06 Educating Jack Read online

  Jeremy was her lifelong friend and Prudence took great pride in making sure he was always well turned out. On this bright and busy day he was wearing a white shirt, blue bow-tie and a striped apron. Miss Golightly followed my gaze. ‘Yes, we’ve been stocktaking this morning,’ she said as she took my twenty pence and placed it in the drawer of the ancient till.

  I climbed back into my Morris Minor Traveller and, as I drove past the village green towards the school gates, I pulled up and wound down my window. ‘Be careful, Jimmy,’ I shouted. Ten-year-old Jimmy Poole was throwing a stick into the branches of the horse-chestnut trees and at his feet a pile of glossy conkers had burst out of their spiky shells.

  ‘Ith all right, Mithter Theffield,’ lisped Jimmy. ‘Ah’m juth thowing my thithter ’ow t’collect conkerth,’ he shouted back cheerfully. ‘Anyway ah’ve finithed now,’ he added as he hid his special stick under a pile of leaves for another day. After all, when you’re ten years old you never know when a good stick might come in useful. I smiled and drove into the car park without comment, recalling that I had done exactly the same thing thirty years ago.

  The school was welcoming on this autumn morning. In the border outside Sally’s classroom, chrysanthemums, red, bronze and amber, were bright in the low September sunshine and Mrs Earnshaw was sweeping the first of the autumn leaves from the stone steps leading to the entrance door.

  Outside the school office our local vicar, the Revd Joseph Evans, a tall, thin figure with a clerical collar and a sharp Roman nose, was looking anxiously at his lesson notes. Joseph came in once each week to lead ‘spiritual guidance’ as he called it, or, to be more precise, to read Bible stories to the children with a follow-up discussion. While Joseph was calm and confident with his congregation on a Sunday morning, somehow life wasn’t quite the same when he was faced with a class of young children. By morning break he was usually tearing out what was left of his grey hair.

  Joseph had never married and was totally reliant on his well-organized elder sister. The two of them shared the beautifully furnished vicarage in the grounds of St Mary’s Church along with Vera’s three cats. It was well known that Maggie, a sleek black cat with white paws, was named after Vera’s political heroine, Margaret Thatcher. For Joseph, it was a life that filled him with contentment … that was, until he realized that the news of Vera’s marriage would change his world for ever. So it was that, on this peaceful September morning, his lesson with Sally Pringle’s class filled him with even more doubts. It had just occurred to him that his theme, ‘How to Get to Heaven’, might be a difficult concept for eight-and nine-year-olds.

  At ten o’clock I was listening to Dean Kershaw reading his Ginn Reading 360 story book when the ever-alert Theresa Ackroyd made an announcement. She delivered it without appearing to look up from her School Mathematics Project workcard concerning the difference between obtuse and acute angles. However, as Theresa had placed her chair strategically so that she never missed anything going on outside the classroom window, it was clear that she already possessed a meaningful and very practical understanding of angles, regardless of whatever peculiar name they were given. ‘Major’s posh car comin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield,’ she said with calm authority.

  A large black classic Bentley purred into the car park. As usual, Major Rupert Forbes-Kitchener arrived in style from his stately home of Morton Manor and a chauffeur in a smart grey uniform and a peaked cap got out and opened the rear door. As a school governor, the major was a regular visitor, even more so now that he and Vera were engaged to be married. ‘The potted plant, please, Tomkins,’ he said and the chauffeur took a beautiful orchid from the boot of the car. The major checked that every purple-white petal was perfect, walked into school and tapped on the office door.

  Vera was filling the Gestetner duplicating machine with ink prior to sending out a note to parents about next month’s half-term holiday and she smiled when she saw who it was. ‘Rupert, what a lovely surprise.’

  ‘For you, my dear,’ he said and placed the orchid on the window ledge.

  ‘Thank you, it’s beautiful,’ said Vera. She replaced the lid on the can of ink and walked over to the window to admire the beautiful plant in more detail. ‘But I wasn’t expecting you.’

  Rupert removed his Sherlock Holmes deerstalker hat to reveal a head of close-cropped, steel-grey hair, then glanced down nervously at his size-ten brown brogues, highly polished to a military shine. ‘I couldn’t wait any longer, Vera,’ he said. ‘I simply had to speak to you. It’s been on my mind all week … in fact, I’ve thought of little else since the accident.’

