02 Mister Teacher (23 page)

To Ronnie’s amazement, Ruby snatched the rolled-up newspaper from his grasp. ‘Y’can forget about wasting money on that, Ronnie,’ she shouted. Then she stood back and surveyed him from top to toe. ‘An’ y’look a disgrace in that old suit; we need t’get shut of it.’

‘Well, y’said t’get smart f’signing on,’ retorted Ronnie.

‘Y’should ah gone in y’best suit,’ said Ruby. ‘Y’need t’make a good impression.’

‘Nay, there’s a bit o’ life left in this un yet,’ he replied, scratching at the tomato ketchup stains on his cuffs.

‘But, if y’get a job, we can buy them new wardrobes from MI5,’ pleaded Ruby.

‘MI5! That’s secret service, y’daft ha’porth,’ said Ronnie in disgust.

Ronnie’s bobble hat muffled the sound of the sharp slap of the rolled-up newspaper on the back of his head that ended the conversation.

By the time Saturday morning arrived, Ronnie and Ruby were far from my mind. To my surprise, Laura telephoned to say she had got Saturday morning free and would I like a lift into York to do my weekend shopping. There seemed to be only minutes between my saying ‘Yes’ and the sound of the tyres of her mother’s brand-new Mini Clubman screeching to a halt outside Bilbo Cottage.

When I opened the door Laura strode in confidently. ‘’Morning, Jack. You ready?’ she asked.

I couldn’t help but notice the black flared jeans she was wearing and the black leather jacket that was styled to accentuate her slim waist. She carefully rearranged her delicate pink scarf that matched her lipstick perfectly.

Laura appeared to be in a hurry and she playfully grabbed my hand and tugged me through the door.

Her driving matched her lifestyle: definitely faster than mine. On the outskirts of York we pulled into a garage for fuel. The five gallons of petrol cost four pounds, but, to
my
surprise, instead of paying by cash Laura produced a plastic Trustcard with the word
VISA
printed on it. The garage assistant made an imprint of the card on a grey carbonized receipt and Laura signed the top copy.

‘I’ve never seen one of those newfangled plastic cards used before,’ I said.

‘It’s all the rage in London, Jack,’ said Laura, with a smile. ‘You’re still in the dark ages up here, I see.’

‘But you might go accidentally into debt,’ I said.

‘I’ve got six weeks to clear it,’ said Laura, as she replaced the card and receipt in her purse. ‘So there’s no problem.’

I wasn’t convinced and didn’t tell Laura that I could never imagine using one myself.

Minutes later I breathed a sigh of relief as we parked in an impossibly small space in Lord Mayor’s Walk alongside the city walls. I felt a little strange as we walked side by side towards York’s medieval streets without Beth. Laura was relaxed but quiet and, once again, I was aware of her perfume. It was as if we were both waiting for the other to speak. Off to our right, the great grassy banks were studded with the arrowheads of daffodils, waiting for the trigger of sunshine to burst into life.

Laura suggested we meet up again in a coffee shop in Stonegate and we went our separate ways to do our shopping.

An hour later, and weighed down by two large bags containing enough food to last me another week, I sat down opposite Laura, who was stirring her hot chocolate thoughtfully.

‘I’ve found a flat in York,’ she said. ‘It’s perfect.’

‘What’s it like?’ I asked.

‘It’s got a lovely lounge and a bedroom that overlooks the museum gardens.’ She pursed her lips and blew on her hot drink before she drank it, just the same as Beth always did.

‘When do you move in?’

‘As soon as I can find a big strong man to help me,’ she said, looking up from her drink with a hint of mischief in her eyes.

I smiled and stood up to order a cup of tea.

We chatted about life and work and Laura appeared fascinated by the seemingly mundane tasks of a village school headmaster.

Later, we walked down Stonegate as watery spring sunshine broke through the clouds.

‘So what’s your horse for the National?’ asked Laura.

‘I haven’t backed one, I’m afraid,’ I said apologetically. ‘In fact, I’ve never even been into a betting shop.’

Laura’s eyes crinkled into a smile. It was another of her mannerisms that I liked. ‘Then it’s time we did something about that,’ she said, with a grin.

Moments later she was guiding me down a side street, off Parliament Street, and through a bookmaker’s doorway.

I stared in confusion at the long list of horses.

