02 Mister Teacher (9 page)

‘Yes, Mrs Grainger,’ said Victoria Alice, rummaging in the money box. ‘And he gave me this.’ Smiling, she held up the ten-pound note.

Mrs Paxton looked at Anne with relief written all over her face. ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Grainger,’ she said, and gave Molly a big hug.

Anne picked up the ten-pound note and walked towards the school office, followed by Vera and Mrs Paxton, who was still clutching little Molly.

As Anne opened the door to the office, Stan Coe caught sight of Molly. ‘That’s t’little thief!’ he shouted.

Dan Hunter leapt towards the doorway to block the charge of Mrs Paxton, pulled the door shut behind him, and held the handle firmly in his giant fist.

Minutes later, Anne had told PC Hunter the whole story and, slowly, a grin spread over his face. He took the ten-pound note, told Mrs Paxton not to worry any more, and asked Vera if she would drive Mrs Paxton home again. Then he walked back into the office with a very determined look on his face.

Although Stan Coe was pleased to retrieve his missing money, he was ashen-faced when Dan had finished with him and was told in no uncertain terms that he should apologize to Mrs Paxton. Stan merely glowered and left as quickly as he had arrived.

Dan relaxed when Stan Coe had gone and arranged a time to pick up Jo for their date at the Odeon Cinema with a certain superhero who wore scarlet underwear.
Unexpectedly
, Beth telephoned to ask if I wanted to meet her in The Royal Oak later that evening for a drink. Vera was quick to notice how eagerly I said ‘Yes’.

Back in Bilbo Cottage, I ate a hastily prepared meal of fish fingers and chips while watching the latest episode of
Star Trek
. Captain Kirk and Mr Spock proceeded to defeat yet another strange alien life-form within the allotted fifty minutes, against a familiar backdrop of papier-mâché boulders that had clearly been recycled from the previous week’s episode. When the news came on that 57,000 Ford car workers had gone on strike at the Dagenham factory in protest at Prime Minister Callaghan’s refusal to budge on his five per cent pay limit, I switched off and drove towards Ragley.

Beth arrived a few minutes after me. She looked casual and confident in her tight blue jeans, cheesecloth blouse and an open-weave, knitted cardigan. Her relaxed smile put me at ease after a hectic day.

The Royal Oak was packed with its usual Friday night crowd. Ronnie and Ruby Smith were sitting with Big Dave and Little Malcolm on the bench seat under the dartboard. Old Tommy Piercy was tinkling the old piano in the corner while Deke Ramsbottom, resplendent in his John Wayne hat, waistcoat with shiny sheriff’s badge, and jingling spurs on his brown leather cowboy boots, was giving his rendition of ‘Home on the Range’. Stan Coe, in the far corner, was berating a group of farmers about high taxes, while Shane Ramsbottom was asking
his
brother Clint why he had started to wear a Bjorn Borg headband over his Kevin Keegan perm.

Sheila, the barmaid, was keeping up a good old northern tradition by serving mince-and-onion pies with a large helping of vivid green mushy peas. It was a feast on a freezing cold Yorkshire night.

When Beth and I walked through to the lounge bar, we spotted Jo Maddison and Dan Hunter, apparently deep in conversation about the possible chemical formula of Kryptonite. We pulled up two stools to join them and Dan and I walked to the bar and ordered drinks from Don, the barman.

At that moment, John and Pauline Paxton walked in. Pauline waved a greeting and set off for the taproom, while John joined us at the bar.

‘Evening, Mr Sheffield,’ said Whistling John. ‘We managed t’get a baby-sitter.’

‘Would you and Mrs Paxton like a drink, John?’ I asked.

‘Nay, Mr Sheffield, we’re not stopping. We’re goin’ down t’Bluebell. We only called in ’cause my Pauline saw Stan Coe’s Land Rover an’ she wants a word wi’ ’im.’

‘Oh, I see,’ I said, and glanced at Dan.

John looked at Dan Hunter square in the eyes. ‘Ah see y’not in y’uniform, Constable,’ he said.

Dan appeared to guess what was going on. ‘I’m not on duty, if that’s what you mean.’

‘In that case, ah’ll apologize in advance for my Pauline. She’s a bit vexed. In fact, she’s spittin’ feathers,’ said John.

Dan and I looked across the lounge bar into the taproom, where Pauline Paxton was making her way towards Stan Coe like a nightclub bouncer. She towered over him and tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Mr Coe,’ she said, ‘ah want an apology. Y’called my little Molly a thief today.’

‘That’s reight. There’s nowt t’say she’s not,’ said Stan ungraciously.

‘Ah’m askin’ politely, Mr Coe,’ said Mrs Paxton.

The taproom went quiet. Stan Coe was not well liked, although few would have confronted him in this way.

