05 Please Sir!

by Jack Sheffield

  It was at that moment that Vera hurried into the staff-room, looking distraught.

  ‘Is everything all right, Vera?’ said Sally.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ said Jo.

  Anne was concerned. ‘You look a little pale,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of this tea?’

  ‘What is it, Vera?’ I asked.

  Vera put her head in her hands and burst into tears.

  While this drama was being played out, Oscar Woodcock, the recently retired manager of the local refuse tip, had finished putting up the poster and was tidying his shed ready for the influx of visitors on Saturday morning. Like a modern-day ‘Stig of the Dump’ he recycled everything he could and over the years had collected the cast-offs of the villagers of Ragley and Morton.

  His huge wooden shed resembled an incongruous home, with a three-piece leather suite, a discarded but very fine Axminster carpet, a nest of G-Plan tables, an ornately carved antique pine bookcase stacked with old hardbacks and a complete set of Encyclopaedia Britannica and a paraffin heater. Also, thanks to Mrs Dudley-Palmer he wasn’t short of the latest electrical appliances, including a soda stream and a Breville sandwich toaster. He wiped the surface of an out-of-stock Habitat kitchen unit and arranged a set of 1953 Coronation mugs next to his electric kettle. Then he sighed with satisfaction. There was something about his shed that made him feel secure, safe and wonderfully sanguine … probably linked to the ever-present smell of potent cider. Sadly, it was a feeling that quickly dissipated when his wife’s piercing voice called him to come in and help with the housework.

  In Ragley School, it was a difficult afternoon and Vera insisted on staying at her desk until afternoon break, when everyone in the staff-room ganged up on her and sent her home to look for Maggie. At the end of school Anne completed reading The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin to her class and then encouraged a discussion, but it wasn’t squirrels that the children had in mind.

  ‘Has Miss Evans found her cat?’ asked a concerned Jemima Poole.

  ‘I don’t think so, Jemima,’ said Anne, ‘but I’m sure she will turn up.’

  At four o’clock we gathered in the staff-room as the telephone rang and Sally took the call. It was Vera. Maggie was still missing.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Sally, ‘she’ll turn up and, in the meantime, I’ll prepare some posters and we’ll distribute them around the village tonight.’

  Anne, Sally and Jo took the High Street shops and I was given a poster for Pratt’s garage. As I pinned the poster to the scruffy noticeboard next to the counter, Victor had other problems on his mind.

  ‘Ah’ve gorra touch o’ t’pneumonics,’ said Victor, rubbing his chest, ‘an’ ah’m short o’wind.’

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

  ‘An ah’ve gorra sceptic throat. Ah told Dr Davenport ah’d allus ’ad a sceptical throat and ’e said ’e weren’t s’prised.’

  ‘I see,’ I said.

  ‘So, all in all, ah’m not feeling m’self, so t’speak,’ said the mournful Victor. ‘Ah’m proper poorly, but like all men ah don’t complain, ah just battle on,’ he added with a touch of martyrdom. ‘An’ ah ’ope Miss Evans finds ’er cat,’ he shouted after me as I walked out into the gloom.

  On Friday morning Vera was up early, searching the grounds for her beloved Maggie. Around her, in the vicarage garden, birds were pairing up and claiming their territory and chattering with new vigour. Snowdrops, aconites and crocuses should have cheered the spirit but, for Vera, her senses were blunted. When she returned to her spotless kitchen, the fragrant scent of hyacinths on the window ledge went unnoticed. Maggie had not been found.

  Meanwhile, the villagers had been mobilized and, in the grey early-morning light, parents and children were looking in outbuildings and gardens. Even Ronnie Smith had been pressed into service. Ruby had mixed an old-fashioned remedy of butter, honey and lemon juice into a mugful of boiling water and forced him to climb out of his sick bed.

  At eight o’clock, when Dan Hunter dropped off Jo in the school car park, there was the sound of a dog barking. Jimmy Poole was being pulled by Scargill on his lead across the village green towards Oscar Woodcock’s gate, where Ted Postlethwaite was about to deliver a letter. ‘Oh no,’ shouted Ted, ‘not again!’

  The little terrier seemed more excited than usual and, to Ted’s surprise and great relief, he scampered down Oscar’s path and resumed his barking outside the shed. Dan, in his smart uniform, walked across the green to see what all the fuss was about.

