02 Mister Teacher (27 page)

Sally’s team and Albert Jenkins’ team tied on sixteen points each.

‘OK, this is y’tie-break question,’ said Sheila. ‘Put yer ’and up if y’know it. What do you find once in a minute, twice in a moment and never in a ’undred years?’

‘Dakotas,’ shouted Ronnie Smith, who had just remembered going to a Billy J. Kramer concert with Ruby in 1964.

‘Shurrup, Ronnie,’ shouted Sheila.

The tension was unbearable. Absolute silence descended on The Royal Oak. It was the moment of truth.

Then, very calmly, Albert Jenkins raised his hand. ‘The letter “m”,’ he said simply.

‘Y’reight,’ said Sheila.

Albert Jenkins received the first prize, a crate of Guinness, and Sally got the runner-up prize, six packets of Smith’s Crisps.

One person who never displayed his ignorance in a quiz competition was Stan Coe and, at that moment, he lurched out of his seat in the taproom and staggered towards the door. Seven pints of bitter and two whisky chasers had made it difficult to walk in a straight line. His Land Rover was parked partly on the gravel road outside
The
Royal Oak and partly on the village green. After leaning back against the bonnet and rummaging around in his pockets for his keys, Stan finally slumped into the seat and revved up the engine.

Suddenly, silhouetted against a pair of dazzling headlights, two huge policemen walked towards him, and Stan panicked. As he released the clutch pedal, the Land Rover’s nearside tyres bit into the gravel, while the offside tyres met no resistance in the soft grass. The result was the car slewed in an arc of flying mud and gravel and bounced down towards the edge of the pond. A duck flew angrily towards his open window and Stan took his hands off the wheel to beat it off.

Both policemen dived out of the way: one onto the gravel, the other into the mud thrown up by Stan’s tyres. By the time they had stood up and dusted down their uniforms, Stan was bonnet-deep in the pond, screaming for help and surrounded by a lynch mob of ducks.

The Quiz Night forgotten, everyone piled out of the Oak to watch the entertainment.

‘They’re two of the constables from Easington,’ said Jo.

‘And they don’t look too pleased,’ I replied.

One of the policemen had gone back to the police van.

‘There’s not many rushing to ’elp,’ said Big Dave.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.

‘Ducks don’t look ’appy,’ said Kojak, as a mallard pecked repeatedly at Stan Coe’s flat cap, which was now floating on the surface like a lily pad.

Stan pushed open his driver’s door, thrashed his way
through
a cordon of irate ducks and sat down on the bank. He appeared to be, literally, spitting feathers.

The policeman who had gone back to the van reappeared with a plastic bag attached to a tube and a mouthpiece.

‘We know what’s coming next, Jack,’ said Jo, with a grin.

‘And it couldn’t happen to a nicer man,’ I said.

Alongside me, Brian Crowther, the editor of the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
, was busy making notes on the back of a beer mat before rushing back to use the Oak’s telephone to ring his photographer.

So it was that on that late April evening, Stan Coe, with soaking-wet trousers and a waterlogged engine, had his political ambitions dashed amid a flurry of duck feathers.

Instead, Albert Jenkins decided to stand for the local council and was elected by a massive majority. At his first council meeting, Albert made a special request to the Highways Department and, one month later, he had a positive response.

Now alongside the village green stands a rare and peculiar road sign. Beneath a red warning triangle it carries a stark but poignant message: ‘Beware of the Ducks’.

Chapter Seventeen

The Handbag Election

At the end of school today, we closed for one day and the hall was prepared to be used as the Ragley polling station for the General Election on Thursday, 3 May
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 2 May 1979

‘
I CAN NOW
announce the short list of nominations for President of our Women’s Institute,’ said Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘There are three names, as follows.’

It was Wednesday, 2 May, and the village hall was packed for the Annual General Meeting of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute. Forty-eight pairs of eyes were concentrated on the President. Vera gripped her handbag so tightly, her knuckles had gone white. Mrs Patterson-Smythe scanned the room as if checking the three members were all present. Then she read out their names.

‘Miss Deirdre Coe, Mrs Joyce Davenport and Miss Vera Evans.’

There was a collective intake of breath.

