Free 04 Village Teacher by Jack Sheffield

over to me. ‘And how’s the village teacher?’
    ‘I’m fine, Laura,’ I said simply.
    She tugged the sleeve of my old herringbone-pattern sports jacket. ‘Dear me, Jack, I remember this old thing.’ She reached up and straightened my crumpled lapels. ‘You need to take him in hand, Beth – or hasn’t Eighties fashion arrived yet in the frozen north?’
    ‘How are you, Laura?’ I asked.
    Laura looked at me curiously. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘This is Desmond, by the way.’ I shook his hand; it was soft and fleshy. ‘And this is Jack … Beth’s fiancé.’ She seemed to emphasize the word
fiancé
.
    ‘Hi,’ he said briefly. ‘What age do you teach?’ he asked curtly.
    ‘Primary-school children … up to elevens.’
    He looked surprised. ‘Oh, so when will you be qualified to teach at secondary school?’
    ‘It doesn’t work like that,’ I said.
    ‘Come on, Desmond,’ said Laura, grabbing his hand. ‘Take no notice of him, Jack, he’s only teasing.’
    John had booked a table for lunch in the Cricketer and we all squeezed into the Land-Rover. When we walked in, I was reminded of The Royal Oak in Ragley. At the corner table, a group of farmers was arguing loudly about food production.
    ‘Thart young man be roight,’ said a ruddy-faced old-timer, pointing to an article in the
Maltings Echo
. Apparently, Peter Walker, Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, had predicted big changes in the way food would be produced and that so-called ‘convenience foods’ were just around the corner. Incredibly, four out of ten homes now had a freezer, but, on a teacher’s salary, I doubted I would ever own one.
    After a drink in the lounge bar, when I experienced a strange local beer that looked like flat cider, we all settled down to enjoy a good Sunday lunch. I was surprised to see squirrel soup on the menu and I wondered what the children back in Ragley School would have made of it, particularly those in the Tufty Club. Apparently, according to John, local delicacies such as squirrel and bacon casserole and even squirrel pasties had been very popular during the Second World War. However, when I saw a main course option of rook pie, I decided that maybe the soup was not so bad after all.
    To my relief, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding was also on the menu and, although the Yorkshire puddings were strange, tiny creations, the local beef was excellent. The sweet course of white chocolate with mint and watercress mousse suggested that watercress was a staple part of the Hampshire diet.
    After the meal, Desmond took out a pack of Peter Stuyvesant luxury-length filter cigarettes. They were longer than King Size and I looked at them with curiosity. He selected one and lit it. On the side of the pack was a warning: THINK FIRST – MOST DOCTORS DON’T SMOKE . Desmond saw me reading it. ‘Good job I don’t want to be a doctor,’ he said, expertly blowing a smoke ring in the air.
    When we finally returned to Austen Cottage the light was fading and soon it would be dusk. Diane and Beth walked inside, absorbed in animated conversation about wedding dresses, while Desmond lifted the bonnet of his sports car so John could try to solve the mystery of a strange knocking noise. Grateful for the peace and quiet, I walked to the fence that surrounded the large paddock. A few minutes later Laura, with light quick steps like a fawn in the forest, suddenly appeared.
    ‘Oh, hello, Laura,’ I said. ‘Is it fixed?’
    ‘It was boring so I left them to it,’ she said dismissively. She looked me up and down. ‘You don’t change, do you?’
    ‘Pardon?’
    ‘Still wearing these old spectacles?’ She reached up and took them off. Her touch was gossamer soft and I reacted to her cool fingertips. ‘There … that’s better,’ she said, smiling.
    ‘Laura … earlier this year … I’m sorry if I upset you.’
    In an absent-minded way, she began picking at the loose threads on the frayed edges of the leather patches on