06 Educating Jack (31 page)

Jo was standing by the open staff-room door. She didn’t look her usual relaxed and cheerful self. ‘Jack, can I have a word sometime?’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘how about now?’

Jo shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m on duty.’

‘Well, I’ll come out to the yard with you,’ I said.

We picked up our coffees and walked under the over-hanging branches of the giant horse-chestnut trees, heavy in leaf, and leant against the stone wall in the welcome shade.

‘Sadly, it’s
mixed
news, Jack,’ she said, sipping her coffee hesitantly.

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Dan … he’s got his promotion to sergeant.’

‘But that’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘We must celebrate.’

‘Yes, that’s the first thing he said on the phone,’ she said with a smile. Then she looked up at the belltower as if seeing it for the first time and sighed. ‘I’ve loved it here, Jack. I couldn’t have wished for a better start to my career.’ She sipped her coffee again. ‘Dan’s job will be in York at the main station and we’ve been offered a police house in the city.’

‘But that’s only ten miles away, Jo, and it’s a good road out past the hospital and the Rowntree’s factory.’

‘I know that, Jack, but I looked in the
Times Educational Supplement
and there’s a good job in York at Priory Gate Juniors to start next January, with a Scale Two responsibility post for girls’ games and science.’

‘Ah, I see … promotion,’ I said. ‘Well, you’ve got the experience, Jo. It would be perfect for you, and you know I would give you an excellent reference.’

‘Thanks, Jack. Perhaps we can meet up over the weekend and talk it through before I mention it to the others – especially Anne. She’s been like a big sister to me.’

‘I understand, Jo. Let’s do that. Now, how do you fancy winding a skipping rope?’

Jo grinned. ‘Why not?’ she said. We gave our empty mugs to Louise Hartley, took over from the Buttle twins and the skipping commenced with Jo chanting out the rhyme

‘
One two buckle my shoe
,

Three four knock at the door
,

Five six pick up sticks
,

Seven eight lay them straight
,

Nine ten big fat hen
.’

My presence clearly made a difference and a few boys joined in, but not, of course, Terry Earnshaw, who shook his head in disbelief. This boy of Barnsley was brought up to believe that only
girls
skipped; but then again, if he grew up to be a middleweight boxer, who knows? … and he wandered off to box his own shadow against the school wall.

It was a relaxed day, one of those a teacher treasures and, after lunch, as I sat on the school field with Anne’s class, I was reminded how lucky I was to do a job I loved and in such a perfect setting. All the children had brought their much-loved and occasionally threadbare teddy bears and were sitting in a large circle, being served with honey sandwiches and orange juice. Behind me in the hedgerow the incessant murmur of insects in the tall grasses was the sound of summer and I leant back and soaked up the welcome sunshine.

Before the end of the day, the school leavers returned full of excitement.

‘It was brilliant, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tracy Hartley. ‘They’ve got a new lady deputy ’eadteacher an’ she’s dead tall an’ slim an’ she gave us a talk. She told us about that first American woman in space.’

I recalled that last week the NASA astronaut Sally Ride had blasted into orbit on board the space shuttle
Challenger
. ‘And what did she say, Tracy?’ I asked.

‘She said we should follow our dreams and take our opportunities … but, Mr Sheffield, ah think she was looking at us girls when she said it.’

‘Ah wunt mind bein’ an’ astronaut, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dean Kershaw, ‘or mebbe a footballer.’

Elisabeth Amelia was standing to one side looking thoughtful. ‘And what did you think about the visit, Elisabeth?’ I asked quietly.

‘Not sure, Mr Sheffield,’ she said. ‘The school looked lovely and has a super gymnasium and a great hockey team, but Mummy has got the prospectus for the Time School for Girls in York, so I’m probably going there and I’ll have to make new friends.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do well wherever you go,’ I said and she gave me a gentle smile and continued to pack her schoolbag with the mathematics homework that her mother had requested.

* * *

It had been a good day and Heathcliffe and Terry Earnshaw arrived home in good spirits … that is, until Mrs Earnshaw asked the inevitable question: ‘And what did you learn at school today?’

‘Nowt,’ answered Heathcliffe and Terry in unison.

‘Well, y’must ’ave learned summat,’ insisted Mrs Earnshaw.

Grudgingly Heathcliffe glanced at his brother and nodded. ‘Well ah went to t’big school for a visit, but our Terry were at school all day.’

‘So what did y’do, Terry?’

‘T’vicar told us about Moses,’ he said.

‘So what were it abart?’ she asked, refusing to serve the beans on toast until she received a satisfactory answer.

