06 Educating Jack (22 page)

‘Good evening, ladies … and, of course, our solitary man,’ said Petula.

‘No man is an Iceland, as they say,’ said Betty Buttle, putting down her cup and saucer with a clatter.

‘And welcome to the first meeting of the Ragley Book Club,’ continued Petula, undeterred. ‘First of all, we need to elect a chairwoman,’ she said, giving an enigmatic smile to the assembled throng and ignoring Bernard’s puzzled look. This went unnoticed as the first sign of cliques began to emerge.

‘I’d like to pwopose Diane,’ said Nora Pratt, looking across at her hairdresser friend. ‘She does a lot o’ weading.’

‘Ah’m not fussed,’ said Diane, looking for an ashtray. ‘’Ow about you, Amelia?’

Amelia Duff, the timid postmistress, immediately flushed. ‘I’m happy to be on a committee if there is one, but I don’t want to push myself forward. How about you, Felicity?’

Felicity Miles-Humphreys, the self-appointed producer of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, looked up from under her bright-red headband. ‘Sorry, but I’m far too busy with my amateur dramatics,’ she said with a theatrical wave of her kaftan that upset a bowl of roasted peanuts. ‘So may I suggest Mrs Forbes-Kitchener?’

‘’Ear, ’ear,’ said Ruby, who still hadn’t got used to Vera’s new title.

‘’Ear, ’ear,’ echoed the throng, eager to move on.

‘Well, that’s kind of you, Felicity,’ said Vera. She looked intently at Petula. ‘But I do think it ought to be the person who thought of the idea in the first place and who is providing such wonderful hospitality this evening … namely, Petula.’

Petula looked suitably modest and, with a unanimous show of hands, Petula Dudley-Palmer achieved a landmark in her lonely life and became President of the Ragley Book Club.

‘So what evening should we meet?’ asked Petula.

An animated discussion followed that eliminated every night of the week owing to choir practice, bingo and favourite television programmes. However, a compromise was reached for the second Tuesday in every month except for July and August.

‘And finally,’ said Petula, ‘I see most of you have brought a book along and we need to decide the first book we shall discuss at our next meeting.’

‘Well, Ruby has just begun to read a lovely story about the adventures of young children in France who solve a bank robbery,’ said Vera.

‘That sounds a good ’un,’ said Betty Buttle.

‘Ah like a good adventure,’ said Margery Ackroyd.

‘And France is a really sexy place,’ said Sheila Bradshaw.

‘What’s the book, Ruby?’ asked Petula. ‘And why did you select it?’

Ruby held up her copy of
A Hundred Million Francs
and took a deep breath. ‘Well, ah jus’ want t’say that ah’d f’gotten that reading can be, well …
different
. It were like goin’ into someone else’s world so t’speak. Mebbe that’s what books are – sort of an ’oliday when y’f’get y’problems.’ Ruby looked around, her face flushed, and Vera smiled, full of pride for her downtrodden friend. ‘An’ when ah’ve finished this,’ added Ruby, ‘ah’m gonna read
another
book.’

There was a silence as everyone realized something quite special had occurred. It was Petula who summed up. ‘Well, Ruby, this makes it all worth while. I didn’t really know what a Book Club was until this moment, but now I think I do. So thanks for sharing your thoughts with us.’

The next morning Petula Dudley-Palmer was in Reading Workshop. She sat back in her chair and stared at the next table, where Ruby was talking about her novel. Her daughter, little Hazel Smith, was loving every minute of it and, sitting next to her, nine-year-old Molly Paxton was hanging on every word.

Petula reflected that she had two intelligent and articulate daughters who were both voracious readers, but they never
shared
their stories. That afternoon she thought hard about the events of the past twenty-four hours and how it had affected her life.

So it was, for the first time in years, just before bedtime, Elisabeth Amelia and Victoria Alice snuggled up on the sofa with their mother and shared the story of
The Selfish Giant
by Oscar Wilde.

‘That was lovely, Mummy,’ said a sleepy Victoria Alice. ‘Can we do it again tomorrow?’

Elisabeth Amelia simply gave her mother a hug. ‘Thanks, Mummy,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity Daddy couldn’t hear our story.’

Our
story, thought Petula …
our
story.

As they climbed the stairs together, she didn’t feel lonely any more.

It was then that she understood.

The best Book Club begins not with a group of friends … but
within
the family.

County Hall sent out their latest ‘vision statement’, entitled ‘School of the Future’, plus a questionnaire concerning the need for a common curriculum
.