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Rupert?’ asked Vera, recognizing that this hero of distant battlefields was struggling to cope with something as yet unknown.

  The major appeared grateful for the diversion. ‘Yes please, quench the old fires, what?’ He undid the button of his brown checked jacket and nervously fingered the immaculate knot in his East Yorkshire regimental tie, resplendent with its vivid white, gold, black and maroon stripes. Finally, he took a white handkerchief from the pocket of his cavalry twill trousers and mopped his forehead. Vera served the tea, sat back in her chair and waited until this huge bear of a man was good and ready. She was puzzled. It wasn’t like Rupert to be in such a state.

  Meanwhile, in Class 3, Joseph looked equally harassed. He was trying to bring his ‘How to Get to Heaven’ discussion to a logical conclusion and he hoped the children had finally grasped the concept.

  ‘Now, boys and girls,’ he said, ‘if I sold my car and gave the money to the church, would I get to heaven?’

  ‘No,’ chorused the children.

  Encouraged, Joseph pressed on. ‘And if I cleaned the church and kept it tidy, would I get to heaven?’

  ‘No,’ they answered, led by nine-year-old Betsy Icklethwaite, shaking her head vigorously.

  ‘Well done,’ said Joseph enthusiastically. ‘And, Betsy, why wouldn’t I get to heaven?’

  ‘’Cause y’not dead yet,’ said Betsy.

  It was at times like this that Joseph wondered if he had chosen the right profession and, once again, he glanced at the clock as morning playtime beckoned.

  In the school office Rupert had finished his tea. He put down his cup and saucer, took a deep breath and began.

  ‘Vera,’ he said quietly, ‘I believe that sometimes life hangs on a moment.’ He leant forward and held her hand. ‘And I believe this is that moment, my dear.’

  Vera recognized the gravitas in his words. ‘What exactly is it you wish to say, Rupert?’

  ‘It’s about getting married,’ he said.

  Vera held up her sapphire engagement ring and smiled. ‘And of course we shall … next summer, as we planned.’

  Rupert sighed and shook his head. ‘No, Vera, the accident changed all that for me.’

  The colour left Vera’s cheeks. ‘Rupert … what do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ said Rupert. ‘For a moment I thought I had lost you. I couldn’t bear to see you in hospital.’ There was sadness in his eyes and anguish in his voice. ‘Now you’re well again I want to look after you … sooner, rather than later. I know I shouldn’t have come into school to ask you this, my dear, but I couldn’t wait until the Harvest Supper.’

  ‘Oh Rupert,’ said Vera, ‘ask me what?’

  ‘My dearest, let’s marry at Christmas and start the new year together … as man and wife.’

  Vera turned to stare out at the distant Hambleton hills. ‘Rupert, this is so sudden and … I would need to talk to Joseph.’

  ‘Of course you must, but please let me know soon.’ Then he kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘I love you so very much,’ he said, ‘and now you know how I truly feel.’

  Suddenly the bell rang for playtime and it seemed to break the spell. Vera opened the office door. ‘Rupert, I need to get on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ she said. Her mind was in a whirl.

  As I arrived in the entrance hall, Rupert was standing there, clear
ly preoccupied.

  ‘Good morning, Major,’ I said, resisting the inclination to jump immediately to attention.

  ‘Ah, good morning, Jack,’ he said, snapping out of his reverie.

  ‘Would you like to join us for coffee?’ I asked.

  He hesitated and looked at his pocket watch. ‘No thanks, old chap, just called in about the … er … Harvest Supper.’

  ‘Very well, Major, we’ll see you there,’ I said and he hurried off.

  It was my turn for outside duty, which was a pleasure on this fine day. In the playground the nine-year-old Buttle twins, Rowena and Katrina, were winding a long skipping rope while a group of girls took turns at jumping in and out with practised ease. As they did so, they all chanted an old skipping rhyme that had been passed down from one generation of Ragley pupils to the next. In this way our heritage was sustained and renewed.

  The big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh,

  The ally-ally-oh, the ally-ally-oh.

  Oh, the big ship sails on the ally-ally-oh

  On the last day of September.

