for her jumpers and double-flapped ones to slip under her bra straps. At the travel agent’s in York where she worked as an assistant manager, she said she wanted ‘to be the boss but stay sexy’. Meanwhile, Wendell secretly believed he now had a wife who resembled a vertically challenged American footballer

Back in the taproom, Big Dave Robinson was talking loudly about ferret-racing, while Little Malcolm was looking adoringly across the table at the strikingly dressed Dorothy Humpleby. Dorothy didn’t do things by halves and tended to stand out from the country set in their tweed jackets. Today she was wearing her skin-tight Abba outfit, complete with hipster trousers in blue and lavender Lycra with flared bottoms. To Little Malcolm she was the girl of his dreams.

I sat back and sipped my drink and reflected how much I enjoyed living in this wonderful village with such a diverse collection of characters, most of whom were now my friends. Half an hour later Laura and I walked out to
our
cars. She hugged me tightly before we said goodbye and smiled when I said, ‘See you on New Year’s Eve.’

Back in Kirkby Steepleton, snow began to fall again as darkness descended. I chopped a supply of logs for the fire and settled down for another amusing evening with my mother and Aunt May.

‘Have y’been tae see y’wee lassie, Jack?’ asked my mother.

I picked up the
Radio Times
and pretended to look engrossed. ‘It depends which one you mean, Mother,’ I said. She looked at me curiously but said no more.

New Year’s Eve arrived and Bilbo Cottage was quiet at last. My mother and May had gone to Scotland and I sat in the kitchen, drinking black tea and looking forward to whatever the evening might bring.

Jo had telephoned to say that everyone was expected around eight o’clock and she and Dan had planned a few party games. She also mentioned that both Beth and Laura would be there.

Dan and Jo’s new home was a tiny, middle-of-terrace cottage built of old reddish-brown bricks with a rustic pantile roof and a tall chimney stack from which wood smoke billowed into the night.

‘Hello, Jack. Glad you could make it,’ said Jo.

‘Thanks for the invitation,’ I said, stepping into the hallway. ‘You’ve worked wonders in the house.’

‘It looks better in the dark, Jack,’ said Dan with a big grin. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a beer.’

I enjoyed Dan’s company. It was simple and uncomplicated and we chatted happily as he described their attempts to furnish their new home on a shoestring. They had gathered together an uncoordinated collection of second-hand chairs, two old-fashioned sofas and off-cuts of vividly patterned carpet that covered most of the bare floorboards. However, with the flickering log fire, the soft candlelight and the coloured lights on the Christmas tree, it was warm and cosy and I relaxed as I sipped on my glass of beer from Dan’s huge can of Watney’s Party Seven Draught Bitter.

In the lounge, Beth and Laura were sitting on a sofa together, chatting and drinking white wine. Beth was casually dressed in a white polo-neck sweater and tight black cord trousers. In contrast, Laura was wearing a smart, fitted scarlet dress and they both looked up and smiled when I walked in. I kissed Beth on the cheek and then Laura.

‘Hello, Beth,’ I said and then looked round the room. ‘Is your deputy, Simon, here?’ I asked.

Beth looked puzzled. ‘No, Jack. He’s up in Northallerton at a family party.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘I just thought … oh, nothing.’

There was a moment of silence. Her green eyes studied me for a while and then Laura leapt up. ‘Jack, let me get you something to eat. Vera’s just put the most wonderful home-made sausage rolls in the oven.’
She
took my hand and led me quickly towards the kitchen.

I looked over my shoulder and waved at Beth. She waved back and then stood up to chat with Jo, who was busy serving a ‘hedgehog’ of cocktail sticks to John and Anne Grainger. On each stick Jo had carefully speared a piece of pineapple, a cube of cheese and a silver onion. A chilled bottle of Blue Nun wine stood alongside. In the far corner, Sally and her husband Colin were leaning against the window ledge, deep in conversation. Sally, in a loud, bright-tangerine party dress, was pouring a fresh glass of Blue Nun, and Colin, a slim, balding man in a crumpled suit, relaxed with a hand-rolled cigarette. A few local policemen I vaguely recognized and their partners were gathered round the record player, flicking through a selection of Elton John LPs. It was a lively party and, while the music was not to Joseph’s taste, the contents of his bottle of home-made wine soon made him relax.

