02 Mister Teacher (28 page)

Beth shook her head. ‘It’s lethal there. I bet you’ve bumped your head on it a dozen times. You need to fit it here.’ She pointed to a space under the storage cupboards.

She was right but, then again, she usually was.

As we drove into York together, I knew she would make an excellent headmistress. If she could organize my kitchen, she should have no problems with her school and staff!

York was busy with the early influx of tourists as we wandered hand in hand down Coney Street and stopped outside Debenhams. The shop window display advertised a new look called ‘the Romantic Revival’, and Beth giggled as she read the words on the large poster. ‘“The look of Debenhams is soft and fluid, with fabrics that beg to be touched”,’ she read, with a knowing stare.

‘You’d look good in that,’ I said, and pointed to a mannequin wearing a button-through shirtwaister in blues and pinks with a £19.95 price tag.

‘You’re right,’ she said, and pulled me through the door.

I lost count of the number of times Beth emerged from the changing cubicle, but I tried hard on each occasion to respond to her questions. She finished up buying the two dresses she had tried on right at the beginning, one in blue and one in pink. It reminded me of another day with Laura.

‘I can always take one back at the weekend,’ said Beth, which reinforced one of my theories about women and shopping.

‘Good idea,’ I said. ‘Although you look lovely in both,’ I added hastily.

‘Laura was right,’ said Beth. ‘You are different from other men.’

I picked up her bags and we walked back into the street.

I was curious. ‘In what way?’ I asked.

She looked up at me and straightened the rumpled collar of my old sports jacket and then examined the
frayed
stitching round the leather strips attached to my cuffs. ‘You listen,’ she said simply, and then we walked on.

I sighed. I had given up trying to understand women.

On our way back to Kirkby Steepleton, Beth and I stopped at school to call in and vote. There was a steady stream of voters going in and out as we made our way to Vera’s table. It was significant that when I left in the morning the two tables had been together. Now there was a clear division between Vera’s tidy table with her lists, hole-punch and different-coloured pens and that of Delia Morgetroyd’s, with her half-eaten pork pie, slab of seed-cake, flask of strong tea and her
Spoons Through the Ages
library book from the mobile-library van.

Vera looked pleased to see us and quickly underlined our names on the electoral list, punched our voting slips and passed them over.

Deirdre Coe and two of her friends were deep in conversation next to the voting booths. I walked into the first empty booth and picked up the pencil that was attached to the shelf by a long piece of string. Suddenly, Deirdre was at my shoulder.

‘Was there something you wanted, Miss Coe?’ I said sharply.

She stepped back quickly. ‘Not from likes o’ you,’ she said, and with a swagger she walked out past Vera’s table.

‘Judgement Day, Vera,’ said Deirdre, with an evil laugh.

Vera shook her head in dismay.

Suddenly Mrs Patterson-Smythe swept in, chatting with Mary Hardisty. As Vera gave her a voting slip she smiled in acknowledgement and walked confidently into the booth.

When she emerged, she walked to Vera’s table and put the folded slip through the slit in the top of the metal box. Then she gave Vera a knowing wink and spoke quietly in her ear. ‘Don’t worry,’ whispered Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘In case of a tie, the President has the casting vote.’

Vera looked up expectantly but dared not say a word.

‘The note I put up in the village hall at seven-thirty will announce you as the next President,’ said Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘I’m so pleased for you.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Vera.

‘Nothing to say, Vera,’ said the smiling Mrs Patterson-Smythe. ‘Just keep it under your hat until this evening.’ With that, she caught up with Mary Hardisty and together they walked out into the sunshine.

Vera quickly gathered herself, waved goodbye to Beth and me, and looked across at Delia Morgetroyd. ‘Now what were you saying, Delia, about your Hornsea Pottery salad spoon?’ asked Vera politely.

News spread round the local villages like wildfire and it was Joseph who finally broke the news officially, although Anne had already walked to the village hall, read the notice and telephoned all the staff.

