04 Village Teacher

by Jack Sheffield

‘It’th Rudolp’th red nothe,’ explained Jimmy with absolute certainty.

  Back in Kirkby Steepleton, Margaret and May settled down with a cup of tea to watch All Star Record Breakers with Roy Castle and I jumped back in the car to drive to Easington. The spacious cobbled square was a perfect place for a Christmas market and the bright lights of the tall Christmas tree next to the war memorial shone down on the colourful stalls. The market attracted lots of last-minute shoppers from the nearby villages and all the shops around the edge of the square were brightly lit. The Easington town crier in his three-cornered hat and ceremonial frock-coat looked like Gulliver as he rang his bell and chanted, ‘Oyez! Oyez! Oyez!’

  Suddenly, out of the darkness emerged the huge frame of our local bobby, PC Dan Hunter.

  ‘Hello, Dan,’ I said. ‘How are you?’

  He blew on his cold hands. ‘I’m going home for my greatcoat, Jack,’ he said. ‘It’s late duty in Ragley tonight and it looks like being a cold one.’

  ‘Well, good luck … and a happy Christmas.’

  ‘You too, Jack,’ and he strode off as snow began to fall again.

  I bought a bag of roast chestnuts and wandered off to look at the stalls. Over the loudspeaker system, the Christmas number one record, ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ by the St Winifred’s School Choir, was blasting out for the hundredth time and all the adults groaned while the children sang along.

  Outside the window of W. H. Smith, a group of girl guides, holding bright lanterns on tall broom handles, sang ‘In the Bleak Mid-Winter’ and added to the festive spirit. Meanwhile, little Benjamin Roberts was staring in the window at a range of Corgi Matchbox toys. Under the heading ‘British at its Best’ was a model 3500 Rover police car at £2.65, but, with appropriate patriotism, he finally settled on a model Austin Mini Metro at £1.79 and his mother walked in to buy it. In contrast, Mrs Ackroyd had more modern presents in mind for her children. She bought an Electronic Mastermind for £9.99 and a Space Invaders Breakout game for £19.99 and it occurred to me that Christmas toys had come a long way from the clockwork trains and cowboy cap guns of my boyhood.

  An annual treat at the Easington Fayre was Winston Eckersley and his most treasured possession, a 1905 Gasparini street organ. Built in Paris, it had somehow found its way to Holland during the Second World War. It was there that Winston had spotted the street organ of his dreams and he bought it for a few pounds. Riddled with woodworm, it was in a poor state, but for Winston it was a labour of love and he set to in his garden shed to restore it completely. He installed twenty-four new bass pipes and a new rank of violins. Then he decorated it beautifully and it became a feature at all the local village fêtes throughout the Sixties and Seventies, playing the ‘Dam Busters March’, ‘Morning Has Broken’, ‘Lord of the Dance’ and his George Formby selection. Appropriately, on this frosty Christmas Eve, he was playing ‘Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer’ and the shoppers were singing along.

  At the foot of the giant Christmas tree the Easington & District Rotary Club had set up their usual Santa’s grotto in a cordoned-off area and parents and children were queuing to enter the magical garden shed lit up with twinkling fairy lights. Members of the Rotary committee, dressed as elves, if slightly ageing and portly ones, collected money for charity in their bright-yellow buckets.

  As usual it was doing a roaring trade as excited children took their turns and I leant on the picket fence to watch. Ruby Smith had just come out with Hazel and they gave me a wave. Mrs Poole was next in line with Jimmy and Jemima.

  Santa looked up from the article ‘Cheap flights to America’ in his Easington Herald & Pioneer and moved smoothly into role with his new customers.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho,’ said Santa, ‘and what would you like for Christmas?’

  ‘Ah’d like a Thpit, pleath,’ said Jimmy with conviction.

  ‘A spit?’ said Santa in surprise.

  ‘Yeth, pleathe,’ replied Jimmy.

  ‘You’d like a spit?’ asked Santa, looking anxiously at Mrs Poole.

  ‘ ’E means a Spit the Dog puppet, Santa,’ she explained. ‘ ’E’s seen it on telly wi’ that ventriloquist.’

  Santa recalled seeing Bob Carolgees with his puppet and thought he had a lot to answer for.

  ‘It’ll be a friend for Thcargill,’ said Jimmy sincerely. Scargill was Jimmy’s lively Yorkshire terrier and Jimmy loved him dearly, a feeling not shared by the Ragley postman.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to ask my little elves to look in their workshop,’ said Santa cautiously.