Laura walked confidently up to the counter. She took five pounds from her neat, businesslike handbag. ‘Now give me five pounds, Jack,’ she said, holding out her hand.

I took a five-pound note from my wallet and handed it over.

Laura put the two five-pound notes on the counter. ‘Five pounds each way on Rough and Tumble,’ she said to the bookmaker’s assistant, who was looking at me, anticipating that I would make the bet.

She picked up the betting slip and we walked back to the car. Then we drove, at Laura’s familiar breakneck speed, back to Kirkby Steepleton. Outside Bilbo Cottage I collected my shopping from the back seat of her car and crouched by her open window to say goodbye.

‘Thanks, Laura. It’s been an enjoyable morning.’

‘Don’t forget: cheer for Rough and Tumble this afternoon. The odds are fourteen to one, so if we win there should be enough for a night out.’

As she drove away, I thought a night out with Beth sounded a good idea, but as I turned and walked through the door I began to wonder whether Laura had meant a night out with her. By the time I had unpacked my shopping, such an idea seemed far-fetched, but perhaps interesting.

In an exciting race, Rough and Tumble came third, beaten by Zongalero and, the winner, Rubstic. I couldn’t work out if Laura and I had won any money and the phone didn’t ring.

Little did I know that at number 7, School View, in Ragley village, a certain unemployed pigeon-racer had been watching the same race and biting his knuckles in an attempt not to alert Ruby to the fact he had just won the biggest bet of his life.

On Monday lunchtime, I walked into the staff-room. Vera had finished checking the dinner registers and was talking to Ruby.

‘I’m going with Ruby to stand in the High Street, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, as she buttoned her royal-blue overcoat. ‘We just want to pay our last respects.’

‘It’s Billy Two-Sheds’ funeral, Mr Sheffield,’ explained Ruby. ‘An’ our Duggie will be walking be’ind t’hearse in ’is black ’at.’

Ruby’s son, Duggie Smith, was the assistant to the local undertaker, and he would regularly boast to his team mates in the Ragley Rovers Football Club that he never got any complaints from his customers.

I glanced across the staff-room to where Anne was showing Jo Maddison how to fill in an order form for large tins of powder paint.

‘Could you hold the fort, Anne?’ I asked. ‘I think I’ll go with Vera and Ruby.’

Anne looked up from the complicated order form with its triplicate carbon sheets and nodded. She looked preoccupied. Last year, Jo had mistakenly written ‘144’ in the ‘no. of units’ column and had received 144 boxes of white chalk. As each box contained 144 sticks, we were now the proud owners of over twenty thousand sticks of chalk!

Ruby, Vera and I walked down the school drive.

The High Street was lined with villagers and shopkeepers, as per the local tradition, while the shiny black hearse paused outside The Royal Oak as a mark of
respect
. The members of the dominoes team removed their flat caps and bowed their heads.

‘Doesn’t our Duggie look smart,’ said Ruby proudly.

Duggie looked like a Victorian gentleman in his tall black hat and tightly buttoned black overcoat. Fortunately, the half-smoked Castella cigar, propped absent-mindedly behind his left ear, was largely covered by his Bay City Rollers hairstyle and appeared to go unnoticed by the tearful throng.

As the hearse and the small procession of mourners passed by, I bowed my head with everyone else and thought for a moment about Billy, a man I had never met. He had lived in the village all his life, attended Ragley School at the turn of the century and served his country in two World Wars. It seemed appropriate that, as a sudden shaft of sunlight illuminated the bright flowers scattered over the oak coffin, the echoes of children’s voices filled the air.

Suddenly, Ronnie Smith appeared from the direction of the council estate. He sidled up to Ruby and removed his bobble hat. As he bowed his balding head, I noticed he was dressed in his best suit and I had never seen him look so smart. I had also never seen him look so anxious. There was clearly something on his mind.

As the cortège made its way slowly towards the row of shops in the High Street, Ronnie gave Ruby a glassy-eyed smile. ‘Ah were jus’ lookin’ f’me other suit, Ruby, luv,’ he said.

‘That ol’ thing,’ said Ruby dismissively. ‘Ah got shut of it.’

Ronnie’s eyes bulged. ‘Y’got shut of it? Who to?’

‘Ah gave it t’our Duggie.’

Ronnie looked momentarily relieved. ‘Oh, that’s all right, then, luv. Is it in ’is bedroom, then?’