  ‘Ah think there’s summat in Oscar’s shed,’ said Ted.

  Oscar came out to investigate and then went back indoors for his shed key. When he unlocked it, both Oscar and Ted looked up at Dan, unwilling to set foot inside.

  ‘Well, I never,’ said Dan as he emerged with a sleepy cat in his arms. Maggie had enjoyed her rest, fortified by the occasional mouse washed down with the spillage from Oscar’s cider.

  ‘Well done, Scargill,’ said Ted with a smile and Jimmy beamed from ear to ear.

  ‘Miss Evans will be thrilled,’ said Dan.

  Vera never heard the true story. Each morning for several weeks Maggie had enjoyed taunting Scargill, the bossy little Yorkshire terrier, from the safety of the high wall that surrounded Oscar’s garden, before returning home for breakfast at the vicarage. However, yesterday morning was different. A sudden backfire from Deke Ramsbottom’s tractor had caused her attention to be diverted at the very moment Jimmy Poole had let loose his beloved Scargill. With bared teeth and pent-up vengeance, Scargill had chased Maggie through an open gateway and down an overgrown path towards a garden shed, where Maggie took refuge at the very moment Oscar emerged and locked the door behind him. Then Scargill ran back to the village green, spotted an old adversary, and promptly satisfied his vengeance on Ted Postlethwaite’s ankle. Maggie was forgotten and honour had been satisfied.

  By Saturday morning, life had returned to normal in Ragley village.

  For Ted Postlethwaite it was his ‘job and knock’ day; there was no second post and he could go home after his morning delivery. However, when he called in at the Post Office, Amelia had begun to prepare a magnificent meat and potato pie with an upturned egg cup to support the golden crust. ‘I thought you might like a celebration meal, Ted,’ said Amelia.

  ‘Celebration?’ said Ted.

  ‘Well, all the village is talking about how you and Scargill found Miss Evans’s cat.’

  Ted smiled and reflected that perhaps Scargill wasn’t so bad after all. His bark was definitely better than his bite.

  Meanwhile, in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, Ruby stood in the queue, holding her shopping bag and clutching a 3p-off coupon for Bird’s Instant Whip from the Daily Mirror. In front of her Vera had just presented Prudence with a birthday card.

  ‘Thank you, Vera,’ said Prudence: ‘you remembered.’

  ‘Of course, Prudence,’ said Vera.

  ‘And what can I get you?’ asked Prudence.

  ‘A large tin of your best Whiskas cat food, please, Prudence,’ said Vera.

  Prudence peeled off the 31p label and handed the tin over the counter. ‘On the house, Vera,’ she said with a smile.

  ‘That’s kind, Prudence,’ said Vera. ‘Maggie will enjoy this.’

  ‘It was terrific news, Vera,’ said Prudence.

  ‘Yes, such a relief.’ She held up a Piercy’s Butcher’s bag that contained a juicy bone. ‘And I’m about to deliver a present to Mrs Poole for her clever dog. You never know, my Maggie and little Scargill may be friends one day.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Oliver Cromwell’s Underwear

  A group of parents assisted in the making of seventeenth-century costumes for the children in Classes 3 and 4 in preparation for tomorrow’s visit to Clarke Hall, Wakefield.

  Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

  Thursday, 25 March 1982

  It was early on Thursday, 25 March, and Beth and I had spent the previous night
together. It had been a wonderful night followed by a slightly tense morning.

  She looked around the kitchen in dismay. ‘Jack, we really do need to bring Bilbo Cottage into the twentieth century – starting with a decent washing machine.’

  ‘Sorry, Beth,’ I said, ‘I’d never really thought about it.’ We had been using Beth’s old washing machine in her rented cottage in Morton but a permanent remedy was required.

  ‘I’ve done some research on it,’ she said, ‘and this should be perfect.’ She gave me a cutting from the York Evening Press. It read ‘Caravell DL500 fully automatic washing machine with a 9lb load capacity, £149.00’.

  ‘It looks really … er, modern,’ I said hesitantly. Washing machines were not in my comfort zone.

  ‘And they’ll deliver it immediately.’ Beth sounded determined. She looked at her watch. ‘Well, must rush, Jack. I’m due at High Sutton in an hour.’