‘Well, God sent Moses to rescue them Israelites,’ said Terry, ‘an’ it were reight dangerous, Mam … be’ind enemy lines, so t’speak.’

Mrs Earnshaw began to serve the food. ‘That’s int’resting.’

Terry was rising to the occasion. ‘So ’e got ’em t’build a bridge to get ’em across t’Red Sea sharpish-like.’

‘A bridge?’ said Mrs Earnshaw, ‘ah don’t recall Charlton ’Eston building no bridge.’

Terry was becoming animated as the story grew in the telling. ‘So they all got across and then ’e radioed ’eadquarters for t’bombers t’come.’

‘Bombers?’ asked the bemused Mrs Earnshaw.

‘Yes, bombers, Mam,’ said Terry, ‘to blow t’bridge up.’

‘An’ that’s ’ow they were saved,’ said Heathcliffe.

‘An’ is that what t’vicar said?’

‘Well not ’xactly, Mam, ’cause if y’d ’eard ’is story y’d never ’ave believed it. Isn’t that reight ’Eath?’

‘’E’s reight, Mam,’ said Heathcliffe. ‘We did Moses last year.’

‘Well, at least y’learnin’ summat useful,’ said Mrs Earnshaw and gave them both an extra spoonful of beans.

That evening Vera sat on a Victorian chaise longue in one of the expansive bay windows at Morton Manor and looked out on to the magnificent lawns and neat flower-beds. The stripes on the lawns were ruler-straight and not a weed was in sight. It was perfect … perhaps
too
perfect, thought Vera. Suddenly a peacock strutted across the path, tail feathers erect. It was a show of fierce pride, or perhaps mere vanity, and she smiled at the brave show of confidence.

Life was different now, mused Vera. She missed her garden. The hedgerow would be a harmony of honeysuckle and hawthorn and in her kitchen garden she could have cut a cabbage or picked raspberries. She also wondered how Joseph was coping.

In the distance Rupert was hard at work organizing the erection of the giant marquees for tomorrow’s Ragley and Morton Agricultural Show. It was one of the highlights of the year and the largest annual gathering of the two villages. Vera smiled when she saw the guy ropes being tightened on the Women’s Institute tent. This was where the fiercest battles would be played out, in a world of sweet peas, Victoria sponges, fragrant roses, paintings and poetry, and she smiled in anticipation.

* * *

Saturday was a perfect midsummer morning and I was up early in order to clean my pride and joy, namely my Morris Minor Traveller, which, as each year went by, was creating more interest at the annual show. The yellow-and-chrome AA badge on the grille gleamed in the sunshine and Beth and I set off for the spacious grounds of Morton Manor. We wound down the windows and enjoyed the fresh breeze as we drove along the narrow back road to Ragley and, with cow parsley swaying in the tall grasses and Red Admiral butterflies chasing through the lush green nettles, it was a pleasure to be alive on this special day.

We called in at Victor Pratt’s garage and he emerged to serve me from the single pump on his forecourt. I noticed he was limping badly and decided, with some trepidation, to ask the inevitable question. ‘How are you, Victor?’ Victor’s ailments over the years would have filled a good-sized medical journal.

‘Ah’m in agony,’ he said as he unscrewed my filler cap.

‘Oh dear,’ I said, ‘and why is that?’

‘It’s me leg, Mr Sheffield,’ he said, gently tapping his right leg with his free hand. ‘It’s gone t’sleep. Ah’ve no feeling.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Victor,’ I said with sympathy.

‘An’ it’s worse at neight,’ he added, with the look of a martyr in torment.

‘Is it?’ I replied. ‘And why is that?’

‘Well that’s when it wakes up, jus’ when t’rest o’ me wants t’go t’sleep. Ah don’t know if ah’m coming or going. An’ ah’ve started t’get that room-tism in me elbow,’ he added, rubbing his arm sorrowfully.

‘Perhaps it’s tennis elbow,’ I said.

‘Nah, that’s jus’ f’posh folks, not likes o’ me,’ said Victor. ‘An’ talkin’ abart posh folks, Mr an’ Mrs Sheffield, t’major ’as done a reight good job on t’show field. It looks a picture.’

We parked in one of the huge fields close to the tractors and horseboxes and alongside a Mini Clubman Estate. We stood and peered through the window at the state-of-the-art instrument panel behind the steering wheel instead of in the middle of the dashboard. ‘Wouldn’t you prefer one of these, Jack?’ said Beth, more in hope than expectation. ‘It would bring you into the Eighties.’ As usual I affected a determined insouciance. After all, love for a woman is one thing, but love for a car is quite another.

