Then, in the stillness, the arrow of the old cast-iron weather vane on top of the village hall suddenly creaked in the first hint of a breeze. With a reluctant grinding of metal on metal, it slowly swung round towards the direction of the far distant clouds. The weather was turning.
Ragley was coming alive and I rejoiced that, year by year, I was becoming a part of the daily life of this beautiful Yorkshire village. Down the High Street, Prudence Golightly was watering a hanging basket outside the General Stores and Young Tommy Piercy was wheeling his delivery bicycle out of his grandad’s butcher’s shop. On the handlebars was a plastic bag containing a pair of pig’s trotters destined for Maurice Tupham, the rhubarb champion. Natasha Smith was staring at the new range of lipsticks in the Pharmacy window and Timothy Pratt was setting out his aluminium cat-flaps in a perfectly straight line on the trestle table outside his Hardware Emporium. Little Malcolm Robinson, immensely proud of his new 1973 bright-green Hillman Avenger, had pulled up outside Nora’s Coffee Shop. Instantly, the love of his life, Dorothy Humpleby, tottered out on her high heels to admire it, with Nora Pratt in close attendance. Big Dave Robinson clambered out of the passenger seat and gave his diminutive cousin a scathing ‘big girl’s blouse’ look. He stopped to talk to Nora before they both shook their heads sadly and walked inside. Diane Wigglesworth was sticking a poster of Bo Derek in the window of her Hair Salon and Amelia Duff was telling Margery Ackroyd why every village in England would always need a post office.
Heading down the York Road towards Victor Pratt’s garage came Deke Ramsbottom on his tractor, towing a trailer load of cow manure. With his stetson hat shielding his eyes from the sun, he appeared completely oblivious to the dreadful smell as he whistled the theme from Rawhide and waved to every passer-by. Finally, Stan Coe roared past the village green in his muddy Land-Rover and gave me an evil stare as he drove up the Easington Road.
The first children were arriving and Heathcliffe Earnshaw and his little brother Terry were walking towards school. They had just purchased two giant humbugs from Prudence Golightly’s shop. The humbugs were so large their lips could no longer meet. Speech was rendered impossible, so they merely waved a cheerful hello with happy thoughts of six weeks of endless playtimes only one school day away.
When I walked back into school, Vera, Anne and Jo were standing in the car park in animated conversation with Sally. They all looked tired but happy and I guessed they were talking about holidays, babies or teddy bears or, possibly, all three. Each one of them carried a much-loved and well-worn teddy bear in preparation for the afternoon picnic on the school field. I glanced at the distant hills where clouds were gathering and hoped the weather would stay fine for our last day.
At a quarter past ten the hall was full of children, parents, grandparents, school governors and every member of staff. It was our ‘Leavers’ Assembly’, when we said goodbye to the children in my class who were moving on to Easington Comprehensive School.
I welcomed our official guest, one of our school governors Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener, military medals gleaming on the breast pocket of his smart grey suit. Our first hymn was ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’. The Revd Joseph Evans was sitting next to his fellow school governor and home-made wine connoisseur Albert Jenkins, resplendent in his new three-piece suit. They both sang with gusto.
After Sally’s recorder group had played ‘Morning Has Broken’, we all enjoyed a rousing rendition of ‘One More Step Along the World I Go’. Vera smiled at me as we sang the lines ‘Give me courage when the world is rough, Keep me loving though the world is tough’ … and I wondered what was going through her mind.
After Joseph had invited us to join him in the Lord’s Prayer, ten-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw stood up and read our school prayer in a loud, clear voice.
‘Dear Lord,
This is our school, let peace dwell here,
Let the room be full of contentment, let love abide here,
Love of one another, love of life itself,
And love of God.
Amen.’
The major made a wonderful speech about the good start in life provided by Ragley School during the past one hundred years and described it as the centre of our village community. With great ceremony, he presented a book to each of the thirteen school leavers. All the pupils were applauded as they walked out to receive their prizes, while their tearful parents craned their necks at the back of the hall.
