04 Village Teacher (7 page)

She paused at Ruby’s table and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Happy birthday, Ruby. Sorry I couldn’t make your presentation but Jack will tell me all about it.’

‘Thank you, Miss ’Enderson,’ said Ruby, ‘an’ please can y’show our Racquel an’ Sharon y’engagement ring?’

After a few admiring glances Beth joined me and squeezed my hand, ‘Good to see you,’ she said. I bought her a gin and tonic and she took a sip, rubbed the ache out of her neck and stretched luxuriously. ‘Bliss,’ she murmured: ‘the weekend at last.’

‘Busy day?’ I asked.

‘Very,’ said Beth, taking another sip and pushing a few stray strands of hair behind her ears. ‘I even had Miss B-H telling me not to worry but to be prepared for any eventuality.’

‘So did I.’

Beth looked round as Troy Phoenix and his aptly named Whalers began to sing ‘House of the Rising Sun’. ‘Shall we go?’ she said with a grin.

‘Let’s,’ I said and we finished our drinks.

We waved goodbye to Ruby, who pointed to her roses and gave me a big smile. It looked like her day was complete. But when Beth and I walked out into the cold night air I realized it wasn’t.

On the far side of the village green, a classic black Bentley had just pulled up and Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener was standing next to it. From the rear of the car emerged an army sergeant, who jumped to attention and saluted. The major returned the salute, climbed back in and drove away. Andy Smith looked smart in his uniform. Taller than his father, he had the same wiry build but when he smiled there was no mistaking he was Ruby’s son.

Beth and I followed him in to see Ruby’s reaction.

Ruby stopped singing along and stared, barely able to believe her eyes.

‘Andy … my son, my son!’ And with that she burst into tears and hugged her eldest child as if she never wanted to let him go.

It was a scene I’ll never forget but what made it special was that Andy had a gift for his mother.

In his hand he held a flower … It was the sixth yellow rose.

So it was that later that evening, in the crowded front room of 7, School View, Ruby was granted her wish and she sang to her children … all six of them.

Chapter Four

Jane Austen’s Footsteps

School closed today for the one-week half-term holiday with 86 children on roll
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 24 October 1980

THE PURPLE-GREY SKY
began to darken and I could smell rain on the autumn wind. It had been a long drive to Hampshire.

Dusk was drawing in and Beth and I were keen to arrive at her parents’ home before nightfall. We slowed as an old wooden signpost came into view. It read
LITTLE CHAWTON
2.

‘We’re nearly there, Jack,’ said Beth and she leant over and squeezed my hand. Her excitement was obvious, whereas I felt a knot of apprehension in my stomach as our meet-the-family weekend drew near.

It was Saturday, 25 October. We had left North Yorkshire after breakfast and gradually the miles sped by. A coffee
break
in South Yorkshire was followed by a relaxing lunch in a friendly roadside pub in the Midlands and afternoon tea near Oxford. Finally, as darkness began to fall, we meandered through a cluster of classic English villages bordered by water meadows and breathtaking forests. Hampshire was truly a beautiful county. However, my mud-splattered Morris Minor Traveller was beginning to groan in protest as we descended a hill beneath an avenue of giant trees. Above our heads their branches arched like a bridge of fingers across the narrow road and formed a dark tunnel that shut out the sky. I gripped the steering wheel a little tighter.

Soon we were following an ancient tractor down the main street of Little Chawton. The bright amber lights of the Cricketer public house pierced the gloom and I pulled up alongside an old cast-iron hand pump at the edge of the village green. Ahead was a church with a square Norman tower and a row of neat thatched cottages fronted with red brick and Hampshire flint.

Beth pointed ahead. ‘Turn left at the church, Jack, and drive to the top of the rise.’

A few spots of rain had begun to fall as we parked outside the last cottage. It was a mellow brick-and-beam building, expertly thatched, with sloping window frames and not a right angle in sight. I breathed a sigh of relief that we had arrived safely.

‘This is it, Jack: Austen Cottage,’ said Beth excitedly. ‘Drive down to the far end of the driveway next to Dad’s shed.’

Lights appeared at the front door and a tall, athletic man with steel-grey hair and a relaxed smile strode out
to
meet us. It was John Henderson, Beth’s father, dressed in a country-checked shirt, warm woollen waistcoat and thick cord trousers. He was fifty-seven years old but looked much younger.