‘No, Ronnie,’ said Ruby tersely. ‘Y’suit’s jus’ gone by.’ She pointed towards the hearse.

Ronnie was puzzled. ‘What d’you mean, it’s jus’ gone by?’ he asked.

‘Our Duggie said poor Billy Two-Sheds only ’ad an ol’ boiler suit, so ah gave ’im your ol’ suit. It’s jus’ gone by in t’coffin,’ explained Ruby.

Ronnie grabbed Ruby’s arm. ‘Did y’by any chance empty t’pockets?’ he gasped.

Ruby watched the hearse pause again outside Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, where for the last fifty years Billy Two-Sheds had bought his weekly supply of pig’s trotters.

‘No, luv, ah didn’t,’ said Ruby finally. ‘What y’askin’ for?’

Ronnie couldn’t reply. In fact, he could barely breathe.

Ronnie’s dilemma was clear. Last Friday he had been to the bookmaker’s in York and put his last five pounds on Rubstic to win at odds of twenty-five to one. His winning bookmaker’s slip was worth £130 and he knew he only had to get the bus into York to collect his winnings. As Ruby disapproved of his gambling, there was no way he could admit this, particularly as he had no intention of buying a set of bedroom furniture.

‘Ah might ’ave left summat in me pocket,’ stuttered Ronnie.

‘Ah ’ope y’not thinkin’ of running after our Duggie an’ asking ’im t’open t’coffin,’ said Ruby, in disbelief.

Ronnie stared at the hearse as it turned the corner towards Pratt’s Garage. The thought had crossed his mind. ‘Who d’you think I am, Seb bleedin’ Coe?’ he said, in disgust.

Ruby gave Ronnie a withering look and set off for the council estate. Vera and I walked back to school and, at the gate, we looked back at the distraught Ronnie, who was staring helplessly down the empty High Street.

At the end of afternoon school, Jodie Cuthbertson made an unexpected announcement. ‘Mrs Buttle’s runnin’ up t’drive, Mr Sheffield.’

No one had ever seen Betty Buttle run before. While she would move quickly to collect her prizes at the local bingo parlour, no one could ever recall her actually running. But there was no doubt: Betty Buttle was running towards the school entrance like Steve Ovett going for his gold medal. She was also clutching a copy of the
Yorkshire Evening Post
.

She was soon in deep conversation with Ruby in the school entrance hall. As the children put their chairs on top of their tables and we said our end-of-day prayer, we could hear Betty and Ruby uttering high-pitched screams of delight.

By the time I reached the staff-room, Betty had sprinted back down the school drive and Anne, Sally, Jo and Vera were already sharing Ruby’s news.

‘Oh, Mr Sheffield, ah’m all of a fluster,’ shouted Ruby.

‘What is it, Ruby?’ I asked.

She held up the
Yorkshire Evening Post
. ‘Ah’ve won “Mark the Ball”, Mr Sheffield,’ she said, pointing to her name in the newspaper. ‘Ah jus’ put a load o’ crosses on that football photo in our Ronnie’s paper, paid me ten pence, an’ gave it t’Miss Golightly in t’General Stores. An’ ah’ve won a ’undred pound!’

Sally and Jo gave Ruby a big hug.

Vera smiled with affection at her loyal friend who worked so hard and always put the needs of her family above her own. ‘You can have your new bedroom now,’ she said, gently squeezing Ruby’s hand.

At that moment Joseph Evans walked in after completing his duties at Billy Two-Sheds’ funeral. ‘Hello, Ruby. There’s an African gentleman looking for you in the school car park,’ he said.

Curious, we all followed Joseph out of the school to investigate.

Clyde Dlambulo removed his Biggles-like goggles, kicked down the chromium stand and parked his gleaming 1968 Honda 747 motorcycle. ‘Ah’m lookin’ f’your Ronnie,’ he said.

‘Hello, Clyde,’ said Ruby. ‘What d’you want my Ronnie for?’

‘Look no further,’ said Joseph, as Ronnie suddenly appeared at the school gate.

‘Ah’ve just ’eard y’news, Ruby my luv, from Betty Buttle,’ said the panting Ronnie.

Ronnie looked in admiration at the motorcycle as if all his prayers had mysteriously been answered, but then
Clyde
pulled a five-pound note out of his back pocket and offered it to Ronnie.