Finally, it was my turn. I thanked the parents, the members of the PTA and the school governors for their support, but, before I could close the assembly, Staff Nurse Sue Phillips raised her hand politely and asked everyone to show their appreciation to all the teachers and the ancillary staff. There was a lump in my throat as I looked round at my colleagues.
Shirley Mapplebeck, Doreen Critchley and the dinner ladies, all in their best summer dresses, sat on a row of chairs in front of the kitchen door and smiled broadly. Vera Evans, immaculate in her pin-striped business suit and elegant cream blouse, looked at Ruby Smith, who was sitting next to her, and offered her a lace handkerchief. Ruby dabbed the tears from her eyes and pressed her favourite straw hat, covered in wild roses, further down on to her thick chestnut curls. Sally Pringle bowed her head thoughtfully and Jo Hunter’s eyes sparkled with thoughts of a new computer.
I looked at my trusted deputy and Anne Grainger gave me that calm smile I knew so well. It was at times like this that I remembered why I had come into teaching.
Jodie Cuthbertson rang the bell for morning playtime and I wandered outside to talk to my school leavers, but it was a group of children in Jo’s class who caught my eye. Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer had invited everyone in her class to her eighth-birthday party.
‘We’ll be playing Musical Chairs and Postman’s Knock,’ she announced to her assembled classmates.
‘Ah’d rather play Star Wars,’ said Heathcliffe.
‘Well, it’s my party and you’ll play the games I choose,’ said Elisabeth Amelia and walked away primly.
Heathcliffe stared after her. ‘Yes, but when ah’m ruler o’ G’lactic Empire you’ll do what ah say then,’ he added darkly.
At twelve o’clock Vera looked round my classroom door and beckoned me. ‘It’s Miss Henderson on the telephone, Mr Sheffield. I’ll send your class out to lunch if you wish.’
‘Thanks, Vera,’ I said and hurried into the empty school office. I picked up the receiver. ‘Hello. Is that you, Beth?’
‘Jack, sorry if this is a bad moment but it’s hectic here and I didn’t know when I might catch you.’
‘It’s fine, Beth. The lunch bell’s just gone.’
‘I just wanted to say I hope you have a great holiday and thanks for all your help this year, particularly with all the new documentation. I would have been lost without you.’
‘It was a pleasure, Beth … and, by all accounts, you’ve had a really successful year. I’ve heard wonderful things about Hartingdale.’
‘Thanks, Jack. It’s been a good experience for me but there’s a lot I would do differently next year.’
‘That’s what I said after my first year. I still don’t know how I survived.’
‘So what are your plans for the holiday?’ asked Beth.
I sighed. ‘Nothing certain as yet.’
‘Oh, well …’
‘Beth … how about meeting up, maybe over the weekend?’
There was a pause. ‘I’m going down to Hampshire, Jack. My parents asked me to join them for a short break on the south coast.’
‘Oh … so when are you leaving?’
‘Tonight, around six.’
‘So soon?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, have a wonderful time. Perhaps you could call me when you get back.’
There was no reply.
Suddenly, Sally and Jo walked into the office.
‘I’ll have to go. ’Bye, Beth.’
‘ ’Bye, Jack.’
Sally and Jo glanced at me and hurr
ied through to the staff-room and I was left alone with my thoughts.
At two o’clock it was time for the teddy bears’ picnic and the whole school marched out with picnic rugs and teddy bears on to the school field.
The children in my class carried their chairs for the parents, governors and staff, while Shirley and Mrs Critchley set up a refreshments table that included a mountain of honey sandwiches and jugs of home-made lemonade. Mothers walked up the drive with their toddlers and a few with babies wheeled their prams and pushchairs into the shady area by the cycle shed. It was a great experience for the four-year-olds who were due to start school next September and they looked in awe as their big brothers and sisters showed them where they would be hanging their coats on their first day in six weeks’ time.