‘Get back ’ome, woman, t’that dimwit of an ’usband,’ growled Stan.

Whistling John suddenly stiffened and Dan Hunter put his hand on his arm.

‘No trouble, please, John,’ said Dan.

Surprisingly, John simply smiled and replied, ‘Don’t worry, Constable. My Pauline’ll ’andle it.’

Pauline Paxton moved slowly and methodically. With immense strength, she grabbed Stan Coe by the collar of his faded shooting jacket and lifted him up, so that his feet dangled in the air. Stan Coe was paralysed with fear. Never had he met such a woman as this.

Mrs Paxton stared into Stan Coe’s frightened eyes. ‘Ah’m waitin’ for an apology, Mr Coe.’

A group of well-lubricated farmers began to cheer. ‘Watch out, Stanley,’ shouted one of them. ‘She used t’castrate pigs!’

‘An’ ah were good at it an’ all,’ said Mrs Paxton, not
relaxing
her grip or showing any sign of strain in lifting sixteen stones.

‘Ah’m s-sorry,’ stuttered Stan.

‘Insult my family again an’ ah’ll show you just ’ow good,’ she said, replacing him in his seat.

With that, she walked back towards the exit and beckoned Whistling John to follow. Applause and laughter broke out in equal measure, while Stan Coe looked as if he had just gone three rounds with
The Bionic Woman
.

‘Ah’ll be round t’morrow t’finish that gate, Mr Sheffield,’ John said with a grin.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a drink?’ said Dan, looking both relieved and amused.

John looked at his watch. ‘No, thanks, Constable. We’ll ’ave a swift one at t’Bluebell and then ah’m off ’ome t’watch
Match o’ the Day
.’

I smiled and shook his hand. ‘Will you be watching it with Mrs Paxton, John?’ I said.

‘Ah don’t think so, Mr Sheffield. She knaws nowt abart football,’ said Whistling John. ‘In fact, she still thinks Sheffield Wednesday’s a public ’oliday.’

And with a great roar of laughter he was gone.

It was a good night, although Beth and I stayed later than we should. When we kissed goodnight and drove off in opposite directions, we were both very tired after such a busy week.

The next morning my brain was slow to function. Dawn was breaking but, thankfully, it was Saturday and I was looking forward to a lazy start to the day. I lifted the
bedcovers
a little, rolled my head off the pillow and groaned as a thousand hammers beat a sickening rhythm on the inside of my skull. Outside my window, birds were twittering and, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was another piercing, ear-shattering sound that at first I couldn’t place.

Gradually, I realized what it was that had woken me. It was someone who was definitely cheerful. In fact, it was someone who was clearly
very
content.

Out-whistling the dawn chorus was John Paxton with his jubilant rendition of ‘Glad All Over’ by the Dave Clark Five.

Chapter Six

Wonder Woman’s Boots

The Annual Parent Teacher Association Jumble Sale was a success and raised £172.57 for school funds
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Monday, 27 November 1978

IT WAS A
bitterly cold late November evening and, on Ragley High Street, the acrid smell of wood smoke hung heavily in the air. I pulled up the hood of my duffel coat and crossed the road by the village green. The profusion of scarlet holly berries, though brightening the gloom, were also a warning of the harsh winter to come. Ahead of me, the lights of Nora’s Coffee Shop blazed out brightly and, as I opened the door, Bob Geldof and the Boomtown Rats were belting out their new number one, ‘Rat Trap’, on the bright-red and chrome jukebox.

Nora Pratt was expecting me. ‘Ah’ve put all the dwessing-up clothes in the twunk, Mr Sheffield,’ she
said
. ‘What Mrs Gwainger doesn’t want can go in t’Jumble Sale.’

‘Thank you, Nora,’ I said. ‘I’ve got my car just outside.’

It was Friday, after school, the evening before the Annual Parent Teacher Association Jumble Sale. Nora Pratt had telephoned Vera to say she had cleared out the Amateur Dramatic Society’s costume store and would we like the cast-offs. Two months had gone by since Nora’s débâcle at the Talent Contest, but she seemed to have recovered and emerged unscathed.

‘Dowothy,’ shouted Nora to her assistant, ‘Mr Sheffield might like a fwothy coffee.’ Nora never missed the chance of business.

‘You’ve gorra a big chest there, Nora,’ said her assistant, Dorothy Humpleby.

Nora’s eyes narrowed. What went on in Dorothy’s mind was still a mystery to her. ‘It were Aladdin’s twea-sure chest,’ she said curtly, and walked off into the back room.

‘So what d’you fancy, Mr Sheffield?’ asked Dorothy, putting down her magazine. She had just spent 25 pence on a copy of the new magazine
Smash Hits Monthly
, mainly because Blondie was on the front cover.

