Authors: Jack Sheffield
Joseph rushed to the entrance hall to meet him. ‘Ah, Neil, Neil!’ he exclaimed.
Ronnie immediately did as he was told. He knelt down on one knee, bowed his head and removed his bobble hat. After all, thought Ronnie, it
was
the bishop.
‘Gerrup, y’soft ha’porth,’ hissed Ruby in his ear. She gave a hesitant curtsy. ‘Scuse us, your severance,’ she said and exited quickly into the school hall, dragging Ronnie with one hand and a trestle table with the other.
‘Good afternoon, Joseph,’ said Bishop Neil, unperturbed by the unorthodox welcome. Joseph nodded nervously and gulped.
Vera suddenly appeared and smiled calmly. ‘Welcome to Ragley, Bishop,’ she said. ‘I’m Vera Evans.’
‘Hello, Miss Evans,’ said Bishop Neil. ‘I’ve heard so much about your good work in the parish.’
‘Thank you, Bishop … I do what I can,’ said Vera with, she hoped, sufficient modesty. ‘Perhaps you would like some tea and then I’ll let the headteacher, Mr Sheffield, know you have arrived?’
‘That would be very welcome, Miss Evans,’ said the bishop, with a charming smile. The thick lenses in his spectacles gave him the look of a friendly owl.
‘I’ll put the kettle on in the staff-room: it’s more comfortable in there,’ she said.
While Joseph and Bishop Neil talked in the entrance hall, Vera walked into the staff-room and, to her horror, saw Resusci Annie standing upright on the coffee table in all her naked glory.
‘After you, Neil,’ said Joseph, ushering him in.
With a burst of speed that would have impressed Seb Coe, Vera picked up the lidless box, turned it round and almost threw it on to the window ledge. Then she filled the kettle while composing herself. It had been a close thing.
After a cup of tea, the bishop donned his chimere, hung round his neck the pectoral cross, in which a precious ruby had been set, and screwed together his pastoral staff. Then he followed Vera into my classroom. ‘What a lovely school you have here, Mr Sheffield,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Bishop,’ I said and we shook hands. Joseph gave a strained smile and Vera appeared to relax for the first time.
The bishop stared at me myopically and asked, ‘Perhaps I could take a brief look in one or two of the classrooms and talk to the children?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Joseph decided to take the initiative and led the way into Jo Hunter’s class. After introducing the bishop to Jo he turned to the class. ‘Now, boys and girls,’ he said, ‘I hope you remember last week’s Bible story.’ A sea of blank looks and furrowed brows faced him. Undeterred he pressed on, ‘Who knocked down the walls of Jericho?’
After what seemed an age, little Terry Earnshaw raised his hand. ‘It weren’t me, Vicar.’
Bishop Neil smiled kindly. ‘Well, I’m pleased you tell the children Bible stories, Joseph.’ Suddenly he was aware of a small boy tugging his robes.
‘Our vicar’s a bit like God,’ said seven-year-old Benjamin Roberts.
‘Really?’ said the bishop, intrigued. ‘And is that because he’s kind to you?’
‘No,’ said little Ben, shaking his head.
‘Or maybe because he helps all the boys and girls?’ added the bishop.
‘No,’ said Ben.
The bishop was running out of helpful suggestions. ‘Or is it because he tells you interesting Bible stories?’
‘No,’ said Ben defiantly. He was getting fed up with all these questions from this strange man in the
Star Wars
outfit and thick spectacles.
‘So why is he like God?’ asked the bishop, with a hint of desperation.
‘’Cause ’e’s really
old
,’ said Ben and he trotted off happily.
‘Perhaps you would like to see the preparations in the hall,’ said Joseph, eager to move on.
‘Very well,’ said Bishop Neil with a beatific smile.
Sally’s children were in the school hall, helping to display all the produce that had arrived during the day. However, as always, and mindful of the eminent visitor, she was making every effort to generate teaching and learning opportunities from the activity.
‘Here we have an orange, an apple and a pear, boys and girls,’ she said, ‘so what word do we use to describe all of these?’