Suddenly there was a huge cheer when Jeremy Bear arrived. In the back room of the General Stores, Prudence Golightly had dressed him in his party clothes and he looked quite magnificent. The major saluted him, Vera clapped her hands in delight and all the children rushed up to him to admire Ragley’s best bear. Jeremy was wearing a neatly ironed, short-sleeved white shirt, chocolate-brown shorts with yellow gingham braces and a matching gingham bow tie. His socks were snowy white and his shiny brogues, much to the major’s amusement, were similar to his. The ensemble was completed with an entirely appropriate straw hat and a pair of sunglasses for this hot sunny afternoon.
‘Come and sit next to me,’ said Vera.
‘And me,’ said the major.
Sally was soon surrounded by all the young mothers. Her news had spread round the village in the time it took Margery Ackroyd to visit each shop on the High Street. Meanwhile, Jo was moving from group to group, filling plastic beakers from a huge aluminium jug of lemonade, and my school leavers were handing out plates of sandwiches. The humidity was building up and I wished I didn’t have to wear a tie. I removed my sports jacket and sat on a chair next to Anne.
‘A perfect end to another year, Jack,’ said Anne. ‘We’re lucky the weather has held out for us. In this heat, it has to break soon.’
I tugged at my collar and wiped the perspiration from my spectacles. ‘I agree,’ I said, ‘and thanks again … for everything, Anne. It’s been another busy year.’
Anne smiled and offered me a honey sandwich.
By five thirty the school was silent. Ruby had told me she would be in tomorrow to start her ‘holiday polish’ and, with a final clatter of her mop and bucket, she was gone. I sat at my desk in the office, opened the bottom drawer, and took out the school logbook. The academic year 1979–80 was over and I had just written ‘88 children were registered on roll on this last day of the school year’ when, to my surprise, Vera’s car pulled into the car park. I had already said goodbye to her.
She walked into the office and began to fill the kettle.
‘Hello, Vera. Have you left something behind?’
‘Yes. I forgot my camera, but I’ll make you a cup of tea while I’m here.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Vera took my mug off the shelf. ‘I saw Miss Henderson shopping in the village,’ said Vera.
‘Yes. She’s going down to Hampshire.’
I stood up and stared through the office window. The school field was silent and still in the oppressive heat of this humid day. Suddenly, the whistle of the kettle broke the silence. Vera poured the tea and placed the mug on the coaster on my desk.
Then she did something she had never done before. It took a few moments for me to realize it. She put her hand on my shoulder and stared at me in a knowing way. It was as if she had been waiting for an eternity to say exactly what was on her mind. Then, very quietly, she said, ‘Jack … Jack, listen to me.’
It was the first time she had ever called me by my first name. After almost three years of working together Vera had never, ever, called me anything but Mr Sheffield.
‘Jack,’ she repeated softly. ‘You are a dear teacher.’
I looked up in surprise.
‘You are also a dear man … but sometimes I wonder if you know the first thing about women.’ Her eyes crinkled into a smile tinged with sadness. Then she stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the countryside shimmered and dark, ominous clouds had begun to gather. ‘Go and find her, Jack … don’t let her go. That happened to me once. I wouldn’t want you to let it happen to Beth.’
I didn’t know what to say, so I closed the logbook and returned it to the drawer in the desk. At the bottom of the drawer was a photograph and I took it out and handed it to Vera.
Three people … two sisters … one problem.
Vera looked at it for a moment, smiled and put it back on my desk. Then she walked to the office door, opened it and turned to face me. ‘Jack, there are many doors to the heart and not all of them are closed.’
Then she walked away.
I looked at the photograph again. There were many pathways to love but mine felt like a labyrinth in a maze of secrets. Once again, the school was silent apart from the tick-tock of the school clock.
I glanced at my watch. It was a quarter to six.
I made my decision. There was no time to lose.
