Authors: Jack Sheffield
Ruby would have done anything for Vera and this was a generous gesture. With great ceremony, she had presented to Vera a large bag of chocolate bars known as Rowntree’s ‘waste’ and Vera had accepted it with great dignity.
Ruby’s daughter Sharon was currently working in the ‘waste’ department at Rowntree’s factory in York, a sort of orphanage for misshapen bars of chocolate Lion Bars and broken Kit Kats. The pristine packaging afforded to their perfectly shaped companions was replaced by a large crumpled paper bag into which a dozen unwrapped
chocolate
bars were thrown unceremoniously. Every Friday night Sharon delivered two or three bags to her mother and each week Ruby’s weight increased and it was a trade-off she accepted without a shred of guilt. ‘Ah work ’ard,’ said Ruby as she sat down at the end of each working day. ‘Ah deserve me little treat.’
Vera was full of anticipation as she drove her car into York. It was the Year of the Viking and the Jorvik excavation had entered its final year in Coppergate, so Vera negotiated the traffic surrounding the building works and parked in Micklegate. She had completed her rhubarb crumble and it was packed safely in her shopping basket as she strode purposefully into the Cavendish Furniture Store.
Nicholas Parsons was sitting behind an ornate, hand-carved desk and Vera stopped in her tracks with an admiring gaze. He was even more handsome in real life than he was on the television. The floppy silk handkerchief that hung casually from the top pocket of his navy-blue jacket exactly matched the yellow and blue-checked cravat round his neck. Sitting alongside was a busy, slightly agitated, bald-headed little man in an ill-fitting pin-striped suit. The badge on his lapel read ‘Cyril Backhouse, General Manager’.
‘Good morning, madam,’ said Cyril. ‘How can we be of assistance?’
Vera had studied the catalogue very carefully. ‘I’d like to purchase the Grosvenor wall unit with brass handles
at
£69.95,’ said Vera, pointing to the photograph in the catalogue.
‘My pleasure, madam,’ said Cyril, ‘and if you would like a signed photograph of Mr Parsons I’m sure he will oblige.’
‘Well, actually, Mr, er … Backhouse,’ said Vera, putting on her steel-framed spectacles and staring at the little man’s badge, ‘I’ve got something for Mr Parsons.’
Nicholas Parsons stood up, took Vera’s hand and bowed slightly. ‘Good morning,’ he said with a disarming smile. ‘I’m Nicholas.’
Vera’s cheeks reddened but she remained composed. ‘And I’m Miss Evans, er … well, actually, Miss Vera Evans.’
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Vera,’ said Nicholas. ‘But I’m intrigued. What have you brought for me?’
Vera put the basket on the table and lifted the edge of the embroidered tea towel. ‘If I may, Mr Parsons, I should like to present you with this rhubarb crumble on behalf of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.’
Nicholas Parsons looked up in surprise. ‘My very dear lady, it is the most wonderful gift. I’m a great fan of rhubarb.’
‘Actually, I heard you were a connoisseur,’ said Vera.
Nicholas’s eyes creased as he gave her a warm smile. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet such a discerning and, may I say, elegant lady.’
In that moment, Vera felt her life was complete. ‘You may keep the basket,’ said Vera. ‘I have many of them at the vicarage.’
‘The vicarage?’ said Nicholas.
‘Yes. I live there with my brother. He’s the vicar of Ragley and Morton,’ explained Vera.
‘I will make sure it is returned forthwith,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I shall enjoy this for my lunch.’
Back at Ragley School my class were completing a punctuation exercise in their English books. I watched, intrigued, as Tony Ackroyd carefully prised open the metal staples that held together his English exercise book and then removed the centre pages. He had worked out that if he did this once each week for the next four weeks he would fill his book rapidly and it would appear he was working quicker than anyone else. Even though I made him replace the pages and told him it was a silly thing to do, I had to admire his lateral thinking.
At lunchtime Vera returned, full of excitement, and a captivated audience listened to every word of her meeting with the handsome television personality. It was only when Vera received another call from Joyce Davenport, telling her about the grandiose scale of Deirdre Coe’s stall that her spirits were dampened. It was clear Vera would have her work cut out and we all agreed to turn up and support her.
By seven o’clock the village hall was full for one of the most popular events of the year. However, Troy Phoenix was standing on a chair next to Deirdre’s stall and a small crowd was gathering.
‘C’mon, ladies, we’ve got a job lot o’ fancy tin openers an’ some ’igh-quality tea towels ’ere. First come, first served,’ he shouted.