  I smiled as I recalled that my mother had told me that the song had something to do with the ‘big ships’ that sailed on the Manchester Ship Canal, opened with great ceremony in 1894. Whatever its origin, the girls in Sally’s class were word perfect.

  At lunchtime I picked up a plastic tray and joined the queue behind five-year-old Rufus Snodgrass, who was casting dubious looks at the food about to be served by Shirley, our school cook.

  ‘Do ah ’ave to eat cabbage, Mrs Mapplebeck?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘Cabbage meks yer ’air curl,’ said Shirley cheerily and with absolute conviction.

  ‘Burra don’t want curly ’air,’ said Rufus.

  ‘An’ it gives y’rosy cheeks,’ added Shirley.

  ‘Burra don’t want rosy cheeks,’ said Rufus. Shirley was running out of incentives.

  ‘Will it mek me whistle as good as Ted Coggins?’ asked Rufus.

  ‘It might,’ said Shirley.

  ‘Go on then, ah’ll ’ave some,’ said Rufus, who would have eaten dead worms for just one chance to replicate the ear-shattering whistle that his new best friend had perfected.

  Meanwhile in the staff-room, away from the smell of cabbage, Sally was reading her September issue of Cosmopolitan. An article entitled ‘Futureworks’ had caught her attention. It described a future society dominated by new technology.

  ‘It says here,’ she said, ‘that by the year two thousand we shall all be working a twenty-five-hour week.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ said Jo.

  ‘It also says we shall be living in a “cashless, chequeless society”,’ continued Sally, ‘“where coins will become quaint objets d’art”.’

  ‘Bit far-fetched,’ said Anne.

  ‘And by then,’ she continued, ‘more than half of secondary schools will have a computer and lessons will be taught on two-way videos.’

  ‘Sounds more like Star Trek,’ said Jo.

  ‘Well, I’m glad I won’t still be in the classroom then,’ said Anne. ‘I’ll be collecting my pension when I’m sixty.’

  Vera suddenly walked into the staff-room, sat down and stared thoughtfully out of the window.

  ‘I see the venerable Margaret was on television again last night,’ said Sally.

  Vera’s eyes lit up. She was a big supporter of Margaret Thatcher and, on occasion, even dressed to look like her – whereas Sally had very different political leanings.

  ‘Mrs Thatcher’s had a very busy year, what with her son, Mark, being rescued in the Sahara Desert, and then the Falklands War,’ said Vera.

  ‘Oh well,’ muttered Sally, ‘you can’t win them all.’

  Later that evening, in the vicarage kitchen, Joseph was sitting quietly at the table. He made a steeple of his long fingers, a familiar gesture and almost a precursor to prayer. An hour had passed since Vera had mentioned Rupert’s hopes for a Christmas wedding.

  ‘I’ll put this button on for you, shall I, Joseph?’ said Vera.

  Joseph looked up and nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘I know that look,’ said Vera. ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I just want you to be happy,’ replied Joseph, ‘but are you sure this is what you want?’

  ‘Yes, Joseph, I believe it is,’ said Vera firmly.

  There was a long pause as Joseph grappled with the enormity of the change that was soon to take place in their lives. ‘But Christmas … it’s so soon.’

  ‘It’s also to do with fulfilment, Joseph,’ said Vera quietly as she opened the lid of her mother’s Victorian sewing box.

  ‘Fulfilment?’ said Joseph, unsure of what this really meant.

  Vera’s cheeks flushed slightly as she selected a reel of navy-blue cotton and studied it thoughtfully. ‘Yes, Joseph,’ she said at last. ‘Fulfilment,’ she repeated with emphasis. Then she tugged a length of cotton from the reel, threaded it with gimlet-eyed determination and proceeded to sew a button on Joseph’s old tweed jacket.

  Joseph recognized her determination and began to flick idly through his Beginner’s Guide to Wine Making.

  ‘Rupert asked us to share his table for the Harvest Supper,’ said Vera, ‘so I’m doing some baking tomorrow morning.’

  Joseph’s face brightened. ‘And I could provide the wine,’ he said.

  Vera saw the eagerness in his expression and her heart softened. She couldn’t find it in her heart to say no, even though his creations tasted like a mixture of decaying mushrooms and turpentine. ‘A kind thought, Joseph,’ she said, ‘although, er, perhaps Rupert may already have that in hand.’