The weather looked ominous as I locked the school door, hurried down the worn steps and across the playground. The sky was getting darker and the oppressive heat was almost unbearable. I wrenched off my tie and unbuttoned my collar. When I reached the car park, I glanced across towards the Hambleton hills, where rain squalls like grey lace curtains were gathering over the dark slopes and the patchwork quilt of fields and forests.
The countryside around me was still, waiting for the onslaught. The hedgerows, thick with bracken and wild blackberries, harebells and the tall crowns of cow parsley, shimmered in the heat haze. Threatening clouds, like celestial chariots of war, began to fill the sky. Any second now the storm would arrive … a big storm.
The light turned to dusk. I switched on my headlights and drove down the school drive, past the village green and up the Morton Road. I prayed I would get to Beth’s house before it was too late.
And then suddenly it happened.
The sky was broken.
The world became dark as night, crushed beneath the iron fist of a cloudburst, then lit with the searing flash of lightning strikes. It was as if the heavens were being ripped apart. All round me, the vast plain of York was being hammered by the deafening drumbeat of a summer thunderstorm of massive ferocity. In seconds the road before me was awash with black running water and I peered through narrowed eyes as I tried to steer my car through the deluge.
The heat that had built up during the strawberries-and-cream days of Wimbledon had finally exploded in a withering hail of tumultuous rainfall. My windscreen wipers couldn’t cope and I slowed down, unable to see. On a sharp bend there was a dip in the road and, as I splashed into a huge pool of standing water, my engine cut out. I remembered reading about water in the carburettor in a car-maintenance manual long ago but it was of little use to me now. My car was well and truly stranded!
I knew every yard of the journey to Beth’s house. It was only a few minutes away. There seemed to be no alternative. I couldn’t push the car out of the dip in the road and a jump-start was out of the question. After a few futile turns of the ignition key, I took a deep breath and jumped out into the torrential downpour. In seconds I was soaked to the skin. I tried to push the car into a safer position but it was to no avail. Then I removed my spectacles, stuffed them in my pocket, put my jacket over my head and began to walk.
Beth’s car was still outside her house and I dashed up the path and rattled the door knocker. The door opened and Beth looked at me in amazement.
‘Jack … What on earth! … Come in quickly.’ I stepped on to the Welcome mat, water dripping from me, and Beth closed the door. ‘Come into the sitting room. I’ll get a towel.’
‘No, please wait, Beth. I’m sorry about this. My car broke down just down the road. I needed to speak to you before you left.’ The words came out in a torrent.
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Beth looked at me curiously. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘There’s something I want to ask you, Beth.’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s been on my mind for a long time.’
Beth just stared at me and didn’t reply.
I struggled to find the right words. ‘You must know how I feel about you.’
Beth’s gaze softened. ‘Do I?’
‘From the first moment I saw you.’
She smiled. ‘You mean when you were dressed in your old overalls, sweeping the school drive?’
‘Well, not exactly … but certainly since we went on holiday two years ago.’
‘What is it, Jack?’
I took a step forward and held her hand. Then I took a deep breath. ‘Beth, will you marry me?’
The door of her lounge was open and she glanced at a faded photograph propped on her old upright piano. It showed Beth and Laura as children, holding hands on a sandy beach during a long-ago holiday.
I looked at her face.
There was silence between us.
It seemed like a lifetime.
Then her soft green eyes stared back at me like mirrors of experienced past.
And in a heartbeat I knew what her answer would be.
About the Author
Jack Sheffield was born in 1945 and grew up in the tough environment of Gipton Estate, in north-east Leeds. After a job as a ‘pitch boy’, repairing roofs, he became a Corona Pop Man before going to St John’s College, York, and training to be a teacher. In the late seventies and eighties, he was a headteacher of two schools in North Yorkshire before becoming Senior Lecturer in Primary Education at Bretton Hall near Wakefield. It was at this time that he began to record his many amusing stories of village life portrayed in Teacher, Teacher! and Mister Teacher. His new book, Village Teacher, will be published in early 2010. Jack Sheffield lives in York and Hampshire.
Visit his website at www.jacksheffield.com
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