‘Voting forms are being distributed now. Please write down the name of your choice and put it in the voting box as you leave the meeting. The box is situated on the table at the back of the hall, where our two independent voting supervisors are seated. They will scrutinize the votes, inform me of the number awarded to each candidate, and then I shall display the official result on the notice board tomorrow at 7.30 p.m.’

Allan Bickerstaff, the local accountant, and Peter Duddleston, the manager of one of Easington’s two banks, both nodded soberly in acknowledgement. The gravity of the situation had not escaped them. They knew that if they got this wrong their lives would no longer be worth living.

Vera sighed as she looked across the hall at Deirdre Coe, who was surrounded by her hangers-on. Deirdre looked confident and was laughing as she filled in her voting form.

‘Well, we won’t be ’avin’ Bible readings every month if ah get in,’ said Deirdre, with a sly look in Vera’s direction. Her friends tittered in response and Vera looked away, pretending she hadn’t heard.

‘Good luck, Vera. May the best woman win,’ said a voice in her ear.

‘Oh, hello, Joyce,’ said Vera. ‘And good luck to you as well.’ She smiled at Joyce Davenport, the doctor’s wife, who too had served her apprenticeship in the Women’s
Institute
, and was noted for the excellence of her sponge cakes and her cold-cure remedies.

‘If I don’t get it, Vera, I hope you do,’ said Joyce, with a genuine smile of friendship. Joyce knew how much it meant to Vera and she squeezed her hand. She recalled the young and carefree Vera of forty years ago when they were at school together. It was a girls’ boarding school in Thirkby and their lives had been governed by a regime based on alphabetical order. Joyce Davenport had always sat at the desk in front of Vera Evans. Her name was always read out before Vera’s and she hoped it would be so on this occasion. She had often puzzled why Vera had dedicated her life to the Church and her brother’s work. While many men had tried to court Vera, none had succeeded, and Joyce wondered if the chance had finally gone.

When Vera arrived back home at the vicarage and walked into the hall, she was surprised to hear Joseph swapping stories with me about his home-made wine. This particular variety had not only the potency of rocket fuel but also, sadly, the aftertaste.

‘Just a little adjustment to the ingredients and the bouquet should be fine,’ said Joseph, taking another sip that made his eyes water.

‘Not quite your best, Joseph,’ I said unconvincingly. ‘But it’s definitely up there among them.’

We both looked up at Vera when she walked into the kitchen, but her face was inscrutable.

‘Good evening, Vera,’ I said. ‘Any news?’

Vera looked disparagingly at the empty wine bottles. ‘I’m in the final three, and I’ll find out tomorrow evening,’ she said in a matter-of-fact manner. It seemed as though she didn’t want to discuss it. She picked up a dishcloth, wiped the table and removed our glasses as she did so. ‘There are strict rules and regulations, you understand,’ she explained, anticipating Joseph’s next question.

We all sat in silence for a few moments, until I decided to change the subject.

‘I called in to confirm arrangements for tomorrow, Vera.’

Ragley School, along with other schools in the area, was to be used as a polling station for the General Election and Vera had been appointed the officer-in-charge. Voting started at 7.00 a.m. and I had volunteered to help her prepare the school hall.

‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘I do appreciate your support.’ She picked up her
Daily Telegraph
and read the small print underneath the front-page photograph of a beaming Mrs Thatcher and an elderly woman. ‘“This lady is looking forward to a wonderful life ahead with the Conservatives”,’ read Vera, with a smile.

Joseph looked over her shoulder and read the same text. ‘Yes, but she’s 102 years old!’ he exclaimed.

‘Even so,’ said Vera, ‘you must admit that she does look pleased.’

It was my cue to depart. ‘Well, I’ll be on my way,’ I said. ‘Big day tomorrow.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Vera, a faraway look in her eyes. ‘Margaret’s Day.’

‘Don’t count your chickens,’ said Joseph gently.

‘I’m not,’ said Vera, picking up the newspaper again. ‘Although it says here that
The Archers
programme has already been recorded assuming Margaret will win.’

‘I wonder if Prime Minister Callaghan knows,’ chuckled Joseph, reaching for another wine bottle.

‘We have a very early start tomorrow, Joseph,’ said Vera firmly, removing the bottle and taking it to the kitchen.

‘She’s a bit tense,’ whispered Joseph, looking wistful, as his nettle-and-dandelion
vin blanc
disappeared from sight.