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:

Friday, 11 March 1983

IT WAS JUST
before 8.30 a.m. on Friday, 11 March and the conversation in the staff-room was proving livelier than usual.

‘A clairvoyant!’ said Sally. ‘Tomorrow night in the village hall. Well, count
me
in.’

‘Shall I pick you up?’ asked Jo.

‘Yes please,’ said Sally. She stretched forward to pick up another custard cream from the tin on the staff-room table and then, when a cold shiver ran down her spine, she resisted the temptation.

‘What about you, Anne?’ asked Jo. ‘It should be fun.’

‘Well, I’ve seen the “Phoebe Duckworth” posters in the High Street,’ said Anne a little warily, ‘and I must say I was curious, but don’t you think it might be a bit, you know …
scary
?’

‘I shouldn’t think so,’ said Jo. ‘I heard from Margery Ackroyd that it was just an entertaining evening organized by the Village Hall Social Committee. They just wanted something
different
and apparently she offered them a reduced fee.’

‘Fine,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll come as well, but I know Vera’s busy with Rupert at some high-society dinner, so she won’t be there.’

‘It’s probably not Vera’s thing anyway,’ said Sally.

‘And what about you, Jack?’ asked Jo.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘What exactly is a clairvoyant?’

‘It means “clear vision”, from seventeenth-century French,’ said Sally, whose knowledge of obscure facts never ceased to amaze me. ‘It’s a form of extra-sensory perception – they study the paranormal.’

‘I see,’ I said hesitantly. ‘OK, why not? It’s certainly
different
.’

I returned to the morning post. County Hall’s latest glossy-covered epistle, or ‘vision statement’ as they called it, entitled ‘School of the Future’, appeared as farfetched as its predecessors. It seemed a waste of money. It occurred to me that perhaps they should have simply contacted a clairvoyant … and, by all accounts, Phoebe Duckworth came at a discount.

The arrival of a clairvoyant in Ragley-on-the-Forest had certainly created interest. In the High Street, outside the village hall, Mrs Daphne Cathcart was staring with growing interest at a brightly coloured notice. It read:

Meet

Phoebe Duckworth

World-Famous Clairvoyant (from Cleethorpes)

Saturday, 12 March 1983

at 7.30 p.m.

in the Village Hall

Understand your psychic ability

Find your inner-self and that elusive sixth sense

Daphne had always known she had a sixth sense. The problem was that, on occasion, the other five didn’t work all that well.

Meanwhile, across the road in Prudence Golightly’s General Stores, a hint of scepticism was in the air. ‘Not really my cup of tea,’ said Prudence as she served Diane Wigglesworth with a pack of John Player King Size Extra Mild cigarettes.

‘Mebbe we need t’keep an open mind, Prudence,’ said Diane. ‘Y’jus’ never really know. Anyway, we’re all going. You ought to come.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Prudence thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps I will.’

Back in school, the Revd Joseph Evans was making his weekly visit. The morning had gone surprisingly well and Jo’s class had hung on to every word of Joseph’s rambling tale of Noah and the Ark … that is, until a few minutes before the end of the lesson.

‘And Noah led all the animals into the ark, two by two,’ said Joseph.

He was feeling confident for a change. The children in Class 2 were clearly animated by this morning’s Bible story. It was almost time for the bell and Joseph asked for questions.

‘Mr Evans, what did Noah eat?’ asked the ever-practical Charlotte Ackroyd, ‘’cause ’e couldn’t go shopping.’

Joseph pondered this for a moment.

‘’E could collect eggs ’cause ’e ’ad ’ens,’ said Barry Ollerenshaw helpfully.

‘That’s right. Well done, Barry,’ said Joseph quickly. ‘And, of course, he could have gone fishing,’ he added with a burst of inspiration.

‘Ah don’t think so, Mr Evans,’ said Sonia Trickle-bank, a serious and analytical little girl at the back of the class.

‘You don’t think so, Sonia? Why not?’ asked Joseph, a little perplexed that his good idea had been squashed so emphatically.

‘Well,’ said Sonia, ‘he’d ’ave only ’ad two worms.’

The bell rang and Joseph breathed a sigh of relief. He had survived another Friday morning.

At lunchtime I was on the playground talking to Daphne Cathcart, who had come to collect her daughter for a dental appointment. In the weak sunshine a group of girls were skipping. The two nine-year-olds, Michelle Cathcart and Louise Hartley, were winding the long rope and chanting:

Teddy bear, teddy bear, turn around
.

