Free 04 Village Teacher by Jack Sheffield Page B

‘where are we going to get a time capsule?’
    There was silence.
    Suddenly Vera jumped up. ‘I know just the person,’ she said, and hurried out to the telephone in the office.
    Three miles away in the Easington Progressive Working Men’s Club, Big Dave Robinson and his cousin Little Malcolm each put a fifty-pence piece into the red plastic bucket on the trestle table in the seedy, smoke-filled entrance hall. The label on the side of the bucket read IN MEMORY OF ARCHIBALD PIKE .
    The club was a ramshackle building that had once been a bottling factory on the outskirts of Easington, and Big Dave and Little Malcolm went there once a fortnight to drink John Smith’s bitter instead of their usual Tetley’s. However , the main attraction for Big Dave was that it was a ‘men only’ club so Little Malcolm’s girlfriend, Dorothy Humpleby, couldn’t come with them. The only women allowed in were the ones who worked there.
    Behind the table sat the chain-smoking man-and-wife team who comprised the club’s entire social committee; namely, Caesar and Lilly Trickey. They were both in their sixties and had been members for as long as they could remember.
    ‘Thanks, lads,’ said Lilly. ‘ ’E were salt o’ the earth were Archie. Been a T’anic member for nigh on forty years.’ The club had been opened on the day the
Titanic
sank on 15 April 1912 and, in consequence, had been nicknamed the T’anic ever since.
    ‘So tell us, Lilly, what ’appened to old Archie?’ asked Big Dave. It was pointless asking Caesar a question because Lilly always answered for him.
    ‘Well, ah’ll tell y’summat f ’nowt,’ said Lilly: ‘ ’e ’ad a wonderful death.’
    ‘ ’Ow come?’ asked Big Dave.
    ‘ ’E came in last Friday … an’ ’Arry, with ’is tin leg, were taking t’money on t’raffle.’
    ‘Then what?’ asked Big Dave.
    ‘ ’E sat down with ’is pint o’ John Smith’s an’ ’is ticket an’ ’ad a funny turn.’
    ‘A funny turn?’ echoed Caesar.
    ‘Shurrup!’ said Lilly. ‘Ah’m telling t’tale.’
    ‘Sorry, luv,’ mumbled Caesar apologetically.
    ‘Yes,’ said Lilly. ‘ ’Arry came over, with ’is tin leg, an’ said that Archie ’ad been tekken badly,’ she took a puff on her cigarette, ‘… in fact, very badly.’
    ‘Oh ’eck,’ said Little Malcolm.
    ‘An’ when ah went t’look ah saw ’e ’ad a pint in one ’and an’ a winning ticket in t’other.’
    ‘A winning raffle ticket!’ exclaimed Big Dave.
    ‘Yes … an’ ’e were dead as a doornail,’ said Lilly.
    ‘That’s terrible,’ said Big Dave.
    ‘Y’reight there, Dave,’ agreed Little Malcolm.
    ‘It were a shock, ah can tell you,’ said Lilly.
    ‘Fancy that … a dead body … So what did y’do?’ asked Big Dave.
    ‘All we
could
do, Dave.’ Lilly took a last puff of her cigarette and lit another from its glowing tip. ‘We drew t’raffle again an’ Betty behind t’bar were thrilled. She won six free snooker lessons.’
    Vera parked her spotless Austin A40 in Easington, outside a distinctive Victorian red-brick house. The elegant hand-painted sign over the porch read ‘S. B. Flagstaff, Funeral Director’. The door sported a new coat of jet-black gloss and the brass door knocker, handle and letterbox gleamed after its weekly polish.
    Vera rang the bell and walked in. A faint smell of Brasso, wood glue and linseed oil hung in the still air of a reception area that resembled a Dickensian drawing room. Appropriately, looking like a character from
Nicholas Nickleby
, a plump, grey-haired man in his sixties wearing a black three-piece suit walked into the room. Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, known as Bernie to his friends, was president of the Ragley and Morton Stag Beetle Society and famous for his collection of pressed flowers.
    He took his large brass timepiece from the pocket of his waistcoat and nodded in satisfaction. ‘You’re a punctual lady, Miss Evans. Ah’ve always said punctuality comes afore