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ said Joseph as he hurried off to the kitchen pantry. There was a rattle of bottles. ‘I’ll let him sample my Elderflower Glory … my finest creation yet.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Vera whispered to herself.

  * * *

  It was later that evening, as darkness fell, that Vera found herself in a melancholy mood. She was standing by the sink in the vicarage kitchen and putting the finishing touches to her lime juice cordial.

  She looked down at her hands. There were lines now as age took its toll. Then she glanced up at her reflection in the window. The face that looked back at her was no longer the young woman she had known so well. She touched the greying hair at her temples with her long fingers and smiled wistfully. A lifetime of service to the church, to the school and, of course, to Joseph … but now a new life awaited. Perhaps this really was her time.

  It was Saturday morning and Beth had collected all the green tomatoes from the garden and was making chutney. She was standing by the kitchen worktop and, as she worked, her honey-blonde hair caressed her high cheekbones. Her tight blue jeans and cheesecloth blouse emphasized her slim, athletic figure and when she looked at me her green eyes twinkled with a hint of mischief.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘You are so beautiful,’ I said.

  ‘I’m busy, Jack,’ she said with a grin. Beth and I had settled into our married life together in Bilbo Cottage in the pretty village of Kirkby Steepleton, three miles from Ragley village. I had never been more content. ‘Anyway, you said you were going into the village to buy me some ring-binders for my course.’

  ‘I will … later,’ I said as I wrapped my arms around her waist.

  She turned round and kissed me. ‘You know it’s important, Jack. I want to make a good start and then, when I’ve passed, I can get a larger headship and we can probably buy a bigger property,’ she scanned the cramped work surfaces, ‘with a modern kitchen.’

  Her thoughts washed over me like spring rain and it was as if I was beginning to know her for the first time. Her words were soft, but there were times when her ambition struck me like an iron fist.

  Four miles away in Morton Manor, Rupert’s daughter, Virginia Anastasia, had just arrived back from giving lessons at her riding school and, still in her skin-tight jodhpurs, she served coffee from a silver pot.


  ‘Can broken hearts be mended, Bunty?’ asked Rupert.

  Virginia Anastasia looked up in surprise. ‘That’s what Mummy used to call me. You’ve not called me that in years.’

  ‘I know, my dear, I know,’ he said quietly. ‘Your mother was a wonderful woman and I miss her still.’ There was a long silence, broken only by the chiming of the nearby bells of St Mary’s Church. ‘But I’ve found a new happiness with Vera, one I never expected. She really is a remarkable lady.’

  Virginia sat on the arm of Rupert’s chair. ‘I know that, Daddy,’ she said, ‘and Vera is perfect for you. Life is for living, not mourning.’

  ‘Fathers and daughters,’ he muttered, leaning forward to kiss her on the forehead.

  Further along the Morton Road, in the vicarage kitchen, Vera made sure all her ingredients were laid out neatly and then paused to look out of the kitchen window. Life was no longer uncertain. She had made her decision.

  Vera loved baking and this was one of her specialities. As she greased an eight-inch-square, shallow cake tin she glanced again at her mother’s spidery, cursive handwriting. It was a recipe she had prepared many times, except, on this occasion, it was for the special man in her life. As she began to work on her spotless kitchen surface she knew with absolute certainty that she was about to make the perfect apple courting cake … and Rupert would definitely understand its meaning.

  That evening outside the village hall, the temperature was dropping fast. The geraniums in the hanging baskets by the entrance were dying now, blackened by the first sharp frost. Down the High Street, the bright colours of summer were just a fond memory and the first log fires were burning in Ragley village.

  Inside, a dozen trestle tables had been covered with smart checked tablecloths and adorned with candles in old wine bottles. At one end of the hall six more tables had been lined up against the wall and covered with snowy white linen. The ladies of the Women’s Institute had taken charge of displaying honey-roasted gammon, joints of beef and ham, bowls of potato salad, a huge mushroom quiche, fruit pies, fresh cream, freshly baked loaves and every variety of home-made jam you could imagine. At the far end of the hall Elsie Crapper was playing some harvest favourites on the old upright piano. ‘Come, ye thankful people, come,’ sang Elsie, ‘raise the song of harvest home!’