Teddy bear, teddy bear, touch the ground
.

Teddy bear, teddy bear, two high kicks
.

Teddy bear, teddy bear, do the splits!

‘Teks me back, Mr Sheffield,’ said Mrs Cathcart. ‘Ah used t’love skippin’ when ah were young.’

‘And how are you feeling today, Mrs Cathcart?’ I asked. It was well known that Daphne was often depressed and my heart went out to this eccentric but steadfast single mother who would move mountains to protect her daughters. Her hair was dyed candy-floss pink and it blew in the wind.

‘Not such a good day t’day, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, ‘but nowadays ah don’t let it show … ah keep it to m’self.’ Michelle ran to her mother and Daphne gave her a hug. They walked hand in hand down the cobbled drive and the bond of love between mother and daughter was clear to see. It was unconditional.

When I walked back into the office, the telephone rang. Vera was out returning the dinner registers so I picked up the receiver. It was Beth and she sounded a little weary.

‘How are you?’ I asked. ‘Still tired?’

‘Yes, Jack, and I’ve just started with backache.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said.

‘Yes, the realities of pregnancy are just kicking in. In fact, it’s hard to concentrate on the job sometimes.’ There was a riffling of papers. ‘So, what are you doing about this so-called
vision statement
from County Hall?’

‘Just a quick response,’ I said. ‘It’s pretty obvious they’re paving the way for a nationwide common curriculum that will come sooner rather than later. I’m just going with the flow and accepting the inevitable.’

‘Perhaps I could check out yours, Jack, before you send it back.’

‘Fine, I’ll bring it home tonight.’

‘Thanks,’ said Beth with a sigh.

‘So I guess you won’t be coming to see the world-famous clairvoyant on Saturday night then? Jo’s organized a staff night out.’

Beth laughed. It was good to hear her sound cheerful again. ‘Sadly no, Jack. You go and I’ll use the time to finish my next assignment for the Masters course.’

She rang off and I stared out of the window. So much had happened to us since our first meeting … and now I was to become a father. It was a strange feeling, somewhere between elation and fear. Love was proving an uncertain companion.

At afternoon break, as a special treat, Shirley the cook had prepared a tray of piping-hot scones. With fresh butter and home-made strawberry jam, they were a veritable feast.

As we tucked in, Jo had gradually emerged as our unofficial entertainment officer. ‘So we’ll meet outside the village hall at seven fifteen and then go for a drink afterwards,’ she said.

‘The psychic Phoebe,’ said Sally. ‘I wonder what she’s like.’

‘I hope she doesn’t communicate with my late Aunt Marie,’ said Anne pensively.

‘Why not?’ asked Jo and Sally in unison.

‘Well … when I was a teenager I broke her precious vase and blamed it on the cat,’ said Anne guiltily.

‘Yes, I can see your point, Anne,’ said Sally, ‘that
would
be embarrassing.’

‘It could be worse,’ said Jo with a grin.

‘How?’ asked Anne, surprised.

‘She might talk to the cat.’

At the end of school Anne and I were in the entrance hall doing a premises check prior to the next governors’ meeting when Ronnie Smith called in. He looked surprisingly smart in his best suit. Ruby was locking her caretaker’s store.

‘Ah’ve gorrit sorted, Ruby,’ said Ronnie. ‘We need t’go in ’alf an ’our. Big Dave sed ’e’d give us a lift in ’is wagon into York.’

‘We’re off t’celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary, Mr Sheffield,’ announced Ruby.

I recalled that Andy Smith, Ruby’s eldest, was thirty-one years old and Ruby telling me that ‘t’first an’ las’ were an accident, but ah love ’em all.’

‘Congratulations, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Enjoy your evening.’

‘Where are you going, Ruby?’ asked Anne.

‘We’re off to t’pictures in York an’ then for a drink in t’Bay ’Orse at Monk Bar,’ said Ruby.

‘And what are you going to see?’ I asked.

‘We’re gonna see
Tootsie
,’ said Ronnie.

‘Wi’ ’im wi’ a limp what were in
Midnight Cowboy
,’ said Ruby by way of explanation.

‘Ah, Dustin Hoffman?’ I said.

‘That’s ’im, Mr Sheffield,’ said Ronnie.

‘’E dresses up as a woman,’ explained Ruby.

‘But y’can tell ’e’s a feller,’ said Ronnie.

‘’Ow come?’ added Ruby.

‘’E never gets a word in edgeways,’ said Ronnie.

‘Tek no notice of ’im,’ said Ruby.