At midnight Dan turned on the television for the chimes of Big Ben and we gathered in a circle to sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

‘Welcome to the eighties,’ yelled Dan and raised his glass.

Laura was the first to put her arms round me and kiss me. ‘Happy New Year, Jack,’ she shouted above the din.

‘Happy New Year, Laura,’ I replied.

Then the room seemed to erupt with cheers and the sound of a popping champagne cork. In the huddle of
people
, Anne pecked me on the cheek, Joseph shook my hand, Vera gave me a slightly tired smile, Sally hugged me and Jo refilled my glass. It felt like being in a pinball machine as I bumped from one couple to the next. Finally, I came face to face with Beth.

Our glasses clinked together. Her hair was filled with the scent of wild flowers. ‘Happy New Year, Jack,’ she said. ‘I hope it’s a good one for you.’

‘Happy New Year, Beth,’ I said. ‘May all your dreams come true.’

I kissed her on the cheek and she looked up at me. ‘A year ago we built a snowman,’ she said, almost in a whisper.

‘I remember … and two years ago we danced in the village hall.’

There was an instant when her look softened. Then Laura reappeared and grabbed my hand. As Beth walked away, it occurred to me that while time might be a great healer, love was better.

The party went on into the early hours and everyone relaxed and talked about their plans for 1980. Vera, once again, tried to persuade Beth to join the church choir and I finally had my first conversation with Colin Pringle, who appeared to be worse the wear for drink. He and Sally were the first to leave, with Sally holding the car keys. Everyone gradually followed on and I walked out with Anne and John Grainger, Beth and Laura.

‘Goodnight, Jack,’ said Anne. ‘See you on Thursday
morning
,’ and I realized how close we were to the start of the spring term.

Beth and Laura both waved goodbye and I watched them walk across the icy cobbles of Easington market square towards their cars. As the snow settled on my shoulders I watched Beth drive off in her Volkswagen Beetle towards the Morton Road and Laura speed away in a spurt of frozen snow towards York. Gradually the darkness enveloped me and I looked around. Wood smoke billowed from the chimneypots and the pantile roofs were patterned in snow. I climbed into my car and drove back to Kirkby Steepleton. Above my head there were only dead branches in a frozen sky.

Back in the silence of Bilbo Cottage, I sat with a mug of coffee and reflected on the end of 1979, a time of closed doors and the ache of distance.

Finally, I made a decision. Before I turned out the light I took down my 1979 calendar from the kitchen wall and dropped it in the bin. Then I hung up my 1980 Yorkshire Landmarks calendar and smiled.

It was a new year, a new decade.

I smiled and decided … this year was going to be a good one.

Chapter Ten

Reluctant Resolutions

School reopened today for the spring term with 89 children registered on roll
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 3 January 1980

IT WAS THURSDAY
, 3 January, the first school day of 1980 and the driveway of Bilbo Cottage was coated with a blue film of crystal on this freezing morning. With my lesson plans in my battered leather briefcase and my college scarf flying behind me, I strode confidently towards my Morris Minor Traveller, which was encased in ice.

A new decade stretched out before me, the spring term beckoned and, reluctantly, I had made my New Year resolutions. There were three of them. First of all, I intended to get fit. My body was now my temple. Second, I intended to cut down on coffee and biscuits. I
had
put on weight over the Christmas holiday but soon I would be a lean machine. Third, I intended to make a bigger effort to understand women. I would listen to them sympathetically, display a new empathy for their feelings and become a ‘new-age-eighties-man’. At least that’s what was advised in an article in the New Year
Radio Times
that I had read while I was finishing the last three slices of my mother’s Christmas cake.

As I scraped the ice from my windscreen and blew hot air on the boot handle to defrost the lock, I had the confidence of a man who was about to become a better human being, with a generous smattering of martyrdom thrown in for good measure.

The previous day I had braved the cold to prune the hard, woody stems of the blackberry canes that were rampant against the south-facing fence that separated my garden from the back road into Kirkby Steepleton. Beneath my feet the silent roots lay still beneath the frozen soil, waiting for the trigger of warm sunshine and the onset of a distant spring. As I removed the spent and skeletal canes, now bleached of colour and life, I wondered what 1980 would bring. Laura had proved an exciting companion in recent months. This new friendship was a cathartic experience but I knew that I was cutting out the old to make way for the new.