05 Please Sir! (30 page)

‘Well,’e gorrit cheap off Tidy Tim – some old stock,’ said Ruby. ‘It’s gonna be Mongolian and white.’

I couldn’t wait to see it.

Our History lesson went well apart from a few of the usual howlers. In answer to the question ‘What was the Romans’ greatest achievement?’ Tracy Hartley had written, ‘Learning Latin’, and Dean Kershaw thought that ‘Round his garden’ was the perfect answer to ‘Where was Hadrian’s wall built?’ Neither did Amanda Pickles hesitate in her response to the question ‘Where was the Magna Carta signed?’ She wrote, ‘At the bottom of the page’, and, once again, I couldn’t fault her logic.

It was lunchtime when Sue Phillips popped her smiling face round the staff-room door. ‘I’ve got the shirts, Jack,’ she said, ‘and they look great.’

She put a cardboard box on the coffee table and held up a football shirt with pale-blue and white vertical stripes.

‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘We’ll be the smartest team at the tournament.’

‘Well done, Sue,’ said Anne. ‘What about shorts and socks?’

‘Marion Greening is going into the Co-op this afternoon for the shorts and Freddie Kershaw knows a market trader in Thirkby and he’s picking up a set of socks. I’ve asked them to bring all the kit to the tournament and the boys can change there.’

‘Good idea, Sue, and thanks again,’ I said.

‘So we’re all set,’ she said, ‘and with everything at rock-bottom price.’

She settled down for a well-earned coffee and struck up a conversation with Vera, Anne, Sally and Jo about wedding hats, at which point I made a hasty exit.

That evening, in fine weather, I decided to get some fresh air and began work on my vegetable plot in the back garden of Bilbo Cottage. After an hour of digging I took a breather on the old bench and thought about my new life with Beth in this lovely old cottage. Around me were the sights and sounds of this picturesque part of North Yorkshire. The swallows had returned with their familiar acrobatics, a sign of the summer months that stretched ahead. They had migrated from southern Africa after spending winter there and had survived the five-thousand mile journey to return to the eaves of Bilbo Cottage and I welcomed them like long-lost friends. They swooped down to their familiar nesting site in order to produce the first of their broods. I had learnt not to mistake them for house martins any more and reflected that my knowledge of country life was increasing with each passing year.

‘So this is what you get up to,’ said a familiar voice. It was Beth. She looked casual and relaxed in a crew-necked raglan jumper, stone-washed jeans and Chris Evert trainers.

‘This is a surprise,’ I said.

‘Well, I’ve got another car-load,’ she said. ‘It’s more books and a few knick-knacks.’

‘Perhaps we need a new bookcase,’ I said, trying to be positive but realizing with some concern that my home was changing before my eyes.

‘There’s no
perhaps
about it, Jack,’ said Beth with a grin. ‘I thought we could nip into York on Saturday after the netball tournament.’

I glanced at my watch. ‘Do you fancy a drink?’

‘
After
we’ve unloaded,’ said Beth. ‘Don’t try to put me off.’

Somehow we found a place for all the boxes, including Beth’s complete set of Jane Austen novels and a surprisingly large collection of sports trophies from her schooldays in Hampshire. ‘Looks like you were quite athletic in your day,’ I said.

‘I still am, Jack,’ said Beth with a knowing look.

Married life promised to be fun.

The Royal Oak was busy as usual and ‘Town Called Malice’ by The Jam was playing on the juke-box.

‘Hey, Mr Sheffield,’ said Don from the other end of the bar, ‘’ave a dekko at this.’ He held up today’s edition of the
Sun
with the slightly more sensitive headline ‘Did 1,200 Argies Drown?’ which was a distinct improvement on ‘
GOTCHA
!’ ‘Looks like we’re giving them Argies a reight pasting,’ he said triumphantly.

I nodded in acknowledgement as we walked to a quiet corner. ‘Difficult times, Jack,’ said Beth thoughtfully as we sipped our drinks.

‘So, how about the wedding … Are you looking forward to it?’ I asked, eager to change the subject.

She smiled. ‘Very much. How about you?’

I raised my glass of Chestnut Mild. ‘To us,’ I said.