On Friday morning, a guard of honour was waiting to greet Vera in the school entrance hall. I stood by the open
staff-room
door and, next to me, Anne, Sally, Jo, Ruby and Shirley waited in line. We all clapped as Vera walked in, waving her copy of the
Daily Telegraph
in triumph. The headline read THATCHER SET FOR NO. 10 and below it was a photograph of a beaming Mrs Thatcher outside Finchley Town Hall.

‘She’s done it,’ said Vera. ‘I knew she would.’ Then she paused, realizing something was different.

‘And so have you, Vera,’ said Anne, and beckoned her into the office.

‘Well done, Miss Evans,’ shouted Ruby, giving a passable imitation of a drum roll with the wooden handle of her mop against the side of her galvanized bucket.

‘Congratulations, Vera,’ said Jo, waving her correctly filled-in Attendance Register, of which she was becoming almost too proud.

‘Good news, Vera,’ said Sally. ‘You deserve it.’

We all piled into the staff-room, closely followed by Ruby’s galvanized bucket, and Vera took in the scene before her.

Anne had made a large ‘Congratulations’ card and this was standing on the coffee table. Inside the card Sally had penned in beautiful italic lettering, ‘To our new President from all the staff at Ragley School’, and we had all written a personal message underneath. Ruby had sat up late into the night sewing a small cross-stitch pattern on a tiny strip of a cast-off pillowcase and this had been mounted on a small rectangle of white card.

In the centre of the table was Shirley’s non-alcoholic fruit punch, with tinned raspberries floating on the
surface
and seven school tumblers lined up alongside. Jo had surprised everyone by baking a scrumptious lemon meringue pie. We later discovered it was Dan’s favourite and Jo was fast becoming an expert at making it.

Vera was overwhelmed and gave everyone a hug, including a huge one for Ruby, who was wiping a stream of teardrops from her flushed cheeks with the clean side of her chamois leather. ‘Oh, thank you all so much,’ she said. ‘What a wonderful surprise from all my special friends.’

We all stood around, feeling a little awkward, until Ruby said, ‘That lemon meringue wants putting in t’fridge, Shirley, unless y’thinkin’ of ’aving a bit now.’

Everybody laughed and Shirley rushed into the kitchen to gather up plates, forks and a cake slice.

It was an unusual but happy start to the day, as we chatted, drank Shirley’s excellent fruit punch and gorged ourselves on Jo’s delicious lemon meringue. At two minutes to nine we were all hastily wiping our mouths with tissues and clearing the staff-room of plates.

‘Almost time for the bell,’ said Anne, with a sense of urgency.

We all glanced at the clock.

‘Mr Sheffield, please could ah ring it today in ’onour of Miss Evans, as it’s a speshul day?’ asked Ruby.

‘That’s a very kind thought, Ruby,’ said Vera.

Ruby sped off like a child about to play with a new toy.

In the hundred-year history of Ragley School, the school bell had never pealed with such vigour. Ruby and the art of campanology were not natural allies.

As a result, on the stroke of nine o’clock Timothy Pratt, assuming a fire engine was approaching the High Street, dropped his new supply of hedgehog-shaped boot scrapers. Old Tommy Piercy, sitting on the bench next to the duck pond by the village green, dropped his box of Swan Vesta matches in the damp grass as he tried to light his pipe and thought for a moment it was an air raid. Prudence Golightly smiled confidently at her new hearing aid and Peter Miles-Humphreys, the local bank clerk, forgot his habitual stammer of twenty years, as he drove past the school on his way to York and yelled, ‘Bloody hell!’

His wife, Felicity, in the passenger seat, looked delighted. ‘Well done, darling,’ she said. ‘I knew it was just a passing phase.’

Peter grasped the steering wheel a little tighter and refrained to mention the ‘passing phase’ had begun in August 1958 on the day he had married Felicity.

At lunchtime, Vera and I drove to the vicarage and collected a huge box of brand-new crockery, recently purchased by Vera from Brown’s in York on behalf of the Women’s Institute.

Vera looked at her watch. ‘If you’d be kind enough to take me straight to the village hall, Mr Sheffield, we should be just in time. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind putting the crockery in the kitchen. You know the way,’ she said, with a smile.

