04 Village Teacher (21 page)

Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Friday, 20 February 1981

‘NO ONE DOES
fleur-de-lis like Virgil,’ said Vera knowingly.

Ruby looked puzzled. She thought Fleur-de-Lis was a French film star. Nevertheless, ‘Lovely man is Virgil,’ she said, polishing the handle of the staff-room door, her usual task when listening in to our conversations. ‘ ’E mended our coal scuttle las’ week.’

‘He’s certainly a craftsman,’ said Valerie Flint, blowing on the surface of her boiling-hot milky coffee and lowering herself gently into a chair. ‘I heard that he’s done work for York Minster.’

Jo looked up from her
Nuffield Book of Environmental Studies
. ‘I pass his smithy on my way to school, Jack,’ she said. ‘When I drive past I usually wave and he waves back but, come to think of it, he never looks particularly happy.’ She returned to the diagram of how to make a weather station. ‘My Dan said he did a great job repairing our lawn mower,’ she added as an afterthought.

‘An ’e did that weathercock on t’top o’ village ’all,’ said Ruby, still polishing the door handle.

‘In fact your Hazel did a lovely drawing of it in her Weather project folder,’ said Jo.

Ruby smiled in appreciation. ‘She teks after me, Mrs ’Unter. Ah allus loved art.’

Appropriately, no one mentioned the fact that Hazel’s interpretation of our local weathercock looked more like Orville the Duck.

It was Friday morning playtime, 20 February, and we were about to break up for the one-week half-term holiday. Our Victorian school boiler was working overtime and the ancient hot-water pipes creaked and groaned as they expanded with the sudden rush of heat. The staff-room gas fire was on full blast and we had all gathered for a welcome hot drink, with the exception of Anne, who was on playground duty. The world outside was a frozen wasteland but the rosy-cheeked children seemed impervious to the cold and were busy rolling snowballs and building snowmen. Meanwhile, the entrance hall was like an icebox as the icy draughts whistled through the gaps between the front entrance door and the cracked door frame.

‘The repairs to the door need to be completed as a
matter
of urgency, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera insistently. A hundred years of use had taken its toll and I knew this was an important job. It was also clear that Vera wanted a decision. ‘Joseph said that the governors have sanctioned the work as long as the costs are reasonable … And there’s no problem with Virgil.’ She held up a large brown envelope. ‘He dropped this in to the vicarage last night.’ Inside, in beautiful copperplate, was the blacksmith’s handwritten estimate for a set of new cast-iron giant hinges for our huge school entrance door, plus the labour costs to rehang it.

I made up my mind. ‘I’ll call in after school and ask him to do the job.’

‘You won’t be disappointed, Mr Sheffield,’ said Vera, with a satisfied smile.

‘I’m looking forward to meeting him,’ I said.

‘It’s jus’ that ’e never smiles, does ’e, Miss Evans?’ said Ruby, finally giving up the pretence of polishing the door handle.

‘That’s right, Ruby,’ said Vera pensively; ‘he’s not smiled for a long time.’

She and Ruby exchanged a glance I knew so well. They knew something I didn’t.

‘An’ y’know who’s come back, don’t you, Miss Evans?’

Vera nodded. ‘Yes, Ruby. I heard your Beauty was back from Australia.’

‘That’s reight,’ said Ruby with a shake of her head. ‘It didn’t work out, so ah ’eard.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that, Ruby.’

‘Well, ah’m not … begging y’pardon, Miss Evans.’ She
gave
the door handle a final polish, walked out into the corridor and pulled the door shut after her.

I looked up at Vera, puzzled by Ruby’s final remark. ‘Beauty?’

‘She’s Ruby’s niece, Mr Sheffield. Lives in Thirkby … Must be in her mid-thirties now.’ Then she gave me that familiar knowing look.

It was obvious there was a story here and I presumed that, in time, Vera would relate it to me. Little did I know it but the opportunity was destined to arrive sooner than expected.

At the end of the school day I drove slowly up the frosty Easington Road out of Ragley to a small well-kept cottage on Chauntsinger Lane. This was the home and workplace of Virgil Crichton, the local blacksmith, where he lived alone. As I parked on the snowy forecourt of his huge stone-built outbuilding, it occurred to me this would make a wonderful educational visit for my class. The sign above the ancient doors simply read
The Forge
and I stood in the darkness watching Virgil at work.