  Mrs Poole nodded and then pushed Jemima forward.

  ‘Ho, ho, ho, and what would you like, little girl?’ asked Santa.

  ‘Ah’d like a boyfriend, please, Santa,’ said Jemima confidently.

  ‘A boyfriend!’ exclaimed Santa.

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Jemima politely, ‘an’ ’ave’ y’got any black ones?’

  For a moment Santa just stared. He couldn’t even muster a ‘ho, ho, ho’. Finally he said: ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s for my Barbie doll, Santa,’ explained Jemima. ‘She’s one of t’new black ones an’ ah think she’d like a black Action Man.’

  ‘Oh, well … I’m, er, sure she would,’ stuttered Santa.

  It was clear that Barbie and her boyfriend Ken, or the more macho Action Man, were not the main topic of conversation at Rotary Club meetings. However, in 1980 they were the rage among small girls and boys. The little plastic dolls also sported a huge and lucrative range of clothing, including horse-riding gear, pop-star costumes, outfits for the beach, office and party wear. The versatile Action Man could also perform over fifty different military activities, while Ken, in his smart sports jacket and open-top car, merely looked the perfect boyfriend.

  ‘I’ll tell my elves to look in their toy factory,’ said Santa guardedly.

  Mrs Poole nodded again and smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Santa,’ she said, ‘an’ we’ll leave a mince pie and a glass of sherry in t’usual place f ’you tonight.’

  ‘Ho, ho, ho, and thank you,’ said Santa.

  ‘An’, Thanta,’ said Jimmy, ‘Hazel Thmith hath left an apple f ’Rudolph.’

  Outside, in the marketplace, Mrs Poole crouched down and looked at Jimmy curiously. ‘Ah thought you were leaving an apple f ’Rudolph, Jimmy,’ she said.

  ‘No, Mam,’ said Jimmy. ‘Ah thwapped it with Hazel Thmith for a carrot.’

  Mrs Poole stood up and scanned the market square. Five minutes later she was whispering something in Ruby Smith’s ear.

  At ten o’clock whirling snowflakes pattered against Hazel Smith’s bedroom window. Though still excited, she was close to falling asleep.

  ‘ ’E won’t come if y’stay awake,’ whispered Ruby as she tucked her in.

  ‘OK, Mam,’ murmured Hazel with a big yawn, ‘an’ ’ave y’left Santa ’is mince pie?’

  ‘Yes luv,’ said Ruby with a smile.

  ‘An’ ’is sherry?’

  ‘Yes, luv,’ repeated Ruby and gave her a goodnight kiss.

  ‘An’ don’t worry, Mam, ah’ve left Rudolph ’is apple.’

  Ruby stopped in the doorway and turned. She’d forgotten the apple. ‘Oh … an’ where did y’leave that, luv?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘Out o’ t’window, Mam,’ and with a final yawn she fell asleep.

  Ruby crept over to the window, peered through the curtains and her eyes widened in surprise. There below her, right in the centre of the roof of Ronnie’s shed, was a large apple.

  ‘Oh, bloomin’ ’eck,’ muttered Ruby.

  In Bilbo Cottage, Margaret and May, in matching tartan dressing gowns, kissed me goodnight and picked up their mugs of Horlicks. I pulled on my duffel coat, scarf and gloves ready for the journey to St Mary’s Church and midnight mass. The service was due to start at half past eleven and it was always a very special occasion in the local village calendar.

  ‘Dinna y’go skidd’ng in that car o’ yours,’ said Margaret. ‘Stay alert.’

  ‘Nae
fear, Margaret,’ said May, ‘your Jack’s always had guid reflections.’

  The journey on the back road into Ragley was silent and eerie. Flakes of snow drifted weightlessly in the sharp glare of the headlights and the moonlight lit up the snow-covered trees. As I drove up the High Street, to my surprise I saw Ruby the caretaker and PC Dan Hunter walking across the village green from the council estate. They were each carrying a wooden ladder.

  I pulled up, wound down my window and waved at Ruby, while Dan stacked the ladders in the back yard of The Royal Oak. ‘Everything all right, Ruby?’ I shouted.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ replied Ruby. ‘I ’ad a problem but it’s been sorted, thanks to that nice young PC ’Unter.’

  ‘OK, well … merry Christmas, Ruby.’

  ‘And t’you, Mr Sheffield,’ and she hurried off back home.

  Dan reappeared, gave us both a wave and climbed back into the warmth of his little grey van. Puzzled, I drove off.