As we drove down the High Street, the women of Ragley and Morton were coming out in force to welcome Vera.

‘Good luck, Vera,’ I said, as we pulled up outside the village hall. ‘I’ll look after the crockery.’

Vera got out of the car with a determined expression, clutched her handbag tightly, and walked through the milling crowds to the wooden steps in front of the main entrance. The members of the new committee shuffled to the front, anxious to bathe in Vera’s reflected glory. This was a significant day in their calendar.

Right on cue, the sun came out and a breeze sprang up. Vera was bathed in bright sunlight and a few petals of cherry and almond blossom blew through the air and fell onto her shoulders. It was as if she had been blessed from on high.

‘Speech!’ shouted Mary Hardisty.

‘Speech!’ echoed Bridget Crowther.

‘Say a few words, Vera,’ encouraged Joyce Davenport.

Mrs Patterson-Smythe modestly stepped down from the top step leading to the main entrance of the village hall, and ushered Vera to take her place. In that moment there was a subtle shift of power.

I stood at the back of the throng, put down the heavy box of crockery and leaned back against one of the flowering cherry trees.

Vera rummaged in her handbag and took out a postcard on which she had written a few notes. ‘It is a great honour to become President of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute,’ said Vera, her voice calm and sure.

Two hundred miles away, on the steps of 10 Downing Street, Vera’s idol, Margaret Thatcher, was addressing a similar throng.

‘And I would just like to remember some words of St Francis of Assisi which I think are really just particularly apt at the moment,’ said Margaret.

Back in Ragley, Vera glanced down at her postcard. ‘And I would just like to remember some words of the late Violet Parkinson,’ read Vera, ‘who was the President of our Women’s Institute twenty-five years ago when I first became a member.’

Margaret Thatcher half-closed her eyes and recited:

‘Where there is discord, may we bring harmony.

Where there is error, may we bring truth.

Where there is doubt, may we bring faith.

And where there is despair, may we bring hope.’

Vera held up her postcard and recited:

‘Let us uphold the ideals of truth, justice, tolerance and fellowship in order to provide a friendly atmosphere where women can be inspired and enlightened.’

The crowd cheered.

Margaret Thatcher was now in full flow.

‘And to all the British people, howsoever they voted, may I say this. Now that the Election is over, may we get together and strive to serve and strengthen the country of which we’re so proud to be a part.’

This was followed by polite applause. Then Margaret Thatcher walked into 10 Downing Street and began to plan her Cabinet posts.

Vera scanned her audience, pausing briefly at the chain-smoking Deirdre Coe. ‘And may I remind you,’ she said, ‘that however you voted we should be united from now on in helping women to lead fulfilling lives and to be of value in the community.’

This was inspirational stuff and everyone cheered again, with the exception, of course, of Deirdre Coe. Then Vera walked proudly into the village hall and supervised the creation of her new Committee.

Everyone, with the notable exception of Deirdre Coe, had moved up the pecking order. Vera was officially installed as the new President, resplendent in her green sash; Joyce Davenport became Vice-President; the retiring President, Mrs Patterson-Smythe, took up the post of Secretary again; Mrs Bronwyn Bickerstaff, the accountant’s wife, was press-ganged into becoming the Treasurer, largely because her husband, Allan, offered his services free of charge; Mrs Mary Hardisty became a hugely popular Produce and Handicrafts Secretary; Miss Prudence Golightly was an obvious choice as Outings Secretary; Mrs Bridget Crowther, wife of the editor of the
Easington Herald & Pioneer
, became Press Secretary; Vera volunteered
to
continue to coordinate Flowers for the Sick; Miss Amelia Duff from the Post Office was in charge of Magazines; the striking and vivacious Madame Jacqueline Laporte, a French teacher at Easington Comprehensive School, took responsibility for Stallholders and New Members; Mrs Patterson-Smythe also took on the additional role of coordinating the rota for the monthly Hostesses; and, finally, Deirdre Coe was given the job of Cupboard Supervisor. So, on the day Vera was crowned queen, her arch-rival was awarded the key to a cupboard full of crockery.