Beth opened the passenger door, jumped out and gave her father a big hug. ‘Good to be home, Dad,’ she said.

‘Thank God you’re here, Beth,’ he said with a grin. ‘Your mother’s been stirring her precious watercress soup for the past hour.’

Beth gave him a kiss on the cheek. ‘She doesn’t change, then!’

He grabbed Beth’s overnight bag and stretched out his hand to me in greeting. ‘Good journey, Jack?’

‘Fine, thank you … Mr Henderson,’ I replied hesitantly.

He grinned. ‘Call me John. No formalities here, Jack … particularly for my future son-in-law.’ His handshake was firm. At six feet tall his eyes were on a level with mine and he gave me a warm smile.

In the warmth of a huge terracotta-tiled kitchen, Diane Henderson looked less relaxed. She glanced up from stirring a large pan of soup and, in a blue-striped apron that emphasized her slim figure, she pushed a strand of soft blonde hair behind her ear. Her high cheekbones, clear skin and green eyes reminded me of Beth …
and Laura
.

Next to me, on an old Welsh dresser, was a small television set. Alan Titchmarsh was happily presenting his gardening guide and, on the shelf above, alongside a collection of the novels of Jane Austen, were many framed photographs. One was dated 1958 when the twelve-year-old Beth and ten-year-old Laura had waited excitedly
outside
the Salisbury Gaumont to see Buddy Holly and the Crickets. Others showed the two sisters riding ponies, dressed as girl guides, playing college hockey and enjoying skiing holidays.

Beth saw me looking at the photographs. ‘Oh, Mother!’ she exclaimed. ‘These are
so
embarrassing.’

Diane took the soup off the hob, walked over to Beth and gave her a hug, and I thought that, side by side, they looked more like sisters.

‘Welcome home, Beth,’ she said, holding her elder daughter’s hands and then taking a step back to appraise her. ‘Come and sit down, you must be tired.’

Then she turned down the sound on the television set and looked up at me with a small smile. Her steady gaze appeared cautious. She smoothed her hands down the sides of her apron, stretched up and gave me a peck on the cheek.

‘Hello, Jack … I hope you’re hungry,’ she said. ‘I’ve made enough soup for an army.’

‘Yes, please, Mrs Henderson. It certainly smells appetizing,’ I said.

‘Jack …
do
call me Diane.’ She surveyed me with a calm gaze again and I wondered what thoughts were passing through her mind.

On the table was a veritable feast: a cured ham, boiled potatoes, large red tomatoes, fresh beetroot, a towering sponge cake and a bottle of home-made cowslip wine. Diane began serving her watercress soup, a local Hampshire speciality, with crusty fresh-baked bread rolls, and we all tucked in.

‘When’s Laura coming?’ asked Beth.

John put down his spoon and wiped his mouth with a snowy-white napkin. ‘She rang this afternoon … said she’ll be here for Sunday lunch and staying for the afternoon before going back to London.’

‘Is she bringing Desmond?’ asked Beth.

‘Yes,’ said Diane simply.

I looked up and she was staring at me.

‘Sounds like she’s pretty keen on him,’ said Beth.

‘Well, you know Laura,’ said John: ‘no half-measures.’

I felt the knot in my stomach tighten.

Beth smiled and returned to her meal, while her mother glanced at me again before offering second helpings of the delicious watercress soup.

Gradually we all relaxed with the good food and potent home-made wine. There was lively banter between Beth and her father while Diane Henderson cleared the dishes. I offered to help but she was insistent I remain at the table. My thoughts drifted to Beth’s younger sister. The dynamic, vivacious and attractive Laura always lived life to the full. During her time as manager of the fashion department of Liberty’s in York we had spent a lot of time together. To me she was an exciting friend but Laura had seen our relationship in a different way. Eight months ago, on Leap Year Day, she had joked about it being the day when women could propose to men. My cool response to the idea ended a blossoming relationship and Laura had returned to London and resumed her old job at Liberty’s in Regent Street. We hadn’t spoken since.

Later that evening, we sat in the low-beamed lounge by a crackling log fire and Beth and I related stories of our lives as village school headteachers. Finally, over
a
second bottle of home-made wine, we shared an old album of photographs taken on John’s ancient Kodak No. 2 automatic Brownie camera. Their Isle of Wight holiday in 1949 brought back many happy memories for them.