‘The Election?’

‘Both of them, Jack,’ said Joseph, with a strained smile.

As I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton, I reflected that the next twenty-four hours would mark Vera’s destiny.

Election Day arrived. It was a morning of forgotten suns and gun-metal clouds, a still day, frozen in time, one without past or future. As I drove slowly up the Morton Road and through the vicarage gates, above my head branches of cherry blossom hung heavily, unmoving, pink and fragrant. Soon the first winds of May would come and scatter the petals like confetti on the newly mown grass. But now all was silent as stone. It was as if the world was holding its breath.

I paused, wound down the window of my car, and breathed in the fragrance. The grounds of the vicarage were always beautiful, but never more so than when the May blossom lifted the spirit as well as the soul.

Suddenly a flock of black-headed gulls broke the spell.
They
swooped in graceful formation over the spire of St Mary’s Church and on towards the woods beyond, where the harsh cawing of rooks shattered the silence of the sycamores.

The lace curtains behind the hall window twitched and I caught a fleeting glimpse of Vera’s nervous face; in that moment, I wished with all my heart that the day would bring good news for her.

The gravel crunched beneath as I drove past the wild-raspberry canes along the Victorian brick wall. As I parked my car, Joseph appeared at the front door, carrying a wickerwork picnic basket.

‘Good morning, Jack,’ he said, with a tired smile. He showed me the contents of the wonderfully packed basket: ‘Vera’s elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea and a light supper.’

Every meal was expertly colour-coded, a triumph of Tupperware.

I opened the back doors of my car and Joseph put the basket on the violently coloured, checked-patterned car-rug, one of my mother’s less embarrassing presents.

Vera stood in front of the hall mirror, making final adjustments to her mother’s Victorian brooch that she always wore on special occasions.

‘Good morning, Vera. Your carriage awaits,’ I said, trying to sound light-hearted.

She nodded appreciatively but was clearly anxious.

‘I’ve told her she’ll be fine, Jack,’ said Joseph.

‘Sadly, I shall have to leave this behind, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera. ‘I’m supposed to remain impartial.’ Her
blue-and-white
rosette was the size of a dinner plate. She propped it against a pair of candlesticks on the hall table.

‘Very wise, Vera,’ I said.

The school was silent and dark until the fluorescent lights in the hall hummed into life. A large black metal box had been delivered, along with a set of wooden voting booths that resembled a construction kit for a series of Punch and Judy shows. I began to assemble these while Vera prepared her list of voters and the special hole-punch that would validate each voting slip. Together we mounted on the school gate a large sign that read ‘POLLING STATION’ and made sure that the arrow underneath was pointing the right way. When all was ready I went into the staff-room and made Vera a cup of coffee.

This reversal of roles clearly amused her. ‘Thank you for all your help, Mr Sheffield – and the warm coffee,’ said Vera. ‘I think everything is in place now.’ She glanced at her wristwatch. It was 6.45 a.m. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, looking at a portly figure walking up the drive. ‘Here comes my assistant for the day.’

Delia Morgetroyd, the milkman’s wife from Morton village, was coming up the drive with two heavy Co-op carrier bags.

‘Well, at least she’s brought some food, by the look of it,’ said Vera.

‘I’m sure it will be fine,’ I said.

‘I don’t think so, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera gloomily. ‘Delia only stops talking when she’s eating and, even
then
, she tries very hard to do both at the same time. Her hobby is collecting spoons, so the next fifteen hours should be interesting!’

As I left, Mrs Morgetroyd was getting her teeth into a family-sized pork pie while describing in detail to Vera the set of soup spoons she had bought in Filey. Vera, for her part, appeared to be beginning a crash-course in transcendental meditation.

As I drove back to Kirkby Steepleton, I thought about my meeting with Beth. Her school in Thirkby was also closed for the day, so we had arranged to meet at Bilbo Cottage for morning coffee and then go shopping in York.

When she arrived, as usual she despaired at the state of my kitchen. ‘It’s a shambles, Jack,’ she said, staring at the assortment of pans stacked on the draining board. ‘For such a supposedly organized man, you really have no idea.’

‘I keep trying, Beth,’ I said apologetically. ‘Don’t you like my latest gadget I’ve just fixed to the wall?’ I pointed to my state-of-the-art manual can opener with its large metal handle.