‘To us,’ she replied and she sipped her white wine.

‘Your parents have been very generous,’ I said.

‘It’s dominated my mother’s life,’ said Beth. ‘She rings me every night with updates on flowers and what everyone is wearing.’

‘How’s your father bearing up?’

‘He’s his usual laid-back self – apart from concern about giving a speech at the reception. That’s not really his forte.’

‘Are you still happy with the village hall for the evening party? I thought you wanted something a bit, well, more
grand
.’

‘No, it’s worked out fine, Jack, now that we’ve booked the Dean Court for a formal Wedding Breakfast for family and the main guests. So the hall will be perfect for all our friends from Ragley, Morton and Hartingdale.’

‘And have you heard about the major’s offer?’ I asked.

‘What’s that?’

‘He’s offered us his chauffeur-driven Bentley to take you to the church and for the Sunday morning to the railway station.’

‘Well done Rupert,’ said Beth. ‘I wonder if Vera twisted his arm.’

For our honeymoon, Beth and I had decided on a London theatre holiday and we had spent an enjoyable evening planning which shows to see. It was all coming together.

‘And the dress?’ I asked.

‘It’s all sorted, Jack. Laura gave me some great advice during our trip to the Harrogate Fashion Fair. So the dress is lovely … but you won’t see it of course until the day.’

‘I’m pleased Laura’s OK,’ I said.

‘That’s just my sister, Jack – always blowing hot and cold, never anything in between. She and Jo will make super bridesmaids and they’ve both been really supportive.’

I finished my drink, put down the glass and looked into her green eyes. ‘I love you,’ I whispered quietly.

‘Yes, but will you still love me when I bring another collect ion of boxes to the cottage tomorrow?’ She squeezed my hand and we walked out into the darkness.

On Friday morning, as I drove on the back road to Ragley village, it was good to be alive on this fine Yorkshire day. The hedgerows were coming alive, the air was warm and the sweet scent of wallflowers drifted on a gentle breeze. Early purple orchids lit up the woodland floor alongside the swathes of bluebells, and the lambs in the fields were still drowsy with sleep. Around me, the peace of the countryside and the soft sound of wood pigeons soothed the soul and healed the scars of winter.

However, harsh reality was an unwelcome companion as I gave Prudence Golightly twenty pence for my copy of
The Times
and read the front page. It said that the Queen was ‘deeply concerned’ following the sinking of HMS
Sheffield
in the South Atlantic. It also included a graphic account of the moment when Captain Sam Salt, Commander of the
Sheffield
, gave the order to abandon ship as the paint peeled off the hull following a direct hit by an Argentine missile.

With a heavy heart I walked into the entrance hall, where Sally and Vera were doing their best to cheer up Ruby.

‘You smell lovely, Ruby – what’s the perfume?’ asked Sally.

‘It’s summat Frenchified, Mrs Pringle,’ said Ruby. ‘Our Andy bought it for me las’ Christmas.’

‘He made a good choice, Ruby,’ said Vera quietly.

‘Ah sed ah’d only wear it on special occasions, but then ah thought that might never come. So ah’m wearing it ev’ry day for’im … till’e comes ‘ome safe.’

‘That’s a lovely thought, Ruby,’ said Vera.

‘I pray he does come ‘ome safe ‘n’ sound,’ said Ruby, ‘… and all t’other young men an’ women. War’s a terrible thing.’

We stood there quietly, all with our own thoughts.

Ruby put down her box of paper towels. ‘Life’s tough, Miss Evans.’

‘Yes, Ruby,’ said Vera firmly, ‘but
you’re
tougher,’ and she handed her a lace-edged handkerchief. Ruby rubbed the tears from her eyes, blew her nose vigorously and offered the handkerchief back to Vera. ‘You keep it, Ruby,’ said Vera.

Then Ruby picked up the box and set off for the staff toilets and Vera walked into the office, removed the cover from her electric typewriter and began to write a thankyou letter to parents following the purchase of our new football strip.

Love is impatient. It doesn’t respect the hands of time. So it was with my feelings for Beth. Occasionally, a carefree, reck less urgency scattered my senses. Logic was cast aside, which is why I set off to Morton very early on Saturday morning. Beth and I had arranged to travel to Easington together for the tournament. When I knocked on her door, above my head a parliament of rooks shattered the silence of the sycamores as they wheeled in a balmy blue sky and fed their young.