  Whirling snowflakes pattered against the giant door of St Mary’s Church as I walked in. Soon all the pews were filled and, in spite of the late hour, excitement crackled like electricity. The wide ledges of the stone pillars were all trimmed with glossy green holly, bright with red berries, and on each ledge a candle flickered.

  ‘Away in a Manger’ was being played very softly on the organ and then, at half past eleven, the church bells stopped ringing, the ancient door was closed and quiet descended on the congregation like a soft blanket. Mary McIntyre, the leader of the choir and the most wonderful soprano, sang the first verse of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and the choir entered, each member carrying a candle.

  Gradually, our little village church was filled with music. I looked around me and thought how good it was to be part of a Yorkshire Christmas. Farmers with lusty baritone voices complemented the sweet singing of the ladies of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute. It was a wonderful service but around me, on this occasion, there were only adults. The children were tucked up in bed … all except one.

  Hazel Smith woke up, rubbed her sleepy eyes and tiptoed to the window. She peered down at the roof of the shed and smiled. The apple was still there but something had happened … something very special.

  In the crisp white snow were two deep parallel grooves that began at the edge of the roof and ended abruptly in front of the apple. Santa’s sleigh had landed exactly where Hazel thought it would. Then she stared at the apple, from which a huge bite had been taken.

  After all, thought Hazel as she got back into bed and closed her eyes, Rudolph has big teeth.

  Chapter Nine

  The Barnsley Ferret-Legger

  County Hall requested early attention to the annual Form 7 giving details of anticipated admission numbers for 1981. The Governing Body gave permission for 30 school chairs to be lent to the Village Hall Committee prior to the performance of Jack and the Beanstalk by the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society on New Year’s Eve.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Tuesday, 30 December 1980

  ‘ ’E’S A MARTYR to ’is ferrets is Uncle Kingsley,’ said Timothy Pratt.

  ‘Really?’ I said, but my thoughts were elsewhere. I put a tin of Crown matt white emulsion paint on the counter of Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. ‘So who’s Kingsley?’

  ‘M’uncle, Mr Sheffield. ’E’s from Grimethorpe an’ ’e’s coming this afternoon with ’is ferrets f ’New Year. An’ he’s gonna ’elp me with t’lights for t’panto.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ I mumbled as I rummaged in my pocket for a pound note. ‘Well, I expect I’ll see you in the village hall, Timothy. I’m helping Peter Miles-Humphreys paint the scenery.’ It was the morning of New Year’s Eve and another Ragley pantomime was in store. The local Amateur Dramatic Society were about to put their own personal stamp on the familiar tale of Jack and the Beanstalk.

  Timothy handed me my change. ‘Well, ah’ll see y’later, Mr Sheffield.’

  I stopped in the doorway as a thought struck me. ‘Timothy, did you say you have an uncle called Kingsley who breeds ferrets?’

  ‘Jus’ Simone an’ Garfunkle.’

  ‘Simon and Garfunkle?’

  ‘No, Mr Sheffield, it’s Simone. She’s a girl ferret,’ explained Timothy. ‘Uncle Kingsley called ’em Simon an’ Garfunkle an’ then ’e found out one of ’em were a girl.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. I opened the door and the bell jingled madly.

  ‘Mr Sheffield,’ Timothy called after me, ‘ah’ll introduce you t’Uncle Kingsley. ’E’s a clever man, bright as a button, an’ ’e got a scholarship when ’e were a lad. In our family ’e’s definitely the most intelligent Pratt.’

  I shook my head in wonderment and walked out into the freezing High Street. Stan Coe’s mud-splattered Land-Rover was parked across the road, outside the village hall. A burly figure I didn’t recognize was in the passenger seat and his sister, Deirdre Coe, was glaring at me through the rear window.

  Stan wound down his window and shouted, ‘Judgement Day, Sheffield. Y’won’t be so ’igh an’ mighty when y’school is shut down.’ He dropped off his passengers and roared off down the High Street and back to his farm.

  I had hoped my problems with Stan Coe would have gone by now and I knew he would be pleased to hear about the news of the possible closure of our school. Ever since he was removed from the school governors in my first year as headteacher, he had continued a vendetta against me. I was saddened by his vindictiveness and ignored him as I wedged the tin of paint in the boot of my car behind my tool-box and petrol can.

  ‘Well, if looks could kill …’ said a familiar voice. It was Ruby, a warm scarf wrapped round her headscarf and her cheeks rosy-red in the cold. ‘A reight pair, Mr Sheffield, an’ up t’no good, ah’ll warrant. One day ah’ll give that Deirdre Coe a piece o’ my mind,’ said Ruby.