  Beth had been invited by Miss Barrington-Huntley to join a North Yorkshire curriculum working group for an intensive four-day course. It was clear the concept of a ‘common curriculum’ for all schools was gathering momentum and Beth was keen to be involved. I carried her suitcase out to her slightly rusty, pale-blue Volkswagen Beetle and kissed her goodbye.

  ‘Drive safely, Beth,’ I said, ‘and I’ll see you on Sunday evening.’

  As she roared off, the scent of Rive Gauche perfume lingered.

  Then I took the washing machine ad from my pocket and smiled. I would give her a surprise.

  My journey to school was uplifting. The harsh days of winter were over. Rooks cawed in the elm-tops and the first cuckoo announced the arrival of spring. In the bare hedgerows the sharp buds of hawthorn guarded the arrowheads of daffodils and on Ragley High Street the first primroses splashed the grassy banks with fresh colour. As I pulled into the school car park it was good to be alive as the early-morning sunshine washed over me.

  In the entrance hall, it was a hive of activity. A group of mothers were deep in conversation with Sally and Jo about seventeenth-century costume. Sally, our history enthusiast, had organized an educational visit tomorrow to Clarke Hall, near Wakefield, for the children in the top two classes. It was part of our joint history project and costume-making had dominated the past week. As usual, of course, there were a few who had left it to the last minute.

  ‘Our ’Eathcliffe sez’e wants t’be a buccaneer – at least ah think it were a buccaneer,’ said Mrs Earnshaw.

  ‘A buccaneer?’ said Sally in surprise.

  ‘An’ our Terry wants t’be a pheasant or summat,’ she added for good measure.

  ‘He probably meant a musketeer,’ said Sally politely.

  ‘And a peasant,’ added Jo, who wasn’t going on the visit but was always willing to show solidarity.

  Mrs Earnshaw, unmoved, pressed on and pulled two pairs of her husband’s cut-down trousers and two of his old shirts from a carrier bag.

  ‘These will be perfect, Mrs Earnshaw,’ said the ever-supportive Sally. Meanwhile, the lively toddler Dallas Sue-Ellen Earnshaw had pulled a garment out of the ‘finished costumes’ bag and was tugging the waistband out of a pair of breeches.

  Sue Phillips and Petula Dudley-Palmer had brought their sewing machines into school; Petula’s, naturally, was the latest in modern technology. Betty Buttle, Margery Ackroyd, Marion Greening and Cynthia Clack were cutting, sewing and stitching as if their lives depended on it. Sally was the self-appointed shop steward, while Vera appeared to be in charge of quality control. It resembled the backroom of Burton’s, the Leeds-based tailor’s shop.

  ‘First of all, you have to decide your station in life,’ said Sally: ‘maybe a lord or a lady.’

  ‘Or a soldier or a peasant, Mr Sheffield,’ added Vera.

  ‘Well, we’ve used wool or cotton for authenticity,’ said Sue Phillips and all the mothers nodded knowingly.

  ‘And I’ve read skirts and breeches were particularly baggy,’ added Petula Dudley-Palmer, not to be outdone.

  I nodded politely and hurried into the office to escape their clutches. Sadly I was the product of a boys’ grammar school education and, for me, sewing was an elusive art. A few minutes later I was busy ordering a set of brass metric weights and a box of wooden thirty-centimetre rulers when there was a tap on the door. Sue Phillips and Sally came in, each clutching a bundle. Sue held up a large bright-red, embroidered shirt and Sally draped a pair of brown breeches on my desk. ‘You’ll look good in these, Jack,’ said a whimsical Sue Phillips.

  I stared in disbelief. The outfit looked perfect for Adam and the Ants but not for a Yorkshire headteacher.

  ‘Oh, thanks, Sue,’ I said hesitantly. ’… As long as I don’t look, well, er, you know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Jack,’ said Sally with a broad grin, ‘you’ll blend in nicely. I’ve even decorated your breeches with rows of shiny buttons down the outside seams.’

  ‘Very fetching,’ I said dubiously.

  ‘Actually, Jack,’ said Sally, ‘they had a practical purpose. Musketeers used them as ammunition when they ran out of musket balls or shot.’