Beth was in her dressing gown. ‘You’re early,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘I haven’t put my tracksuit on yet.’

‘I noticed,’ I said. ‘I just couldn’t wait to see you.’

‘You’d better come in,’ she said with a smile.

An hour later in the General Stores Ruby was waiting to be served behind Vera, who was collecting her
Daily Telegraph
. Prudence had been upset by her previous customer, the aggressively rude Deirdre Coe, Stan Coe’s bossy sister.

‘She’s
always
complaining, Vera,’ said Prudence. ‘I don’t know what to make of her.’

Ruby was the only other person in the shop, waiting to buy a bag of sugar, and she was listening in.

‘At times she can be a most dreadful woman,’ said Vera, ‘an absolute virago.’

Ruby was puzzled. She knew for a fact that Deirdre was a Gemini. However, she would never dream of contradicting Miss Evans and kept her thoughts to herself.

‘And how are you, Ruby?’ asked Prudence.

‘Only middlin’, Prudence,’ said Ruby. ‘Ah’m all at sea t’day wi’ all t’worry.’

‘I hope your Andrew will be safe,’ she said.

Ruby gave a big sigh. ‘Ah’d like t’pray for’im, y’know, proper-like, but ah don’t really know ‘ow.’

Vera stood for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘Ruby,’ she said quietly, ‘I think I can help.’

The netball and football tournament was destined to live long in the memory for two special reasons.

‘Come on, Ragley,’ shouted Jo Hunter. Our girls were about to win the netball final, a terrific achievement and a tribute to the many hours of coaching by Jo. The leggy Theresa Ackroyd had just scored another goal.

‘Well done,’ shouted Dan Hunter. During the last hour he had gradually picked up enough of the rules of netball to appreciate what was going on. ‘It’s sort of a lady-like basketball, I suppose,’ he said to me, still slightly bewildered at Beth’s judgements as referee. A crowd of Ragley mothers shouted encouragement from the side of the court and everyone was in good spirits.

It was after the girls had been presented with the trophy that Sue Phillips whispered in my ear, ‘Jack, you’d better have a look at this.’ The football tournament was about to start and Eric Earnshaw and Freddie Kershaw, our self-appointed coaches, had gathered the Ragley School football team round them and they were issuing final instructions. The boys looked really smart in their new kit. Marion Greening had bought a set of black shorts and Freddie had bought pairs of white socks with pale-blue hoops.

It was Freddie who broke the news. ‘Mr Sheffield, we’ve gorra bit of a problem wi’ this new strip.’

‘But it looks great,’ I said. ‘It’s the best we’ve ever looked.’

Eric Earnshaw walked over. ‘Trouble is, Mr Sheffield, we’re likely as not gonna get booed.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said. ‘There’s never any booing at this event; it’s always been good-natured and played in a good spirit.’

As our boys walked on to the field there was a rumble of cheerful disapproval from the large crowd on the touchline, including a few half-hearted boos.

‘What’s going on?’ I said.

Sue looked at Eric and Freddie. ‘Shall I tell him?’ They both gritted their teeth and nodded. ‘Jack, don’t you recognize the kit?’

I stared at the team as they kicked off and realization dawned. ‘Oh no!’

‘Oh yes,’ said Sue. ‘We’ve kitted the poor boys out in the
Argentinian
football strip.’

It was a good afternoon with lots of friendly banter, particularly by the headteacher of Easington School, who, at the end of the first game, announced on the loudspeaker system, ‘Morton Primary School, nil … Argentina 2.’

It was later that day when Vera drove her Austin A40 on to the vicarage forecourt and came to a stop.

‘Here we are, Ruby,’ said Vera gently.

‘Thank you, Miss Evans,’ said Ruby. ‘You’re very kind.’

The two women got out of the car and stood side by side. Next to them, in the last of the afternoon sunlight, the light-pink petals of magnolia brightened the red brick wall and espalier pears were swelling with new growth. As they walked towards the church entrance, branches of yellow forsythia bordering the grassy banks brushed their legs.