Ruby’s daughters Sharon and Natasha were first in the queue in spite of Ruby’s protests, while only a trickle of customers seemed interested in the items on Vera’s stall. Deirdre Coe leered at Vera in delight. ‘Judgement Day, as my Stanley says,’ she said and began to count her takings.
Suddenly, in walked the Revd Joseph Evans with a huge smile on his face. Behind him was Nicholas Parsons, the perfect English gentleman and the picture of sartorial elegance. His cuff-links sparkled, his shoes shone and there were knife-edge creases in his three-piece navy-blue suit, fashioned at a leading gentleman’s outfitter in London. A stunned silence descended as, with debonair grace, he walked up to Vera’s stall, bowed slightly and kissed her hand.
‘Mr Parsons!’ exclaimed Vera.
‘Please, it’s Nicholas,’ he said as he went round the stall and stood beside her.
‘But … how …?’
‘Your brother told me of the event when I returned your dish and basket to the vicarage,’ said Nicholas, ‘and I asked him to bring me here so I could thank you in person.’
Vera had just about gathered her senses. ‘There was no need, Mr …, er, Nicholas … but it really is most kind of you.’
Nicholas Parsons suddenly became aware of the huge number of ladies surrounding Vera’s stall. ‘Now, perhaps you will allow me to assist you in the sale of these items?’
‘But of course, Nicholas, I should be most grateful,’ said Vera.
He surveyed the collection of artefacts and transformed instantly into his
Sale of the Century
persona.
‘May I?’ he asked, picking up one of the vases on the stall and peeling off the fifty-pence sticker. ‘Now, who will give me five pounds for this elegant vase?’
‘I will,’ said Petula Dudley-Palmer, almost swooning at his feet.
‘And how much for this pair of candlesticks?’ continued Nicholas. ‘How about six pounds the pair?
‘Done,’ shouted an enthusiastic Joyce Davenport.
Deirdre Coe’s face went red, then purple, and finally settled on a shade of green to match Vera’s presidential sash. Troy Phoenix had left Deirdre’s side, deserted his post and was queuing up for an autograph.
Minutes later, every item had been sold and Vera had raised the highest total ever recorded by a single stall in the whole distinguished history of the Ragley and Morton Women’s Institute.
‘I’m afraid time is pressing, Vera,’ said Nicholas, looking at his wristwatch.
‘You’ve been wonderful, Nicholas. Thank you so much,’ said Vera.
On his way out, Nicholas stopped to talk to Old
Tommy
Piercy, who was sitting down next to Mrs Patterson-Smythe’s stall after purchasing a large jar of orange, apple and rhubarb chutney.
‘So where were you born?’ asked Tommy.
‘I was born in Grantham in Lincolnshire,’ said Nicholas.
‘The same as Margaret Thatcher,’ said Vera proudly.
‘So yurra southerner, then,’ said Old Tommy disdainfully.
‘Well, I’m not a Yorkshireman if that’s what you mean,’ said Nicholas.
‘Pity,’ said Old Tommy gruffly.
‘You’re obviously proud of Yorkshire,’ said Nicholas engagingly.
‘Yorkshire’s a proper kingdom,’ said Old Tommy defiantly. ‘We’ve got fishing on t’east coast, plenty o’ coal, millstone grit f’building an’ acres o’ arable ’n’ pasture land f’vegetables ’n’ corn. We’ve got sheep ’n’ cattle so we’ll not go ’ungry. Y’can keep y’southerners f’me. We’re ’appy enough up ’ere.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it’s been a pleasure talking to you.’
‘Mebbe y’not so bad after all,’ said Old Tommy.
‘And believe me, Nicholas, that’s a real compliment from Mr Piercy,’ said Vera as they walked towards the door.
‘I’ve so enjoyed my visit, Vera, and I hope we meet again.’
Vera’s cheeks flushed and she smiled as they walked out together towards the High Street.
Joseph and quick thinking were not natural allies. However, on this occasion, before leaving the vicarage, he had picked up Vera’s camera. As he had no idea how to use it, he thrust it into Joyce Davenport’s hands. ‘Excuse me, Joyce … but could you take a photograph for me?’
Joyce snapped the happy couple standing by the old wooden gate that led to the front door of the village hall. Nicholas had his arm round Vera’s slim waist while Vera looked up at a profile she knew so well. It was a photograph she was destined to keep in the years to come in a small wooden frame and placed discreetly at the bottom of her handkerchief drawer.