Nine-year-old Elisabeth Amelia Dudley-Palmer raised her hand and Sally smiled in her direction. ‘
Fruit
, Miss,’ said Elisabeth Amelia.
Sally was on a roll. The discovery of collective nouns was suddenly in everyone’s grasp. ‘And what about these?’ she said, pointing to a potato, a cabbage and one of George Hardisty’s carrots. ‘What covers all of these?’
‘
Gravy
, Miss,’ shouted Heathcliffe quick as lightning.
Sally went bright red and the bishop retreated strategically to Anne’s classroom.
Bishop Neil sat down next to five-year-old Jemima Poole. ‘Now, what’s this?’ he said, pointing to a picture in her reading book of a farm with lots of animals.
Jemima looked up at him as if he had just landed from another planet. ‘Farm,’ she said bluntly.
The bishop nodded. ‘Well done,’ he said, quickly surmising this monosyllabic little girl was not very bright. ‘And what’s that?’ he asked, pointing to a picture of a hen.
There was a lengthy silence and Jemima scratched her head. The bishop looked down sadly at the little girl. ‘Don’t you know what it is? Never mind, I’ll tell you: it’s a—’
‘No, don’t tell me,’ said Jemima forcibly. ‘I can’t decide whether it’s a Rhode Island Red or not. It’s jus’ that the picture isn’t very clear.’
Bishop Neil chuckled and reminded himself not to jump to conclusions.
* * *
The Harvest Festival was memorable and Vera sighed in contentment. Parents and villagers had crowded into the school hall and no one could recall a finer display of produce, flanked by home-baked, plaited bread and sheaves of barley. The Revd Joseph Evans led the service of thanksgiving beautifully and he confirmed that God’s bounty would be taken to the village hall after school and distributed tomorrow to those in greatest need.
Then the bishop, in a wonderfully clear voice, read from Deuteronomy, chapter twenty-four, verse nineteen: ‘
When you reap your harvest in your field and forget a sheaf in the field, you shall not go back to get it; it shall be left for the alien, the orphan, and the widow so that the Lord your God may bless you in all your undertakings
.’
After that, he led us in a final prayer and blessed the school and the congregation with the sign of the cross. The school bell rang out to announce the end of a successful day and we all breathed a sigh of relief.
In the school entrance hall, Bishop Neil was generous in his praise. ‘Thank you, everyone, for a delightful visit. You have a wonderful school and very well-behaved pupils.’
Anne looked to the heavens and then caught my eye. I knew what she was thinking: we had survived.
Meanwhile, Vera, looking greatly relieved that everything had gone to plan and without mishap, was anxious to get back to the vicarage. ‘Joseph, perhaps you could follow on with the bishop,’ she said, ‘and I’ll go on ahead to prepare tea.’
‘Certainly,’ said Joseph and Vera hurried out to the car park, jumped in her Austin A40 and tore off up Morton Road.
It had felt like a royal visit and we all solemnly shook hands until, finally, Joseph and the bishop walked out to the smart white estate car. As they drove down the drive the bishop glanced back at the school and for the briefest heart-stopping moment he thought he saw a naked blonde woman pressing her ample bosom against the windowpane. He blinked quickly and readjusted his spectacles. ‘I really must check my prescription,’ he said to himself.
In the quiet nave of St Mary’s Church, Bishop Neil was full of enthusiasm. ‘Very well done, Joseph, on having such a thriving church community, and, Vera, what can I say? The flowers are exquisite – such style and understated artistry! Congratulations.’ Vera smiled shyly; everything was going well.
Tea in the vicarage exceeded all of Vera’s expectations. The Victoria sponge was, according to the bishop, the finest he had ever tasted and, at last, it was time to leave. Vera glanced at the clock. ‘It’s my Women’s Institute meeting this evening, Bishop, so I need to go back to the village hall.’
‘Perhaps I could give you a lift,’ he said. ‘It’s on my way.’