  I followed her gaze. Across the High Street, Deirdre Coe was deep in conversation with a heavily built man who looked like a younger version of Stan Coe, the landowner and local bully.

  ‘Who’s that with Deirdre?’ I asked.

  ‘That’s ’er little brother, Gerry. ’E’s a builder in Thirkby an’ another villain. Ah wouldn’t trust ’im as far as ah could throw ’im.’

  ‘What’s he doing in Ragley I wonder?’

  ‘Haven’t you ’eard?’ chuckled Ruby. ‘Deirdre’s been trying f ’years t’get a part in t’pantomime an’ this year’s she’s finally got one. She’s front end o’ t’cow and Gerry’s ’ad ’is arm twisted t’be t’back end.’

  ‘Should be worth seeing, Ruby,’ I said with a grin.

  ‘Y’reight there, Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll be there wi’ Ronnie on t’front row as usual. But ah’ll tell y’summat, we won’t be clapping ’er.’ And with that she hurried off towards the General Stores.

  Meanwhile, Diane’s Hair Salon was still and quiet. Diane Wigglesworth had reserved a special morning appointment for her friend and next-door neighbour, Nora Pratt. She knew Nora wanted to look like a film star on the biggest night of her year.

  ‘So who’s it gonna be this year, Nora? Another one o’ them Charlie’s Angels?’

  ‘No, ah’m fed up wi’ Fawwer Fawcett,’ said Nora. She pointed to a photograph in the Radio Times. ‘ ’Ow about Julie Chwistie?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Diane. For her, achieving the impossible with the ladies of Ragley village, plus a few of the more adventurous young men, was a daily challenge. However, with her state-of-the-art accelerator that cut down drying time for highlights, along with her new range of Silver Minx and Deep Slate setting lotions, she oozed confidence. Even so, while most of her customers wanted to be New Age Eighties women, Diane knew that some of her traditional procedures would stay with her for ever. So, as usual, she sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale on Nora’s hair as a setting lotion before attaching her outsize plastic rollers and then wheeling out the ancient hair dryer.

  In the reassuring cocoon of her little private world, Nora relaxed under the
blast of the dryer and began to rehearse her songs. ‘Ah’m dweaming of a white Chwistmas,’ she sang as Diane, with a sympathetic smile on her face, swept the floor for the last time in 1980.

  * * *

  Big Dave Robinson and Little Malcolm had just parked their refuse wagon outside Nora’s Coffee Shop and they both gave me a cheery wave.

  ‘Fine morning, Mr Sheffield,’ shouted Big Dave cheerily.

  ‘Good morning, Dave. ’Morning, Malcolm,’ I replied.

  ‘Time for our ’ot drink,’ said Little Malcolm, striding quickly towards the door of the Coffee Shop. It sounded a good idea and a better prospect than painting Dame Trott’s pantomime kitchen.

  When I walked into Nora’s Coffee Shop, ‘There’s No One Quite Like Grandma’ was drowning out the hubbub of conversation, for, I hoped, the last time. Little Malcolm was waiting patiently at the counter.

  Dorothy emerged from the back room and sat on the high stool behind the counter. As she began to flick through a magazine she fluttered her eyelashes at the love of her life. ‘Oh, ’ullo, Malcolm.’

  ‘ ’Ullo, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm, his cheeks reddening. ‘ ’Ow’s it going?’

  ‘Bit fed up wi’ this record, Malcolm,’ she said, glancing over at the chrome and red juke-box. ‘Ah reckon John Lennon should ’ave been number one wi’ “Starting Over”. Terrible shame t’poor man got shot.’

  ‘Y’reight there, Dorothy,’ said Little Malcolm sadly.

  ‘Ah loved them Beatles,’ said Dorothy.

  ‘So did I,’ echoed Little Malcolm.

  He had that pain in his chest again. In the News of the World it said that it was because (a) he didn’t exercise enough, or that (b) he had indigestion, or (c) he could be in love. As Little Malcolm was built like a weight-lifter after hefting heavy bags of rubbish all week and had the constitution of an ox, he reckoned it was likely to be the latter. He looked up into Dorothy’s eyes and wondered why they always looked so perfect. Then a loud voice jerked him from the pleasant image that was forming in his mind’s eye.

  ‘C’mon, Casanova,’ shouted Big Dave gruffly as he sat down at a nearby table. ‘ ’Urry up an’ get teas in.’