Although he was a great bear of a man of immense strength, he was known to be quiet and gentle. He still repaired and sharpened scythes and bill-hooks but, with the modernization of farm machinery, making horse ploughs had become a forgotten art. While he missed the giant shire-horses of his childhood, he still enjoyed looking after the major’s horses, making sure they were shod to his daughter’s exacting standards.

There was a steady pattern to Virgil’s work and his life. When the embers in his furnace were glowing fiery red,
Virgil
would take a ready-cut piece of metal and place it in the fierce heat and then pump the long handle of the bellows. In his massive right hand he would handle the heavy tongs and pick out a red-hot piece of iron. Finally, when it glowed like a setting sun, he would take it to the anvil and shape a perfect horseshoe.

On this dark, winter night, under a bright light, he was kneeling on the concrete floor, battering a broken pig trough with a hammer. Business was steady for Virgil but it was also slow. Once his giant hammer had beaten out a regular rhythm. Now there was only a broken lawnmower to repair or perhaps a set of fire irons for Old Tommy Piercy. It was sad that on most days the anvil was now strangely silent. Perhaps that was why he never smiled.

My footsteps crunched across the forecourt and Virgil looked up, took off his leather apron and extended a huge hand in greeting. I noticed his leather braces were fastened to his thick cord trousers with a couple of horse nails.

He looked up and nodded as if he was expecting me. ‘Hello, Mr Sheffield. Good of you to drop by,’ he said and we shook hands. Like me, he was in his thirties but perhaps two or three years older. However, while we were both about the same height, he must have been four stones heavier and his huge muscular shoulders resembled those of a weightlifter. In the sharp lights of the forge, his eyes of steel-grey stared back at me, guarded and steady.

‘Please call me Jack,’ I said. ‘Good to meet you.’

‘I’m Virgil,’ he said simply.

I held up his written estimate. ‘Thanks for this, Virgil. It looks fine … so please start the job when you can. You certainly came highly recommended from Miss Evans.’

He nodded and his huge mane of black wavy hair tumbled over the collar of his faded denim shirt. ‘She’s a fine lady is Miss Evans,’ he said. He gestured at the collection of broken and twisted metal and a dusty tea chest full of old horseshoes. ‘There’s not a lot going on, as you can see,’ he said simply. ‘I’ll finish this job and then start tomorrow – say, about eleven o’clock.’ Virgil clearly didn’t waste words. He was also one who kept all emotion hidden from the outside world.

I nodded and drove back through the frozen night to Kirkby Steepleton.

Saturday was an important day for Vera and the St Mary’s Church social committee. It was the occasion of the annual church jumble sale. In the villages of Ragley and Morton it was a popular event because, as Vera reminded us, it had a better class of jumble. Instead of the battered Monopoly games, broken Action Men and Starsky and Hutch annuals that were a feature at the school jumble sale, the church jumble sale attracted the higher echelon of local society. Antique vases, complete dinner services and brass candlesticks were the norm, along with lawnmowers and trailers that had been replaced with top-of-the range models by their wealthy owners. I had promised Vera that Beth and I would look after the bookstall.

At eleven o’clock I drove into the school car park. Virgil’s van was already there. I took out my huge bunch of keys,
unlocked
the great oak entrance door and handed him the spare key.

‘I’ll be in from time to time during the day, Virgil, and I’ve asked Ruby to call by and make you a pot of tea.’

‘There’s no need,’ said Virgil quickly, ‘but I appreciate the offer,’ he added.

‘Ruby will be here anyway, Virgil,’ I said. ‘She often does a couple of hours on a Saturday.’

Virgil said nothing. He just turned and set to work to remove the broken hinges.

An hour later I had set up the bookstall in the church hall. Beth had said she would be along later and, on a creaking trestle table, I piled gardening books in one box, do-it-yourself in another, and then I stacked the paperbacks in alphabetical order. When I returned to school, Virgil had already replaced the warped door frame.

‘That’s looking a lot better now,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Virgil. I’m really grateful.’

‘It’ll be finished this afternoon, Jack,’ he said.

I looked at my watch. ‘I’m hungry,’ I said. ‘How about breaking off for a bite to eat?’

Virgil thought for a moment and stared at me as if weighing me up. Then he gave a brief nod. ‘Good idea, I’ll just make the door secure and we can call in at Old Tommy’s for a pie, if you like.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ I said.

We trudged through the snow across the High Street, our breath steaming in the air. ‘Interesting name … Virgil,’ I said, recalling my rudimentary Latin. ‘He was a famous Roman poet, wasn’t he?’