Only charred embers remained in the fire grate when the album was closed. John set off to lock up the house and Diane returned to the kitchen to make some hot milky bedtime drinks.

Beth closed the lounge door and whispered, ‘I’m in my old room, Jack, and you’re in the spare room.’

‘Of course,’ I said with a smile.

We walked through to the kitchen, collected our drinks, and I browsed through the copies of
Pride and Prejudice
,
Mansfield Park
and
Emma
.

‘We named the cottage after Jane Austen,’ said Diane, ‘but this is my favourite.’ She picked up a well-thumbed copy of
Sense and Sensibility
, opened it to the first page and scanned the familiar introduction to the Dashwood family. ‘It’s really two love stories … of two sisters.’ She looked up and I wondered if there was a hint of hidden significance. ‘Have you read it, Jack?’

‘A long time ago,’ I said, ‘for A Level English.’

‘Bedtime reading,’ she said and passed it to me.

‘Thanks, Diane.’

She opened the door, paused in the doorway and looked back as if there was something on her mind. Whatever it was she decided not to share it. Then she looked me up and down. ‘Goodnight, Jack … Sleep well,’ she said, and walked out into the hallway, leaving the door open for me to follow.

* * *

The small single bedroom was quiet and cosy. I sat up in bed and looked around at the rough-plastered, whitewashed walls, the ancient beams above my head and the framed pictures of steam engines and pretty watercolour views of Hampshire villages.

I was soon engrossed in
Sense and Sensibility
and full of admiration for Jane Austen’s acute perceptions of human nature and her wicked sense of humour. Finally, to the sound of the whispering of the thatched roof in the evening breeze, I fell into a deep sleep.

It was a chill dawn and even the cock crowing in the far distance sounded mournful. I looked out of the window upon my strange new world. On the south wall of Austen Cottage, an espalier pear had been trained to perfection and, in the hedgerow, blackberry briars trailed in among the berries of hips and haws. Beneath me, chrysanthemums were like burnished gold in the slanting October sunshine and Virginia creeper spread its leaves of autumn fire across the flint-studded walls.

I dressed quickly, made my way down the creaking stairs in stockinged feet and sat in the stone-flagged entrance porch to put on my shoes. The kitchen door was unlocked and I walked outside into the yard and made my way up the well-worn pathway to a sturdy wooden fence.

John was walking towards me with an old enamel bucket and gave me a cheery wave. ‘Lovely morning, Jack,’ he shouted. He opened the five-barred gate and set down the bucket. I peered inside. Nestling on a handful
of
straw were six large brown eggs. He followed my gaze. ‘Breakfast,’ he said. ‘You can’t beat fresh eggs.’

We both leant on the fence and stared into the distance. A traditional patchwork of the fields of rural England stretched out before us in the morning mist. In a fertile valley of shimmering watercress beds, a classic English village appeared frozen in time. Next to the ancient church, a pond fed by local streams was a home for mallards and moorhens and, in among the tall trees, an old schoolhouse, faced with undressed flint, had a bell tower just like Ragley School. I smiled at the memory.

‘You have a lovely home, John,’ I said, ‘and Hampshire looks a fine place, gentler than North Yorkshire.’

‘Yes, we like it here,’ mused John. ‘It’s a simple life. Since I retired from the RAF, I potter along. We sell milk and eggs, raise a few pigs, and I help out on the Watercress Line.’

‘Watercress Line?’

‘Steam engines, Jack. Every man has his passion.’

I glanced at his weather-beaten face and we stared out upon this perfect autumn morning.

‘I’m a lucky man, John,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I never thought Beth would say yes.’

He nodded thoughtfully.

‘You have two wonderful daughters … both beautiful and talented.’

‘And both very different,’ he added. Then he gazed into the distance. ‘Laura … ah, Laura,’ he mused. ‘She was always the light and shade of my life – sometimes happy, then sad, often in the same moment.’

‘Laura is always great fun, John,’ I said, ‘and she’s clearly going places in the fashion world, by all accounts.’

‘I just hope it lasts,’ he said. ‘A lot of her projects have often come crashing down round her ears.’ His expression gave no hint of hidden meaning. ‘She was very fond of you, Jack … but you must know that by now.’

I turned to face him. ‘It’s always been Beth for me, John. There was never any other. I’m sorry if I made Laura think otherwise.’