  Not for the first time I wondered how Sally knew all this.

  * * *

  Our morning lessons went well and it was encouraging to see that the children had already done a lot of background reading on our ‘England in the Seventeenth Century’ project.

  ‘So what do we know about Oliver Cromwell, boys and girls?’ I asked.

  ‘He won the Battle of Naseby, Mr Sheffield,’ said Jonathan Greening.

  ‘And he overthrew King Charles I,’ said Alice Baxter.

  ‘Well done,’ I said.

  The children had obviously enjoyed researching the battles and politics of this tempestuous time. Best of all, everyone was looking forward to Friday morning when we would dress up in costume and visit Clarke Hall, near Wakefield. There we would go back three hundred years and experience life as it was then. It would bring history to life and the children were full of excitement. I recalled doing a turgid history course at A level in the 1960s and wished it could have been like this.

  In the staff-room at morning break, Vera was glancing through the headlines of her Daily Telegraph. The number of unemployed had dipped below three million and the harsh winter had resulted in a £200 million insurance payout, the largest ever recorded for a natural disaster. Also, in Parliament, the former Prime Minister, Jim Callaghan, stated he was concerned to hear that a party of Argentinians had landed in the Falkland Islands and hoisted the Argentinian flag, and something ought to be done about it.

  Meanwhile, Sally was concerned about her weight again. She was munching on a chocolate digestive biscuit and reading her March issue of Cosmopolitan. The article ‘Are You Twice the Woman Your Husband Married?’ had got her thinking. She read, ‘Are you finding extra inches in all the wrong places?’ and nodded. Fortunately, Cosmopolitan had all the answers, with a recommendation to purchase a Black and Decker Home Exerciser, including a Rower at £45 and a Pacer at £40. ‘You can then suggest a second honeymoon’, it went on to say, and Sally selected a custard cream from the biscuit tin and nibbled on it thoughtfully.

  ‘I’ve just ordered a surprise for Beth,’ I said, eager to share my news.

  ‘For the wedding?’ asked Anne.

  ‘Well, not exactly. It’s a washing machine and they’re delivering it on Saturday morning.’

  Sally looked up. ‘Was that Beth’s idea?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, slightly puzzled.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right, then,’ said Sally and went back to her article.

  ‘Who’s fitting it?’ asked Anne. ‘John made a real mess of ours – water all over my kitchen floor.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said, ‘but I’m keen to have it up and running for when Beth gets back on Sunday evening from her course.’

  ‘Mrs Ackroyd’s husband, Wendell, fits washing machines in his spare time, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘You could trust him with the key: he’s perfectly reliable and, unlike
his wife, he’s very discreet.’

  * * *

  After school an idea occurred to me. I parked on the High Street and called into Pratt’s Hardware Emporium. The frayed clothes line in my back garden had seen better days and, as Beth had reminded me, I needed to move with the times.

  ‘It’s a brand-new, state-of-the-art rotary drier, Mr Sheffield,’ said Timothy Pratt in his monotone voice.

  ‘It looks perfect, Timothy,’ I said, ‘and I know just where to put it.’

  ‘It’s a proper space-saver, Mr Sheffield, an’ perfect for the modern ‘ousewife.’

  ‘Well, actually, Timothy, it’s for me.’

  ‘An’ then f’Miss ‘Enderson when y’get married, so t’speak,’ added Timothy quickly and anxious not to offend.

  ‘Is it difficult to put up?’ I asked.

  Timothy pondered this for a moment. ‘Well, if y’like, ah could mention it to John Paxton. Ah bet ‘e’d fix it f’you.’

  John Paxton was the village odd-job man. ‘Thanks, Timothy,’ I said. ‘I’ll put a whitewash cross on the lawn where I want it erecting and then he can do it when he’s got time.’

  ‘Fine, Mr Sheffield. Ah’ll keep it ’ere f’now an’ ’e can collect it and do t’job.’

  ‘Thanks again,’ I said and hurried back to Kirkby Steepleton to try on my seventeenth-century costume.

  On Friday morning the pupils in Sally’s class and my class lined up on the cobbled driveway. Sally and all the children, plus half a dozen mothers, looked authentic in their costumes, whereas I got a few strange glances from the parents by the school gate.