‘That’s right, Jack. My grandfather was a reader and he loved his Virgil. He taught me all about Publius Vergilius Maro. That was his real name and, of course, he wrote the
Aeneid
. It turned out to be my favourite book.’ Virgil was suddenly animated. Clearly this was a topic that interested him greatly. ‘He was a great man, Jack,’ he continued, ‘born on the fifteenth of October in seventy
BC
and died in nineteen
BC
. That’s a short life for so many wise words.’

There was a lot more to this man than met the eye but, as we walked into Piercy’s Butcher’s Shop, the delicious scent of warm pies put all thoughts of Roman poets far from our minds.

‘Two growlers, please, Mr Piercy,’ said Virgil.

I looked curiously at Virgil. ‘Growlers?’

‘My treat, Jack,’ he said simply. ‘I’m grateful for the work.’

Old Tommy passed over two of his much celebrated pork pies.

‘These are magnificent pies, Mr Piercy,’ I said gratefully.

‘That they are, young Mr Sheffield, an’ ah’ll tell y’summat f ’nowt. Ah learnt ’ow t’mek pork pies when ah were apprentice butcher wi’ m’Uncle Randolph Piercy in ’is little shop in Kirkstall Road in Leeds.’

So it was that Old Tommy continued to make his famous pork pies by forcing a mixture of meat, fat and gristle into cold-water pastry. But it was the seasoning, perfected during his apprenticeship and now a family secret, that made his pies such a treat.

‘Here y’are, young Virgil,’ said Old Tommy. He handed
over
a small carton. ‘A bit o’ mint sauce will go just nicely,’ he added with a grin.

Sitting by the old pine table in the school entrance hall we ate our pies and our stomachs rumbled with pleasure. ‘And that’s why they’re called growlers, Jack,’ said Virgil reflectively but still without a hint of a smile.

The church jumble sale was about to begin when I walked in. Beth had already taken charge of the bookstall and was in conversation with Vera, who looked animated as she held up her
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Oh, I must share this with you,’ she announced triumphantly and began to read: ‘It is with the greatest pleasure that the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh announce the betrothal of their beloved son the Prince of Wales to the Lady Diana Spencer, daughter of the Earl Spencer and the Honourable Mrs Shand Kydd.’

‘Good news, Vera,’ said Beth. ‘You always wanted him to settle down with a lovely young girl and he seems to have found one.’

‘I certainly hope so,’ said Vera. ‘She looks perfect for him – and so beautiful. I can’t wait for the wedding.’

‘Neither can I,’ I said and gave Beth a knowing look, but she appeared not to notice.

Vera hurried off to look after the crockery stall with the doctor’s wife, Joyce Davenport, and immediately launched into a description of the classic lines of a Hornsea pottery teapot with Mrs Dudley-Palmer. Throughout, Vera showed commendable restraint. After all, it was difficult to take seriously a woman who loved Angel Delight, fondue sets and shag-pile carpets. Fortunately
Vera
was entirely unaware that Petula Dudley-Palmer played ‘Chirpy, Chirpy, Cheep, Cheep’ on her Sony Walkman when she donned her Fame leg warmers and went out with the Ragley ladies jogging group.

Joyce Davenport smiled wistfully at her dearest friend. The young Joyce Duckham and Vera Evans had been in the same class throughout their teenage years and she had often wondered why the tall, slim, attractive Vera had never found the man of her dreams. Then she noticed that, on the other side of the hall, Virginia Forbes-Kitchener was examining some horse-livery equipment. However, her father was disinterested. He was looking in
their
direction and it appeared he had eyes only for Vera. The major had been a widower for many years and Joyce began to wonder.

By mid-afternoon, Beth and I had almost sold out. Margery Ackroyd had bought the last Jilly Cooper novel and Mary Hardisty had purchased an Alan Titchmarsh gardening book, ‘but only because he’s a Yorkshireman’, she explained hastily. ‘My George wouldn’t read it otherwise.’

I looked at my watch. ‘I’d better call round at school again to see if the work on the main door has been finished,’ I said.

‘Fine, Jack,’ said Beth. ‘Come back for me in half an hour. I’ll clear up here.’

Suddenly Ruby, clutching a cardboard box of crockery, appeared. With her was a tall, slender woman I had never seen before.

‘ ’Ello, Mr Sheffield, Miss ’Enderson,’ said Ruby. ‘This is
our
Beauty. She’s visiting t’day from Thirkby.’