It occurred to Vera that she would look very grand pulling up outside the village hall in this smart car with the bishop. Also, she could get a lift home with Joyce Davenport and relate the events of her
perfect
day. ‘Thank you, Bishop. That would be so kind,’ she said. Then she picked up her sketch pad from the hall table and put two sharpened pencils in her handbag. ‘We’re doing a little sketching this evening.’
‘How delightful,’ said Bishop Neil. ‘Actually … I dabble as well.’
Vera was delighted with the impression she created when they arrived on Ragley High Street. Darkness had fallen and the lights shone brightly at the windows of the village hall.
‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ said Bishop Neil.
‘Thank you, Bishop,’ said Vera.
As they arrived at the entrance they could see a group of ladies busy sketching in the hall and another group standing in the back corner, deep in animated conversation with Jacqueline Laporte. All did not appear to be as it should be and Vera wondered why sketching fruit and vegetables should create such fierce debate.
Vera and the bishop saw the reason at the same moment. There, at the front of the hall, was Miss Monique Laporte, reclining on a sofa in a languorous pose and naked as the day she was born apart from a strategically draped length of pink chiffon. Vera gasped and the bishop stepped back in alarm and dropped his spectacles.
His exit was a swift one. As Vera watched the rear lights of his white estate car disappear down the High Street, she reflected on misheard telephone conversations about
still
-life drawing. Meanwhile, Bishop Neil decided he would visit the opticians at the earliest opportunity.
* * *
The following afternoon I was in the school office, Vera was typing furiously and Resusci Annie was back in her box with the lid firmly closed. When the telephone rang I answered it. It was Bishop Neil ringing to say thank you for the visit. When I replaced the receiver, I looked across to Vera’s desk.
‘That’s strange, Vera,’ I said. ‘The bishop sounded rather vague. It was almost as if he’d
forgotten
about the harvest.’
Vera’s eyes never lifted from her typewriter. ‘Er, yes, Mr Sheffield … He’s probably got other things on his mind.’
County Hall sent the document ‘Rationalization – Small Schools in North Yorkshire’ to all schools in the Easington area explaining why the high costs of maintaining small schools had resulted in the closure of four schools last academic year
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Wednesday, 11 November 1981
Timothy Pratt surveyed his Hardware Emporium and sighed. There was something missing, but he wasn’t sure what it was.
He gazed with pride at his beautifully organized world of shelf brackets, boot scrapers and dome-headed screws. The floor had been swept, the shelves were dusted, the counter gleamed and the door bell had received its weekly burnishing with Brasso polish. Everything was as it should be and all the stock was, of course, in perfect alphabetical order. Timothy, or Tidy Tim as he was known in the village owing to his obsessively fastidious nature, liked
order
, particularly alphabetical order. Without it, life would be chaos.
Timothy reflected that he was now forty-one years old and had never had a special lady friend. He got on with women well enough and he was always happy to serve them when they came into his shop, especially Miss Evans, who was always very polite. However, when he showed them his Meccano set they tended to give him funny looks. He shook his head, sighed deeply and glanced up at the Roman numerals on the large clock behind the counter. Then he took out his shop door key from the pocket of his neatly ironed brown apron. It was shortly before nine o’clock on Wednesday, 11 November, and little did he know it but the world of Timothy Pratt was about to change.
Across the High Street, in the warmth of the Ragley School staff-room, Vera could hardly contain herself. ‘I shall be missing tomorrow’s cross-stitch class of course in order to get a good vantage point,’ she said.
I looked up in surprise. It would normally take a momentous event like declaration of war with Russia for Vera to miss her twice-weekly class. She was holding up a
Yorkshire Post
and Jo, Anne and Sally were looking over her shoulder.
‘Doesn’t she look lovely,’ said Anne.
‘A perfect English rose,’ said Vera.
‘She’s glowing,’ said Jo.
‘Probably because she’s pregnant,’ added Sally bluntly, ‘and Charlie-boy looks a bit grumpy.’
‘Yes, well, our future king has a lot on his mind,’ said Vera authoritatively and with a hint of annoyance. As a staunch royalist, Vera believed Prince Charles and Princess Diana could do no wrong. Sally wisely kept her private thoughts about Prince Charles to herself.