The show was a magnificent affair, with large marquees surrounding the show-jumping arena where Virginia Anastasia Forbes-Kitchener was creating the usual interest among the local menfolk. Beth and I headed for the refreshment tent for a cool drink and, in Beth’s case, a chance to sit down.

One end of the marquee was devoted to cream teas and the other seemed to be populated by beer drinkers. Don Bradshaw was behind one of the trestle tables talking to Big Dave and Little Malcolm, while Sheila was serving Old Tommy Piercy with a pint of Tetley’s bitter from a large barrel.

‘Now then, Mr Sheffield,’ said Don, nodding towards Beth, who was sitting at one of the tables, ‘an’ ’ow’s your good lady?’

‘Fine thanks, Don,’ I said. ‘She just fancied a cool orange juice.’

‘’Ow long ’as she t’go now, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Sheila, as she served Old Tommy with a frothing pint.

‘Just another month,’ I said, ‘so this hot weather doesn’t help her.’

‘It were t’same f’me wi’ our Claire, Mr Sheffield,’ said Sheila. ‘Ah were sweatin’ cobs in t’las’ few weeks. So, what are y’drinkin’?’

‘A half of bitter, please, Sheila,’ I said.

Behind the bar, Clint Ramsbottom had set up a rudimentary disco and Simon and Garfunkel were singing ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’.

‘Ah’ll give ’em troubled water,’ said Old Tommy scornfully as he supped his pint.

‘How d’you mean, Mr Piercy?’ I asked.

‘Them Yanks,’ he muttered with disdain.

‘Oh you mean …’ I said, nodding towards the juke-box.

‘Yes, that Simon an’ Carbuncle. Norra patch on Bing Crosby.’

‘I agree,’ I said. It seemed the right thing to say.

‘Ah can allus tell a sensible chap, Mr Sheffield,’ said Old Tommy. ‘’E thinks same as ah do.’

Big Dave and Little Malcolm nodded in agreement, finished their pints and peered out at the shimmering marquees. ‘Any road, ah’m off to t’Bowling for a Pig stall,’ said Big Dave.

‘More like bowlin’ for a runt,’ said Old Tommy Piercy bluntly. ‘It’s only a little un.’ Then he glanced across at Little Malcolm. ‘No offence intended, young Malcolm,’ he added hurriedly.

‘None tekken, Mr Piercy,’ said Little Malcolm with a frown, and the two binmen of Ragley went out to seek their fortune.

Vera and her friend Joyce Davenport, resplendent in her president’s green sash, were in the Women’s Institute marquee and looking at the various competition entries, from a posy in an egg-cup to a single rose.

It was hot and sticky in the tent and Dorothy Humpleby’s conversation with Diane the hairdresser naturally turned to body odour.

‘Well, Dorothy,’ said Diane, ‘ah use that Arrid Extra Dry. It sez on t’cannister it gives y’that
certain feeling
.’

‘What d’you mean, that
certain feeling
?’

‘Y’ll know when yer older, Dorothy,’ said Diane knowingly, and they walked off to join Nora, who had entered the Garden in a Shoebox competition.

Later Beth and I joined Vera at a wrought-iron garden table outside the Women’s Institute tent for afternoon tea and scones with home-made strawberry jam and fresh cream. We sat on wickerwork chairs in speckled sunshine beneath the branches of a magnificent copper beech tree, its leaves like burnished gold under a fiery sun.

‘Isn’t this the most perfect day?’ said Beth, pushing back her wide-brimmed straw hat. ‘I do love summer,’ she patted her tummy, ‘although this tends to make it hot work.’

‘You look radiant, dear,’ said Vera. ‘Simply glowing.’

Beth laughed. ‘You say the nicest things, Vera. And what about you? How do you feel now?’

‘I really am very happy – fully recovered and content, although I will be happier when Joseph is more settled. Fortunately, I’ve got Miss Figgins to go in to the vicarage to clean for him and prepare the occasional meal. So we’re getting there slowly.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Well, it’s almost time for the results of the potato competition and Deirdre Coe insists she’s the favourite … so let’s hope someone can put her in her place.’

When we walked into the Women’s Institute tent the crowds were gathering in front of a sign that read:

Women’s Institute Potato Growing Competition

Judging at 3 p.m.

George Hardisty, Ragley’s champion gardener and a retired North Yorkshire Moors sheep farmer, was approaching his seventieth birthday but still looked remarkably fit and healthy after a lifetime of outdoor work. His wife, Mary, had wisely opted out of this competition, as George’s famous liquid compost, including his ‘secret ingredient’, would have meant she would surely win. So it was that she wrote down the name of each competitor and the weight of their potato crop.