‘What do you recommend, Dorothy?’ I asked.

‘Doughnuts,’ she replied without hesitation.

I nodded and smiled tentatively.

Dorothy served me with a two-day-old jam doughnut and a frothy coffee, but her mind was obviously elsewhere.

‘How are you, Dorothy?’ I asked politely, and put a fifty-pence piece on the grubby counter.

‘Fair t’middling, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy, fingering her huge, plastic earrings in an absent-minded way.

Dorothy was a twenty-two-year-old, miniskirted, peroxide blonde with ambitions to be a model. She was also five feet eleven inches tall with four-inch white stilettos, so a conversation with her was demanding on the neck muscles. Among the villagers, Dorothy was not regarded as the sharpest knife in the drawer so our conversations were usually brief.

‘Ah were jus’ thinking about Lynda Carter,’ said Dorothy. ‘She’s got everything, she ’as.’

‘Lynda Carter?’

Dorothy looked at me in amazement from beneath her false eyelashes. ‘Y’know, Mr Sheffield: Lynda Carter. She were that beauty queen in America and, when she spins round reight fast, she turns into Wonder Woman wi’ ’ot pants and red boots to die for. Ah’d love a pair o’ them boots.’

In front of me in the queue, Big Dave and Little Malcolm, after locking up their council dustbin wagon, had called in for a pork pie and a mug of tea before going home to wash. They were listening in to the conversation.

‘She’s on telly every week, Mr Sheffield,’ said Big Dave helpfully, as he transferred three heaped spoonfuls of sugar with a white plastic spoon into the chipped mug of tea.

‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm. ‘An’ she wears bullet-proof bracelets an’ ’as a gold lasso.’

Dorothy looked down in admiration at Little Malcolm. ‘Ah didn’t know you were a fan, Malcolm,’ she said.

‘Ah think she’s fantastic,’ said Little Malcolm, his ears going bright pink.

Big Dave gave Little Malcolm his ‘big girl’s blouse’ look, while Dorothy fingered the chunky signs of the zodiac on her charm bracelet and gazed at Malcolm with new appreciation.

Unusually for Little Malcolm, he launched into a conversation of his own, instead of merely waiting for Big Dave to speak and then automatically agreeing with him. ‘Y’reight about ’er boots, Dorothy,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘They’re jus’ like Starsky ’n’Utch’s car: red wi’ a white stripe.’

‘Yer spot-on there, Malcolm, an’ it’s same shade o’ bright red,’ said Dorothy. She gave him one of her very best toothy smiles and he went almost as red as Wonder Woman’s boots.

‘C’mon, Romeo,’ shouted Big Dave, and cuffed his little cousin round the ear. Malcolm promptly dropped his pie in his tea. As the pastry had the consistency of cast-iron, the crockery was a slight favourite to shatter first.

‘See y’tomorrow morning at t’Jumble Sale, Mr Sheffield,’ said Big Dave, as he lumbered over to a nearby table. Little Malcolm followed on behind, casting wistful glances at Dorothy while drying his pie on his council donkey jacket.

I found the only spare seat, opposite Timothy Pratt, who had just locked up his Hardware Emporium for the
night
. As usual, Tidy Tim had left everything in a state of immaculate order.

‘Hello, Mr Sheffield,’ said Tidy Tim, in his monotone voice.

‘Hello, Timothy,’ I said, taking a sip of my lukewarm frothy coffee.

Tidy Tim picked up his mug of hot chocolate and put the square coaster two inches from the edge of the table. After closing one eye, he made a minute adjustment. The coaster was now parallel to the edge of the table. Exactly parallel. It was only then he visibly relaxed. Tidy Tim liked parallel lines.

After losing the battle with the doughnut, I got up to leave.

‘’Ope t’Jumble Sale goes well, Mr Sheffield,’ said Dorothy, as she pressed C7 on the jukebox, turned up the Commodores singing ‘Three Times a Lady’ and sat down on a high stool. She carefully readjusted the seams on her black fish-net stockings, crossed her legs, picked up her nail file and looked thoughtfully at Little Malcolm.

Next day, I was up early. Late autumn had brought with it a jewel of a morning to Bilbo Cottage. As I stood in my dressing gown and filled the kettle, I looked through the leaded panes of my kitchen window onto the back garden.

Nature had truly blessed this beautiful part of Yorkshire. Soft sunlight dappled the holly berries, and the spiky heads of russet dahlias, their sharp edges tinged in white hoar frost, stirred in the gentle breeze. At
the
end of the garden, a blackbird poked its yellow beak through the ochre leaves of bracken and the calling of the rooks echoed in the vast powder-blue sky. Once again, I silently thanked Vera for introducing me to this lovely little cottage on the edge of the pretty village of Kirkby Steepleton.