That evening, Vera sat down in the vicarage and reflected on her perfect day. Then she opened the sloping lid of the old writing bureau, selected a sheet of vicarage-headed notepaper and wrote a letter of thanks to be hand-delivered. As an afterthought, she smiled and wrote on the crisp white envelope in her beautiful cursive script,
Mr Maurice Tupham, The Rhubarb Triangle
.
Chapter Fourteen
The Pontefract Strippers
Two visitors from West Yorkshire came to school today and gave the staff an impromptu talk on ‘The Production of Liquorice’
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 28 March 1980
AS I DROVE
to school on the last Friday in March the rooks cawed in the elm-tops, announcing the end of winter. An imperceptible change had come at last with the morning sunshine. The cuckoo, the messenger of spring, had arrived along with new grass and primroses. The days of log fires and mulled wine were finally over.
When I walked into school, to my surprise Shirley the cook was standing in the entrance hall alongside two ladies who looked to be in their sixties. One was a very tall, big-boned lady and the other was short and plump.
They
both wore tightly knotted headscarves and thick overcoats buttoned up to the neck. It was a day I would come to remember with great affection – the day I met the two sisters Edie and Florence Ramsden.
‘Good morning, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘This is my aunty Edie and my aunty Flo. They’ve come up from West Yorkshire to stay with me for the weekend and I hoped you wouldn’t mind them looking round my kitchen.’
The short cheerful Florence gave me a hesitant smile, while the tall uncompromising Edie shot me a look that would have crushed many a man.
‘Good morning, Shirley. Good morning, ladies,’ I said.
‘That is, if it’s no trouble …’ began Florence hesitantly.
Edie gave her sister a withering look, stepped forward and took my hand with a grip like a wrestler’s. Her eyes stared defiantly into mine. It was clear Edie was no lover of authority. ‘We’re from Pontefract,’ she said. Edie obviously did not waste words and it appeared the subtle nuances of the English language had passed her by. The handshake crushed my fingers and I winced and flexed them when she let go.
Shirley saw my discomfort. ‘Sorry, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘My aunty Edie used to be a thumper.’
‘She doesn’t know ’er own strength,’ added Florence, looking up in awe at her big sister.
‘A thumper?’ I asked, while I readjusted my knuckles. ‘What’s a thumper?’
‘It were t’name of ’er job, Mr Sheffield,’ explained Florence. ‘That is, until she were replaced by a machine. Our Edie used t’stamp thirty thousand liquorice Pontefract cakes a day by ’and. She were t’best thumper i’ Pontefract.’
Looking at Edie’s massive fists, I could well believe it.
‘Oh, well, I’m very pleased to meet you,’ I said. ‘We should be lost without Shirley. She works wonders in her kitchen.’
Shirley’s cheeks went pink, Florence smiled warmly and Edie’s glare softened from sub-zero to marginally above freezing point.
‘You’re very kind, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley. ‘So, is it all right for my aunties to spend a bit of time with me today?’
‘Of course, Shirley, and perhaps you would all like a cup of coffee in the staff-room? It’s more comfortable there.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sheffield,’ said Shirley.
Edie marched off with Shirley to the staff-room but Florence hung back and began to undo her headscarf.
‘Don’t mind our Edie, Mr Sheffield,’ said Florence quietly. ‘She’s never tekken t’men, ’specially bosses.’ And with a sly wink she scurried off to follow her sister and her favourite niece.
In the entrance hall Ruby was putting away a box of paper towels. Hazel was standing next to her. ‘Mummy,’ she said, looking thoughtfully up at her mother, ‘why ’ave y’got grey ’airs?’
Quick as a flash Ruby said, ‘Cos every time y’do summat wrong ah get a grey ’air.’ Then she smiled at me in a self-congratulatory way.
Hazel turned to walk away and then looked over her shoulder. ‘So ’ow come Grandma’s ’air is
all
grey?’
It was morning playtime before I recalled Shirley’s aunties. ‘Two old women in t’playground, Mr Sheffield,’ announced Jodie Cuthbertson.
Through my classroom window I saw them walking out to join the children in the playground. They were carrying a long length of rope. On entering the staff-room I passed Sally in the doorway. She had grabbed her coffee quickly and was going out to do her playground duty.
Meanwhile, Vera’s face was wreathed in smiles. With the exception of Margaret Thatcher, Vera’s favourite woman was the Queen and, in her eyes, the royal family could do no wrong. To emphasize the point she picked up her
Daily Telegraph
and studied the photograph of Prince Andrew on the front page. ‘He ran nine miles in ninety minutes across Dartmoor and waded through freezing water,’ announced Vera triumphantly.